Under the Glacier (20 page)

I don’t suppose it’s any exaggeration to say that those present had some difficulty in answering that question. I think that we Icelanders even looked a little shamefaced, not unlike little boys who are caught pulling up turnips in someone else’s vegetable garden. But I should make the point that the winter-pasture shepherds betrayed no emotion, whether because of the radiance of thought that constantly characterizes these people, or because astrotelekinesis, cosmobiology and bioradiotherapy are typically commonplace in their eyes and require no explanation.

But when replies were a little slow in coming from those present, the woman did not wait but walked straight to the door of the house. The sheriff’s seal on a piece of string barred the way. The woman did not even have to produce her scissors; she brushed it aside with her hand like a cobweb. Then she brought out her key-ring, searched for the right key for a moment, opened the door, went in, closed the door behind her, and was gone.

Langvetningur: Who is that woman? Did she break the seal?

Jódínus: Who was she? There is only one woman who opens this house.

Langvetningur: What woman is that?

Jódínus: I’m just a workingman and right from the start I have been paid hourly rates for keeping my mouth shut. Now I don’t open my mouth unless I get hourly rates for talking. As far as I’m concerned you can believe that this woman came down with the rain.

Embi: What do you mean, came down with the rain? (NB: There was no reply, but in the dictionary it says this phrase is used about earthworms that rain down from the sky.)

Langvetningur: There’s a light showing between the curtains. She has put on the lights. So it’s a human being. So it has worked!

Jódínus: Did you think she didn’t know how to use electricity? Didn’t you know what you were raising? What does the bishop say?

Embi: To my knowledge I wasn’t raising anything at all. I am present here as the emissary of the Ministry of Ecclesiastical Affairs.

Jódínus: What do these bearded mysteries from the other side of the globe say?

They said nothing.

The law of determinants had been at work: cosmobiology and epagogics had proved themselves, “bioinduction” had taken place, as the American puts it, using a word I have in fact been unable to find in seventeen English dictionaries but that could be everyday argot among holy men and mystic supermen in California. But such people were presumably long past giving a shout if they raise something from the dead, indeed the burning-eyed sleeper Epimenides needed to do nothing but look with those eyes of his, and a marvel occurred.

The well-rounded woman stands bareheaded at her doorway, her face in shadow while the light streams out through the open door behind her. On second thought, the woman has doubtless thought it right to ascertain who these men were to whom she had absentmindedly bidden good evening as she was entering her house earlier.

Woman: Do you live here, my lads?

Langvetningur, with a big horse in his spectacles, but all the same like a little boy: We each come from different corners of the earth on account of a trifling matter. This man here is from the Andes, and the other, I understand, is from somewhere in the realm of Alexander the Great. But that one over there is a spiritual man from California.

Woman: And you yourself, my dear?

Langvetningur: Well, I’m really from so far away that no one knows any longer where my district lies and I hardly know it myself. My name is Helgi Jónsson from Torfhvalastaðir in Langvatnsdalur. I’m the man who was always looking for big horses. One day I bumped into the Master. He says to me: I shall teach you cosmobiology. At first I thought I had never heard such nonsense. I am what they call a teacher-training college man, and therefore I believe in common sense. Human-breed improvers from the galaxies, that’s simply not for horse traders. That’s another foal from a different mare, as they say. But what happened? Doesn’t the horse one least dares to believe in always prove to be the best? From that day onwards I could not think of anything else. I am like the man in the Bible who heard about a good mare, sold all his possessions, and set off and bought her. Finally I published the Master’s book at my own expense. I haven’t in fact got my money back yet, but he shall always have his reward in Christian conscience who has put the truth into print even though no one wants to read it. How do you do and be welcome, madam, I am pleased to meet you.

