“Sorry to hear that.”
“No, don’t be. I’m doing much better now. In Iceland, movies are made only by masochists or fools. You can’t help them. They seem to want to bankrupt themselves. Over and over again, preferably.”
“I’m hoping you may be able to give me a comment on Skarphédinn. How did he come to be in the movie?”
“We just advertised for kids who wanted to be in a movie and held auditions. A huge number of youngsters applied. It took us three days to audition them all.”
“And why did you cast Skarphédinn in the lead?”
“First, he had the look. He was the right type for a biker antihero. Second, he had that countrified lilting northern accent, which was just right for the lead character. He was an outsider among the prosperous Reykjavík middle class. Thirdly, he had a real talent for acting, although he was a complete beginner. And fourthly, he was so keen on playing the role. He convinced me that he would put his heart into it. And he certainly did. A bit too much, perhaps.”
“Too much?”
“Yes, he sometimes butted in over things that were nothing to do with him. Not because he was pushy. He was just passionate about what he was doing. The boy was a born leader. The other kids in the cast knew that from the start.”
“Especially the girls?”
Fridbert takes a pause for thought. “All the girls had crushes on him. Every single one.”
“And did that get them anywhere?”
“Off the record?”
“Yes. I’ll only quote what you said about his acting talent.”
“All I remember is that there were some broken hearts.”
“And you don’t know any more about it?”
“No.”
“In the movie, Örvar Páll Sigurdarson had a small role. He’s been directing Skarphédinn in Loftur the Sorcerer here in Akureyri. It’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?”
“You think so? Well, the Icelandic acting world is pretty small.”
“So it was pure coincidence?”
“I can’t imagine it being anything else.”
“But Skarphédinn’s violent death—you must have been shocked when you heard?”
“Absolutely. I would have bet money on that young man having a glittering career.”
“Well, thank you very much…”
“But it’s a strange coincidence…,” he seems to be thinking out loud, then falls silent.
“What’s a strange coincidence?”
“No, I just remembered something I heard a few years ago. Inga Lína, who played Skarphédinn’s girlfriend in the movie, had a lot of problems after that, and died when she was only sixteen, I think.”
Could that have been the face that seemed familiar? Would I have seen her photo in the papers? “How did she die?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. But I think she got into drugs or suffered from depression. Something like that.”
“So both the leading actors in Street Rider are dead before they reach the age of twenty. That is a strange coincidence, as you say.”
“Coincidence,” echoes Fridbert Sumarlidason. “It seems more like a curse.”
Akureyri High School is a cluster of buildings, large and small, dating from different periods and eclectic in style. The school is located on Eyrarlandsvegur, above the town center and the church. Instinctually, I assume that the principal’s office will be in the oldest part of the school. It’s an elegant wooden building looking out over the fjord, with gabled roofs, carved trims, and a flagpole. It reminds me of a ski chalet. Annexes and extensions have been added to the old schoolhouse bit by bit over the past hundred years. As I wander the corridors, I see sky-blue walls covered with mementos of the school’s history: plaques, paintings of former principals, group photographs of graduating classes as they grow steadily bigger over the decades, from a handful of grave young men with bow ties to clusters of girls in their party dresses. A century of fashions is preserved here: crew cuts, brilliantine, beehives, Beatle mop-tops, long hippie locks, shiny disco girls, until we reach our own time when, once again, anything goes. And here are photos of productions by the school’s drama group, in which the students express both joy and grief—but mostly joy, it seems to me. Will a picture from Loftur the Sorcerer make it onto this wall of remembrance?
After drifting around the corridors retracing history, it is time for the fifteen minutes the principal has said he can spare me from his busy schedule. I had the sense to mention the scandal about the Question of the Day, Kjartan Arnarson, and Sólrún Bjarkadóttir myself. I reiterated the explanation that had been given in Trausti’s front-page apology. That precaution saved me from a long, predictable rant about sensationalist hacks and the irresponsibility of the media. But I still had to sit through the short version.
Stefán Már Guttormsson is fortyish, tall and slender, with receding hair, clean-shaven, with old-fashioned spectacles perched on his bulbous nose. He ponderously stands up and offers me a seat.
“What a tragedy,” he says, slurring his words a little. “We’re all in shock. We canceled all lessons on the first day of term. And we’re doing all we can to help the students get over the worst of the crisis. Those who want help.”
“Did you know Skarphédinn personally?”
“No, not really. He wasn’t one of those students who have to be read the riot act. We maintain a high level of discipline here in the high school. We have a long tradition to uphold. This old schoolhouse was built on the estate of Eyrarland, which dates right back to the early settlers of Iceland, over a thousand years ago. We’re very proud of our long and illustrious history. All the students’ social events are required to be alcohol-and drug-free. At our annual dinner, for instance, we don’t serve alcohol, and smoking is forbidden. Smoking is not permitted anywhere in the school or on school property.”
