Tómas Jónsson, Bestseller

  I want my love alone in my bosom,

  if things go wrong I’ll die of grief;

  she added with melancholy expression.

  The words were barely silent on her lips when an internal tension wracked Hitler, who approached Katrín deformed with rage, one of the blood vessels on his forehead swelling like a fat earthworm in a cemetery. First he tried to get her into marriage with a lump barely suppressed in his throat, plaintively begging her to promise herself to him, but when that was not enough he turned to threats and anger. He seized Katrín, who was almost straight-backed at the sofa’s edge, took her in a death grip so that she jumped and fought her way from the slippery silk material of the couch and flung herself, knees open wide on the panther pelt on the floor. In the tussle her dress rode up to her thighs, she gave a suppressed cry and used the icelandic woman’s defense, trying to drive him off with her shoe heel and puncture his scrotum, and kicking and scuffling on the floor among the quiet and large St. Bernard, the kittens, the shining and broken espresso cups; Hitler almost managed to subdue her under the big oak table, but she received a lucky break when he ended up ejaculating. That placated him momentarily which gave her an opportunity, since their business needed to end in one way, with a crushing defeat for him, yes, even though he was the Commander of one of the most powerful and industrious nations of the world, facing a human being who had made the expensive choice of devoting herself to art and giving it herself—her only self—whole, both bodily and spiritual energies.

  The ejaculation during their unsuccessful wrestling increased the Commander’s castration and neurosis, but Katrín stood over him goading and triumphant.

  Save the world, and with it my love, he said, crushed, lying on the floor with wisps of hair stuck in his eyes and white foam falling from his mouth. Or else I’ll destroy it in a burning rage.

  She was silent; she sniffed disdainfully and looked at the Commander, this boneless heap on the carpet.

  Are you so deeply mired in the world of the Valkyries that you would choose the world defeated at your feet, even if in a terrible state?

  I require nothing more than to continue to serve my art, she said.

  If I cannot win you with goodness, I will conquer the world with evil, Hitler hissed unthinkingly, without guarding his word or explaining his actions. Never before had it occurred to him to wage war.

  Good, do what you can, said Katrín indifferent. It’s all the same to me.

  Is your singing voice worth more than that the ears of those who listen to your singing remain unburned? Scorched ears cannot hear; burned mouths full of dirt will not call you onto the stage.

  I am not a politician, but an artist, she replied in a whisper. I cannot; anything else is impossible.

  Do you prefer war or love?

  I find my peace in struggle.

  You would rather that the world and its houses collapse than the curtain on stage behind you? You need not forsake it; I am not so selfish in my love.

  I could never move between home, husband, children, and theater. You claim to know me so well. I will not place a burning sacrifice on any altar but Wagner’s.

  She pointed forcefully and his lips parted in anger.

  Katrín, he said, you are a true artist. That is more than I could be. But the world’s corpses shall therefore hear you singing in the theater of death, and I suggest that man only submits to woman in desperation: should I lose the war, you will also lose your victories.

  These were his final words.

  Art is long; life is short—Life lasts only in the living, not a moment longer, she sighed in parting.

  His face black and blue like a newly-strangled body, he hastened on his homeward way from the castle and proceeded quickly, directing the bow of the yacht to the Kílarskurði canal and thence to Vistnar. Once they were sailing he is said to have talked with Göring and looked over the railing toward England, which was invisible in the dark night:

  After this miserable defeat, it feels not enough of a remedy to conquer this dirty world.

  Of course, it will be easier than the victories over the icelandic artist, Göring is said to have replied.

  At the isthmus, beyond Kílarskurði, he beat his fist in the direction of Poland.

  The next morning he woke up on board hungover and senseless, horribly guilty and regretful; but there was no turning back.

  my good god what did I say and do in my drunkenness I cannot taste winehe thought desperatelyI remember nothing

  In the ship’s toilet he made unsuccessful attempts to recall the night’s events, looking at himself in the mirrors while he brushed his teeth because he feared he had bad breath from the acidic wine on his tongue.

  who are youhe thought and looked carefully into his eyesand whispered to himself: what kind of wild animal are you, Adolf.

