CoDex 1962

by Sjón

  Inside the car Pushkin was sitting behind the wheel. He lit a cigarette and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

  — Damnation, there’s no way I can drive like this.

  He slipped off his laceless patent-leather shoes and placed his bare soles on the accelerator and brake.

  — Hell, it’s cold.

  Muttering to himself:

  — I must write a report on this, get a bloody form for it. Make them put carpeting on the pedals so your feet don’t freeze to death when you’ve just been involved in hand-to-hand combat. Hah, who knows, I might be rewarded for carrying it off like that. What do you think?

  Anthony got into the car and heaved an arthritic sigh. Pushkin looked in the rear-view mirror and caught the black theologian’s eye.

  — Have you ever heard, seen or read about a man pole-axing his adversary with his shoes, tying him up with his laces and gagging him with his socks?

  Anthony was out of humour and didn’t answer.

  — Hah! It’ll be named after me, you can bet your life on it! Comrades, what you learned today was the unique “Pushkin Method” for overpowering lunatics.

  Anthony refused to enter into the Russian’s fantasy. Pushkin nodded his head encouragingly.

  — Damn it, he was quiet when you packed him into the boot …

  — That’s the “Brown Method”.

  Replied the theologian dryly.

  — What does that involve?

  — I told him I was a homo.

  Leo ripped open the front door and climbed into the passenger seat. He was holding a locket the size of a two-krónur piece. It was the sun cross that had been hanging round Már C. Karlsson’s neck and had flown off in the frenzy that had seized the man when he sensed the drug overwhelming him. He had torn off his KR scarf and the shiny object had spun out into the night. Leo had found it in the gutter.

  The gold glowed in the illumination from the street lights, and the glow was like the very spark of life.

  Hrafn W. Karlsson appears in the doorway of the inner sanctum, leading an ass. The brothers of the Lodge stand in two rows, forming a corridor, with the Grand Master standing at one end, wearing a robe that is on the large side. They are smartly dressed, with the intention of looking like a single consciousness in one and the same suit, with one and the same bowtie round their necks and the same unbuttoned trouser flies. They raise their swords.

  — Baphomet!!!

  The ass flinches slightly at the shout but the kind man who fetched him from the menagerie in the basement, which he shares with a billy-goat, thirteen ibises, a deranged alligator and an eternal lamb that can carry a banner, strokes his flank with a firm hand – and he relaxes. He little suspects who they are, standing there in their best clothes, with trousers flying low and sabres in hand. Asses aren’t much given to reflecting on human status or power and are so perverse in their habits that they submit most readily when someone is cruel to them, beating or starving them, for example. The Freemason could learn a lot from the ass. And it’s worth pausing here to consider that when the glorious race of horses came close to extinction, to vanishing entirely from the face of the earth, the ridiculous ass made a reasonable job of sticking it out. Who bore the Saviour on its back into Jerusalem? Yes, he chose a mount from the donkey family, a fact with implications that the Freemasons alone appreciate.

  It is for this reason that a permanent secretary of a government ministry, a civilian bank manager, a director of a coffee-roasting company, a city mayor, a director of a water company, an ordinary director, a half-German master gardener, a man incapable of anything, a master baker, a butcher’s merchant, a director of the Central Bank, a wholesaler, a government minister and a cathedral priest are all toasting a silly ass in a bizarre chamber on the temple hill on Skúlagata in Reykjavík on the evening of 26 August anno domini 1962. The ass Baphomet couldn’t care less about any of this. He can smell roses. It’s suppertime. The brothers of the Lodge sheathe their swords and turn on their heel. They stand back to back, each taking a single red rose from his left-hand breast pocket.

  Hrafn W. Karlsson leads the ass anticlockwise round the chamber. He pauses in front of each man in turn, the ass is given a rose, and the brother takes his penis out of his trousers and strokes its tip against the beast’s grey flank while it munches on the rose petals. This is an ancient ritual and absolutely no thoughts of a sexual nature pass through the minds of the ministerial permanent secretary, coffee-roasting company director, city mayor, director of the water company, master gardener, the man incapable of anything, the baker, butcher’s merchant, director of the Central Bank, wholesaler, government minister or cathedral priest when the sensitive skin on the tip of their penises touches the ass’s hide. The priest brings up the rear in this gathering of the great and good, whereupon Hrafn W. Karlsson exclaims:

  — Hoysan, hoysan!

