Ragnheiður gives the boy a shamefully undisguised look, as if she were feeling him with her eyes, and he has no idea what to do with himself.
What, for example, should he do with these hands, so long and ugly and constantly getting in his way?
What is he supposed to do with these idiotic eyes?
Or these grotesque feet?
And who might you be? asks Ragnheiður after he has suffered for several seconds, each second around a hundred years. There may be curiosity in her voice, but also a great deal of haughtiness. The boy needs to gather his courage to look into Ragnheiður’s face, and that he does, gathers courage and looks into her face. Two auburn curls have fallen down around her temples. Her eyes are as gray as the rock faces in some places in the mountains, difficult to look into them but it’s also very difficult to ignore them. She’s beautiful, thinks the boy in surprise.
And he is entirely correct.
Ragnheiður has worked in the shop for three years, we first said, yes, Friðrik’s girl, the apple of his eye, the emperor’s daughter, but that soon stopped when we realized that in a certain sense she wasn’t the daughter of anyone but herself and made decisions without consulting her father. Some people feared her even more than Friðrik. She has denied people credit in the dead of winter when the cold has penetrated the houses and everything freezes that can freeze, liquids and hope, and all the food nearly gone, but Ragnheiður simply points at the high level of debt and the frivolous debits, sweets, tobacco, and again tobacco, brennivín, figs, she chills the person in question to the bone with her eyes. Her voice can be sharp and can cleave full-grown men, hardened by the sea, from their shoulders right down. Yet she is only twenty-one years old and life sometimes quivers within her.
The boy certainly gets a hard and cold feeling from her, but that simply charms him in a strange, unexplainable way. Queen of the Polar Sea, he thinks, and loses himself entirely in her eyes, forgets everything but her stone-gray eyes in her petite face, framed by her auburn hair. Ragnheiður leans forward a bit and says quietly, maybe you’re mute? Did Geirþrúður want to get herself a mute since she already had a blind man? The boy feels the blush spreading over his cheeks, say something, you fool, he orders himself, there’s no need to come across as a complete idiot even though you are one. He looks away, having gone far toward turning completely beet-red, but then sets his eyes on The Will of the People, our newspaper, which lies folded on the countertop. STILL ICED OVER ON THE BALTIC SEA, is the front-page headline, LAURA REMAINS TRAPPED IN THE ICE WITH GOODS AND PACKAGES FOR ICELAND. Frozen solid with all the letters from students in Copenhagen, some so hot with homesickness and admissions of love that it would certainly be enough to let them dangle off the prow to melt the ice and clear the water. Something stirs in the boy’s heart. He looks again into the stone-gray eyes and says, so softly that Ragnheiður has to lean even farther forward to hear, I just don’t know who I am. I don’t know why I am. And I am not entirely sure that I’ll be given time to find out.
Why in the hell did I say that? he thinks in confusion and tries not to look too much at the white breasts partly revealed when she leans forward. Ragnheiður straightens up, there is a trace of uncertainty in her face but then the tip of her tongue appears unexpectedly between her lips, red and glistening with moisture.
A tip of a tongue that appears in this way seems to carry with it a message from within, from within the darkness of the body.
Dammit, thinks the boy.
The stone-gray eyes run slowly, very slowly, down his body. Eyes are invisible hands that stroke, feel, touch, find. Then she smiles. It is a deliberate, haughty smile, yet seems to quiver a tiny bit, almost invisibly, when she says, you should get some proper clothing. And you should straighten up a bit, then I’ll talk to you better. But don’t you dare try to say hello to me in the street!
Then there is nothing but the counter between them.
The boy had, without realizing it, moved closer, wanting to discover how she smelled, her scent, we’re more courageous when we think nothing, the hesitation, the nervousness, come with thinking. He’s like an animal and comes so close to her that he can hear her breathe. The tip of her tongue appears again, momentarily, a message to him from the darkness, then she takes a step back, her eyes turn cold and haughty and giant icebergs rise between them.
