The Great Weaver From Kashmir (2 page)

“No, Grandma, I really must inform you that Steinn Elliði doesn't have friends just because of Grímúlfur's money. Steinn has friends for completely different reasons than the fact that Ylfingur sells salt-fish. Because Steinn Elliði is far richer than his father, Grímúlfur, let me tell you, yes, even richer than the Ylfingur Company itself. You'll see later, when Steinn becomes famous. Yes, just wait a few years, although you might smirk at the thought now. What did his lyceum teachers say? Didn't they say something along these lines: that Steinn was the most incredibly gifted boy who'd graduated from there in years? Didn't he graduate with honors in philosophy in the spring, eighteen years old? And what did the German professor say, the one Steinn traveled with up north last year? Weren't these his exact words: that he'd never encountered such fiery talent in all of Germany? ‘Eine feurige Begabung,'
⁶
that's what he said to Örnólfur,
Grandma! And what do his friends say, many of whom are both famous and cultured? They adore him and worship him, because he's such a great poet, so inspired, so innovative, so astute–”

The girl was so ardent that from her lips flew words one never sees except in
Eimreiðin
and
Skírnir.
⁷
She was clearly determined to convince her grandmother.

But Valgerður Ylfingamóðir's only reply was “Well now.” She glanced sharply at her foster daughter and smiled faintly at her simplistic enthusiasm for the words “innovative” and “astute,” but could not be bothered to make any further reply.

As she peered down at her knitting her mind was drawn away from her grandson to her sons, those steady, tight-lipped men who had known better how to follow their own lead than even those Icelanders most renowned for innovation and astuteness. The control that they had over the management of the national household determined to a significant extent what might be called the order, the security, or the welfare of Icelandic national prosperity. She was the mother of kings.

One of the Ylfingurs' personal cars, a bulky brownish yellow vehicle, came driving quietly up to the veranda two minutes later, and the fragrance of the copse was blended with the stench of grease and gasoline.

The director of the fishing company, Örnólfur, sat behind the
wheel. He tipped his thin felt hat courteously toward Diljá and his mother, who had come down the veranda steps to smile at the new arrivals. Steinn Elliði was sitting next to Örnólfur and didn't wait for the vehicle to stop, but instead threw open the car door and leaped out in order to be the first one to greet the women, extending one hand to his grandmother and one to Diljá. Grímúlfur pulled down the handle of the rear door with thin bluish fingers and helped his wife step out. They all kissed each other, except for Örnólfur, who circled the house in order to turn the car around, and then began checking it over like a true chauffeur before going inside.

Steinn Elliði acted as spokesman for the new arrivals. “Well, old toughie!” he said to his grandmother. “It's an old custom that those who go to sea receive the blessing of their matron, and you've hopefully remembered to cook some pancakes for us. Twenty-four hours from now we'll have lost sight of land, heading south, Grandma, south, toward warmer regions. Imagine Leith, that great city on the other side of the sea, where the cargo cranes howl like the elements and giant Belgian hacks thrust out their tongues and snort in the coal dust!”

And without giving a second thought as to whether his grandmother had heard him or not, he turned to Diljá and continued to speak in the same tone of cavalierish nonchalance:

“Now then, Diljá! It hasn't been more than, say, three or four days since I learned what the fates had up their sleeves. Father told us about it at the breakfast table two days before yesterday, almost as an afterthought, just as if it had nothing to do with anything. He said that I could actually decide for myself whether I stayed or went, and I thought about it for two days. Finally I came to the conclusion
that I must go. Who else was going to read out loud for Mother from nonsensical theosophical essays and English half-crown novels written for ‘benevolent readers' with crazy hair and bad teeth, wearing boots with lopsided heels and artsy bow ties? And who was going to lead the missus through the museums in Firenze and show her the masterpieces by Cranach and Michelangelo in the Galeria Pitti? Who, if not me? Isn't the son born into this world to support and pamper his mother? Diljá, damn it, you should have said you'd come with us! And just look at you! Are you angry?”

