When Kolbeinn lost his sight he owned just under four hundred books. Some were large and expensive and came on ships from Copenhagen, like the book that killed Bárður. Naturally, a considerable amount of money went into his purchases, and the women who had dreamt of a life with this energetic but grumpy and sometimes peculiar sea captain thanked God it hadn’t worked out, and thanked him even more when Kolbeinn lost his sight and thereby became a helpless wretch. We don’t know when his vision began to fail, he hid it extraordinarily well, adjusted himself to the dwindling light, simplified his work habits, the crew naturally noticed the changes in his behavior but blamed the man’s waxing eccentricity and bookishness; as long as he continued to fish, it was his business. And that is what he did. Yet he had ceased long ago to discern his position against the mountains, it was simply as if he could smell the fish down in the sea. And then his sight extinguished completely. He went to bed and could still read by bringing his face almost completely up to the pages of the book, he could see his hands fairly well, saw the outlines of houses, but the stars in the sky were long since gone from him, and then he wakes in utter darkness.
First he lay extremely calmly and waited for his sight, or what was left of it, to return. He lay there as long as he could. Then started to move his head. Looked quickly from side to side, opened his eyes wide, rubbed them, but nothing changed, they were dead and the darkness pressed so tightly against him that he had trouble breathing. He sat up quickly to catch his breath, punched himself in the head, softly at first, then hard, hit it against the wall repeatedly and ever harder, perhaps in the hope that whatever had sprung apart would fall back into place, but the darkness stood firm, did not leave him. It had seized him and would never release its grip. Then he tottered out and made it safe and sound to his reading chair beneath the window, sat there upright, his face bloody, waited for his helmsman to arrive and thought a little about the knife that can easily cut an artery in two. But first he had to speak to his helmsman and then try to scratch something down on paper, however he could accomplish it. He owned more than a half share in the ship, all those books, and the house, and it wouldn’t do to die and leave it all without having settled it somewhere before that, otherwise rascals and sharks like Friðrik and Lárus would gather it all up and throw out whatever they didn’t care about. Finally the helmsman came to check on Kolbeinn, who was always first to show up at the ship, but now the entire crew waited there scratching their heads, maybe you’re sick, asked the helmsman hesitantly and felt a kind of coldness sift into himself, cold and fear, when he looked at Kolbeinn’s face and saw the dried blood and the eyes horrifically empty. Kolbeinn turned his terrifying face in the direction of the voice and said calmly, decisively, you pilot the ship today, I am blind. Go. I’ll speak to you later. And the helmsman drew back, scared of the blind eye, scared, as always, of that damned man, drew back and down to the ship, said little and revealed nothing until they were well out to sea, with five days of fishing ahead of them. Kolbeinn groped his way through the house in search of a pen and paper, fell twice over the furniture, in the second instance ran into the bookshelf, sat there a long time, and ran his fingers along the spines of the books, maybe Hell is a library and you’re blind, he muttered, tried to grin but it served little purpose and four or five tears ran from his eyes, hopefully not more, he thought, shattered over not being able to endure this shock without tears, those transparent fish escaping from him.
So that’s all a man amounts to, when it really comes down to it you break like a pitiful piece of rotten wood, he said to Geirþrúður, who had found him on the floor in front of the bookshelf. Are you blind, Kolbeinn? she asked, not in a concerned or a merciful way, but rather as if she were asking whether his fingers hurt. What does it look like to you? he retorted bitterly, then asked her to find him a pen and paper, which she did, without a word, and put it in his lap. He poked around for the pen and took a book from the shelf to use as a writing desk, then sat and did nothing. Time passed and Geirþrúður, who had stopped by to return a book and borrow another, just sat and waited until he said, I can’t write.
What do you want to write?
It’s none of your business.
That’s certainly true, but I can still write for you.
Then take the bloody rubbish, he said, and threw the pen and paper out into the darkness whence her voice came.
What should I write?
I own more than half the ship, these books, and this house, and I don’t want some bastards appropriating these things for themselves.
