Heaven and Hell (9 page)

Geirþrúður looked down, as if to inspect herself, she sat crosswise in the green, downy-soft, wide chair, one leg over one of the arms, her hands around her coffee cup as if she were cold, she seemed to think things over for a moment and then said, without looking directly at Guðrún, I agreed to marry Guðjón because he’s a good man, because we feel happy together, and because I view him as my equal.

Guðrún brought the cup calmly to her lips, then set it down empty, you’re not Guðjón’s equal and you never will be, she said, and she stood up, looked down at Geirþrúður, I expect that you won’t be coming to another Eve meeting.

Unfortunately, I have little appetite for sweets.

Or the company of others, the priest’s wife added.

Geirþrúður then smiled for the first time and said, we two could almost get on, yes, Guðrún replied, almost.

She’s weaseled her way into the life of a lonely middle-aged man, quite a few people said, she deprived him of the tranquillity of his twilight years, and sure enough, one day Guðjón grabbed at his chest, it was right outside on the street and in the sunshine, looked around amazed and then was dead. Geirþrúður inherited half, which was no trifle, and did not shed a single tear at the funeral. However, she spared no expense on the wake, we’ll give her that, it was a great wake and as joyful as if the Devil had kindled a fire under the attendees. Þorvaldur became unforgivably drunk and wound up in the wrong bed with a cheerful housemaid, Gunnhildur, who found it both funny and titillating to be with the priest, she made him wear his cassock throughout and it was fun while it lasted, but not after he sobered up, then it was not fun at all, and two days later Þorvaldur had joined the Daybreak Temperance Society. Geirþrúður on the other hand wasn’t seen at the wake, she was of course up at the house counting the money, said one man, I thought I saw her walking up above the town, said another, yes, probably to meet the Devil, her husband, said the third, but in any case, many of them woke up terribly hung over, with Guðjón in the ground, waiting for Doomsday. Then Geirþrúður opened the Café where the house’s elegant parlor had been, she called it simply the Café, but we have sometimes used such names as the Pub, the Refuge, the Gates of Hell.

VI

The boy still sleeps, heavily, unconsciously. Dreams som
etimes free us from life. They are the sunshine behind the world. We lie down to sleep at the end of a January evening, the north wind shakes the house, the thin windowpanes tremble, we close our eyes, and the sun shines on us. Those who live beneath falling mountainsides and so close to the end of the world are specialists in dreams. The boy sleeps. Then he wakes up, comes slowly to the surface.

It is still dark when he wakes up.

Feels, however, that the night is behind him and that the sun will soon rise from the deep.

He opens his eyes slowly, cautiously, reluctantly, and the dreams that had filled existence are sundered and turn to nothing, at most a trace of fog that hangs over the memory for a few seconds and then dissipates. He closes his eyes again, awake yet not completely. A cozy condition he has often tried to maintain, precisely in the middle, sleep on the one hand, waking on the other, holding waking at bay as long as he can. Imagined that he was waking up in a house with a piano, a barrel organ, a wall covered in books, people in this house are thoughtful, know a lot, and there is even an apple on the table. But reality never lets you stray far from it, you only ever escape it for a moment, the living and the dead are in its hands, thus it’s a question of mental and spiritual health, of Hell and Heaven, of making reality a better place. Daydreams retreat, the apple, thinking people, the piano, the books. Then the boy tries to imagine that he’s at the fishing station, that he’s waking up, the fishing voyage ahead and Bárður alive. He sniffs in the hope of smelling the odor of his friend’s sweaty feet but the air in the room is far too good, not deadly close as it is after sleeping in the loft, seven sleeping people, not possible to open a window, seven individuals who breathe and smell.

He opens his eyes. Bárður is dead and everything grows cold.

Closes his eyes again.

Life can be very inconsiderate.

