Tómas Jónsson, Bestseller

by Guðberger Bergsson

  isn’t refectory food usually some unhealthy nuisance cursed nuisance

  why worry about my health

  isn’t the Board bad for your stomach

  she thinks that my rapid trips to the bathroom are due to diarrhea caused by food poisoning no it just feels good to clean one’s intestines occasionally for example fortnightly a sedentary person needs to void themselves at intervals

  She stands with spread legs in the kitchen doorway as though she is offering herself

  in my mousetrap

  She thinks. Roving eyes. She sucks on her teeth.

  usually people’s stomachs weaken and they get cancer from too much refectory food

  you are unmarried she thinks when you are all done for the state will own your belongings confiscate themat least I am involved with you she thinks perhaps I will name my next child after you my tómmasI think for her many are feeble because some rise to their names and chiefly those who do not marry go to their aunt go to names kiss namesa bachelor so you will inherit his name, babyI would never get any peace because of this damned name of course you could benefit well from it I think ahead for her who never thinks anything do you not know we are second cousins

  I really enjoy Mrs. Helga’s food.excellent, plentylots of meat especially burgers and sweet buns for sure do not doubt it

  She looks at me approvingly. I picture a certain landscape close to Skeiðarétt and see bleating sheep before me I have enough sheep to think about being close to her and bringing her with me. She will get no inheritance even if she baptizes all her kids Tómas. Now she is preventing me from entering the toilet.

  will she desist does she know I stole the castor oil glass of a boy named tómas tómmas in my head and great-great-grandfather his great-grandmother suggested to him once a year that he should clean out his belly and gut

  Katrín studies me with her eyes. Katrín’s gaze strokes invisible hands around my collar of hair and my bald crown and belly and searches icy fingers down my back. Yes, I always have cold hands. I stand in the hallway rigid, stiff, and stubborn as I face this floral mountain. Her foot sticks in the doorpost. I clamber over her foot. Leave the corridor. Have you nothing better to do than mess with me. With a sweep of her hand she bangs her flat palm on my back so I trip into the room. She laughs snootily.

  now go clean yourself upyou’ve got pinworms

  she holds a long squirming tapeworm between her varnished nails it wriggles kicking about and yawns wide.

  god, I’m sleepy.

  I double lock the door. And with the help of a compact mirror I examine the back of my head in the large mirror. I stand bent over the round seat of the white bath chair. On my head are red blotches. She receives a toxic telepathic message and, exhausted, collapses on the kitchen stool.

  I sail into the fjord convex white hills on both sides the sea is white like a sheet at the bottom of the fjord a blank spotan oil barge heads toward a submarine heading under the mountain and pumps thick crude oil into its tank and reverses out

  Katrín sucks on a cigarette in a director’s chair. With an innocent expression I open the door. Today the doctor came in and injected me in the right thigh. It has started to bruise. As soon as he saw the swelling the doctor said:

  Best to rest it.

  But his eyes said: never speak directly in the presence of the patient.

  You’re 79 years old today Tómas and headed toward eighty

  I am no older than I want to be.

  Nothing to fear, your health insurance will pay.

  He injected some burning liquid in my eye, rested one finger on my pulse, dug his fingertips between my ribs, tapped on my stomach, and left. After a moment, I lifted everything up and was able to chant:

  I sit in the right seat

  swing a rock with agile feet

  I squirm from joy so itchy

  my wool sweater gets stretchy

  that is a beautiful song with superb lyrics by Charles Baudelaire

  After that rejuvenating song I slid into slumber. I woke up rather chipper. I stretched for my composition book and was able to write: Katrín lets the house go south. Rubbish is scattered about the floor. Dóri swims in the trash. She bends down and scratches her kneecap. She stretches out her right leg and examines her red toenails. She looks carefully at her feet, fetches warm water in a pail, slips her feet into the water, flexes her toes in the water, and smokes three cigarettes, listening to the radio. She puts on deodorant. And then she thinks about how she could make some additional household income without the municipal taxman coming along.

