The Flatey Enigma

by Ingolfsson, Viktor Arnar

  “My wife and I are off to a wedding. I don’t want to be late,” he said.

  Dagbjartur tried to keep it brief: “We compared the list you made of Gaston Lund’s Icelandic acquaintances and another list of the inhabitants of Flatey, which we got back from them yesterday. Björn Snorri Thorvald’s name appears on both lists.”

  “Yes,” Fridrik answered. “I could have told you that straightaway yesterday. I knew that Björn Snorri and his daughter Jóhanna were there on the island, but I couldn’t see how that was relevant. I heard on the radio at lunchtime that Björn Snorri just passed away. My old colleagues seem to be fading.”

  “Did Björn Snorri and Gaston Lund get along?”

  Fridrik looked at Dagbjartur in bewilderment. “How do you mean?”

  “You said that the professor sometimes got into arguments about manuscripts with his Icelandic acquaintances.”

  Fridrik smiled. “Björn Snorri didn’t argue about the manuscripts. He was one of the few Icelanders who was virtually indifferent to where the manuscripts should be preserved. He just wanted to know they were in a good place and that there was easy access to them…”

  Fridrik suddenly shut up and frowned. “Easy access to them,” he repeated hesitantly, lost in some thought.

  Dagbjartur sensed there was more to this and calmly waited for Fridrik to continue. “But that was the problem. Björn Snorri lost his job in Copenhagen at the end of the war and was barred from accessing the manuscripts after that. I remember very well how unhappy he was with his Danish colleagues, including Lund. He’d been thrown out of the house with unnecessary force. But those were special times at the end of the war, and a lot of errors were made as a result of pent-up anger. My family and I took the father and daughter in some days after he was fired, and they came home with us to Iceland a few weeks later. Jóhanna and Einar, my youngest son, were half engaged in high school until Einar died in a sudden accident.”

  Fridrik’s voice faltered a moment before continuing: “I think Björn Snorri must have gotten over his misfortune in Copenhagen, but he was ill for many years. I imagine it’s the cancer that finally crushed him.”

  “Can you describe Björn Snorri a little bit better for me?” Dagbjartur asked.

  Fridrik reflected a moment before starting: “Björn Snorri had a particularly sharp mind. He was a great scholar, and few contemporaries could stand up to him when it came to his knowledge of Icelandic manuscripts. Instead of focusing on the text, he started off by forming a picture of the scribes. By placing himself in their shoes, he could guess which manuscripts they were copying. Was the scribe in the habit of cutting his quill as he was leafing through a manuscript? When was the scribe in the best form, at the beginning of the work or later? Was there a greater danger of making mistakes at certain times? Did he think the text was fun and did this make him rush the work so that he could swiftly move on? Or was the text boring and did that give him cause to labor on the calligraphy and adorn the letters? In what environment did he learn his craft, and what were his specialized skills? Björn Snorri tried to form a picture of these men for himself and look over their shoulders as they were working, as it were. But he was so absorbed by his quest to define these many centuries-old acquaintances of his that he neglected the present. His contemporaries were too close to him for him to give himself the time to consider them. He never asked anyone how they were today. Instead, he could trace back various versions of the same paragraph in different manuscripts and talk about their evolution from the perspective of the personal characteristics of each scribe. But he was incapable of relating to the circumstances of his fellow travelers in space and time. He just assumed that if anyone had any issue to raise with him they would step forward and say so. Body language and gestures were simply beyond his understanding. The mundane faded into insignificance when he was struggling to analyze and understand a seven-hundred-year-old margin label on a torn vellum manuscript. He accumulated enormous knowledge. And he needed an outlet for that. He was a writer of only average ability and compiling reports bored him, but he could stand and talk about his interests for hours on end. And he could speak all the Nordic languages with ease. German came to him quite easily, too. He used his lectures to formulate his opinions and findings, put some order into them, and place them in a logical context. Talking was, therefore, the final phase in the formulation of his theories, and it didn’t matter to him whether anyone was listening or not. If the issue was above the heads of the university students who sat with him, then he would just talk to himself or the one listener who was always close by and never flinched, little Jóhanna. And he used the time to explore new angles on his subject matter and could even make original discoveries in the middle of lectures in unknown cities. But as soon as that was all taken away from him, he withdrew into himself. He couldn’t find peace anywhere, because he’d lost his outlet in the mundane world. He sank into depression and numbed his pain with alcohol. It could only end in one way.”

