CoDex 1962

by Sjón

  By 1944 it was, of course, many centuries since none but super-heroes had been expected to sail over the horizon. Seafarers knew as well as anyone else that the earth was round and did not let the fact disturb them. If they had to sail uphill, so be it.

  Nor would it occur to them for a moment that all land had sunk when there was nothing visible on either side except the coal-grey sea. Even if they had received no news from home for forty days and forty nights. No, at this point in the history of the world’s voyages brave captains steered their ships by compasses that turned magnetic needles to point to the North Pole, whichever way the vessels were lying in the water. Sails were no longer used except in pleasure boats or antique craft.

  Instead of sails there were engines the size of cathedrals and the average ship was so swift that it could easily overtake any sea monster that chanced to cross its path. Indeed, these ships were made of such high-quality steel, tempered and burnished and coated with super-strength paint, that there was no longer any need to keep a lookout posted to watch for that eight-tentacled menace of the seas, the giant squid. All that remained was for the ships to lift off from the surface of the sea and head for the moon.

  But in spite of technology and the wonders of shipbuilding, it so happens that the sea-road that was easily navigated yesterday may have turned into a thirty-fathom-high cliff today. And such is the case when this story opens.

  The sea is wild.

  The passenger ship Godafoss is pitching midway between the deep troughs of the seabed and the outer limits of the universe. The body of the ship is nothing but a shining slug, contracting when a wave swoops over it like a midnight-blue bird of prey. In other words, this is an unremarkable ship by world standards, but to the tiny nation that launched it on the terrible waters of the ocean it is a titanic vessel.

  And we are bound to agree with the childish notion that a coat of paint and a noble-sounding name are enough to convert a trawler into a metropolis on an even keel – for there seems to be something in the delusion.

  The ship is unsinkable.

  Now it appears on the crest of a wave. It is thrown forwards and for an instant appears to be on its way over the edge, with nothing remaining but to plummet into the jaws of the ocean that await green and greedily howling below. But just as we think it’s about to happen – and the story will swiftly be over – the wave breaks under the ship and instead of being projected over the edge, it hangs in midair, where a moment before there had been water.

  In a cabin in second class lay a man who had the advantage of most on board in that he was seasick and therefore didn’t care whether the ship was hanging in midair, on its speedy way to foundering with all aboard, or merely continuing its hopping and skipping. The malady had him in its grip – and he had the malady.

  Rolling to the wall and rolling away again, rolling to and rolling fro, rolling and rolling, back and forth like chaff and corn, like corn and chaff. He drove his head into the pillow: if only he could keep his head still for one moment the lump would leave his throat. And if the lump left his throat, he would be able to catch his breath. And if he could catch his breath his stomach muscles would relax. And if his stomach muscles relaxed, his colon wouldn’t contract. And if his colon didn’t contract, perhaps he would be able to keep his head still for a moment.

  So it is to be at sea.

  It was not only the blessing of seasickness that diminished his interest in his circumstances: like other landlubbers he thought himself nowhere until he had land in sight. And since only intellectuals or madmen can have an opinion of limbo – and he is neither – he was more homeless now than he had been in the hour that he had abandoned his God in the death camp.

  That is where he was coming from; where he was going he didn’t know. He was leaving, that itinerary was good enough for him. Rolling to, rolling fro, rolling and rolling. He keeps a tight hold on the hatbox that he is clutching to his chest. It’s a matter of life or death and even the nausea isn’t enough to weaken his grip. This box contains everything he owns: an infant made of clay, or the likeness of a child, as it might seem to others. But it is not his alone. That is why it is a matter of life and death that nothing should happen to the child.

  But who is this seasick wretch?

  As a matter of fact it’s my father, the Jew Leo Loewe, who has arrived here after walking across Europe with a stopover in the small town of Kükenstadt, where he met my mother. And now he’s crossing the sea with me myself, newly created.

  My name is Jόsef Loewe, I am made of clay. The motion of the ship has no effect on me. I sleep in the darkened box.