  Examined in depth, I regard myself as a very dangerous casanova. I live a double life, visible and invisible.

  An office worker in the XII. pay grade doing harm at night.

  I can see the newspaper headlines

  The wife of a senior official accuses a detective.

  The indicted, Tómas Jónsson, denies the charges.

  no I will confess it all and let the State feed me in prison

  for a few months

  Woman Blames Man for Flirting with Her in Public.

  Importunity on the Streets Constantly on the Rise.

  Woman in Seat Number Fifteen at Concert at the University Cinema Alleges Sexual Assault During Performance of Béla Bartók’s Sonate Pour Deux Pianos Et Percussions.

  Government Employee in XII. Pay Grade Throws Blood Sausage into Double-Paned Windows of Apartment after Sexual Quarrel with Women at Þorrablót Winter Festival in the Boatshed.

  Are Sexual Matters Taking Over from Politics in Public Places.

  This would be a worthy subject matter for the Charles Baudelaire of iceland.

  Rvík 27/2 1968.

  In an exclusive interview with the newspaper the couple said they had not gone to bed for private reasons. All the lights were turned on in the house. The outside light blazed and also the decorative pairs of lights on the trees in the garden.

  We were not situated in the floral living room, nor in the corner room, rather we were sitting in the hall when, without warning, broken glass rained down on the carpet, and a blood sausage smacked on the piano . . . hehe. Who would believe it in the office, me in a newspaper headline.

  THE MAN IN THE SHOE COVERS KEEPS APPEARING

  The man, dubbed The Man in Shoe Covers, made an appearance last night about eleven o’clock. This time, he disturbed the home of residents at Skálabraut 2 here in town. The facts are these: Jónína Pálsdóttir, a housewife at Skálabraut 2 who is well known for her vigilance pertaining to the treatment of the insane, which she learned about in England, was sitting inside with her husband in their quiet home, having an icelandic dinner. On the table was Chicken in a Basket, which is currently the popular entrée at The Boathouse; the couple had brought it home about nine o’clock.

  We eat late on Saturday evenings, said the lady, and pitch dark; we rarely eat out, but instead get takeout.

  They had barely settled down when there was a ring.

  I said, innocently enough: Magnús, would you see who it is.

  But Sigurlaug herself went to the door. “I’ll play host,” as she put it.

  Hardly had Sóldís Paul opened the door when a man in shoe covers forced his way in and

  snatched the chicken from the warming tray.

  I was not scared witless; I just gaped. The feathered chicken in the shoe-cover man’s hands as he wolfed it down. I practically heard its wings flap in the thief’s stomach. I did not utter a word, so we just stood listening to Hugo Wolf. As surprised as I was, I immediately knew the man was insane. What should one do in such cases? The man was yelling. But when it became clear he wasn’t leaving, having gnawed the chicken bones and scattered them all over the floor, my husband seized on the idea, as a last resort, of throwing a woolen blanket over him, like you do with fire, but that failed. What do you make of this, dear readers: the man pulled a gray cat (Títa) from under his coat and threw him by the hind legs at Valbirn. I expelled a half-choked cry as the cat landed on
his face and hung to his eyelids with its claws. I asked god to help me, the eyelids torn, and I saw my husband looking with confused round eyes at the chandeliers. Then the visitor showed me an abomination unfit to have in one’s thoughts, never mind to print in a newspaper.

