Moonstone

by Sjón

  Film is thus immoral by its very nature, transforming the actor into a fetish and fostering perversion in the viewer, who allows himself to be seduced like a moth to the flame. The difference lies in that the cinema audience’s appointment is with the cold flicker of the flame rather than the searing fire itself. The moth burns up, but the viewer can, without fear, surrender to his escalating desire and seek out the experience over and over again, as is, alas, far too often the case.

  —Dr. G. Árnason, excerpt from “Cinema and Mental Disorders,” The Nation 23 (1916)

  * * *

  On the evening of Tuesday, November 26—the day that twenty-six funerals are held at the cathedral and the coffins are interred in a single mass grave in the northeastern corner of the cemetery—Máni Steinn and Sóla G— pass through the auditoriums of the Old and New Cinemas, igniting chlorine gas on the doctor’s instructions.

  Dressed in black from top to toe, with black gauze over their noses and mouths and dark goggles over their eyes, they drip hydrochloric acid into ceramic jars containing a solution of calcium chloride, which they have placed at intervals between the seats.

  As soon as the cloud of vapor begins to rise, they race outside into the street, closing the doors firmly behind them.

  Trembling with excitement, the boy pretends to cough.

  The greenish-yellow gas that had lately felled young men on the battlefields of Europe now drifts and rolls through the picture houses of Reykjavík.

  VIII

  (November 30–December 1, 1918)

  xxii

  The first film to be shown in Reykjavík when the epidemic began to abate at the end of November, and it was thought safe to gather in public again, was called Sister Cecilia—“the lyrically beautiful love story of a young artist,” in four parts. The proceeds of the ticket sales went to support the many children who had been left orphaned by the epidemic.

  Although Máni Steinn was running a little low on cash after his busy days and nights with Sóla G— and Dr. Garibaldi Árnason—he’d had neither the energy nor the opportunity to pick up any trade—he was still sufficiently well-off to be able to invite the old lady to a show at the New Cinema.

  Not that it was an easy matter to persuade her to accept the offer. First she told him it wasn’t fitting for him, a child in her care, to treat her to anything. He replied that he had turned sixteen on April 23 and that it was only natural that their roles should be reversed. Such was life.

  Well, then the old lady pleaded in her defense that she had already been to the kinematograph long ago, more than once in fact—if not three times, then at least twice—and it had always been the same damned waste of time, apart from one newsreel from Thingvellir that included a brief glimpse of Reverend Matthías Jochumsson, seated in a chair with knees spread wide, a walking stick between them and a bowler hat on his head, and that was only because the grand old man of poetry was a relative of theirs.

  However, when the boy described for her the company and amenities in the more expensive seats of the New Cinema—which included an ashtray in the arm of every chair—she grudgingly agreed to accompany him.

  The old lady said she had always envied the father of her landlord downstairs, who got to sit with his friends in the smoking room, wreathed in a fog of cigars, and whenever she was sent in there with soda water or a new decanter of brandy, she used to linger with them in the cloud of tobacco for as long as could be considered decent.

  The film was delayed by thirty minutes while the cinemagoers offered one another their condolences, passing from row to row, neither pressing hands nor embracing but bowing their heads and repeating the same words of consolation with the variations “your daughter,” “your sister,” “your wife,” “your husband,” “your son,” “your brother”—since everybody had lost someone.

  A silence fell when the last member of the audience entered the auditorium. It was the teenage girl who had been shut up for thirteen days with the bodies of her mother and brother. She was led in between a nurse and an orderly from the lunatic asylum at Kleppur. From the look in her eyes it was plain that she would not understand the words of sympathy that were burning on everyone’s lips.

  The lights went down.

  Children appeared on the screen, escorted by an angel; holy sisters knelt before a tombstone; lovers were denied a happy ending.

