The Best Australian Stories 2012

by Sonya Hartnett

  Ulrik Andrésson, Kópavogur, Iceland, 1979

  Jónas saved a lot of lives during the war. If it wasn’t for him, Elmey might have lost its entire fishing fleet. Other islands did. Iceland was supposed to be neutral, but the rest of the world didn’t seem to want to accept it. When the Germans took Denmark the British panicked and sent in twenty-five thousand troops. It wasn’t called an invasion, but I’m not exactly sure how else you’d describe it. Nobody paid much attention to our island. We offered no logistical advantage, and a harbour still frozen in summer implied a brutal climate. We built a small shed around Jónas. He hated it, but understood what would happen if the military learnt the ice was strong enough to land aircraft on. Eventually even Reykjavík got too cold for the British, and the Americans took over. Forty thousand of them, and at that stage they were supposed to be neutral as well! The British still hunted U-boats, and their explosions scattered the fish so deep it was hard for Jónas to tell us where to drop our nets. Then one morning he called all the captains to the ice and said we had to stay ashore for at least a week. He’d given similar warnings when the weather was set to turn, and as a result we hadn’t lost a vessel in eight years. But everyone could see the skies were clear, and it was the wrong time of year for storms. Jónas then explained how he could feel mines drifting in the ocean. The British had given us depth charges for such an occasion, but what was the use of them when all they did was scare away the fish? And fish was all we wanted. Without them we didn’t eat. Not much grows on Elmey, and the mainland kept buying our sheep for the Americans. This had to happen only five or six times before we all needed to mortgage our boats again. One day Finnbjörn announced he didn’t care what Jónas said, he was going to fish. But his nets must have hit a mine as soon as they dropped, and after that no one went fishing unless Jónas gave the all clear. We managed to catch enough to feed the village, but there was little left over for the cannery. It had to cut shifts. And even though I didn’t know it at the time, Jónas bought fifty per cent of the business when it started to run out of cash. He also set about improving the village. If there wasn’t money to be made in the sea, then he paid men to paint the town hall and build a new boardwalk for the beachfront. Despite a world war going on, our village never looked better.

  Teitur Dagfinnsson, Elmey Island, Iceland, 1979

  A hero? You’ve got to be kidding. How many people slipped on that ice of his? No one ever thinks about that, do they? If it wasn’t for Jónas Arnmundsson I’d still be a fisherman. Shattered my elbow and hip and never worked again. No, I don’t think anyone ever died, but lives were ruined, which is the same as dying, isn’t it? I wasn’t drunk. I can hold my liquor better than anyone in this village.

  Bryndís Einarsdóttir, Elmey Island, Iceland, 1978

  As a honeymoon present Jónas sent me travelling. Down to Italy, Greece, across to Spain, then into England. He knew I wasn’t afraid to leave the village, and insisted that just because he had to stay in one place didn’t mean I had to as well. And he wanted me to tell him what I saw. How it felt to have the sun burn your skin, and to swim in warm water. I wrote him letters about the people I met and the food I ate, and the way the world was rebuilding itself after the war. I also sent him gifts, like a pouch of sand, with instructions to pour it through his fingers, and a jar of water from the Mediterranean Sea that he could sip and taste the difference. I bought him a silk shirt in Italy, an umbrella in London, and always books from Paris. Jónas was a great reader. He would finish two or three books every week. Ásta, our village librarian, would bring them down to the ice and hold long conversations with him about writers and the latest journals from Europe. Jónas had taught himself to read French and Italian, and would sometimes ask me to hunt down specific books while I was away. Whatever I sent back he donated to the library. It was only a tiny room at the back of the school when I was a girl, but after the war Jónas bought an old house and had it converted into a proper library with deep armchairs and even index cards. It was no wonder Ásta fell in love with him. On the day I returned from my travels I would always visit the library as a way of letting her know that any dreams of me not coming back would have to be put on hold for another nine months, then run down to the ice and smother Jónas with kisses. Most of the time I travelled during the winter because it was difficult to visit Jónas with the wind blowing and snow falling. I always felt warm enough by his side, but I could never stay out there for long. Jónas would also worry about me walking back home, and insist I wave a lantern in the window to signal I was safely back inside. When I came home in the spring the hillside behind the village would be covered with wild flowers, and I could pick Jónas a fresh bunch every morning. He couldn’t smell them otherwise. The scent of the sea was too strong. He said the flowers cleansed his senses and made everything around him seem fresh and new again. I would cut his hair and trim his beard. Both had turned white years ago, even before his father died. Jónas assumed it was an effect of forming a connection with the ice so deep that he could feel when it was changing, and hear when it was singing. Jónas said it was a low, rumbling music – muscular and textual – that would sometimes be accompanied by the calls of passing whales. I thought my travels would finish when I fell pregnant, but Jónas didn’t want his baby brought down to the ice in the middle of a blizzard. And why shouldn’t his son see the world? Parents usually want their children to have the things they couldn’t … it’s only natural. I also think it helped Kjartan grow up knowing that though the world is a wonderful place, his home was just as beautiful and worthy as anywhere else.