  Sensations of fear traveled around his mind; he sweat and suffered from waves of heat, half-deranged on into morning; then he ran himself a hot bath, took his B-vitamins and salt and soothing medicine, settled himself in bed, and called for Göring.

  What happened? he asked, trying to conceal his fear with complacency. Did I achieve my meeting with the Norn?

  Göring unfolded it all for him, giving a solemn oath attesting to his attendance, his humiliation on the floor and the ejaculation that had caused him deep pain. By nature, Hitler was not bad so much as sensitive and stubborn. What he took upon himself had to stand unaltered and he never compromised on anything. In short, he was a product of the time.

  A glossy Mercedes Benz drove him furiously along the Autobahn and speed appeased his nervousness. The driver sped at a hundred and fifty the whole way between Vistnar and Berlin. All the while the other vehicles stopped on route and near it; ambulances were on hand in every small town and at all intersections.

  His first work in the Reich Chancellery was to send a telegram to his border army:

  Corn blossoms are on the flower. Gilliflower is fragrant at night. Now morning has a meaning for us. The night approaches the garbage can.

  After that he called his mother.

  I have committed a great sin, you must forgive me, Mom, Göring heard him say . . .

  This happened on August 31. The next day, on September 1 in 1939, the Führer’s armies advanced into that pigpen, Poland.

  Dead silence reigned at the Board in the refectory after Ólaf had finished the story of the icelandic soprano who one night in late August held the fate of the world in her hands, but chose to cast away a decent man who changed into a wild beast with the pain and caused millions of deaths with his unbridled temper, as Miss Gerður put it. She did not want, this magnificent woman, to sacrifice any of her calling to art or her freedom even though she would be with the Führer and was offered the luxury of Berlin’s Reich Chancellery.

  Although I have often heard this story, said Miss Gerður, I somehow never believed it.

  Hang on, said Ólaf. Most peculiar of all is that the words of Hitler became prophetic when he sent Katrín, via the icelandic Ambassador in Hamburg, Dr. Wiesbaden, the first corpse of the war, a symbol of victory and a shame pole. He brought Katrín the package on a gold bar, and when she opened it and saw the contents Dr. Wiesbaden said that he saw her startle but she said nothing.

  No, she said nothing, that was very womanlike, chorused the Board and smiled pleasantly.

  Despite everything, Ólaf continued, the fatally wounded Führer sent Katrín over to England on a Danish ship, which shows a new and unexpected side of the man and his merits. And we should also note that five years of London fog had the same effect on her voice as the cold on the Russian plains had on his communications routes; simultaneously Hitler lost the war and she lost her voice, returning home a broken woman and founding a singing school at the bottom of Hverfisgata.

  Total silence.

  Legend has it that Katrín was on stage at Covent Garden mid-aria when something came over her; she suddenly lost the thread, her voice broke, there was a knot in her vocal c
ords. And at the same moment it was announced over the speaker system that the war was over and the British rushed to their feet with screams and celebrations. Now they were singing, not her: There will be blue birds over the white cliffs of Dover to-morrow, just you wait and see. There will be love and laughter for ever after to-morrow, just you wait and see . . .

  It turned out that one of the vocal chords had torn right by the nodule and she said to herself: Now you have sung song permanently out of your throat.

  And so they both waited, defeated eventually.

  What was not revealed here in iceland was that a small locket with her picture was found in Hitler’s ashes in the bomb shelter; the Russians stole it.

  It was a picture of her child, I heard, said Sigurður.

  No, that is a myth, said Ólaf.

  This folktale is recorded based on the Ólaf’s account. I have heard many versions that do not agree, particularly as to the Commander’s solemn pledges, whether they were made before, after or during his visit. I remember some laborers who were laying a road at Bratta-brekka, intelligent men and attentive, wanting to argue the case that Hitler had sworn a costly oath in the presence of his General Staff before he set off, then got drunk in his seat, as they say, to give himself courage, and so had cause to say: Either I conquer the world or this woman. And from that the language developed according to the laws of tragedy: an irrevocable pledge that cannot be resolved except by death. One of them in that scattered gravel, a knowledgeable, observant farmer, said he had noted that men with gridlock symptoms had such temperaments. Anyway, the root of the evil was the cynical woman, not willing to be friendly to a man.