Jódínus: If you don’t mind, I’m just an ordinary workingman and my name is Jódínus, but all the same I’m the one who represented the Tycoon here, responsible for all his doings. But my name is also Álfberg and I am a poet, though I’m not a modern poet and I don’t fancy these newfangled poets who can’t alliterate properly. It was I who transported the materials for all the quick-freezing plants hereabouts; it’s not my fault if they are all either subsidised or bankrupt or never even got started. Perhaps there will be a local subsidy of a million tomorrow. I also transported the palisander here for the Tycoon’s house; it is the only building at Glacier that makes a profit. I seem to remember, by the way, that we are related, my good woman, so you must excuse me for being informal with you. That milk drinker over there with the electrical apparatus for spies, he claims to be a bishop, but I’m not afraid of fellows like that. Tell the woman what your name is!

The undersigned didn’t consider himself a turnip thief in this vegetable garden and saw no reason to give an account of himself. Indeed the woman took no notice of me and ignored Jódínus’s introduction. She turned towards the foreigners and spoke to them with severity tempered with compassion, the same tone that housewives have always used for giving orders to winter-pasture shepherds both in the sagas and in Jón Árnason’s folktales: James the butler is waiting for you in the capital, so try to get on your way at once. He has plane tickets for you tomorrow night.

Jódínus: I am driving south to my home in the twelve-tonner, and it’s no trouble to give a lift to a few World Redeemers and take them part of the way.

Saknússemm the Second pulled out a handful of American dollar bills from underneath his blanket and waved them.

Woman: Where did you get that money,
vous pauvres diables vous
?

Saknússemm II: Lord Maitreya who created us from nothing and has now popped home to the fifth heaven—he has also created money for us to live on until he comes back after three thousand years.

Lute-player, now stopped squeezing geophysical drops from his strings: I have his head in my bag.

The sleeper Epimenides got to his feet, turned a half-circle, smiled out to sea, and was ready to leave.

Woman: Yes, try and get back to Los Angeles quickly, my poor wretches; you can catch cold here.

In explanation and excuse the woman addresses this remark to us: “He” never tired of collecting such poor wretches, and never wearied of dragging them along behind him to and fro across the world.

When the woman had briskly settled the question of the winter-pasture shepherds, as described, she turned to the matter that was truly timely and pointed to the zinc box on the veranda in front of the door.

What was in that container?

I suppose it was really a psychological phenomenon in itself that everyone should have forgotten about the box, including the undersigned, who after all had been briefed at great length by the spiritual authorities to find out what was in it. At last, in public view, a marvel had occurred of the kind that people never tire of mocking, because marvels pertain to theology. But this time it so happens that the only thing lacking is an attestation from a notary public for the marvel to become scientific; unfortunately it was overlooked at the time to have an attestation from such a person to accompany the Easter message of the New Testament. But what happens when attestable people see a miracle occur and a woman resurrect? It’s like offering a whole cake to a dog. People became downright impotent. Most people look at their watches, have other things to attend to, have to hurry away. When the woman reminded them, however, they pulled themselves together enough to start prising up the lid of the box.

It was no more than a month to the solstice, night in the northwest would soon become morning in the southeast, yet the electric light coming through the door behind the woman did not affect the natural light. When the lid was removed, this light glistened on the contents of the box. The light shone dazzlingly on the material that filled the box to the brim, and glittered like a terrible jewel, larger than if all the principal diamonds in the world were put together. It was a frozen block. The ice had certainly started to thaw considerably, as was said before, after many hours of transportation in the above-zero temperatures of the lowlands, and had started to come away from the rims of the container. They turned the box upside down so that the contents came free. Now one could see through the melting ice, and it was clear that this long, gleaming, and translucent block housed a most beautiful salmon. A fish of this size has been lost by all great anglers, and they never forget it afterwards. When the winter-pasture shepherds had overturned this moist ice-block at the woman’s feet, they threw the packing out onto the paving and the Icelanders collected the debris. Helgi of Torfhvalastaðir took the wood for later use, while the poet Jódínus secured the zinc.

