A Faroese Hussar
ON CHRISTMAS DAY Tóvó was paid for the first time.
He and Pole sat talking at the round smokers’ table in the living room, and when Pole had poured himself a second or third glass of port, he said that this last half-year in the wilderness had been one of the best times of his life. Living in Tórshavn had its advantages, of course. Not to mention Copenhagen, what with its wonderful taverns, its Kongelige Teater, and its newspapers that came out several times a week.
Still, in Tvøroyri you had this rare, primordial sense of being the first person on earth. Just stretch up your hand—look!—you’ve caught a bird. Go down to the beach, a merry little cod hops right into your pot. The world’s best drinking water flows right by the house.
And then Pole suddenly sprang up from his red plush chair and pointed toward the white-decked mountains around the fjord, saying they were full of black gold, and that in fifty years Tvøroyri would be a thousand times richer than the old Catholic diocese Kirkjubøur ever had been.
He took a drink and said that Great Britain had wagons that ran on iron rails. You shoveled coal into a furnace, the fire heated the water in a big kettle, and the steam from the boiling water got the piston engine moving, which in turn caused the wagon’s wheels to roll. Wagons like these were also coming to the Faroes, and Rangabotnur’s coal was waiting on them. It would not be too many years before steam engines would drive ships across the sea, and then the name Tvøroyri would be writ large in the various logbooks.
Tóvó nodded. Pole had showed him pictures of moving trains, but exactly how steam engines worked was still beyond his grasp. Still, he liked it when Pole was rather tipsy, because he became so enthusiastic, everything was possible, and no matter how great the problems, they could all be solved.
“Fatherland,” Pole said, his voice solemn now. “That’s something that must be mined from steep, inaccessible mountains.” And as always, when he said the word fatherland his eyes filled with tears. Yet his greatest delight during the last half year had been witnessing the way a miserable Havnar boy had transformed into such a pleasant young man.
He took out his pocket handkerchief, wiped his nose, and said he had not meant to cry on their very first Christmas Day. He poured himself another glass, lit a cigar, and each of his movements spoke a heartfelt content.
The fire roared in the Bilegger stove, and thanks to the snow, which blanketed everything from water’s edge to mountain peak, the sky resembled a sea of white light. Pole cheerfully shrugged his shoulders, took the leather purse from his jacket pocket, opened it, and counted out one, two, three—five whole gold rigsdaler onto the table. His broad smile reached the finely shaved sideburns as he pushed the small pile of coins toward Tóvó.
He saw the boy’s confusion, and to have a little more fun with it, Pole said that he even had a Christmas present for Tóvó. He reached around in his chair and handed Tóvó a good-sized package.
Tóvó had never gotten a Christmas present before, and so he asked if he should open it right away.
“As quickly as possible,” Pole replied.
Carefully, Tóvó undid the string around the rough brown paper and opened the package. The first thing he saw was the horn buttons of a well-pleated maroon waistcoat. He held the coat up in front of him and a leather belt tumbled to the floor. And not just a belt. When he bent to retrieve it, he noticed the sheathed dagger attached.
For a moment, the whole thing seemed wrong and confusing. First the salary and now this magnificent gift. He had no idea how to properly express his gratitude. When he had been a little boy, he had kissed his great-grandfather and Mogul and also his mother. Probably Martimann, too, although he could not remember it. But he was too old for that kind of thing now. Painfully abashed, but also happy, he nodded to the kind man smoking in the chair across from him.
Pole told him to try on the waistcoat. A female relative from Trongisvágur had done the sewing and weaving, and the measurements were taken using one of Tóvó’s sweaters.
The first thing Tóvó did, though, was to pick up the belt with its beautiful brass buckle and cinch it about his waist; having the sheath rest against his thigh thrilled him and made him feel grown-up. He inspected the knife—the edge was fine and smooth to the tip, and it was razor-sharp. The waistcoat also fit well, and Napoleon’s eyes filled with tears. He threw out his arms and said that here was the embodiment of a Faroese hussar.