  Fridrik looked at his watch and stood up, but Dagbjartur remained seated. “How do you suppose Björn Snorri reacted when Gaston Lund showed up in Flatey?” he asked.

  “To be honest, I haven’t the faintest idea,” Fridrik shrugged. “He might have treated him with disdain, he could do that, or maybe they were both delighted to have found each other again. I’d say that’s more likely.”

  “Is it possible that Björn Snorri would have wanted to harm Lund in some way?”

  Fridrik sat again at stared at Dagbjartur in bewilderment. “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe by dispatching Lund to that island.”

  “Björn Snorri had been too ill to travel over the past years,” said Fridrik.

  “But his daughter?”

  “Are you asking me if Jóhanna Thorvald could have harmed Professor Lund?”

  “Yes.”

  Fridrik suddenly rose to his feet. “Jóhanna was like a daughter to me when she was my son’s girlfriend. I won’t tolerate that kind of talk about her,” he said, walking toward the door.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, my wife is waiting,” he said.

  Dagbjartur stood up and said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, and I won’t delay you any longer. But could you direct me to someone who knew them well?”

  “Thorgerdur, my daughter, studied medicine at the same time as Jóhanna. They’ve been in regular contact ever since. Thorgerdur is a doctor at the National Hospital. Try to find her.”

  Dagbjartur was on the way out, when he turned at the door and apologetically asked, “But what about the mother of Gaston Lund’s child? Any ideas on where I might find some information about her?”

  Fridrik looked at him gravely. “Have you spoken to Árni Sakarías about the Flatey enigma?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ask him about Gaston Lund?”

  “No.”

  “Then you better.”

  Question sixteen: Drowned in a deep bog. Second letter. He told her that when she got there, he would give her a wedding with all the honors. Gunnhild liked this arrangement and traveled to Denmark with a fine retinue. But when King Harald heard of her arrival, he sent slaves and guests to her. They grabbed Gunnhild with a lot of commotion and jeering and drowned the wretched queen in a terribly deep bog. This brought an end to the cruelty and crimes of Gunnhild, the king’s mother. The answer is “Gunnhild,” and the second letter is u.

  CHAPTER 33

  After the Whitsunday mass, the congregation drank coffee on the slope below the Flatey church. The weather was still fine so everyone sat outside, but otherwise the community center would have been opened for the after-mass coffee. The guests from the various isles took out their picnics, and little clusters of different ages and genders soon formed. District Officer Grímur found himself grouped with the old farmers of the islands. The first topic for discussion was the Dane who had been found out on Ketilsey. One of the inner isle farmers was convinced that foreign pirates had left the man there. And maybe al
so a treasure. Had anyone looked into that? Grímur confirmed that their investigation had revealed that there was no treasure to be found on Ketilsey. It was then prophesized that the island would be haunted for generations to come and it would yield very little while the curse lasted. Most of them agreed and glanced at the Ystakot clan, Valdi and Jón Ferdinand, who had exclusive rights on that skerry. The two men kept to themselves, drinking coffee and nibbling on the pieces of cake that someone had handed them, but the boy was nowhere to be seen.

  Grímur told the farmers that a reporter from Reykjavik had arrived on Flatey and that he was here to dig up a story about it. The district officer asked the men to be careful about what they said to this guest. There was no need to implicate the locals on the islands in this unfortunate event. There had been enough damage done as it was.

  The conversation then shifted to farming and forecasts. There was good news on the pricing front. The head of the co-op had heard that they could get eight hundred krónur for a good seal pup fur and at least fourteen hundred krónur for a kilo of cleaned eiderdown. This could be one of the islands’ best farming years if the weather stayed good.