And as the salmon lies radiating the colours of the rainbow at the woman’s feet, imprisoned in its diamond, the three winter-pasture shepherds make ready to leave. They gird themselves in their poncho-blankets. The lute-player puts under his arm the lute, which preserves in its strings a geophysical drop, and pretends he has stolen the head of Professor Doctor Godman Sýngmann and is going to shrink it.

The sleeper Epimenides, with his white eyes, his blue beard and hair, and the smile from the shadow of the eternal mango tree—he knocks his forehead thrice on the floor in front of the woman and lays the scurvy grass and crowberry heather from his garland at her feet, then gets up effortlessly like a man made of rubber and glides down the veranda steps and now has no flowers left in his garland. When he reaches the bottom of the steps he turns round and kisses the bare earth in front of the woman.

Saknússemm II, who will perhaps be burned one day for disputatious writings and alchemy like our compatriot Saknússemm the First, whom the French reckon the King of Denmark burned—he is the only one of the winter-pasture shepherds to address any words to the woman: Would you give me a receipt, madam?

Woman: A receipt? For what?

Saknússemm II: You have been resurrected. We are obliged to produce a receipt for everything we do. Perhaps the museum will lay claim to you.

Woman: What are you talking about, my poor wretch? Saknússemm II: The epagogic museum that Lord Maitreya founded in California.

Woman: Ah, the flies’ house!
Comprendo
. What poor dear wretches. Perhaps I’ll be nice and give you a receipt for that fish all the same, even though I never ordered fish.

Saknússemm II: All right.

The woman tears a page from her notebook and scrawls on it these words in English, “Received one fish,” and puts some name underneath, “sister Helena” or something like that, it seemed to me.

Saknússemm II looks closely at the slip of paper and finally tucks it away: All right then. Our mission is concluded. Eat your fish now, madam. Thank you. Good night.

38

The Woman Guðrún
Sæmundsdóttir from
Neðratraðkot

The woman from her doorway: What am I to do with the fish?

Embi, alone on the veranda when the other visitors had gone: I don’t know, madam. You have given a receipt for it.

Woman: What are you doing here?

Embi: I hardly know either. I beg your pardon for being here.

Woman: Were you in tow with these poor wretches?

Embi: Oh no, I wouldn’t say I was with them. Could I have a few words with you even though it’s rather late?

Woman: What did you say you were, again?

Embi: I represent the bishop.

Woman: Yes, of course, that’s right. Do come in, please. I’ll shut the door; it’s a little chilly. Do have a seat. You seem to be a nice young man. I think that though you’re not a bishop yet you will be one someday. It must be fun.

While the woman was talking to me she was finding her way about the house, opening this door and that, peering into shelves and cupboards: And here’s a kitchen with an electric cooker and everything, she said aloud to herself. Won’t take long to make some coffee. I think I’ve got a tin of it out in the Imperial.

Embi: Thanks, but I’ve given up coffee for the rest of my life. Woman: There must be a status symbol like whisky somewhere around. I don’t drink myself, as a matter of fact.

Embi: Nor do I.

Woman: You are certainly going to be a bishop one day.

The woman had now twice made me a bishop in a relatively short time, and there was really nothing more to be done for a while. She opened the curtains and looked silently out at the churchyard: That fresh grave, is that his?

Embi: Dr. Godman Sýngmann was buried there two days ago.

Woman: Were you at the funeral?

Embi: On the bishop’s behalf, yes.

Woman: Did it go well?

Embi: It was all right.

The woman looked out of the window. Judging by a certain light on her cheek and hair, and the fresh sound of the terns’ cries outside, I felt it to be morning somehow.

She had her hair up in a Grecian knot, like Venus de Milo— it’s called a washerwoman bun here in Iceland. I had not thought the woman big at first on the veranda, but now I could see that she was rather big. When she had gazed her fill at the grave she took her knitting needles from the carrier-bag and yawned silently so that one could see down her throat, like a lion, before she started knitting. She sat down with her ball of wool beside her on the twin settee where Dr. Sýngmann had given up the ghost. This woman seemed to live without any effort, yet none can tell what comes naturally and what through discipline in such a woman.