  And my sleep is the sleep of the dead.

  * * *

  TUBAL’S ARK

  He had slept with an angel. That was the last thing Tubal could remember when he awoke. They had begun their affair when he was in his 140th year; the angel was considerably older.

  It happened like this:

  Tubal’s parents thought him introverted and peculiar and didn’t dare leave him alone at home when they needed to go out. And since they found him so odd, and he was their only son, they felt it would not do to have any fewer than all seven of his sisters looking after him when they themselves were away. It was not only because he was odd that they took such good care of him, no, he was a late-born son and there was little likelihood of their conceiving another; Naphtachite was 816 years old and his wife nearly 700 when the Lord blessed them with little Tubal. It happened like this: the angel of the Lord said to Naphtachite’s wife: “The Lord sayeth: See, thou art with child. A son I give to thee. Thou shalt name him Tubal.”

  One day, when Tubal’s parents went out, leaving their only son in the care of his seven sisters, the girls became fed up with childminding. This was in the days when the sons of God walked the earth, taking women as they pleased. The sisters had hitherto missed out on the fun because they were always minding Tubal. The youngest was 179, the eldest 246, and they were all women. It wasn’t fair. They sat together in the kitchen, discussing the problem. Tubal was alone in the living room. He was playing with a doll. The boy wasn’t much trouble and his sisters were discussing this very fact:

  “He just lazes about or sits in a corner doing nothing,” said the first.

  “They should be glad he’s not like the other boys, shooting arrows in each other’s faces,” said the second.

  “He mostly plays with our old toys; he’s hardly going to come to any harm doing that,” said the third.

  No sooner had these words been spoken than a shrill scream came from the living room. The sisters looked round as one. Tubal was scolding the doll for dirtying herself.

  “Let’s just take him with us,” said one.

  “They’ll kill us,” said another.

  “It’s better than hanging around here,” said yet another.

  Tubal came to the kitchen door. He was a pretty boy.

  “No one need find out,” said the seventh.

  The sisters got themselves ready – and Tubal too – for a date with the sons of God. Once he was wearing a dress, with his hair hidden under a veil, it was hard to tell that Tubal wasn’t the eighth daughter of Naphtachite and his wife. This was in the days when God’s angels walked the earth.

  The angel boys were quartered in an army camp outside the city walls. Great were the marvels it contained and there was a strict guard on the gate. The sisters had to pout to gain admittance. They hid Tubal among themselves and he got past the guard unobserved. In the middle of the camp was a square to which the sisters now headed to show themselves off.

  The sons of God came one by one to examine them. They were connoisseurs of the daughters of Adam’s line and were surprised not to have seen these girls before. Each sister was more beautiful than the last and the sons of God led them to their tents forthwith. They even competed over the eldest who had been afraid of being left on the shelf.

  Tubal alone remained.

  And the angel Elias.

  Their courtship was sl
ow. The angel took this shy young girl under his wing and used to lead her outside the camp and wait there with her until her sisters had finished amusing themselves with the sons of God. It was all very debauched and the angel drew his feathers over the scene so the young girl wouldn’t be corrupted. Then one day the angel Elias said to Tubal, whom he took for the eighth sister: “Now you are 160 years old.”

  But when Tubal corrected him and revealed that he was a boy, they made love. For the only son of Naphtachite and his wife loved the angel.

  He was a son of God.

  Tubal looked around. He was covered in feathers and lying in a huge nest. The nest was in a hole that had been hacked out of a tree using some enormous, convex tool. High on the wall facing Tubal hung his dress, a beautiful shimmering brocade that one of the sisters had given him in parting when she went to heaven with God’s son Josh, to whom she had borne a son, who was a giant.

  Behind the dress was an oblong opening, just wide enough for a slim man to slip through. Tubal and Elias had entered through this crack, for the angel could stretch and contort his body in every way imaginable. This was one of the things that made the angels superb lovers and sought-after husbands, that and their good manners, and the promise of a new and better life – if the relationship worked out.