  The screening was accompanied by Reynir Gíslason’s Orchestra, and to begin with the music managed to drown out the sighing and weeping. Thick smoke rose from the more expensive seats, where the men were chain-smoking cigars in the hope that this would stifle their sobs.

  When they came out afterward, the old lady wiped a tear from her eye and extracted a promise from the boy that he would never again invite her to the cinema.

  xxiii

  The sun casts its rays over the town. The weather couldn’t be finer; dry and not a cloud in the sky. Máni Steinn threads his way through the throng by the harbor like a needle through sackcloth until he reaches a good spot on the docks.

  There the Danish warship Islands Falk is lying at berth, festooned with bunting from mast to mast, the Danish national flag taking pride of place over the Icelandic one.

  Shortly after the cathedral bell has tolled half past eleven, the marines of the Falcon stand to attention on the deck of the ship, then march ashore with rifles at their shoulders and flashing bayonets. Thus equipped, they progress with regular steps from the docks to Government House, where they form an honor guard below the wall of the green. The brass band Harpa is already there with its leader, Reynir Gíslason, haggard from lack of sleep.

  The thick press of people sets off in pursuit of the column of marines, and the boy allows himself to be carried along. Most of the spectators take up position on Lækjargata, some standing in the square, others lining up on the slope to the right of Government House. He finds himself a spot in the square.

  The officers of the Falcon approach, decked out in uniform, with the consuls of foreign powers, and together process up to the main entrance, before which stand members of the government and the Reykjavík worthies who have been invited to attend the ceremony. Among the guests, the boy spies the landlord from downstairs and the broker Gudbjörn Ólason, father of Sóla G—.

  He scans the crowd for the girl and finds her on the green to the left of the building, with the families of the great and good. Today Sóla G— is dressed like Irma Vep when she was to be sent to the penal colony in Algiers: all in black down to her black leather ankle boots, a wide-brimmed black hat decorated with a black ribbon on her head; her face pale.

  Outside Thomsen’s Magasin a group of sailors from the Falcon stand and marvel at how subdued the Icelanders seem on what should be a day of national rejoicing. They are right that in most respects the gathering bears more resemblance to a funeral than to the birth of a sovereign state. People hang their heads; many of the women’s faces are hidden behind mourning veils; the men wear black bands on their arms.

  At a quarter to twelve the brass band strikes up “Ancient Land of Ice,” and men doff their hats during the performance—which proves to be so marred by lack of practice that it is torture to the ears—and afterward the minister of finance ascends the steps before Government House and embarks on the solemn oration.

  As the minister speaks of the hearts of the nation, of their late leader, of the culmination of a hundred-year struggle, of braving the stormy seas, and of the honor of the national flag, the boy can’t help thinking that this is exactly the sort of occasion at which the Vampires would strike. For example, by firing a shell at it from their fearsome portable cannon. But of course that would merely be a diversion. In the chaos created by the act of sabotage, other members of the criminal gang would dynamite the vaults of the National Bank and break into the state treasury—then escape the country by seaplane.

  Where would they place the cannon? Well, they could disguise themselves as French missionaries and rent rooms on the top floor of Thomsen’s Magasin.
That would provide a clear line of sight.

  Turning to look over his shoulder, the boy examines the store from roof to ground, at which point his eye alights on the sailors. One of them, a muscular fellow with a blond mustache, catches sight of him as well.

  On the steps the minister brings his speech to a close.

  And as the swallowtail flag of the new sovereign state of Iceland is hoisted up the lofty pole by Government House and the Islands Falk fires a twenty-one-gun salute in its honor, the eyes of boy and sailor meet.

  xxiv

  A fanfare of horns carries through the door: “Rise, thou youthful flag of Iceland!”

  Inside the hardware store of Thomsen’s Magasin, boy and sailor are locked in a fevered embrace—as they exchange deep kisses, the boy tastes the Dane’s vinegar-sweet tongue and wonders briefly if he himself tastes of coffee—he’d led the sailor behind the French stores into Kolasund, the alley where he sometimes takes gentlemen after midnight to service them in the shadow of the latrine, and it just so happened that the warehouse door had been left open.