He grabbed her quickly by the shoulder and spun her around like a top; suddenly they were staring straight at each other. Usually they laughed at everything whenever they met, but this time no joy shone in her eyes. And this caught him off guard. Neither of them could manage a laugh. He took his cigarette case out of his trouser pocket and fingered it nimbly for a moment, then stuck it back in again.

“I need to talk to you,” he said, and they went into the house.

He was about eighteen years old, but full grown, big and strong, his body agile and svelte. His disposition revealed itself passionate at times, bearing witness to the intractable power of his soul. He was a stately man no matter how one looked at him: neither timidity nor bashfulness obscured his splendid deportment. His bearing, freewheeling and blustery, had effects similar to sunshine hues: the dashing youngster's look captivated others like an apparition
in the sweltering banality of everyday life. His forehead was particularly high, although not quite as wide, and oddly rounded on top. His hair was reddish blond, dense and firm. It was combed back and swept in long locks down the back of his head: this splendid mane lent his face a magnificent and imposing quality. Nothing in his person was, however, as charming as his eyes; they had a deviant gleam; they were jewels; it was tempting to stare into their radiant azure; they were deep-set, and their beauty revealed itself best when he glanced upward; they were protected by long eyelashes. His eyebrows were thick and strong; sometimes he knitted them tightly into a ball and looked quickly upward, reminding one of the commander of an army. These eyes either radiated the wild joy of his multifaceted genius' soul or reflected tranquil refulgence, as if his consciousness were raised in an instant over all visible things and shed light on a hidden world; he had been granted an extra personality that had its home on the other side of everyday life. If one looked, however, from his eyes to his mouth, one noticed something imbalanced in his features. The irregular shape of his mouth drew attention; his upper gums jutted out a little, and his two front teeth were always visible, except when he closed his lips; his mouth seemed fixed in a sneer. At a glance this sneer seemed only to lend a manly look of discontentedness to his face, bearing witness to the easily forgiven complacency of a youth who has the whole world at his feet. On closer inspection, one could read in this look a cold refusal to acquiesce: impudence, even shamelessness. And finally, this sneer could be taken as an outspoken witness to the fact that this man was forever prepared to oppose, to respond mercilessly,
savagely. It was just as detrimental to stare too long at his smile as it was comforting to gaze at the psychic beauty of his eyes.

His hands were small, with thick palms, his fingers short and slender at the tips, the backs of his hands and wrists covered with blond hair all the way up under the cuffs of his sleeves. He appeared to have come directly from a social gathering, clad in a dinner jacket, potato yellow socks and broad-heeled but slender-cut patent-leather shoes, a long muddy-gray overcoat covering the rest of his clothing, a bright hat upon his head. He held snow-white gloves in one hand.

The old woman took one of her daughter-in-law's hands in both of hers and listened compassionately to her despondent complaints about the pressing concerns of the last few days and various other afflictions. She had been struggling to decide on what she did not want to bring with her, to put things in order in trunks and cabinets, and finally to sort out her luggage: pack, pack. No one but God could imagine what a bother all of this had been. Three of the maids had been up to their ears in the work for four days. Finally, however, an end to it had come into sight, thank goodness. But who knows, maybe the girls had skimped on the packing material, and everything would be smashed and shattered to smithereens if the trunks were overturned!

Madam Jófríður sighed. But she comforted herself with the
thought of being able to get some rest tonight, here in the peace and quiet of Þingvellir – if, that is, she could catch a wink of sleep with all of this nonsense going on – it was as if she had just arrived from a flight over the North Pole! She had decided to come here tonight to get away from the ruckus in Reykjavík – as usual, whenever someone decides to go somewhere, everyone else suddenly shows up, wanting to do this and that; it's only then that people realize how much they'll miss someone. “Oh, Madam Valgerður, how poorly I've felt since the blood appeared in my saliva last spring; my only hope is a prolonged stay in the warm air down south.”