  Tubal clambered to his feet, breaking out in gooseflesh when the feathers tumbled off him. Where was the angel? It wasn’t like Elias to leave him to wake up alone after a lovemaking session. They usually sat a good while in the nest, talking about everything under the sun. The angel was well versed in the books of gods and men, and would either impart his wisdom verbally or give Tubal a scroll to consume so the events would pass before his eyes like shadows on a screen.

  Tubal’s favourite was the Creation story, especially the part where Adam named the beasts. Or when the Lord searched for a soulmate for Adam, and tried him out with everything from a butterfly to a giraffe before he hit upon the idea of Woman. Yes, he knew whole scrolls by heart, did the angel Elias, and on top of that he knew all about the authors. Tubal enjoyed these tales no less. The things those authors got up to! The things Elias and Tubal got up to!

  The floor rocked beneath his feet and he inched his way along the side of the nest to the dress. When he snatched it to him, rain lashed his face. It cascaded in through the hole and Tubal thought to himself that he didn’t want to stay here a moment longer. Reaching for the crack he hauled himself up. There he hesitated for a second, before remembering that he was alone. The angel wasn’t there to grasp his hips and lift him up to the crack. This had always marked the end of their sessions together.

  Tubal was halfway out when he discovered that something fairly significant had been happening to the world while he was asleep. For one thing, the tree was tilting strangely and swaying to and fro. Not as if before a wind; no, when he brushed the rain from his eyes there was nothing as far as the eye could see but rough waves. And the rain was no ordinary rain. The heavens were emptying themselves over the earth. Lightning of supernatural scale exploded from coal-black continents of cloud and thunder crashed with such force over the tree that Tubal, son of Naphtachite, little brother of the seven sisters and lover of the angel Elias, was flung backwards into the nest hole.

  He hid his face in his hands and wept. When he had wept for a good while, he hung up the fine dress across the opening so the rain wouldn’t fall on him. After this he carried on weeping. And that was all he did.

  The days passed and Tubal wept in unison with the skies. He didn’t have the wit to feed himself but, as he was in the quarters of a holy being whom he loved and who loved him, small creatures emerged from the bark of the tree and crawled into his mouth and down to his stomach. This was his nourishment; they sacrificed themselves that he might live.

  What happened next is that the rain began to let up and Tubal’s weeping lessened accordingly. He rose to his feet hiccupping and peered out of the tree. Yes, it was nothing but a heavy shower. So he cried a little more. The rain stopped. And Tubal stopped crying.

  The world was awash with water. Everything that had once had the breath of life in its nostrils, everything that had lived on dry land had been obliterated from the face of the earth. Tubal realised that everyone he knew was dead. He began to whimper.

  But his whimpering turned into song. For he now saw that the waters were going down. Winds blew over the earth and before long mountain peaks rose from the surface of the sea like islands.

  The tree drifted before the wind and Tubal sat in the crack, singing like the adolescent he was. One day he saw a raven. It was fun when it perched on the tree beside Tubal and they exchanged croaks. Life was delightful. Or would have been if it weren’t for his stomach pains. They grew worse as the boy’s journey continued and his belly began to swell. He blamed the unusual diet – those little creatures that sacrificed themselves so that he might live – but his belly continued to swell.

  The raven went on its way. The next visitor was a dove, which Tubal caught and ate. By then the surface of the earth had dried out and Tubal was now so large that he slept outside, which is how he caught the dove, for it arrived like a thief in the night. Rolling to, rolling fro. The tree drifted along the coasts of many lands. Tubal was on an ocean, heading north.

  One morning Tubal was woken by a thud. He sat up and looked to see what was happening. He had been carried to a rugged island, indented with bays, and the tree was crunching against a colossal headland. When he saw the situation his mouth was filled with sweet song:

  Ah ee-aiya, ah-aiya

  Aiya-a ee, aiya-a ee.