He is heavy with melancholy, his heart aches yet he has to pee so badly that everything else gives way to that need. So much so that he dares not cough, dares not even cry because the slightest exertion could press on his bursting bladder and cause something to leak out. This shows how much of an idiot I am, he thinks, and can lose himself for a moment in self-contempt, but he who needs to pee needs naturally to pee, and if he waits long enough the need becomes plainly overwhelming. He pulls himself slowly out of bed, he is naked, who could have undressed me, he thinks worriedly while he kneels down and searches around under the bed for the chamber pot, sighs when his hand collides with it. He pees on his knees so none of it misses the pot and it’s good, it’s so good to pee that he sighs contentedly and thus betrays his sorrow for the third time in a short while, he is a fool. He sits on the edge of the bed, looks straight ahead with little hope and breathes in the warm smell of urine. Silence around him, not even the sea is heard. His eyes have just started to get used to the lack of light, he sees the outline of two windows behind a heavy curtain, it’s likely calm outside so they’ll row. Pétur used the day yesterday to find two itinerant fishermen who now sit on the midthwart in place of Bárður and himself, while Andrea is doubtless worried about him, I need to write to her, yes, of course, but to tell her what? A trembling seizes his thin body, not strong but hardened by toil, cool in the room, he pulls the blanket over his shoulders and looks around. Much still hidden or hazy in the darkness but he has truly never slept alone in such a large space, except of course when he slept outside, under the bare sky. The bed has high ends, there he can distinguish a commode with six, no seven, drawers, and the outlines of pictures on the walls. There’s a chair that looks nice to sit in. The boy glances around for his clothing, he is quite sad but still wants very much to try the chair. Could it be fake? And who removed his clothes? Helga, no doubt. It’s not a particularly pleasant thought. So she’s the first woman to see him naked. It could have been another woman, for example Guðrún. He tries to think about her, tries to miss her, but feels nothing, almost as if she means nothing to him. He stands up, goes to one of the windows, pulls the heavy curtain back, and the cloudy April light streams over him, sweeps the darkness away, and unveils the room. His clothes lie on a blue wooden chair next to the bed. He dresses, sniffs like a dog at the clothing, it has never smelled so good before, then stands for a long time over the heavy armchair, strokes it, over the wide arms, mutters something and then sits down carefully. The chair is incredibly soft and it is so absurdly good to sit in it that the boy smiles instinctively, but immediately bites his lips hard.

Bright outside and the night gone.

The April night is of course not very dark and it’s also full of good sounds, one can hear running water, birdsong, flies, one can see earthworms in the dirt and life becomes more simple, April comes to us with a first aid kit and tries to heal the wounds of winter.

The boy sits in the softest chair in the world and looks around, out the window and at the blue-white April clouds, tries to think about God but quickly gives up and regards the chamber pot instead, half full of cooling urine, white and so pure it’s as if it’s never been used. No, nor has he ever seen such a fine chamber pot before, just as well he couldn’t see it properly when he peed, would surely not have dared to pee into such an elegant basin. Two paintings hang on the walls, rather large, he squints to distinguish the subjects, a city in one of them, foreign countries, he mutters. Just imagine, we live in a country where there is no city, no railroad, no palace, and besides we live so far from the world that many people don’t know we exist. And is there anything to know? The other painting is less clear, he would need to stand up and move closer to get a good view, but that is naturally out of the question, it is much better to continue sitting there, looking around. I’ve probably slept for a good twenty-four hours, he thinks, feels it in his body, which is heavy, almost numb. Something makes a creaking sound near the boy, he is startled and for one deceitful moment he fears that Bárður is standing in the half-lit corner, looking at him. There are footsteps outside the door and someone laughs, a man but surely not the old captain, this is younger laughter, deep, almost cheerful, and besides the old man hardly ever laughs, just growls maybe. To his delight the boy feels his antipathy to Kolbeinn spread throughout his body. Old bugger, he mutters. The man laughs again and he hears a woman’s voice. Incredible, folk do exist who laugh so early in the morning. The boy stands up, pulls the heavy curtains away from the other window, rather large windows latched together with hasps, he opens them and gulps in the cold, still morning air, it hasn’t snowed since he walked or tottered into this house, he looks up and at the mountain towering above the Village. The morning light isn’t completely clear, it’s as if it is filled with impurities. Will it ever be completely bright beneath such a mountain? The boy backs away instinctively from the window and shuts it, it had quickly become chilly in the room, he wishes most to crawl into the bed again, cover his head, because what lies ahead, other than drawing breath, eating, going regularly to the privy, reading books, replying when spoken to? Why does a man live? He tries to say these words out loud, as if he were laying the question before God or maybe just before this fine chair, but since neither God nor the chair seem inclined to reply he starts thinking about Kolbeinn’s books. They probably number around four hundred and he has never seen more than twenty books in the same place, except naturally at the Pharmacy, counted seventy-two when he was there with Bárður: four hundred books. He stares dreamily into space. Again the man laughs, but at more of a distance this time, just catches the distant sound, he rouses himself, stands up, goes quickly to the door, opens it, looks carefully out, a long hallway appears. He has surely slept for a long time behind the weighty curtains, but now he is awake and needs to find out why he is alive and whether there is in any sense room for him in this life.

