by Sjón
Today, few would deny that Kristin Hermansen is one of the foremost Faroese literary figures of the last century (see also the article by Steinfinnur Miðgerð in the weekend supplement to Dimmalætting, 23 September 1997).
Kristin Hermansen was, as the author mentions, also involved in politics. He was a candidate for the Unionist Party in Tvøroyri in the 1920s and later for the socialists in Tórshavn. That was in the 1930s. He was never elected. He did take up a seat in parliament for one term, however, when D.N. Jacobsen became a government minister after the 1953 election. Kristin Hermansen died in 1975, aged ninety-seven years old.
TRANSLATED BY KATE SANDERSON
SAN FRANCISCO
NIVIAQ KORNELIUSSEN
“Go!”
I discover to my horror that she has decided to do just that after I have told her to for the fourth time. I regret rebuffing her even more when she sticks her arm into the sleeve of her pale-blue Peak Performance jacket and gets ready to leave the flat. Consumed by self-loathing, I tell myself to go over and embrace her, apologize and beg her to stay, but my body refuses to obey. I glower at her while she puts on her jacket and her shoes, drops the cigarette packet into her handbag and heads for the door. I really don’t want her to go. I want her close to me again and I want to tell her that I love her, over and over. But all I can do is watch her sad face as she leaves because I’m unable to move or utter a single sound. Get it together, you moron! I know that I’m in the wrong, it was my fault that we started arguing, and that it was stupid, ugly me who provoked, offended and hurt her after a crap day that left me bursting with suppressed anger. Now I look at her adorable, wistful eyes and my remorse is so great that the ocean seems but a drop by comparison. My shame leaves me silent and immobile, but still overdosing on madness. Why can’t I just admit that I was wrong? I look at her beautiful face when she gives me a placating look just as she is about to leave.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
I’m sorely tempted to show her how contrite I am, but why, why is she apologizing? Why does she take on the blame? Once more I’m overcome with rage and I glare mercilessly at her with my ridiculous face. I watch her go.
“I love you,” I whisper and the door shuts.
I jerk violently and then I rush to the door, taking big strides, and I lock it so ostentatiously that my beloved must be able to hear it. I hope desperately that it will make her so angry that she will come back and bang on the door, but I realize that she has given up when I hear her fetch her bicycle and her presence starts to fade. I run to the window to look for her, but she is already too distant to hear my frantic knocking on the windowpane. She is far away, gone, and I am left alone with myself. A dreadful loneliness starts to grow inside me. Serves you right, go on, feel sorry for yourself, be lonely, stop whingeing, you got exactly what you wanted, she has left, she is gone. Fia, you bloody idiot, it’s your own fault that she left you. I bang my heavy head against the wall to punish myself for my impatience and stupidity. Darling. Beloved, I’m sorry. Come back, beloved, and I will prove to you that my love for you knows no limits. Beloved, give me another chance; believe me when I say that you’re more important to me than I am. Please understand that I didn’t mean what I said. Come back and kiss me again, cry in my arms, scold me and give me the chance to comfort you. I will die unless you return.
The feeling crawls from my heart to my lungs and then up my throat before it explodes out of my mouth. My body grows limp and I start to wail, my face distorts, and the snot runs. I don’t care if the people above or below can hear me because there’s no way I can control myself. I throw my heavy body on the bed and sob into her scented pillow which is drenched by the time I fall asleep.
Sara, my beloved Sara, come back.
I wake up thinking that a mouse is trying to escape from my hand, but realize that my mobile is vibrating. Last night’s dreadful events hit me full force. Then a feeling of joy grows inside me: my beloved is calling because she wants to come back to me.
“My darling, I’m sorry. Come back to me. I love you. Sara, I love you, I love you so so much.”
I don’t bother with hello because I’m so busy telling her all the things I should have said before she left, so that she will understand. I’m still half asleep and I can’t make out what she is saying. There has to be something wrong with my brain since her voice sounds so different. It is unrecognizable.
“We’re calling you because we can’t find anyone else to contact, and we can see that you’ve called Sara’s mobile. Do you know Sara?”
