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little annoyed with Ásbjörn for foisting this responsibility upon me. When I suggested that maybe he and his wife could take the bird in, he snapped back: “It’s that parrot’s home. Do you want it to die of culture shock? And how on earth do you think Pal would react? You should just be grateful I took all the potted plants that have to be watered.”
    Hadn’t thought of that. It crossed my mind to ask whether the relationship between the parrot and Pal might be something like the relationship between him and me. But that would get me nowhere.
    Instead I have to follow the instructions on the daily checklist and listen to the bird chirping and whistling all day long and occasionally angrily shrieking with a noise like a machine gun.
    I don’t know whether my unwelcome roommate is male or female, or what its name is. But as I am forced into the role of God, I’ve decided the bird is a girl, named Polly. I felt a little better once that decision had been made.
    Maybe Gunnsa will enjoy taking care of the bird when she comes to visit me.
    Anyway, that’s the whole story about the lorikeet.
    The early morning silence between Jóa and me gradually wears off as the sun rises. It’s a dry, relatively warm day.
    “Yeah, apparently they’re planning some kind of industrial production there. The raw material will be unhealthy people, and the end product will be healthy ones,” I remark in answer to Jóa’s question about the future of the community around Lake Mývatn since the mining of silica from the lake floor came to an end.
    We’ve driven across the Víkurskard pass, past Ljósavatn Lake and Godafoss Falls, over the Reykjaheidi moors, and up Reykja-dalur valley. We’re leaving the Mývatn district to cross the mountain wilderness to Egilsstadir. Jóa points her finger at the map to guide me. I can find my way around all the bars in Reykjavík with my eyes closed, but all these place names simply confuse me.
    “Well, well,” says Jóa. “Environmentally friendly industry replacing pollution. Isn’t that what they call it? Being green instead of destroying nature?”
    I nod as I drive. “They’re just as likely to go for an aluminum plant or steelworks or some such infernal monstrosity. That crowd in Reydargerdi had ideas about regenerating the local economy by some kind of nature resort for tourists. I went there last winter on another story, or maybe in the end it was the same story. I met the mayor and the leader of the council, and they said they had high hopes of attracting investors to their nature resort scheme, along with the pillar of the local community, Ásgrímur Pétursson. The development was supposed to be built on his family’s land. And what came out of it?”
    Jóa seems to be waiting for me to answer my own question. I recall reading the
Afternoon News
a few months later on a plane to a sunny destination with Gunnsa. Banner headline:
CONTRACT COMPLETED!
“A thousand new jobs in two years,” the finance minister at the time, Ólafur Hinriksson, was quoted as saying, as he rejoiced over successful negotiations with Industria, an American conglomerate, to build an aluminum smelter in the East Fjords, along with the necessary hydroelectric development to power the plant. By a typical Icelandic coincidence, Ólafur happens to be married to Ásgrímur Pétursson’s daughter—but that, of course, has nothing to do with anything.
    “So the outcome is the same as ever,” I continue to expound to Jóa. “Reydargerdi and the nearby communities are being overwhelmed by foreign laborers who come to Iceland for the thousands of jobs building hydro plants and factories, which are beneath the dignity of Icelanders themselves.”
    “But things are booming over there, aren’t they?” Jóa interjects.
    “A boom tends to entail a bust, though, doesn’t it?”
    “Come on, you know what I mean. That region was in terminal decline. You couldn’t depend on the fisheries anymore, andpeople were