Under the Glacier

by Halldor Laxness

  Embi: Does God know trigonometry?

  Pastor Jón Prímus: The creation of the world is founded on addition, I would think.

  Embi: Everything supernatural is obviously over and done with long ago here at Glacier!

  Pastor Jón says that these were not his words—exactly. He thinks there is one thing at least that man does not understand.

  Embi: Supernatural?

  Pastor Jón thinks that time is the one thing we can all agree to call supernatural. It is at least neither energy nor matter; not dimension, either; let alone function; and yet it is the beginning and end of the creation of the world.

  The undersigned asks if there are any new and unexpected tidings of God here at Glacier. Pastor Jón smiles and asks if I know what the word means. When the question is referred back to the pastor himself, he relates that when he was a young man at university the authorities once made him study Old High German. Then it emerged that god, as we say in Germanic languages, is originally not a name for anything. It isn’t even a noun. It is the past participle of a verb that means adorare; as time passed it became a verbal noun: god is that which is worshipped, das angebetene; “the worshipped.” In one Old High German poem it is even said of God: “He is the finest of men.” We Teutons, in point of fact, don’t have the actual concept of God at all, don’t know what it is.

  Embi: I cannot see that it makes very much difference.

  Pastor Jón: No, none at all. Except that God has the virtue that one can locate Him anywhere at all, in anything at all.

  Embi: In a nail, for instance?

  Pastor Jón, verbatim: In school debates the question was sometimes put whether God was not incapable of creating a stone so heavy that He couldn’t lift it. Often I think the Almighty is like a snow bunting abandoned in all weathers. Such a bird is about the weight of a postage stamp. Yet he does not blow away when he stands in the open in a tempest. Have you ever seen the skull of a snow bunting? He wields this fragile head against the gale, with his beak to the ground, wings folded close to his sides and his tail pointing upwards; and the wind can get no hold on him, and cleaves. Even in the fiercest squalls the bird does not budge. He is becalmed. Not a single feather stirs.

  Embi: How do you know that the bird is the Almighty, and not the wind?

  Pastor Jón: Because the winter storm is the most powerful force in Iceland, and the snow bunting is the feeblest of all God’s conceptions.

  The undersigned asks if this latest proof is not a trifle circular, like the arguments about the stone that was too heavy. However that may be, I am prepared to set down that the pastor’s revelation embraces inter alia the lilies of the field, the glacier, and the snow buntings.

  Pastor Jón: Did you remember to set down, as regards the Almighty, that we are at liberty to locate it where we like and call it what we wish?

  Embi: Okay.

  Finally I ask pastor Jón if there is anything I ought to add. He thinks there is not much need of that, but he expands the idea a little nonetheless, albeit without commitment: Whoever worships a mountain, as countless peoples have done, then the mountain is his god; a stone if you adore a stone; a tree trunk if you believe in a tree trunk; and so on; rivers, water in a spring, water in a bowl; fish, bread, wine; a calf no less than a fairy ram; nor is the Virgin Mary in painted wood any inferior to that old widow with the big crotch, Madame Libido, or the skinless ogress Revolution, which feeds on human sacrifice.

  19

  Twelve Tons

  The roaring twelve-ton truck is driven across the homefield, straight over the green pasture, so that the earth trembles and the calf kicks out. The monster comes to a halt among the dandelions and buttercups on the grass-grown pathway between the church and the parsonage. Out steps a broad-built man with a straddling walk (jaunty-arsed, as it used to be called) and broad-faced in the sense that the word broad-whiskered is used about a cat. His sideburns reach down as far as the lobes of his ears.

  The following items of freight are unloaded:

  1. Three men wearing ponchos as outer garments with an opening in the middle through which their somewhat hirsute heads protrude. This cold-weather garment is usually named after the Bronco-Indians of South America, and they wear it when they ride their special bronco-horses herding bronco-livestock in winter; thus everything is called after bronco— horses, men, and harness. For my own convenience I shall call these fellows winter-pasture shepherds, as that was the first type of human being that came to mind when I saw them;

  2. Boxes and drums made of wood, tin, and plastic; merchandise, presumably provisions;

  3. Mrs. Fína Jónsen with scrubbing brush and soap.

  The winter-pasture shepherds rush off into the field at once to visit the calf. One of them brings out from under his poncho a stringed instrument with a convex base, and plucks at a string to entertain the stirk; it was a somewhat weak-toned lute. They assume Buddha postures on the grass around this wretched cloven-footed animal; one takes a flower from his hair and offers it, but the stirk refuses to accept it (probably a plastic flower).

