Tómas Jónsson, Bestseller

by Guðberger Bergsson

  They are set about one foot apart and tightly tied to execution poles with dark circles around their mouths like Canadian Eskimos who have eaten human flesh in an extremely hard winter. Six shots penetrate their hearts like tin cans and the woman’s belly hangs down pregnant like a condom full of water or Rembrandt’s picture of Christ taken down from the cross. In this there is an argument without context, I remember Ólaf saying sarcastically, but when will you stop offering childish commie examples, watered-down shitcakes from Bernard Shaw plays. I have never come across the story except in thinking about Sigurður, and I cannot find it in my National Saga collection. If it took place in Hamburg, the city isn’t located on the Rhine (here part of the manuscript is missing)

  however reasonable a man is if they had not eaten they would have died but neither does that change the matter the right and rational or the irrational and wrong person will be half-dazed at this repetition and I take back my word my spoken word will be taken back from me we must talk endlessly so (tom)mas whom everyone complains about don’t sit next to me and I write down every word that flicks around your mind between the clock on the watchmaker’s workshop striking two and three today when the mind’s sediment is highest and slowest to get rid of it and neuroses afflict the body the senses becoming asexual and healthy empty like most peoplethe doctor saysnow hear every word clearly from Tómas’s mouth I am held by these demons I’m going to continue listening a moment with a water glass hearing aid up against the wall and my ear set to the bottom he must take this into consideration he knows how to strike from me the interrupted parts of the ripped apart or run out into sand he may not requireI write words in the order they arrive he can connect the items to his best ability I just send him a tape recordermy handwriting becomes completely illegible raven flecks I continue while light lasts and then slumber on the divan and rest might take me to sleep and dreaming dreams that is what is most remarkable he says

