By the next evening Jonathan had reached the bottom of the septic tank as Petur had said he would, had made a nearly ceremonial use of his toilet (flushing first to be sure it worked), had given himself a more thorough washing (this involved bringing an enormous pot of water to the boil, hauling it upstairs, and then mixing it, in pitcherfuls, with cold tap water as he stood in a baby-sized plastic tub and shivered), and had left his shit-stiffened jeans to soak in that same tub. Dressed in ill-fitting beige corduroys bought in Reykjavik and his handmade Faroese sweater, he sat stupefied next to his stove and wondered what to eat. The unaccustomed labor, which yesterday had given him a sense of well-being and pleasant tiredness, today had made his muscles ache, his back hurt, and his hands raw. A serious blister had formed on his right thumb from the shovel, and he had several times gouged himself on some part of the wheelbarrow—small but deep wounds into which he feared he had gotten shit.
For dinner he could have eggs again, dehydrated soup (beef with barley), or bread and jam. Or perhaps all of the above. Alternatively, he could go to bed dinnerless and sulk. Or just prop himself up by the stove and sulk there—why bother going to bed? He shook his head at his own idiocy; this was a major bad mood, he could tell. Sometimes the best remedy was to indulge all his ornery impulses. His self-hatred did have its limits, and if he pushed hard enough, he might reach them and find the elusive but sober inner Jonathan who wished him no harm. But that was the longest distance between two points.
He turned on the radio. It was too early for the blues, but maybe he could hear some English. The BBC was broadcasting the usual parliamentary twaddle; Radio Glasgow had vanished into the fog bank that had added drizzle to Jonathan’s final hours of excavation. All he could bring in was a mesmerizingly stupid program of Italian popular love songs from Milan, crooners interrupted by agitated hucksters of Fiats and a yogurt named Yomo.
“Oh, shut up,” said Jonathan, and turned off the radio. This made him feel slightly better, so he walked around his kitchen saying “Shut up” to his stove, his drawers, his sink, and giving them a kick for good measure.
He was bored. He was lonely, was the truth of it. His evening at Petur’s had put his isolation in a spotlight. Was he really going to spend the next eleven months swearing at his furniture? He sat down by the stove again and indulged himself in a fantasy: he would meet Sigrid’s older sister (he didn’t know if one existed, but never mind), she would be drawn to the Outsider, they would fall in love, he would explain to big Jens Símun that he wasn’t going to take her away, they would live half the year in the Faroes, they would embrace when everything was settled with her father; the embrace grew warmer, more entangled—Jonathan’s imagination went on a rampage of kissing, licking, nibbling, and undressing that startled him with its intensity and vividness. And now, having been fired by these images, his mind went wild: first Petur’s wife, Maria, then Sigrid herself, then a girl with a big mouth who’d been in the post office one day successively succumbed to the voracious and compellingly attractive Jonathan. His head spinning, Jonathan retired dinnerless to bed; other appetites seemed more pressing.
An hour later Jonathan was awakened from a deep sleep by someone calling his name. He opened the bedroom window and looked down, thinking to find the caller at his door, but nobody was there. He pulled on his clothes and went downstairs, where Sigurd was sitting at the kitchen table.
“You had a long day,” said Sigurd, and laughed.
“Uumph,” Jonathan said. He was hungry.
“So. You’ve got a telephone call.”
“What?” Jonathan couldn’t make sense of this. “Where? What do you mean? Who’s calling me?” One of his parents must have died. “Where?” he repeated.
“At my house. Come on.”
“What time is it?” He was trying to remember how many hours earlier it was in America.
Sigurd had already walked out and was waiting for him on the road.
“Where is the telephone?” Jonathan persisted. “Is it in your store?”
“In my house, I told you,” said Sigurd. “It’s not very late, you know. It’s only eight-thirty. You’re not used to working so hard, I reckon.”
“Mmm,” said Jonathan; he was reluctant to admit this.
The telephone was off its hook, waiting for Jonathan to pick it up, on a table in Sigurd’s parlor, a place jammed with uncomfortable-looking furniture and lined with a shelf of peculiarly ominous dolls dressed in native costumes from around the world. Sigurd courteously went into the kitchen and shut the door almost, but not quite, all the way.
