I sneak home immediately after work, go into my room in the dark and lie still for a few moments while the anguish of the day disappears from my nerves. One time, I was so distressed that it almost meant I would need great courage to speak to someone without being addressed first.
No doubt people think I have discovered some system whose implementation will transform the world, that I am creating a new religion, and that Parliament has given me a fellowship. Oh, this nation lives indefinitely in pubescent fantasies of hope. And while I was young I thought that someone would pay for me to study, as happened with poor, promising farmers’ sons in books. Time passed—nothing—but I said, you will meet your fate in a similar way to Jón Eiríksson, the king’s Special Advisor; you are a slow-burner as he was and to prove it soon your Ludvig Harboe will come from Denmark to the colony in the heath-blue north and send you to Niðaróss-by-Hafnar where you will complete your bachelor degree and from there your way lies directly to the academy in Sórey; but the difference at Moltkeum between my days and his is that I will not get invited to become a private tutor to Prince Friðrik, heir to the Denmark of dreams.
There are plenty of historical analogs for your crown prince and crown prince Jóns both called Frederick I would never have given up in the fight for the nation and seen her removed from the limits of the colony or else I would have taken myself nonsensical out of Löngubrú it is better to be living with a dissuaded head than half-dead with him dented no a corpse has never saved any nation in reality truly Jón was disgraceful a traitor to the nation and a coward of the first degree Jón and I were both hairy nosed those who love nothing have nothing to betray commies like Sigurður cannot therefore be considered national traitors the commies neither have nor love any homeland commies do not even love Esja and Hekla they just love wine and no danger that he will at some point become a wretched traitor a schnapps traitor or (here everything breaks off abruptly in the account . . . undoubtedly something has been kept from the reader . . .)
Nothing can be done except it is immediately whispered about. Tómas was seen collecting the can from the street, says the staff in the house. The best sons of the nation have, therefore, the infamous rabble as a bone of contention. The old woman at the milk store will write me off. The men, who spend Sundays hanging around the garage all the livelong day, go silent if they see me. That is bizarre. Maybe they think I’m a nuclear physicist who disappeared from Bodø or Pontecorvo.
did you know where Pontecorvo was
there is no word about it in the book
you should know something more than what is written in booksdo you know who Carlo Ponti isooo and that he lived with that sex-bomb Sophia Loren
Pontecorvo could create another kind of bomb my Títa
that is not in the winter curriculum
(What follows here can be omitted from the textbook.)
not all of life is found in the curriculum but before Napoleon considered invading Moscow he studied carefully the winter curriculum and learned by heart with his indexing brain all the underlined sentences he went to the examination recited the dates and names wished that he had come up with something good but while rattling off his curriculum fluently several spirited lunatics who were not part of the curriculum escaped from the Moscow Asylum and set fire to the city Napoleon shouted deeply offended and hurt to the teachers this may not stand it is not in the books but what about how the city burned and Napoleon sloped away and got frostbite on his balls which later led, along with the swelling blisters, to his death, in his memoirs he writes in war lunatics are the most dangerous Hitler learned this first commandment of military theory and removed all the lunatics whom he pardoned until his troops were flooding over the plains of Russia and everywhere they came they went to the asylums first and killed the lunatics but Stalin found a solution he let the Russians eat garlic though it was not included in the curriculum and by eating garlic the Russians defeated Hitler and what does it matter if Goliath moans in his death throes it does not count killing an armed giant with a stone that was not mentioned in my book in my curriculum my invalid defeat is just as poor as anyone’s defeat you shout just as an art historian at an exhibition these paintings are not included in the art history curriculum of Taine whom I studied ignorant critics nor are diplomats in London featured in the Russian diplomat’s curriculum and increasingly an awful lot happens in the world of art and politics beyond any critic’s curriculum no matter how men shout and cry and insist they follow their curriculum by the book
I have my suspicions as to why the kids lean against my window Sundays. I draw the curtain. I am not about to let people look in on me. What they don’t dare do themselves, they send the damn kids to do. I have to have the screen covering the window the whole day, even though such behavior might arouse suspicion. When people walk along the sidewalk I see they focus their sight sideways into the window with pursed lips and fluttering eyes, always spying on me, especially after the event in the laundry room. I was simply straddle footed so I could piss down the drain. I was coming home when I was seized by a sudden urge to pass water there just one time at eight in the evening. I had never used the laundry myself, which I had equal right to the same as any other apartment owner. I stood astride the grille and spurted and tried to spurt straight down the holes, when the foolish girl came in on me and made me jerk, roar, like I had been startled, so I spun around and some of the stream swung into her, causing her to emit a shrill cry and leap to the side of the washing tub screeching, where she crashed into the mangle and fell with a great tumult and lay on the floor among the pots. I rushed to her aid in the dark, and it never rains but it pours, because Valgerður came in just then, arms full of dirty laundry that she was going to soak, and screams like her life has been threatened: What the hell are you doing with the child. I struggled, bent over the girl crushed between the tub and the wall covered with blood from her nose. And when I straightened my back thunderstruck by astonishment over this new affront, she pointed screaming at my open flap; Baui was out of his hole, dangling carelessly over the bloody girl. She screams: What is this meaning of this, and she brandishes a laundry paddle threateningly at Baui and I. She takes the paddle to the empty basin and makes such a noise that the whole house whips down the stairs to the scene and prays god almighty to help them and demand a medical examination of the girl who is prodding at her pussy eagerly.
