Far Afield (35 page)

“Thank you, Petur,” he said. “It’s not too bad.”

“You look like a chicken,” said little Jens Símun.

“She’ll like you anyhow, Jonathan,” said Heðin. And Maria came over to pat him on the head. “It’s not too bad,” she said.

Jonathan was drinking coffee and chewing on a hard cardamom biscuit, wondering how much his hair could grow in a week and whether it was enough to make postponing the trip worthwhile, when Sigurd clattered into the kitchen announcing a telephone call. He stopped mid-sentence to stare at Jonathan.

“I got a haircut,” Jonathan said firmly.

“Aha,” said Sigurd. “You got a phone call, too.” He moved around Jonathan as he spoke, viewing the haircut from different angles. “You got a phone call. You better come and take your phone call.”

“Maybe it’s your mama and papa calling from America,” said Maria.

“Maybe,” said Jonathan. He was sure it was Eyvindur calling to update the menu.

But, as Sigurd couldn’t restrain himself from blurting out the moment they left the house, it was Daniela.

“She has called you, Jonathan. She’s a very nice girl, she speaks very good Faroese, very proper.” Sigurd babbled on in his excitement. “She asked for you by name.”

“What else would she do?”

“When Eyvindur Poulsen calls, he just yells that he wants the American. Well, he’s crazy, everybody knows that.” Sigurd stole a glance at Jonathan’s hair. “Why did you get that haircut?”

Jonathan didn’t answer. His body was almost devoid of sensation, except for a delicate tingling in his limbs as he walked. And his mind was a blank. He surveyed it for hopes, fantasies, worries: it contained nothing, it was simply a receptor.

So in an almost meditative state he picked up the receiver and motioned Sigurd out of the room. Sigurd pretended to go away, but Jonathan saw him lingering outside the half-open door. Jonathan turned his back and said, “Hello.”

“Jonathan.”

“Daniela.”

He heard her draw a breath. “Jonathan, I know it was a long time ago that you invited me to visit, but I would like to come now.”

“Good.” said Jonathan. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“I will come the day after tomorrow.”

“Good.”

“On the afternoon boat.”

Jonathan tried a variation. “Great.” Then, inspired, he added, “I’ll be there.”

“Then I will see you the day after tomorrow.”

Now that she was about to hang up, Jonathan wanted to talk. “It’s cold here,” he said. “The weather’s been bad. Bring lots of socks.”

“I know.”

“And—” Jonathan wanted to warn her about the haircut, but he didn’t know how to phrase it: I have a horrible haircut? I have a haircut that you might think is horrible?

“Yes?” said Daniela.

“Oh, just—bring socks.”

“Okay. Goodbye.”

“Daniela!”

“Yes?”

“I’ll see you,” said Jonathan.

He went into the kitchen, where Sigurd and Jón Hendrick were pretending to play cards.

“She’s coming,” he told them. They didn’t look up. “I just thought you’d like to know.”

“Who?” asked Jón Hendrik.

“His fiancée, from Tórshavn,” Sigurd said.

Jón Hendrik nodded. Sigurd made a big show of trumping some cards of Jón Hendrik’s. Jonathan could tell it was an act because about half the deck was on the floor under Sigurd’s chair. Obligingly, he waited for Sigurd to start pumping him for information. But Sigurd neither asked a question nor asked him to sit down. In fact, after about five minutes, he said, “It’s late, isn’t it?”

Jonathan could take a hint; he left. The sky was a patchwork of stars and clouds, and the air gusty with fresh winds. A burst of excitement shot through him: she was coming! He made a detour down to the deserted dock, unwilling to go straight home, and stood looking at the waves that would bring her to him. What had changed her mind? What was in her mind? He couldn’t imagine—and soon he stopped trying. She was coming,
she wanted to come, she would be here with him, and he could spend an entire day and night in delicious anticipation of her.

No sensation of pleasure is closer to pain than waiting for the arrival of a beloved, especially an unfamiliar one. In the midst of turning the mattress, airing the pillows, sweeping the stairs, Jonathan would stop from a pang of thrilling anxiety: maybe she was just coming on a friendly visit. But no, shaking the eiderdown to fluff up the feathers, she was coming to stay here, with him, where there were bedrooms. The fact that there was more than one caused him hours of confusion. He didn’t want to assume too much by putting her in his bedroom; on the other hand, if he gave her a separate room, wouldn’t that communicate a lack of interest on his part? He made up the guest room and trusted Fate to keep her out of it. Scrubbing his bathroom floor, he worried that they wouldn’t have anything to say to each other. And he became convinced while washing the kitchen table that her visit was prompted by nothing more than a Tórshavn strain of the cabin fever he’d been experiencing these last weeks: she wasn’t really coming to see him, just to have a change. But in between these seizures of doubt were whole hours of bliss, in which the fact of her arrival sweetened every minute. And the uncertainty of what would happen was, at these times, an added pleasure. He enjoyed scripting their first kiss, now in the kitchen, now in the hallway, now at the door to her bedroom—which she would never enter.

