by Sjón
My father took a deep breath and whispered in German:
— Please forgive me, I am not myself.
The visitor nodded understandingly and my father took this as a sign that he should introduce himself. He began:
— Born …
The visitor followed suit:
— Oh, you mean that. I was born in the shanty town of Dream On, today just a nameless suburb of Atlanta. That’s in the United States. My father was Jimmy Brown, preacher at the Church of the Black Pentecostalists. He was famous for handling poisonous snakes for the glory of the Lord, but they were mostly toothless little critters. I myself was christened Anthony Brown and I was eleven years old when I set out on a trip to the store that would take me halfway round the world but never back home again.
My daddy had asked me to run out for some bottles of milk, milk being the main diet of the snakes that he kept in a steel drum in the shoe closet to the left of the bathroom door, our house being so cramped. The milk made them docile and easier to handle. I didn’t drink milk any longer myself: I’d seen its effects on critters that were lower but also more dangerous than me. Well, I was walking along our street, heading for the neighbourhood store that was on the corner a few blocks down. You could buy most things there that a black family needed, like corn and kidney beans.
I was about to step into the store when some kids drove past in a black Plymouth, though they themselves were white. It was a rare sight in this part of town that was known as Nigertown – I thought it was called after the creek they used to call the Niger that ran down the middle of the main street, Brook Road, which by some strange quirk hadn’t been concreted over. Or at least that was the explanation my daddy gave me when I asked about the name.
Anyway, I had eyes for nothing but the fancy car; I was car crazy like all boys, and didn’t stop to wonder why these white schoolboys were driving through the neighbourhood. I went into the store and bought what I had been told to: seven pints of milk, and three times three inches of pork rinds that were my wages for the errand. I’ve always had a thing for pork rinds – sure hope you can get them in Iceland. Only, by the time I came out again the kids had driven right round the block, swearing at the old ladies and whistling at the young ones, spitting at the old-timers and throwing nuts at the children. I’d like to make it clear that I didn’t hear about this till later so it had nothing to do with what happened.
As I stood on the sidewalk, chewing the pork rinds, blissfully unaware of anything else, the punks climbed out of their car and surrounded me. They seemed in high spirits. And so was I.
I held out the goody bag.
— Howdy, pork rinds?
Well, they jumped me. And I did what I usually did when people jumped me. I threw them off. I didn’t want to hurt them, you know, it was just my upbringing. This went on until it was time for me to hurry home with the milk. My daddy didn’t take kindly to idling; he was a strict man, there was no idling anywhere near him. And they were getting mad too, those kids. I held up the shopping bag and said:
— Well, boys, the snakes’ll be getting hungry.
They didn’t like that one bit. Maybe they thought I was belittling them by holding up the bag, which of course I hadn’t put down. They grabbed whatever came to hand – a length of piping or a bottle, I don’t remember which, man. Anyway, I was forced to put down the bag. That was all it took.
Only, when I’d turned the boys upside down and didn’t really know what to do next, I saw an elderly man standing on the sidewalk, who was dressed so fancy that I was sure I’d be punished big-time.
That was my benefactor.
Anthony Brown fell silent and waited for my father to react to the story. But he had fallen asleep since he didn’t understand a word of English. Anthony Brown sighed, took the hatbox from his arms, placed it on the top bunk and jerked him to his feet.
— This won’t do, man, this won’t do at all.
My father stirred at the manhandling, but before he could offer any resistance Anthony had tossed him over his shoulder. And out of the cabin he went, into the corridor, down the corridor, up another, up and down, round and about, until they came to the ship’s saloon. A dance was in full swing; the saloon was decorated with balloons and such a complicated tangle of red, blue and white paperchains that it resembled the intestines of a blue whale. On the wall above the captain’s high table hung a picture of a man with bushy, grey whiskers. And above that was a banner bearing the handwritten slogan: 17 JUNE 1944.
A band was playing on the stage by the dance floor and a man in a monkey suit was wandering among the merrymakers asking: “Was I all right?” “Great show!” answered the guests and carried on drinking. And singing. There was singing at every table, though not always the same song.
