Señores, I suggest, porque yo amo vosotros that we shrink his head. We shrink it until it is as hard as rock and the size of a potato. Then we shall use it as a weathervane on the cathedral of the North Pole. Then the one who had it on loan and has now gone home to the fifth heaven can continue to talk to it, through it, and for it to us, también muchas gracias.
The sleeping master Epimenides rose smiling to his feet, turned his back, and took three steps away from the others. His garland lay on the grass. Nearly all the flowers in it were gone, and unfortunately there was little likelihood that new ones would grow in their place. Then he went down on his paws and rested his forehead on the ground.
Then something came to light that no one had noticed because of the morning’s preoccupations—the glacier, which men from the four corners of the earth had been determined to climb that very morning, had vanished completely. Everything shrouded in fog right down to the farms, and Helgi of Torfhvalastaðìr out in the fog looking for horses.
Jódínus Álfberg the poet: The Tycoon is dead, but he had already paid up. He paid well, because he was a Supertycoon. But now that Helgi of Torfhvalastaðìr cannot find the horses and is himself lost and the glacier gone to the devil, what’s the point of twelve tons and eighteen wheels? Kindly tell the English sheriff that Jódínus is now going off with the twelve-tonner and the scrubbing job and will come back when the weather clears up. Tell the sheriff that though I am not a gentleman but only an ordinary workingman and an Icelander and poet to boot, I don’t cheat a dead man who has already paid.
One might add that this was one of those mornings when it’s as if all the holes and rents in the world had been plugged and caulked, not even a chink for a miracle.
30
Four Widows or a Fourfold Madam
The undersigned was present at the doctor’s examination of the body and translated the death certificate for the butler. As soon as that was over he composed four Xp-telegrams to New York, Sydney, London, and Buenos Aires. The telegrams were all addressed to the same addressee, “Mrs. Professor Dr. Godman Sýngmann,” in the American style of giving titles to wives. Mr. Smith asked me to dispatch them by telegraph. The operator complained that the telegrams all seemed to be for the one person although the addresses specified different countries: the telegraph office doesn’t send to the same addressee the same telegram from the same sender to many addresses. The text of the telegram was as follows: “Dr. Godman Sýngmann died last night stop heart attack stop kindly send instructions stop James Smith butler.” The telegraph staff said they were taking the liberty of talking plain sense, and maintained that since the addressee appeared to be not an international company but rather the widow of the man whom the telegram described as being dead, then surely this woman could only be found at one place.
Conversation between the undersigned and Mr. Smith (hereinafter called “the butler” or even “the butler of the household”):
Embi: The telegraph staff refuse to send the same person the same telegram in four countries at once.
Butler: It will be paid.
Embi: I know nothing of the marital status of the deceased nor does it concern me much. But I thought I caught a hint that Dr. Sýngmann was a widower. Who is the woman who has these four addresses, if I may ask?
Butler: That is my problem.
Embi: I am telling you the regulations of the telegraph office.
Butler: It so happens that I am the butler of this household.
Embi: I am the emissary of the Bishop of Iceland.
Butler: Bad luck. However, the telegrams I have signed are my own responsibility.
Embi: Though a special case like this is outside my scope, there is no hiding the fact that we are not indifferent to what we bury here. It’s not as if we are piling a cairn over a horse. Judging by your telegrams, Dr. Godman Sýngmann seems to have been a somewhat ubiquitously married man. Though this doesn’t concern me directly, it is the custom here in Iceland, when strangers die and are buried, to inquire about their age, address, nationality, and marital status.
Butler: Strangers? What are you talking about? This is one of the greatest men in the world.
Embi: Leave that aside for the moment. To revert to the telegrams: if this address is the name of a firm that has branches in many countries, that would be a different story. But why then doesn’t it have either “Limited” or “Incorporated” at the end? If, on the other hand, the man had four wives as the telegrams imply, I would think that none of these women is a lawful party to this case, but that they must live separately somewhere behind lock and key. In all the countries that are named in the telegrams, polygamy is a major crime.
Butler: Will you have these telegrams sent or not, sir?
The bishop’s emissary advised the man to talk to the management of the telegraph office, and the upshot was that the telegrams were sent.
31
Your New Instructions, and a Work-Report
Pastor Jón the locksmith asks me not to leave until everything has been attended to. The clergyman says yet again that the responsibility of the office weighs heavily upon him. He says he hopes that aeroplanes from the four corners of the earth would arrive soon to quarter Mundi’s carcass and remove the parts each to its own continent. Axlar-Björn the highway-man, the most famous man ever known at Glacier, was buried under three cairns, says the parish pastor, and likewise he has heard that kings of the Ming dynasty were each laid to rest in twelve mausoleums.