  At some point I want Sigurður to again prescribe me: dare to live, Tómas. I do not remember the reason, but the challenge had some purpose, perhaps drinking; I insist on hearing the tone of voice. Strange, it is usually easier to remember an object’s smell than the sound or shape or meaning or thought it raises. A moment’s smell persists even if the event is lost. This has a lumpfish smell. He continued: courage is the audacity to try everything life has to offer. I want him wheezing this in front of me; I want to feel the spittle on my face, so I can take the opportunity to pull my handkerchief slowly from my breast pocket and wipe my mouth. I stand by the coat peg and put on my overshoes. Or stay on the steps to look at the rose pattern. Sigurður demands things of others that he does not insist on from himself, I say to those nearest me (Ólaf, who is cool inside), there is actually nothing so bourgeois as being a well-known loafer and chancer. And nothing more unbourgeois than being an honorable man who has received no recognition, like you, my Tómas; that’s what I want to say aloud. Dare him, then, says the man and takes slow steps down the stairs. Strangely, Sigurðurur enjoys special protection from his counterparts, although they constantly sneer at him. If something gets said they take his cause against me. It’s no life when you drag yourself to the grave, just a mild lingering death, he says. No, Sigurður’s life is no life. But if my point of view is higher than his, and each of us lives beyond life’s expectancy, I will not judge. In all likelihood men in this country have never lived a life. But the young generation is truly industrious in its fucking and drinking hard liquor and we are preparing the country and the economy for this health-insured generation. But fucking cannot be the goal of life even if it might do some good in moderation. Yes, this country is so driven it gives itself no time to live, it stopped CARING to be driven, it becomes MORE DRIVEN than any other nation, this DRIVEN NATION may be ENTERPRISNG but does not bear much fruit, because that DRIVE never becomes anything but BEING DRIVEN for oneself, buying ships and boats not with money but DRIVE, continuing with that DRIVE, standing in place in HIGH DRIVE and singing a DRIVEN complaint: you cannot advance no matter how DRIVEN you are without displaying more DRIVE and effort. He visited me that second time, accompanied by Ólaf. And Sigurður is not drunk here to advise me. At least, I let them in. I lay on the divan. People usually understand that I am lying calmly on the divan with crossed ankles, come over for the sake of curiosity after I move into my own apartment, whenever that is. And they said as they looked around: You got yourself a nice little nest. Yes, I guess you could call this a nest, I say. Sigurður plonks himself in a chair at the desk. I did not invite him to and I risk him prodding fingers in my memo books. Some people who visit sniff into everything while they’re here, pulling books from the bookshelf, examining pictures and papers, fiddling with small items on the table: the finery. Sometimes browsing books, plucking a crust from the bread, picking the crumbs off the table with their finger and licking them, holding up the table knives or messing with the children if some are around. With such a guest the best advice is to start your visit by giving a tour of the house while he gets over the worst of his tension. It settles things to have something to talk about: I see you have a Japanese cork picture, the view is great from the bedroom window, the living room sunny, I like your sofa-bed but you have no microwave oven. Everyone has one these days. One should never invite newly arrived visitors to sit immediately, but allow them to move about freely for the first ten minutes, and once he has finished speculating about salary and whether there is going to be a strike, then a heavenly calm comes over him. Ólaf perches on the divan corner. And it is easy to track their facial expressions. Sigurður fishes up a brand new cigarette pack and takes off the wrapping. I reach for the red floss and clean my teeth with it. He sits there (Ólaf); I did not trust the seat with his weight. At the time of this visit, an old math problem is fresh in my memory; I recall it shortly before the conversation began. Whatever the reason, I have some antipathy to this math problem about two cars that set off simultaneously at various speeds per hour, one from Akureyri to Reykjavík, the other from Reykjavík to Akureyri, and one must find out where the cars meet. It remains beyond me to know how I got through that example. Sigurður was doing the same thing and said: You don’t need to prove whether you are as steadfast as you pretend; he launched into his stubborn argument without set-up. I was utterly opposed to it. I do not remember being bold, but noticed the wine drops on his lips before endless arguments about what one dare and dare not, whether Picasso is a better painter than Miro, who is more the author, Strindberg or Ibsen, where Laxness is in order of world-famous writers; does one need to strive to do this or that to make himself a creature, to test whether a person is in reality a creature, whether Icelanders have stagnated in a strange adolescence of small nations with thick skins. One could categorically answer yes. I remember Sigurður as a likeable, proud young man, but somehow he became a Columbus egg. And what use was that egg to Columbus now it stood broken at one end of the table. It broke and was put in the trash. Are savage tests the touchstone for human virtue? It does not occur to me to tell him. I withdraw this thought. One can withdraw one’s thoughts. You cannot judge whether you are a criminal until you are in the criminal’s position. Let him call me Tómmas; I will call him Girth, Sig-a-sig with whom Onan sought refuge, for shame’s sake. I glance at Ólaf, who in turn dares Sigurður against me with his eyes. His eye expressions are feeble, not unlike the color of the sea during gelding season, January to April. I lay on my left side, like now, and hold the pillow under my armpit, supporting my head on my hand. Maybe not, I replied reluctantly and felt my mouth distend from the emotion. I rolled onto my back and clasped my fists over my chest, which is good advice, in an emergency it’s possible to raise index fingers to the rafters and fiddle with them by one’s lips. He baited Sigurður into quarreling with me. And so we err in judging others. On closer acquaintance, you find out a man beats his wife with a frying pan, refuses to buy her medicine, and flings soup meat at her on Wednesdays. You would be wise to avoid me, Sigurður, I said calmly an
d licked my salty palm. You have no idea how I live. Tómas knows nothing about Tómas. He stamps his feet and screams to throw me off balance. This is an old but weak trick; I’m prepared: I just lift puzzled eyebrows toward my hair roots, make a dumb face and kiss my fingertips. You should not think I’m some bipedal Book of Revelations like some people are when they are in a certain mood. Ólaf egged him on with his eyes. Stop pampering yourself, how mysterious you have grown. I understand that both were satisfied with the visit, because Ólaf unexpectedly took my cause and I fell silent. They talked about the Tómmas who objekts and in arguing with Ólaf I gained, tómmas, of course, too much of an urgent victory. I was nowhere a bystander.Sobbing was going to smother meI ran as fast as feet canthey were fleetfoot and ran him down in a short timewe will sit on him in hell until he pissesthey sat themselves down, butts on my belly, and awaited developmentsI heard people shout for me at dinnerI heard shouts for me at midday coffeebut they sat fixed and patient and talked of sailing shipsthe day faded up in the sky and I blew up from inside and they felt it through the buttocks and moving energetically on my belly when the urine sprayed they cursed their soaked asses and sprang to their feet and saved themselves screeching at the stain behindfor sure we need to try everything to convince you that man is nothing. A strange thought. Sigurður and Ólaf want to blame the man who returns a day’s work up to evening, little worthless wretched behavior, and prove to him that all men are sprung of the same innate laziness. Sigurður’s mouth widened by half and the cigarettes would not stay in: police, lawyers, judges, and the whole system of criminals thank this success. I will not pay tax and support disabled people and those unfit for work dragging out a life as bill collectors. From where do you get extra money. I have long stopped charging for my evening moonlighting. Do you think that I can charge if I go out at night. I do that as a physician. Do not say anything about what you do for any purpose other than fundraising. I guess you do not put two and two together, you walk both for your health and to fundraise. Well, so it is. I am not free to do what I want. He leans back in the chair after this confession, and I point to the rafter with my index fingers. Ólaf giggles on the divan corner: Did you come here to fuck with the man. Yes, you are fucking with me I say, you fuck, fuck you just enough no mas and proud of it. Sigurður waves away a hand: What is this damned life. A tax that erodes man’s power, and finally in the grave a bank deposit of death. It is best to be an invalid and a loser, then nothing gets demanded of you. He distributes cigarette ash all around, but Ólaf puts an empty ashtray into his palm. He opens and closes the box each time the ash piles on the cigarette end. Trust a chancer to suck constantly and puff smoke from a cylindrical holder that flames on the tip, blowing it from him, tapping the ashes off with light strikes of his forefinger and sucking the cigarette holder again after awakening in the morning and before falling asleep at night; so on year after year. Well, that is devotion to cigarettes and not promiscuity. If you’re starting to get sympathy for criminals, it won’t be long until you become one. Sigurður needs to think to himself. He is quick to judge. He asks:

  Who does not seek where sympathy can be found.

  I mentally squeezed his hand. How fortunate, having yourself as one of your truest admirers. Finally you will straighten your inner self and society through your tastes. From me he’ll get no compassion. With tenacity I fail to write Sigurður away from me. Nevertheless, I wish you hearty congratulations. No, a man must put his heart into something. Now I have had enough of this visit and renounce it and change the subject.

  The cashier position I was forced to turn down because of an ingrained contempt for men who embezzle; this would tempt me to draw money to which I was not entitled yet still be innocent. I make myself imagine a number of similar cases. I fear one thought altogether. I stand guard against every thought. This is what makes me purebred. Also this: I do not allow myself to think dirtily, since I least want to turn myself into a person who commits illegal acts, infringements, or the like. I use Sigurður for this. I do not trust myself to withstand risk, yet I yearn for the risk that accompanies positions of power. Sigurður probably never believe this. With the loquacity of a great skua he speaks commandingly and arrogantly, an equal opportunity offender, of course (no need to take that out) bodily inspired by alcohol. Alternatively, the wretch sits silent and distressed. He is a bold coward, and his trademark is:

  In this message-in-a-bottle lies turbulence.

  An honest man gets neither studied nor investigated, he is a nuisance to nobody, he shies from crime. But a legion of doctors and scientists orbits around the other type, asking: What does biology tell us at the moment a crime or an offense is committed. This is what the researchers are trying to ascertain. Yes, yes. Books and books about the ugly, miserable, nasty, the lowest of humans, and the healthy component of the nation hungrily absorbs them, this useful, debatable issue, in an enthusiastic devotion to criminal nature: this beautiful work of art about ugly behavior written with a sensitive understanding of and sympathy for the underdog, lost in the struggles of life; this book about our fellow man, the outcast man. Deviant delights gussied up in many fine words. Each underdog here has murdered his adversary. All society’s aids spin to protect and assist him and find a place for him in Hotel Prison. Instead, people should write best-selling books about good and healthy people. Write best-selling books about me, Tómas Jónsson. Don’t leave it to me alone to make myself famous and wealthy. Crime can be beautiful or artistic. Is it artistic to rape a young girl in the laundry room. No. But it is newsworthy. The deed becomes beautiful if it is placed in an intriguing costume. Stop discussing them and look at those who use their time well at their desks during the day, working with drive and perseverance and adding additional employment in the evenings at home on the divan. When there is liquor on the one hand, there is always enough money to be made from spendthrifts. Stop publishing accounts of such men, mask-clad evil men and silk-gloved thieves who get rich and rob those who have nothing except honesty (how is it possible to rob a moneyless man; is it any wonder that I should ask). They are certainly different and numerous, but they make for absurd artistic subjects. Being honest and loyal is more complicated than being dishonest and deceitful. Fill newspaper columns with unartistic writings about sincere men, how they scoop up herring in the fishing grounds, how economical contracts are negotiated in trade and commerce, how an enthusiastic young man takes profitable projects to the minister until he makes a promise to herringworkers. Yes, we must do this if the press is not entirely a lost cause. A man who gets fat on waste does not seek out healthy food. People are as liable to eat garbage as are pigs in a pen.I beat three resounding whacks on the tableI should be a politicianI take off my glassesI drink from a glass of water and efface the pensioners from my mindI sit on the divanI’m tiredmy speech is nearing completionapplause rings around the hallI stagger to my feet with difficultysoon I stop being Tómas I’ve grown tired of being TómasI could just as well play the fishI walk to the doorI turn the key in the lock and hide it under a shirt in the suitcase. I lock the bag. I hide the little key to the bag. I hide it blindly so I cannot see the hiding place. I am the key to greatest courage. Fortunately, this composition book reveals nothing about me. I lay prone on the sofa. Fatigue passes through my nerves. I want nothing but warmth and rest from my routine, but man is now a completely hopeless struggle. Judging him is not in my nature. First I must weigh up everything that comes into my mind, say everything my tongue thinks to say, see everything my eye brings to me, smell all the smells the nose comes close to, hear all the sounds that hearing perceives, find all the tastes the tongue can taste, feel all the emotions that feeling can comprehend, then I will have achieved being an imperfect human, not perfect like a corpse:

  Man is what’s uttered as he dies.