Anthony went straight to the captain’s table where he laid down his burden. My father slumped into a velvet-upholstered chair beside a sleek, plump person, the tenor Óli Klíngenberg. Óli was on his way home.
He leaned forwards and addressed Leo:
— Good evening, eh …
This refined “eh” with which he capped his sentence was an affectation that Óli Klíngenberg had picked up in Vienna where there are numerous open-air cafés in the streets and squares. The waiters can’t hear what the customers are ordering. And the customers can’t hear the waiters saying, “What?” So both say: “Eh?”
The singer held out his hand with the back uppermost.
— You are new here on board, sir, eh?
Anthony nudged his shoulder at my father who sank forwards in his chair until his face touched the wrist of the tenor Klíngenberg who snatched back his hand, thus saving the helpless man from making a disgrace of himself. Leo’s lips briefly brushed his knuckles, before Anthony dragged him upright again.
— As if one were the Pope! Shrilled the tenor, drawing back his hand, relieved by this insubstantial kiss. He looked at his dining companion, Georg Thorfinnsen, former captain of the Miskatonic. He too was on his way home.
— Evening, young man.
Georg nodded to my father and my father asked if he had seen his hatbox. Ignoring this, the captain pointed out that he would have to put on a lifejacket like everyone else if he meant to join in the fun. The master of ceremonies announced that now the Icelandic National Anthem would be sung, led by the opera singer.
— Well, please excuse me, eh?
The saloon fell silent as Óli Klíngenberg rose to his feet and all eyes followed him as he walked to the stage and took up position in the middle. Bowing neatly he gave the pianist a sign to begin.
O, God of our land-eh! O, land of our God-ih!
We worship thy holy, holy name-eh!
Thy crown is woven from the suns of heaven-ah
By thy legions, the ages of time-eh,
For thee a single day is as a thousand years-ih
And a thousand years are as but a day-ah,
An everlasting flower with a quivering tear-eh
That prays to its God and then fades-ih.
Iceland’s thousand years, Iceland’s thousand years-ah
An everlasting flower with a quivering tear-eh
That prays to its God and then fades-ih.
My father had lost consciousness long before the partygoers chimed in with the tenor. Not tomorrow, nor the day after, but the day after that their homeland would receive them. Some would be welcomed, others would go straight to jail, but they were all on their way home. Until then their life would be “life on board”. Their whole life would be an echo of “life on board”.
But who am I to chatter on about this? I who have never even been conscious on a ship that sails between lands bearing a cross-section of humanity on board. I don’t know – yet I catch myself repeating these clichéd three words as if they meant something to me: “Life on board”.
I say them out loud, letting them resound in my mind until they stir up a poignant sense of regret that is obviously borrowed from stories told by those who can truly recal
l a time when people clubbed together to pretend that there was nothing more natural than the dinner service having a life of its own and being constantly on the move, while respectable matrons staggered around like winos. That there were two species in the world: the pale-green Homo terrestris and the salt-encrusted Homo marinus.
But it is not true that there were only two species.
* * *
My mind conjures up a ship’s dog called Sirius. At mealtimes you had to keep an eye open so he wouldn’t slip into the saloon to scrounge for food, taking advantage of the bounty provided by the passengers’ lack of appetite. I remember him scampering around on deck, barking at the gulls that followed the floating village on its voyage over the deep. I can picture him snuffing around on the bridge, and I can see him tied up in the mess boy’s cabin in heavy weather. Sirius, if I had sailed the seas with you I would have hugged your sea-wet body. We would have raced around the ship until someone got fed up and temporarily separated us. And when we met again I would have smuggled you a titbit.
Sirius, loyal and true, a friend in need. I, a seven-year-old boy, you the ship’s dog, my friend. We two friends; material for a Boy’s Own story.
