The Flatey Enigma

by Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson

  CHAPTER 33

  After the Whitsunday mass, the congregation drank coffee on the slope below the Flatey church. The weather was still fine so everyone sat outside, but otherwise the community center would have been opened for the after-mass coffee. The guests from the various isles took out their picnics, and little clusters of different ages and genders soon formed. District Officer Grimur found himself grouped with the old farmers of the islands. The first topic for discussion was the Dane who had been found out on Ketilsey. One of the inner isle farmers was convinced that foreign pirates had left the man there. And maybe also a treasure. Had anyone looked into that? Grimur confirmed that their investigation had revealed that there was no treasure to be found on Ketilsey. It was then prophesized that the island would be haunted for generations to come and it would yield very little while the curse lasted. Most of them agreed and glanced at the Ystakot clan, Valdi and Jon Ferdinand, who had exclusive rights on that skerry. The two men kept to themselves, drinking coffee and nibbling on the pieces of cake that someone had handed them, but the boy was nowhere to be seen.

  Grimur told the farmers that a reporter from Reykjavik had arrived on Flatey and that he was here to dig up a story about it. The district officer asked the men to be careful about what they said to this guest. There was no need to implicate the locals on the islands in this unfortunate event. There had been enough damage done as it was.

  The conversation then shifted to farming and forecasts. There was good news on the pricing front. The head of the co-op had heard that they could get eight hundred kronur for a good seal pup fur and at least fourteen hundred kronur for a kilo of cleaned eiderdown. This could be one of the islands’ best farming years if the weather stayed good.

  Question seventeen: King Harald’s meal. Fifth letter. King Olaf walked out to the pond where the children were playing. Then the king called the boys over and asked Guttormur, “What would you most like to own?”

  “Fields,” the boy answered.

  “How vast would you want the fields to be?”

  Guttormur answered, “I would want the ness to be completely sown every summer. There would be ten farms on it.”

  Next the king asked Halfdan, “What would you most want to own?”

  “Cows,” he answered.

  “How many?” the king asked.

  “So many that it would be tight for them to drink together if they were to stand all round the lake side by side.”

  The king answered, “That would be a big herd. And what would you want, Harald?”

  “Soldiers,” he answered.

  “How many?”

  “I’m not very good at counting,” he said, “but I think it would be good if there were enough of them to eat all of my brother Halfdan’s cows in one meal.”

  The king laughed and said, “You are bringing up a king here, Mother!”

  The answer is therefore “Halfdan’s cows,” and the fifth letter is d.

  CHAPTER 34

  Dagbjartur spent the rest of Whitsunday tracking down Arni Sakarias. He wasn’t at home in Raudararstig, nor at the swimming pool or the diner in Austurbaer. “Try Cafe Hresso,” said the lifeguard at the municipal swimming pool, “or 11 Laugavegur.” It was in the cafe on Laugavegur that Dagbjartur finally found the author in the company of a group of good friends. Arni Sakarias was slightly tipsy and introduced the detective to his buddies.

  “This good man here works for the detective division of the police force and is specialized in liaising with poets and writers. Salute him.”

  Dagbjartur nodded to them and got straight to the point with Arni Sakarias: “Did you know Gaston Lund, and did you know that he was connected to a child in Iceland?”

  “Those are big questions,” Arni Sakarias answered. “That can’t be answered on an empty stomach. Let’s just go to Hotel Borg and have some dinner, beef patties and fried eggs, courtesy of the police department.”

  Dagbjartur wasn’t sure he’d be able to get a reimbursement on these bills but didn’t want to run the risk of insulting Arni Sakarias. After all, the man was under no obligation whatsoever to answer these questions, and it was therefore best to keep him happy. One cheap meal wouldn’t go to waste if he got some good information out of it in return.

  Arni Sakarias wasn’t open to questions as they walked down Laugavegur, but instead launched into a lecture on contemporary poetry. It was not until he had received his payment in food at Hotel Borg that he finally came to the detective’s question:

  “You’re asking about events that took place during the royal visit of June 1936, when King Christian the tenth came over. The king was still a bit wary after his previous visit for the celebration of the Althing in 1930. Everywhere he went, conversations seemed to veer toward the Icelandic sagas, as if he was supposed to know them inside out, and he never knew what answers to give. So this time he decided to bring along a Danish scholar who was an absolute expert in the field, Gaston Lund. His job was to follow the king every step of the way and answer on his behalf if the topic of the sagas cropped up. As soon as the Icelandic government got wind of this, they were dead scared that the Danish expert would wipe the floor with the Icelanders, so they called in an Icelandic expert of their own to follow the conversations and join in if the need arose. The person they appointed for the job was me. Already on the banks of the harbor, one could see that Lund had done his homework because the king delivered a short speech in Icelandic. The day after that, we went on this dreadful trip east to the waterfall of Gullfoss and Geysir and stayed in Laugarvatn. Gaston Lund and I were like two roosters in a cock fight, although as in most cock fights, most of the energy went into strutting about and flapping our wings, but there was little actual pecking. Then we started to relax a bit, and it all ended in a wonderful booze-up.”

