Fridrik slipped the sheet back into the folder and put it back in its place. Then he took out a photo album and placed in on the table beside the chess board.
“So didn’t Gaston Lund have any enemies in this country then?” Dagbjartur asked.
“Some of our fellow countrymen might have let a few insults fly when he vented his opinions at meetings. Lund could also be rash and excitable, but it was never serious enough not to able to be solved with a good glass of schnapps. But I think I know the reason why he wanted to travel incognito.”
“Oh yeah?”
“The first time Gaston Lund came here was in 1926 or 1927. He was a member of what was considered to be a very gifted group of young Danish scholars. The story goes that Lund became intimately acquainted with a pretty local girl somewhere down south and got her pregnant. The fact that he refused to have anything to do with the child says a lot about his lower nature. He didn’t come back until he accompanied King Christian the tenth of Denmark on his official visit in 1936. The mother of the child planned to introduce him to his son, but Lund reacted badly to this reunion and washed his hands of them. The Icelanders in Copenhagen heard the story and weren’t impressed. But personally I think his behavior was just something that was beyond his control. The whole concept of taking on a father’s role was so overwhelming to him that he couldn’t cope. He always treated women with great suspicion after that. I think he didn’t dare go to Iceland because he was scared of bumping into the mother of his child. And now when he finally came back again, he tried to keep a low profile in this clumsy manner.”
“Did he ever receive any threats from this woman?”
“No, definitely not. But he was so deeply intimidated by her that he didn’t dare to come here for decades.”
“Do you know her name?”
“No. I heard this story as a piece of gossip and never asked for any further details.”
“And could you write me out a list of all the Icelanders that you know he knew personally?”
“I can do that, yes,” said Fridrik, skimming through the album. “Here’s a picture I took of Gaston Lund. On a short trip to Sweden.”
Dagbjartur saw the proud figure of a man standing in front of a group of people.
Fridrik said, “If you’re interested in the professor’s other faults, I could tell you that he was incredibly domineering. He often took over on those trips, uninvited, and that could be tiring. To people who didn’t know him, it came across as brashness and arrogance. He could also be quite vain and full of himself and his position. In most of his traits, he was unlike any of the Danes I’ve ever known. They’re normally gentler and more easygoing than Professor Lund was.”
“Could I borrow that picture?” Dagbjartur asked.
Fridrik carefully removed it from the photo album and handed it to Dagbjartur, who stuck it into his notebook.
“They say in Flatey that Gaston Lund traveled there to try his hand at some riddle connected to the Flatey Book. Are you familiar with that story?” Dagbjartur asked.
Fridrik smiled. “Aenigma Flateyensis. It would have given Professor Lund a great deal of prestige to be able to solve that enigma. He would have been quite happy to have that feather in his cap.”
“What kind of an enigma is it?” Dagbjartur asked.
“It’s just a few questions about the sagas contained in the Flatey Book, but I’m not the best man to tell you that story. Árni Sakarías, the poet and historian, is the man you need to talk to about that.”
Question five: King Magnús’s men. Second letter. King Sverrir Sigurdsson reigned in Norway from 1177 to 1202, and his men were the valiant Birkibeins. It had previously been considered shameful to be called a Birkibein, but following the fall of Earl Erling it was deemed an honor. There were then constant conflicts between King Magnús and his men. It happened that an old beggar woman died and left behind her a cowled garment, or a hekla, as it was called. A large quantity of silver was found stitched up inside it. When King Magnús’s men heard about this, they took and burned the garment, sharing the silver between them. This became known to the Birkibeins, who from that point onwards called them the Heklaufs, and the second letter is e.
CHAPTER 22
The Flatey library stands at the top of the island, just a few yards beyond the church. Kjartan contemplated the building when he reached the gate of the low fence. It was a tiny little building, even smaller than it looked from down below in the village. Once he had let himself in with the key, he discovered a single narrow room lined with bookshelves. Grímur had told Kjartan that the lion’s share of the library’s collection—old parchment manuscripts, diaries, and files—had long ago been transferred south to Reykjavik where they were preserved in the national library. What remained was old popular literature that was borrowed and read by the parishioners. Kjartan glanced at the spines of various books and dipped into some of them. Titles included The Treasure by Selma Lagerlöf, The Ship Sails by Nordal Grieg, and Anna of Heidarkot by Elínborg Lárusdóttir. Not exactly the most contemporary of selections.
There was no mystery as to where the Munksgaard edition of the Flatey Book was kept. Wedged between two windows against the northern wall, there was a low table covered with a pane of glass, and in a drawer underneath it there was a large open book. Kjartan looked at the pages through the glass. These were black-and-white photographs of the original pages of the manuscript in the same scale. The lettering was clear and distinguishable, but Kjartan was unable to read it. He opened the drawer and turned the pages. At the front he found some old handwritten sheets that he could read. On the top of the first page the words Aenigma Flateyensis had been written, and below that there was a poem:
A black darkness looms over the land,
but the sailing carries on the distant trail
to death’s cold shores.
