Tómas Jónsson, Bestseller
Page 31
Tómmas won’t venture out into the rain though the house rises there its roof the most kissable lips
Tómas:
like a cloudburst from the looser breasts of women (sings) Sunday in London
(their song they learned in English correspondence)
bloodshot eyes complaining the scab of morning
while the pub’s decrepit personnel wash the sidewalk
all the buildings in the streets have shut their windows
the streets are unconscious from noon onward
Sundays here are notdays
if you were a lion would you be able to saunter to the zoo
spend the day in brothel in Soho shouting
drinking beer at a pub washing yourself in the sky’s soot
used to icelandic whores, women who keep you in dough
you examine two-thousand-year-old churches and castles
a beggar and London at night
NO. No.
always there is no summer vacation here no Sundays nothing
except Mondays and knowing breastless women
Dísa:
the rain is the grass’s mothermilk and cordial for herbs and beloved to farmers who hang from cow udders
Gerður:
not the rain that falls here on the gelded grass of the city
I remember the farmhouse room at home
I remember christmas when christmas was holy and Christian and everyone got a tallow candle at christmas and you were blessed in the true faith of god and the country with lambs it was wonderful to sit in the spring I recognized every mark on the sheep in three counties and the trail of the old river in the snow and the mud flats I loved my country autumn evening sun trails and lifeless winter sky
frost blue.
Dísa:
perhaps the rain is good for the grass in the street areas
Tómas:
undoubtedly but the grass it does not mind
it just grows outdoors in nature under the sun
here we are not in the country with fields cowsheds healthy air and windmills once they arrive
Gerður:
the beauty of flowers travels farthest in autumn
Tómas (thinks):
pointless small talk is worthless good for nothing makes me uneasy
Dísa:
are you from the country Gerður
Gerður:
yes I come from the blessed country
Dísa:
Flowers are their most beautiful in autumn if autumn comes so long as I am also from the countryside
The girls sing:
Lóa is a corpse from Flóa
she lies buried in a hole-a
the fox has a man
Tómmas is his name
Tómas:
well girlfriend that must be funny hahaha but entertaining clever Tómas speaks as if he was a little girl I say but clever me is told I recognize someone Lóa who I rented a room to I do not remember all that I do not remember
Gerður-Lóa:
Tómas is surprised to find he does not recognize us Dísa
Dísa:
girls do a lot of things for fun
more than teasing old men
they poke sticks in buttercups and dead rats
and say yukyukyuk . . .
girls:
he is her boyfriend Jennier and Jenni she is shy no good can ever emerge from behind a washing machine her mom says she shall become a world-famous singer and sing for Hitler and gain formidable praise and money but have no voice Jenni-sister sing Jenni-sister sing her mother forbade her from drinking cola and getting anything good from a man in a basement in the afterhours he is terrifically boring
a skirtchaser in the basement
Dísa:
why can’t the poor girl accept things
I seize her mouth and her words creep between my fingers like white pinworms
Sister Jenni:
my teeth are rotten
girls:
hurhur boo-hoo as if you cannot sing with rotten teeth
to my relief she has not divulged the secret Tómas swirls a finger around his palm she stands by the window and plays with balls she has a ball game on the pane the pane rattles loose and broken glass rains down over us cold icepicks green and yellow balls like a falsehood on Dísa’s lips dancing on the pane
Dísa:
I set eyes on her in which window is she standing Tómas
in the third to the left on the second floor
now she must be following me Dísa:
she is an excessive pricktease Tómas
perhaps you do not see her
half under the laundry tub now she stirs the curtain moves the washing on the clothesline do you see I am nothing Tómas:
you have a veil over your eyes take
it off
she hurries back and forth around the stage throwing up her hands and shouts: I’m a housewife at home I am a basic woman of the earth I am the first woman my hole is a cleft open deep and a lonely figure growing bracken and wood cranesbill
Gerður:
I will not take the veil from my face
Tómas:
come here, stand by my side you see her it is her birthday today I’m going to fetch flowers my flowers
(I cannot be silent talk endlessly torrentially days and nights asleep and waking my autonomous nervous system is broken and my tongue rages constantly in my mouth the words flow from my salivary glands I am condemned to live in barren words the doctor should put a sound damper on my mouth people cannot sleep in this house for the flow of words)
come here
Gerður:
do you think I see the pencil sharpener how much fun it must be to sharpen and have a fiancée
new cloudnew windmore rain
Tómas:
Better to have a fiancée and fiancé alternately have you gained one
Gerður:
yes once but I never saw him
the first lady fights for the cause of a goose-bumped toad in the presidential enclosurecitizens and ministers eat chocolate from silk bags this is the first time that they do not understand the problem which deals with a major poetic melancholy come from visitors on the top balcony
Tómas (his voice unchanged):
he must have been a peculiar fiancé if you never saw him
Gerður:
he spread a handkerchief over my face do you recognize the story I sensed the taste of bark in my mouth a tree grew inside me and I baked little blonde sweet pastry girls
Tómas:
with one of the hidden people
Lóa:
not hidden he was made of steel
The girl:
Tómas Tómmas I see your mug one could let things occur sporadically Lóa are you married then
Gerður:
No you could end up with your foot under the car like Ásmundur my daughter would be ten in autumn
Gerður snatches the bottom of the jacket and swings me around by the tail as is done in private in henhouses with lazy chickens who do not bother to breed so the last egg scatters away from me shiny in the sun (what nonsense)
Tómas:
no cars are visible anywhere along the street
Gerður:
they came before but they least expect I have no daughter
the first lady bows to the President and whispers: here this place has a deep and dark fate
the President answers: yes my dear, this is pretty much from too much from many much game pieces let that go the costume is good and takes exact aim
lay for me Tómas and I shall hatchyou will see you will not regret it
Tómas:
drove cars over the egg
the drunk man walks along the middle of the street in the rain the police inactive in a shelter under the roof peak and do not care even though the man is breaking the traffic regulations and the street lamps have red pupils
Gerður:
probably they are also waiting
for the shower to stop
here’s Sigurður
Sigurður:
I stroll in the rain’s rain because in the middle of the street hello to you Lóa an ugly washerwoman like my old lady Tómas
Tómas:
do you recognize him Gerður
Gerður:
I recognize everyone who has business along Hafnarstræti drunk or sober
Sigurður:
like my old lady fie an ugly woman ugly she who hangs by her feet up in the attic in the house of sleep Tómas
Tómas:
do you think he will attack us
Lóa:
no he will not lay a hand on me he goes past and sees a scar through the veil let mommy kiss the scar where he hurt himself buss buss buss Sigurður indeed
Sigurður:
the old lady at the sewing machine and sews me battles with pins in her mouth like needle-words and at her feet and now the roof leaks down to the sewing machine under the dripping ceiling drops penetrate and fall directly into the hatch and the sewing machine rusts but my old lady does not move from her spot such wifely squabbles are continual like a leaky roof as Proverbs has it and falling onto her the drops startle the flesh and frighten the house she says a rusty machine is my punishment, but if I do not get a shock from the machine then there is no punishment
Tómas Tómas:
so it goes
Gerður:
no
Tómas:
who then Lóa
Lóa:
I do not know but one morning he came I was kneeling on the floor on my knees growing hard lichens and green calluses from washing the floor and wiping the table legs at the door I heard a rustle I did not look around but sat on my heels because I knew that I would be raped this time no dragging he lumped me behind the counter threw a handkerchief over my face and lay on me like a bag there between the mail basket and the radiator I never let go of the washing cloth after he went and I lay still for a long time finally I rose to my elbows the handkerchief fell down from me onto my shoulder I went out shortly after Gerður came and said keep the cloth as evidence yes he forgot it and a child inside me and I was going to keep both in me I shall keep the child and see if it resembles any of a number in the office as it ages
Gerður:
I have a fresh memory of the smell from the cloth I can indeed recognize people by smell Tómas
Tómas:
you could easily have pursued him with the two folded pieces of evidence in hand Lóa
Lóa:
who is going to care what brews and ferments in my belly for weeks and how in nine months I get no child support I imagine him descending from a foreign ship in my mind I picture him coming back to search for his lost blood (where is my pure, lost blood) and find me grown into the floor where the dreams stop always a series of identical images however I turn my mindpublic life in bygone dayssaid the prime ministernow no one needs to experience it men just read stories and watch films no one needs to live anything any longer for everything can be seen in films just watch enough often a kind of torture device for the eyes
