There were a lot of people there. Cool, distinguished, at the top of their cool, distinguished fields. I was very intimidated. My clothes were far too formal. I kept being introduced to people and nodding sagely as they spoke their names then forgetting what they’d said five seconds later. To douse my nerves, I drank a lot of Black Death, far too much as we stood around, and far too much as we sat at the dining table. It tasted delicious, so crisp and cold. It was like drinking the cold air beyond the window.

It turned out the Black Death was stronger than hell. It was so strong that after a while I began to hallucinate. The paintings on the wall were moving, I thought. Lava fields, in motion. A man, smiling. I was not only drunk but off my rocker. It was a really bad situation. There were a dozen people around me, maybe more, and now their facial expressions seemed antic. And possibly insincere. Were they acting? I was just trying to work this out when Alda Jónsdóttir slapped an enormous dish onto the center of the table. As she did this everyone exclaimed, “What a beautiful salmon!”