behind the laundry tub Unnar’s virginity lay buried
They furiously rub at and brush the sidewalk abnormally often these days, but can see nothing through the window. Gossip women do not have eyes that can emit infra-red beams. But their thoughts hover around me. I have thoroughly checked that it is impossible to see into the basement room during the day if the window is covered. It is close to dark inside here, and the cellar is largely buried. The windows are all but level with the earth so prying biddies have to sneak by bent-backed (acting like their shopping bags are an excessive burden). The most diligent of the gawpers are little old women who resemble roaches or diving beetles. But I make sure never to turn on the light inside unless the screen covers the window. If it is dark outside one can see into a bright room, but not from the bright into the dark. And the old ladies clean their fanciest clothes at night. Now the overcoat disappears in the gathering darkness. It is nearly total dark. Tonight, I will break up with my lodgers. I will not allow anxiety to torment me anymore. I arrive at the locked apartment. I ring the doorbell to make a reasonable argument for eviction, at his disposal. No one comes to the door. I look around and lift the rug. The key lies under the corner. What if some thief plans to rob the house. He’d deploy the same method: ring and if someone comes to the door he would ask for Guðmund.Nonono that’s too common a nameHe asks for Hildiríðason who is of course back home in Eglu. (This is probably suitable for Egil Skallagrímsson’s Saga.)Apologies for the trouble, says the thief humbly. Burglars need to be polite. And if no one answers the door the thief turns on his heel and looks around. No matter how inexperie
nced he is, he knows not to begin by breaking the door or trying a skeleton key. He looks under the mat. To think that people in the nuclear age still store house keys under the mat. In some respects everybody still lives in Old Testament times, despite all the technology. This alone should be valid grounds for eviction. To further emphasize the matter, I might add that the thief ate all my evening meal and drank my coffee from my thermos flask so I have none for morning and he spread smoked horsemeat on my rye bread. And in an extreme emergency I might have to sacrifice the thermos, sell it at an antique sale and also the other cup. I have two but can no doubt manage with one. The thief likely knows it.
the writing desk is headed into dusk I can no longer see my writing I am going to place in the cabinet the neck tie hanging on the back of the chair like a lazy worm I have certainly written warts and all about Dísa and Miss Gerður tonight have thought about them it had not occurred to me that the divan is a double a person rests better on a broad divan than a narrow one I ought to splurge on a rest best pillow for myself Helgi Tómasson the psychiatrist at Klepp the Reykjavík Asylum should receive a Nobel Prize in medicine for inventing the rest best pillow it has cured ricked necks for many people with muscular rheumatism, but how is it Helgi’s invention at Klepp is the sole scientific feat of the icelandic people no we have two Nobel Laureates Finsen and Helgi the French encyclopedia Larousse actually gave him to the Faroe Islands and we Icelanders have no man in the book that is shameful but I lie on the divan often comfortable despite things with Dísa without her becoming aware her I snuggle down with Miss Gerður and a large number of women I meet on the street and bring home for debauchery and I have been with pale-skinned women in skirts the victorious winner in the women’s 1952 handball tournament all but one of the ICE Unit and all the Mothers Society and the newly created icelandic Association of University Women many of the most famous actresses in the world Cleopatra and Queen Ingiríður in her national dress the Greenlandic Eskimo I am reliably the only man who has touched the female Nazi Ilsu Koch Josephine wife of Napoleon awoke beside me here suffering from a cold I stole all the covers in the night she said Isabela the catholic was here briefly from Spain during the summer and asked me to redeem her from her lesbian tendencies and sitting in the chair with her naked I shrugged off a marriage offer from Greta Garbo Florence Nightingale I had to throw out just yesterday are you not fond of this milk and the cow’s milk Títa is so picky you are she is still fatter and better nourished I could lure Presidents’ wives and deprive them of their expensive Díor dresses I undress the weird fashion on the street outside painting beards on them in pictures and putting them in uncomfortable positions at sunset I sleep on the scented thighs of the King’s daughter, Giohare from Samandal, where cows graze on goats’ hair and kiss open-mouthed virgins at the slaughter everywhere the State mandates dos and don’ts except here on this rough divan blanket where it is enjoyable to masturbate totally freely and fuck according to one’s choice defenseless womenfolk earlier or contemporary in history or not in her at all because darkness does not restrict me even though