X
Þorunn’s a good person, and she’s invaluable company for Geirþrúður and me, Helga says as they walk from the shop, she with one bag, he with loads, grateful for the weight, he who bears a burden can forget himself in the exertion, rest his mind, and uncertainty doesn’t tear him to shreds in the meantime. Uncertainty about life, about what is to come, about himself and now also Ragnheiður, this girl with the stone-gray eyes, the tip of her tongue, her breasts, incomprehensibly enchanting in her haughtiness and coldness, cold as pack ice, why did I have to fall for an iceberg? A good person and valuable company, says Helga about Þorunn and appears about to add something, perhaps tell the boy something about this Þorunn, and the boy is astonished at how open, almost talkative, Helga has become, but then they hear heavy footsteps approaching, it’s good to carry something heavy, says a dusky, sonorous voice, and Brynjólfur strides past the boy, slaps him heavily on the shoulder. The captain has three bottles of beer in his pockets, and therefore life is pretty good. Four or five bottles would naturally have been even better, but Gunnar was so damned grumpy and curt that it would have been a bad idea to ask for more. Brynjólfur greets Helga cheerfully and is going to stride past her but she stops the giant by putting out her hand, he seems to grow agitated, reaches instinctively into his pocket for a beer, opens the bottle and takes a gulp. Weren’t you supposed to be on board your ship a long time ago, preparing it to sail, Helga says more than asks, the other captains are well into their preparations, but your ship is still lying there on the beach while you loaf in the shops and drink beer, that’s not very considerate to Snorri. Brynjólfur raises one of his arms, heavy with striking power, enormous strength, but he can also raise it gently, and then his open palm is like an apologetic smile. Helga snorts and Brynjólfur says, somewhat enthusiastically, I’m starting today, my dear, I’m starting today! I’d like for you to stick to your word, she says simply and walks away with the boy behind her. Brynjólfur winks at him, takes another swig of beer, goes first in the opposite direction from them but then turns down another street, the boy and Helga continue in the direction of Geirþrúður’s house, he thankful for getting to carry such weight, trying not to think more about Ragnheiður, about the breasts that stretched toward him when she leaned forward, about the tip of her tongue glistening with moisture, about the stone-gray eyes, cold and repellent but at the same time so enchanting. She is a huge iceberg, he thinks, a huge iceberg with polar bears that tear me into pieces and eat me. But when he finally manages to push her out of his thoughts, the questions about life come at him, about whether he should live, and then why, and whether he deserves to.
Oh, uncertainty is a bird shrieking above his head.
Now we shall simply leave him alone, just for a moment, and maybe for a moment more. Just allow him to be at one with his burden, leave him in peace and instead follow this captain, Brynjólfur, as he saunters in the direction of Snorri’s Shop, taking his sweet time.
A person carrying three beers doesn’t have much need to hurry in this world.
XI
If you take the shortest path to Snorri’s Shop from Central Square and don’t dawdle, it should take you around five minutes. But that is of course an unnecessarily short amount of time now, because it’s so good to drink beer, absolutely unbelievably good, what was a short time ago heavy and unconquerable becomes a breeze. Now I’ll start preparing the ship, says Brynjólfur to himself, says it out loud, informs the world of this decision of his, punches himself in the chest, a mighty blow, does it both to beat his chest and to encourage himself. First he’ll go to Snorri, arrange things with him, they’ll make plans, enjoy the moment together, perh
aps toast each other over a strong drink, then he’ll walk with a lantern down to the ship, wake it from its heavy winter sleep, have his moments with it and wake the crew in the morning. Yes! Brynjólfur punches himself in the chest again, happily, victoriously, the one captain who hasn’t started to prepare his ship for the fishing season, the others far ahead and soon to sail, but the ship of Brynjólfur and the merchant Snorri still sleeps at the edge of the beach, lies there clumsily, like a flightless bird. Brynjólfur hasn’t even looked once in its direction, despite Snorri having twice urged him, in his hesitant, apologetic way, completely useless at coaxing people, which is no good because his shop stands on shaky feet, its outstanding debts outnumbering its assets. Those who owe are mostly common laborers living in the old