‘BELOVED CHEF DEAD,’ so read the headline of the local newspaper that morning. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw it, because Smith was depicted there in a photo to accompany the article. He was wearing a khaki cotton suit, and had on a flat cap. Smith was sitting in the photo, but leaning forward, as if he was game for whatever life had on offer. He had a broad smile. He looked like an African prince on his way to study economics at Oxford. Oh, yeah, our Smith was a handsome fella if there ever was one. He drove the girls crazy. But now he was dead. The article said he had been electrocuted during a hairstyling incident. The police were investigating. I just couldn’t believe it. I really couldn’t. Now it was him? When would it be me?
For a while, Smith had been running a restaurant and catering business in the Old Town. I walked by the place reading the paper, and then went down the hill to the new hotel and spa. For a long time, they had talked about building a hotel and spa in town, but nothing had come of it. Perhaps it had been worth the wait. It was vast and mostly open air, like the famed Blue Lagoon on Iceland’s Reykjanes Peninsula. In the distance, I noticed large white and brown objects floating in its frothy hot spring-fed pools. Soon, one of these objects drifted closer, and a large white seal turned belly up in the waters near the white stone steps. The seal looked quite content to swim like that, and from my position, I could also see a large rocky island in the center of the swimming area. “That’s a nature preserve for the animals,” someone told me. “We’re not allowed to swim out there.”
Intrigued, I took a walk along the waterfront. Little cafés had opened up to serve the guests. You know what I am talking about, street food joints, with little round tables shielded with umbrellas from a non-existent Estonian sun. It was actually partly sunny or partly cloudy on that day, and there was a light breeze. I looked over the barrier into the pools and saw a few black bears swimming by. At one café table, Erland was seated, freshly returned from Sweden. His hair was still long, down to his shoulders. I walked over and took a seat next to Erland.
“Did you hear about Smith?” I asked him.
“No, what about him?” he said. “I haven’t seen him since I got back to town.”
“He’s dead.”
“What? But how is that even possible? Did someone murder him?”
I shook my head. “He was accidentally electrocuted at the hair salon.”
“That’s too bad. It does seem like everyone is dying these days. First Agostinho, now Smith. Hopefully we’re not next.”
“Yes, hopefully,” I said.
Our drinks arrived and we sipped them. In the meantime, Erland’s infant son had climbed up on the table and then accidentally slipped onto the ground. He was there on the concrete sobbing in a pool of tears. I went over and picked the child up, but he seemed uninjured and I handed the tot over to Erland. Smith’s widow Külliki came to the café, with their daughter Stina. They were both dressed in light-colored dresses. Neither seemed particularly upset.
“Is it really true,” I shouted out to Külliki. “Is Smith really dead?”
She nodded, but in a nonchalant way. She was picking flower petals and admiring the spa.
“These things just happen,” Külliki said, picking at her flower. “These things just happen.”
north! 