Should I write that?
Of course not, don’t be so bloody stupid.
Why do you think they’ll appropriate what you own?
Because I’m a wretch and will soon be dead.
As far as I can . . . she stopped, continued, you appear to be living and breathing now. When he didn’t answer she added, or so it looks to me.
Kolbeinn gave a little start but otherwise acted as if nothing was wrong and said, but you don’t expect me to keep living like this, a blind wretch, useless to everyone, completely helpless and dependent?
Are you going to kill yourself, then?
What else should I do, dance perhaps?
You can live with me and Helga, we need company sometimes.
Are you calling me company?!
You’ll get an excellent room that can hold all your books; you sell your house and I’ll take over your share in the ship and we’ll call it even.
When there is a choice between life and death, most choose life.
Geirþrúður took Kolbeinn with her through the Village and up to the house, like an old, wretched dog it would have been an act of charity to shoot. This was four years ago. Since then Kolbeinn hasn’t gone any further than out to the garden gate, sits in the garden when the weather is mild and the sun heats the air, but otherwise feels best in the Café, gulping coffee, listening to the guests if any are present. Helga and Geirþrúður take turns reading to him, mostly in the afternoon or in the evenings when the darkness has softened the world and gone out into space after the stars, then they sit together in the parlor, this peculiar, profane trinity. We have never understood why she took the old seawolf under her wing, so temperamental and unsociable. They had known little of each other before, she had borrowed books from him on occasion, but perhaps they go excellently together; both of them blind, he physically, she morally.
But now the trinity is no longer a trinity because the boy has joined the group. He pours coffee into the mug that once belonged to an English poet, says, there you are every time, but Kolbeinn acts as if he’s not there, as if he doesn’t see me, mutters the boy to himself, getting a bit of a chuckle out of this.
He had told the trinity the story of how life changed to death.
Helga had returned and brought Kolbeinn with her and the boy told them about the sea voyage.
How Bárður had forgotten his waterproof, how they had rowed an unusually long way out. He told of how the weather had worsened, then turned cold, how a gale blew up, then how the waves started to dash over the boat. Bárður immediately became soaked and cold, so wet and so cold that it would have changed nothing even if someone had loaned him his waterproof and thereby possibly sacrificed his own life, perhaps the lives of all of them. He who is soaked so far out on the open sea, in storm winds and frost, is doomed to die. The boy hadn’t perhaps fully realized it then, or hadn’t wanted to, and it’s likely only now, for the first time, that it comes to him that the only hope was to get Bárður quickly enough to shore, to punch the ice and frost off the sail, off the boat itself, so it could attain a good speed. Yet that was still no hope, but instead more of a mirage. An illusion.
Then the boy told of how he went through the valley and the dark night with the book that killed his friend, nothing is sweet to me, without thee.
Geirþrúður listened with her eyes half shut, the white eyelids sunk over the night of the eyes; Helga looked at the red cover because eyes must b
e somewhere, they aren’t like hands that can just sleep, feet that no one notices for a long time, eyes are completely different, they only rest behind the eyelids, the curtain of dreams. Eyes must be treated with care. We must think about where we point them and when. Our whole life streams out of our eyes, and thus they can be cannons, music, birdsong, war cries. They can reveal us, they can save you, destroy you. I saw your eyes and my life changed. Her eyes frighten me. His eyes hypnotize me. Just look at me, then all will be good and perhaps I can sleep. Old stories, possibly as old as humanity, tell us that no living being can stand to look into the eyes of God because they contain the fountain of life and the abyss of death.
The boy described Bárður’s eyes. Had to describe them, revive them, let them shine one more time. The brown eyes an obscure and foreign fisherman left behind on shore a very long time ago. Geirþrúður and Helga rarely looked at the boy as he told his story, Geirþrúður perhaps once, the other slightly more often, but the captain’s blind eyes rested on him the entire time and didn’t waver, cold, lifeless, darkened windows, nothing can come out, nothing can get in. The story went on longer than he had expected it to. He forgot himself. Lost himself. Left existence and vanished into the story, touched his dead friend there and revived him. Perhaps the purpose of the story was to resurrect Bárður, break into the kingdom of death armed with words. Words can have the might of giants and they can kill a god, they can save lives and destroy them.
