CoDex 1962

by Sjón

  The owl releases its grip on the highest branch in the forest and swoops silently through the moonlit night. Down, down to the forest floor where it checks its flight and its yellow claws fasten slowly – ever so slowly – into the soft belly of a buck rabbit. (More about rabbits later.)

  We need say no more about the concentration required by the weaver if he is not to lose sight of his goal during the years spent on this “swoop”, the strength of will required if he is to control his burning desire to see the finished result. But those who practise the art of weaving also share certain weaknesses with the beasts of prey, their siblings in the animal kingdom, the worst of which is the blind rage that can flare up if they miss their quarry, when all the energy that would otherwise have been balanced out between the “lying in wait”, the “pounce” and the “kill” can burst forth in a flash. The royal edict on the regular quality control of weaving workshops therefore contained a clause listing the strict sanctions, fines and prison sentences that were to be imposed on those who used violence, whether verbal or physical, against the inspectors.

  Let us now return to the day of the inspection. From the moment the master weaver opened the workshop door with a low bow to admit the noble Claude Le Viste, her handmaidens and fool, poor Blue Thread was consumed with anxiety. She stood at the far end of the room with the other weavers, gripped by a terrible premonition of disaster, for she was aware of a single flaw in her work and two colour solutions that might be considered questionable. More people entered the workshop: the seneschal of the Le Viste family and the local mayor, two guards from the lady’s retinue, the mayor’s adviser, senior members of the weavers’ guild in all their finery, the bishop with a black-clad attendant who kept fiddling with the hilt of a knife he carried at his thigh, and finally the three feared authorities, the inspectors themselves, accompanied by their bodyguard.

  The ceremony took its accustomed form, beginning with expressions of humble gratitude and elevated sentiments about the merits of those present, the importance of art for society and of religion for art, the nobility and wisdom of the lady, the mercy of God for allowing it all to happen, and the weather: “Yes, it’s bound to clear up soon.” “How many weeks has it been?” “Three, four?” Until the lady brought a halt to this tiresome farming talk by relating an anecdote about her oldest monkey, Aakon de Norvège, which had almost drowned after climbing into a vase of flowers, nose first. The ensuing laughter lightened the atmosphere in the workshop and after this the tapestries were spread out for inspection.

  The weavers’ greatest fear had been that the inspectors would go overboard in their examination in an attempt to impress the lady. But, whether it was thanks to the noble Claude’s amusing anecdote about her monkey or simply that the workshop deserved its fame, they were extremely positive that day, lingering only on a single detail. This was the white rabbit that stands on its hind legs, cleaning its face, under the orange tree on the left-hand side of the tapestry that pays homage to the sense of Smell. Blue Thread had woven the rabbit in question and all the time they were poring over the little creature with a magnifying glass, she thought she would burst. To keep her feelings in check she kept winding and unwinding a piece of blue wool round the blue forefinger of her blue left hand. Just as she thought she really would burst, the inspectors raised their heads from the tapestry and nodded to Claude Le Viste. Such was Blue Thread’s relief at this recognition that she let go of the piece of blue wool, which slipped off her finger and fell to the floor.

  At the end of the day, Blue Thread retrieved the piece of wool and put it in her pocket. But such was her agitation that she didn’t notice the grain of sand clinging to it. Nor did she notice it the next day when she spun the strand of wool together with another blue thread and wove it into the tapestry. The grain of sand went in too. And right up to the present day there it sits in the magnificent tapestry, invisible to the human eye, assured a safe place in the creation.

  The banquet that evening was a roaring success. Blue Thread danced, and so began the tale that every child knows of the crop-haired weaver girl with the blue arms.’

  * * *

  Aleta sighs.

  The entire time Jósef was telling her the story of Blue Thread she’d been restraining the urge to grab his arm and shout at him to stick to his own story, to bring it to a conclusion in the only way that could be considered right and proper for a trilogy – after all, she might not know much about narratology but she had read, heard and seen enough to know that Marie-Sophie’s and Leo Loewe’s stories were those of the mother and father (the love story belonged to them both), while Jósef’s was the story of the son – so he had a duty to see out the narrator’s shift and fulfil the promise of an ending that would resolve the story, whether in a rise or fall, honour or disgrace.

  But now Aleta had to admit herself defeated:

  Just as the bones of a patient afflicted with Stone Man Syndrome react to blows by swiftly forming a new layer of bone tissue over the site, so Jósef’s mind wove a story every time he encountered a painful thought or memory. This was best illustrated by how, to lend meaning to the suffering and helplessness caused by his condition, he had, though born in Iceland in August 1962, found a way to situate his birth in the midst of the Holocaust.

  Jósef had told her it was everyone’s right to have their story told to the end. He himself would only tell a fraction of his own.

