The Great Weaver From Kashmir (37 page)

“Such caprice, Diljá dear! We should be pleasant.”

Then the Director's wife became a little girl: “Yes, Grandma, I really wanted to be; but I always feel like I'm about to lose control of myself, Grandma. And what did he mean last night when he was talking about bourgeois decorum? It almost seems like he hates me. Oh, I wish Örnólfur were home.”

Next morning Steinn's grandmother phoned the hotel again, but he hadn't returned during the night; no one had heard anything from him. “God grant that the child hasn't put himself in peril,” said Madam Valgerður. She rang again and again throughout the day, but there was no news of Steinn, and she became much more restless, more taciturn, than Diljá had seen her for years. God grant that the child is safe! The Director's wife tried to appear unmoved, but she avoided looking into her grandmother's face all day. She wandered restlessly about the house and accomplished little, until the atmosphere at home became unbearable; then she put on a coat and hat and fled to Madam Geirdal.

“Almighty God!” she said, after they'd kissed each other in greeting. “I didn't sleep a wink last night!”

“Goodness help you, dear Diljá!”

And after a bit of prattle back and forth about insomnia and medications for it, there came this question:

“Listen, Sigga; did you think that I was terribly rude to Steinn the other night?”

“Good Lord, Diljá! Hopefully you aren't kicking yourself over what you said to Steinn! What you said didn't do anything but serve him right, that insolent cad who thinks he's so famous that he can do or say whatever he pleases!”

“But, dear Sigga, he hasn't come home for two days.”

“What does that matter?”

“No one knows where he is.”

“Thank your lucky stars, you and your grandmother. What a boor!”

“Sigga, you don't understand how much it's bothering me. Imagine if–”

“If what?”

“I've been thinking about him the whole time since he arrived. Don't you think he must feel terribly bad? Oh! I thought that someone had to feel absolutely terribly bad to decide to become a Catholic. That's a frightful step! Didn't you notice the lines around his mouth? I'm certain that Steinn has suffered much more than we can imagine. Imagine how lonely he must have been–”

“The other day when I sat down at the table with Steinn I felt that for the first time in my life I beheld a wicked man.”

“Dear Sigga, how can you say such a thing?” rebuked Diljá.

“I'm just saying what I feel. There's something disgusting about him.”

“No, Sigga, not disgusting, but something that makes one afraid. It's his suffering that makes one afraid, not Steinn himself. You must have noticed how beautiful his eyes are. They're as clear as when he was a child. Sigga, do you remember Úlfur's eyes?”

“My dear Diljá, how could it possibly cross your mind to compare him to your baby?”

“They were cousins. I remember Steinn when he was a little boy with a straw hat and a red walking stick.”

“He was much better when he was a boy, even if he was abominable.”

“But Steinn and I were friends once. We gazed at the sea when we were children and held hands.”

Her girlfriend gave her a look of surprise.

“Think about it, Sigga! Steinn has come home! How often did I long for Steinn to come home!”

Her girlfriend said nothing.

“He has returned to his homeland because he feels horrible. He has come alone, helpless as a pilgrim out of the unknown – the solitude, where no human comfort can be found, where no heart communicates any warm feelings to another; no friend takes part in the woes of the abandoned. He never heard a friendly word all those long years, and when he comes home everyone has forgotten him. And imagine if–” she whispered, “if he had committed suicide! And all I did was ridicule his faith, which he reached out to when he had no other hope of human help. What excuse would I have had then? No, Sigga, I have no excuse at all; none.”

She leaned forward across the table, hid her face in her arms, and shook; her girlfriend came over to her, sat at her side, and placed an arm around her shoulders.

“Diljá,” she whispered, moved. “You love him.”

At these words she lifted her head from her arms and looked at her girlfriend. Her face was puffy, her pupils dilated behind her tears; her jaw quivered.

“I forbid you!” she hissed more than whispered. “I forbid you–”; the young women looked at each other for several moments.