It was exhausting work, cleaning the house and waiting for her to arrive. The cleaning was finished first, leaving him like a guest in his own home, fearful of making a mess. One errand he’d better undertake, Jonathan realized, was to call Eyvindur and tell him he wasn’t coming. He ate a piece of bread while standing at the sink and then went over to Sigurd’s.

Eyvindur was not in a good mood. “Yah, yah, I know you aren’t coming. Okay, goodbye.”

“Wait a minute,” Jonathan protested.

“What?”

Jonathan didn’t know what, exactly. He’d thought Eyvindur would be pleased with this turn of events. “Daniela’s coming here,” he said, repeating his opening line of the conversation.

“You told me. Okay, goodbye.”

“Eyvindur, is something wrong?”

“Good-weather friend. Hah! Bad-weather friend.”

“Do you mean ‘fair-weather friend’?”

“You know what I mean.”

Jonathan could imagine the dark, dour expression on Eyvindur’s face. “I’m not trying to insult you,” he said.

But now Eyvindur laughed. “When the weather’s bad you say you’ll come, but when it’s good you don’t. That’s a bad-weather friend.” He laughed again. “It’s a joke. Hah.”

“Hah,” said Jonathan, trying to please.

“Okay, goodbye,” said Eyvindur, and this time he hung up.

Jonathan spent a few minutes brooding about what could be ailing Eyvindur, but he was too cheery to sustain interest in it. By the time he reached Sigurd’s store, the only thing on his mind was a list of wonderful foods he was going to buy for Daniela. Tinned Danish pâté, an extra-large portion of Tilsit, a whole dozen eggs, a bottle of pickles: Sigurd obediently fetched these items and stacked them on the counter, maintaining silence on the topic of Jonathan’s visitor. Jonathan was disappointed; he wanted the opportunity to talk about her.

“You know, my friend from Tórshavn’s coming,” he said.

Sigurd grunted. “Anything else?” he asked. “Potatoes?”

“Okay, potatoes.” Even Sigurd’s refusal to talk couldn’t dampen his spirits. “Lots of potatoes.”

Jonathan dumped his groceries on his clean kitchen table and went back out to the dock.

For the first time in days the mail boat was in. Jonathan’s heart jumped at the sight of it. This time tomorrow, he’d be looking for Daniela’s tidy head in the crowd. Gregor was doing a brisk business in fish. Jonathan bought six dab for his dinner and asked if there was halibut.

“Maybe tomorrow,” said Gregor.

This was just what Jonathan wanted to hear. He’d been hoping to give Daniela a halibut feast. He smiled at Gregor, at the smooth ocean sparkling between Skopun and Tórshavn, at the sky that today was an enameled blue bowl above him, and, jauntily swinging his string of fish, headed home.

He was filleting the dab in the sink when a tremendous commotion arose out on the street: yelling, banging, clattering. He craned his neck out the window but couldn’t see anything. It got louder. He went out to investigate.

It was just a bunch of boys destroying a barrel. Little Jens Símun was directing a group of about ten. Everybody was throwing stones at the barrel, which had been suspended on a rope between the Dahls’ old shed and the corner house.

“What are you doing?” Jonathan asked little Jens Símun, more from friendliness than from curiosity.

“Throw!” yelled Jens Símun. Then he turned to Jonathan. “It’s the Cat King,” he said. He picked up a stone and threw it.

“The what?”

“Throw!”

“Is there something in there?” Jonathan felt a bit uneasy.

“The Cat King.” Jens Símun gave Jonathan one of the
withering looks that were his specialty. “The Cat King is in there, and we are killing him.”

“Hold on a minute.” Jonathan grabbed Jens Símun’s arm, which was braced for the next throw. “There’s a cat in there?”

Jens Símun wrested his arm away and got his shot off. “That’s what I said.”

“You can’t do that.” Jonathan stepped in front of the line of boys. “Stop that.” He held his hand up.

“Get out of the way,” one of them yelled. “Get out of the way or you’ll get hit.”

Jonathan looked at Jens Símun. “Tell them to stop for a minute.”

“Wait,” Jens Símun growled at his troops.

Jonathan went over to the barrel and looked into it. Huddled at the bottom, his fur fluffed out in fear, his back arched to the limit, was Tróndur. His open, panting mouth oozed white bubbles. Jonathan reached in a hand to remove him and pulled it out immediately, deeply scratched and bleeding.