neighborhood, fishermen, renters, a farmer or two. Some have difficulties paying, while others perhaps don’t put much effort into work, and consciously or unconsciously take advantage of Snorri’s irresolution and kindness, which he frequently tries to suppress but with little success, kindness in one person can evoke rottenness in others. Snorri has his best moments at an old, tired organ, and he also feels fine when he sings in church on New Year’s Eve, Easter Sunday, at midsummer, when he sings in praise of light, as Reverend Þorvaldur calls it, and those who owe money to Snorri, some with debts of many years, feel a bit ashamed, yet that’s an ache that everyday life erases. It is the ship’s catch on which Snorri relies, Brynjólfur knows that very well, and perhaps that is why he punches himself on the chest for the third time as he turns down School Street, knows he already should have come a long way in preparing his ship, it is called The Hope, a beautiful and bright name, a fifteen-year-old ship Snorri bought new from Norway. It was first named Jón Sigurðsson after the staid hero of Icelandic independence, but then Snorri had it hauled up to the edge of the beach and got Bjarni the painter to paint The Hope in red on the bow. A few days earlier Snorri’s wife had gone aboard the Thyra south to Reykjavík, so advanced in her illness that she needed to be carried on board. Of course Snorri went with her, but had to return here to the west on the next boat to keep the company operating smoothly.
And months passed.
Jens, then newly appointed as overland postman, delivered letters from her, but they grew shorter and shorter as the summer passed, the handwriting weaker and less legible. Snorri peered at the crooked and distorted words, the shaky handwriting witnessing his wife’s dwindling vitality. Oh, it’s become a bit difficult now, she wrote in a letter at the start of August, the first words of complaint to come from her, I sometimes awake with cold hands inside me. They are colder than ice, and move closer to my heart every day. Dear Snorri, if worse comes to worst, if God calls me to him, then you must be strong. You must not break. Think of our boys. I trust that you will get them into school, as we have always planned . . . but now I cannot write more . . . my beloved husband. Or he thought he saw those words there at the end, my beloved husband, although to be sure it was incredibly unlike her to express herself so openly, display her affection with such naked words. Snorri locked himself in his office so he could weep without running the risk of anyone discovering him. It was two weeks until the coastal boat would stop here on its way south and Snorri couldn’t wait that long, life wasn’t so long, good men loaned him two horses and he galloped off, rode straight into the fjord and up the Tungudalur Valley, the horses spirited, strong, but he like a cry of desperation on the back of one of them.
If God calls me to him.
Snorri returned a month later. It was September. He got caught in winter weather on the heaths but came down into the valley in happy sunshine and birdsong, perfect calm and 15 degrees Celsius, returned the horses, thanked the creatures by putting his arms around their necks, and the horses rubbed their large heads against the merchant, then he went home to see to raising the boys and running the shop. For a long time no one dared speak to him about anything but common matters and what the language could deal with easily, about fish, the shop, the weather. It was mainly those who were interested in music and who could connect with Snorri by means of those ties who could come anywhere near him, yet that wasn’t much. Jens clearly knew something but felt it useless to spread it around and folk saw quickly that it could be dangerous to press him on the matter, his face would grow dark and his large fists would clench and folk would hurry to change the topic. We’re thus unsure of certain small details; all we know is that God certainly called her to himself. Some clearly have ears for his voice, while we, who ramble here, dead yet still alive, listen and listen but never hear anything. But God spoke to her. And then laid his hand over her abdomen, where the pain was worst and the hands coldest, and when Snorri came to Reykjavík, exhausted and sleep-deprived on worn-out horses, his wife Aldís received him in full health, the pain gone and a peculiar light shining from her. Snorri was actually half wary of her, something unconquerable had risen between them and nothing was like it had been before. Snorri tried everything he could to bring her home, but what is a man’s word when God has spoken? Three weeks later he rode home, but Aldís sailed to Copenhagen and started to do the work proscribed to her by God.