Words are arrows, bullets, mythological birds that chase down gods, words are fish many thousands of years old that discover something horrible in the deep, they are nets vast enough to trap the world and the sky as well, but sometimes words are nothing, torn garments that the frost penetrates, a run-down battlement that death and misfortune step lightly over.
Yet words are the one thing this boy has. Apart from the letters from his mother, his coarse woolen pants, woolen clothing, three thin books or pamphlets he brought with him from the hut, sea-boots, and ragged shoes. Words are his most trusted companions and confidants but are still quite useless when put to the test—he is unable to revive Bárður and Bárður knew that the entire time. This is why he stood in the doorway before and said, and there I was, thinking you were going to come to me, but left unsaid what the boy worked out for himself: because I cannot come to you.
There was silence after he finished his story, silence he himself broke by muttering, as if distracted, I need to write to Andrea and tell her I’m alive.
Silence after a long narrative indicates whether it has mattered or was told for nothing, indicates whether the narrative had entered and touched something or just shortened the hours and nothing more.
None of them moved until heavy blows unchained them. Someone was pounding on the house outside. Helga stood up, stood up slowly, then she came with a paper and pen that she handed to the boy and said, we should care for those who matter to us and who have goodness in them, and preferably never put it off, life is too short for that and sometimes ends suddenly, as you have come to know unnecessarily well. Then she went out to see what fist was responsible for the blows.
We should care for those who matter to us and who have goodness in them.
This must be one of the laws of life, and the Devil kicks the asses of those who don’t heed it.
Helga’s dress rustled when she left the parlor, she left behind a scent as well as the warmth that remained on the boy’s cheeks after she stroked them quickly with four fingers. Old Kolbeinn stood up, murmured something softly and unintelligibly, used his cane to feel his way forward but carelessly, knew the way and crossed the room quickly, followed Helga, her fragrance and the rustling, and then the two of them were left sitting there, he and this woman with eyes as black as a January night. They looked straight at the boy as he held the pen, her inner life streamed from her eyes and was perhaps infected by their color. We all liked Bárður very much, she said slowly, or, rather, softly and carefully, and will continue to miss him, each in our own way, which goes for Kolbeinn as well even though it looks like he’s feeling almost anything other than regret. But you can easily count on one hand the people to whom Kolbeinn loans books, not to mention this book.
They heard Helga’s footsteps approaching, quickly, calmly, some walk in such a way that it seems nothing can knock them off balance, as if they had no difficulty with any path, then there are others who are nothing but hesitation. So you see that footsteps can say much about a person: walk over to me, then perhaps I will know whether I love you.
It’s Brynjólfur, said Helga in the doorway, and the boy thought he could see the faint smile on Geirþrúður’s face, thirsty for beer, she added. You aren’t happy about that, said Geirþrúður, still with her faint smile. Helga shook her head, he should already have started getting the ship ready, simple as that, she said. Nothing is simple, said Geirþrúður, but perhaps better that he’s drinking here than with Marta and Ágúst. Geirþrúður acted as if she didn’t hear Helga’s snort, turned to the boy and said straight out, without warning, as if they had already agreed on something previously, this will be your first job in the house. To serve one captain beer and see to it that another captain has enough coffee, and then you should buy yourself some proper clothing, some things are suited to the sea, others the land. Helga will go with you this afternoon and see to it that you buy yourself something decent, at my expense, since I assume you’re going to be living here, she added, perhaps because of the look on the boy’s face, a look of someone who doesn’t know whether he’s relieved, whether he’s embarrassed about something, or whether he’s just pleased.
I only came to return a book, he could finally say, after he’d been silent for a good long time and endured the gaze of two women.