“Hello,” said Jonathan. His heart was pounding.
“Hah! There you are,” a familiar voice boomed. “You are famous now in Skopun. Everybody knows you, the American with the Broken Toilet. And you are such a prodigiously hard worker! But now we have some puffins, so it’s time to come for dinner.”
Jonathan was delighted. “Eyvindur, how did you find me?”
“Anna’s father’s brother’s father-in-law—who used to live in your house—he is the grandfather of Sigurd’s brother’s wife, so I called Sigurd.”
Jonathan failed utterly to follow this, which also contradicted the information he remembered getting from Eyvindur when they’d first talked about the house. “I thought you’d said it was a mother-in-law and that she was dead.”
“Well, it was. He was married to her, then she died and he moved out, in with one of his grandchildren, Sigurd.”
“But you said he was the grandfather of Sigurd’s brother’s wife.”
“Both! Both! Isn’t it complicated?”
“Wouldn’t that be incest?” Jonathan had been scribbling a kinship chart on a pad lying on the table.
“No, he had two wives, and it was the second who was Anna’s father’s brother’s mother-in-law and the grandmother of Sigurd and his brothers. The other one was the grandmother of the brother’s wife.”
“Eyvindur, you’re joking with me, aren’t you?”
“Jonathan.” Eyvindur drew a deep breath. “I never joke about Faroese matters. Now. You are coming for dinner, you are coming on Sunday night because you must first drive sheep and then rest. Wear nice clothing, because I have invited your future wife. Have you got nice clothing? A nice American shirt?”
“No. It’s all gone in the lost baggage.”
“It doesn’t matter, nobody cares, everybody understands that you lost your clothes. But don’t wear a Faroese sweater—you understand me?”
“Why? It’s what I’ve got.”
“Don’t wear it. She is very interested in rocky roll and American things, and at least you can pay homage to her by not wearing a Faroese sweater.”
“Rocky roll?” Jonathan giggled.
“Your music.”
“Eyvindur, how old is she?” Jonathan felt his heart, which had momentarily lifted at the prospect of meeting a woman, sink.
“She is fine, she is perfect. She is descended from very important people. And Anna has already agreed that we will make you the wedding dinner. So. But dress American.” With that, the line went dead.
Sunday night. Four days from now—and between now and then, he would have chased dozens of sheep and failed to find a substitute for his sweater. Perhaps he could go to Tórshavn on Saturday and buy some more clothes. He was looking forward to this dinner. Whatever the “future wife” was like, she would be someone new, someone female; and Eyvindur was good company. Jonathan smiled. He could show off his improved Faroese. He rapped on the kitchen door. “Thank you,” he called.
“Come in, come in,” said Sigurd. “Have a temun.”
Sigurd and Jón Hendrik were sitting at the kitchen table playing cards. A bottle of brandy stood between them.
“Sit, sit,” Sigurd said. He slid the bottle toward Jonathan. “Have a temun.”
Jonathan had hoped for a genuine temun, with cake and milky tea to take care of his growling stomach. But this was bachelor life: dishes stacked haphazardly in the sink, a fishy pla
tter left next to the radio, the gray, sticky deck of cards that made their nightly appearance with their co-star, the bottle. The scene struck Jonathan as sad. Yet they were not sad. Jón Hendrik in fact seemed more cheerful than usual, certainly more friendly.
“So. Welcome to the American,” he said, in English.
“Where did you learn your English?” Jonathan asked.
“Well, now, that’s a long story,” Jón Hendrik answered. He leaned back in his chair. Jonathan doubted he could sit through a long story without something to eat. Jón Hendrik looked at the ceiling, and Jonathan felt something nudging his foot. It was Sigurd’s foot.
“I told you,” he whispered. “He talks when he’s got brandy. Now you will learn everything. Grandpapa”—he turned to Jón Hendrik—“you tell him history. He’s here to learn about history.”
Jón Hendrik, though, was reconstructing the story of how he had learned English. “When I was fifteen,” he began. Then he stopped. “No, I was fourteen.” He nodded. “When I was fourteen I went out fishing with my father to Iceland.” He stopped again. “I am going to tell the story in the Faroe language. I don’t remember enough of your language now. It was many years ago.”