  The broad-shouldered man in charge has taken Mrs. Fína Jónsen past the church and up to the front door of the bungalow; he produces a key and unlocks this mysterious house as if he lived there. Madam goes in with the scrubbing brush. Now the man in charge carries the lorry’s load into the house, piece by piece. With that done he pulled a bottle from the pocket of his parka, took a drink, and pissed luxuriantly to the four winds. He happens to glance towards the parsonage; on the remains of a wall that once enclosed a vegetable garden he sees a man sitting—the undersigned emissary of the bishop. No sooner does the newcomer set eyes on this person than he walks straight over to him.

  Newcomer: Hi, mate, are you a bishop, were you looking for me?

  Embi: Who are you, if I may ask, sir?

  Newcomer: Me? I’m just a common workingman, if you don’t mind. No formality with me—I address God and my dog in the same way. So why not you as well, even though you’re a bishop?

  Embi: I am not a bishop.

  Newcomer: Well who the hell are you, then?

  Embi: Excuse me, but are you the owner of that vehicle?

  Newcomer: I’m just an ordinary Icelander, if that’s all right by you. Have a smoke? Have a drink? Won’t have one, no. A toffee-nose, eh? I’ll have you know that even though I’m just an ordinary Icelander, I’ve supplied whole communities and townships with sand and gravel and cement and rubble right round the bay; fetched all the materials for the quick-freezing plants in this county, and I don’t mean just one or two, which the state lends you the money to build and run, then pays the losses and shoulders the bankruptcies while you yourself scram with the profits; and by these buildings Iceland stands or falls, and anyone who doesn’t listen to the programme about the bankruptcies of the quick-freezing plants on the radio isn’t an Icelander. And you’ll have me to deal with if you won’t take a drink with a chap, even though he’s just an Icelander and a workingman!

  Embi: Though you might be something you’re ashamed of, I for my own part don’t much mind about people’s standing, perhaps because I have none myself. I only ask, may I have a word with you, sir?

  Newcomer: How dare you be formal with an ordinary Icelander and workingman! I run a piece of industrial machinery here that is twelve tons and eighteen wheels and wears out roads at the rate of thirty-five thousand cars. Where’s your car?

  Embi: I’ve never owned a car. And this is the first time I’ve spoken to a man who drives a twelve-ton truck. It so happens that I was sent up here on a small mission by the church authorities. Still, it’s quite obvious that you with these twelve tons are much closer to the Omnipotence than I am.

  Newcomer: I’ve got some real Danish akvavit lovely and warm in my hip pocket. Come and sit down on a tomb! Aren’t we related, by the way?

  Embi: I must ask you to excuse me.

  Newcomer: You’re a bishop. You’ve got the Holy Spirit. But what God do we common Icelanders have
besides Black Death booze, if it isn’t warm Danish akvavit? Would you like a punch on the nose?

  Embi: It makes no difference whether I’m punched on the nose or not: I simply cannot get warm akvavit down. It’s like lubricating oil. It sticks in the throat. But if you’re in a bad mood just now, I’d like to have your name and address for later on.

  Newcomer: I’m a son of the common people.

  Embi: Isn’t that rather a vague address?

  Newcomer: D’you think you’re too good to be an Icelander?

  The undersigned finally lets himself, for demagogic reasons, be talked into accepting the bottle, and pours a few drops of tepid akvavit into his palm and rubs it into his hair. This the twelve-tonner man doesn’t like; he snatches the bottle from me and curses me again in no uncertain terms, but ends his comments on a resigned note with the phrase “stick to what you fancy,” takes a pull from the bottle, and puts it back in his pocket.

  Newcomer: My name is Jódínus Álfberg. I’m a poet. I shall now recite the Palisander Lay, written by me.

  Embi: Unfortunately I don’t have enough tape to record a poem.

