A Kind of Compass

by McKeon, Belinda; Rahill, Elske;

  DISTANT SONG

  Kristín Ómarsdóttir

  [Translated by Lytton Smith]

  Here she is, walking the streets because she’s bored. She’s called Lilja, and she’s bored even though she has a beautiful name. This street has looked the same way for years: for dog years and cat years (and girl years). Pink houses, gray concrete, pavement slabs, meadowgrass, blue sky. Boredom costs less than elation; elation is pricey and only offers prosperity in the right moment. Lilja doesn’t take risks; she has found her equilibrium. She looks at the clock, bored, looks at the clock, bored, looks at the clock. She’s never met a more boring person than her, she doesn’t know whether she’s able to get rid of herself and enjoy someone else’s company. Because of this, she thanks her friend when they meet in the square.

  ‘Humpf, I’m sooooooo bored,’ she interjects.

  He stares at her: she’s wearing a light green, polka-dot summer suit. She stares at him: he’s wearing striped summer gear with a yellow sixpence similar to a sun-crown on his head, the son of a powerless sun king whose name isn’t recorded, not here nor anywhere, save for on a tombstone which stands among all the others in an anonymous garden.

  ‘Not nearly as much as me. I’m dying’, he says.

  They walk off. The sun shines in the empty sky; it makes no difference. Isn’t it going to shine tomorrow just the way it shone yesterday? That means you can rely on its appearing in timely fashion each morning. They head into a garden together. Doing so might possibly lead to an inconsequential alteration, a detour on the way to their lunch spot via the fragrant park, given that boredom is bad enough to kill – and even allowing that flowers aren’t fragrant, except for in books.

  ‘Listen to the birds: do you hear the bird?’ Lilja asks. ‘I’ve never heard this kind of birdsong before.’

  ‘I concur,’ answers the nameless sun king’s son, ‘I’ve never heard this bird. What’s the bird called?’

  They peer around. On top of the tree branches a red bird sings.

  ‘This species went extinct a long time back,’ he opines, ‘I’ve read learned articles about it in scientific journals.’

  Lilja points: ‘But look at that one! It’s green and sings like a rabbit born in the wrong body, and I read about it in this book I had when I was little; it ended its miserable life in the woods as a meal in a fine palace.’

  She claps her hands and jumps up high. How fun to recall children’s stories as the sun approaches midday.

  ‘The Queen had never tasted such a delicious meal’, she continues, laughing because she’s proud of the memory. It’s warily that he observes his friend’s unexpected delight; if it continues along such lines, rejoicing excessively at the wonders of nature, it could endanger her mental health and put their security at risk.

  ‘This species of bird was also killed off a long time back,’ explains the wary friend once he’s scrutinised the trees more closely; he points to the bench: ‘Then take a look at the tortoise resting under the bench! Such tortoises haven’t been seen anywhere in the world for decades. Yes, and do you see that flower?’

  He points to flowers which resemble a bridal bouquet.

  ‘Never seen it,’ she concludes.

  ‘Never seen it,’ he agrees.

  ‘Except in books,’ she adds.

  ‘Except in books,’ he adds.

  ‘What is going on?’ she asks.

  ‘What is going on?’ he asks.

  ‘Smell that,’ she asks. ‘Oh, I’m dizzy.’

  ‘I’m getting a headache,’ he answers, and sneezes.

  ‘It gives me icy chills, even though it’s spring, and doesn’t lessen the boredom despite the brief pleasure; it’s all confused and, what’s more, I can’t be bothered to be a part of such puzzles. Let’s leave this ghost-garden.’ He repeats her words and, silently, counts himself lucky: he recognises his girlfriend again.

  ‘Let’s leave the ghost-garden before we become part of the ghostworld. Lilja, my dearest, might we be dead?’ he continues, questioningly.

  ‘An extinct and obsolete species?’ she adds, just as questioningly.

  They take to their heels along a broad gravel path that runs through the middle of the garden, beginning by the south gate, or what here passes for a southerly direction, and ending at the northern gate. They draw breath and examine each other intimately. The speckled summer suit is just the same as before. The striped summer clothes just the same. The sixpence as yellow as before. The twitching in her eyes is still there. They convince themselves they aren’t dead and they aren’t an extinct species. She pinches him; he complains. He pinches her; she complains. They are awake and their breath reminds them a heart beats in their breast.

  ‘Oof, we survived without being stamped out or killed, but I have to admit: we almost didn’t make it, Lilja.’

  ‘But we aren’t surviving boredom, are we?’

  ‘No.’ He shakes his head.

  ‘Oof, this puzzle exhausts my mind, and I’ve still got to go to work for four hours this afternoon,’ she says, blowing her nose into a yellow handkerchief she got as a summer present.

  ‘It’s better to live bored than to be dead,’ he says, and his reassuring words have their desired effect. They continue their journey and go into another, muted garden.