“Forgive me, Diljá dear, if I've offended you with insensitivity.” Then she thrust a kiss onto her girlfriend's hand. Women understand each other.

“We'll hope that nothing has happened to him, Diljá dear,” she said.

It was cold, and raining heavily outside.

When Diljá came home, Madam Valgerður was sitting in front of the fireplace with Steinn Elliði opposite her, ragged and unshaven; his face was streaked all over with mud. He was wiping the mist from his glasses with his gloves.

She stopped in the doorway and could scarcely believe her eyes, so strongly had the mad fear that he was no longer to be counted among the living seized her. She relieved her own tension with a quick sigh of joy:

“Steinn,” she said. “We thought we would never see you again!”

“Good evening,” he said.

She wanted to go straight over to him and give him her hand, but he continued polishing his glasses without paying her any further notice.

“Where have you been all this time?”

He'd been up in Kjós.

“I don't understand this child at all!” marveled Madam Valgerður. “To undertake such a thing! He left at six o'clock yesterday morning, on foot! And climbed up Esja!”

Then she addressed him directly:

“You must have forgotten that our car is available to you whenever you want, boy! What do you think people are saying? It won't do at all, Steinn, for you to be seen walking around the countryside like a beggar; do you hear me?”

“You haven't asked me the news, Grandmother,” he said, holding his glasses to the light to check if they were clean. “You didn't ask how the view was from Móskarðahnúkur; didn't ask how I'd been received at the farms; didn't ask once about the well-being of the farmers in Kjós.”

“Oh, they can go to Hell in Kjós!” she said, and gave her grandson a look that showed how delighted she was to have gotten him back from death, then stroked the hair back from his forehead and patted him on the cheek. The Director's wife stood at some distance and watched.

“I'm hungry, Grandma,” he said.

Supper was ready; a maid was called to wipe off his shoes, and the girl knelt down and performed this task. The Director's wife stood at some distance and watched. Finally she came to her senses and hurried out.

He was famished and ate thick slices of pork chops as if they were Danish pastry, and Italian salad with a fork like porridge. He devoured the cheese in huge chunks. He talked about skyr,
¹¹²
flat-bread,
dulse, Iceland moss, codheads, and the Icelandic nation. He had walked forty kilometers in six hours and answered everything that was said to him distractedly.

“When I got up to Kjós I came to my senses,” he said. “I've been sleepwalking all my life. Reality is in Kjós. The rats were holding a political rally between the planking and the wall in the place where I slept last night.”

It seemed at that moment as if the old Steinn Elliði had been resurrected from the dead. His grandmother offered him a cigarette after the meal, but he had long since stopped smoking.

After supper he found the Latin dictionary, sat down in front of the fire, looked up the definitions of several words he needed, and wrote them down on a slip of paper. His grandmother addressed him several times, but he answered haphazardly, as a true member of his family. Finally he stopped answering. He turned his back to mother- and daughter-in-law, let his head fall to his chest, and didn't move. It was quiet in the room, the slightest movement perceptible. First they heard a little thump, as the dictionary fell from his hands onto the floor. But it didn't look likely that he would pick it up; he sat as dead still as before; a little later his deep and regular breathing sounded throughout the room; he was sleeping. Daughterand mother-in-law looked at each other and smiled without saying anything. He slept peacefully before his family's hearth after five years of exile, after having undergone countless trials in distant lands where reality most resembles the coral world at the bottom of the sea.

The embers in the fireplace were starting to cool down – they
needed to be careful to retain the room's warmth. He could catch cold, thought the Director's wife, he's so sweaty from the hike – and she bade the servant fetch a quilt. She didn't cover him herself, but instead handed the quilt to Madam Valgerður. The old woman laid it as carefully as possible over his chest and tucked the corners under his shoulders, but at this he woke with a start.

“Let Grandmother tuck you in,” said the old lady cheerfully, but he had no liking for such sensitivity, muttered something, stood up with a shudder, and wiped his eyes.