  And leads the ass out of the Masonic chamber.

  Only one thing remains: to collect up the droppings, for of course the beast has let out a few during such un-asinine proceedings. This is Hrafn’s role on his return, for such is his Masonic punishment for having taken a man’s life; he’s been reduced to ass-keeping.’

  * * *

  ‘This is unbelievable!’

  ‘You find it odd that I should describe a Masonic meeting taking place on the twenty-sixth of August rather than on the big day itself, three days later, which is both Christmas and Easter to the Freemasons?’

  ‘Oh, and you think that’s what struck me most about this implausible farrago of lies?’

  ‘Yes, because it was so out of the ordinary. But the thing is that one of the King of Sweden’s chamberlains was in the country – you see, he was the Grand Master of the Swedish Masonic Lodge, of which the Lodge in this country is nothing but a minor offshoot.’

  ‘I find the business with the animals a lot stranger than the fact that they held their service on an ordinary Sunday.’

  ‘Consider this: is it any coincidence that the Icelandic Freemasons’ Lodge was formally founded shortly after Circus Zoo visited the country? Up until then they had made do with the skulls of these species. Afterwards the skulls were sent north to Akureyri.’

  ‘You don’t say…’

  * * *

  ‘Outside the building life follows its normal course. The townspeople are going to bed. Lights are turned out in Skuggahverfi. Tomorrow is Monday, the start of a new working week in the life of the bustling Icelander who breaks his back with toil in the service of his country, for the republic is still in its infancy and everyone wants it to grow up to a healthy maturity. A lonely Flamenco dancer bewails her fate on the steps of the National Theatre. But the trio in the car parked in an unlit alley across the road spare no thoughts for the health of the republic. Nor does the man who lies bound and gagged in the boot.

  No, while the Freemasons tuck into a meal after honouring their ass, Loewe, Brown and Pushkin wait for the chance to realise the second part of their plan to retrieve the gold that my father needs in order to kindle life in his only son. Meanwhile, the bound man in the boot is plotting how to escape and thwart their plans.

  By the time the peace of midnight has descended on the town, the Freemasons are sated. A movement at the back door turns out to be caused by the waiter Sigurdur. He props one buttock on a dustbin and lights a half-smoked Cuban cigar that he has filched from the Masons’ table. After that he retrieves a brandy glass from his jacket pocket and takes a sip.

  Anthony Brown pulls his hood over his face and eases himself noiselessly out of the Volga.

  Then Pushkin says:

  — Last night I dreamed about the night porter from the City Hotel.

  Leo has nothing to say to this unexpected announcement.

  — I thought I was on the top floor of a building that was actually a bleached skull. A thick mane of grass grew from the scalp, covering the whole thing like green rushes. At the same time it was like a huge, spreading quilt. I began t
o roll around in the quilt, like you do when you’re a kid, and it was fun because it was big and thick and smelled of wild flowers. When I had rolled around in it for some time and reached the place where the headboard should have been, that is, towards the back of the crown where the skull slopes down to form the nape of the neck, I became aware of a man under the long grass. He sat up and began to romp around with me.

  When I woke up I realised it was the night porter from the City Hotel. I don’t know the man from Adam; I’ve only glimpsed him coming off duty. Isn’t there something alchemical about this?

  He looks at Leo.

  — A skull, a man from Skálatún?

  Leo ponders this.

  — Skeleton?

  Pushkin shakes his head. Leo frowns.

  — Head, caput, capital … City Hotel … Capital city!

  Pushkin nods.

  — Not bad, I myself prefer “state of mind”.

  Leo bursts out laughing.

  — My God, we’re turning into proper Icelanders!

  The waiter Sigurdur jumps when Hrafn emerges from the back door. He hides the brandy glass and cigar behind his back and asks in a gasp as he swallows his smoke:

  — Not driving?