  ‘It’s good to be in here because we can’t hear chirping,’ Lilja asserts. ‘This is a good place for boring folk like us,’ and he concurs; he is of the same mind. They each take the other’s hand and walk along a broad gravel path through the garden to the north. Their shadows indicate the path to them like a manual or a compass needle. On either side rise statues of kings, queens, working folk, slaves, angels, horses, goats, dogs, birds and snakes. So quiet is this museum made of stones, soundless, soothing, peaceful, and it ennobles the wretched mind. The midday sun sidles into the napes of their necks but doesn’t blind them in the eyes or wipe them flat, just lovingly warms their shoulders and their palpating hearts. At the end of the garden they come to the north gate; from there, it’s a short distance to a nice lunch spot.

  They sit down, tuck white serviettes into their necks, order fresh mussels that are safe to eat because they were grown in a pool where parasites are destroyed without ruining the fine taste and salt, or the texture when teeth bite into the seasoft pebbles. The sensation approaches utter bliss.

  ‘I’m almost starting to miss the boredom given how glorious this food is. We’d best be careful,’ she says, her admonishing tone tinged with humour.

  ‘Squeeze more lemon on the dish’, the sun king’s son suggests, ‘and it makes the dish better still.’

  ‘I don’t want it to be too good because I’m afraid of utter bliss.’

  ‘There’s nothing to fear, Lilja, it’ll pass; you’ll be bored again come four, latest. What do you say we meet up after work, compare notes, go into a music store and listen to beautiful sounds to lift us up before the sly evening tedium takes over?’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ says Lilja.

  They seal their pact, palms together.

  ‘Can’t we avoid the garden of extinct organisms on the way back?’ asks Lilja once they’ve paid for their meal with winning smiles: they live in a city which has done away with cash, in which payments are made through physical gestures.

  ‘I’ll keep an eye out for that,’ says her friend, full of confidence in himself, for confidence means an advance, a tax reduction. He takes her by her arm and guides her through the garden which is ornamented with statues.

  There’s a statue of a naked man leading a horse. Following him, statues of two naked women, stopped in their traces; one holds a baby, the other leads a goat.

  There’s a statue of a naked man leading a cow. Following him, statues of two naked women, stopped in their traces; one holds a baby, the other holds a goose.

  There’s a statue of a military commander riding a horse. An officer, with a winged helmet on his head.

  There’s a seated statue of a naked woman, and in her lap
and tiptoeing along her shoulders, birds; one bird examines (eyelessly) the world from the top of her head as she reads a book.

  There’s a kneeling statue of a boy; he cradles a bird in his palms.

  At the boy’s feet lies a statue of a girl with a knife in her heart; the pool of blood is the same color as the stone.

  There’s a statue of a naked man leading a donkey. Following him, statues of two naked women, stopped in their traces, one holding three children and the other two travel bags; their donkey is laden with parcels and luggage.

  And a lion statue tears apart a wolf.

  Standing there is a statue of a hunter and a young boy; he’s holding a dead goose, and a retriever stands at their feet with a fox in his mouth.

  And there’s also a statue of a naked man holding a globe; around his neck a snake hangs. The man’s hair blows as though there’s a wind.

  ‘Are we statues or are we extinct or are we an obsolete species?’ Lilja asks her friend, who has a consuming passion for questions of a philosophical nature. She leans her head against his shoulder, feeling like they’re both statues: although they seem to be walking, in reality they are motionless, and it’s the world that’s going past, the park passing them by until they reach the south gate.

  ‘Examining the situation more closely, we probably intend to be all of them at once,’ he replies, having first stroked his chin as a way to think ponderously.

  ‘You have to choose, whether you’d rather be a statue or an obsolete species,’ she demands.

  ‘An obsolete species in the kingdom of heaven,’ Lilja herself responds once she has waited so long for an answer that she’s about forgotten her question. ‘It’s got so that things are more exciting in the kingdom of heaven than in the world of the living, though it’s rather crowded there and there’s barely room for any more extinct creatures – it’s totally jammed, yeah? – that’s why men keep inventing new drugs to postpone the arrival of more people, see, due to the bottleneck that’s formed on the divine side. But it’s not possible to delay arrival indefinitely: everyone dies, unless something’s discovered, an injection for eternal life. Those pitiful extinct animals that cannot reincarnate: they gallop around in heaven like I’m here in this city.’

  He lifts the locks of hair that hide her eyes from him.

  ‘When you think this way, it leaves me even more bored than this morning and I get so sad I cannot be bothered to drag my feet along the ground,’ he admits frankly, smiling such a beautiful smile that the funds in his bank account swell enough to possibly cause an abnormal swelling of the economy.

  ‘You don’t need to drag your feet along the ground,’ answers Lilja, unabashed, ‘the earth moves for you and takes you where you want to go.’

