Fish in the Sky (28 page)

I hear Trudy on the phone, talking to her boyfriend, Mom and Auntie Carol in the kitchen, the sounds of their voices trickling up the stairs. Then there’s the sound of a car stopping outside and the engine still running. The horn honks twice. It’s Dad.

“He’s here,” Mom calls.

Peter thrusts his hand in his pocket and takes out a small chocolate Easter egg, wrapped in red foil.

“Just for fun,” he says, and hands it to me.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Well, I guess you’re going now,” he says.

“Yes,” I say.

“I should go too,” he says.

I follow him to the front door. When he’s on the doorstep, I tell him that I’ll call him when I get to my father’s and he nods.

And because I guess we won’t be seeing each other for some time, I raise a stiff hand to my forehead, curve my eyebrows, make the harsh soldier face that Peter finds so funny, and puff my chest out.

“Dismissed! Farewell, Peter Johnson!”

He doesn’t react immediately but hesitates for a moment. His lips move like he’s searching for words. His face is all red, and when he puts his hand to his forehead, his hand isn’t stiff and firm as it should be when you salute. He just rubs his eyebrow in an awkward manner with his fingers and shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“Safe journey, Josh Stephenson,” he says finally, and turns around abruptly, runs down the stairs, and disappears out the front door.

But then I suddenly remember what I had completely forgotten and rush upstairs, into my little storage room. Mom and Trudy call after me, telling me to bring down my suitcase, but there is no time to answer them because I have to catch Peter before he gets home.

I hurriedly put my shoes on in the hall as Mom and Dad stand, utterly astonished, outside the front door in the dull evening light.

“Where are you going with that?” Mom asks.

“I’ll be quick,” I say, and run down the street into the gathering darkness.

Under the streetlight, green sprouts are sticking their heads out of the earth in their gardens. Soon they’ll turn into Easter lilies. There’s nobody on the streets, but lights are lit in every window. In the warm light, families are sitting at their dining tables. All these different people, in all these different houses, all doing the same thing.

I run down the alleyway because I have to catch Peter before he gets home. I call his name, and in the twilight I think I see his silhouette hesitating, as if he expected me. I run harder, and a sudden gust of wind catches the wings of Christian the Ninth in my arms; they flutter as if he has come alive. The light gleams in his eager eyes, as if he’s more than ready to help my very good friend on his journey to freedom, the journey we all must take, everyone in our own way.

Fish in the Sky
was originally written in Icelandic, the author’s mother tongue, and was translated into English by the author himself for publication. Halfway through the editing process, a translation by Bernard Scudder was brought to light. This translation was immensely helpful during this process.

Sadly, Bernard Scudder died in his prime shortly after his manuscript was found. He had lived in Iceland for decades. His obituary in the
Guardian
described him as “a poet and the doyen of translators of Icelandic literature into English.”

His deep understanding and love for the Icelandic language shows through in all his work, from translations of the sagas to contemporary poetry and literature.