Perhaps she is still pissed off with me. Perhaps she is trying to wind me up and maybe she is not yet ready to forgive me.
“Sara, darling. I’m sorry.”
I’m not angry with her at all because I can still remember the horrible and crazy stuff I said to her. Sweetheart.
“Fia? You’re Fia, aren’t you?”
Slowly it dawns on me that the person I’m talking to is not Sara.
“Come on, pass the phone to Sara. Or tell her that I love her. Yes, tell her that I love her and that I want her to come home. Tell that I’m not upset and that it’s my fault and mine alone that we argued last night. Would you? Please would you tell her? I can understand if she doesn’t want to talk to me. Tell her that I understand. No, tell her that I love her more than anything in the whole world.”
The woman I’m talking to, who must be one of Sara’s friends, heaves a deep sigh. She might be about to pass the mobile to Sara or tell her what I have just said.
“Ubgofsjfuofbwjnfjsbfjn sfjfou ofbosjkfbsobegjb ojefbkjbfjbf cnjfeojfbjbfdjgfnaoe,” the woman replies—and when I fail to understand her, I ask her to say it again.
“Rkfkgjbdkfjb kekhjbg efkjekgjuuenaljefkjebgaebug.”
“WHAT?”
I’m in agony, all my muscles tense up, and for some inexplicable reason, my heart starts to pound. I don’t want to listen to her gobbledygook any more. I feel dizzy and I want to throw up. The words align inside my head and take shape.
“She has been knocked down by a car and I’m afraid that she’s dead.”
The idiot woman’s words start repeating inside my head: knocked down. Dead. Knocked down. Dead. Knocked down. Dead. And all I can think of is San Francisco, SF …
Prussic’s song “Qarasat neri10ppoq, imaaru10lerpoq vakalerpoq” from my childhood returns. I wonder why that silly song is going around my head and when I can’t come up with an explanation, I just blame it on my messed-up brain.
Right … If I ignore my madness, then I think that I’m OK. I’m not sad. I’m not happy. I feel nothing. I don’t know if I’m alive or dead. I only realize that I have arrived in Denmark when I hear young, angst Danish teens talk: “It’s fucking sick, that’s what it is. Bitch nicked my iPhone, and she can’t even be bothered to admit it! I mean, what the fuck! Stupid slag, but she won’t get away with it if that’s what she thinks! Bitch!” It is like being on a bus full of teenagers in Nuuk on a Friday night. They remind me of Nuummiuts who talk just like that when they mess with each other, mixing Greenlandic and Danish and shit, but end up sounding like a bunch of fucking morons. “Shit, whorersuaq niaqulaaruloorpaat! Kalassuaq, utaqqilaar unatagaaruluussaatit! Arnapalaaq!” The Danish teenage slang takes me back to a period I can’t bear to think about, and it pains me so much so that I can no longer control myself. As they are in front of me and are still mouthing off, I run to catch up with them. I slap the boy with the big mouth on the back of his head, snatch his baseball cap and position myself right in front of him. I fling out my arms as wide as I can, shove my face up close to his and start screaming so loudly that the sinews in my neck stand out.
“Shut the fuck up! Learn to talk properly! I’ve had it up to here with you bloody kids!”
I turn my back on them and start to walk away, but then I spin around and erupt in one last roar.
“AARGH!”
I hurl the boy’s cap at him and stumble along, away from them. What the hell? What just happened?
What do I think I’m doing? When I turn around to apologize, they are already gone; they have probably fled. Fancy me being in Denmark. I don’t even remember being on the plane.
There are people everywhere. Unknown women, men, children and elderly people block my path; I lean against a building to calm myself down because I feel like I’m suffocating. Behind all the people rushing about like ants, I spot a large, flashing sign: “Welcome to New York!” I experience a sense of urgency when I realize that I’m in America, and I join the ants to get to the exit. It is evening. The atmosphere is strange. Exhaust fumes from cars fill my nostrils and almost stop me from breathing. I look at the giant, luminous skyscrapers towering against the sky. I feel dizzy; I look down and I see a long line of yellow cabs. I walk up to the one at the front and a dark, heavy-set driver gets out. New York, USA. I wonder if I brought luggage. I can’t remember if I checked in a suitcase or if I remembered to pick it up. When I see the driver put a large rucksack inside the cab, I realize that I did bring it. Well, that’s all right …
“Where to?” the driver asks me with a smile.