  So strange a man wants to fly onward sometimes (not just sleep) like threads in a river that hesitates a moment and seems to refuse to flow out to sea accompanied by other water and try to turn back
against the current, returning to the source. There are such threads everywhere in life and nature.

  Alas! I would buy an old bike and ride out of town on Sundays. I often see adults on bicycles. Young people find it easy to balance, although if they fall off the back they quickly get to their feet and keep pressing on as if nothing happened. Old people find it harder to balance, and once they have lost it, they will rarely return to the saddle. A serious problem, sitting on a bicycle, navigating a healthy balancing position. Keep both hands clamped on the steering, pedal rapidly with your feet and adjust the saddle between your buttocks.for pessimistic people never get outraged since they lack the requisite optimismBefore I am able to offer any resistance Katrín has come down to the National Theater cellar. Restlessness in my sleep competes with the balance of waking. Kata sneaks to the table in the dark nook. I place my arm swollen from sleep around this woman swollen from sleep. We yawn in each other’s faces and smell each other. Then we kiss. She sneezes and I stick the tip of my tongue in her nostrils. With a soft gesture I place my palm gently on her womb. No woman stands with someone a few times then touches them in a dance. I have locked myself inside and do not come out. The key is lost. She drags home at night from the Theater Cellar sorely tired to me, waiting for her sleepless and patient, and saying, like people who frequently interact: Other people are very tiring and boring; I cannot be bothered to go through this. She does not drag my dog-body after her. He sits at home confined to bed. Someday she will discover herself asexual and howl indeed moan from her gills and try to ration her energy in the morning each day. Overcome with exhaustion she will quit work in the afternoon and lie down with a headache. Finally she will get overwhelmed and collapse on the sidewalk. From the nearby tobacconist’s the police are called and come to the scene and shame her with a rough arrest into their car driving her either to casualty or the basement. The newspapers publish large headlines: Woman Found Lifeless on the Steps of the National Bank. No acknowledgment of what is an open secret: the woman is taking cash for herself using forged accounts. In the office there’s grumbling, raised voices: This cannot continue. It is not possible. She will be terminated with a year’s notice. Something must be done about it, says the CEO, something cannot continue. The woman sits fast whatever happens. No denial passes her lips; she even hails from a most priestly country. A whole clan supports her: One Tómmas is in the Ministry of Justice, another Tómmas works in the Prosecutor’s Office, a third Tómmas is involved in police investigations and all these great Tómmas Tómmassons hail from the most priestly of countries. god knows it is useful to have the backing of such Tómmases here in Tómmasland. The termination suffices. I will drive the woman, since she must determine whether she goes or does not, says Ólaf. No conclusive evidence is found against this fraud apple of ours. First we need to find a party to charge but the prosecution becomes involved. No, such a thing cannot continue. Anyone in his right mind can see that. The woman is far from popular. She comes crashing in on Mondays—often barely sober—and distracts others around her by driveling about herself in the card catalog. Oh, she has such a hard time. Ólafur the office boss comes to his door and says, Listen up, something has to change; this cannot continue. This person has been unable to work for a long time because of the flu, she is not entitled to more sick days than you who never lie sick and who show up on time. No this is DEFINITELY not acceptable. Our fraud apple looks without appetite at fourteen pencils, an eraser, a ballpoint pen, and paper clips. Everywhere around her the sound: No, this cannot go on, anyone in her right mind can see that. The government must fall. This is DEFINITELY not acceptable. The other day she complained bitterly of anemia. Would it not be splendid to stroll outside at night or sit a moment in the sun and bright snow, I say tentatively. Instantly she flares up and is about to tear me apart, fussy and arrogant: You go freeze in a cold sun, you anemic nonentity, you Tómmas. I loiter powerless in front of the mirror in the bathroom and look myself up and down. I do not like her pushy manner. Her vituperative reaction results in my never speaking gently to her again. She is not of my generation. She is not as grandly vigorous as the turn-of-the-century generation. I thrash her as soon as she creeps home to my body in the night, drunk and panting and barely speaking; I squeeze words from her mouth and assail her life with blows and strikes. Little by little she is written away from me as superstition says you should do with a wart: bury a leaf in hallowed ground. Everything takes time. I write her from me with this novel. Writers try to write many warts from society. The writer is a destroyer of warts.