Geirþrúður pressed a long, slender finger against her lips for a moment and said, we don’t always know entirely what we want, or choose to suppress it; where were you thinking of going otherwise? I find it difficult to imagine that you would return to the sea, you’re not really a fisherman and it would be a waste to make you work salting fish. I might best believe that you have no idea of what you can do, or who you are, but Helga and I have our suspicions about that and we’re not so stupid when we make an effort. For that reason let us decide for you, at least at first. Naturally, you need to work for your housing, food and clothing, and you can start by looking after those two poor sea captains.
But I don’t know how to do anything, blurted out the boy.
This is so strange.
Words are inclined to jump like that out of him and therefore he often says things that are complete nonsense and get him into trouble or attract unnecessary attention to himself, which is almost the same as getting oneself into trouble. Sometimes he tries to make up for the nonsense by saying something immediately afterward, but frequently only makes bad worse, and here he added, I’d actually got work in Leó’s Shop this summer. Bárður and I made a deal with Jón, or, rather, Bárður did, it was he who got us the job, I got the job because of him and now he’s dead and I don’t know what’s going to happen, he concluded this short, confused explanation, what the hell was I saying, he thought, and cursed himself. Geirþrúður did not let this bother her and simply said, he who doesn’t know how to do anything has nothing to do in Leó’s Shop, Tove would have you cut into bait after the first week and you’d hardly want that? But we here, the trinity, and now she clearly smiled, know better than Tove how to measure people like you. You know how to read and it’s my understanding that you have good handwriting, isn’t that right? The boy thought it enough to nod his head, didn’t dare open his mouth and let some sort of nonsense slip out. Well, the little you know how to do is fine with us, there are precious few who know how to read in this town, because it’s one thing to be able to read and another to know how to read, there’s a huge gap between the two. I expect you’ll be staying here with us, two weeks or twenty years, it’s your choice, you can leave whenever you wish. You’ll have the room you slept in and can try
to make a deal with Kolbeinn about using his books, but wait a bit with that, let him get used to you, you’ll read to him in the evenings and he’ll soften up little by little. Otherwise there are several books here in the outer parlor, take the ones you want. There’s just one other thing: you can expect to be sullied if you decide to live here with us; it’s my fault, but you have to be able to take it.
I’ve always liked ravens, said the boy, again without thinking, the words simply rush out of him. Who sits down there and controls the words?
To his amazement and incredible relief they both smiled. He saw all of Geirþrúður’s teeth, so white, two sharp canines but the front teeth in her lower gum were crooked, which is good, what is white and perfectly straight becomes wearisome after a time. Without sin there is no life.
XIV
And now he sits here. Over two sea captains and a dip pen. Which one should he write, my dear Andrea or dearest Andrea? Kolbeinn and Brynjólfur are sitting to his right at the corner of the table, Helga taught him what to do, to serve beer, coffee, how to record it, you call me if you can’t handle it, then she was gone and he alone with the old men. Brynjólfur stares at him every now and then, his hair and beard ruffled, bring me a beer, you damned kitten, he calls in a thunderous voice although the first bottle is completely empty, he’s like a calf with diarrhea, explains Brynjólfur to Kolbeinn. But the boy couldn’t care less about being called a damned kitten, a shitting calf, they’re just words and are quite powerless if one doesn’t pay them any heed, they just pass through and touch nothing. Besides, Brynjólfur has a greater and more intimate interest in beer than in him, and his temper grows softer the more he drinks. Two beers and the world is no longer wicked and full of all kinds of rubbish that irritates an honest man. Because we are honest men, you and I, he says to Kolbeinn, who says in his hoarse, almost grating voice that honesty is a luxury for spiritless angels, I don’t understand you, says Brynjólfur, so deep-voiced that the fishes down in the sea tremble when he stands on deck and speaks loudly. I didn’t think you would, rasps the other. Then explain it and may the Devil eat that puppy there, I think he’s a spiritless wretch. Then the Devil