CoDex 1962

by Sjón

  Leo thanked him for the information and promised to examine the instruments at the Reykjavík Stamp Shop. And, no, they would never find out who had directed him to do business there. The attendant stepped aside and let him out of the cubicle.

  The incident with the shower attendant had rattled Leo so badly that when he got home he had to go and lie down. Whatever had compelled the man to lecture him on the joys of stamp collecting? Hitherto they had barely passed the time of day, apart from that one time when the shower attendant had informed him that the Nazis had played truant from modern Icelandic history. The subject had arisen from the attendant’s interest in the fact that Leo was circumcised.

  Leo eventually came to the conclusion that the shower attendant’s lecture about stamp collecting must have been in reply to his question about Hrafn the, er, nationalist. That’s how Icelanders generally evaded all topics of conversation, using instead a philosophical mode of discourse. They were incapable of discussing things directly. If they contributed anything at all to the conversation it was in the form of a short anecdote or examples from natural history.

  If the question was whether human beings were by their nature good, the first contribution might begin as follows: “What won’t the Arctic tern do…?” The second contribution might be: “When I was a girl…” And the third: “In the Tún neighbourhood they used to say…”

  Yes, the shower attendant had been hinting to him that the answer was to be found at the Reykjavík Stamp Shop.

  The Reykjavík Stamp Shop stands on the corner of a street on a hill overlooking the town centre. The shop is on the ground floor but the actual stamp business takes place in the two back rooms. A brass bell jangles whenever someone enters, as it did when Leo turned up with the envelope from the mysterious V—. An adolescent with a giraffe-like neck was bending over the glass plate on the counter, examining stamps from different parts of the globe and finding them ridiculous. He sniggered, muttering to himself that the Portuguese should forget about issuing stamps altogether:

  — Huh, look at that!

  Leo walked over to the counter and took up position there. After a long moment a chair was heard scraping the floor in a back room and shortly afterwards a man appeared in the doorway, sitting on a chair that he had propelled all the way there with himself on board. He was pear-shaped, as often happens when sportsmen put on weight, wearing a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and khaki trousers hoisted up to his nipples. He craned his neck towards the customer, examining him through a magnifying glass that was gripped in his right eye socket.

  — Yes?

  — Good afternoon, my name is Leo Loewe. Is Mr Karlsson in?

  — Yes?

  — Could I speak to him?

  — Yes?

  After a momentary silence the youngster said in adenoidal tones:

  — Iss ’im, innit. Doncha know Hrafn?

  Leo reddened.

  — Excuse me, I haven’t been here before.

  He placed the envelope on the counter.

  — Um, I was asked to find out whether you would be interested in this?

  Hrafn pulled himself to the counter.

  — Loewe, you say …

  Leo pushed at the envelope. Hrafn screwed the loupe deeper into his eye and curled his lip as he picked up the envelope and opened it.

  — I’m not really buying much these days …

  The magnifying glass fell on to the glass counter top.

  What’s more, Hrafn W. Karlsson gaped so wide that there was a gleam of teeth. Leo gasped. In the stamp dealer’s left wisdom tooth there was a flash of gold, ill-gotten gold. It was Leo’s gold. He was determined to recover it by any means necessary, and to do so he would have to keep an eye on Hrafn.

  So it was that Leo allowed himself to become a courier of anomalous, and therefore valuable, stamps. He lived in expectation of V— sneaking an envelope through his kitchen window. Hrafn the Nazi paid for the contents and Leo put the proceeds into a secret bank account at a branch in the East Fjords.

  This did not change until the Postmaster General discontinued the bad habit of constantly overprinting stamps, since by then the powerful stamp-dealing clans had turned to other, even shadier pursuits.

  After this turn of events, Leo no longer had the opportunity to keep an eye on the gold in the mouth of the Nazi at the Reykjavík Stamp Shop. And it was then that he remembered Hrafn W. Karlsson’s comment that if he meant to get involved in any criminal activities in Iceland, it would be an advantage for him to be an Icelandic citizen.’