The sun is setting beneath a southern sky. The native drums herald the coming of night and the girls’ frenzied dancing in the glow of a huge bonfire. My father, the captain, gets a certain look in his eye when the chief’s daughter smiles at him. I have come to recognise that look, and you recognise it too, Sirius. We both know that if he follows it up he will be merry when the ship sails in the morning. Then he’ll be very kind, will my father, and when he is kind, he lets me steer. He lifts me on to a box at the wheel and I steer dead ahead, away from the island where the natives wave us off: “Aloha!”
A musical deckhand from the north of Iceland sits in the stern, thanking them on our behalf by playing an Icelandic seaman’s waltz on a ukulele he had traded a pocket knife for. A new day has dawned in the life of the little sailor and his dog. Beyond the far horizon exciting adventures await them:
Light in the Depths. Jósef discovers documents indicating that the Nazis are preparing an attack on his father’s convoy. Will Jósef and his dog manage to find the U-boat lair and prevent the Nazi attack? Who is the one-eyed man who steals from house to house under cover of night? A nail-bitingly exciting tale for boys of all ages.
The Cold Room. Jósef and Sirius get wind of a plot by a former officer of the Third Reich to bring Europe to its knees again. Did the Allies ever find the Nazis’ infamous “Machine of World Destruction”? What is the Cold Room, where is it and what secret does it hold? A terrifically exciting book by the author of Light in the Depths.
Gleam in the North. When Captain Leo accepts an assignment to transport a cargo of gold through the ice floes of the Arctic, neither he nor Jósef nor Sirius have a clue what lies in store. Strange flashes in the sky prove to be more than just the Northern Lights. Are aliens from outer space following the ice-breaker? And, if so, do they come in peace? A new title for fans of the Jósef and Sirius books.
Revenge of the One-eyed Man. Jósef is more than a little shocked when he returns to his home town to discover that his old arch-enemy, “the One-eyed Man”, has become a respectable citizen. Is he all that he seems? And who is behind the series of crimes terrorising the townspeople? The Jósef and Sirius books have long possessed the hearts and minds of boys of all ages.
The Tasmanian Werewolf. What is Jósef to believe when a peaceful group of Aborigines from Tasmania ask for his help in defeating a werewolf? Is it a case of primitive superstition? Or does the nearby atomic power station have a dark secret to hide? The fifth book about the companions Jósef and Sirius will surprise even their most devoted fans.
I miss you Sirius, my imaginary canine friend, and have never missed you more than now when I must leave you and continue my father’s story. But my tale will probably suffer the same fate as the Boy’s Own stories. When the war was no longer on everybody’s lips and the interests of the average Western boy had turned to other kinds of dangers and villains, the authors were forced to bow to the times and the inclinations of their readers.
* * *
The ship sails on its way. High above it there is a cloud of small birds. They drift north-west before the wind, in the same direction as the ship.
They are black and twitter:
“Chirr, chirr!”
Isn’t it time we caught sight of land?’
III
(18 June 1944)
4
‘The smell of porridge spreads through the house, wafting as usual to the nose of the boy who is sleeping in the closet in the attic. Instantly wide awake, he lifts the quilt, climbs out of bed and checks whether there is anything on the sheet or his pyjama bottoms. No, there’s nothing there and he’s pleased with himself. He does a little skip to the chair and begins to dress in the clothes that await him folded on the seat. His sister laid them out ready yesterday. A smile flickers over his sensitive mouth when he sees that she has gone to the trouble of ironing his bowtie. He knots it round his neck, pulls down his shirtsleeves, lifts the trapdoor and lowers himself through the hole.
The door to his sister’s room is open but she’s not there. His father’s door is ajar. There’s no one there either and the bed is unmade. The boy carries on downstairs, following the promise of good porridge. No one can cook oatmeal like his sister. To his mind she has a stature and importance that are out of all proportion to the three years that separate them in age. She has run the household ever since their mother vanished: their parents were on a boat trip to the island of Drangey, organised by the Icelandic Swimming Association, when suddenly, in the blink of an eye, she was no longer on deck with the other passengers.