The Night Visit
DURING THE CHRISTMAS dinner, which was celebrated at the house of the Trade Monopoly envoy, the door opened and two men from Hvalba entered. The oldest said that his daughter was about to give birth to her first child, and that the midwife had sent them to Tvøroyri to fetch the doctor. The man’s beard was white with frost, and he told them that the Káragjógv gorge was passable, and that it was a clear night.
“Yes, yes,” said Napoleon, “a Christmas child is good fortune’s child.” He clapped Tóvó on the shoulder, stood up from the table, and asked the house folk to excuse him. While he fetched his bag and pulled on his boots, the Hvalbingers ate some hot soup, and as they left, they thanked the hosts for the hospitality and wished everyone a merry Christmas and happy New Year.
Shortly after midnight, Tóvó awoke when the door to his room opened. At first he thought it must be Pole returning from Hvalba, but then the doctor did not usually enter his room. Tóvó sat up, and in the pale light from the gable window he saw that it was Jóakim.
Tóvó leaped out of bed stark naked, ready to pull on his clothes, but Jóakim told him to calm down, the house was not on fire, no ship had been stranded, either. Climbing back into bed, Tóvó asked why Jóakim was there—was he drunk? The man shook his head. He perched on the edge of the bed and said rather cryptically that he had come with a request or maybe a question. Tóvó thought it must be a very important question, considering Jóakim had woken him up in the middle of the night. But he also had a feeling that something else must be going on. He recognized Jóakim’s expression, the man had looked at him with those eyes before.
Tóvó waited in the greatest suspense, and then Jóakim asked in a whisper if he could see Tóvó naked. The silence in the room was so palpable you could cut it to pieces. Tóvó thought about asking why Jóakim wanted to see him naked, but decided not to. He already knew the answer. He was a bit scared, but what was happening was also exciting.
Deliberately, he pushed the quilt aside, and since he did not know what to do with his hands, he crossed them behind his head. A little hair had sprouted in his underarms, and he smelled his own sweat. He waited for Jóakim to say something. But what Tóvó did not know was that the man had been rendered speechless. The beautiful sight that opened before his eyes dried his throat completely.
Tóvó was more boy than man. He had even less hair on this crotch than he did under his arms, and his sex was unabashedly erect.
Jóakim carefully caressed the boy’s thigh and his stomach, and even though Tóvó did not venture to say it, he hoped that Jóakim would also grip his erection. He did it often enough himself, and when he made a special effort, something exhilarating happened. The fact that a strange hand was only a few inches away, however, made him tremble, and he heard his heart pounding in his chest.
But Jóakim did not touch him there, not immediately. Tóvó observed him and nearly cried out when Jóakim’s face neared his crotch. He sniffed like a dog and his nose slowly approached the stiff blue tip. It also explored his testicles, and suddenly Tóvó felt Jóakim’s tongue on the soft skin between them and his anus. And then the man did something that Tóvó had never imagined possible. Jóakim gripped his penis, and the blue tip disappeared between his lips.
After Jóakim left, Tóvó still lay with his eyes closed. He was not entirely sure whether or not he was in a dream or some other place where all was peaceful and weightless. The anxiety that often plagued him was gone, and his hands were open on the quilt. And the strangest thing of all was that he saw the Geil ho
use before him. He was awake, he was sure of that, and yet he saw the house hanging about a hands-width above the foot of the bed. Maybe he was having a revelation. The house stood where it should, with the view south toward Bursatangi. However, it felt as if it had grown large and cheerful. It was as if all of Tórshavn and also Tvøroyri were contained inside it. That was what was so strange.
The Ergisstova Farmer
ONE BEAUTIFUL SPRING day the Riddarin from Sumba lay moored below the Trade Monopoly. The group had just finished its errands and was preparing to row south again when the Ergisstova farmer, Nils Tvibur, asked the others to wait; he still had a couple of small errands.
As Sumbingurs often did when he spoke to them, they glanced crossly up from their beards and gave terse replies, and Nils was certain that as soon as his back was turned, they would mock and ridicule him. He had partially grown used to it, however; or rather, he recognized the behavior. The Sumbingurs were not unlike his paternal relatives in the Norwegian province of Hordaland. The same je-sound, which he recognized from his childhood, echoed again when Sumbingurs pronounced “girl” as jenta rather than genta, as it was spelled, “yesterday” as í jár rather than í gjár, or “to do something” as jera okkurt instead of gera okkurt. And sometimes they even said gje- instead of je-. Nils Tvibur’s wife was named Jóhanna, but Sumbingurs called her Djóhanna or simply Djøssan.