  Jósef finds in the pile of papers a fawn-coloured folder secured with an elastic band as thick as a finger, which, although dried out with age, still gives off that authentically rubbery smell. Opening the folder, he pulls out a West German map of Schleswig-Holstein and Lower Saxony and spreads it on his knees, placing a crooked finger on Hamburg. From Hamburg he traces a line west along the River Elbe, passing between the islands of Neßsand and Hanskalbsand, north-west to Grünendeich, then continues past Stadestrand on the south bank, east of the town of Stade, past the Bützfleth industrial zone, then out on to the Asseler Sand, north of the fort at Grauerort. There he suddenly taps the map.

  ‘The town was here, the fort was visible from the south window of the church tower. Did I ever tell you how Kükenstadt met its end?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, the tiny town of Kükenstadt stood around about here until the end of July 1943, when the place was razed to the ground during the days and nights of the Allied Operation Gomorrah. Any bombers that failed to drop their deadly cargo over their target, Hamburg, flew north-west and offloaded their bombs on to what appeared to be a dark expanse of marshland. The inhabitants had succeeded in blacking out their town so well that no one lived to tell the tale of its destruction. Today there’s nothing there.’

  The map is threadbare. Jósef’s finger has travelled so often from Hamburg to Kükenstadt that the blue line of the Elbe has worn away.

  ‘No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to hear.’

  The Dance

  We hear a vast concertina door of darkness being drawn aside – the darkness beyond retreats before the lights that have already been lit – followed by the sound of adult footsteps. Darkness, light, footsteps.

  Girl: 12 January 1962 –✝13 January 1962, Girl: 13 January 1962 –✝13 January 1962, Girl: 21 January 1962 –✝21 January 1962, Boy: 24 February 1962 –✝27 February 1962, Boy: 1 March 1962 –✝14 April 1962, Girl: 13 May 1962 –✝14 May 1962, Girl: 13 May 1962 –✝17 May 1962, Girl: 5 May 1962 –✝21 May 1962, Boy: 7 May 1962 –✝25 May 1962, Girl: 19 May 1962 –✝26 May 1962, Girl: 27 May 1962 –✝27 May 1962, Girl: 28 May 1962 –✝29 May 1962, Boy: 22 June 1962 –✝23 June 1962, Boy: 27 June 1962 –✝30 June 1962, Boy: 10 February 1962 –✝11 July 1962, Girl: 30 April 1962 –✝11 July 1962, Boy: 10 February 1962 –✝16 July 1962, Boy: 16 July 1962 –✝16 July 1962, Boy: 9 July 1962 –✝18 July 1962, Girl: 19 July 1962 –✝19 July 1962, Boy: 31 July 1962 –✝31 July 1962, Girl: 1 August 1962 –✝1 August 1962, Boy: 29 March 1962 –✝3 August 1962, Boy: 9 July 1962 –✝4 August 1962, Girl: 13 Fe
bruary 1962 –✝7 August 1962, Boy: 1 July 1962 –✝18 August 1962, Boy: 17 August 1962 –✝20 August 1962, Girl: 3 September 1962 –✝3 September 1962, Boy: 1 October 1962 –✝6 October 1962, Boy: 18 November 1962 –✝18 November 1962, Boy: 27 November 1962 –✝27 November 1962, Boy: 18 December 1962 –✝18 December 1962, Girl: 16 December 1962 –✝23 December 1962, Boy: 19 November 1962 –✝? 1963, Girl: 27 July 1962 –✝9 February 1963, Girl: 8 August 1962 –✝14 February 1963, Girl: 30 March 1962 –✝16 February 1963, Girl: 21 October 1962 –✝3 March 1963, Boy: 1 August 1962 –✝1 April 1963, Boy: 7 June 1962 –✝4 April 1963, Girl: 27 February 1962 –✝10 April 1963, Boy: 9 February 1962 –✝15 April 1963, Boy: 11 November 1962 –✝1 May 1963, Girl: 3 December 1962 –✝14 May 1963, Girl: 30 June 1962 –✝16 May 1963, Boy: 19 July 1962 –✝8 August 1963, Boy: 11 December 1962 –✝3 October 1963, Boy: 5 February 1962 –✝26 October 1963, Girl: 29 May 1962 –✝26 October 1963, Boy: 6 May 1962 –✝14 November 1963, Boy: 14 January 1962 –✝16 July 1964, Boy: 10 February 1962 –✝4 September 1964, Boy: 30 July 1962 –✝30 September 1964, Girl: 1 July 1962 –✝18 October 1964, Boy: 10 May 1962 –✝5 January 1965, Girl: 6 August 1962 –✝18 February 1965, Girl: 4 October 1962 –✝9 October 1965, Boy: 24 June 1962 –✝14 November 1965, Boy: 9 February 1962 –✝23 December 1965, Girl: 9 August 1962 –✝13 January 1966, Boy: 29 October 1962 –✝10 July 1966, Girl: 10 November 1962 –✝20 December 1966, Boy: 8 February 1962 –✝10 January 1968, Girl: 12 January 1962 –✝18 February 1968, Boy: 7 September 1962 –✝30 September 1968, Boy: 24 August 1962 –✝8 April 1969, Boy: 22 November 1962 –✝12 May 1969, Boy: 23 December 1962 –✝26 December 1969, Boy: 24 March 1962 –✝1 October 1970, Boy: 22 February 1962 –✝17 November 1970, Girl: 7 August 1962 –✝29 January 1971, Boy: 14 March 1962 –✝10 March 1971, Boy: 16 April 1962 –✝4 April 1971, Boy: 19 June 1962 –✝10 October 1971, Boy: 15 December 1962 –✝26 December 1971, Boy: 17 June 1962 –✝12 March 1972, Boy: 10 May 1962 –✝18 January 1973, Boy: 11 October 1962 –✝30 March 1973, Boy: 7 April 1962 –✝29 January 1974, Girl: 19 April 1962 –✝26 March 1974, Boy: 23 September 1962 –✝28 August 1974, Boy: 28 December 1962 –✝7 July 1976, Girl: 10 September 1962 –✝17 November 1976, Boy: 6 December 1962 –✝1 January 1977, Boy: 22 November 1962 –✝27 June 1977, Girl: 22 July 1962 –✝28 August 1977, Boy: 31 January 1962 –✝8 January 1978, Boy: 3 May 1962 –✝17 June 1978, Boy: 6 February 1962 –✝26 July 1978, Boy: 1 May 1962 –✝5 December 1978, Boy: 15 October 1962 –✝13 May 1979, Boy: 12 July 1962 –✝8 December 1979, Boy: 13 November 1962 –✝23 October 1980, Boy: 31 May 1962 –✝14 January 1981, Girl: 14 July 1962 –✝5 September 1981, Girl: 23 May 1962 –✝23 November 1981, Boy: 5 September 1962 –✝10 January 1982, Girl: 6 June 1962 –✝30 January 1982, Boy: 3 October 1962 –✝14 March 1982 …