  8

  ‘Leo bowed his head:

  — I’ve done a bit of stamp dealing.

  — Who hasn’t…?

  The official smiled. Then his smile dropped away, he frowned and said sternly:

  — Fourteen years? You’ve been here fourteen years, yet only now are you applying for citizenship. Is there some reason why you haven’t been in more of a hurry?

  The official was interrupted by the telephone; he snatched up the receiver and turned away. Without meaning to, Leo heard him repeating Lucian of Samosata’s description of the inhabitants of the island of Glassia for the person at the other end:

  — They’re made of water; w-a-t-e-r! It’s eternal winter there, or they would melt and turn to vapour; v-a-p-o-u-r! That’s what happens when an inhabitant of Glassia dies; the sea mist that hides the island is made up of the dead. It’s obvious …

  My father met the eyes of the President who hung in a gilt frame on the wall behind the official.

  ‘Leo is sitting on a bench in Austurvöllur Square, watching the starlings pecking up the breadcrumbs he has scattered on the grass. They’re such funny little creatures, so lively and chatty with their “chirr, chirr” – followed by some complete gibberish that no one can understand. Not even Leo, who has been in the country as long as them, for one could say he had travelled here alongside these spotted birds with their copper-black, metallic-blue plumage. They are foreigners, and nobody is fooled when they manage to mimic as pure Icelandic an avian as the redwing. Mr Thorsteinson, the landlord at 10a Ingólfsstræti, wages a heroic war against them.

  — They squeeze into every crack like rats. They’re inside the walls all over the house, twittering away on every crossbeam: hear that? And they’re crawling with fleas. My wife wakes up every morning bitten all over. The cat won’t even look at them. How do you deal with birds like them down in Europe?

  The cathedral bell strikes three. And exactly seven minutes later there is a change of tune. A death knell. The church doors open and the funeral procession slowly emerges. The coffin is followed by a man of a very great age, supported by a young woman. From the man’s massive shoulders and chest Leo guesses that this is the swimming champion Helgi Steingrímsson with his daughter. His son-in-law follows hard on their heels, carrying a bunch of flowers.

  Hrafn W. Karlsson is standing by the corner of the Parliament House, his hair wet-combed, dressed in a black suit: he’s lost a bit of weight. Why wasn’t he at the funeral? Leo rises to his feet and bows his head out of respect for the dead. The coffin is eased into the hearse, the back is closed and the engine starts up.

  Leo looks up and sees Hrafn W. Karlsson appear in the cathedral doorway, wet-combed and dressed in a black suit: he’s put on a bit of weight.

  The Hrafn in the church doorway greets his double on the corner with a brotherly grin.

  — Are you all right?

  The official studies Leo. His watery-blue eyes remain fixed on him.

  — Oh yes, I’m just trying to find the words to explain why it’s so long since I arrived – and why I’m only bringing the form to you now …

  — Have you seen a doctor?

  Leo glances down at his body: does he look ill? As usual in the case of fully dressed men all that can be seen of him are his hands and head. They should be all right, or at least they were the last time he looked in the mirror.

  — You speak Icelandic?

  The official drums
his index finger on the table. The conversation is getting out of hand. Leo feels the cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.

  — Yes, as I told you, I speak—

  — Do you have a health certificate?

  — A health certificate, oh yes, of course, I thought, er, er …

  Leo laughs apologetically and hands the official the envelope that his doctor, Axel Freydal Magnússon, had given him the last time he had a check-up. The official opens it and glances briefly at the contents, then ticks the appropriate box on the form. After that he stands up, peers out into the corridor, closes the door, then comes and perches on the edge of the desk.

  — You see, it’s like this, I’m putting together a theory about the origin of the Icelanders. Do you mind if I run it by you? My wife’s sister’s husband doesn’t understand it; he’s a fool. It was him I was talking to. He has just as good access to a telephone as I do. Do you have a phone?