  Question seventeen: King Harald’s meal. Fifth letter. King Ólaf walked out to the pond where the children were playing. Then the king called the boys over and asked Guttormur, “What would you most like to own?”

  “Fields,” the boy answered.

  “How vast would you want the fields to be?”

  Guttormur answered, “I would want the ness to be completely sown every summer. There would be ten farms on it.”

  Next the king asked Hálfdan, “What would you most want to own?”

  “Cows,” he answered.

  “How many?” the king asked.

  “So many that it would be tight for them to drink together if they were to stand all round the lake side by side.”

  The king answered, “That would be a big herd. And what would you want, Harald?”

  “Soldiers,” he answered.

  “How many?”

  “I’m not very good at counting,” he said, “but I think it would be good if there were enough of them to eat all of my brother Hálfdan’s cows in one meal.”

  The king laughed and said, “You are bringing up a king here, Mother!”

  The answer is therefore “Hálfdan’s cows,” and the fifth letter is d.

  CHAPTER 34

  Dagbjartur spent the rest of Whitsunday tracking down Árni Sakarías. He wasn’t at home in Raudarárstíg, nor at the swimming pool or the diner in Austurbaer. “Try Café Hressó,” said the lifeguard at the municipal swimming pool, “or 11 Laugavegur.” It was in the café on Laugavegur that Dagbjartur finally found the author in the company of a group of good friends. Árni Sakarías was slightly tipsy and introduced the detective to his buddies.

  “This good man here works for the detective division of the police force and is specialized in liaising with poets and writers. Salute him.”

  Dagbjartur nodded to them and got straight to the point with Árni Sakarías: “Did you know Gaston Lund, and did you know that he was connected to a child in Iceland?”

  “Those are big questions,” Árni Sakarías answered. “That can’t be answered on an empty stomach. Let’s just go to Hotel Borg and have some dinner, beef patties and fried eggs, courtesy of the police department.”

  Dagbjartur wasn’t sure he’d be able to get a reimbursement on these bills but didn’t want to run the risk of insulting Árni Sakarías. After all, the man was under no obligation whatsoever to answer these questions, and it was therefore best to keep him happy. One cheap meal wouldn’t go to waste if he got some good information out of it in return.

  Árni Sakarías wasn’t open to questions as they walked down Laugavegur, but instead launched into a lecture on contemporary poetry. It was not until he had received his payment in food at Hotel Borg that he finally came to the detective’s question:

  “You’re asking about events that took place during the royal visit of June 1936, when King Christian the tenth came over. The king was still a bit wary after his previous visit for the celebration of the Althing in 1930. Everywhere he went, conversations seemed to veer toward the Icelandic sagas, as if he was supposed to know them inside out, and he never knew what answers to give. So this time he decided to bring along a Danish scholar who was an absolute expert in the field, Gaston Lund. His job was to follow the king every step of the way and answer on his behalf if the topic of the sagas cropped up. As soon as the Icelandic government got wind of this, they were dead scared that the Danish expert would wipe the floor with the Icelanders, so they called in an Icelandic expert of their own to follow the conversations and join in if the need arose. The person they appointed for the job was me. Already on the banks of the harbor, one could see that Lund had done his homework because the king delivered a short speech in Icelandic. The day after that, we went on this dreadful trip east to the waterfall of Gullfoss and Geysir and stayed in Laugarvatn. Gaston Lund and I were like two roosters in a cock fight, although as in most cock fights, most of the energy went into strutting about and flapping our wings, but there was little actual pecking. Then we started to relax a bit, and it all ended in a wonderful booze-up.”

  Árni Sakarías pondered the memory wistfully before continuing with the story: “The following day, on the way to Reykjavik, we went to the Sogsvirkjun power plant, and some silly inauguration ceremony took place there. Then there was a dinner party in the evening at Hotel Borg, and that’s when the real story begins.”