  Dísa turned fire-red at this and perhaps felt it was a threat.

  Society is clogged up by invalids who don’t trust themselves to do difficult work, instead lying purring at home on their divans, brought low by nerves. The best work is torn from the healthy and given to the sick. If people do not care for such hand flapping they get money for being sick. That’s paid better than any domestic work. Into the invalid’s path gets pushed countless grants and awards. In the hospital he receives free food, housing, and services, which calculated in money would be a pretty purchase; on returning home he gets sick payments and better, you are on the payroll of your employer, the State. If you are lucky enough to lose an eye, you can live a lifetime on benefits, you get free housing, and good-hearted people club together for a TV so you can have something to do with your remaining healthy eye. No wonder television aerials are only on the chimneys of the homes of rich people and invalids. If these people get too lazy to breed, they are pushed into it with grants for intercourse. The state pays for every child produced. Other kinds of production are left to sit on the back burner. Whole families do not work at any other production. The expectation is that the nation’s foreign exchange earnings are small. The population’s libido operates with a State guarantee. Yet the sex-weary have a plan to kill all middle-aged families via masturbation. Between sex and disease, which sustain family members in their lairs, a life gets emphasized while constantly being advertised to people in fish houses and on boats. A lazy wrapping replaces lying feeble, as swollen water streams in from all sides. Every effort is made to increase the per-capita population. Although the country has never been so many as now, neither more nor less than 180,000 residents, it is argued there is a sexual problem. The Icelandic Women’s Association recently issued the following challenge to women:

  Icelandic Mothers in Cities and Rural Areas,

  At the fifteenth National Congress of Icelandic Women the following proposal was adopted, submitted by the Women’s Association from Bíldudal: We icelandic women in Bíldudal call on other icelandic women aged fourteen to forty-five years, anywhere in the country, from sea to field, to apply themselves earnestly to increasing their contribution to the population growth in our hardscrabble country, to demonstrate tangible citizenship in this work by moving the native country toward its 200,000th State inhabitant by 2000 A.D. The nation is innately fertile.

  As soon as the government learned of the challenge, demonstrating the great patriotism and labor-mindedness of the Women’s Association of iceland, it sent out the following notice:

  At a joint ministry meeting of the Government of Iceland, it was agreed to provide a special award to the woman who brings the country to its 200,000th inhabitant; as a gift, the mother will receive an engraved silver shield but the son or daughter will get free flights to Copenhagen, back and forth with Air iceland, with a week’s lodging in a first-class four-star hotel and 20 Danish krona allowance per day during their stay. Furthermore, the person in question, according to special ministerial license, will be granted the priority of holding the honored title iceland’s Favorite Child, both in official documents and in daily use. If married, the person in question will be granted 10 days’ free accommodation in Mallorca with her spouse. The eventual burial will be public and conducted at State expense. The title iceland’s Favorite Child shall not cause difficulty according to laws of the land. The same provision applies to twins.