  They stand in the square, half of which is hidden from the sun, though the main part of the square reveals a set of balmy circular tables with chairs and sunshades for tired and thirsty passers to sit under and rest their weary bones, satisfy their thirst, send loved ones the following message: I am less bored because I have you to think about and to look forward to kissing on the cheek when next we meet, and though we never meet, I’ve still got you to think about.

  They say goodbye to each other with a kiss on the cheek and promise to meet at the end of the workday, at five, in the music store. They each point at the same time to the music store which stands beside the soap shop on the shady side of the square. When they have broken themselves away from each other, they wave goodbye. She has put yellow gloves on. For his part, he’s put on sunglasses. She works in an office, designing tech that let you communicate with your subconscious, in the adjoining street to the left. He works in an office which builds dreams, in the adjoining street to the right.

  They put on their headphones and listen to beautiful songs in the music store. She closes her eyes, and when she closes her eyes, he closes his eyes.

  ‘I’m less bored with my eyes closed,’ he thinks, and she thinks the same, while the music envelops them.

  It seems to her that that the notes lift her up. It seems to him that the notes lift him up and back down when the silence comes. They descend to earth. They smile beautifully at each other – a bonus, a bonus, clink, clink, the clinking of a moneybox – smile, smile, smile – she takes his hand and he takes her hand. The moment becomes impatient waiting for them. Until finally they take off the headphones and hang them back on the pock-marked wall of the booth where headphones wait for customers to listen to music. The husband and wife who run the store smile at them even though they’ve not bought anything.

  ‘I feel I owe you my good fortune when you smile at me the way you did when the music ended,’ says Lilja.

  ‘Then we’re quits,’ he says, ‘because I felt the same when you smiled at me when the music ended.’

  ‘Let’s go home,’ she wishes.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ he wishes.

  They each take the other by the hand and walk home along a long sidewalk beside the equally long street. Cars drive in the opposite direction from their direction home. The sun sets and causes long shadows that stamp the sidewalk behind them like a bungee rope which wants to drag them back to the square – but they won’t let it, the shadows have no say over their lives, their homeward steps are purposeful – clink, clink – and on the horizon a fine block of flats rises, friend and beacon, and the shadow of the flats offers them a welcome home after their long walk along a noisy street, the traffic swelling a noise like irons dragged in a monotonous direction.

  ‘That was a long walk and I wasn’t really bored at all,’ says Lilja, once they’re standing by the gray wall and yellow door that leads them, via physical gestures, inside.

  ‘Same here,’ says her friend, ‘I am less dissatisfied in myself than I’ve been for a long time. Home is best.’

  ‘Home is best,’ repeats Lilja.

  Clink, clink.

  They lie under a white duvet, she in a check night-dress, he in vertically-striped pyjamas, staring up at the ceiling, which is white, and sits under the roof, lacking clouds, sun, moon or stars; it’s not been forgotten that the ceiling was painted recently.

  ‘I miss the birds we heard and saw in the park today, in the garden of extinct species,’ whispers Lilja.

  ‘I do, too,’ he admits, ‘and, worse still, I feel I can’t remember how they sang. Do you remember the color of the turtle?’

  She shakes her head. No. ‘Can’t remember anything, except that when we walked through that mysterious garden it really got on my nerves, but now I miss the birds. Will we find them again?’

  ‘Probably not,’ her friend answers, morosely.

  ‘We should look in the morning, before we go to lunch.’

  ‘But we’d just be sadder and more bored by the sensation,’ he warns.

  ‘I expect it to be that way, I can’t get enough of it, I want to bore myself exponentially each and every day so that on the way home we arrive eventually at a settlement, the harmony spoken about in books.’

  ‘I don’t entirely follow you, Lilja,’ he admits frankly, sensing that the discussion could result in poverty, could lead to their exclusion from this fine block of flats.

  ‘Hopefully we can’t find the garden tomorrow because then we will experience regret mixed with boredom, and as a result I’m sure the green potato soup I’m going to have at the lunch spot will taste better still.’

  ‘I think the mixture ‘boredom + regret’ will sit poorly in the soul,’ he says, trying to protect the stability of their lives and their livelihood.

  ‘Boredom gets new dimensions from regret and the longing for the song of extinct birds. Listen, try to listen to your soul now.’

  She begs.

  He lends ears to his quiet soul.

  Listen, listen.

  The soul is soundless, no chirps come from it.

  She lends ears to her own soul.

  Listen, listen.

  This is an expensive joke, their bank balances shrink, falling in value as the
situation continues.

  She hears something that could be called longing – she believes – for the singing of extinct species of bird, for flowers that resemble veils, a snoring turtle, the breaking sound when the sole of a shoe steps on a nest.

  ‘Lilja,’ says the son of the nameless sun king, giving up the search for the sound of his soul, giving up getting lost in the silence of his soul, like a spirit in the desert, ‘don’t be offended, my best and only friend, but I think you might lose your mind if you keep continuing on.’