  Árni Sakarías leaned over the table toward Dagbjartur and lowered his voice: “I arrived at the hotel early because I had some errand I wanted to discuss with Gaston Lund before the dinner party. I announced my arrival at reception, and a bellboy was sent up to his room with a note from me. I waited patiently because I knew he was preparing for the party and that it could take a while. Foreign guests were gathering in the foyer before going into the hall, and I greeted some of those I knew. Despite the crowd, I couldn’t help but notice a young woman who had planted herself on a chair in reception and was obviously waiting for someone. She was very pretty to look at and nicely dressed without being ostentatious. Standing beside the woman, there was a boy who was probably ten years old. He was also well dressed and all spruced up. No one paid them much heed, and I was probably the only one who was giving them any attention. Even though the woman was considerably younger than I was, I nevertheless allowed myself to feast my eyes on her every now and then. She was the best looking woman in the room, and I can never resist eyeing a pretty woman if I get a chance. Meanwhile, it was quite some time before Gaston Lund appeared. I was standing to one side, talking to one of the king’s retainers, and I didn’t notice straightaway that Gaston had come down the stairs. Then I saw him standing on the bottom step and gaping in horror at the woman and the boy, who were walking toward him across the reception floor. The woman said something to him when they met and offered him her hand. He responded very oddly, by refusing to accept her greeting and slipping his right hand behind his back, as if to avoid her touching it. The woman then slipped her arm around the boy’s shoulder, pushing him forward at the same time and saying out loud in Danish, ‘Gaston Lund. This boy is your son.’ Lund then backed off, moving back up two steps, and glared at him with a gaping jaw, speechless. This was beginning to attract some attention. The woman looked around apologetically on both sides and then at Lund again. She entreated him to speak to them, by all means. Then, it was as if Lund had suddenly snapped out of a trance. He beckoned the doorman over and, pointing at the woman and boy, shouted, ‘Out, out!’ The boy, who up until that moment had been so polite, started to bawl his eyes out, and so did the woman, yes, the woman, too. I’d never seen such a pitiful sight. All the dignity she possessed vanished with that single wave of his hand. Her back stooped and she stared bleary-eyed and blankly at the floor without uttering a sound. ‘Out! Out!’ Lund shouted, horror-stricken, and waving his arms. The doorman took
the woman by the arm and the boy by the collar and practically dragged them out of the building. Everyone who had been in the foyer witnessed the scene and now stared at Lund. Then he turned on his heel and ran up the stairs. The woman’s words echoed in the foyer as people repeated them. ‘She said the boy was his son,’ they kept on repeating, both in Icelandic and Danish. Those who knew Gaston Lund better than the others recalled that he had come to Iceland in the summer of 1926. Could he have had a relationship with this woman and fathered that boy? Regardless, his behavior was considered as nothing less than shameful, and he never showed himself again for the rest of trip. The story reached Copenhagen and tarnished his reputation. I’ve never been ashamed to tell this story if I’m asked. I don’t think Gaston Lund came to Iceland again until last autumn.”

  Árni Sakarías had finished his speech and now concentrated on his food. “Who was she, this woman?” Dagbjartur asked.

  The writer shook his head as he finished chewing and swallowing. “No one knows. No one who saw her at the hotel knew her by sight, and she was never seen there again. I tried to track her down, but without success. No one in town was familiar with the description I gave of the woman. It was assumed she wasn’t from Reykjavik. The Icelanders in Copenhagen tried to recall Gaston Lund’s trip to Iceland in the summer of 1926, but no one had any particular memory of any liaison with a woman. It occurred to no one to mention it to Lund himself, and bit by bit the story was forgotten in Copenhagen.”

  Question eighteen: Earl Hákon’s tooth token. First letter. Hákon became so uncontrolled with women that he felt entitled to have his way with all of them, whether they were mothers, sisters, maidens, or married. He also treated his underlings cruelly in many other ways and came to be known as Hákon the Bad. Eventually the yeomen formed an army and took up arms against him. Hákon escaped and hid with his slave, Kark, who had been given to him as a tooth token. Kark then killed the earl in their hideout and delivered his head to Ólaf Tryggvason. The king rewarded Kark by having him beheaded as well. The answer is “Kark,” and the first letter is k.