“Midtown,” I say to him.
I get out of the cab when we appear to reach the city centre. Even though the city is fabulous and amazing, I can’t help staring at something dreadful that has caught my attention. I drag my heavy rucksack across the wide street and towards the thing I cannot help but look at. I reach it and see a poor man with a long beard sitting by a pedestrian crossing. His hair is grey and his face swollen from a red rash. Embarrassed, he looks humbly up at me and cautiously extends his begging hand. I find him bizarre in the extreme and I squat down and look straight into his eyes. I’m struck by a stench so sour that I almost throw up. Sweaty armpits, urine, shit, bad breath, mould, rotten fish. His gaze shifts from me; he bows his head and withdraws his begging hand. I cup his cheeks in my hands to raise his head and I smile at him. He frowns at me, trying to work out if I’m making fun of him. As I don’t fancy lugging around my rucksack, which might be crammed full of clothes, and because I need to get the scent of fabric conditioner which I recognize from somewhere out of my brain, I offer it to the abandoned wretch. The homeless man is stunned and hugs the rucksack. I feel so sorry for him that I almost kiss him, but his acidic stench makes me nauseous, so instead I get up and leave. My body is lighter now that I’m no longer carrying anything. The scent of freshly laundered clothes has finally disappeared. I want to escape the bright and busy streets so I slip in between two big buildings. It is twilight and silent. I walk past two large rubbish containers, spot an illuminated sign and go inside what I presume is a bar. A couple of elderly men are drinking beer. I order a large draught beer from a vile-looking bartender and sit down, well away from them. New York. I wonder where I’ll go next. What will I do? Why am I here?
I realize that I have finished my beer. As I still can’t feel it in my blood, I get up to order another. I return to my table and find a young woman, who wasn’t there before, sitting right next to my chair. I look at her in surprise as she turns to me, but when she doesn’t react, I sit down next to her so that my body brushes hers and I start drinking my beer. We sit in silence for a long time, drinking greedily. We don’t look or talk, but she is so close to me that I can hear her breathing. I place my almost empty glass on the table. She puts down hers, she has drained it completely. We sit quietly, doing nothing, making no sounds, making no movements. Suddenly she takes my empty beer glass and drinks the remaining foam and licks clean the rim of the glass. Her behaviour is so odd that I stiffen. She smiles and grabs the cigarette packet from the table. She takes out a cigarette which she sticks in her mouth, and takes out another which she offers to me. I take it. I keep it in my mouth, but I still need a light; meanwhile my companion is smoking like a chimney. She blows smoke in my face, lights my cigarette, and we sit smoking with our faces turned away from each other. When she has finished, she stubs out her cigarette on the table and stands up. She jumps up onto the table, crouches in a monkey position and looks right into my eyes. I stare back at her. Her hair, dyed orange, is styled in plaits like Pippi Longstocking. She looks very serious, but then she bursts into a smile so wide that she shows all her teeth, and I start to laugh. Her eyes are adorable, heavily made-up, but the visible gap between her front teeth makes her smile very comical. Without knowing it, she smiles like a stand-up comedian.
“HEY GIRL!”
Her voice is so loud and piercing that my body reacts. I start grinning and I give her a hug. I don’t know why. I hug her just because I feel like it, then I grab her and lift her down from the table. We stand there, still holding each other tightly. When she lets go of me, she puts my jacket around her shoulders, grabs my hand and leads me out of the bar. She takes me to a pickup truck I didn’t notice earlier and sits me down on the passenger seat. She gets into the pickup and turns to face me.
“Where to?”
Her smile is so wide that I start to laugh again. She sticks her tongue out at me.
“Kansas City, baby!” I shout by way of reply.