“Move!” yelled Jens Símun.

“That’s your uncle’s cat,” Jonathan said. He didn’t move.

“Now he’s the Cat King,” said Jens Símun. “Move.”

“Why are you doing this?” Jonathan took a few steps toward Jens Símun. Some of the boys used the opportunity to get in a hit, and stones bounced around Jonathan’s feet.

“We always do this,” said Jens Símun. “It’s traditional.” He emphasized the last word with a grin. Then he threw another stone.

Jonathan retreated to the sidelines. From out of the barrel came a deep yowl, which only spurred the boys to throw more and larger stones. Jonathan went into the Dahls’ house to get assistance.

But the men were out fishing. “It’s such good weather,” said Maria. “What’s wrong?”

“They’re killing Tróndur—in a barrel.” Jonathan put his hands up to his face. “It’s terrible.”

“Sit down,” said Maria, pushing him into a chair.

“I tried to get them to stop. I couldn’t.”

Maria brought him a cup of tea. “Drink that.”

“Can’t we stop it?” Jonathan looked up at her.

Maria sat down at the table with him. “So, so, so,” she said. She folded her hands and looked at Jonathan. “Now listen,” she said. “This is an old custom—we don’t really believe in it anymore, but the children still like to do it. People always did this at Shrovetide. They’d take an old cat and call him the King, and then they’d kill him. They thought that all the bad things they’d done, and the bad luck, would go with the Cat King, you see. It would clean away the bad luck. So it really isn’t a terrible thing.” She stood up. “Anyhow, it’s only the children. We don’t think that way anymore.” She smiled at Jonathan, as if she was sure this explanation would make him feel better.

“A scapegoat,” Jonathan said to himself in English. Maria looked puzzled. “I’ve heard of this,” he told her. “But”—he was growing agitated again—“people don’t do this anymore! This is something people haven’t done for centuries!”

Maria went over to her stove. “We do it,” she said.

Jonathan could tell he’d insulted her. “Maria—” He didn’t know what to say. “I mean—well, it’s a very old custom. I’m surprised, I guess. I’m surprised anybody still does it.”

“I told you we didn’t believe it.” Maria’s voice was even and expressionless. Jonathan couldn’t see her face.

“Then why—” He stopped; no use asking. But she could tell him one thing: “How does the cat die? After all, the stones don’t hit it because it’s in the barrel.”

Maria turned around and put her hand on her chest,
then made a fist. “Heart stops,” she said, and went back to cooking.

“Oh,” said Jonathan.

For the first time in many months, Jonathan missed Cambridge. Wanting to be somewhere other than the Faroes was not the same as wanting to be home; he’d spent plenty of time wishing for Copenhagen or Paris or anyplace with a decent climate and a better diet. But now he wished he were home—specifically, in Widener Library, where thousands of feet pursuing knowledge had worn a groove in the marble floors and where he could assuage his uneasiness by reading about scapegoats rather than by turning on the radio to drown out the noise of Tróndur’s death.

Tróndur must have been in possession of all nine lives when he was put into the barrel, for he took a long time to die. His yowling persisted even after sunset, which occurred these days at the normal hour of five o’clock. Sitting in his twilit kitchen with the BBC chatting through the static and the stones thudding against the barrel, Jonathan tried to calm himself with logic. Guy Fawkes burnt in effigy was a scapegoat, kids at Halloween put on masks to drive out evil spirits, Jesus was the ultimate scapegoat, even spring cleaning—Jonathan gave up on this line of thought. Listing parallels didn’t quell his agitation. Then he tried to be pleased that the Faroes had offered up to him such raw proof of their primitive nature: the anthropology department was going to have to eat its collective hat over this! But at the moment he didn’t give a damn about the anthropology department, though he was pretty sure they’d be impressed. He wasn’t impressed, he was shaken.

He kept coming back to an image from his first year in graduate school. He’d taken a course in taboo that relied heavily on Leviticus, one of the few codifications of the forbidden not written by an anthropologist. The lists of
impermissible clothing, marriages, and food had stupefied him, and it was in the context of this boredom that the goat had struck him so forcibly. “And Aaron shall cast lots upon the two goats; one lot for the Lord, and the other lot for the scapegoat.” The scene had risen before him in perfect detail, and he saw it again now: the rude, mud-brick altar, the hot wind blowing sand, the two goats with their white bellies and nervous tails, the string dipped in blood tied around the scapegoat’s neck by the priest’s strong brown hands. Then the animal pushed out into the desert, balking, bleating, flinging up sand with its unwilling hooves. Jonathan had identified with that goat.