CoDex 1962

by Sjón

  — It’s the custom to give the baby a present, isn’t it?

  It was the book Icelanders on Other Planets by Gudmundur Davídsson.

  Pushkin reached into his pocket and drew out a skeleton key.

  — Might come in handy …

  And laid it in my hand.

  Then there was the present that arrived in the post.

  The goat bleated in the garden, a pair of uniformed legs came and went past the kitchen window, and a moment later something fell through the letterbox: a letter that had taken more than four years to travel the five minutes from Kvosin to Ingólfsstræti.

  Reykjavík, 5 March 1958

  Dear Swimming-pool customer Loewe,

  I want to start by apologising that you have to read this letter. I am no good with a pen and the occasion is awkward, I realise that. I don’t know you, although we’ve sometimes had a nice chat together when you’ve come to the Pool where I work. Not many people bothered – to talk to me, I mean. You won’t have noticed, being a foreigner and all, that I have a speech defect. Well, perhaps not a defect, but my grammar’s no good, I don’t talk proper Icelandic. I’m quite unlucky in this, seeing as how I’m Helgi Steingrímsson’s son.

  I’ve decided to take my own life. So I’d like to ask you to take care of this envelope with coarsely perforated two-shilling stamps and finely perforated four-shilling franks, posted in Djúpivogur and postmarked in Hamburg. I once let slip that I owned it and so I thought it would be best for you to have it. But it’s not for you.

  If you should ever have a son you are to use this to allow him to do what he wants. If, for example, he is afraid of water, you’re not to make him take up swimming against his will.

  Thank you from me,

  Ásgeir Helgason

  P.S. I know my death will attract attention, but I had to get H.W.K. into trouble somehow. It was me who put my stamp collection under his cupboard. Don’t tell anyone. He once swindled me out of a five-aurar stamp with a reversed “three” overprint. Afterwards he sold it at auction in Copenhagen.

  I was nine years old. I was a child.

  Á.H.

  On the evening of my first day, after my father had bathed me, powdered me, put on my nappy, dressed me in my night clothes, laid me in the cradle and tucked me in, he told me a bedtime story. A tear quivered on his eyelashes.

  * * *

  CREATION STORY

  Once upon a time the universal father and son were travelling through the cosmos; they were heading for home and still had a long way to go. The father was carrying his sleeping son in his arms. After six days of walking he was so weary that he paused by a galaxy. He laid the sleeping boy on a nebula while he himself stretched out in the void and fell asleep. Shortly afterwards the little universal boy was woken by a meteorite brushing past his nose. He almost sneezed aloud but that would have made an almighty din and since he was a good boy he held his nose and sneezed politely so as not to wake his father.

  The boy played with some comets, trying to catch them and hold them fast by their tails. He enjoyed feeling the warm tails brushing his palms as they slipped through his clenched fingers. The game carried him away from his sleeping father. The boy saw a cold sun that he wanted to examine more closely, but before he knew it he had come face to face with a big black hole.

  The sun sank into the black hole and he reached out for it – too far. The black hole gripped the little hand and pulled the boy slowly and inexorably towards it.

  — Oh!

  The universal boy began to cry. He shouted and called but his weeping was sucked into the blackness and his other arm vanished inside it too. He was drawn closer to the black hole, closer and closer, until his head vanished, then his shoulders, then his body, closer and closer, then his legs; everything vanished into the black hole except the big toe on his left foot. When the universal boy had vanished this deep into the black hole the tip of his nose became cold and for a moment he stopped crying.

  — Atchoo!

  He sneezed, making the universe echo.

  The universal father started awake. He raced over and saw the tip of the universal boy’s toe sticking out into space, and taking hold of it he snatched the boy out of the black hole. The father embraced his boy, comforted his son and told him he must never do that again.

  — I’ll never leave you, Daddy.

  The universal boy stopped crying.

  His father dried the tears from his eyes and kissed his little hands. Then he saw that under the nail of the ring finger on his right hand, which had sunk deepest into the black hole, was a rim of grime. The universal father took out his big knife. The mighty blade flashed in the void and the edges sparkled.

