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Kalmann and the Sleeping Mountain

E-BookEPUBePub WasserzeichenE-Book
Englisch
Bitter Lemon Presserschienen am18.07.2024
Kalmann is back! But he's already in trouble; in an interrogation room at the FBI headquarters in Washington, no less. All he wanted to do was visit his American father, but the loveable sheriff of Raufarhöfn got himself mixed up in the January 2021 Capitol riots. Thanks to sympathetic FBI agent Dakota Leen, he's soon on a plane home. But not before she informs him that his grandfather was on a blacklist, suspected of spying for the Russians during the Cold War. Back in Iceland, there's a murder and one heck of a mystery to unravel. And what role does a mysterious mountain play in all this? Somehow Kalmann never loses heart. There's no need to worry; he has everything under control.

Joachim B. Schmidt, born in 1981, emigrated from Switzerland to Iceland in 2007. He is the author of several novels and short stories and is also a journalist and columnist. Joachim, who is Swiss and Icelandic, lives in Reykjavík with his wife and their two children. Kalmann and the Sleeping Mountain is the sequel to the best-selling Kalmann, published by Bitter Lemon Press in 2022.mehr
Verfügbare Formate
TaschenbuchKartoniert, Paperback
EUR17,00
E-BookEPUBePub WasserzeichenE-Book
EUR9,59

Produkt

KlappentextKalmann is back! But he's already in trouble; in an interrogation room at the FBI headquarters in Washington, no less. All he wanted to do was visit his American father, but the loveable sheriff of Raufarhöfn got himself mixed up in the January 2021 Capitol riots. Thanks to sympathetic FBI agent Dakota Leen, he's soon on a plane home. But not before she informs him that his grandfather was on a blacklist, suspected of spying for the Russians during the Cold War. Back in Iceland, there's a murder and one heck of a mystery to unravel. And what role does a mysterious mountain play in all this? Somehow Kalmann never loses heart. There's no need to worry; he has everything under control.

Joachim B. Schmidt, born in 1981, emigrated from Switzerland to Iceland in 2007. He is the author of several novels and short stories and is also a journalist and columnist. Joachim, who is Swiss and Icelandic, lives in Reykjavík with his wife and their two children. Kalmann and the Sleeping Mountain is the sequel to the best-selling Kalmann, published by Bitter Lemon Press in 2022.
Details
Weitere ISBN/GTIN9781916725027
ProduktartE-Book
EinbandartE-Book
FormatEPUB
Format HinweisePub Wasserzeichen
FormatE101
Erscheinungsjahr2024
Erscheinungsdatum18.07.2024
SpracheEnglisch
Dateigrösse879 Kbytes
Artikel-Nr.15258355
Rubriken
Genre9201

Inhalt/Kritik

Leseprobe




3
GRAND FATHER


Are you taping the conversation?

The room´s equipped with everything. Microphone and camera. Dakota Leen made a sweeping gesture with her arm. Back to my question. What were you all planning to do? Were you really intending to go in?

I wasn´t, but the others were. Just to be on the safe side, you could record the conversation with an iPhone. We always do it like that in Iceland. I thought of Birna, who is probably the best police detective in the world, and glanced discreetly around me. Up to the left beneath the ceiling was a circular lens, as large as an eider duck´s egg, but completely black.

Yes, that´s one of our cameras. Kalmann, what happened then?

And the microphone?

They´re all over the room. Don´t worry about it. Kalmann, please tell me what happened. Did you lose your people in the park, before the steps?

Correctamundo.

Were they armed?

Uncle Bucky... I hesitated.

Was Uncle Bucky armed?

I´m not totally sure if he´s even my uncle, I said.

That´s irrelevant right now. Please answer my question. Was the man armed?

Always.

With what? Dakota Leen wanted to know, but because I hesitated, she explained to me that it was important they find out whether he posed a danger to others. That it was entirely possible I was saving lives today! Perhaps your uncle is angry.

He´s probably not my uncle.

You´ve already said that.

Is it actually against the law to carry weapons?

Sometimes, yes.

I felt awful, guilty, even though I hadn´t done anything wrong. He always carries a Glock on his ankle, sometimes a Walther too, and an HK under his arm. But you can´t see that one.

HK? Heckler & Koch? She typed it into the laptop. And a knife.

A pocket knife?

No, a hunting knife. Quite a big one. I demonstrated the size.

But what´s he hunting?

Normally deer, but today lizards and pigs.

Dakota Leen´s face became paler. She stared at the laptop in concentration, and that´s why she didn´t notice that I was looking around for more cameras. I found another black egg behind me. And in the walls there were these little round spots with holes, which probably contained the microphones.

Why didn´t you go in with the others?

I shrugged. Why had my father left me there in the crowd of people and not looked for me? I was suddenly completely alone. That´s why. And when you get lost, you have to stop right where you are and not move an inch. Everyone knows that.