isn’t interested in him, says Kolbeinn, the spiritless grow angels’ wings. You’re strange, the giant rumbles, and that’s why I’ve always liked you so much. Then the old seadogs start talking about fish and the sea and the boy stops listening, except with one ear and barely that, or just enough to notice when they ask for beer or coffee, it’s safer for him to react promptly and efficiently, but when Brynjólfur has beer he can be alone with his thoughts, the other slurps coffee that is as black as the darkness surrounding him. They are of similar age but Kolbeinn’s face appears to be older, by a difference of around a hundred years. They talk about the sea and about debauchery, they talk passionately about fish, cod swim in their veins, sharks dive deep down into their livers, there are storms and severe frosts and deathly dark seas, Brynjólfur sways and holds on tightly to the table so as not to be cast overboard, Kolbeinn’s thick tongue licks the salt from his lips. The boy has brought eight beers to Brynjólfur, has poured coffee just as often into the mug of the English poet, the poet is thirsty, says Kolbeinn, and lifts the mug, the boy brings coffee at the same time, at first knows nothing about this Wordsworth and that he had owned the mug, flabbergasted that Kolbeinn should call himself a poet and becomes even more confused about him, what damned poet? asks Brynjólfur finally when Kolbeinn calls for coffee for the fourth time, and looks around as if he wants to hit something, the boy hardly dares to breathe. You’re a fool, rasps Kolbeinn, it was an English poet who owned this mug here, then he smirks derisively, his face becomes savage and his useless eyes stare at Brynjólfur, who suddenly feels great sorrow, his joy in his beer disappears and he hangs his deeply etched head, why do you have to be so cruel, he mutters, but Kolbeinn doesn’t reply, and what was he supposed to reply, and for a while nothing is heard but the blind man’s slurping, Brynjólfur stares at the bottle and tries to find his joy again. The boy writes, my dear Andrea, and longs so deeply to underline the word dear many times, because his affection for Andrea suddenly spreads through him. Now she is alone in the fishing hut, Guðrún alone in the other one, why don’t I think more about Guðrún, his heart doesn’t jump even once when he thinks of her name, and where is Bárður now, his body, this dead and useless sheath he left behind when he departed, where is it stored until someone comes for it? And was it wrong of me to leave so suddenly, was it escape, wasn’t it betrayal? And why in the hell do I absolutely need to recall this Ragnheiður now, why was she showing me the goddamned tip of her tongue? He stares down at the page and doesn’t immediately hear Brynjólfur, who then has excellent reason to raise his voice and scold the rubbish this boy is, but there is no heaviness in his words any longer, Brynjólfur is happy again, has discovered that Kolbeinn is a decent fellow, you’re just blind, he adds, as if it needed to be pointed out specifically, you’re a sharp observer, says Kolbeinn simply, and then they start talking about the sea again, they’re immediately far out at sea, are in danger, the past frees them for a time from the present, from the depression, the anxiety, the darkness. The boy holds his pen but looks out of the corner of his eye at Kolbeinn, tries to figure him out but naturally can’t do so, feels respect, a kind of fear, is apprehensive about having to read to him, to have to be near him, hopefully the women will listen as well, it would be better, will I read to him tonight? The seawolf, he then thinks, meaning the fish, is the seawolf always in a bad mood or is that just how it looks? He shakes his head, there’s so little that he understands. He has written, my dear Andrea, and now adds, I am alive, I made it all the way, but then puts the pen down. Why in the hell should I live? I’m not interested in anything, least of all in this Ragnheiður, she’s so cold it contracts my heart. I don’t want anything and I don’t desire anything. He stares confusedly at the pen. Absolutely doesn’t want to die. The will to live sits in his bones, it runs in his blood, what are you, life? he asks silently but is so incredibly far from answering, which isn’t strange, we don’t have ready answers, yet have lived and also died, crossed the borders that no one sees but are still the only one that matters. What are you, life? Perhaps the answer is found in the question, the wonder that is implicit in it. Does the light of life dwindle and turn to darkness as soon as we stop wondering, stop questioning, and take life like every other commonplace thing?
Heaven and Hell Page 15