“Sleep here at home tonight, Steinn dear,” said his grandmother, “and don't go out in the rain; you'll catch cold from it!”

But he asked for his hat and left, without even saying goodnight. His grandmother followed him out onto the doorsteps. When he was gone Diljá stood up and picked up the book from the floor.

On the next day the hotel phoned and said that Steinn Elliði was ill. Had a doctor been sent for? Did he have a fever? Pneumonia? He had scarcely escaped from one difficulty before he found himself in another! Madam Valgerður immediately put on a coat and went to see him.

When the Director's wife came to bring flowers to the patient that evening, he was lying there without his glasses on, disheveled, in dirty, blue-striped pajamas, with all the newspapers of the town
on top of him, reading the advertisements. His greeting was not unfriendly, and he rose up halfway and stretched. He smelled the flowers and laid them on top of a copy of
Tíminn
.
¹¹³

“I've rented two horses,” he said.

“Horses? How do you feel?”

“I'm heading east.”

“East? Aren't you ill? Steinn, you can't imagine how startled we were this morning when they called to say you were ill.”

“It's just stiff muscles,” he said, and yawned again. “I felt as if I'd been thrashed by cudgels when I woke up this morning after that damned trip to Kjós, and I had a cough into the bargain.”

“Would you like some bonbons?” she asked, and unwrapped a decorative box of sweets.

He was overjoyed at this kindness, rolled over in bed and tumbled all of the flowers to the floor, thrust a hand toward the box, and said: “Give me!”

He obviously took no liking to the package's artistic decoration, because he ripped off the lid and threw it aside. The pieces in the box were wrapped in fancy paper of various colors. “Thank you very much!” he said, and started to eat. He pulled the box of chocolate into bed with him, leaned on one elbow over it, tore the paper off one after another of the pieces, and munched on them like meat. His hair was so disheveled that it was tempting to offer to comb it for him. His arms stretched far out of his sleeves and his nightgown was unbuttoned at the neck, revealing his chest when he moved. His chest was covered with hair. “Do you want some?” he said after eating for a while, and he handed her one of the pieces, wrapped in
beautiful green paper. But after finishing half the box he was full, and he handed her the rest and said: “I don't want this! This is awful! Give me a glass of water!”

She poured a glass of water and gave it to him, and when he'd drunk his fill he said:

“I don't feel so well. All day I've been training myself to think like
Tíminn
out of fear of coming under the influence of
Morgunblaðið
.”

But the concerns that pressed upon her mind made her unable to reply to this; she was earnestly concerned about everything but
Tíminn
and
Morgunblaðið,
and Steinn hadn't spoken a word in earnest since he had come home. It was as if he were speaking with an idiot. In his presence it was as if everything were vanity, killing every attempt she made at earnest expression. She longed to be able to give voice to all of the serious things in her life, since what is serious to one soul is serious to all existence. She longed to ask; she thirsted for an answer; she longed to sigh; she thirsted for comfort. But she knew that he wouldn't answer in any other way than to say that reality was in Kjós and that he was afraid of being influenced by
Morgunblaðið
. She stared straight ahead and kept quiet; if he had been ill, she thought, then I could have done something for him. Now she couldn't do anything. His table was strewn with written papers and books bound in black leather.

“It's better to go east,” he said.

“So you're not planning to humor us at all, Steinn, during the time that you're here. If you knew how much your grandmother cherishes you.”

“Ufff! Women!” he said. “She sat here for two hours today.”

“I won't sit here too long, Steinn,” she said.

He lay back and said nothing. Was he beginning to suspect that a human being had come to visit him? Finally he raised himself up again onto his elbow and looked at her for the first time, with deep, clairvoyant eyes that gazed from one world into another. She blushed.

Finally he said, as if he'd been examining his conscience the whole time:

“The only thing that I do not need to be ashamed of for saying to dear God is this: I am an uncontrollably wicked man!”

“Steinn, why do you say this!?” she answered sharply, since she did not understand how much depravity it takes to analyze other souls.