He hesitates at the door. Looks over the large room, says goodbye to it, finally closes the door carefully behind him and walks slowly to the other end of the hallway. He counts five doors apart from the one he shut and four lamps on the walls, only two of them lit, thus it’s half dark in the hallway, he peers at the pictures nearest to the glowing lamps. All foreign countries, he mutters after examining them, alien lakes, forests, palaces, cities. He goes very slowly down the stairs, the two voices carry up from below, he stops in the center of the stairs, shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, and prepares himself. It’s easy to deceive oneself in solitude, one can almost create a personality, become wise, reflective, have an answer to everything, but it’s a different story in the company of others, you’re put to the test, there you’re not as reflective, not nearly as wise, you’re sometimes a damned fool and say all sorts of stupid things. I’m sure I’ll make a fool of myself, thinks the boy and continues down the stairs, counts sixteen steps. A closed door to his right when he comes down, a somewhat long hallway to the left leading to the main door, which is half open, and there stands a man, doubtless the one who laughed, rather tall, strong looking, with broad shoulders, wearing a blue jacket with numerous gold buttons, a foreign ship captain, thinks the boy, one can also see it in how he carries himself, the combination of determination and carelessness, this man isn’t dependent on saltfish and hasn’t needed to live beneath the darkness of the mountains. The captain catches sight of the boy, who still holds onto the handrail because we often have to hold onto something in order not to get lost or tumble over the edge, it can be a handrail but preferably another hand. Their eyes meet, the foreigner’s pucker as if he’s on the lookout or perhaps just to see better. Helga steps into the hallway, had been standing in the doorway next to the captain, looks at the boy and says, good day, you slept. He lets go of the handrail but grabs it again and both agrees and bids her good day by nodding his head. It’s possible to say much with a little movement of the head, words are likely overvalued, we should perhaps throw most of them out, just nod, whistle, and hum. Helga looks at the captain and says something in a foreign language, speaks slowly but without hesitation, explaining who I am, thinks the boy, the skipper looks at him, no longer on his guard, and his face expresses sympathy, even pity. He sails the seas and knows death, thinks the boy, as if to justify to himself the warm currents the foreigner’s glance releases within him. Then the captain nods at him, raises one of his arms, his hand is open and turned toward the boy, he glances suddenly upward, it’s as if he hesitates, as if he is waiting for something, but then he has gone out and the door has closed.

Well, says Helga.

Well
is certainly the most important word there is in Icelandic, it can connect two strangers in an instant.

The boy walks over to her and she says, now you need to eat, and he says, yes.

VII

It’s difficult to come to grips with Helga, Bárður had said
as they walked away from the Village thirteen thousand years ago, with a perilous epic poem on his back, you’re equally uncertain whether she simply tolerates you or whether she likes you, whether she’s bored with life or not, dammit, sometimes I want to jump at her, shouting, just to throw her off balance and find out whether we can catch a glimpse of the real her, whoever that might be.

But Bárður’s not about to jump at anyone now and say
bah!
Which is a good thing, really, because he is dead, frozen to death, and life recedes further from him with every passing minute, after thirty years he’ll be at most a dull memory in the world, and then I’ll also be completely forgotten, luckily. That’s how the boy thinks, or rather, these thoughts flash within him as he follows Helga and tries to hold his anxiety and shyness at bay. Why should I be shy of her? Helga is just a person, her body is delicate and can’t bear a landslide, can’t bear time, time blinks and she’s a decrepit old woman in a corner, munching on tasteless memories and names no one else recalls.

The way from the hallway into the kitchen is barely ten steps, yet this all manages to flash through his head, there are clearly great expanses in the mind of a man, magnificent opportunities but most of them disused because existence stiffens quickly into the commonplace and opportunities diminish with every passing year, a large part of the mind is lost or turns to sandy wastes.

Helga is just under medium height, with quick, precise movements, she likely only knows the verb
to hesitate
by reputation. Her pale blond hair is tied in a hard, firm knot at her neck, lending her face a sharp appearance, emphasizes her rather thin lips and her slightly upturned nose, she is wearing a loose light blue dress, the boy is uncertain of her physique, nor does he have any interest in it, she must be at least thirty years old.