the horse struck me in the face and my father let the riding horse beat its hoof flat in my face because I was grumpy from holding the reins while he went somewhere and that’s where the scar came from it is hardly possible
nothing is noticeable through the blue veil
but in the cold it becomes a bluish bruise like a dead birthmark and broken teeth and snot frozen in an open nostril
I could bend down to my beloved with the tender blue scar and mutilated teeth
do you eat hákarl in the States
she did not die
my daughter
she was in a white dress with her eyes gone strange
Sigurður:
well now it is raining from the sun
Tómas:
that one is drunk like it ever rains from the sun
Gerður:
most likely it rains from the sun as the sun shines through the rain on the grass
metal sounds
now shining pearls rain down
angels in a Grimm fairy tale break the leaves from the savings bank’s trees in heaven
the shower sails on
now the sun goes gray from rain
would you listen to the conclusion:
away from the rain loitering under cover of the box and taking shelter against the torrent wind
I wept
do not stand there child without protection and she ran over to my car humming along the street
and when he disappeared some mush hung among his cervical vertebrae
she ran away on both feet to pull up a few buttercups
they lay crushed in some story or other in the paint on the sidewalk I disregarded them
the wind blew her dress over her face
I pray that she escaped across the street
she claims to have been detained I continue to try to meet with him
this daughter of mine is a horse
he sees her in the angel’s place grazing in the pasture
she both grows and matures the daily bread has a good kernel men have to have horses and mares
she learned to sing and play the horse piano
nor could I give her all the world’s comfort I long for her to return to me through the fence but she needs extra time with him, she will come back the same way she left he says initially he kneads me some specially prepared dough when the dough sours she will be reincarnated to me he will bring her to me again he says: your belly is not scales fishskin tongue you have no cat tongue inside so we sing:
him: do you know how to bake bread
I: yes I know how
him: so you can make cake
I: yes I know how
him: are you quite sure
I: yes I am
him: or maybe you are just tricking me
and then he says you must bake sweet pastry boys in the oven and I tremble and stand baking day out and day in but nothing bakes aren’t you trying
Miss Gerður expels a splitting cry that ends in a mothersick laughter and a coughing fit
Gerður:
jeez I do not have the words
Lóa:
I am not filthy there’s no dirt between my toes only this scar repulsive who wants to put their lips up to the color of a dead lung except through a handkerchief or in the dark maybe not even once after a few years will my belly become a sarcophagus I know cases in which the woman carries a stillborn baby in her belly until she rots from inside out some do not care that they decay but after death there’s no flesh and where there’s no there’s nothing but houses and manmade structures and they are uninhabitable even
a sense of loss without flesh
sounds of rainthe rain flows
as if that transparent wall never were
but the sidewalks cast their drops upwardcarbuzz
er þetta a metaplay
yes answered the dramturge
I just hope he does not fall down groundless
like the weather in spring the summer does not come before August usually
the so-called life of this man rises off him like rain he loiters and looks for shelter in the doorways and prays for it to be short
still drops fall the sun dries them if she can see
come in
the city a white sheen between sun and rain
Lóa spreads the handkerchief Ásmundur goes to the food table wearing black gloves on the handkerchief is marked in large letters T J with marker ink
no it’s not me either Sigurður or Bjössi but not me
over the cloudless sky god drags the angels by the hair they have strewn golden coins on the floor over the earth Grimm fairy tales and gaseous clouds cats hiss in anger at the moon’s windows
(Where is my lost blood, I cannot find that which I will never find again)
wake
cautiously I release the sleep from my eyes I lie crushed under the heavy d