  The son held out his hand, his finger, his nail, and his father cleaned underneath it. He scraped a bit of black clay from under the nail, black clay from the bottom of the black hole. The universal father wiped the point of the knife on his son’s fingertip, leaving the bit of clay there. Then he sheathed the knife and showed the boy how to make a ball from the scrap by rolling it between his fingers, which he did. The universal father and son now headed for home.

  They walked hand in hand through infinity. The father either hummed a tune or sang verses, while the son played with the little ball of clay. When they were nearly home they passed a small galaxy. In the galaxy was a solar system. In the middle of the solar system was a star and around the star revolved a planet. It was a blue earth that revolved on its own axis while around it revolved a grey moon. Everything was revolving around everything else.

  The universal boy found the earth beautiful and shrank his hand so that he could touch it. His hand passed the grey moon, through the atmosphere, round below the South Pole, and he let the earth sit on his palm, allowing it to spin there. The father watched his son raise the earth to his face, which was bathed in blue light.

  The son studied the white clouds and black hurricanes, the golden lightning and silvery Northern Lights. The lights were playing in the sky above an island near the North Pole. The boy looked at his father and back at the island, back at his father and back at the island. Then he shrank his other hand and pressed the black clay into the corner of a bay on the island. Before he withdrew his hand he pressed his index finger firmly into the clay.

  And the universal boy’s fingerprint laid down the guidelines for streets and gardens, parks and squares.

  Today it is known as Reykjavík.’

  * * *

  ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Chirr, chirr…’

  PART III

  I’M A SLEEPING DOOR

  a science-fiction story

  I

  Rutting Season Rite of Spring

  (1 April 1961)

  1

  ‘Although I’m going to say that it all began in Reykjavík on the first day of April 1961, it could just as well have been two or even three weeks earlier – though hardly any more than that. And, with the same proviso, it must have ended on the same date the following year, or possibly one to two months, at most ten weeks, later, though I find that highly unlikely as I’ve not uncovered any evidence of a birth that premature. It would have created such a sensation that it’s bound to have left traces in the press or other contemporary sources.

  In the account that follows I shall therefore stick to the aforementioned date: 1 April 1961. The event could just as well have taken place somewhere else, in the countryside or a fishing village, for instance, but I choose to place it in Reykjavík, in the centre of town, in the street where I grew up. I do so partly because this was when the population of Reykjavík first outnumbered that of the rest of the country, and partly because I want to place myself squarely in the bigger picture. I first saw the light of day in Iceland’s capital, I’ve lived there all my life and I fully expect to die there.

  Above all, though, it is for form’s sake that I want to establish a time and place, not only so you’ll be clear about when and where the action is set, but to give this opening chapter a weight
and stature commensurate with what is to follow – in other words, to leave you in no doubt that my story is in dialogue with other major types of narrative, with that long, resounding roll-call that encompasses everything from visionary poems in medieval manuscripts to futuristic films, from topsy-turvy verses to the four gospels, from folk tales of drug-induced ghosts to gossip columns in the papers, from travel accounts written by intelligent women to comic strips about mutant children, from pop lyrics to publications on psychology, from pornography to chess commentary – so that in its clarity and profundity my introduction will be on a par with the best scholarly accounts by those gifted anthropologists who can, by means of a complex yet clear line of reasoning, instantly convey their readers back across time to the image of a hand left by one of our foremothers on a cave wall in Altamira, when discussing the old children’s game of placing a hand on a cool window pane, breathing on it, then taking it away, so that there appears for a brief moment the hot image of a small hand, a hand as different from my cold, hard ones as hot breath is from frost-chilled glass.’

  ‘I’m holding your hand, Jósef, resting my palm on the back, touching the soft skin. There’s warmth under there. You’re still alive.’

  ‘The sheep-worrier. Did I show you what happened to him?’

