Free The Perfect Landscape by Ragna Sigurðardóttir

international stage. He has no interest in art. Modern art is meaningless to him; he doesn’t understand it and doesn’t see what drives these artists.
    Having looked over the stock market situation, Hrafn subtly tilts his computer screen toward him and opens up the web page of a Copenhagen auction house. Dealing in paintings is his private business. Hrafn keeps a regular eye on the web pages of auction houses in London and Copenhagen, and hewants to see which paintings have come up for auction since the previous evening.
    He spots Vasiliy Ivanov Gubin’s balding head two rows in front; Vasya, his father’s old business colleague. His father, Arni, and Vasya were best friends, and Hrafn rarely feels as close to his father as when he meets Vasya, who is like a kindly uncle to him. Vasya reminds him of his father’s good points: courtesy, hospitality, friendship, and compassion for his fellow men. On the other side of the hall he spots Stanislav Petrov’s rosy, youthful face—his contact in the pharmaceutical company, whom he wants to clinch a deal with during this trip. Hrafn wants more shares and he needs Stanislav’s support.
    “Icelanders own more mobile phones per capita than any other nation,” the minister continues. Hrafn doesn’t listen to him but quickly runs his eyes down the auction house web page. Some paintings have been added; one of them seems familiar. He looks at it more closely; the artist is listed as unknown. He tries to work out who it could be. Enlarging some of the detail on the screen, he looks carefully at the brushstrokes, but he can’t be sure. It’s a landscape painting, probably Danish but could be Icelandic. Or a painting by some Icelandic artist who trained in Denmark. He checks the value and the work’s origins. The value is very low and the ownership history seems convincing; the painting has been in the same family for years. The auction is just about to begin, and he puts in a generous bid. He could be onto something. A faint scent of perfume stirs his senses; behind him sits the owner of the gallery where the art side of this business conference is housed.
    She wears her dyed blonde hair up in a plait, and her lips are bright red. Hrafn has not been introduced to her, but theminister pointed her out to him before the meeting. “Mariya Kovaleva,” he’d said. “One of the wealthiest women in Russia today.” Hrafn’s interest had been aroused and he’d resolved to talk to her before the day was out.
    “I think we can say without a doubt that Icelandic business is booming like never before,” the minister says in closing. Hrafn glances back at his screen; there’s something about this painting that interests him.
    There is a dinner at the Hotel Kosmopolitan that evening, in a restaurant on the twenty-fifth floor with a view over the city. Hrafn is sitting next to Mariya Kovaleva and a young woman called Larisa, who seems to be her personal assistant. Stanislav is also at the table, along with the minister, two bankers, and their wives. It’s a veritable banquet, and there are lavish quantities of food and drink. Hrafn is used to this sort of thing and he knows how to manage an event like this; he drinks mineral water and eats little. He observes the others around the table who do not employ quite the same table manners as he does. He is a polite man, modest by nature and not given to pushing himself forward. His open face has a classic bone structure; he has a sportsman’s build and a rare smile. He is accustomed to attracting looks from both men and women no matter where he is. But he is not talkative, and this evening he only talks to Stanislav or remains silent. He pays attention to the conversation around the table without taking part. From time to time he catches Larisa’s eye or smiles at Mariya Kovaleva across the large round table, raising his glass to a toast.
    His fellow diners have been celebrating since the opening at Mariya Kovaleva’s gallery this