They have come into the kitchen and all of the boy’s restless thoughts and musings drop like shot birds, because there sits old Kolbeinn. Chewing a slice of bread with a thick layer of butter and pâté, his dead eyes slip through the boy like cold hands, and the events in the Café, his sheepishness, a word in Coddish,
Omaúnu
, stir slightly in his memory and begin immediately to mock him. He’s awake, the kid, says Helga to the captain, who grunts something gruff in return like an old ram, he’s seldom cheerful in the mornings, she explains to the boy, who has no idea whether he’s expected to smile or not. Kolbeinn is such a perceptive man, she continues, that a long time ago he realized it’s useless to be cheerful, generally speaking. The boy thinks of sitting down and then changes his mind, just stands there and wants desperately to make a face at the scowling captain but doesn’t dare, instead watches Helga cut bread with deft movements, then the coffee starts to boil. The boy looks with great interest at the oven standing on four massive iron feet, with a hob and four plates for pots of different sizes. He has never seen such a large oven, scrutinizes the decorations on it and thus keeps himself occupied for a moment. Sit down, says Helga, without turning, and he does so immediately. Still, Kolbeinn is cheerful by nature, she says, and has even sung for me in the mornings. Again the munching captain grunts. Helga puts the bread and coffee on the table before the boy, who senses her warm bodily scent and ventures to smile, yet hesitantly, the heavily bearded captain’s face opposite him reminds him of a dark cloudbank but there is a peculiar calmness over his work-fatigued hands that lie on the table like sleeping dogs, large compared to his body. The boy slurps the hot coffee, takes a bite of the bread and then hunger flares up so intensely that he needs to concentrate hard on not shoving all this soft bread into his mouth, forces himself to eat slowly, his surroundings demand more courtesy and elegant table manners than he is used to. Helga brings porridge in a blue bowl, he looks up, says instinctively, thank you, and so sincerely that she smiles a fleeting smile that reaches his eyes, giving him the courage to ask about the man who was leaving, is he a foreigner? Yes, she says, pours herself coffee in a blue cup, sits at the end of the table, captain of the other ship lying in the Lagoon, they’re sailing later, he’s English, she adds and sips her coffee. Do you know English, he asks carefully and respectfully, because whoever knows another language must see farther and know more than other people. Some, I lived in America for six years, but he’s not here to visit me or admire my English. Why does he come then, asks the boy, so innocent, but just for one moment, sees almost immediately through the innocence, or the idiocy, and turns bright red. Helga purses her lips, either from displeasure or to keep herself from smiling, Kolbeinn’s face is blank. The boy shovels the porridge into his mouth, thereby preventing himself from putting his foot in it.

It’s best to get going.

Already returned the book, mission accomplished, thank you very much, next on the schedule is to decide whether he should live or die. Refreshing when one’s choices are limited to two and are so decisive. Of course it’s considerably simpler to die, just one decision and then everything’s finished, get a piece of rope, tie it around a stone, hop off a cliff, and never come back up, no one would need to stumble upon his stranded corpse.

It’s entirely more complicated to live.

It won’t do to get a piece of rope, even if it were a very good piece of rope, one needs more than that to live, life is a long and complicated process, to live is to question. Where, for example, should he stay the next night, the next nights, the next ten thousand nights? And he needs to find work, he’s not going to sea, fuck that, no, and he’s not going to work at Leó’s Shop in the summer, not without Bárður, out of the question. But what then, he needs to eat, it costs money. He could conceivably make a deal with Magnús’ Shop or Tryggvi’s Shop for moderate credit, the ships will sail soon and then there’ll be more than enough to do and any workers very welcome. Yes, yes, of course it’s not a problem to take necessary provisions out on credit for a few days, no problem to survive, but entirely more complicated to figure out whether he has, in general, any business in this world.

That’s how the boy thinks, has finished his porridge, holds his empty spoon and stares at nothing, no self-pity in his face but perhaps a touch of helplessness, because how is he supposed to get some rope? One doesn’t find it in the street, life will always put obstacles in our way, nothing is ever easy. Bárður never had any problems with anything, yet he died and will never again laugh that infectious laugh of his.

The boy is startled, Helga is saying something. What? he asks but she shakes her head and mutters, so I’m left with a deaf man and a blind man. The boy looks swiftly at Kolbeinn but there is no Kolbeinn there, he’s simply gone. I just, says the boy, falls silent as he searches for more words but doesn’t find them, has lost all of them.

You lose your hearing, get it back and then lose your voice, you’re truly exciting to be around, says Helga, and he naturally has no idea whether she’s saying this cheerfully or sarcastically, once again he’s uncertain and fearful of this woman and thus agrees silently, with a movement of his head, to go out with her and down to Tryggvi’s Shop. We need milk, beer, porridge, bread, I need a pack animal, deaf or mute, it doesn’t matter, but hopefully your strength doesn’t disappear as suddenly from your arms.