  ‘That comes later. Tell me about 1 April 1961…’

  ‘This is how I picture it happening:

  In the very instant that the mighty clapper of the clock in the Thorsteinsons’ dining room, on the first floor of the house at 10a Ingólfsstræti, had finished striking twelve midnight, on the eve of Saturday, 1 April 1961, a car drove quietly up to the house on the garden side and parked in the lee of the wall, leaving its engine idling though its headlights were off. From where he lay under his eiderdown in the basement – hands folded on his breast, waiting for the horn and ivory gates between the worlds of waking and sleep to open and let him in – my father Leo Loewe heard, over the purring of the diesel engine, Mrs Thorsteinson’s quick footsteps descending the stairs leading from the kitchen to the back door. It could only have been her: the couple were childless, the maid had gone home for the day once she’d cleared up after supper and Mr Thorsteinson was at choir practice. The Song Thrushes, the male-voice choir to which he belonged, were busy rehearsing for their upcoming tour of the Holy Land, where they were scheduled to perform at the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, on the shores of the Sea of Galilee, on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem and in the Garden of Gethsemane, in addition to paying a visit to the capital Tel Aviv to be photographed beside the olive tree that was planted beside the Knesset building in honour of a former choir member, the baritone Thor Thors, who, as ambassador, had led Iceland’s delegation at the United Nations in support of the establishment of the State of Israel. Rehearsals for a tour of this magnitude tended to drag on for hours so Mr Thorsteinson was unlikely to be home before morning.

  Mrs Thorsteinson slowed her pace when she reached the bottom step, as if belatedly remembering my father sleeping in the room below the stairs, or – in view of what lay ahead of her that night – perhaps she was assailed by doubts about her plan. Whichever it was, her hesitation didn’t last long. Stealthily she opened the back door, and my father heard the clicking of her heels on the pavement outside, followed by a car door opening and closing, then saw the glow as the headlights were switched on, and heard the diesel purr deepen into a growl as the vehicle moved away.

  At which point the gates of sleep finally opened to admit him …

  * * *

  THE SECRET OF THE BLACK TRIANGLE I & II

  (Taxi 69)

  A cloudy, dark blue April night enfolds the black Mercedes-Benz taxi parked at the rear of the service yard behind the fish-meal processing plant. It’s shortly after midnight and the only light competing with the dense gloom is the pale yellow glow of the dials on the dashboard, which is enough to enable the young driver, Örn Ragnarsson, to see everything he desires in the rear-view mirror when the woman in the back seat strips off her fur: her tailored suit of bottle-green wool accentuates every line, every curve of her body.

  “She can’t be wearing much underneath,” is the first thought to form in his mind. “Maybe nothing at all.” His gaze lingers on her hips, on the hollow between her firm thighs, where the dip in the short skirt hints at what awaits him under the taut fabric.

  Still without taking his eyes off the woman, the taxi driver leans forwards and switches off the two-way radio. Before he can say a word, she has unbuttoned her jacket to reveal a thin, silky blouse through which he glimpses a low-cut black bra. She lets him look at her for a moment, then unzips her skirt, pulls it down to her knees, props her legs up against the seat in front of her and wriggles out of it. She hands him the skirt and he lays it on the passenger seat beside him. Then, lifting up her buttocks, she reaches under her see-through petticoat and starts easing her panties down the same way. Five seconds later a pair of lacy black silk knickers has joined the skirt on the seat beside him.

  The temperature in the car is stifling. The engine’s running, there’s a steady blast of hot air from the heater, the meter’s ticking. On the American base radio station they’re playing the theme from the film Exodus. Through the flimsy petticoat he sees the shadow of the black triangle between her legs, framed by tan nylon stockings and the dark red straps of her suspender belt. He loosens his tie and undoes the top button of his shirt.

  Smiling faintly, the woman pulls open her blouse, thrusting up her breasts until the rosy-pink nipples are peeping over the black cups of her bra. A delicious, warm scent rises from her ripe body. He takes a deep breath, hastily scanning the darkened yard as he does so, though there’s no risk of their being disturbed at this hour of the night. He steals a glance at the clock on the dashboard. Twenty-three minutes past twelve – it won’t be long before the cab company notices he’s missing. If this is to go anywhere, he needs to do something about it right now.