  Ah ee-aiya, ah-aiya

  Aiya-a ee, aiya-a ee.

  Ah ee-aiya, ah-aiya

  Aiya-a ee, aiya-a ee.

  Ah ee-aiya, ah-aiya

  Aiya-a ee, aiya-a ee.

  Which means: “God is Lord!”

  When he came ashore he saw that what had been holding the tree upright in the water was the angel Elias. The angel was dead but his body lay entwined in the roots of the tree like ballast, like a child in the arms of its father.

  Tubal buried his friend and wept. Then he went into labour and gave birth to the children Eilífur (that is, “Eternity”) and his sister Eilíf.

  They were trolls.’

  * * *

  ‘Have you started?’

  ‘I was just setting the scene.’

  ‘So I haven’t missed anything?’

  ‘The story begins at sea. I was meditating on voyages past and present. I’ll come back to them later, so you should be able to pick up the thread.’

  She takes off her green leather coat and hangs it over the back of a chair in the living room where they are standing. A beautiful woman, giving off the scent of rain. He indicates a bowl containing the remains of some soup made of carrots, onion and cabbage parcels:

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no to something stronger…’

  She runs a hand through her rain-wet hair.

  ‘Have a look and see if I’ve got anything…’

  She takes the soup bowl and goes out into the kitchen which adjoins the living room. She opens the cupboard under the sink and tips the leftovers into the bin. Behind it are the corpses of wine bottles and a small bottle of brandy. She looks inside and reckons there’s enough for a French coffee.

  ‘You can’t imagine what sort of day I’ve had.’

  The woman appears in the kitchen doorway and leans against the frame. She scratches her shin with her toes while waiting for a response. He doesn’t respond but watches as she stirs brown sugar into the coffee. She sighs:

  ‘I know, I need to shave my legs.’

  ‘I’d be grateful if you got on with it.’

  She sips from the cup and enters the living room where she makes herself comfortable in an armchair facing the sofa. He roots around among some papers on the table in front of him. The woman lights a cigarette.

  ‘I’m ready…’

  3

  ‘
My father stuck his head out from under the quilt, craned his neck and thanked Poseidon for his hospitality with a stream of green bile. If he had forced himself up and gone out into the passage he would have seen that he was in a microcosm of a city with everything that one would expect to find there: the cabins were houses facing on to narrow streets, the smoking room was a café, the saloon a restaurant, the engine room a factory, the bridge a town hall, the deck a square, the hull the city walls, and so on for as long as one can be bothered to stretch out the metaphor. It was a reality he was familiar with.

  Anyway, he never discovered the fact. After he had done obeisance to the god of the sea he noticed out of the corner of his eye that there was a man standing in the recess behind the door. He couldn’t remember anyone coming in so didn’t know how long the visitor had been there.

  They studied one another.

  The visitor was a broad-shouldered black man, dressed in a suit that reached to just below mid-calf and barely covered his elbows. His shirt was open at the neck and the blue lamp over the door gleamed on his black chest. He wore sandals on his feet.

  My father was a mess.

  There was a knock at the cabin door. The visitor pressed himself further into the recess and gave my father a sign to keep quiet. When there was a second knock and no one answered from inside the cabin, the door was flung open. There stood two hulking great brutes in sailors’ uniforms. They peered into the darkness, seeing nothing but my father who raised his head from where it was hanging over the side of the bed and looked back glassily. These were the men who had hauled him aboard. They had taken a gold ring from him, broken it in half and split it between them. What did they want now? He vomited.

  The Godafoss chose that moment to go into freefall.

  The giants were hurled out into the passage. The door slammed behind them. My father laid his head back on the pillow. The visitor gave a sigh of relief. He went over to my father and knelt down. Both sighed. The visitor addressed my father in English:

  — Those guys are crazy, man; I don’t know what I did to them. They were licking stamps and postmarking envelopes in the captain’s cabin. They went mad when I wished them a happy Independence Day. I was on my way to the dance. I’m lucky to be alive, man.