Nils had known a few Sumbingurs before moving south to Sumba. Jákup Sumbingur lived right outside Doctor Napoleon’s practice. He was a Skansin soldier and was known for his strength, but he was a gentle giant. His son was also a soldier, and aside from his soldier duties, he was also a bookbinder. Nils had always felt welcome in Jákup’s house, and the old man confirmed that, indeed, that particular je-sound came from Hordalanders who arrived in Sumba 400 years ago and rebuilt their settlement after the Black Death.
Yet it was not linguistic similarities that Nils Tvibur focused on when it came to Sumba. No, he was more sensitive to things capable of inflicting pain or embarrassment. In his eyes, Sumbingurs were just as vindictive as Hordalanders, they both had long memories, and it would never occur to them to forgive or smooth over. And Nils had no problem with that. If you had an enemy, you nurtured that animosity. Nothing was worse than a sweet smile tightening your enemy’s cheeks. No, what truly enraged him was the Sumbingurs’ dog-like way of looking down while looking up. Soft necks, that was the problem. They were certainly not caravan leaders or desert captains like Muhammad. They better resembled the sheep thief Moses, as Nils had expressed it on more than one occasion.
Now he wanted to talk to Tóvó, because the news had reached him that the boy was Doctor Napoleon’s servant. Nils had also decided to bequeath Tóvó his old house on Bringsnagøta, but that would remain a secret for now. What he wanted was to ask Tóvó to visit him on Sumba—that was why he was here, and he had no wish to betray it to his boat fellows. Whom he spoke with here in Tvøroyri did not concern them or anyone else on Sumba.
“Easy, Nils, easy,” he told himself.
He took the bridge over the Tvørá and hastened up to the Doctor’s House. A stone wall had been built along the path, and it continued farther up and enclosed a field that could have supported two cows.
Anger again boiled up inside him. He hunched his shoulders as he walked and his open hands seemed to be looking for a weapon. If the doctor gave him so much as half a lip . . . “Yes, and what are you going to do about it, Nils Tvibur?” he asked himself. He well knew it was an empty threat. He had no plans to quarrel with the doctor or any other public official. When Pløyen had left the country, he lost his guardian angel. That time he crippled Jardis av Signabøur, and also after the Granis Boathouse scuffle, it was Pløyen who had saved him.
Yet it was not without reason that he resented the doctor.
Three years ago, when rumor was circulating in Tórshavn that the Corporal was courting down in Sumba, he met Napoleon one day, and the doctor asked if it was an old Norwegian tradition for middle-aged corporals to fuck their way into landownership.
The question so shocked and embarrassed Nils that he did not know how to respond.
If they had been alone, he might have turned the question into a joke. But Jákup Sumbingur and old Michael Müller were also present, and the derision in the doctor’s eyes had been obvious.
Yet Nils had sworn that he would never be so roughly humiliated by Napoleon Nolsøe again—or by anyone else for that matter.
Luckily, it was the maid who answered the door, and she said the doctor was out visiting a sick patient.
She was energetic and seemed amiable, and when Nils said it was Tóvó he was looking for, she leaned out the door and pointed left around the house. Nils partially allowed himself to feel desire for this unfamiliar woman, even thought his heart still pounded with rage. Her bare arm was shapely, one of her heels lifted from its clog, and Nils saw that her chest was pressed against the door frame while she pointed.
Tóvó was either out in the field or he was down at the midden, she said.
The maid thought she recognized Nils and asked if his name was Corporal Nils Tvibur. He said he was still called Nils Tvibur, but that he was no longer a corporal.
“Spring like a deer, plummet like a shit,” he said and gave her a cheerful military salute.
He smelled the powerful odor of manure even before he rounded the corner. His nostrils flared; he could have found his way to the field with his eyes closed if he had wanted.
