The Black Cauldron
Page 36
You would soon hardly be able to exist for cars in this village; pedestrians had long ago lost all their rights and were no longer really tolerated: even the pavements were in effect reserved for cars and motorcycles, and no longer did you come across even small children who were not wielding saucepan lids between their hands and snorting like horses while, with unsympathetic and murderous eyes, they forced their way between those out-dated shanks of yours which were so ridiculously in the way everywhere.
Another nuisance that seemed to be on the increase was dogs. If you stopped and listened for a moment in this village you had to admit that the barking of dogs almost drowned the noise of traffic. There seemed to be some kind of mystical union between cars and dogs. Every car was hotly pursued by one or two furious dogs, and inside, behind the windows of the private cars, you could see other angry snouts. Thus, Tarnowius’s huge alsatian went everywhere by car, its two-kilo steak-eating tongue shining pink from a great distance. Now Pjølle Schibbye, too, had got a thoroughbread dog for his car, so the fashion was catching on.
Strange: the dog, that incredibly filthy, base animal … nothing enjoys greater human affection. Why? … Because it can both play up to you and make itself seem pathetic. Like him Op-op-op, thought Ole chewing away with bitter amusement at his tobacco.
Nor did a day pass without your having to witness the heart-breaking sight of a motorcyclist or pedalcyclist driving into a lamp post, a stationary car or a shop window in a desperate but vain attempt to kick a mongrel that wanted to amputate his leg. Shortly afterwards the other two main actors in the drama would appear on the scene: the policeman, who would hand out an arrest warrant to the unfortunate victim, and the dog’s owner, who with a raised stick or umbrella or axe would demand compensation for the dog, which had suffered no injury, but was calmly piddling down the policeman’s leg.
Ole the Post swung his bag into a more comfortable position on his back. Thank God he was maintaining his sense of humour; that was at least something.
He stopped at Mrs Lundegaard’s house. The little sign saying “Guest House” had been taken down: Myklebust and Thygesen and that peculiar Icelander were no longer there, and the widow, who at one time had been so energetic and lively, had become lonely and thoughtful and almost beautiful. But her old hospitality was unchanged, and the little flowered snaps bottle came out on the table, and Ole had to go across to the door and spit out his morning chew.
Still nothing from Engilbert Thomsen. Perhaps he had fled the country. Perhaps he had chosen suicide. Perhaps he was a spy. Perhaps he was under a spell. Perhaps he was not quite right in the head, as sometimes happened with unusually bright people. It was all so complicated. But now it was already a long time since he had disappeared, and Mrs Lundegaard was beginning to settle down and resign herself to her fate, which when all was said and done was not so terrible – having a child after six years of childless marriage and scarcely two years as a widow. Financially she was all right, indeed, she was probably quite well off.
“Opperman!” she exclaimed, showing two o-shaped eyes above the paper. “A large house and 50,000 kroner. Yes, but he can afford it,” she added dispassionately. “OK, he can afford it.”
“Yes, let’s drink to that,” said Ole. “Oh, sorry, I’ve emptied my glass.”
Mrs. Lundegaard glanced up from behind her newspaper, a glance that was half melancholy, half roguish, and poured him a fresh glass.
“Anything new otherwise?” she asked, as she went on reading. “The baker? Liva?”
“Yes, Liva’s all right, sort of,” Ole could inform her. “She’s happy and contented, but completely dotty. Pastor Fleisch goes and visits her every day and shows her pictures. She’s absolutely crazy about pictures. But Simon the baker is still stark raving mad and they have to keep him in a strait-jacket.”
“Good Lord.” Mrs. Lundegaard lowered the newspaper and stared up in the air for a moment. “And what about the bun sect?”
“Oh, that’s strictly forbidden now, and Markus and Benedikt are still in gaol accused of attempted murder. So that put an end to it, obviously…”
Ole sat playing thoughtfully with his empty glass. “And Captain Gilgud’s wedding with Borghild Tarnowius …”
Mrs. Lundegaard looked up quickly and gave a youthful smile as she filled the glass for the third time. “Oh, Ole … really? Are they really serious, then?”
“Yes, they’re supposed to be getting married the day before Christmas Eve. But, hmmm. But well, you mustn’t believe everything you hear,” said Ole, emptying the glass as though in distraction.
Mrs. Lundegaard’s eyes had become sharp with curiosity. “No, you mustn’t, must you, Ole?,” she said imperiously.
“Cheers, sorry, I forgot to say it, but it’s too late now, but … no thank you, no thank you … oh, thank you!”
Mrs. Lundegaard nervously replaced the cork in the bottle and said in a cold, commanding tone: “Well, and then what, Ole?”
“They say she’s got herself into trouble again. But not with … the Captain. Enough said.”
Mrs. Lundegaard shrugged her shoulders slightly and drew in her lower lip: “Well, I never heard anything like it …”
Ole quickly emptied the fourth and irrevocably last glass; he must get on, for people were dying to get their newspapers and read about Opperman …
Out on the fjord an armed trawler was on its way in. On its heels followed the Gok, without sails, and with two sailors on board. The trawler was towing the strange little Viking ship. What could that mean?
A moment later a crowd formed on the quayside. What was going on? People were whispering to each other, smiling, frowning and shrugging their shoulders. It was Thygesen and Myklebust. They had been up to something and were being taken before Inspector Hansen for interrogation. Smuggling? Espionage?
People were busy guessing throughout the day, and the most unbelievable rumours buzzed around like flickering subtitles to a film: They had been in contact with enemy submarines by means of a secret transmitter. They had murdered the Icelander because he knew too much and sunk his body out at sea.
But no one knew anything for certain, for it was kept secret. A military secret.
Mr. Skælling, the editor, had, however, via Consul Tarnowius obtained some authentic information. Of a strictly private nature, of course, the Consul having obtained it from his son-in-law-to-be, Captain Gilgud. It was unique.
“Good God,” he groaned. “Life still has its humorous aspects, Maja! Those two day-dreamers have been intercepted by the patrol boat far out to sea, making south as fast as their sails would let them. The crew hailed them and signalled to them to stop, because they’re not allowed to leave the fjord without permission, and in fact they fired a warning shot at them … but no, it was no use, they simply sailed on, and when the ship came up alongside them they completely lost control of themselves and shot at it with a rifle. Luckily they didn’t hit anyone. It was Myklebust who fired the shot. ’We won’t surrender at any price,’ he shouted. Just think, he was completely out of his mind, that nice old man. ’You can pulverise us with your guns, but you shan’t take us alive,’ he shouted.”
Mr. Skælling held on to his stomach. “And just imagine,” he said, choking with laughter as he sat down: “All the time Myklebust stood there threatening them like some furious latter-day Francis Drake, the other idiot was firing distress signals!”
Copyright
Published in the UK by Dedalus Ltd
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ISBN printed book: 978 1 910213 81 0
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Publishing History
First published in Denmark in 1949
First published by Dedalus in 1992
New Dedalus edition in 2018
Den Sorte Gryde © William Heinesen & Gyldendal, Copenhagen 1949
Published by agreement with Gyldendal Group Agency
Translation copyright © Dedalus and W. Glyn Jones
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc
Typeset by RefineCatch Ltd
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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