Whew! I think. I wonder whether this glossy image of the school can possibly be consistent with the pattern of personal development that tends to take place at this age. And the way the principal describes the school is totally at odds with my own colorful experience of student social life in high school in Reykjavík. We strove to drink, smoke, and otherwise try out any substance that came our way.
I don’t know whether my skepticism is obvious from my expression, but the principal fixes an even more ferocious glare upon me.
“Does that surprise you?”
“Yes, I must admit it does. Asceticism wasn’t really a feature of my high school years.”
He relaxes a little. “I’m not talking about asceticism, but self-discipline and moderation. We appeal to the students’ sense of responsibility, but it’s not as if we have moral police all over town enforcing our policies.”
I nod, still dubious.
“And school authorities have an obligation to do what they can to counteract the negative influences on young people in society today and safeguard them. Don’t you agree?”
“Uhh, yeah, I’m with you there. But I’m pretty sure that young people can never be safeguarded from their own curiosity about new things. All of us have to make our own mistakes before we find out what’s right for us.”
Stefán Már seems thoughtful. “I expect there’s something in what you say. But it’s our duty to strive to draw the attention of these young people in our care to the positive aspects of their surroundings and at the same time to counteract the attraction of the negative, dangerous, even life-threatening. Here at Akureyri High School we were, for instance, one of the first schools in the country to introduce a program of alcohol and drug counseling.”
In my day in high school, an anti-drink counselor would have been laughed right out of town and up into the mountains, I think to myself. “But so far as you know, Skarphédinn Valgardsson had no need for such counseling?”
He shakes his head. “To the best of my knowledge, absolutely not. You can seek confirmation from the student counselor if you wish, although we naturally maintain confidentiality about individual students�
� personal affairs. Skarphédinn set a fine example for other young people. And that makes it all the more appalling that he should suffer such a tragic fate.”
“Was he a good student?”
“So far as I know. He was majoring in social studies, and his grades were consistently high. But his teachers and the student counselors know more about that than I do. And I’d like to point out that Akureyri High School was the first Icelandic school to introduce student counselors. Unfortunately, as principal I haven’t time to keep up with the progress of individual students at the school. They number well over five hundred. I tend to see the exceptions, students who find themselves in some kind of difficulties. We are proud that our dropout rate here at Akureyri High School is one of the lowest in the country. About two-and-a-half percent, so far as I remember.”
The principal is getting antsy.
“I gather that Skarphédinn was a local boy. But he didn’t live at home with his family after his first year at the high school. He moved into the student dorm and then into his own apartment last fall. Any idea why?”
“Why what? Why he moved into the dorm or why he moved out?”
“Um, both.”
“No. It’s not my business to go prying into the private lives of students. Akureyri High School is the largest boarding high school in the country. About half the students are local, the other half from other parts of the country. Where they choose to live is their business, provided they observe the discipline and rules of the school.”
“So would it be reasonable to deduce that a student who chooses to live off-campus is looking for more freedom and less discipline?”
“If you like,” answers Stefán Már curtly.
The principal’s secretary gives me a list of school staff. I see that Kjartan Arnarson teaches in the social studies program. I call his extension at the school, but there is no answer. The secretary consults his schedule and tells me that he should be free in half an hour. The social studies program is taught in the school’s newest building, Hólar, named after the old episcopal seat, Hólar in Hjaltadalur.
“Hólar is where Iceland’s first scholastic establishment was founded, eight centuries ago,” she remarks. “The Learned School, attached to the cathedral.”
I carry on wandering the corridors. From the old schoolhouse a long passage leads over to Hólar, which I gather is the focus of student life. The proportions are different in the new building: bigger classrooms and workshops, a large library, a spacious hall on the lower floor, and the school reception area on the upper floor, where the students also have coat closet facilities and lockers.
The youngsters who are walking around or sitting over a drink or a snack all seem to have their own individual style in clothing and hair—because today anything goes. But I’m surprised to see so many of them wearing slippers. I’ve never been able to understand why people who wear slippers at work don’t just stay home. But then, that’s my problem.
I wait outside Kjartan’s classroom until the door opens and the students bustle out, all appearing in a serious mood. When the last of them is gone, I squeeze past into the classroom. The teacher is wiping the board.
Kjartan is quite different from what I had imagined, going on his youthful voice and the nature of the scandal. He is about forty-five, below average height, wearing a worn brown corduroy suit. Around the ragged gray collar of his shirt is a shoestring-thin bow tie. His small-featured face is pink, with a red goatee beard and bristly red hair.
Kjartan Arnarson looks more like a middle-aged nerd than a sex symbol for teenage girls. He glances up with a questioning look. I start by mentioning the embarrassing scandal, as I did with the principal. Kjartan gives me a strange smile. “You did what you promised. No more could be expected of you.”
After we briefly discuss what a shock Skarphédinn’s death has been for the school and his fellow students, I ask Kjartan whether he knew the dead boy.
“He was in my class last year. An exemplary student. Unusually mature and intelligent. Quite a Renaissance man, I would almost say. He was as much at home with computer science as with literature and other humanities.”
