by Sjón
In the meantime he has listened to a debate on the extension of the territorial waters to twelve miles, which reached its climax with the proposal of a parliamentary resolution that if the English kicked up a fuss the Icelanders would claim full sovereignty over the Scottish isles that had been settled by the Norsemen before they found sanctuary here in Iceland. The speaker concluded by saying that he had already drawn up similar proposals for the annexation of Greenland, Newfoundland, the west coast of Norway, New York and the whole of Ireland. The debate on this issue was postponed.
Now it is the Minister for Justice’s turn to take the floor.
— Honourable Mr Speaker, I would now like to propose a parliamentary bill on the granting of citizenship …
At these words there is a good deal of noise in the chamber and Leo leans over the gallery rail to see what’s happening. The MPs are leaving the room since it’s well past coffee time. A handful remain, however, and Leo gets the impression that they are waiting in suspense for the Minister for Justice to continue. When he does so by reading out the names of the fortunate, Leo has difficulty breathing. His heart pounds in his chest, hammering faster the further down the list, and closer to his name, the minister gets. He holds his breath.
— Leo Loewe, hereafter known as Skallagrímur Kveldúlfsson.
Leo exhales so violently that the MPs raise their heads in search of the bellows. He pulls himself together, coughs apologetically and retreats behind a pillar. There has been a dreadful mistake: he doesn’t want to be known as Skallagrímur Kveldúlfsson. When the minister has concluded his recital of the bill on new Icelandic citizens, Leo peers round from behind the pillar. Frantically scanning the chamber, he catches sight of the official who dealt with his application. He is standing in a room adjoining the chamber, with his bushy eyebrows, and a pile of documents in his arms.
What is Leo to do? He tries to catch the official’s eye by raising a hand, but it is no use. He doesn’t want to draw any more attention to himself than he already has. If the MPs become aware of him the Speaker could regard it as a disruption of the session and have him thrown out. Then they would find out who he was. And then his dream of becoming an Icelander would be over. And then there would be no hope of his being able to do what is required to quicken life in his little boy. He sinks down on the bench, doomed to bear the name of Skallagrímur Kveldúlfsson – if his application is even accepted.
The session proceeds with a debate on the bill. At first the members don’t seem to have any objections. One MP asks about a Hungarian woman whom he knows to have applied. Why is she not on the list? The Speaker directs him to propose an amendment to the bill if he is so keen for the woman to become an Icelandic citizen. And with that the debate seems to be over.
But just as the Speaker is about to put the bill to the vote, a man rises from his seat, a man so huge that Leo wonders if he is ever going to stop. For a moment he forgets his misfortune and gawps at the human colossus who lumbers over to the podium and rests three fingers on the side of the lectern that had previously been occupied by the entire hand of the Minister for Justice. Leo, who has never seen such a freak before without having to pay for the privilege, can’t take his eyes off him.
The Speaker announces:
— The honourable third supplementary member …
The big man growls low and briefly inclines his head.
— By your leave, Mr Speaker?
The Speaker nods and gives the member the floor. The giant draws breath, a procedure that takes some time, though he does leave some oxygen behind for the others present. He invariably delivers his parliamentary speeches in verse and is famous for it. Now he begins and the House of the Icelandic Althingi resounds:
PARLIAMENTARY VERSE
Did a fellow hear aright,
can I have lost my mind?
The chamber rings with a dire slight,
a famous name maligned.
Father of Egill the bushy browed,
beloved of the Icelandic nation;
no foreigner should be allowed
to harm his reputation.
Kveldúlfsson in his grave would turn
at parliament’s suggestion,
so I say either let us adjourn
or declare it out of the question.
Your bubble reputation will burst;
the report of the ages: How shoddy!
But let it be known that Skúli cursed:
Over my dead body!
At these words there is a loud murmuring among the few MPs present in the chamber. Leo’s noisy exhalation had caused them to overlook the inappropriateness of the name, but now that they have been reminded of it in such a forceful manner they must respond vigorously. Their blood calls them to their duty, the pursuit of justice; the rhythm of the quatrains has recalled them to themselves; the song of Iceland has brought a hectic flush to their cheeks. Although he didn’t fully understand the verses, Leo has grasped enough to see that he is in trouble. And the man’s thunderous declamation seems to have carried to the cafeteria, for the chamber fills up in the twinkling of an eye, as does the list of speakers. Hrafn W. Karlsson’s twin brother passes around the chamber, topping up the members’ water glasses, for it seems they all intend to speak, to make their voices heard.
The minister is not amused by this incident, and if we didn’t know that the werewolf theory was codswallop, it would be precisely at a moment like this that he would be inclined to shape-shift. Instead, he summons the official, and the bushy-browed man slinks into the chamber. He squeezes apologetically behind the cabinet benches and begins to go through the paperwork with the minister.
Leo presses himself harder against the pillar; the way things are going it would be best to lie low. Honourable members from every constituency and party feel duty bound to have their say. One speaks entirely in questions:
— Have we “followed the path of righteousness, with good as our goal”? Is it surprising that we should ask ourselves this question? What is all our rich heritage of sagas worth if riff-raff can come here from all over the world and appropriate the names of our forebears? Are they intending to begin a new age of settlement here? Are our founding fathers, the blood-brothers Hjörleifur and Ingólfur, fated to meet again in the telephone directory, instead of in the Fields of the Immortals? Are we not to answer these questions with a resounding “no”?
