CoDex 1962

by Sjón

  And yet, over the years he has come down hard on several of his old schoolmates and their sons, presumably in revenge for the fact that they once called him Krissi Chick.’

  12

  ‘Ásgeir Helgason is uneasy after his conversation with the graveyard farmer: people seem more interested in tracking down his stamps than his murderer. What kind of society was this turning into?

  — Hi, Uncle!

  The Grettisgata Ghost waves at the shower attendant, then continues to shuffle his feet by the cemetery gate on the corner of Ljósvallagata and Hringbraut. Ásgeir floats over to him.

  — What are you doing here?

  — Well, I don’t know where else I’m supposed to be.

  It hadn’t occurred to Ásgeir that his nephew Kristján would be waiting for him in the graveyard. They hadn’t had much to do with each other while they were alive. Helgi Steingrímsson had refused to see or speak to his daughter ever again after she fell in love with a GI and fell pregnant with Kiddi as a result. Ásgeir felt he should say something to the boy.

  — Your mum’s well, Kiddi dear. She’s in Philadelphia.

  — Good for her, she always wanted to go to Philly.

  — No, I mean she’s in the Philadelphia Congregation. She’s living with a decent man. He speaks in tongues. And wears zip-up shoes.

  The Grettisgata Ghost grins.

  — Zip-up? Like that, is it?

  Ásgeir is at a loss for an answer. What on earth had he meant by that? It had just slipped out. He hadn’t a clue what “Preacher” Thorlákur wore on his feet. His nephew regarded him through narrowed eyes.

  — Do you have some unfinished business on the other side? Is there something on your mind? Or someone, perhaps?

  Kiddi spits over the cemetery wall and the spittle lands on the shoulder of a man who is passing. He stops and looks up at the sky in search of the guilty party, but as there are no birds to be seen he makes do with cursing all birds before continuing on his way. Ásgeir’s eyes grow blank: there’s something about those shoes he needs to look into. He pictures large feet and smells snuff, no, stewed coffee. He snatches at Kiddi.

  — Is there any way of getting out of here?

  Kiddi rolls his eyes, clicks his fingers and flips up the collar of his jacket: yes, the teen rocker Kristján Hermannsson has found a way of shrugging off the astral bonds, the spiritual thread that ties the dead to the cemetery. The method is simple: at a certain point in the evening a curtain is sometimes drawn back from a kitchen window in the apartment block opposite the Grund retirement home, to reveal the face of a man with an unruly mop of hair.

  — The guy’s so terrified of the dark that he sucks you to him.

  Kiddi laughs.

  — The poor sod can’t get enough of it. I sometimes drop in on him on my way into town. Knock inside the kitchen cupboards, rattle the china, flap the dishcloths and that sort of thing. He sits on the kitchen bench, rigid with fear, waiting for the haunting to stop. He gets a kick out of it. Last time I was there I saw him reach for a notepad and write on it “Mar-lon” as I left. I guess I’d been thinking of Brando or something. Anyway, he should put in an appearance any minute.

  They wait.

  — Hey, Uncle, what gives with Granddad?

  — Your grandfather?

  The curtain twitches.

  Ásgeir floats over the city. It’s all so delightful. He sees his house. He sees the lake. He sees the Music Pavilion. He sees the park. He sees the Free Church. He sees the Reykjavík Stamp Shop.

  Ásgeir parts from his nephew above the Music Pavilion Park. The Grettisgata Ghost is on his way east to Snorrabraut to greet cinema-goers from the nine o’clock showing of King Creole. Keeping to a height of around twenty-three metres above ground level, Ásgeir whooshes north along Lækjargata, then takes the tight turn up into Thingholt. Slowing down, he perches on the roof of the house that stands on the steep slope above the Stamp Shop. From there he can see through the window of Hrafn W. Karlsson’s office. He slips through the evening-cold window pane. In the right-hand corner of the room, viewed from the door, is a cupboard on feet six centimetres high. Underneath it, the calf-leather spine of Ásgeir’s own stamp album can be glimpsed, and you’d have thought that this was what had drawn the deceased stamp collector. But no, he doesn’t bother himself with that, moving instead, like a living person, to Hrafn’s desk.