“He’s eighty-four,” said Sigurd. “Aren’t you eighty-four now?”
“I’m eighty-five,” said Jón Hendrik.
Sigurd’s foot was nudging again. “He’s lying. He likes to say that he’s eighty-five but he’s only eighty-four.”
Jonathan decided he needed a shot of brandy.
“When I was fourteen I went out fishing with my father to Iceland. But we got in a big storm and he went overboard trying to haul in the lines. So I had to go on alone. Iceland was close, so I went there. There were many people from the Faroes there putting up from fishing, and with them I sent home the message of my father’s death. And I gave one man our boat to take home, because I had got a job on a big boat that was going to America. It was a boat from Newfoundland, and it was going back there. We fished all summer under Greenland. And I had to learn to speak your language, because these were all Newfoundland men, and they could say only thank you in Icelandic. I could understand because Icelandic is almost the same as the Faroe language. Did you know that?’ ” He looked with a sudden fierceness at Jonathan, who nodded. “So we came finally to Newfoundland. And I went ashore and lived there awhile, working on the dock. I lived there maybe six years.” He stopped again. “I lived there six years,” he repeated, sure of his information now. “And I had a friend, a crazy Faroe man, his name was Egil. He got into his head the notion that we should go down into America and look at the cities. He had come to Newfoundland from—” he paused. “I can’t remember how he had come to Newfoundland. So. Anyhow, we went down there, the two of us, fishermen, and we went to Boston. Now that’s a very big city. Have you been there?” Jonathan nodded; he didn’t want to stop this flow. “And we were so bothered by the noise of it, we gave up the idea of seeing the other cities. We went down to the dock looking for Faroe people. And we found them. Wherever there are fish there are Faroe men. So we stayed with them awhile.”
“How long?” Jonathan interrupted, expecting Jón Hendrik to say, “A year or two.”
“Oh, I think it was a week. We found a boat going home. So we worked on that boat and we came home, to the Faroes. Egil was from Klaksvík. He’s dead now. And that’s how I learned your language.”
He looked back up at the ceiling. Then he began to sing, in a most gravelly voice, “God Save the Queen.” “I learned that from the Newfoundland men,” he said. “That’s their important kvœði.”
Jonathan’s ears pricked up at the word, though he was surprised to hear it in this context. A kvœði was a ballad recounting the doings of such legendary figures as Sigmund, Siegfried, or Charlemagne. Once the living historical record of Europe—Homer had sung a Greek equivalent—they survived exclusively here, in the Faroes. But the Faroe-centricity of Jón Hendrik’s worldview was evident in his classification of the British national anthem as a species of kvœði and his intimation that Icelandic was merely an odd variant of Faroese. Here indeed was a rich lode for Jonathan’s mining. But not now, he pleaded with Fate. Now he just wanted to go home and get back into bed. And take some notes, if he could stay awake.
“So,” said Jonathan, preparing to propel himself out the door.
Sigurd wasn’t ready for him to leave. “Ho. You want some cake?”
“Yes, cake,” Jón Hendrik chimed in.
Jonathan didn’t want cake anymore. “I’m really tired. And tomorrow I am going to drive sheep—”
“No,” said Sigurd. “We’re driving sheep on Friday.”
“Oh?”
“Tomorrow it will rain. So have some cake.”
The logic was irrefutable; the cake, when it was extracted from a dank shelf beneath the sink, was awful: hard, dry, speckled with pebbles that once were nuts, tasting mostly of dust with a soupçon of soap flakes.
Two days of terrible food and hard work: it was enough. Jonathan was determined to go home, even if he had to be rude. He ate a few hunks of cake and stood up, saying “So, so, so,” as he did.
Sigurd nodded. Jonathan was encouraged to move to “I reckon so.” Sigurd nodded again. Was he too fuzzy from brandy to do his part? “Thank you,” said Jonathan, “thank you for the cake and the phone call.”
“Now how do you know Eyvindur?” asked Sigurd, disregarding Jonathan’s leaving procedure.
Dog-tired, Jonathan said, “I met him in Tórshavn.” This ridiculous answer satisfied Sigurd long enough for Jonathan to get to the kitchen door, where he stood and announced “Good night,” sternly. He could almost see another question forming in Sigurd’s mind. Before it could take shape, he opened the door and left.