The next three speakers largely concur with the previous speaker, while wasting a great deal of hot air on arguing whether Ingólfur had gone to Valhalla or to Hel, the Underworld. A supplementary member from a country constituency brings the house down by commenting that judging by the state of the capital today its founder ought to be in hell. But that’s just his little joke and the gravity of the matter reasserts itself. Even the Communists, who admittedly have assumed a different name by this point in time, are scandalised. This fellow sports gold-rimmed spectacles.
— I must say that the government seems to me to be in pretty bad shape if it passes such things without criticism. I support the government, I can’t do otherwise; I do. But I will not put my name to this. I wish to draw the attention of the honourable members to a recent article on personal names …
He waves an issue of the socialist literary journal above his head.
— It emerges that the public is getting carried away in utter absurdity when it comes to naming their children: Dion, Lucky, Boy, Tyrone, Roy …
He leafs through.
— Gibbon, which is nota bene the name of a species of monkey; Oliver; the middle name Wayne, and so forth. And who is to blame? Have the Icelanders’ IQs plummeted? No, this land is inhabited by well-educated, intelligent people, as parliament is bound to agree. But no one can withstand overwhelming odds. A tidal wave of vulgar American culture is pouring over the land, the legitimate offspring of the occupying force at that atom station, Keflavík Air Base. Only yesterday I heard teenagers referring to their parents as “guys” and “chicks” …
The membe
r gets sidetracked into banging on about the NATO base issue and is booed down. The next recommends that people should be kind to their children and give them nice names which they won’t be teased about. For instance it’s a fine custom to christen children after deceased relatives, especially if the name comes to them in a dream. The member himself is named after his great-grandmother, bearing the middle name Annas.
While all this is going on, Leo sweats in his refuge behind the pillar. It was never his intention to trigger conflict amid the nation that has fostered him for the fourteen years that have passed since he was carried ashore here, a wretched foreigner. His greatest desire is to become one of them, not to sow dissension.
The parliamentary session dissolves into chaos, there are shouts from the chamber and the members ignore the jangling of the bell and the Speaker’s calls for order.
— What’s the man called?
— Leo, Leo Loewe …
— Can’t he just keep that name?
— It’s not Icelandic!
— Excuse me but it so happens that there is a small boy living in this town called Leo Love and I am not aware that he has been sent to jail for the fact.
— Whose son is he?
— His parents are Icelanders.
— That’s a whole different kettle of fish!
— What does Leo mean? Doesn’t it mean “lion”?
— Loewe, that means “lion” too.
— So the man’s called Lion Lionsson?
Laughter.
— Has the honourable Prime and Justice Minister lost his tongue?
No, the Minister for Justice is conferring with the official who has been scurrying in and out of the chamber during the debate. At this point the minister signals to the Speaker that he wishes to speak. Then he takes the floor and asks for quiet.
— Honourable Mr Speaker, I have now examined the facts of this case with officials from the Ministry of Justice …
Leo peers round the pillar.
— It seems that the name Skallagrímur Kveldúlfsson was written in the relevant box on the form by mistake. I have been assured that the applicant had no part in the affair, indeed he is quite blameless, as confirmed by the character reference from the Chief of Police that accompanies his application.
Leo emits a private sigh of relief: it’s going to be all right. The minister continues:
— But as we have been unable to contact the man in question, in spite of repeated attempts – he is neither at work nor at home – we don’t know which Icelandic name he was intending to adopt. This leaves us with two options: either to leave him out of this bill and reconsider his application next year …
The Minister for Justice pauses and looks out over the chamber. If he looked up at the gallery he would see my father, a picture of misery: there are limits to how long he can keep the clay child moist. The goat’s milk helps, but the clay will soon begin to crack. And what will Leo do then? He shudders with horror at the thought of having to form the boy again, thus obliterating his mother’s touch.
The minister:
— Or else to come up with a name for him here and now. He can always change it later in accordance with the legislation on personal names. I repeat that this is a mistake, the government had absolutely no intention of smuggling a Skallagrímur Kveldúlfsson into the national register. And I strictly advise the opposition against trying to capitalise on this case for other purposes. Those of us fortunate enough to be born and bred Icelandic should understand the desperation that must beat in the breast of the person who waits poised on the threshold of receiving their Icelandic citizenship. For humanitarian reasons I therefore propose that the latter alternative should be chosen.
The members answer:
— Hear, hear …
And start scribbling down various names. But the minister raises his hand and concludes his speech:
— So as not to waste any more time on this affair than we already have, the government proposes the following: as has been mentioned, a direct translation of the name Leo Loewe could well be “Lion Lionsson”. Naturally, that will not do, but with a minor adjustment we arrive at the eminently suitable and good Icelandic name of “Jón Jónsson”.
And so the bill is put to the vote.
And passed.
— Hear, hear!’
