the voice said with something almost like fury. “No, no. It’s personal.” “I already have a nice satellite dish, thank you.” “I’m looking for a relative, a young woman you might have known.” “Who gave you my number?” “The tourist office.” “What’s your relative’s name?” “Her name is Snowleg.” “You mean Snjólaug? No, I don’t know any Snjólaug. Where could I have known her? How could I have known her?” “No?” unable to hide his disappointment. “Then I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” Frau Lube would tell Peter in due course that he had telephoned in the middle of prayers for World Peace. She was watching the afternoon service on television and had just completed a prayer for her late husband when she heard Peter’s foreign-accented voice ask if it could come and speak with her. And immediately she felt the old and irrational dread that she had done something wrong. She thought of the overdue telephone bills. She identified with the child-snatcher whose photofit was in the newspaper.