  . . . while newspaper columns constantly rage against those who have something: we, the people who make a detailed timetable for each coming day; we who with energy and dedication have tried to make strong apartments and homes and a homeland against the imminent invasion which a domestic invalid society has spawned for itself. For example, Sveinn gets income for his five children (he was also fortunate enough to get support payments for Stína a few days before she died), plus he works three jobs. What do they have to complain about. Do they want someone to make a film about the painful life of those who only own two cars? Do they expect a bestseller to be written about them? (I have lived a life of fascinating material, said Anna; Svanur even began to write about me.) Do they not have a car, a radio, personal effects, and a standing lamp? Would it not be fortunate, if someone sidled up, I do not know how, and broke his knee cap. Would he not get a new plastic knee and a duty-free vehicle on top of everything (being declared a disabled invalid), which he could then sell for a decent price. Would it be right if I bought a vehicle and left my bank empty of savings, other than the compulsory savings of teenagers, which are of course indexed for this invalid against devaluation. But my money may deteriorate in inflation. No one thinks about that. The new, young and hardy generation of lapdogs does not, of course, have the sense to save for themselves. Besides, it’s high time these lap dogs got a salary for going to school voluntarily. As it is said: salary for birth, salary for sickness, salary for fucking, salary for learning, salary for suicide. And probably god will tempt them with high wages, all these people who are believers, “just in case,” or they will stream over to Hell; better bonuses there. Those over sixty remember two times, the past and the present. We. Afterward this rabble intends to turn my apartment slowly and silently into a universal American Keflavík airport with a military radio. You will not take it. Life is hiding inside me, although I am an invalid. I see you before me, an image: the one with a broken knee-cap, the one with a twisted colon, under the headline: A couple with five children going out to the street because they need to look for a bite in the garbage cans. The picture shows: a standing lamp, a refrigerator, a washing machine, a car, a carved couch, two night tables, a queen-size mattress from the Furniture Store in Austurbæjar, two radios (Telefunken brand), one with a built-in turntable and cassette player, so you can record the voices of the children on their birthdays, the other a portable Jumbo you can move from the living room to the kitchen and from the kitchen to the toilet, so Anna can get the dirt off to a mixture of Negro music and “light classical songs.” (When will a radio station come out with a request show called In the Privy amid this “flood of shows”?) And in addition, a veneer crockery cabinet housing a Junghans electric clock, a television and a carpet . . . “corners in the middle” is the style of their couch. The newspaper readers will sigh: god, who can be so cruel as to drive such poor and needy people out on the street just before christmas. I
think this will give the “leftist” students in Reykjavík schools good stuff for their christmas essay—written, of course, Hans Christian Andersen-style. Det var saa grueligt koldt; det sneede og det begyndte at blive mørk Aften . . . Stína could become a model for Little Girls with matches, frozen piss-wet on the stairs. “Good” and shortsighted parents saved me the trouble of chasing her away. Are there not songs and sympathy in “crying injustice of justice.” Become a homeowner and you must insist on an X-ray of a woman’s oven-womb before leasing to a childless couple, so it can be ascertained THAT THEY ACTUALLY ARE CHILDLESS. Or do the poor have full authority to act impudently, with anarchy and aggression.

  Damn it, I probably never let myself accord Ásmundur Steinsson’s knowledge a role in my skepticism

  Ásmundur had his residence on the site of the refectory’s (perhaps former) location. On the second floor. I am familiar with his life history, which is fairly similar to, or could be like, mine if I continue to ignore the value of housing and property.

  many people have identical histories I well know it yet there is no reason to follow Sigurður’s commandment that it is best to have nothing but the state and nonprofit organizations because then nothing is taken away in tax nor other ways which is certainly true and indisputable but impossible because though man is alone and has nothing he always has something that never disappears unless he is absolutely executed, only the dead man has nothing

  Take this example: young girls strolling outside on a moor. They find an old trash dump and “claim ownership”; greed based on exclusive rights comes quick to humans. On the first day they collect all the largest and most beautiful pieces of broken glass from this “outside toy.” A week passes and the little hussies are happy with the broken glass until the end of the week when they grow bored of their assets and so the gold in the heap accumulates in their eyes; on Sunday morning they rush off and go to the heap and take the “best” broken glass remaining: the inferior becomes good when there is nothing better. Over and again the same thing; they tire of what they cherish and visit the heap weekly, monthly, or annually, always finding something to take. This little dump has become inexhaustible. They always discover something useful and valuable. Coveting is in man’s blood: to find the big in the little by reducing assessments of quality and value. Of course, the value of the pile decreases in the usual sense, if it exists in reality, but not in the mind of the tiny girls. That does not happen until someday they need to piss. They sit on the pile and now it doesn’t drip from them but gushes out past their shoes. With that wonder of nature they examine by chance (or instinct or whatever one wants to call it) under their dresses and see: a transformation has occurred. In an instant the dump has become a useless rubbish dump. They abandon the outside stuff and margarine tubs and seek out a man for under their dresses and a real play space, i.e. a nice house up on Snob Hill or at Boulevard Bingo with Danish model furniture “frá dør til dør D.F.D.S.” fit for the Queen, and they take possession of an eight-bedroom sunny apartment with views and a rock garden where they cultivate natural outdoor plants.