The Commandments
Óskar Guðmundsson
Translated by Quentin Bates
Published by Corylus Books Ltd
This book has been translated with a financial support from:
‘It’s a remarkable thought. This is the person I made every effort to erase from my memory, to wipe it totally clean. I started to focus on this around ten years ago. But thinking it over now, then this is the one I think of the most, practically every single day.’
A victim
1995
1
Saturday 25th March, 1995
‘Congratulations,’ the director said to the company as he stormed into their smoke-filled dressing room, reaching for a wine glass. Anton looked at him, surprised that Helgi hadn’t been seen since the performance had ended. There had been four curtain calls, which had to be pretty damned good, as one of the bit-part players had said as they clinked glasses.
‘It’s all the cast’s families and friends out there. What did you expect?’ Anton said as he sank into a chair and poured beer from a can into his glass. He watched the cast as they laughed, high-fived, slapped each other's shoulders and hugged.
‘You worked like Trojans,’ Helgi said, pushing his hair, which had come loose from its ponytail, back from his forehead and behind his ears. He wiped his face with the towel he had draped over his shoulders, and which Anton realised had to be damp with sweat. The middle-aged director had himself played a modest part in the production, but that hadn’t been so physically demanding that it could account for all that perspiration.
‘And not just the cast. Every one of those who put a shoulder to the wheel, day and night, to make this all come true,’ he said, looking down at the company. ‘The lighting was immaculate, the sets have been impeccable, and you, Anton… The costumes are just magnificent. I mean, stand up and see for yourself,’ Helgi said, coming uncomfortably close, taking him by the hand and hauling him to his feet.
Anton didn’t meet his eye, instead concentrating his gaze on his coarse skin, which still carried the unmistakeable scars of a tough battle against youthful acne.
‘It’s fantastic. Here’s to you. And here’s to everyone!’ Helgi called out, turning around, glass in hand.
Anton took in the scene, looking at the angels and disciples, Jesus in person and Lucifer. The cast clapped and called out – Bravo! Hurrah! Whoo-hoo! Someone ruffled his hair and someone else slapped him on the back far too hard so that beer spilled from his glass.
He sat down again. In his eyes, all this was exaggerated and overplayed.
Anton had never managed to get a handle properly on this director person. More than likely there were others who felt the same, but nothing was said out loud. He was admired in the local community for his selfless youth work, and for playing a significant role in ensuring a bright future for the upcoming generation, as someone had written. One of those with a sharp eye for the underdog, and who has, with hard work and dedication, worked steadfastly to provide support for the younger generation which will undoubtedly pay dividends for the community in the future, according to the YMCA blurb.
On top of all that, he was active in Dynheimar’s theatrical circle, served as a deacon, preached the occasional sermon and was a relief religious education teacher at the Síða school. Anton wasn’t the only one who found it unsettlingly tactless that Helgi should take such an active part in the first night celebrations, and that he should so enthusiastically clink glasses with them, the upcoming generation.
Anton had first encountered Helgi three years previously at the Síða school. He took religious education and confirmation classes through most of that winter as the local priest had been taken ill. During one lesson he had expounded upon creation with great conviction. Anton and his pal Rafn had rebelled, citing the theory of evolution.
That’s a load of crap, they had said.
They talked about the fish that had crawled onto dry land, and pointed to the well-known picture of the ape straightening its back, step by step, finally standing bolt upright in image of the human being that we know today. Anton recalled that one of the girls had made a sarcastic point, asking if the ape had evolved only into a man, and the class was still laughing and chuckling over this for days afterwards.
Once they had made plain their heathen tendencies, Helgi had asked the pair of them to stay behind after the lesson.
That was when it had all started.
First sweets. Then money. Finally, there had been booze.
Everything changed.
Anton felt the anger swell inside him. He was about to stand up and walk away from the party, but changed his mind as the door opened and Rafn silently walked in. Anton watched as he went to the table, fetched himself a beer and folded himself into the chair next to him. He jerked his head sideways to toss his long, dark fringe away from his forehead.
Someone had turned up the music, GusGus’s ‘Chocolate’, and some of them took notice and began to sway to the beat.
‘Did anything happen?’ Anton asked. He had been waiting for the right moment. He glanced over at his friend a couple of times, noticing how he stared fixedly ahead through the fringe that had again flopped forward. His thoughts appeared to be far away. There was nothing to indicate that he had sensed the music, not even a knee moving to its rhythm. Anton wondered if this had been the wrong moment – or if he hadn’t been heard.
‘Rafn. Did the bastard…?’
‘Hey, shut your mouth,’ Rafn said as he got to his feet. Anton was about to do the same, but Rafn put out a hand, his palm in Anton’s face, pushing him back into the chair. Anton sat frozen in shock as he stared. He watched as Rafn disappeared into the crowd.
Anton was shaken from his daze when the show’s lighting manager suddenly appeared in front of him, a grin spreading across his face. He dropped to his haunches and held out his hands.
‘On the house,’ he said, offering him a shot glass of clear liquid.