  Jódínus Álfberg: Not an Icelandic vein in your carcass! But between you and me and the gatepost, my old woman and me have got a palisander-wood kitchen just like the rest of you down south. I’ve got so much palisander it makes me puke. The old woman too. I’ve had the kitchen painted with zinc-white.

  Embi: Where does all this palisander come from?

  Jódínus Álfberg: I represent the Tycoon who bosses heaven and earth.

  Embi: Oh? Has some new tycoon started bossing all that?

  Jódínus Álfberg: My Tycoon—he’s the tycoon on whose behalf I have transported three world saviours, so to speak, to this address here today to redeem the world. They’re sitting over there beside the calf. They can resurrect this whole grave-yard and tell all its occupants to skedaddle home without a word. But it’s me and no one else in the land who has the key to the house. I can enter this house whenever I like and swipe whatever I like. I can take a woman in here whenever I like. I get Fína to scrub here every spring and autumn at hourly rates, even though there isn’t a speck of dust or dirt anywhere: everything paid for in California against invoice. And I have complete control of the scrubbing brush.

  Embi: I’m gradually beginning to understand whom you’re talking about all the time, although I find it a little hard to imagine what this person looks like. What I’d like to know now is, where does he get the money?

  Jódínus Álfberg: Money! The Tycoon! Don’t you know he’s got chain stores all over the world? Don’t you know it was he who invented the secret of the submarine and the parachute?

  Embi: No.

  Jódínus Álfberg: Don’t you realise, man, that before he invented the secret, submarines couldn’t come up to the surface? And parachutes couldn’t come down to earth? Now all submarines can come up to the surface and all parachutes can come down to earth. He sells his patents to the generals in huge quantities. All military nations owe their lives to him. In return, all military establishments have to pay him annual royalties for the patents. When everyone who trades in fish and bread has gone bust, his shops will remain. Now he’s patented a method of resurrecting the dead.

  Embi: While I remember, since you mentioned Mrs. Fína Jónsen, I got the impression from her this morning that you would probably be the person who knew something about a certain transportation that is said to have taken place up on the glacier a few years ago. Do you know anything about it?

  Jódínus Álfberg: How was the stuff packaged?

  Embi: That I don’t know.

  Jódínus Álfberg: And the address?

  Embi: That’s precisely why I’m asking.

  Jódínus Álfberg: My motto is strong packaging, clear addressing.

  Embi: I’m asking about contents.

  Jódínus Álfberg: If the packaging and addressing aren’t in order, I swipe the contents. That’s what all hauliers do.

  Embi: It’s a pity we aren’t about equally drunk, to understand one another. All the same, I would like to call your attention to the fact that if you have transported a body up onto the glacier and buried it there, that is contrary to the law of the church.

  Jódínus Álfberg: I’m an impoverished workingman.

  Embi: Even so.

  Jódínus Álfberg: Workingmen do nothing for nothing. It’s only posh people who do something for nothing.

  Embi: In other words, you won’t talk except for money? Jódínus Álfberg: Just let me tell you, mate, that even though I’m an uneducated ordinary Icelander, I’m just as good as any bishop. What can you pay?

  Embi: Must we always be making personal comparisons? We both know how I come out of that. I haven’t got a palisander kitchen. I don’t own any furniture except a bookcase I nailed together for myself out of boxwood. Period.

  Jódínus Álfberg: You’re just a footslogging wretch, so I might just as well tell you the truth: there’s a body in the casket. There you are. A body. A woman’s body. A damned dead body. Go on, have a drink. Ha ha ha. Let’s get on first-name terms and drink to that, and enjoy ourselves. And I’ll recite the poem about the palisander.

  Embi: No, for God’s sake.

  The undersigned wasn’t nimble enough, however, to switch off the pocket recorder before the poet had managed to deliver the first stanza of the Palisander Lay:

  Palisander wood’s just right

  To make a kitchen look a sight;

  ’Cause I can turn the dark to light

  By painting all the black zinc-white.