Dakota Leen looked at me and bit her lower lip. She was perhaps the most beautiful woman I´d met in the United States. Kalmann, she said, do you have a legal guardian? Do you know what I mean by that?

I nodded and stared at the surface of the table. My mother.

And where is your mother?

She´s 4,700 kilometres away. In Akureyri. That´s the largest city in northern Iceland, but it´s fairly small.

Dakota Leen stood up and was about to leave the room, but when she opened the door, Mr García was standing right outside. Leen! I heard him say in surprise. Are you done already? She pulled the door slightly to behind her, which meant I could only hear snippets of their conversation. They were talking about a protocol, the correct way of doing things, rules, and that someone needed to be informed, at least the embassy.

But Mr García sounded annoyed. I distinctly heard him say that Dakota Leen wasn´t at the Academy any more, nor at a beauty contest. She was in the field now, and it was war out there. Welcome to the real world, honey.

When Dakota Leen sat back down with me, she stared angrily at her laptop for a long while. Her chest rose and fell quickly, and her hands trembled almost unnoticeably, but she closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. Kalmann, let´s rewind again. Why were you out there today? Why are you here?

Well. Why was I where I was? Why is anyone anywhere? It was a question as big as the ocean, and Dakota Leen was sending me out on it in a little boat. But she seemed to want to know at any price. So I thought hard about it. After all, we were in the boat together, she and I. I understood that now.

Grandfather. I pictured him before me in his holey woollen jumper and foreign military trousers, the tobacco pipe clamped between his teeth. He sat with us in this boat and stared out to sea, puffing. The Slétta, as the Melrakkaslétta was known up here, in the far distance. I remembered the many hikes we had done across it. Sometimes I would flop down on the moss because I was so exhausted, and Grandfather said that when you´re walking a long distance, you don´t do the whole stretch at once but just one step. And then another, and then another. Always just one step at a time, no more.

Step by step, I murmured, and now I knew where I had to begin, so that the whole story would make sense. At the beginning, in other words. My father wrote me a letter because my grandfather Óðinn was murdered. That´s why I´m here, I explained.

I´m sorry, said Dakota Leen, though she seemed somehow relieved. Tell me more.

I told her everything. And right from the beginning. I told her that until a few weeks ago, I hadn´t even properly known my American father, that he had been stationed on the military base in Keflavík in the 1980s and had donated my mother the seed for my conception, even though he really shouldn´t have, because he already had a wife and two children, and that´s why he was pulled out of Iceland when I came into the world nine months later. That my mother moved with me into Grandfather´s house and I grew up with him there, the man who had taught me everything, for example how to process Greenland shark or to stand with your back to the wind when you´re peeing on the Melrakkaslétta.

Dakota Leen smiled and looked at me again with her curious gaze, and because this made me lose my thread, she said I should go on, that I was doing a good job.

So I told her I´d encountered a polar bear, and if I hadn´t had my American grandfather´s Mauser with me, I wouldn´t be sitting here today. So perhaps the story actually started with the polar bear or with my American grandfather, who had fought in the Korean War and taken this Nazi pistol from a Korean. And a sheriff like me was of course responsible for -

Sheriff? Dakota Leen looked back at her laptop in confusion.

I pondered for a few seconds, wondering how to explain to her that a sheriff in Raufarhöfn presumably isn´t the same thing as a sheriff in Washington DC. But she waved her hand and said it didn´t matter. She would much rather know whether my grandfather had taught me how to handle firearms.

Correctamundo! I said proudly, and then I felt sad, because it made me think about him.

I wished Grandfather hadn´t been murdered. As I told Dakota Leen everything, word for word, it felt as though he were sitting next to me on the frozen moss and staring out at the straight-as-a-die horizon, and somewhere beyond it was the sea, which never looks the same, it changes its colours almost every day, and there are so many there probably aren´t any names for them. Like feelings. Grief has a colour too, a dark one, like the sea during a storm, deep and bottomless. Grief recedes and surges like the ebb and flow of the tide. And it whooshes, not in your ears, but in your chest.

Tell me about your grandfather, Dakota Leen instructed me, leaning back in her chair and drinking from her paper cup. And please take your time.

Time.

I sniffed and nodded, thinking about Grandfather.

When you see somebody for the last time, it´s better if you don´t know. You presume you still have time, that you´ll see each other again soon, you simply say bless , and these goodbyes are the best, because they don´t hurt.

Grandfather hadn´t been able to walk for a long while, no longer wanted to eat, and couldn´t go to the bathroom by himself any more, he even needed diapers. And he couldn´t remember how to hold a spoon or a fork, even though I´d shown him a few more times. That´s why I presume he couldn´t see any more, or just very blurrily, because his eyes looked like dead jellyfish...

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