Anton looked at the glass uncertainly, and then knocked back the contents. He could feel the heat in his throat as the spirit burned its way down his gullet.
2
Kneeling, Anton opened his mouth. With kindness in his smile, the priest laid the wafer on his tongue and held the chalice to his lips. For a moment, Anton looked into it. There was none of Christ’s blood to be seen. The chalice was brimful of black sand. He hesitated and caught the priest’s eye. His smile widened a little, and there was an encouraging twinkle in his eye, telling him there was nothing to fear. Anton leaned his head back, opened his mouth wide, and felt the fine sand slip down his throat, easily, as if running through an hourglass. He stood up, walked across the church and opened the doors. Outside it was pitch black, without a breath of wind. The weak yellow glow from the light in the doorway showed him an open grave just beyond the church steps. Anton walked towards the grave, and without stopping at the edge, stepped forward and fell in. Instead of hitting the bottom, he felt himself float in a vacuum, as if he were in space. Then gravity suddenly took hold of him and he hurtled at a terrifying speed to land hard on the ground at the bottom of the grave.
Anton opened his eyes and put his hands to his head. Once his eyes were able to focus, he saw the wooden legs of a coffee table and realised that he had toppled from the sofa. He supported himself against the table, hauled himself up and looked around. He could feel the stale stench of beer and tobacco overwhelming his senses.
He saw Rafn asleep, mouth open and eyes half-closed, on the red sofa. Each breath he took echoed as if through a drain. His dark hair, long and tangled, obscured part of his face.
Anton stood up slowly so as not to aggravate his headache even more and l
ooked over the coffee table, crowded with wine glasses and overflowing ashtrays. He shifted a few of the stubs around with the tip of a finger, found one that was half-smoked, and lit up. As he went over to the gable window, the floorboards creaked beneath him and his socks stuck where beer had been spilled. It was bright outside, but there were few people about. He tried to get his bearings.
He crossed the living room floor and came to a side room. After peering through the half-open door to see three naked people motionless inside, he finally found the toilet. He looked around in a daze. A shower cubicle with no curtain occupied one corner and in the other was a curry-powder-yellow basin where someone had vomited. A neat circular mirror hung over the basin. Anton almost fell as he slipped on the damp white floor tiles.
He threw the cigarette stub into the toilet and looked in the mirror. His body probably didn’t have the energy to summon a reaction to a shock.
Anton went right up to the mirror and looked long and hard at the face that had been painted white, apart from the black rings around each eye, with lines above and below.
He could hardly recognise the face that looked back at him that put him in mind of a spirit of the dead, or was it some rocker? What the hell is the guy’s name? One of those from Kiss? No… Yes, now the name came to mind. Alice Cooper, a singer his father had adored; he had once hung a poster of him on the living room wall back when Anton had been a boy. His indistinct memory was that his mother had torn it down that same day. His memory of the ensuing row was clearer – not that it could exactly be described as a row. It was more of a fight, with insults hurled, along with plates, glasses and ornaments. There were never half-measures. Afterwards they always came to him to talk, separately, once he had gone to bed. Year after year after year. Choose a team. Mum’s side, or Dad’s side. He managed to be on both sides without either of them knowing. They were the kind of people who were far too honest with their opinions and said plenty of inappropriate things, way too many of them and way too loud, whenever they disliked some aspect of his behaviour. They always believed that they had been able to keep the fury inside the walls of their own home. Maybe some people were taken in by all that, as he sometimes heard distant relatives telling him what kind and gentle people his parents were, and that he was the luckiest lad alive to get to grow up in a home full of such love and warmth. But most of the people around them were aware of what went on. Those people knew the truth, not that anyone said a word out loud, they all acted as if nothing was amiss.
He could see it in these people’s eyes. He had never once had the strength to tell anyone of the depth of hatred he felt for his parents; and how much he loathed the people who turned a blind eye.
Fuck, he said, deep inside his own thoughts.
He tried to recall the previous evening’s events. He could remember a few indistinct, mundane fragments. The gaps seemed to be huge, and the last thing he could be sure of was leaving the theatre with a couple of other people. Ah, that brought back another fragment of memory, the taxi. He had jumped in a taxi with someone or other outside Dynheimar, on Hafnarstræti where the amateur dramatics society was based. From then on his mind’s black eraser had wiped any further memory.
He glanced down to turn on the tap, and that was when he noticed what he was wearing – a grubby white shirt that reached half-way down his legs. Someone had used a felt-tip to sketch a cock and balls over his crotch. He turned sideways in front of the mirror and could make out the tattered angel’s wings at his shoulders. He could remember nothing of putting on any these things, all of which had been his own work in his efforts to prepare for the performance.
He turned on the tap, filled his cupped hands with water and splashed it on his face. He fumbled for soap in the dirty sink, but found none. He picked up a towel and, despite the smell of vomit clinging to it, dried his face. He looked in the mirror. There were shadows of his actual skin colour to be seen beneath the white face paint, and the black had dribbled its way down his cheeks. It was as if Alice Cooper was melting before his eyes. He didn’t have the energy to wash any more, and dropped the towel on the floor.