He surveyed the field with the discerning eye of a houseguest, and he immediately saw that Tóvó knew what he was doing. Two man-high boulders dotted the field, but otherwise the smaller rocks and debris were gone. The cultivated strips had the same beautiful slope as the ground north of Skansin Fortress in Tórshavn, or for that matter, the ground near Kelda on Sumba. Spring was approaching and the growing sprouts glinted like small green torches. They were not more than two inches high, tightly packed from the beach all the way to the north wall. There was an obvious difference between the rows that had been harvested last year and those that first would come under the scythe this year. And now it seemed Tóvó was also preparing a spot for potatoes.
Nils saw a young man with a basket on his back approaching over the rise, and the fact that the young man was Tóvó, his old friend from Tórshavn, filled him with joy. Nils helped him shed the fertilizer basket, and even though it felt light in his hands, he was glad the boy bore his burdens sensibly.
Boy? Tóvó was no longer a boy, but an attractive young man. His narrow chest had broadened, and there was stubble on his cheeks and upper lip. He had his great-grandfather’s slender physique, and although his face was still inquisitive and serious, his eyes were milder.
Nils smiled, and an unexpected flood of tenderness gripped his heart. He wanted to tell Tóvó that he was proud of him, that there was no one dearer to him on this damned island, or any other place in the world, for that matter. He was not capable of such words, however, and he was also too moved to speak.
When Tóvó realized that Nils was close to tears, he gripped the corporal’s arm and asked what was the matter. He had never feared Nils—quite the contrary. When things in the Geil house had become so terrible that they were on the verge of moving, Nils had been like a surrogate father to him.
To feel Tóvó’s hand on his arm and to receive such a heart-wrenching, indeed, such a childish question, was something Nils had not expected, and something for which he was totally unprepared. The question struck a vulnerable place in his heart, his shoulders began to tremble, and he could not stop the tears. He had the urge to sink down beside the basket and to forget for a moment the desperate, obsessive thoughts and all the hatred that had poisoned his feelings.
He had hoped to begin a new life south on Sumba, and he was no broke ass, either, when he arrived. He had a tidy amount stored away in the bank, and the Bringsnagøta house, which Tóvó would inherit, was in good repair. He had come south with gifts for both of his stepdaug
hters. Eight year-old Hjørdis got a slate pencil and writing board, while eleven year-old Adelborg got a small sewing box equipped with various needles, scissors, and embroidering thread. For his fiancée he brought an iron and several measures of white and dark-red linen.
Yet when it came to things of the soul, Nils was forced to take a pass. He was incapable of speaking sweetly, not to mention softly. Coming from his mouth, anything at all delicate ended up either twisted or, in the worse case, completely shattered. Even now, standing there with tears in his eyes, he was a baleful presence, as if he could explode at any second.
Nils said he had landed in a lunatic asylum for a town, and that balladeers hounded him with nonsense and lies, as he put it. The Sumbingurs were nothing like the worthy descendants of Muhammad, those sheep thieves were just as wicked as his relatives in Sveio.
These hateful words upset Tóvó, and suddenly he understood that Nils was not speaking to him at all. The Corporal’s eyes had glazed, and his words resembled the continuation of an old, self-generated dispute. And this manner of speaking was familiar to Tóvó. It sent chills down his spine to hear Nils talk like this, because Nils sounded just like his mother when her dark mood was brewing.
Tóvó wanted to ask him to calm his anger, but he knew that such appeals were pointless. The rage did not merely flow from his mouth and gleam in his eyes, but came instead from his very soul.
And then Nils used the outrageous term cowfuckers to describe Sumbingurs, and Tóvó was saddened to hear such vulgar and shameful words from a rational man like Nils.
But the resentful tirade continued.
Suddenly, Nils said that if those cursed scoundrels aboard that Danish warship had not raped Betta in the Boathouse, maybe her mind would not have been so gone. Then maybe Nils Tvibur and Betta í Geil would be married today.
Tóvó had no idea his mother had been raped. Before now, no one had so much as hinted at it. And certainly not that her insanity could be connected to that rape. Of course, he had sensed that there was something between his mother and Nils. Still, so many revelations coming more or less in the same breath made his vision darken. Before he knew it, he was pounding his fists against Nils’s chest: “What are you saying about my mother?” he kept repeating.
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