Although Madam Jófríður was the mother of an eighteen-year-old son, she bore none of the marks of a middle-aged woman. On the contrary, her skin was smooth and youthful, her body chubby, swollen with full-flower femininity, her face milky pale, her lips kelpred, and her hair auburn, but her dark eyes burned with dangerous embers, bearing witness to a number of different things at once: passion, consumption, hysteria; her eyebrows were two dark arches high above her eyes. In her facial expression, however, there was something that recalled a mask, the stylized face of an automaton or a wax image, but which had one thing beyond those, in that it was made of flesh and blood. But despite the ever-vigilant womanhood that shone from her with each word, every glance of her eye, every movement, there still appeared from time to time in her bearing something that reminded one of a tired child. She was not just formed of astoundingly delicate, perishable material, but she also seemed to know precisely how precious, fragile, and costly she was. She was like a vase made of Oriental glass. Every slight occurrence in her vicinity distressed her; she was perpetually afraid, perpetually
annoyed, perpetually confused; it seemed as if she would die, were she to dip her hand in cold water. There was a depressed comeliness in her fumbling hand movements.

“Alright, Jófí dear! And what are you planning to do with your house in Rauðarárvík?” replied the mother-in-law. “Have you decided to leave it empty?”

“Yes, and I was the one who got to decide,” she answered with childish pride. “Grímúlfur wanted either to sell the house or to rent it, because he says that it's foolish not to earn interest on one's possessions. But I don't find it foolish; I absolutely refuse to listen when Grímúlfur starts talking about interest or compound interest. Don't you think I'm right, Mama? Haven't I always said that Grímúlfur is and always will be a child in everything that touches on our family's welfare? Because when our house is sold we'll be left without a home in the world. Who knows, maybe one day I'll find out that it's better to own an empty house up near the North Pole than nothing in the lands to the south. And then there's Steinn, who so dearly loves the beautiful view from the west windows, who has sat there so often in the spring, writing beautiful things at sunset.”

Grímúlfur sat down discreetly in one of the wicker chairs on the veranda; his mood was pensive. He cared as little about the beauty of Þingvellir as he did the smoke coming from his cigar. He was still a man in his prime, yet somewhat short – he scarcely reached all the way up to his son's shoulders, but he was burly, with prominent shoulders and an evenly shaped head. His face was marked with deeply drawn lines, and he had large, bushy eyebrows. His eyes were gray and keen, shielded with gold-rimmed glasses. His upper lip was carefully shaven, while his hair was dark and grizzled, parted
meticulously in the middle of his forehead. His face retained an aura of dry business concerns. It was obvious that this man's work was the only reality that concerned him.

Suddenly from inside the house came the sounds of singing and the grand piano being played, just as Örnólfur came up the veranda steps after having finished tinkering with the car. He kissed his mother on the forehead and asked what was new at Þingvellir, and when he was told that everyone at the Ylfingabúð was doing fine he said:

“Since tomorrow is Sunday I'm going to do nothing but enjoy the peace and quiet of Þingvellir until tomorrow night. Father and son can hopefully handle driving south tomorrow morning.”

He glanced at his hands – his fingers were dirty from touching the grimy engine parts. “I'm going in to wash up,” he said, and he smiled and went into the house.

He could still be called a young man, not yet thirty-five years old, his hair longish and thin, he himself well-built and dashing, with manly shoulders. His manner was calm and determined, almost crafty. His face bore the same qualities of thoughtfulness and acuity as his elder brother's, was marked with similar lines from the nose to the corners of the mouth, but on his forehead, over the bridge of his nose, were runelike marks that would deepen with age. His eyes were quicker and livelier than Grímúlfur's, his eyebrows at least as bushy, his hair dark. Something in this man's face would have reminded one of an eagle or a hawk lying in wait to snatch its prey, had not another quality come into play that spoiled his raptor's likeness: namely, his gentle, modest smile, and the beauty that it lent to his face. The smile played about his lips every time he spoke. It also
appeared every time he listened to others speaking. In fact, every time he looked into someone's face, even if he were just passing through a room where others were gathered, this smile appeared on his face and warmed everything around him. No one was more skillful at sealing business deals than this great industrialist with his gentle smile. His personality contained an energy that found its outlet in pliancy.