You’ve no idea how much I hate you, he said with quiet vehemence to the figure in the mirror. Just think how many people will be delighted when you’re gone. You’re a useless arsehole.
His toe connected with something that rolled across the floor. He felt under the sink, unsure what it could be, and picked it up. Red lipstick. He snapped off the cap and screwed the waxy red cylinder up.
He stared in the mirror for a moment. He remembered the lipstick.
As Anton opened the front door and stepped out of the flat, the chill immediately began to nip at his cheeks. There was deep snow on the ground and he carefully made his way along the slippery path to the pavement. Although he didn’t remember much of the evening or the night, he was fairly sure it hadn’t been snowing. For a moment he wondered if he had been there for a few days. Not necessarily, was his conclusion. A few hours of heavy snowfall could change everything.
Once he had enjoyed taking deep breaths of cold, fresh winter air, he took a gulp of Southern Comfort from the bottle picked up in the kitchen and lit a half-smoked cigarette. He stubbed it out after a few puffs. Ice-cold rays of sunshine pierced his eyes.
The Glerá church was there in front of him as he reached the next crossroads. The sight of a group of children having a snowball fight by the church doors brought a smile to his face. They tried to dodge each other’s snowballs, and sometimes even managed it – although not every time. They were some way from him, but their chatter and laughter echoed inside his head.
A man in a black suit stepped outside just as the church doors swung open. The sight was followed by the shock deep inside that follows an unpleasant surprise, stabbing right through him. It felt as if all his powers of concentration and self-awareness had been cranked up to the maximum when he heard the man laugh. He could almost feel the touch of the man's hand, as he patted the heads of some of the children, with a gentle stroke of the hand down to the neck. The bottle clattered from Anton's hand without his noticing it.
With slow steps he approached the church, and it wasn’t until he was close that the children all stood still, frozen like statues in the middle of a game. They stared at this lipsticked, filthy angel, complete with his scrawled cock and balls. The priest took a while to examine the appearance and face of this tattered angel, then told the children to be on their way home. Right now! he snapped as some of them failed to respond.
‘Good morning, my friend. Won’t you come inside?’ the priest said, opening the church door and extending a hand.
Anton’s thoughts flashed back to when he had sat with Rafn the previous evening after the performance, when Rafn had placed a hand on his face and forced him back into the chair. That was when Anton realised what had troubled him. He could feel it. It was a smell he knew; the smell of genitals, the smell of dick, the smell of spunk.
And as he looked down at the priest’s hand, his mind was filled with the same smell.
Rafn surfaced from sleep on the couch. He looked up, wiped the drool from his chin and touched his tongue gingerly, certain that it had morphed into the coarsest kind of sandpaper.
He struggled to keep his balance when he stood up. After a long pause, he looked around. He stepped over a sleeping body on the floor, went into the hallway and peered into the bedroom where someone was asleep. He spoke Anton’s name twice in a low voice, but nobody answered.
In the bathroom he was fairly satisfied at how smoothly he managed to get his dick out through his flies, and even more satisfied when he managed to aim most of the stream where it was meant to go.
He didn’t bother to flush, and leaned against the sink. He looked in the mirror. It took a few seconds to realise what obscured the reflection of himself. He took a step back and squinted. Then he saw her, the image in red. She was magnificent, or so he thought. A face, drawn in red lipstick, stared back at him. The artist had given the image lips by
kissing the mirror. The face was one of concentration and threat, but there was also something erotic about it. Maybe it was the lips, Rafn thought, and then he read the three sentences written on the mirror in the same red lipstick.
2014
3
Friday 22nd August 2014
Hróbjartur held the plate under the flow of hot water until it had washed away the worst of the remnants of curry sauce. He wiped the rest away with the tip of one finger and placed the plate in the drying rack. He took a cloth and dried splashes of water around the sink. He glanced thoughtfully out of the window that looked to the west, wiping the condensation from the pane. The sun hid behind Sauðaneshnjúkur and he gazed at a sky that seemed to be on fire.
As he switched on the kitchen light, a mirror image of himself appeared in the glass and he examined himself for a moment. Had he really aged that much in a day and a night? he wondered, running one heavy hand over his cheek. His fair hair had turned paler during that unusually sunny summer. The grey at his temples had become more prominent and he considered whether or not to go to the bathroom and apply some dye to his hair. Although he felt the colour suited him, he sometimes wondered whether people even noticed. He thought back to a conversation with a friend in the same position.
The worst bit’s buying the fucking dye. They look at you like you’re buying rubber johnnies, he had said with a laugh.
Hróbjartur had occasionally smiled to himself at the recollection. But not this time. He examined his own face carefully. He switched off the light and his reflection vanished.
Tears rolled down his cheeks. He wiped them away with the dishcloth and tossed it onto the table. Next to it was yesterday’s paper. This was the paper that had kept him awake all night and ruined the following day, most of which he had spent pacing the floor. He had meant to pay a visit to a neighbour he hadn’t seen for ages, but decided against it. Instead, he had lurked indoors, his mood swinging from misery to anger and back again.
The Commandments : A Novel (2021) Page 1