  He twists round to look at the woman in the back seat.

  The tip of a pink tongue peeps out from between her full, red-painted lips and she moistens them by moving her tongue slowly from side to side. When she parts her thighs, her petticoat is stretched tight and rides up to her hips, revealing a dark bush of hair between her suspenders. She gives a low moan.

  Without more ado, he drags off his jacket, clambers between the front seats and squeezes into the back beside the woman who reaches out and pulls him down on top of her, thrusting her body against his as if she had no greater desire than to give herself to him. Their lips meet in a long, passionate, tremulous kiss. There’s a roaring in his ears. The woman’s ardour is so violent that it frightens him. With wild abandon, she teases his mouth, cheeks and throat with her lips, rubs his stiffening penis through his trousers with red-varnished nails, fingertips and palm. A frisson of fear runs through him as he feels her unbuttoning his shirt to expose his chest, freeing his belt, undoing his flies.

  When they finally break off their long kiss he manages to turn his head towards the dashboard, peering out of the corner of his eye at the illuminated dial of the clock: it’s twelve thirty.

  — Listen. Listen?

  Whispers the driver breathlessly as she kisses him greedily again.

  — I’ve got … I’ve got to be back at the cab company in fifteen minutes.

  She clamps a hand over his mouth and leans back on the seat, kicking off her black high heels, propping her right leg on the back of the passenger seat, bracing the left against the door, clasping his buttocks and pulling him harder against her until he feels her wet labia closing round his cock.

  Never before has a woman been so eager for him. But when she thrusts her hips forwards and sucks his penis into her hot loins, he’s incapable of satisfying either of them. There’s a minute of frenzied lust. Then sparks fly before his eyes as the sperm spurts out in quick jerks into her vagina. It’s over.

  While the taxi driver adjusts his clothing, the woman lies unmoving, her eyes closed. But he
has no doubt about the meaning of the expression that crosses her face: overwhelming disappointment. The darkness outside suddenly intensifies as the heavens open and raindrops start drumming on the roof of the car.

  He squeezes forwards between the seats, climbs behind the wheel, pulls on his jacket and checks himself in the mirror, wetting a finger with his tongue to tidy his hair, cursing under his breath all the while: he was quick, damn it; far too quick.

  The woman doesn’t say a word or even look at him as he passes back her knickers and skirt. She begins to get dressed. He turns up the radio, and the combination of booming rain and the Marcels’ doo-wop version of “Blue Moon” somehow makes the woman’s air of silent accusation more bearable. He pretends to stare pensively out into the night while actually watching her reflection in the curved windscreen. She slips into her knickers, eases on her skirt the same way it had come off, zips it up at the hip, smooths down her blouse, pulls on her shoes and buttons up her fur coat.

  She flicks her head and the stiffly lacquered chestnut hair falls back into shape. The taxi driver retrieves a packet of cigarettes from behind the sun visor, shakes one loose and is about to extract it with his lips when he hesitates and glances over his shoulder at the woman. Her face has hardened. He notices the red crocodile-skin wallet in her hand.

  — Stop the meter, driver. I’m getting out here.

  (Lady on the Prowl)

  She had materialised out of the April night, as unlooked for as the rain-shower that had driven her to seek shelter. Fáfnir Hermannsson was startled by a knock on the back door, but before he could get up from the typesetting machine where he was surreptitiously setting a pamphlet on the nuclear threat for his aunt in the Women’s Peace Movement, she had let herself into the print shop and appeared in the compositors’ room where he was working.

  “Reykjavík Aphrodite”. The words sprang into the typesetter’s mind as he rose from his chair to greet the woman. She was drenched. The rain trickled from her dark hair, causing her make-up to leak down her cheeks in multiple streaks of black and blue, from her eyes to her red lips. Water dripped from her thick fur coat on to the floor, collecting in a pool at her feet.