  — No, I’ll walk …

  — Oh! Back in town, are you?

  Hrafn sends the waiter a poisonous look. Is the bloody man making fun of him? He knows perfectly well that he’s still in the clink. The waiter was shelling the lobster in the kitchen at eight o’clock when Hrafn arrived with his police escort. Nobody would fail to hear about it when he was released. Look at the bastard, cheeks swollen with suppressed laughter.

  — The boys are playing a hand of whist down at the station. I want to give them a chance to finish.

  Sigurdur the waiter, red and blue:

  — That’s kind of you.

  — By the way, for the record, I’m innocent …

  He waves a hand at the waiter and continues on his way. The waiter coughs up his lungs. Pushkin puts the Volga in neutral and it rolls noiselessly down the hill. It crunches on the odd piece of gravel but that’s not enough to catch Hrafn’s attention as he strides down Skúlagata towards the police station where the evening shift are wiping the floor with the night shift at whist. When autumn comes and the primary school teachers who work for the police during the summer holidays have to go back to wrestling with the tribe of youth (that gum-chewing, aitch-dropping, tic-ridden, grammar-violating nation within a nation), it is customary for them to lose to their uneducated colleagues at cards.

  The Volga rolls like a softly padding predator in pursuit of the stamp killer, Hrafn W. Karlsson. Leo holds his breath. As Hrafn passes the Slaughterhouse, Anthony Brown will whip him into an alleyway and overpower him. Then Leo and Pushkin will leap out of the car. Pushkin will give the man an injection of sedative and once he is unconscious Leo will find his wisdom tooth and tear it out. After that they will anaesthetise the man and lay him beside his brother. Then they’ll split up. Leo will ring the police and say something along the lines that Ásgeir the shower attendant has been avenged. The police won’t make a fuss, since how are they supposed to explain to the public that a convicted murderer has been taking a stroll along the seashore when he should by rights be sitting chain-smoking on a mattress in jail, reflecting on the error of his ways and preparing himself for a new life?

  Hrafn is light on his feet for a man weighing some 130 kilos. The stone-cutting at the house of correction is keeping him fit and Leo’s eyes open wide when their quarry vaults agilely over the fence at the crossroads with Frakkastígur. He’s not far now from his appointment with the Mexican champion wrestler, Negroman.’

  17

  ‘Anthony Brown blocked Hrafn W. Karlsson’s path and flung his arms round him in a bear hug. He crushed the breath out of the stamp dealer so he couldn’t utter a word. Pushkin slammed on the brakes and leapt out of the car with his medical bag. Leo caught up with him just as he plunged the morphine needle deep into Hrafn’s backside. The stamp dealer slumped down, mumbling some nonsense about snow-buntings. They dragged the man further down the alley to a pen where a few scrawny lambs watched the struggle without interest. Pushkin went over to the corner of the building to keep a lookout.

  Leo straddled Hrafn W.’s chest and wrenched his jaw open. He peered inside for the gold tooth but in the darkness of the alley there was no gleam of precious metal that would bring life to the little clay body. He fumbled with his pliers until he found the wisdom tooth in the upper left-hand jaw, then applied them to the tooth and tugged vigorously. The man’s head came too, but the tooth wouldn’t budge, and after my father had swung it back and forth for a while Anthony grabbed his arm and whispered that perhaps it would be better if he pulled out the man’s tooth. My father gave way to the scholar of comparative religion, a little disappointed to have no part in the action. Anthony said:

  — Hold his head.

  My father did so, pleased to have something to do. Anthony jerked the pliers with all his might. Leo saw the stamp dealer’s dilated pupils contract momentarily as his wisdom tooth came out with a crack.

  — Here, take the gold!

  Anthony passed my father the pliers. He freed the tooth, held it between his fingers with a professional air, then went round the back of the building to examine it better – there was an outside light on over the staff entrance. Anthony heaved Hrafn W. to his feet. He was smiling foolishly, a trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth down his chin. The black man beckoned to Pushkin to bring the car down the alley; there was no need to risk letting the cargo escape into the street. It looked to him as if Hrafn needed another dose of the drug, since he was reviving and reaching the stage where he wanted to sing for the world.