10
‘Jón Jónsson stands on the quayside, fishing. He is an Icelandic citizen and according to the law on citizens’ rights he is now free to fish all he likes in the nation’s precious territorial waters. So he intends to celebrate by catching something for his pot.
— Are they biting?
The voice is deep and singsong. My father looks round and sees a powerfully built black man standing there. He’s wearing a light camel coat and gold-rimmed glasses, and holding a small case. Judging from its shape it contains a trumpet. An American jazz musician, Leo guesses, though it strikes him as odd that the man should speak Icelandic.
— I’ve only just got here.
— Hey, how ya doin’?
The black man approaches him with outstretched hand.
— Don’t you remember me? No, of course you don’t remember me.
Leo takes the man’s hand, examining him politely: no, he can’t place him. He ought to remember if he’d seen him before, let alone been introduced to him, as he’s black.
— How do you do?
Leo nods, waiting to hear more.
— I was with you on the Godafoss. You were as sick as a dog, man, right from …
The black man laughs.
— You made me look bad by snoring through the national anthem!
— Really, I did? I’m sorry.
— Listen, I’ve clean forgotten your name.
— My name’s, er, my name’s Jón Jónsson.
— You don’t say? I could have sworn you were a foreigner.
A foreigner. What’s the man talking about? If anyone’s a foreigner it’s him; black as the ace of spades. But as Leo is now an Icelander he must react as one.
— Really? Thank you.
— Not at all. Anthony Theophrastus Athanius Brown.
— What?
— Just call me Tony, everybody does.
— Of course, yes, I’ll try to remember.
And then he gets a bite. My father reels in the line and the fish. It’s a sea scorpion. He frees it from the hook and is about to throw it back when Anthony grabs his wrist.
— Wait! I know how to cook that.
And Leo recognised him by his grip.
— How did you come by such a terrible name?
Anthony Theophrastus Athanius Brown is sitting at the kitchen table in Ingólfsstræti, chopping carrots and onion. After Leo told him he had been granted his citizenship earlier that day, he wouldn’t hear of anything but their celebrating the fact together, as old shipmates. And since Leo said he was on his way home, they did their celebrating there.
— It was something of a misunderstanding.
Answers my father, and tells Anthony the whole sorry tale. Anthony finds it so side-splittingly funny that he cries with laughter – managing to offend Leo three times during his fit of mirth. But from time to time Leo too is carried away and joins in the laughter. Anthony walks over to the cooker, still chuckling.
— Why the hell did you take up citizenship, my friend? I’ve been here as long as you and I wouldn’t dream of it.
Leo is startled. The man must be lying. Although they travelled to the country together and he speaks good Icelandic, there is no way he can live in Iceland. Why should he be granted a residence permit any more than any other member of his race? Black people are as rare in these parts as thunderstorms, no, grapevines, no …
Anyway, it doesn’t make sense.
— You’ve been in Iceland all this time, since 1944?
Anthony scrapes the vegetables from the chopping board into a flameproof dish where the sea scorpion is lying together with de-seeded tomatoes, celeriac and parsley.
— Did I say that? It must have been a slip of the tongue. Hell, you’ve got some mighty fine vegetables here, man. Where do you get them from?
— There are some kids who go round the neighbourhood from house to house. I think they sell them for their father.
Leo has no intention of letting the man off so lightly. For all he knows, Anthony may be here about the boy, about the gold-making. This is actually the first time Leo has ever admitted a stranger to his flat, but what if that pest extermination man who came round to the house to poison the starlings saw something, yes, although Leo didn’t let him out of his sight for the entire half-hour it took? No, he can’t take any chances.
— I’m sorry but this visit is over.
— Say what?
— I can’t stand it when guests lie to me.
— I’m sorry, man, there’s no need to take it like that.
— I heard you say quite clearly that you’ve been here for fourteen years. Thank you for the visit.
Leo folds his arms and nods firmly. Anthony throws up his hands.
— All right, but you mustn’t tell a soul. It’s actually a state secret.
Leo promises. Anthony takes a deep breath and says through clenched teeth:
— I am here on behalf of the University of Iceland’s Faculty of Theology.
They sit over their coffee in the dining room while the theologian tells his story. After touching on the main points of what he had told my father before, he takes up the thread where he left off in the cabin nearly fourteen years ago. Anthony Brown was, as it happens, an expert in comparative religion, and scholars of this discipline require outstanding memories as their field rivals entomology for its sheer number of characters and protagonists.
— Yeah, man. As I was telling you, I was lying there in the street on top of those troublemakers. The fancily dressed gentleman stood over us, inspecting us as if we were something weird and wonderful from the bottom of the sea. I sneaked a look at him, expecting to get a whack over the head. But instead of thrashing me, as I richly deserved, he held out a silver cane and prodded my enemies in the backside. They yelped at the prodding and I saw that he was laughing inside at how uncomfortable they were about feeling the cane so near their assholes, since we could all see that he was aiming right at them and just playing at not hitting them. Well, I didn’t have the heart to pin them down any longer, and the white trash made off while I got to my feet and dusted off the rust-red dirt of Nigertown. The snappily dressed gentleman handed me his card and told me to come and visit him.