Their father, unable to cope following the tragedy, buried himself in solitary contemplation of the manuscripts that he read to pieces on specially made light tables at the University of Iceland.
The girl took care of father and son.
So the boy is startled when he sees that it is his father the palaeographer who is stirring the saucepan, not his sister. Usually the brother and sister have the morning hour to themselves while the old man eats his rations up at the graveyard before going to work – even on holidays. But no, today it is the old-timer, all two metres of him, who stands over the porridge pan with the wooden spoon like a darning needle between his huge fingers, just sort of poking at it.
— Good morning.
Says the boy, sitting down at the kitchen table.
— Speak for yourself …
The old man runs his free hand through the white hair that cascades handsomely over his shoulders, then turns quick as a flash from the hob and dishes up into a bowl for his son. His movements are so sure that if the man weren’t a swimming champion many times over the boy would have thought he had spent all morning practising serving porridge. He picks up his spoon without saying a word. His father bangs the saucepan down on the hotplate, reaching for the cream pot in the fridge and splashing it on to the heaped porridge in a single movement.
— Get that down you.
And with that a strange day begins in the boy’s life. Outside the citizens are about to start celebrating the fact that yesterday they became an independent nation with a pure-blooded Icelandic President. Admittedly he’s no “President Jón”, like the old independence hero, Jón Sigurdsson, who adorns the first stamp series to be issued by the free country in defiance of its old imperial Danish overlord. No, he is someone they know even less about than the deposed king, whom most citizens eligible to vote at least got a chance to set eyes on when he visited the country in 1936, and who is remembered for his excellent table manners. (He had a firm, confident handshake too.) But since when has the nation ever really known their standard-bearer?
The new President is merely a sort of civil servant; he’s even got black shadows under his eyes. But no one complains – he makes people feel as if they have nothing to fear from the foul pit, full of spectres, that i
s the present day. The boy knows this because his father told him so.
— Where can your sister have got to, hmm?
The old man has turned off the heat under the saucepan and is holding a half-gallon jug. The boy darts a quick glance over his shoulder and catches his father emptying two bottles of aquavit into the jug.
— Of course she assumes we won’t be going anywhere in the meantime …
The boy doesn’t know how to answer this but the old man spares him the trouble.
— No, old chap, she’s like your mama. She’s realised that not just anyone is invited to this fancy independence party of theirs. We’re better off staying away …
He drops heavily on to a stool facing the boy and half empties the jug in a single swig.
— No, it’s not enough to have posed for that little scribbler Tryggvi, wearing a damned potato sack, eh?
He strokes the beard that flows palely down over his chest like the fleece of a prize-winning ram.
— You’d have thought a fellow had grown a beard and put flesh on his bones purely in order to pose for the coat of arms of a nation that can’t even tell the difference between a dragon and a serpent.
He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and grimaces like a man with three rows of teeth:
— No, the mountain giant will “just, you know”, as the hoi polloi from Skuggahverfi would say, hmm, he’ll “just, you know” have to stay at home. Then why, I ask, why the devil did they have to change the coat of arms anyway? The old one is much more like the pathetic rabble I see every day: the bull looks like a badly shorn ewe, the eagle like a plucked cockerel, the dragon like a dog with asthma, and the giant like a mincing actor who’s forgotten his lines.
The old man slams his fist on the table, making everything jump. The boy can’t swallow his porridge: this is no longer his story; in that he’s a fourteen-year-old Reykjavík boy who goes into town on the second day of the new republic and meets up with several of his classmates. They huddle together and share a cigarette down by the wall of the East End School before heading into the centre to watch the preparations for the festivities. Then they run up to Camp Ingolfs to cadge spirits from the GI who asks for nothing but a kiss from each of them in return for the bottle. Yes, the day passes in high jinks of this kind. They grab a bite to eat in the sales tent or at a pub, since they’re all on their summer vacation or doing holiday jobs. Then at the dance in the evening they plan to ogle the girls, and are pretty hopeful that the girls will ogle them in return.