The most valiant asks: Why?
A potent spell dictates our journey,
And we are rowing for our lives,
Futile to seek any answers,
In battle we must place our trust.
Heavy gray clouds of eerie pelting hail,
Demanding the magic words,
The world under a skull
storing thoughts for the winter.
The bottom two lines were in a different handwriting than the other lines of the poem and were followed by these words: This may be how the poet wanted it to end.
Below it there was a bizarre drawing that had been executed with a rough pencil. Probably the magic rune that Hallbjörg had referred to, Kjartan thought to himself.
On the next sheet there were some kind of questions, forty in total, written in beautiful and perfectly legible handwriting:
1. It will come near when it is God’s wish. 1st letter.
2. Most impudent. 1st letter.
3. The bad choice he made for me. 2nd letter.
Kjartan dug into his pocket and fished out the answers Professor Lund had given to the priest and compared the questions.
1. Dangerous shot—D
2. Sarcastic Halli—S
3. Mother—O
Kjartan felt no closer. The questions seemed odd, and the answers said nothing to him. The fortieth and last question read as follows: Who spoke the wisest? Following that there were three rows of letters.
O S L E O Y I A R N R Y L
E M H O N E A E N W T L B
A U R M L E Q W T R O N E
Kjartan took out the note that Jóhanna had found in Gaston Lund’s pocket and which the priest had recognized. He examined the rows of letters written on its back and compared them with the three rows of letters written on the question sheet.
Professor Gaston Lund had clearly entered this library after he had said good-bye to the priest, and jotted down the key. And that was something he was forbidden to do and that would bring a curse on him, according to local belief. And he surely had been greatly cursed. The thought of it gave Kjartan a slight shudder. He refused to believe in curses of t
his kind, but there was no denying that it was very sinister nonetheless.
A note below the three rows explained that the thirty-nine correct answers should follow the same order as the thirty-nine letters in the answer to the fortieth question, and that this was how the poem should end.
Kjartan shoved the sheets back into the book. He stared at length at the note that had been found on the body, and then he decided that it was best to store that inside the manuscript as well. It was probably best to go along with the belief that the clues should be kept in the library and nowhere else. He wouldn’t feel comfortable walking around with it in his pocket, now that he realized what it was. He left the book as he had found it. Then, after locking the drawer, he pensively stepped out into the sunshine.
What was it that had compelled Gaston Lund to come to the library and write down that key before going to the ship? Had he been so desperate to solve the riddle that he deliberately broke the strict ancient rules of the game? How had he gotten into the locked building?
Question six: Who could not hold back their tears? First letter. They dragged up the body, and King Sverrir said it was the body of King Magnús. They slid a shield under the body and lifted it onto the ship and rowed to land. The body was still recognizable because its complexion had not changed; it still had rosy cheeks and rigor mortis had not set in. Before the body was veiled with a shroud, the king allowed Magnús’s men to file past it to identify it and bear witness. They filed past the body, and almost no one could hold back their tears. The answer is “Magnús’s men,” and the first letter is m.
CHAPTER 23
Thormódur Krákur stood watch on the flagpole stand in front of the church for two hours around lunchtime and finally rushed down to the village to ceremoniously announce that the mail boat was now visible on the southern horizon. Some men walked toward the shore, dragging two handcarts and preceded by a flock of running children.
Benny in Rádagerdi put down his paintbrush when he became aware of the gathering crowd and sauntered after them out of sheer habit, even though he had no errand there. Life was so drab for a young man on this island that even the weekly arrival of the mail boat was something of an event. Maybe he’d know some of the passengers, and there was also always the hope of some workers from the south who might be on their way to the inner isles.
By the time the kids came charging around the corner by the fish factory, the mail boat had reached the tip of the island. It was an old white oak boat that was heavy and sluggish, although the skipper managed to maneuver it with surprising agility toward the pier. Valdi caught the hawser that was thrown to him over the gunwale and looped it around the bollard. Then the boat was tied at the back. Little Nonni followed his father every step of the way and paid no heed to the other children on the pier.
Two young boys in their Sunday best stood by the gunwale of the mail boat and were soon lifted onto the edge of the pier and followed by a brown suitcase crisscrossed with strings. A woman welcomed them, enveloping them both in a simultaneous embrace and calling them her darling little sweethearts. Three sacks of mail were then hoisted off the boat and placed on one of the carts, followed by four crates of malt ale and two sacks of flour that went into the other cart. This seemed to be the sum total of the delivery from this trip. The load that needed to be sent south to Stykkishólmur would only be loaded on board when the boat was making its return journey later in the day.
The men on the boat were preparing to depart again when the weary face of a tall man in a dirty light trench coat with a brown peaked cap appeared out of the forecastle and stiffly stepped onto the deck. He held a heavy case and scanned the pier with his eyes.