Jens delivers two letters a year from Aldís. They don’t go through the hands of Dr. Sigurður because Jens gives them to Snorri in person, and these dispassionately written letters are full of godly light that illuminates the face of the merchant and the beard that has grizzled greatly. But all light casts shadows, that’s just how it is, and it’s in the shadow of the light of God that Snorri lives, because in place of being happy and celebrating, he misses Aldís and is bitter toward God for having taken her from him. He expects that his ingratitude is great and sinful, I will burn in Hell for this, he sometimes thinks with remorse. Snorri plays the organ almost every day, Bach, Chopin, Mozart, but also some meandering melodies sprung from regret and guilt. Music is unlike everything else. It is the rain that falls in the desert, the sunshine that illuminates hearts, and it is the night that comforts. Music ties people together, so Snorri is not always alone when he pumps the organ, strokes the bow over the strings of an old fiddle, its highest note so thin and sharp that it can sunder hearts. Benedikt is sometimes with him, you remember, the skipper who blows the signal to depart, the Custodian waits at the seashore with three hundred fishermen all around. And there are more who come to Snorri for the music, women and men, but a person can sit surrounded by many and still be alone; it is first and foremost for his boys that Snorri lives. They are the hope that keeps him afloat, both in the Learned School, one about to finish and determined to become a priest, the other wishes to go further, to Copenhagen, to study veterinary science, they live with their father during the summers and then he rediscovers happiness, and it’s because of them that he toils away at the shop, fights an exhausting fight to keep it going, it’s expensive to educate the boys, girls are cheaper to manage and have few opportunities for education, have little opportunity in general and lose their freedom simply by marrying.
Brynjólfur winces slightly. Not, however, because of the girls, their limited opportunities, but because of the responsibility that rests upon him, and his remorse, two birds sitting on his shoulders and shoving their claws deep into his flesh. But now everything’s getting better, absolutely! After three or four hours he’ll have come with his lantern down to The Hope, will have started to talk to the ship, started to make preparations. Tomorrow he’ll wake the impatient crew and after that there’ll be no slacking! Brynjólfur is glad, has started on his second beer and feels the third beer bottle in his right pocket, soon I’ll drink it, he thinks with a smile, and walks past the school that the brothers Jón the joiner and Nikulás the carpenter, called Núlli, built in their time, a tall, rather narrow building, with three large windows on the front of the upper story, so large it’s as if the building eternally opens its eyes wide with wonder. The school was meant to be only one story but we’re no good at sticking to agreements, besides Núlli and Jón found it immensely enjoyable to build the school, they both dreame
d of going to school in their youth and often told each other, now we’re building for the children, now we’re building for the future, their world should be better than ours, and because of this they added another story. It is slightly narrower and it’s a bit as if the building has not only opened its eyes wide but has also taken a deep breath. The town council would not agree to their ideas unconditionally and used lack of money as an excuse, but the brothers still had all the money they received for building the Tower House of Elías the Norwegian, a huge building located on Central Square, it was the first time they’d been paid cash and they kept the money at home, and neither had the heart to spend it or found a decent enough reason to do so. They then started constructing the school, and there they finally found a worthy project. Besides, we also had a lucky break: a ship carrying choice Norwegian timber was stranded not far from here, on its way to Akureyri. It had sought shelter from a storm, took its chance on the fjords, those tremendous jaws that gape open toward the Polar Sea, and never made it out again. Two crewmen drowned, their bodies were never found and thus they were added to the large group of fishermen who ramble about the seafloor, jabbering to each other about the jog trot of time, waiting for the final call that someone had promised them in days of old, waiting for God to pull them up, fish them up with his net of stars, dry them off with his warm breath, permit them to walk with dry feet in Heaven, where one never eats fish, say the drowned, always just as optimistic, busy themselves with looking up at the boats, expressing amazement at the new fishing gear, cursing the rubbish that people leave behind in the sea, but sometimes weeping with regret for life, weeping as drowned folk weep, and that is why the sea is salty.
It was of course very bad that these men drowned, but the timber from the ship was a windfall that could likely be put to use for the upper story of the elementary school.
Heaven and Hell Page 12