  — Yes.

  — Do you use it much?

  — As often as I need to.

  — Good, we’re vying with the Canadians as to which country has the greater telephone usage. They’re ahead at the moment. We’re number two in the world. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, you see, when the original settlers came to Iceland they didn’t just find a scattering of Catholic hermits with nothing better to do than march up and down the beaches swinging their censers and singing hallelujah against sea monsters. No, the land was settled, all along the coastline and far inland. It was the home of creatures that cared nothing for God, Ódinn or any other heavenly father …

  Leo is flummoxed. The official studies his expression, then says:

  — You haven’t read up on Icelandic history?

  — I’ve attended lessons with Dr Fródason.

  — Tch, what does he know?

  Realising that the question is rhetorical, Leo remains silent. The official reaches for a fist-sized stone that is lying on a pile of files on the far corner of the desk. He weighs it in his hand, then passes it across the desk to Leo.

  — For example, what do you make of that?

  The official lowers one eyebrow and raises the other. Leo examines the rock. It is dark brown and rough on the surface but smooth in the cut. And in the cut there is a fossilised fly, a bee.

  — It’s a fossil.

  — Yes, and where do you think it comes from?

  Leo shakes his head.

  — Mmm? Guess.

  — I don’t know …

  — Guess.

  — Er, France…?

  The official bursts out laughing.

  — France? No, my dear fellow, this comes from Mount Esja.

  He flings out an arm, pointing to the mountain, framed in the office window, that is a landmark to every Reykjavík-dweller.

  — And what does that prove?

  — That there were bees here?

  — Exactly! And what does that prove?

  Leo says nothing since the official is wholly caught up in the irresistible momentum of his argument.

  — It proves that there was an abundance of honey here. And what does that prove? Mmm?

  The official rocks back and forth on the edge of the desk.

  — It proves that the ancient Greeks were right! This was the home of Scritifines, pantheists and mead-drinkers. Iceland is ancient Thule where the most savage barbarians, or should I say wild animals, used to dwell, long before the coming of the Irish monks or Norsemen.

  They were mainly Scritifines, though personally I am of the opinion that the Greeks didn’t realise that they were all one and the same race, and the pantheists and mead-brewers were simply different social groups among them. The Scritifines were crazy barbarians who ate nothing but each other or unlucky travellers. It is not hard to picture the nurseries with baby Scritifines hanging from every bough in leather pouches, yelping sweetly and growling contentedly as they suck the marrow from the finger bones or ribs of foreign seafarers.

  You look shocked – no one has told you. That’s hardly surprising since it’s been hushed up. The history books have been censored and if foreign travel writers so much as breathe a word about this there is a huge furor and someone is paid to respond to them with yet another tome about how we’re the descendants of Norwegian chieftains.

  A staple ingredient of travel tales from Iceland used to be reports of how the people here thought nothing of giving away their children to anyone who wanted them but on the contrary demanded a high price for their dogs. The dogs were unfailingly described as earless and tailless, badly trained and vicious. There are no accounts of the children except that they generally came from litters of thirteen to seventeen siblings. Well, the Icelanders objected to these reports and gradually they were forgotten.

  But I ask you: why in the world should English, German, Dutch or French explorers be interested in buying our tailless dogs? And why were children always mentioned in accounts of this trade in dogs? Have you considered that? No, the real reason has been so thoroughly hushed up that no one refers to it any longer. You have lived here for, what, thirteen years and never heard a word about it. Well, of course it had nothing to do with trading dogs or giving away children.

  He pauses to emphasise what is to follow.

  — Those doglike creatures were werewolves.

  — I see …

  — What Blefken, Peerse, Krantz and other worthy men were telling the world was quite simply that this was a good place to buy werewolves. These were experienced merchants, talking to their peers in code. All the nonsense they dressed their stories up in was primarily to frighten others off coming here; they didn’t want just anybody getting access to their supplies. And there is no reason to be offended by the fact. That’s just business …

  There is a knock at the office door. The official starts up and off the desk.