  They remove their winter jackets without breaking off their kiss. The sailor tugs the braces off the boy’s shoulders, pulls his shirt tails out of his waistband, and inserts his right hand under the shirt, stroking the boy’s back, while holding the nape of his neck with the left. The boy clutches the sailor’s buttocks in both hands, pressing him close as he thrusts his own hips forward, so their rock-hard penises rub together through their clothes. The sailor moves his hand around to the boy’s chest, pinches a nipple between thumb and forefinger, and twists it.

  The warehousemen are standing in the square in front of the building, a stone’s throw from the sailor’s shipmates, listening with them to the captain of the Falcon as he passes on to the assembled crowd the greetings of King Christian X, his parliament and nation. Standing beside the lathe, meanwhile, surrounded by chains of all sizes, by bolts and nails, tins of paint, hammers and pliers, overalls and boots, the boy and the Dane continue their lovemaking.

  The sailor eases the boy’s trousers down his thighs and drops to his knees. Holding the boy’s cock, he licks his balls, rolling the testicles around with his tongue before running it from the root to the purple dome, which he tickles with his mustache before closing his lips around it.

  The brass band plays “King Christian.”

  The boy leans back against the lathe while the sailor sucks him, supporting himself with one hand while playing with the Dane’s blond hair with the other.

  Nine cheers of hurrah resound outside in the square.

  Detaching himself from the sailor, the boy raises him to his feet, unbuttons his fly, puts his hand inside his underpants, takes hold of his stiff member, pulls down the foreskin, runs the tip of his thumb over the swollen dome, clasps it, and, rubbing gently, spreads the bead of moisture that is squeezed out of the top.

  The sailor sticks his index and middle fingers in his mouth, wetting them well, then runs his hand under the boy’s balls, sliding his fingers along the ridge to the anus, where he begins to open a way for himself. The boy, emitting a low groan, tightens his grip on the sailor’s cock and rubs harder.

  The ceremony before Government House is drawing to a close.

  The boy turns to the lathe and bends over it. The sailor enters him.

  First the Danish national anthem, “There Is a Lovely Land,” is sung, then the Icelandic, “O God of Our Country.”

  It seems the cheers will never end.

  In the very instant that Máni Steinn climaxes, he feels the sailor’s hot seed spurting inside him—and the warehouse door is kicked open.

  There’s a despairing cry in Danish from the doorway:

  —Mogens, what the hell are you doing?

  Seconded in Icelandic:

  —What the devil is this filth?

  The latter words are accompanied by a blow from a clenched fist that knocks the boy senseless.

  IX

  (December 5–6, 1918)

  xxv

  —Put him out of his misery, I say … Easy enough to hide his body … the mortuaries are full of nameless wretches … Give him to the medical students to skin … they’ve been snapping up the bodies of prostitutes … Nothing left of Good-time Jóka but the bare bones … split among them for souvenirs … the nights they spent with her before she went down with the flu … Ha-ha … Put him out of his misery, I say, put him out of his misery …

  Máni Steinn has his ear pressed to the door of the room where he is being held, trying to make out the conversation on the other side. No one backs up the shouted suggestion of the agitated individual who wants to “put him out of his misery.” Nor is the boy alarmed by such talk. He has realized that the men meeting to decide his fate are not the type. The agitated man is shouting more to himself than to the others:

  —Drown him like a rabid cur … The bloody brat’s got the eyes of a sheep-killing dog …

  But the other men’s unenthusiastic response to the idea that they should murder and fillet the boy does not make them innocent of the wish to solve the problem by the quickest possible means.

  * * *

  The last thing people want to see at the dawn of the Icelandic sovereign state are headlines in the domestic or Danish press about a sodomy scandal in Reykjavík.