  Man: 23 June 1962 –✝31 March 1983

  Woman: 11 June 1962 –✝13 April 1983

  Man: 2 June 1962 –✝16 November 1983

  Man: 8 November 1962 –✝31 December 1983

  Man: 10 April 1962 –✝11 January 1984

  Man: 6 August 1962 –✝28 January 1984

  Man: 5 May 1962 –✝11 March 1984

  Man: 23 November 1962 –✝13 June 1984

  Man: 6 December 1962 –✝18 October 1984

  Man: 2 October 1962 –✝18 April 1985

  Man: 30 May 1962 –✝18 November 1985

  Man: 5 February 1962 –✝1 April 1986

  Man: 26 April 1962 –✝22 November 1986

  Man: 2 October 1962 –✝1 March 1987

  Man: 9 August 1962 –✝26 October 1987

  Woman: 14 June 1962 –✝29 November 1987

  Man: 20 January 1962 –✝29 February 1988

  Woman: 29 October 1962 –✝20 April 1989

  Man: 23 September 1962 –✝23 November 1989

  Man: 1 May 1962 –✝21 January 1990

  Man: 22 March 1962 –✝3 May 1990

  Man: 8 June 1962 –✝22 June 1990

  Man: 5 March 1962 –✝25 October 1990

  Man: 31 August 1962 –✝26 November 1990

  Man: 9 June 1962 –✝9 October 1991

  Man: 29 March 1962 –✝19 October 1991

  Man: 11 January 1962 –✝28 October 1991

  Man: 17 November 1962 –✝9 November 1991

  Woman: 11 June 1962 –✝27 November 1992

  Woman: 7 January 1962 –✝6 December 1992

  Man: 13 December 1962 –✝10 October 1993

  Man: 17 February 1962 –✝1 May 1994

  Man: 10 April 1962 –✝24 August 1994

  Man: 18 July 1962 –✝2 December 1994

  Man: 13 August 1962 –✝22 February 1995

  Woman: 7 July 1962 –✝25 February 1995

  The adults enter stage left, marching in formation past the children and teenagers – who follow the troop with their eyes – then swing round behind them. They intone in low voices:

  — We fall to our death on ptarmigan shoots. We die in traffic accidents. We turn our cars over. We’re hit by stray bullets in America. We die at home. We abandon a world we were probably too good for. We die of alcoholism. We take our own lives. We drown at sea. We drown in harbours. We draw our last breaths in hospitals. We die in New Mexico where the chirruping of the lizards rivals that of the birds. We die from undefined illnesses. We get in the way of hawsers on fishing boats. We’re electrocuted. We drive off the road with our sisters in the car. We die from chronic diabetes. We take our own lives.