  Go away, I yelled—just think, all this with Hugo Wolf on the gramophone—you sodomite. I was bewildered. I grabbed the pot with the newly-bloomed month rose in it and threatened him. Oh jesus, go away, god do this for me, go. You cannot defile yourself in front of a married woman. I ran out into the garden, ran three times around the house, overcome with nerves. The eyes of the stars were sparkling. And when I finally stumbled back to the door and flew over the threshold inside the house, I said to myself: I shall never forget this, as long as I live. All my senses were disconcerted. The visitor was wearing black shoe covers. Pirelli. I trembled like a sapling in my black evening dress and my husband took me by the shoulders and said, Pull yourself together, woman. This has come from the innermost places of your mind. I took three Valiums and drank some hot water. I saw the chicken untouched on the table freshly roasted in its feathers. My husband made me a hot water bottle and I took a nap. In the dream I composed psychological, bodily poetry:

  the rain pounds the window

  the rain is a key to observing

  from the gutter a waterfall

  on the roof a small chimney

  And if this is not a nervous breakdown, then I do not understand the concept of psychosis as it is everywhere discussed and how people always say, “Yes, I think he suffered a nervous breakdown?” From that time, I have been under medical supervision. My eyes go in different directions. Do I have psychotic visions like the painter El Greco?

  The case is under examination by the police detective force. Those who might have been close to the house at Skálabraut 22 about nine o’clock yesterday are kindly asked to identify themselves to the police. Miss Gerður is suffering from a severe nervous breakdown. Her mental state is almost at the null point.

  Tómas Jónsson.

  this is the eleventh book

  (. . . and what follows is written [happened] without any purpose [what matter whether the act or event involves a purpose so long as he or she happened; that something happens is of the greatest importance] and the text and material are composed from three different manuscripts; in particular, one marked III., which is obviously the last composed, was used as a source . . .)

  Upon completion of the adventure in house number 22, Tómas Jónsson was exhausted and deprived of oxygen, talking to himself and dozing in his thoughts: When will this mania of mine stop I who have come so far past the age limit it allows I should be burned-out my nervous system quiet in the body lie lifeless think not anything no stirring only rest why should T. Tasso have written La Gerusalemme Conquistatabarely in the air

  I rise and walk a short distance from the house. I head across the street. At the end is a small and attractive square. Raised Square (just think of X-square; yet not the one Marguerite Duras wrote of. I think she was not a good woman by nature, quite the snob). Everything comes naturally to my perception and moves slowly.

  waiting out a shower

  a small square wet from a rain shower

  some old men actually a few months old feeling whole agile and quivering have broadsheet newspapers underneath themselves and sit on the benches around the oval-shaped square spring has comechildren jump and play in the sunshinethe sunshine jumps in the childrenthe sunshine and children jump over the yellow skipping ropegirls stop playing ball in the hallwaynever again hear the sound dumbt of a sponge ball on the stone wall the girls jump by turns over the rope when it reaches the ground in its swing a cathedral clock strikes (a square must have a striking clock) the heart of the world strikes three blows that sound and stop over the square today it is Saturday today is not Saturday today I consider Sunday the surroundings an atrium natural light visible yellow and red blue and a woman moves quietly across the square on two legs one in front and one behind she holds a laundry basket in one hand and a scrubbing brush in the other Tómas does not recognize her face (I can see the woman is Miss Gerður I know she is Lóa)

  Gerður-Lóa:

  now the blessed spring has come and girls skip outside in the sunshinethe girls are dressed in white gathered dresses which swing while they run as dresses do on lively girls but not like wings they carry green ribbons knotted around their hair on their necks

  girls:

  jump over and out and again and in to the new

  Gerður-Lóa:

  skip up and in to the new

  they jump and arrange themselves in a line behind the back of the girls swinging the rope waiting their turn again so they can jump they jump from either the right or left right or left by foot they jump they skip in white dresses and

  spring:

  skip skip up skip spring skip to spring

  joy shows itself in a very slender cruel scream

  Gerður-Lóa:

  hahaha all girls brought up today are awful

  girl:

  you lose

  little girl:

  I’m next

  girl:

  no

  little girl:

  I always have to turn but never get to jump

  girls:

  yeah now it’s starting to rainrun for cover from the downpour Tómas looks at the cloud bank gradually moving past the chimneys and speeding toward the square the bank sails low travels far across the sky not like an off-white column of steam from the muzzle of a horse and it swallows the sun not the straightforward smoke from a chimney the city cats do not wear clouds the city does not open its mouth to the rain the square drinks no raindrops like a thirsty dog the din increasesand runsand rattles the handle of the laundry basket heavy rain strikes it constantly increasing with heavier murmurs I am going to get up and lock the window but I rest exhausted in the heavy murmur of the rain it cascades over the house roofs like five hundred thousand million soft sponge balls

  Gerður-Lóa:

  we might possibly escape

  voice:

  Tómas, this is spring rain

  Lóa-Gerður:

  here is candy for you girls are awful terrors in groups not so sweet today

  girl:

  since Saturday

  yes today is Saturday and teenagers drinking beer

  girl:

  if you drink coca cola then you don’t rust inside dad says he gets rust from the working women in their cars with coca cola

  the coca cola queen cries coca cola tears (big mistake) but the wind cries rain tears and Tómmas cries the tears of Tómas Jónsson

  Lóa (who is no longer Gerður):

  doesn’t that little strumpet want candy

  girl:

  she gets mixed up a little and never really dares accept the general laughter among the girls in the hallway the rain sound increases now it fills the whole world I know this is Miss Gerður Tómas does not see her face covered by the dark scarf

  girl:

  her mom has forbidden her from accepting candy from strangers

  Lóa:

  that so

  girl:

  yes

  Lóa:

  why

  girl:

  gimme candy

  Lóa:

  there won’t be enough for you all if he changes his mind I only have five pieces she will receive him later

  Tómas knows that Miss Gerður snuck the menthol candy in his desk drawer he freshens his mouth so she never offers him another then I know that is Dísa

  girls:

  give it to me

  no, me

  Lóa:

  this one runs here and still gets wet to the flesh

  girl:

  he is her boyfriend

  I see through this strange glass she points a finger at coquettish girls who are becoming adults and stroll with their fiancés almost every night to the movie theater to see breathtaking American blockbusters and to be enchant
ed and to cry with sympathy for the star Joan Crawford (I do not love the set of her mouth) who did not discover fortune and love in riches and palaces but who killed the man and committed suicide the public’s favorite entertainment is to cry over love tricks and the drinking of tycoons (she is also not expensive) laundry women and harbor workers understand so very well a sorrowful princess on a throne of chickens gaping with wonder over the stupidity of men in the windows of the moon the pepsi-cola king Lot lay with his coca cola pussy in the first book of Moses and they had cola-pepsi kids who ought to fill the earth like sand does a beach (this is of course drivel of the worst kind)

  Tómas:

  Puff what pouring rain I’m dripping

  Gerður:

  Squeeze yourself further into the shelter, man

  Tómas:

  I have an errand in the house opposite I am hardly drenched though I ran this distance across the street

  Gerður:

  get away from the showers do not let yourself be seen in public the first few days after the event it is best to seem quiet I know she wants us to have a ball game

  Dísa:

  except with a bouquet of flowers for his girlfriend that is totally fine for you Tómas instead a wet bouquet of yellow flowers cholera-sick flowers which I do not recognize dandelions or buttercups he knows no other species of flower except those which poison sleep

  Tómas:

  what else

  Dísa:

  one should never say what else rather else what nothing

  Gerður:

  else what except nothing it pours down on us some more

  Tómas

  I would compare it to what gets poured from a bucket

  Gerður:

  this is a good description it exactly describes this rainit is a bucket shower

  Gerður poured a white milk bucket over Dísa’s head and wretched Dísa cannot talk a hollow noise sounds within the bucket her mouth is full of broken glass she attempts to talk

  Dísa:

  you choked me you are no person

  with quick gestures Gerður sketches a mouth nose and eyes on the bucket with black chalk

  Gerður:

  Now you can breathe see and talk from behind your blinking blinkered milk bucket eyes