The day wears on without replies being received from the four widows. The butler drives off to do some shopping in the Imperial limousine; the twelve-tonner with Jódínus the poet follows like a dog. Pastor Jón and I stay behind and await events, and I keep an eye on the winter-pasture shepherds so that they don’t take the head off the corpse and shrink it. I say I’m going south because my mission here is finished, and this makes pastor Jón a little depressed, until he gets the idea of inviting me out to the shed, and says that an old woman at Nes had given him some smoked brisket. He cut thick slices from it and we ate it raw and it was a wonderful delicacy and besides I was starving. He put the kettle on and boiled his strong kettle-coffee, and there was plenty of rye bread and butter and moreover dried halibut for all of £20 sterling. Eventually a telegram arrived and we both held our breaths in suspense over what the fourfold woman of the world would say.
But this was a telegram from your Grace the Bishop of Iceland—to me. Attached herewith:
“On behalf of the Ministry of Ecclesiastical Affairs kindly supervise funeral of Australian engineer of Icelandic origin who died at Glacier this morning, to be buried there according to cabled request received this minute from Mowitz & Cattleweight Ltd., Solicitors & Brokers, Securities Corporation London W. C., etc., as follows: Mr. Sýngmann of Australia died in Iceland this morning. Kindly bury the man immediately. Attestations of responsible authority requested. Costs payable in this London office. End quote. Delegate you responsibility for lawful preparation and execution of desired ceremony. Those officials concerned, in addition to foreign representatives, will be attending. Bishop of Iceland.”
Embi: It’s probably best to start putting windowpanes in the church, pastor Jón.
Pastor Jón: Oh, the church hasn’t any funds left.
Embi: The London people will pay.
Pastor Jón: What difference would it make to them to take him away to London? After that they could take him to Australia, now that they reckon he belongs there. Or what do his three colleagues have to say?
Embi: They want to shrink his head. That’s the only suggestion they have to make. Better pay no attention to them.
Pastor Jón: Perhaps you would like to bury him yourself?
Embi: What gives you that idea! I am not ordained. I cannot even sprinkle earth, by law. On the other hand I have my instructions here in a confirmed telegram from the bishop. They state clearly and unmistakably that I am responsible for the lawful execution of this business. As far as I can see, it is you,
the parish pastor, and none other, who is the responsible authority concerned.
Pastor Jón: Don’t you think it at all comical to be burying people from my church? In my churchyard?
Embi waves the telegram: Here are my instructions!
Pastor Jón: It so happens that I haven’t the stomach to hold a funeral sermon over this man. We were rivals in love. He was such a magician that he changed our sweetheart into a fish.
Evening. The butler arrives from the south in the Imperial and Jódínus trundles along behind with the coffin in the twelve-tonner and no other cargo except for Mrs. Fína Jónsen in the front seat. There is also a builder in tow, whose task is to see what needs to be done to improve the church; he says that carpenters will be sent tomorrow. The parish pastor starts looking for a crowbar, because now the windows are to be opened up again; furthermore, the bars are to be torn from the door— and he having nailed them in place so carefully yesterday after the bishop’s emissary had made his inspection. Mrs. Fína Jónsen waits outside with the scrubbing brush, and now the way into the church is open. It is forty-eight centimetres up to the threshold, as was stated earlier in this report, but Mrs. Fína Jónsen says it doesn’t matter, she can easily take thresholds of this size in her stride. But in this church neither the scrubbing brush nor soap were of any avail, not even a bristle broom; instead, Jódínus says he will fetch a man with a shovel tomorrow. The builder takes notes, promises to come with a gang tomorrow as well, and drives off home.
The body had to be coffined. We carried the coffin into the bungalow. The winter-pasture shepherds had lain down to rest on the veranda under the portico, where it doesn’t rain; it is not their custom to enter human dwellings except in wild weather, cf. foxes have their dens, etc. They peer out from their sleeping bags without saying good evening, and curl up under cover again. We pushed the furniture aside in the sitting room and stacked some of it against the walls, then set up the bier in the middle of the floor. Mrs. Fína Jónsen washed the body where it lay on the bed, and we lifted it as and when required to ease her task; it was very stiff. The knee-joints, which had in fact been indistinct in life, were solid as blocks of ice. Mrs. F. J. produced a shroud from her bag and says, I sewed this from material for a nightdress I had intended for myself. Then we dressed the body. When that was done the woman says Such is life, meaning that a nightdress she had intended for herself was now being used for the greatest angler in the world. After that we carried the body into the sitting room and laid it in the coffin and the undersigned was allowed to support this famous man’s head. It was quite an effort to cross the arms over his breast. Now he lies there. His face was no longer a mottled blue, but brown from old suns in hot countries. Then the following exchange takes place:
Butler: Is no one here saying a prayer?
Pastor Jón Prímus, rather weakly: Oh, praying, I’ve been away from it so long.
Embi to the butler: You are the butler.