  A newspaper lies open on top, spread over various philatelic catalogues, and there one can read that this very evening Óli Klíngenberg is holding a concert at the Idnó Theatre.

  A note has been scribbled next to this notice: “Fetch tkt. bef. qtr to 7.”

  Óli Klíngenberg is standing at the front of the stage, resting his ring-bedecked, milk-white, small but pudgy right hand on the grand piano which is carefully positioned so the pianist, some Norwegian, is only just visible.

  Óli emits a low cough.

  He hasn’t sung much in public since returning to the country towards the end of the war. No, most of his time has been spent attending to spiritualist matters, for when he had been in the country for some three years and no one had so much as hinted that perhaps he ought to hold a concert, he remembered that when he was small he had been what they call “receptive”. When they lived on the farm at Smjör-Hali he had associated with four elf boys, and later, at their house on Lindargata here in town, with a blue-haired Indian called Sansia who inhabited a leg of their living-room sofa. It wasn’t much compared to some, but enough for him to quickly gain a reputation in the city’s spiritualist circles. And it was to prove plenty more than enough when a medium called Mrs Benediktsson persuaded him to fill in for her one evening with the Unisomnists.

  — Dear boy, they’re not really interested in ordinary people, more in famous types: the author of the Tarzan books has been coming through recently. And it’s only one séance …

  Said the lady and off she went to say goodbye to her lover who was leaving for America to study physics on a hurdling grant. (But she didn’t prove too farsighted there since they were both later found in the back seat of Hannes Benediktsson’s Lincoln at the bottom of the east harbour.) Since then Óli Klíngenberg has been one of the busiest mediums in town.

  Now he is holding a concert at Idnó. It’s in aid of repairs to the Unisomnist meeting house. He is quietly clearing his throat when Ásgeir slips under the door of the hall. He squeezes between the audience’s legs, craning his neck to right and left in search of Hrafn W. Karlsson’s feet. And finally, finally, he locates them. Yes, there they are. The villain is sitting in the front row with his wife, wearing zip-up shoes. Yes, he’s wearing lined, zip-up shoes!

  Óli is just finishing clearing his throat and is about to raise his voice in song when he happens to glance into the auditorium and sees the shower attendant’s shaggy head peering out from between the stamp dealer’s legs.

  The tenor gulps, then belches out like a hardened trawlerman:

  — My nem’s Ágei Elgason.

  The audience roars with laughter. But is abruptly silenced.

  — Rabn W. muhdered me! Jus’ look undeh the cubbahd!’

  VI

  (26 August 1962)

  13

  ‘— Scientists have referred to us as “The Light in the North”. And that’s what we are, no more no less. By reading the Scriptures with slide-rule in hand and a rudimentary knowledge of mathematics, anyone who cares to can prove that all paths of light lead to Iceland, whether they are calculated abstractly from the roots of the Cheops pyramid or traced by finger on a map, in the footsteps of the men of Atlantis. This news is spreading fast among civilised nations. If you happen to meet an Englishman, for example, he will almost certainly be informed of Rutherford’s theories, and an old German is likely to know this intuitively, whereas a man born in Benin knows nothing of Iceland. But where is Benin anyway? Who made this coffee?

  This coffee is piss-poor. But it hasn’t been easy for us. Like the story of the Jews, who are the only nation
apart from the Icelanders to have received direct orders from God to light the way for the world, the history of Iceland has been a series of disasters, exiles and humiliations. Our exile, however, was such that no one was sent away, we have always lived here, thank God, but we were made exiles in our own country. We may be the only real Jews left on earth. What happened, for example, to the race of Benjamin?

  The people of Isaac, ice-axe, ice-acre, Iceland. Pass me the sugar!