  Hallmar Bergsson, Mosfellsbær, Iceland, 1980

  Because we’d been kept out of the water so much during the war, fish stocks had increased. Even on days when Jónas didn’t tell me where to drop my nets, I could still bring in a quality catch. The debts everyone made during the war were quickly repaid, and soon we all started to make some real money. And the more we made, the more there was to buy. You’re probably too young to remember what it was like back then, but every week there seemed to be a new invention. Electric washing machines. Electric refrigerators, though I never understood why you’d need one in a place this cold. And when TVs arrived everybody wanted one. As soon as the fishermen started making money, the rest of the village did as well. The whole community relied upon us. Tumi’s supply shop. Baldur’s tavern. The cannery stayed open twenty-four hours just so it could fill its orders. The council began planning new roads and fancy street signs, and at one stage even considered building a hospital, but there weren’t enough people on Elmey to support something like that. Even the farmers started to ask if they could work the boats. Bird eggs and sheep would never earn them as much as fish, and they could put up with seasickness if it meant paying off the banks. Some of the men who worked as crew eventually saved enough to make a down payment on a boat of their own, and the ones they bought were bigger, more efficient, with better equipment. Jónas gave them advice as well. It was only fair, he said. They were from the village like the rest of us. So instead of visiting him once a week, I’d go down to the ice every eighth day, and then every ninth. Soon our fleet had grown from six to eleven, but then there weren’t enough men to work all the boats. Some boys left their studies early. They wanted to be fishermen anyway, and if they were working on their father’s boat it just meant more money for their family. People stopped caring whether it was Sunday or not. They said the fish didn’t know what day of the week it was. This continued for about ten or twelve years, and it never occurred to anyone we might be taking too much from the sea. We just wanted to keep fishing and making money. But eventually, no matter if Jónas gave us advice or not, our hauls started to grow smaller. And some days we didn’t bring in enough even to pay for fuel. Then Jónas stopped dreaming about fish altogether. He couldn’t explain it. Said they just weren’t there anymore. Those who didn’t already own their boats struggled to repay their debts, and when they lost everything to the banks they blamed Jónas. We
even had to stand guard over him for a few nights when a rumour started that he’d purposely sent the fish away. His son got bullied about it at school, and someone slipped a few cruel letters beneath Bryndís’ front door. But it wasn’t Jónas who decided how many fish were in the sea. He suggested we all stop for a year or two to let the stocks replenish themselves, but what were we supposed to live on in the meantime? And there was no guarantee the fish would come back, or that boats from other islands wouldn’t come to take our catch. People started to move to the mainland so they could fish further south. But Jónas had to stay. He couldn’t go anywhere. I don’t think the village was the same after that. I hear the cannery is still open, but not many people eat canned fish anymore, do they?

  Unnar Eyjólfsdóttir, Paris, France, 1982

  My mother passed away at the end of spring, and Paris is insufferable when it’s hot, so I was happy to spend summer on the island. I took my skates and did a little performance for the festival, but I was out of practice, and the villagers didn’t seem to want to celebrate like they used to. I had read about the problems with the fishing industry and wasn’t surprised to see some businesses had closed down. Jónas was still there, of course, and his son Kjartan as well. He was ten or eleven by that stage and had a laugh just like his father’s. Jónas apologised for not being able to attend my mother’s service. He told me stories of her walking down to the ice with my latest letter, or to show him a cutting from a foreign newspaper. I spent the summer sorting through boxes of such correspondence, and every day saw Jónas eating with his family. Sometimes Bryndís would take Kjartan fishing, or on a hike to the other side of the island, and other days Jónas would read to him, or tell stories about how the ice had changed. In the end there was nothing left for me to do but sell my parents’ house, and at that stage I knew there would be no buyers. I asked Bryndís to take care of the keys and said I expected to see her and Kjartan in Paris very soon. Her son had excellent French, which he told me his father had taught him, though I can’t imagine whom Jónas learnt it from. They never did come to visit. I suppose Bryndís and I were not that close. I was more Jónas’ friend. I remember the last time I saw him because it was raining. Autumn usually started that way on the island, and it made the ice treacherous to walk upon, but I knew it might be the last time I made it back to the village so I was determined to say goodbye to Jónas. My life has always been that way – bidding adieu to friends before I move on to the next town or city. Jónas sat under a broad umbrella, which made it difficult for me to claim the kiss he had offered that day I found him in the ice. Instead we shook hands and smiled in the knowledge that we would probably never see each other again. I think Jónas had grown used to goodbyes as well. A lot of people had moved away by then. Ulrik and Hans, and even his brother Magnús had left for the mainland. There were still some fishermen in the village, but I don’t think they made much of a living. I looked back at the frozen harbour as the taxi drove over the hill, but all I could see was Jónas’ umbrella. I’m sorry to hear he died, but I must admit I haven’t thought of him in years. Not until you mentioned his name. It’s so nice to speak Icelandic. You must visit again. It’s wonderful practice for me. But that’s enough about Jónas. Your article is about me, isn’t it?