  — Yes?

  The door opens and a dark-haired man with a square face and pointed ears sticks in his head. He nods when he notices Leo, then addresses the official:

  — Perhaps you’d have a word with me when you’re finished here?

  The official says he’ll be with him in a quarter of an hour. The other is satisfied and withdraws. The moment the door has closed:

  — Do you know who that was?

  — Wasn’t it the Minister…?

  — Did you notice his appearance?

  — He looks like the father of his country.

  — Yes, yes, but don’t you think he looks a little like an older version of the boy in I Was a Teenage Werewolf? Could be his father?

  — Er, perhaps his haircut …

  — Exactly! Well, let me tell you what werewolves eat: night-darkness and snow. Where in the world is there a land better suited to such creatures than here? Indeed, how else can one explain all the accounts of black men, that is, black-haired giants with bushy eyebrows, in our literary heritage? A Briton called Sabine Baring-Gould came here to travel round the country in the summer of 1861 and published his account in 1863. A fine book but not one word about werewolves.

  Well and good; two years later he publishes a book about werewolves. Coincidence? Hardly. And where did he get most of his information about werewolves? From Icelandic sources. Was he mad? Hardly. He wrote thirty novels, well over a hundred scholarly works and a history of the saints in sixteen volumes, as well as writing the hymn “Onward Christian Soldiers”. A highly educated man …

  The official looks at the clock and begins to gabble:

  — Yes, and Bram Stoker says straight out in Dracula, or perhaps it’s the Count who says it, that he himself is descended from Icelandic werewolves. Do you really think it’s a coincidence that the Icelanders have the longest heads on earth? In other words, there were still werewolves living here when the Norsemen stepped ashore. And inevitably there was a degree of interbreeding. I mean to say, the characteristics are still coming out. Can you do this?

  The official leaned forwards and lowered one eyebrow to his cheek while lifting the other to the roots of h
is hair. Leo tried to emulate him but failed.

  — You see, I’m the one descended from the saga hero Egill Skallagrímsson, not you. There is werewolf blood in all that line. His grandfather was Kveldúlfur, “Evening Wolf”, who used to go crazy at the full moon. Now people are claiming that he was mentally ill, a manic depressive. No, my friend, he was a hairy-pelted werewolf …

  My father had never heard such a feeble excuse for wild eyebrows and rapid beard growth. The official seized the pen from his breast pocket, reached out and scribbled something on a piece of paper behind him, muttering:

  — Skallagrímur Kveldúlfsson. Trance, transform, transformation, transmutation…’

  He stood up and went back behind the desk.

  — Anyway, my friend, I just wanted to try my theory out on you. It’s still taking shape. I’m supposed to be giving a lecture at the Lodge and I had the idea of presenting it there. It’s good to hear other people’s opinions of one’s ideas while one’s still in the process of forming them.

  The official smoothed out the form; he’d sobered up from his theorising.

  — Anyway, where were we? Oh yes, there was the business of your name; you must take an Icelandic name.

  Leo was well prepared for this part of the application.

  — I’d thought of the name Starri.

  — Starri – a “starling”? Yes, not bad. May I ask why?

  Leo merely told him he liked it.

  — And whose son are you?

  — My father was called Abraham.

  The official scribbled the name Starri Abrahamsson on a memo and considered it, raising his brows.

  — It’ll do. Then that seems to be it. The matter will be dealt with at the spring session of parliament; it’ll be a piece of cake, a mere formality…’

  ‘But your patronymic isn’t Starrason…’

  ‘Quite right, I’ll come to that later.’

  9

  ‘The time has come. The honourable Prime, Agriculture and Justice Minister gets up to speak in the capacity of the last-named office. Leo straightens in his seat. He has been sitting in the public gallery of the Althingi, Iceland’s parliament, for an hour and a half, waiting for this very moment.