  Will you pass me the sugar, please? On paper we may have been Danish subjects but in our hearts we were the children of the land of ice and fire. The Danes have never understood the first thing about us. They call the founding of the Republic a victory for whingers. They say we whinged our way to independence. But I ask you, if it’s true, what’s wrong with that? Are they complaining that we didn’t fight them? No, we are a peaceable nation, men of letters and cunning as foxes. Look how we’re dealing with them over the Manuscript Question. Why do you think the Danish nation is coming over to our side, contrary to the will of the Danish government? Is it because we’re driving them mad with our whingeing? Do you mean to finish the Christmas cake, boy? It’s supposed to stretch to tomorrow’s coffee break too.

  No, nowadays we let them beat us at sport. After the war we gave them a pasting in every arena you could think of, but then it emerged that the Icelandic nation was going ahead with its demands for the return of the manuscripts. What was to be done? The Danes weren’t happy; we were not only independent but forever wiping the floor with them at athletics or football, so there was no way they were going to return the manuscripts. Well, the sports movement came to the rescue. They understand that this is a temporary measure. Our high achievers agreed to undertake the task. In return they have received a huge increase in funding for sport. And now we just keep on losing. The Danish government can’t make head or tail of it. I heard this from a board member of the Drengur Youth Association. That’s in Kjós district. They held the meetings there. Other nations should follow our example.

  Anyway, boys, “Arbeit macht frei”!

  The speaker claps his hands and people rise from the tables in the cafeteria of the Midgardur Ceramics Factory. Leo finishes his coffee and goes into the workshop. He has worked here for the past seven years, overseeing the tableware department. The company’s production is split in two: tableware and ornaments. The ornament department is supervised by the man who held the floor during the coffee break: Thorbjörn Arnarson, ex-wrestler, horse breeder, mountaineer, versifier and chess player. He’s a decade short of his century but still runs up mountains, rides horses and women, composes verses and plays chess, although he no longer wrestles except for fun at the Wrestling Association’s annual shindig. People never tire of the hilarious sight of him flooring the country’s crown princes of wrestling and pinching them in the balls. He sometimes pinches the apprentices at Midgardur in the balls too. If he’s in a good mood he’ll creep up behind them as they are bending over their clay, grab them by the crotch and ask:

  — What do you say to that?

  Not releasing his grip until they answer. It’s just a bit of fun that lightens the atmosphere in the workplace.

  Leo likes Thorbjörn; he’s an artist who has developed a unique style from a blend of Art Deco, National Realism and his own idiosyncratic ideas about the appearance of the Norse gods and ancient heroes. Statues of these characters form the core of his artistic output and are exceptionally popular with the Icelanders. It’s said that every home, business and institution in the land boasts a statue by Thorbjörn from Midgardur.

  Njáll, the hero of the eponymous Njáls saga, graces the desks of the intelligentsia; Thór brandishes his hammer Mjölnir in the offices of go-getting directors; students who excel in Icelandic are rewarded with the saga hero and poet Egill Skallagrímsson; the goddess Idunn with her golden apples adorns living rooms; Freyja and Gunnar of Hlídarendi are popular confirmation gifts; in the countryside Njáll’s wife Bergthóra stands side by side with the outlaw Grettir; horsemen own Hrafnkell Frey’s Priest; gifted children are given the dwarfs Mímir or Fjölnir; no fisherman’s home would be complete without the sea-god Ægir; Baldur “the White” is a favourite with religious types, and so on. But most remarkable of all is Ódinn who straddles his eight-legged steed Sleipnir with the ravens Huginn and Muninn on his shoulders. He belongs to a privileged few.

  Perhaps the reason for this popularity is that despite their small size – they are no bigger than is customary for such mantelpiece knick-knacks – the statues are so cleverly proportioned that when the Icelanders call them to mind they loom as large as the Hraundrangar sea stacks.

  Which are no mean size.’

  ‘They’re collector’s items these days. Loki was on sale at the flea-market in Kolaport the other day and they were asking an arm and a leg.’

  ‘There’s one thing you should watch out for if you’re planning to buy something by Thorbjörn – there are forgeries in circulation.’

  ‘And how can I watch out for them?’

  ‘You must check whether they’re stamped on the base with a serpent coiling round an M and biting its own tail.’