  The country would be a laughingstock in Denmark; opponents of its new sovereign status would make capital out of the incident for ridicule and derision in the snide manner that is the trademark of the Danes; declaring good riddance to this nation of “up the assers” who are incapable of leaving Danish sailors alone—why, they might even dub the country Assland and choose a crude flag for it as a mockery. Yes, the Danish papers can be relied on to hold the Icelander responsible for the perverted act, and to whitewash the sailor, although he had of course already been badly infected with the vice before he ever came to the country with the Falcon. Fortunately, the captain of the warship is supporting their decision to hush up the affair. The vessel has left port and the sailor will be subjected to Danish naval discipline.

  No, the morale of the townspeople is so low after the blows of recent weeks that they cannot cope with any further setbacks. The clouds of unnatural foreign practices must not be permitted to cast a shadow over the warming sun that rose in the sorrowful hearts of the nation on December 1.

  It should also be borne in mind that the offender lives in the same house as a respectable citizen, an influential member of the Socialist Party, who has recently lost his son.

  * * *

  Then the boy hears a voice he recognizes.

  Dr. Garibaldi Árnason takes the floor.

  —It’s clear that the lad is not like other people … a homosexual … given over to the lamentable vice of wishing to engage in erotic acts with his own sex … revolting to other people … Now we know that in such cases … the body is no less infected than the mind … a specific and multiple disorder in the body’s glandular development and functioning … His perversion compounded by satyriasis … In other respects a diligent lad … can testify to that … plucky … A tricky matter … Hardly any cases known in this country … hasn’t become established … will proliferate if … My theory … a word of warning … men are rendered more susceptible to homosexuality by overindulgence in films …

  The doctor is interrupted:

  — … do you say, Gudbjörn?

  The answer is firm:

  — … have to get him …

  This comment creates a stir among those attending the meeting, who all start talking at once, such is their solidarity in the face of this abomination.

  xxvi

  Máni Steinn has no idea where he is. He came to his senses in this room and has been here ever since.

  A woman he has never seen before brings him food. She is dressed like a nurse but doesn’t behave like one. And the room itself does not resemble a hospital ward. It contains a sofa, two armchairs and two dining chairs, a coffee table and a basket of newspapers, a de
corated screen with a stool and a clothes stand behind it, and, opening off the room, a cloakroom with a washbasin and WC.

  The room is windowless but has electric lighting, and the boy guesses that he has been there for three or four days and nights. He sleeps on the sofa, covered by a blanket, with an embroidered cushion under his head, and for the first two days he slept almost continuously. He suspects that he has been drugged.

  To prevent the boy from escaping, the nurse takes the precaution of placing the food tray on the floor outside the door, then knocking, opening it a crack and waiting for him to go to the opposite end of the room before widening the gap and pushing the tray inside with the toe of her shoe, then slamming the door shut. Rather than fetching the tray, she brings a new one every time, so a pile of trays and dirty crockery is building up in the room.

  The room has two other doors besides the one that leads to the WC: the one at which he has been eavesdropping and through which the nurse delivers his tray, and another that has not yet been opened but from under which comes an agreeable odor of disinfectant.

  He has tried peering through the keyholes, but both contain keys since the room is, of course, locked.

  * * *

  There is a knock on the door; the key is turned. The boy moves to the far end of the room. But instead of the nurse four men walk in.

  He recognises three of them: the landlord from downstairs, Dr. Garibaldi Árnason, and Gudbjörn Ólason, but he can’t place the fourth, good at faces though he is.

  Gudbjörn acts as spokesman, and once all four are seated he explains to the boy the plans they have for his future. It is in his interests to comply. He must understand that if this hadn’t happened in such special circumstances, he would be on his way to prison or worse by now. Dr. Garibaldi pats the boy’s knee, firmly and encouragingly; the landlord from downstairs keeps his eyes lowered; the fourth man snorts.