“Young man,” he shouted hoarsely at Benny, who was standing by the gunwale. “Would you grab this for me?” he asked, handing him the case. “But carefully now, carefully, I’ve got some fragile objects in there,” he added as Benny stretched out to take the case. The man clambered onto the edge of the pier, but then wobbled a bit and grabbed Benny’s arm for support.
“Bloody dizziness,” he said. “I think I must have just dozed off on the way. The journey seemed endless.” He looked toward the land and squinted his eyes at the fish factory on the embankment. “So this is the famous ancient island of Flatey in Breidafjördur. Is this it in all its glory then?”
“You can’t see the village from here,” Benny answered apologetically. “That’s on the other side of the island. That’s where all the houses are.”
“Is that right, my friend? What’s your name?”
“Benny…Ben.”
“Benny Ben. I see. My name is Bryngeir, a poet and writer, even though I’m temporarily hacking for a Reykjavik rag.”
“Just Ben…or Benny,” Benny swiftly corrected him. He was almost on the point of giving up on the name that he’d decided to adopt after reading a book about Ben Hur over one whole night two weeks ago.
“Put the case down really gently, Benny Ben pal,” said Bryngeir. “I have to check on its delicate contents.”
There was a rattle of glass from the case as it knocked against the pier. Bryngeir crouched over it, unzipped it, and pulled out a half bottle of rum. He unscrewed the top, poured drink into it, and knocked it back. Then he had another swig, this time straight from the spout, and straightened up, propping himself up against the lamppost on the pier.
Benny tried to guess Bryngeir’s age. His face looked rugged and gaunt, but something seemed to suggest that he wasn’t quite as old as he first seemed. He was probably forty. His dark hair had started to gray and recede. But one of his eyebrows was as white as snow, as were his eyelashes on the other side.
Bryngeir refilled the tap of the bottle.
“Would you be partial to a drop of rum, young man?” he asked Benny.
Benny looked up at the pier where the islanders could be seen making their way to the interior. There was no one left but Valdi, who was loosening the moorings of the mail boat. It wouldn’t do his reputation among the islanders any good to be seen boozing in the middle of the day, but he couldn’t say no to some slight refreshment. Besides, it was Saturday, after all.
“Thanks,” he said, taking a sip and coughing.
Bryngeir fished a half-smoked cigar out of his coat pocket and managed to light it after several attempts. “Is there any news about that dead man, the one they found here out on one of the islands?” he asked.
“He was Danish. They’ll be taking him south when the boat sails back this evening,” Benny answered, lighting himself a cigarette to keep Bryngeir company.
Bryngeir sipped on his bottle of rum and then said, “Yeah, I heard he was a Danish professor, the one and only Gaston Lund. Who was it that left him out there on the skerry?”
“No one knows. The guy from Patreksfjördur is investigating that.”
“The guy from Patreksfjördur?”
“Yeah, he works for the district magistrate. His name is Kjartan.”
“Kjartan? A lawyer?”
“Yeah. He’s just started working for the magistrate.”
Bryngeir puffed musingly on his cigar. “Tell me this, does this spy have a big scar on his forehead? From his left eyebrow up to his hairline?” Bryngeir pressed a finger against his forehead by way of illustration and drew an invisible line.
“Yeah, he has a scar like that.”
“Well what do you know? I think I heard that in Reykjavik. That Kjartan was working in Patreksfjördur.” Bryngeir took off his cap, shook it, and scratched his head before putting it back on again.
“Do you know him?” Benny asked, intrigued.
“Nah, not that much, but more than enough.”
“How do you mean?”
Bryngeir declined to answer. “Where can a man find accommodation around here?” he asked.
“Accommodation?” said Benny. “Just need to find someone with a free bed.”
Bryngeir broke into a grin. “Yes, of course. Guesthouses shouldn’t even exist in a Christian country, some godly man
who liked to travel cheap once said. OK, let’s start walking and looking at the options. You can carry my case for me while I recover from the crossing.” He took another sip from the bottle and shoved it into his trench coat pocket.
Valdi of Ystakot watched them walking up the pier and jotted something into his notebook. Little Nonni sat on the bollard and stared at the mail boat, which had by now reached the west of the island and was heading north.
Benny stared furtively at the newcomer’s face as they walked. Finally, he just couldn’t hold it in anymore and came straight out with it: “What happened to your eye? Why is your eyebrow so white?”
“It was a woman, young man,” he answered without looking at Benny. “A woman did this to me after I seduced her one midsummer’s night. She said that from now on I would be marked out from other men and that this would serve as a warning to all women. The next time I looked into the mirror that’s what I saw. You better be wary of the female species, young man—you never know when you’ll meet a witch.”
The pair walked past the fish factory, and the doctor’s house soon came into view.
“This looks like a nice home,” said Bryngeir. “Reckon I might be able to crash here?”
Benny had his doubts. “I don’t think so, not unless you’re sick. The doctor lives here.”
Bryngeir halted. “And what’s his name? The doctor’s?” he asked.
“The doctor’s a woman. Her name is Jóhanna,” Benny answered.
The Flatey Enigma Page 11