She gets so overexcited that she grips the wheel and pretends to race the car while she makes engine noises. I can hear that her car is on its last legs; it shudders and splutters when she starts it. It is red and tall. The pickup has an open deck filled with empty bottles.
“Oh, shit. Hang on a minute, I’ll be back soon.”
She jumps out and runs back to the bar. A few seconds later she returns, waving a bag of cannabis in front of my face. We laugh and drive off.
I discover that it is daytime and I put on my sunglasses because the sharp light bothers me. I don’t know how long we have been driving, but at least we have left the city behind. The landscape around here is deserted. Except for our spontaneous giggling fits, we have yet to have a proper conversation. The sunshine is merciless. My chauffeur pulls over and jumps out of the pickup. I join her and discover that she has put down the back flap and is sitting on the deck of the pickup while she rolls a joint. I sit down next to her, waiting for her to pass it to me. I don’t know if I have tried cannabis before, but I don’t care. We get so high that our lungs turn black. We puff and we cough. She gets up and stands in front of me. She rests her hands on my knees and looks at me, very gravely.
“I’m Suffia.”
Once more I’m startled.
“Who are you? Where do you come from?”
Her sudden curiosity jolts my thoughts so that I can give her a reply. Only I have completely forgotten where I’m from and so I offer up a guess instead.
“I’m Changhi Peng Pong from Japan!”
Suffia looks momentarily wrong-footed, then she flings out her arms and starts to dance. “Japan Japan Japan! Peng Pong Ding Dong!”
She doesn’t laugh. I don’t laugh.
“Hello, Ying Yang! It’s very, very, very nice to meet you!”
For the first time, I erupt in bellyaching laughter and Suffia joins in. Our laughter is so powerful that we collapse on the ground and start to howl. Our eyes water. The cramps in our stomachs hurt so much that we burst into real tears before we start to laugh again. I roar with laughter until I can no longer breathe and it feels as if I am about to die. Not that I would mind.
When we have recovered, we get back in the pickup and take deep drags of the joint. I plug my iPod into the car and play Pink’s new album, The Truth About Love and find the song “Blow Me (One Last Kiss)”. We are on the road again with the windows rolled right the way down, and we join in the song: “Have you had a shit day? WE’VE HAD A SHIT DAY!!!” We sing along at the top of our shrill voices and drive faster. “Blow me one last kiss!”
We appear to have arrived at Chicago. The city is vast and it has grown dark without me noticing it. We stop at a petrol station; I go inside the shop to buy something to eat while Suffia fills up the pickup. I’m exploring the crisps and sweets section when someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn my head and nearly have a heart attack when I see her face.
“Are you fro
m Greenland?”
The woman who has Greenlandic features looks at me in wonder. Before I have time to think about it, I nod. I would appear to be from Greenland.
“What are you doing here? Wow, I can’t believe I’ve bumped into a fellow Greenlander! Who are you? Who are your parents?”
I panic so much that I snatch some food and drinks and make my escape while the woman tries to grab hold of me. When Suffia sees me come running, she opens the door to the pickup and starts to drive very slowly. She accelerates as I get in.
“GO GO GO GO!” I scream.
When we have driven some distance, we stop the car and light a joint while we howl with laughter.
“I’m not Ying Yang, Ding Dong! I’m Greenlandic!”
I say all the words I can get out; meanwhile Suffia’s laughter grows louder.
“Where the fuck is GreenLAND?!”
I can barely remember our drive from Chicago to Kansas City, but my stomach muscles and my cheeks ache—apparently because we have been laughing all the time. I’m fairly sure that we have been smoking cannabis the whole time as well because my lungs sting and my eyelids are heavy. We drive past a large sign saying Kansas City and get out in the city centre. Here the buildings are also enormous, but they display themselves like great dinosaurs. This city seems filthier and less safe than the other cities. It is revolting. Suffia looks after me when I leave the car to do some shopping and she blows me a kiss. She starts shouting, “BLOW ME ONE LAST KISS!”
I shout the same back, kiss my hand and blow the kiss to Suffia. When I have done my shopping and am leaving the shop, I see that Suffia is about to drive off and I get a strange feeling. She calls out to me through the open window.