  Teitur Dagfinnsson, Elmey Island, Iceland, 1979

  I do a few odd jobs here and there, but yeah, I live on one of the pensions Jónas set up. Why shouldn’t I? I worked the fishing boats like everyone else. We all made him rich, and what did he do? Nothing. Just sat there with his legs stuck in the ice.

  Elín Arnmundsdóttir, Elmey Island, Iceland, 1978

  I don’t care who you are, being outside all those years takes its toll on a body. Humans aren’t made for it. And you could tell Jónas wasn’t well. Even under a beard you could see his cheeks were sunken. Dr Ragnarsson said Jónas’ blood pressure was low, and his pulse slower than it should have been. But it had been a hard winter, with more blizzards than usual, so we assumed the warmer weather would restore his strength. Except it never happened. The white of the ice started to fade. Patches of dirt appeared on the surface. Jónas stopped reading. Took less food. He was always happy to see Bryndís and Kjartan, but sometimes when I visited he would ask if he had made a mistake telling people about the fish. Had he betrayed the ice? One day he would weep for all he had lost – not just friends, but the chance to fulfill his potential. Then the next he would say how lucky he had been to stay in the same place, because if he had seen a palm tree or sand dune he might never have realised how special they were. When a small crack appeared at the edge of the ice, Bryndís panicked and refused to leave Jónas’ side. The summer light usually made it hard for him to sleep, but more and more he felt compelled to lie back and close his eyes. Kjartan stayed with us and kept watch over his parents through our kitchen window. My two children gathered flowers and spread them around their uncle. Ásta read aloud to Jónas from his favourite books. Magnús came back from the mainland. Then one day a large crack appeared and Jónas sent everybody to the shore. Yelled that the ice was no longer safe and he would have no more lives ruined because of him. I remember people standing along the pebble beach discussing what to do, then without warning Tumi walked out onto the ice. I don’t think I have ever been more proud of my husband than when I saw him crouch beside Jónas and shake his hand. He gave him a kiss on the cheek like we always did, then returned to the shore. For the rest of the day I watched everybody in our village do the same, one at a time, until Bryndís and Kjartan were the last. The three of them stayed together until it grew dark, then Kjartan walked back with his father’s wooden box under one arm, and his mother’s shaking shoulders under the other. All through the night we listened to the cracks in the ice grow longer, wider, until morning arrived and Jónas was gone. The ice in the harbour had broken apart and drifted out to sea. Men with boats went searching, and didn’t stop until all trace of the ice had melted away. It was hard to give Jónas a funeral because we felt like there was a chance he was still alive, floating in the sea, looking for fish. In the past few years they have started to come back, and Kjartan seems to share his father’s gift of knowing where to find them. The harbour no longer freezes, even in winter, so he and the other fishermen go out all through the year. Bryndís doesn’t worry when the weather is bad. She knows Jónas would never let anything happen to their son. She bought out the other partners in the cannery, and now runs it herself. Everyone has work if they want it, just like it was when I was young. In fact the whole village is pretty much how it used to be. As if Jónas had never existed. But there are other people who still remember him. You should go in to the village and talk to them. They’ll tell you all about Jónas.

  Permafrost

  Scott

  Kate Simonian

  Scott managed to get a part-time job at McDonald’s, not as a cashier, but in the kitchen. I was driving him home from a shift when he asked, ‘You know how you’re always saying I should have friends, Brendan?’

  ‘Yeah. You do have friends. Like me and Mum. And Billy.’ How I hated Billy. He thought because he used sign language no one could understand what he meant when he pointed at a girl and imitated squeezing melons. Whenever I picked Scott up from school and saw Billy I wanted to punch his head. Do some more damage to his soft-boiled brain.