“But what about personally? How would you describe him, his character?”
“I didn’t get to know him much outside the classroom,” Kjartan replies. “But he gave me the impression of being what is sometimes called an old soul. I know it’s a vague term, but I can’t find a better way to put it. He was deeply interested in the past, in Icelandic history…”
He perches on the edge of his desk. “In some ways Skarphédinn seemed to think almost like a person from the distant past. He was fascinated, for instance, by Hólar and its history as the center of north Iceland over the centuries and a citadel of learning, a forerunner of today’s universities. He saw an unusually strong connection between knowledge and power and progress. By unusually strong, I mean in comparison with his contemporaries, who generally opt for high school and further education either to fulfill their parents’ ambitions and pressure or simply because their friends are going and they can’t think of anything better to do.”
He falls silent and glances at his watch.
“I’m afraid I’m late for a meeting. Are we finished here?”
“Well, I’m not quite sure,” I say. “Can I get back to you if I think of anything else?”
Kjartan takes his briefcase off the desk and walks to the door, slightly pigeon-toed. “I suppose so. But if you want to find out more about Skarphédinn’s ideas about life, you could check the Morning News online archive. I remember he sent in a couple of articles last winter, one about regional development and the other about patriotism.”
I walk out into the corridor with him and say in parting: “I hope that business in the paper hasn’t caused you too much trouble.”
Again he gives me that odd smile. “Just between you and me: after all the fuss and the way it was handled, I find I’m regarded as quite a hottie in my old age.”
At the end of the day I don’t send in any copy to the Afternoon News. News editor Trausti Löve alternately purrs and howls, like a feral cat. Meanwhile in Akureyri, Pal is wailing in distress on the upper floor. As I go downstairs and leave the building, I hear the sound of breaking crockery and screeching.
“Karó dear,” says Ásbjörn. “Darling Karó. Please calm down.”
I want to consider the concept of “patriotism,” if only in order that the process may awaken in my own heart noble feelings toward my native country and a desire to contribute what I can, in all good faith, to the welfare of the country and its people.
Those were Skarphédinn’s opening words in his article in the Morning News. He went on:
True patriotism must, above all, entail sacrifice. We offer our energies, our health, our material goods and comforts—we give up all that is most precious to us—for the sake of our country. Even life itself. The object must be to teach our nation to know and to love the truth, and to conduct ourselves in accord with that knowledge in every way. We should do nothing in our own interest, unless we are sure that it is also for the good of the nation as a whole, our native land. All our interpersonal relations should put justice and love in first place. We must devote our energies to the quest to make Iceland the home of true happiness, personal and social development, equality, brotherhood and, perhaps above all, freedom.
If that exposition of patriotism is correct, it is obvious that young people—my generation—do not spend much of their time in service of that ideal. And I am no exception. I doubt that patriotism stirs in the bosom of any young Icelander today—except perhaps when one of our sports teams is doing well in international competition or when Icelandic entrepreneurs buy up foreign businesses. And in such cases patriotism is often manifested in its negative form, in other words as aggressive nationalism. It emerges in belligerence and arrogance toward other nations and not as a deep, sincere feeling toward our own people. I have come to the conclusion that nationalistic fervor is in fact the op
posite of patriotism, just as selfishness is the opposite of love.
We must not settle for simply accepting the gifts our country bestows upon us in her bounty. We must give back to it all that we have. We must devote our whole lives to making ourselves into a nation of true patriots.
Shades of a young Jack Kennedy? I think.
The second article is concerned with the regions and migration to the capital area:
It is painful for young people in the regions to watch their so-called saviors—large conglomerates in commerce, services, industry or fisheries—buying up everything of value in the rural areas for small change and pretending that they will continue to run the enterprises there, then sucking out all the profit and closing them down, or transferring them to other places, where they merge into larger production units, or to market areas where a bigger profit is to be made. Is such a pattern of behavior likely to increase young people’s hopes that they can stay on in the region for a good life? No, of course not. And that is not the object of the exercise. The object is to make the rich richer and to leave the poor and vulnerable to fend for themselves. That is the end that justifies any means. In truth, it is surprising that young people still want to live in rural areas and fishing villages. The reason, one hopes, is that in spite of everything they know in their heart of hearts that the closer we move to the capital, the farther we go from the regions, the farther we have departed from our origins, from the essence of what makes us Icelanders.
Under both articles he is credited:
The author is a high school student in Akureyri with a sincere interest in the future of the Icelandic people.
The articles were written nearly a year ago. There is something about this call for self-sacrifice that is hard to reconcile with the individualism that Skarphédinn had advocated with such passion in our interview about Loftur the Sorcerer. This youthful idealist, so deeply concerned for this country and the regions, seems at first glance to have little in common with a young man who chooses freedom over discipline and turns up at a party dressed as a witch. But then I remember, of course, how rapidly opinions, lifestyle, and philosophy can change at that age.
Season of the Witch Page 14