  Arni Sakarias pondered the memory wistfully before continuing with the story: “The following day, on the way to Reykjavik, we went to the Sogsvirkjun power plant, and some silly inauguration ceremony took place there. Then there was a dinner party in the evening at Hotel Borg, and that’s when the real story begins.”

  Arni Sakarias leaned over the table toward Dagbjartur and lowered his voice: “I arrived at the hotel early because I had some errand I wanted to discuss with Gaston Lund before the dinner party. I announced my arrival at reception, and a bellboy was sent up to his room with a note from me. I waited patiently because I knew he was preparing for the party and that it could take a while. Foreign guests were gathering in the foyer before going into the hall, and I greeted some of those I knew. Despite the crowd, I couldn’t help but notice a young woman who had planted herself on a chair in reception and was obviously waiting for someone. She was very pretty to look at and nicely dressed without being ostentatious. Standing beside the woman, there was a boy who was probably ten years old. He was also well dressed and all spruced up. No one paid them much heed, and I was probably the only one who was giving them any attention. Even though the woman was considerably younger than I was, I nevertheless allowed myself to feast my eyes on her every now and then. She was the best looking woman in the room, and I can never resist eyeing a pretty woman if I get a chance. Meanwhile, it was quite some time before Gaston Lund appeared. I was standing to one side, talking to one of the king’s retainers, and I didn’t notice straightaway that Gaston had come down the stairs. Then I saw him standing on the bottom step and gaping in horror at the woman and the boy, who were walking toward him across the reception floor. The woman said something to him when they met and offered him her hand. He responded very oddly, by refusing to accept her greeting and slipping his right hand behind his back, as if to avoid her touching it. The woman then slipped her arm around the boy’s shoulder, pushing him forward at the same time and saying out loud in Danish, ‘Gaston Lund. This boy is your son.’ Lund then backed off, moving back up two steps, and glared at him with a gaping jaw, speechless. This was beginning to attract some attention. The woman looked around apologetically on both sides and then
at Lund again. She entreated him to speak to them, by all means. Then, it was as if Lund had suddenly snapped out of a trance. He beckoned the doorman over and, pointing at the woman and boy, shouted, ‘Out, out!’ The boy, who up until that moment had been so polite, started to bawl his eyes out, and so did the woman, yes, the woman, too. I’d never seen such a pitiful sight. All the dignity she possessed vanished with that single wave of his hand. Her back stooped and she stared bleary-eyed and blankly at the floor without uttering a sound. ‘Out! Out!’ Lund shouted, horror-stricken, and waving his arms. The doorman took the woman by the arm and the boy by the collar and practically dragged them out of the building. Everyone who had been in the foyer witnessed the scene and now stared at Lund. Then he turned on his heel and ran up the stairs. The woman’s words echoed in the foyer as people repeated them. ‘She said the boy was his son,’ they kept on repeating, both in Icelandic and Danish. Those who knew Gaston Lund better than the others recalled that he had come to Iceland in the summer of 1926. Could he have had a relationship with this woman and fathered that boy? Regardless, his behavior was considered as nothing less than shameful, and he never showed himself again for the rest of trip. The story reached Copenhagen and tarnished his reputation. I’ve never been ashamed to tell this story if I’m asked. I don’t think Gaston Lund came to Iceland again until last autumn.”

  Arni Sakarias had finished his speech and now concentrated on his food. “Who was she, this woman?” Dagbjartur asked.

  The writer shook his head as he finished chewing and swallowing. “No one knows. No one who saw her at the hotel knew her by sight, and she was never seen there again. I tried to track her down, but without success. No one in town was familiar with the description I gave of the woman. It was assumed she wasn’t from Reykjavik. The Icelanders in Copenhagen tried to recall Gaston Lund’s trip to Iceland in the summer of 1926, but no one had any particular memory of any liaison with a woman. It occurred to no one to mention it to Lund himself, and bit by bit the story was forgotten in Copenhagen.”

  Question eighteen: Earl Hakon’s tooth token. First letter. Hakon became so uncontrolled with women that he felt entitled to have his way with all of them, whether they were mothers, sisters, maidens, or married. He also treated his underlings cruelly in many other ways and came to be known as Hakon the Bad. Eventually the yeomen formed an army and took up arms against him. Hakon escaped and hid with his slave, Kark, who had been given to him as a tooth token. Kark then killed the earl in their hideout and delivered his head to Olaf Tryggvason. The king rewarded Kark by having him beheaded as well. The answer is “Kark,” and the first letter is k.

  CHAPTER 35

  After dinner Kjartan strolled out onto the embankment in front of the district officer’s house. He liked feeling the breeze on his face and decided to go on a walk to the east of the island. The village had sunk into tranquility, and he passed no one but a curious calf roaming between the houses. Walking past the island store, he heard a radio through a window. A short while later he had reached Innstibaer. He felt he was being watched from the window of a house, but he avoided looking back. His mind was busy connecting the few threads linked to the disappearance of Gaston Lund. Even the women in Innstibaer. But right now he wanted to forget, and he walked across the island in a determined stride. The track meandered up to a reef that dropped onto the sea, and he saw some puffins perched on top of the rock. He carried on walking and soon stood on the shore on the innermost part of the island. The village had vanished behind him, but to the east of the strait he could make out the houses of the nearby islands in the evening sun. Far behind them the sky had darkened with clouds of rain.