eath of sleep and dreams something heavy but warm lies on my chest and inhibits my breathing I need to pee badly I lie on my back a considerable time with closed eyes I do not move to the left but am lying dead straight in the direction of the North Pole for the sake of my well-being given this presence lying on me a pet daring hardly to stir crippled limbs fearing to upset the pleasure the very short bliss after the nightmare after I suddenly wake up Títa has crawled into the covers and lies in my dry body sweat inside the armpit and breathes the rat odor from me inside the twilight day has tilted the window is open to the sidewalk my face dirty with sweat it has not rained or frozen I startle a cold shiver I have slept it is good to sleep I rise to my feet it is good to stand on one’s feet I close the window carefully I belch belching is good I open the door into the hall and grab Títa’s tail I hesitate a moment sometimes in life it is good to hesitate and then make a decision what difference affection and cruelty I sling the cat with all my strength against the wall but he does not disintegrate no he does not fall like rainwater to the floor but spins in the air and the cat’s asshole lands on the phone he shakes himself and trots into the corridor dreams hide subtle accusations and they charge me with foolish lies shame and judgment all parts of a man are vulnerable while he sleeps I piss nothing is as good as getting to piss in peace and quiet when you are bursting it is good to have an empty bladder awesomely comfortable I wish I could fart then I would be very happy O it is so good to be just a moment in time the course of the blood that I lost long before now
my 12th composition book
Miss Gerður’s story about the cleaning lady is trivial nonsense. I had no idea she had a daughter. As a stay against the insidious whispers about me it would be wiser to place the blame on the janitor, who gets to control who walks around the house. To me it is irrelevant whether Lóa attended a séance. So too almost every man after god is no longer interested in a relationship. I may not be confused about events. I need to separate waking and dreaming events. But via this means she meets her girl and the medium calls it a reunion. At Gerður’s initiative, there are office whip-rounds to cover the cost of private sessions with the medium for the washerwoman. The sessions are a kind of visiting hours at the maternity ward. The medium dandles the child and shows it to her against the glass. She will be sitting on a chair inside a large sealed cardboard box and looking through a round hole, sweaty from the heat and nearly choking from lack of air; then he lets her crawl out the box onto the divan, while he covers her in a plastic bag and ties it about her neck. It is not enough that the medium lets her go through this get up: we have to pay him to put her in a bag. No, I will not, Sigurður says. I tell you, I have often played the medium, for good money, for example for a recently deceased service woman here in Reykjavík—of course I reincarnated her. A good job, well compensated. At the time it was my only work and so one where I did not need to squabble to get paid. You did not need to go on strike; indeed, it would have been difficult for the medium to have to explain to the woman: you know, the deceased, she’s gone on strike. I reincarnated at least three times a week, according to demand and how fit I felt. Specifically designated days, Saturdays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. Thus employed, I made the remarkable discovery that it is rare for Reykjavíkers to have sex more than three times a week. We in the reincarnation business came to understand more than the average man. I will never forget a confident woman lying above her divan under a red lamp, which hung from a long cord over her belly button dangling back and forth. When I stripped to my underwear well lubricated she rose halfway up and waved to me with a handkerchief tied around her right index finger. To conceal themselves they usually had a sweat-cloth over their face and I remember how he sucked at it when they gasped. I’m sure no one has been able to reincarnate as thoroughly as I: no woman ever complained. I want to tell other men about this possibility, reincarnation; for little effort they can get some extra money . . . hearing this, Bjössi grew uneasy on his chair. I know, my Bjössi, you have for years played a cathedral priest who in the prime of life death took from his congregation, a congregation he keeps together still, now he is silent. Bjössi turned to the rest of us and I continued, saying: When his wife asked the medium how it was that the cleric grew in number each year, he said: In the realm of the dead, men age and fade and their apathy toward sex increases just as here on earth. There, asexuality is a sign of virtue. After this I reincarnated as a cathedral priest and never went to mass. Sigurður laughs his drunkard’s guffaw all over the blue coffeepot on the table, as pleased as the residents of this town with his jokes. They know this is nonsense humor. They are always jabbering humor like he is the salvation, a lifebuoy for people drowning along the path.