  We drown on beach holidays. We trip on riverbanks, knock ourselves out and drown. We pass away in Sweden. We drown when training ships capsize. We collide with street lights. We die of cancer. We’re murdered by jealous lovers. We die of heart conditions, confined to wheelchairs. We fall victim to terminal illnesses. We die alone. We die of AIDS. We’re called away. We die from chronic disabilities and our obituaries mention how fond we were of kisses and cuddles. We leave behind wives and husbands, partners and friends, relatives and children.

  The adults take up position behind the children and teenagers, addressing those yet to come:

  — Dear brothers and sisters, born in 1962, we await you here.

  VI

  From tape c)

  (17 June 2009)

  15

  Lapping waves, sighing wind. The twittering of songbirds giving way to the melancholy cries of their nocturnal cousins. The distant chugging of a motorboat. The hoarse baaing of a sheep, answered at once by a pathetically high bleating. And all of this merely a faint background to the heavy breathing of the person next to the microphone, a breathing punctuated by lip-smacking and mumbling.

  There is a crunching of gravel. A crunching that resolves into footsteps. The newcomer halts.

  — Hey, you!

  He’s answered by a sudden snore. The breathing stops. The newcomer leans towards the microphone. The rustling of clothes. The sound of someone being prodded.

  — Say, are you all right?

  The voice is deep and resonant, the accent unmistakably American.

  — Hello!

  The snore resumes with a long blubbering of lips. There’s the sound of someone being prodded again. The sleeper jerks, the gravel crunching under his body.

  — Huh, what?

  A gasp:

  — What, who?

  — No good lying here.

  The geneticist opens his eyes to find, bending over him, a black man with a grey moustache and a red woolly hat. A very old man with sunken cheeks, freckles on his dark skin, the whites of his eyes yellow and bloodshot in two places.

  — It’s gettin’ cold, the evening’s gettin’ cold. You’re not dressed for it.

  — No, right. OK.

  Replies the geneticist, and the next thing he knows the old man has yanked him to his feet.

  — Let’s get you out of the wind.

  Feet can be heard scuffing along the gravel. There’s a thud as the geneticist is dropped into a chair. Then the footsteps approach again and the dictaphone is p
icked up and banged down on the table. Now both voices are clearly audible. The geneticist is slurring:

  — I – I …

  His rescuer is a big, powerfully built figure, though if his face is anything to go by he must be over ninety. The geneticist is no weakling himself, standing just under two metres tall, muscular and heavy with it: not just anyone could pluck him up and cart him around like that. He takes a closer look at the old man and deduces, from the way he carries himself, that he must be a retired weight-lifter or boxer. A boxer, more likely, since he seems unafraid of grappling with another man. Then again, there’s no sign of the telltale cauliflower ears. The geneticist knows a thing or two about them. Back in his days as a medical student – before he cottoned on to the fact that the future lay in genetics; that there, in the very recipe for a human being, he would find the scope he sought for poetic creativity in flesh and blood – he used to do shifts in the neurology department at the Chicago district hospital, where they would get big, strong young men brought in suffering from head trauma after being used as punch-bags by Muhammad Ali. The young men considered it an honour to get paid 100 dollars a day to be beaten black and blue by the world champion during his training sessions, but not all were able to take it.

  They met just once, the Icelander and the legend. After a long shift at the hospital, the geneticist had dropped by the local market to buy groceries for his family. He was a medical student who couldn’t afford a car in those days, so he was walking home along the sidewalk, with a number of heavy shopping bags looped over the bent fingers of each hand, when he came face to face with an imposing black figure. The man stepped aside and asked if he needed some help. Although the geneticist declined the offer, the stranger took it upon himself to walk part of the way with him. This chatty man with the friendly manner turned out to be none other than the great Muhammad Ali. He liked to spend his evenings hanging around on the sidewalk outside the local boxing club, telling stories, doling out candy and joking around with the boys. Before their ways parted, Ali invited the geneticist to come down to the club some time and watch him train: ‘That’d be something for a Viking like you, man.’ Although he responded politely, the geneticist never took him up on the offer. On Ali’s neck he had spotted a drop of blood that must have landed there during a training session earlier that day, sprayed from the mouth of some future patient of the neurological unit, though, judging by the powerful scent of soap and cologne that hung about him, the champion must have taken a shower since then. The geneticist felt it was quite enough having to deal with the fallout from those blows.