martial law is in the house I am the boy at Haföldun who sends the girl on Favorite Songs to the patients on State Radio are those there in the red coats the song the marzipan man Presley sings I am a thought that disappeared to secure a wife in my night-temper I seduce small-maidens in churchyards and known-maidens the most famous virgin old ladies as a death-comfort I take the trouble from death which faces all maids I am a criminal thought I cause this great disgust that a woman gives to man after two years of marriage becoming lazy in her loving always hungry nibbling at food all day lying with others and birthing grassy-headed dull-eyed children who suffer from constant earache like a ship captain’s daughters I cause creaking in a freshly-washed woman’s hair under the comb because I am the eternal tómmas who Sigurður and Ólaf agree has never lived anywhere other than as a thought-fetus but now this fetus lies quivering cold, sensitive and exposed like a snail that has lost its shell no one knows me except maybe an out-of-town woman who mistakenly looked for the loony cart and sat there all day and night in the bus station at Sundlaugvegur and passed a poor night’s sleep then continued her journey on the bus the whole next day until she got back the memories in her head and remembered that she had promised according to a bet she lost with her cousin to eat a half portion of fried fish with mayonnaise at Matstofa Austurbæjar or a faraway farmer or a freelancer who keeps a pet lamb in a meadow to disappear to on summer evenings I’m forced into man but at the same time I am all the noble and distorted and the human kernels in men’s breasts, which god has begun to move away from the assault of passion only man is in man together with cars houses furniture and sunsets that pours diagonal rays over the ashtray and cigarette music tin that plays Mozart when the cigarette is lit and birthday celebrations grapple with the smoke so they can listen to the Little Night Song until throats are sore and painful and I wade in them like a giant in ground mist and arrive shining on the line to let myself gallop an electric current to the nipples that explode afterward I put them in the money box hahahaeveryone suspects that Tómas Jónsson is a wizard of lust in secret ellipses . . .
Every great men is ripe for persecution. I am convinced the curiosity and malice of human beings whets my job: collecting modern folklore and
Tómas
now she comes right up to the door they heard me laughdon’t you want to come out and visit with uswe’re playing cards you know you are always welcome to join us
The Black Sheep
a folk tale
As is well known, iceland was occupied during the World War II, first by the dirty British, then later, by request, by a select American army. This request for military protection of the population, however, was made with one condition from the icelandic government, and it has remained in military protection contracts since then: that in the U.S. force there must be no members of the negro race, or, as the provision states: in the U.S. Defense Force there should be no men of black stock who, mixing with the ancient icelandic nation (which must always be its own acquaintance though it is chosen and of norwegian royal descent) could in some way endanger the particular characteristics of its national population of pan-Germanic and Irish descent.
It is believed that the U.S. authorities immediately acquiesced to these requirements, provided no other hindrances or conditions were set for the occupation. Our wishes have not been followed in all respects: occasionally men with dark, if not black, skin color and sheep-wool on their heads surfaced in this country. Black men were not in the permanent garrison, but came with the supply ships that provided food. And so one time a negro ended up here in a ship cabin and he was granted shore leave by the customs authorities, chiefly so people did not gather on the pier and delay the unloading by gaping, as was common. When a pretty sizeable crowd had gathered the authorities released him into the country and a group followed the man at a distance (this was a common method for distributing the population and it later became a tradition to have one negro at every ship port, which worked well). The story says that the ship stayed briefly, one day; some believe it was only in the region of a few hours’ stopover. Anyway, shortly before the ship left its mooring the negro came back to the pier accompanied by a girl he got to follow him, but had not taken due to scant time to have sexual intercourse. Men do not agree on whether or where he had sudden sex with the girl. Some say they were in the back seat of an automobile and pulled the seat forward and had their heads and legs sticking out the open door. Everyone, however, agreed that an automobile had driven the negro to the ship’s side, but some want to maintain that he put the woman up against the mudguard to show off in the protection of the harbor surrounding the bulwark.
It is amazing that no eyewitnesses agree, but it proves the old saying it true: everyone sees his own sight.
Tómas Jónsson, Bestseller Page 23