The following day brought the predicted rain and, with it, a gray, leaden mood that drizzled self-doubt on Jonathan’s head. Kicking the stove and snarling at the furniture wouldn’t help; this was no access of petulance. His conscience—a composite figure with the body of his father and the voice of doom—had decided to hold an inquisition.
A skilled torturer, his conscience moved deftly between the general and the particular, between statement and question, obscuring the boundaries of reality and asserting—often successfully—that black was white.
Who do you think you are? was the first question, rapidly followed by an assertion designed to invalidate any answer Jonathan could come up with: You don’t know anything. Just what do you think you’re doing? Do you have a plan? Jonathan didn’t have a plan. Why didn’t you take notes last night? You didn’t even take your notebook to Sigurd’s. All that stuff Jón Hendrik was saying is gone. That was true, but he’d been half asleep when he’d gone over there, for God’s sake. But you weren’t asleep when you got home; you could have taken notes then. True. Well, now. Notes could be made now. He pulled the notebook out of the drawer in the kitchen table to underscore his good intentions. You didn’t take any notes on dinner at Petur’s either. And how about that kinship information from Eyvindur? And what do you think you’re doing, anyhow? You haven’t got a clue.
Are you on some sort of cultural joyride here? He couldn’t be accused of having fun, really now. You couldn’t be accused of doing any work, either. I know you think you just got here—but you know, the truth is you’ve been here a month. And you haven’t done diddly-shit. Pretty soon it’ll be September, and then November—All right, Jonathan interrupted. But the conscience did not tolerate interruption. Then December, and you’ll be sitting in your kitchen feeling sorry for yourself or jerking off in the middle of the afternoon—All right! Jonathan said.
So, the conscience said. So. What have you done that you’re so proud of? Split second of silence for Jonathan’s answer; no answer; conscience rolled on. You are so smug and self-satisfied and self-deluding. You can’t think straight, that’s your problem.
You know what the real problem is? Jonathan was tired but fascinated; his conscience was always announcing the “real
problem,” and Jonathan could not relinquish his hope that someday he would be enlightened by something the conscience said. The real problem is, you don’t like these people. You don’t like this place. Now that’s just completely wrong, Jonathan protested. This is a great place. If it’s such a great place, why aren’t you doing any work? Jonathan knew this was drivel. That’s drivel, he said; that doesn’t follow at all.
This stopped the whole procedure, and Jonathan had a few minutes of peace, succeeded by a queasiness more penetrating and intolerable than the pain of inquisition. If the conscience was “wrong” and even negligible, then what was left of consciousness? A strand of primitive consciousness—I’m hungry, I want to take a walk—remained intact, but all that Jonathan took to be the hallmark of civilization, reflecting upon one’s actions and musing on the actions of others, seemed bound up in this Nagger. Much of the time it slumbered, but its sleep was never deep, and any venture into the realm of thought might waken it and provoke its rantings. Yet without it Jonathan felt one-dimensional.
He spent the day alternating between a flat, unsettling silence and bouts of interrogation. Only one thing was solid: his need to eat. He went to the dock to get some fish; from the steady rain and the slow bobbing of the boats on oily, choppy water, he had his first insight into the components of “drear,” which he saw could be a formidable enemy.
Toward evening Heðin put his head into the kitchen to say they would be leaving at eight the next morning. “I’m coming,” he said, “to show you what to do.”
Jonathan broke through his stupor enough to say, “I thought you hated to drive sheep.”
“Yes, but the currents are bad for fishing, and I’ll show you what to do. We’ll have fun.”
This might be irony; Jonathan peered at Heðin’s face, but he couldn’t tell. “Fun?” he asked.
“It’s just work,” said Heðin. “Eight o’clock.”
They rode out in a flatbed truck under skies splashed with clouds that moved swiftly, peeling off white to show pale blue bright swatches between puffs. The wind was high but moist; the sea was lavender and gray between swells. A charged, metallic smell blew over the hills, greener now than they had been when Jonathan took his walks. Petur and his two sons in the front were silent; Jonathan, in the back with Jens Símun the elder, voiced an occasional grunt of admiration or surprise as the view or the bumps in the road hit home.
Far Afield Page 10