  ‘Of course you’d know all about that…’

  ‘The only ones that didn’t sell were Hallgerdur Long-breeches and Freyr. She was basically unpopular while his statue was considered obscene. If you come across one of them you’ve got it made.’

  ‘Really, I’ve never seen them.’

  ‘I’ve got several examples of both; my father smuggled them out. I keep them in a bank deposit box.’

  ‘They must be worth a fortune?’

  ‘They’re not for sale.’

  ‘It’s a shame people threw so many of them away.’

  ‘Yes, and now the national has become international and the international national. Or so I’m always reading in Morgunbladid.’

  ‘The ceramics factory was located on a back lot towards the bottom of Laugavegur. There was a cowshed there until 1951 when Thorbjörn purchased the plot and moved Midgardur to the city. Leo was part of the working party who tore down the cowshed and mucked it out, which is what he was doing when Thorbjörn turned up to see how things were progressing. He was accompanied by his brother and right-hand man, Gudjón.

  By one of those coincidences that are always so satisfying in stories, it so happened that Gudjón had been doing work experience at the ceramics workshop run by the SS in conjunction with the prison camp at Dachau, which was one of the strange byways Leo had passed through on his journey from Prague to Reykjavík.

  Gudjón immediately recognised his old workmate, although he was standing there in the dung channel with a flat cap on his head and a shovel full of cow shit. He struck up a conversation with Leo and after they had exchanged greetings Gudjón began to interrogate him for news of this and that character who had worked with them on the ceramics in the old days, for all the world as if they had gone to the same primary school. Leo was sorry to have to tell him that he thought these characters were almost certainly all dead.

  This left Gudjón silent.

  But as he was a cheery cove by nature like his brother, he shook off the bad news and introduced Leo to Thorbjörn with the words that if anyone in Iceland knew how to glaze a dinner service it was this here foreigner.

  — Is that a fact?

  Asked Thorbjörn.

  — Er, well, you know …

  Answered Leo, who had already picked up the local lingo.

  — Of course it’s a fact!

  Said Gudjón, looking his brother in the eye.

  — The eagle service!

  Thorbjörn raised his brows.

  — The eagle service …

  Leo muttered into his chest:

  — The eagle service …

  And with that he was hired.

  It is unusual for a foreigner to attain a good position at an Icelandic company, but Leo’s outstanding knowledge of ceramics in general, and glazing tableware in particular, resulted, before six
months were up, in his taking over the position of overseer from Gudjón who turned to management instead.

  One of Leo’s tasks at Midgardur was supervising the production of souvenir plates of various kinds. He went over to his work table and examined the prototype of a plate that they planned to produce alongside the issue of a five-and-a-half-krónur stamp to commemorate the centennial of the National Museum. The stamp showed part of the medieval door-carving from Valthjófstadur, in which a knight is trampling a dragon to pieces and rescuing a lion from its claws.

  A piercing shriek was heard from the ornament department, followed by a deep male voice rumbling:

  — What do you say to that?

  It was Sunday, but as the ancients didn’t observe rest days, neither did Thorbjörn. Leo concentrated on the stamp plate. He needed to propose a good background colour for the plate itself, a colour that would enhance the stamp. White would have been best from the point of view of cost but it wouldn’t work because the stamp would merge into the background, surely?

  He called out to Kjartan, a talented draughtsman whose job it was to realise Thorbjörn’s sketches of the dragon interlace that decorated most Midgardur products.

  — Do you think you could draw me a version of this, tracing a gilt border round the stamp? It occurred to me that then it would stand out against the background even if it’s white.

  — Classy …

  Kjartan took the plate over to the drawing board. Leo went out to the cloakroom where the staff telephone was located. He put a ten-aurar coin in the slot and dialled a number. It rang for a long time and he was about to hang up when it was answered by a man who seemed to be having considerable difficulty in getting the receiver to his face.

  — Hello …

  — M-Mr Loewe, Loewe?

  — Yes …

  — This is Pushkin, yes, yes, yes …

  — Hello, you’re back from Krýsuvík then …