  — O, the bonny bluebell…!

  Anthony clamped a hand over his mouth.

  Leo’s blood ran cold when he raised the tooth to the light and saw that the metal was nothing but bog-standard Icelandic orthodontist’s gold. Had they pulled out the wrong tooth? The lambs in the pen seemed infected by his fear; they fled and huddled together by the wall furthest from the alley.

  — Aren’t you coming, man?

  Anthony stuck his head round the corner and whispered as loudly as he dared:

  — We’ve gotta get out of here.

  Leo saw the steam rising from his mouth and realised that the temperature had dropped below freezing while they were occupied with Hrafn. Shivering, he turned up his collar. They would have to have another poke around in the man’s mouth. He ran into the alley. Pushkin had reversed the Volga down it and was now standing by the boot, ready to open it and dope the prisoner Már who was going demented inside.

  — I don’t know if I dare risk it.

  He drummed his fingers on the black paintwork. There was frost on the rear windscreen.

  — Can you give me a hand, Mr Brown?

  — Not unless you give this one another dose …

  Pushkin looked at Hrafn in astonishment.

  — Hell, these guys have hard heads …

  He fetched the medical bag from the front seat, filled the syringe with another dose and prepared it.

  — Damn, it’s chilly here, are we by the freezer unit?

  Hrafn W. tried to say something through Anthony’s thick hand. He was clearly coming to his senses and the black man tightened his hold on him. The sheep were now bleating fearfully in the pen. Leo stepped forward and showed them the tooth.

  — We’ll have to take another look, this is the wrong one.

  Pushkin jabbed the needle into Hrafn’s upper arm. As he did so, Anthony relaxed his grip for a split second, which enabled the prisoner to jerk his head aside, and now he evidently had more on his mind than bonny bluebells.

  — Fuck you! You don’t know what the hell you’ve got in the back of the car …

  Hrafn’s voice was hoarse. Leo looked into his eyes. They were yellow. Hrafn inflated his lungs like a swimmer:

  — HRA …

&nb
sp; The scream was inhuman and faded into a canine howl as the drug overcame him once more. A bitch gave an answering howl from the Skuggahverfi neighbourhood. It had an ugly sound. Anthony flung Hrafn away from him and he crashed into the slaughterhouse wall, then slid down on to the road.

  — It’s no good, we’ve gotta get out of here.

  Leo poked a finger in the man’s mouth but there was nothing there. Pushkin dragged him to his feet, pushed him towards the car, then loosened the belt of Hrafn’s trousers and pulled them down.

  — That’ll raise some questions!

  He said after they had spun down Skúlagata and were bowling south along the road heading for the hill of Öskjuhlíd.

  — Iceland’s one of the few countries where you can still spread rumours about men being sexually attracted to sheep. Why, I don’t know, I probably haven’t been here long enough, but it’s come in very handy.

  — What do we do now?

  — We dump him up by the hot-water tanks.

  Anthony placed his forearms on the seat backs in front of him and rested his chin on the ledge between Leo and Pushkin.

  — This has been quite enough excitement for an academic like me, man; no one wants to lose his job and all, right?

  Nobody spoke.

  After their defeat in the battle with the stamp dealer, Leo had reconciled himself to having to use the tiny amount of gold he had already made, along with what could be melted down from the sun cross. Without the missing gold the boy would be a little out of kilter with his fellow citizens: deaf, lacking arms, diabetic, mentally handicapped or predisposed to cancer. But he was prepared for that: it wouldn’t be the first time something similar had happened in the creation of a homunculus.

  Up ahead, the hot-water tanks towered on the hilltop like the walls of a medieval castle, forming a black silhouette against the grey sky. The slopes were a tangle of dark foliage, covered with the man-high scrub that seems like a fairytale forest to the citizens of Reykjavík. The trio took the airport road along the western slope and from there drove up the gravel track to the foot of the tanks.