  Kjartan enjoyed the view for a brief moment, but then he turned to walk back along the island’s southern shore. He spotted eider ducks flying from their nests along the trail here and there and then the arctic terns spiraling over him. He snapped an old twig of northern dock and dangled it over his head as he crossed the densest swarm of terns. It was low tide, and mud flats protruded between the small islets to the south of Flatey. Shorebirds he was unfamiliar with were feeding there. A sheep with two lambs used the opportunity to stroll over the shallows to the grassy isle on the other side of a narrow strait. Kjartan wanted to continue walking out to the little isles to the south of the inhabited island but decided to do so later. It was getting late and rainy.

  As he walked along the shore right to the south of the church, he saw a faint light glowing in the library window. Intrigued, he decided to peep in to see if there was someone inside. If it was someone he didn’t want to talk to, he could always say that he saw the light and just thought that he’d forgotten to switch it off. Then he could leave.

  He walked up the field toward the building and knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” a female voice answered from within.

  The door creaked as he opened it and stepped inside.

  Dr. Johanna sat by the glass case containing the Munksgaard edition of the manuscript open in front of her. An oil lamp glowed on the wall above her. A small gas heater on the floor generated some cozy warmth.

  Kjartan hovered in the doorway and finally said, “I was in the church this morning when they announced that your father passed away. I’m very sorry.”

  She was slow to answer but finally said, “Thank you. My father was actually very ill, and he’d been longing to die for some time.”

  “I know, but it’s still sad to lose a father,” said Kjartan.

  “Yes, that’s certainly true. It leaves a vacuum, and maybe it’s harder than I expected. I came here this evening to take a look at the books he admired the most.”

  Kjartan looked around. “It’s not a big library,” he said.

  “No, but it’s served its purpose for a hundred and thirty years. The building is exactly 11.2 feet wide and 15.4 feet long, I’m told.”

  She was leafing through the manuscript again.

  “Are you reading the Flatey Book?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m just perusing through it and jogging old memories. My father knew the original version of this manuscript more than most. The islanders take good care of their book, though, even if it’s just an imperfect copy. They normally keep it under this glass, but I’ve been given permission to browse through it.”

  Kjartan drew closer and looked at the book. “Can you read that text?” he asked.

  “Yes, most of it.”

  “Where did you learn that?”

  “My father taught me, indirectly.”

  “How do you mean, indirectly?”

  “It might strike some people as odd, but it seemed perfectly logical to me at the time. My mother died when I was six, and after that I was brought up by my father on his travels. We lived in Copenhagen when Dad was working on his research at the Arnamagn?an Institute and the Royal Library. He’d just completed his doctorate when my mother was diagnosed with the cancer that killed her within two years. My father and I were very close and couldn’t be parted from each other after that. Dad was withdrawn and didn’t mix much with other people unless he had to for his work. So we had few friends. I learned very early on that if I could sit quietly and behave, I could follow my father just about anywhere. He, therefore, never tried to find me a foster home. I didn’t even go to school until we moved back to Iceland after the war. Dad taught me everything I needed to learn and a lot more besides. It mightn’t have been on the national syllabus, but he often allowed me to decide what we read myself.”

  She smiled at the memory. “I also believe that children should be allowed to choose what they study. The subjects should be introduced to them, and then they should decide. I realize that that would mean that everyone would have to have a private tutor, of course, which wouldn’t be very economical.”

  Johanna smiled again and then continued: “My father traveled around the Nordic countries and Germany, delivering lectures about the Icelandic sagas at universities. I tagged along and sat in the corners of the lecture halls. I often rea
d something I brought along with me or drew pictures or allowed myself to daydream about having friends and playmates. Naturally I longed for friends, but I never dared to tell my father that. I was too scared he would send me to boarding school so that I could mix with other girls. He sometimes mentioned that it might be a good idea, but I categorically refused. He was all I had after Mom died, and I didn’t dare to let go. I preferred to be with him on his trips and put up with sitting still in stuffy classrooms for hours on end.”

  Johanna mused in silence a moment and then continued: “Sometimes I listened to Dad when he was delivering his lectures. I also accompanied him when he was conducting his research at the library. That was on the same conditions. I was never to disturb him while he was working. The manuscript texts could be difficult to read, and he was used to reading them out loud and skimming the words with his finger. I often stood by his side, listening and following. That’s how I learned how to read the Gothic letters and understand the spelling and abbreviations.”

  Johanna stopped talking. Kjartan’s question had been answered.

  “That must have been an odd life,” he said.

  “Yes, but they were also very special times. I was only ten when the war broke out, and after that people just became preoccupied with themselves. No one gave much thought to a little foreign toddler of a girl following her dad around everywhere.”