Then the butler started to mutter an English prayer in an undertone, but very fast, so that the undersigned could hardly tell whether it was the Lord’s Prayer or “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.” Your emissary thought pastor Jón looked as if the prayer made his skin crawl. Mrs. Fína Jónsen looked at the men as if to ask if that was all they proposed to contribute. It seemed so. So the woman produced an old hymnbook, rather worn but with gilt edges, and tucked it inside on the dead man’s breast. She made the sign of the cross over the face, expertly, first with a perfectly straight movement of the hand up and down, thereby delineating the upright, then forming the crossbar with a flat hand, the palm downwards. Finally she spread a veil over the man’s face, saying: May the Lord be praised for your life.
That was all, and nothing more was needed, really. Pastor Jón said that Miss Hnallþóra was offering coffee and cakes over in the parsonage.
32
Night Vigil
At your request I shall prolong my stay here for those days while Dr. Godman Sýngmann’s body lies on the bier, although I do not dare to take responsibility for anything that might happen here. Incalculable agents are involved in this. However, I promise to do everything in my power to prevent the body being taken up onto the glacier, its head removed and shrunk, etc.
I have noticed that the Ministry of Ecclesiastical Affairs is cooperating with the deceased’s butler, Mr. Smith, an Englishman, as well as his Icelandic errand-boy in the district, Jódínus Álfberg. It is presumably through this cooperation that windowpanes have been put in the church, the roof mended, and so on. The undersigned also wishes to note, with gratitude, that the church has been completely mucked out and the doors repaired a little, although they have not been entirely cured of the creaking. There have been some minor repairs around the altar. I also think it of importance that a set of steps, 48 cm high, has been placed against the church door so that most parishioners who are reasonably hale and of normal length of leg and mobility now have the opportunity of achieving entry to God’s house at Glacier—if the church door isn’t nailed up again sooner than expected. In addition a stepladder was placed in the bell tower, so that now one can scramble up and ring the bell.
Concerning the altarpiece already mentioned in this report, I would point out that I have prevented the old paintings on it from being scrubbed with caustic soda with the kind of scrubbing brush that Hafnarfjörður people use for scouring the scales off haddock. Perhaps it would be possible to clean the altarpiece with specially prepared materials if a qualified expert could be found for the task.
As regards the boards from the pulpit, which had previously been tied together in a bundle, and also a valuable chandelier in German baroque style that was lying on the floor in 133 parts, I think it likely that these items were cleared by the shovel when the church was mucked out, and the undersigned wasn’t quick enough to lay hands on them.
The three winter-pasture shepherds are still here, settled on the veranda of the bungalow, and say they will be delayed in their task because of the fog: with that done, the “butler of the household” will see to their passage home.
These people have been asked to what denomination Dr. Godman Sýngmann had adhered; and furthermore, if it were likely that a representative of the church in question would want to travel to Iceland and conduct the funeral if the parish pastor here pleaded difficulty, on grounds of faith, in having Lutherans involved in the business.
These people are not always agreeable in their replies. They say of Dr. Sýngmann’s body that this is the carcass of an international businessman; their master had had this container on loan. Skip it! Their master had no religion. He was himself Buddha. Buddha frequently pops down here to earth on important business without being reincarnated; this time he came to put into effect a special revelation in six volumes and to carry out a rather urgent resurrection mystery. The revelation was accomplished, but the miracle will be performed as soon as the rain stops. The Lord himself has now discarded his coarse container and has gone home to his heaven. From there he will come in a reincarnated image as the fifth Buddha after about three thousand years or so to redeem the world and complete the work of deliverance he has previously instituted in books and miracles.
The undersigned cannot judge whether this doctrine is Buddhism any more than anything else. The one certain thing is that I recognise bits of it although I am not a Buddhist. The undersigned is not trying to explain anything nor add anything, but in my judgement the aforementioned body is, according to this doctrine, entitled to be buried in accordance with universal Christian faith with any necessary adjustments. It’s another matter that one of the winter-pasture shepherds, the lute-player, is obviously descended from the headhunters of South America, and has suggested obtaining Dr. Sýngmann’s head for shrinking.
I have impressed upon Mr. Smith the necessity of keeping careful vigil over the body, on behalf of Messrs. Mowitz & Cattleweight Inc., Solicitors & Brokers, etc., and I entrust him with the responsibility for it while the body is lying in the bungalow; but
as soon as the church is in order, the undersigned will keep vigil over the body on behalf of the Ministry of Ecclesiastical Affairs in accordance with instructions and by agreement with the parish pastor.
The evening before the funeral. The carpenters have gone and the grave-diggers have been at work. The coffin has been moved into the church. Only one thing is still uncertain regarding this funeral, and that is whether it will take place. Pastor Jón Prímus has not yet given his unequivocal assent; he vanished this morning before people were up, and has not been seen all day. Phone calls have been made in vain all over the district.
Night; darkness and drizzle. The winter-pasture shepherds are asleep on the veranda of the bungalow under the portico. The body is in its place and the coffin open at the head, and the lid will not be completely closed before the proper authorities have compared it with their documents. I decide to lie down for an hour and forget my worries, in the hope that the Creator will somehow or other find a way out of the morning’s difficulties.
Under the Glacier Page 13