  20

  Provisional Summary

  Pastor Jón Prímus called away “on official duties” somewhere up-country this afternoon. Evening. Your emissary has spent a few hours on the preparation of his report: organised his notes, marked up the tapes, jotted down some comments and explanations. As things stand, your emissary sees little advantage to be gained from prolonging his stay here. A draft description of the church and churchyard is attached. The condition of the parsonage, preservation of church property, and so on are matters that smack of the absurd in this place. For instance, the livestock here consists of nothing but the housekeeper’s calf. Food in any real sense of the term is not served in this home; in fact there is no home to speak of, either. The parish pastor makes his living as a jack-of-all-trades for the district.

  To recapitulate further:

  Christian observance. As far as the undersigned can see, Christian observance is at a minimum in the district. In addition to the state of the church, there is the testimony of the parish clerk, Tumi Jónsen of Brún, albeit given with sympathy and complete loyalty towards pastor Jón; furthermore, there is the interview with the clergyman himself, both on marked spools. From this documentary evidence it will be clear that clerical duties are hardly performed at all in the parish unless ministers from outside are called in. Burials neglected. No services at Christmas, etc.

  Marital status. Inquiries as instructed brought to light the following regarding pastor Jón’s marital circumstances: was probably formally married, prefers to draw a veil over it, perhaps merely an empty formality, and no consummatio. The woman’s name—various derivations from the word Úrsúla, pastor Jón himself says the woman was called Úa. Happened, or rather didn’t happen, c. thirty-five years ago. Who performed the wedding ceremony, if it was performed, not clear. Does the undersigned have the authority to require from a parish pastor an account of a private affair that has never been a matter of controversy within the parish or outside it, but that would certainly be a case for the police if taken up officially? Bigamy can hardly enter into it. Pastor Jón’s unblemished life is common talk, together with the love and respect of the parishioners; probably unique. About the woman whom pastor JP has named his “bride” in the presence of the undersigned, the only information I have is that she is from one of those ancient fishing places farther down the coast to the east that are more akin to ghost stories than reality: in the
se places live princesses of unusual physical characteristics that arise from the fact that they are breast-fed by wet nurses (perhaps no cows on the farm); it’s said that these women walk after death, etc. Both the pastor’s housekeeper and the parish clerk TJ have in my hearing called the place Neðratraðkot. The present whereabouts of the “bride” no one knows exactly. Pastor Jón says that in his youth he made friends with an engineer of Icelandic origin who before long made a fortune in other continents and called himself Professor Doctor Godman Sýngmann (Mundi Mundason, alias Guðmundur Sigmundsson, says pastor Jón). NB: Wasn’t there something in the newspapers here a few years ago about an Icelander in Australia, or the Argentine, or California, who was supposed to have written six volumes about life on other planets—exobiology; privately published, I think, partly in Spanish and partly in English, places of publication rather far-off and a little peculiar, as I recall. The undersigned knows no one who has read this, but there is said to be a pamphlet available in our own language that contains a summary of this compatriot’s gospel; have unfortunately not seen it. (Could this possibly be yet another example of the man from a remote island? He is a brilliant man and educated at foreign universities. He manages to make money proliferate out of the destitution in the Far East and Polynesia. After that he settles in the most frenzied and frenetic capitals the world has ever known—Paris, Buenos Aires, New York, Los Angeles. Yet the islander in him continues to dominate his soul and each year he is drawn closer and closer to the hole in Snæfellsjökull into which Professor Doctor Otto Lidenbrock plunged in pursuit of Árni Saknússemm the alchemist.)

  Luxury house of choice Oriental wood. As an example of the above incongruity, which is innate in people from remote islands and consists of being unequal in size and shape to all other objects around them, I take the liberty of citing the luxury house that Prof. Dr. Godman Sýngmann has had built at an angle to the church (illustration attached). The house has been empty for three years, in the care of one Jódínus Álfberg. Regarding this building it can be stated that neither the parish pastor nor anyone else is aware of any permission having been obtained for such an edifice on glebe-land belonging to the church. Pastor Jón, however, has a vague recollection of having long ago given an old friend of his some sort of promise that he could pitch his tent here. At the time of writing, the owner of the building is said to be not far away, fishing for sea trout. The undersigned considers this house to be no concern of his or his mission. The church authorities would do better to go to law to get a decision on whether this oft-mentioned house is legal or not, and thereafter make arrangements accordingly.