“These wretched gods,” said the unself-conscious policeman. “It so happened that the bones arrived from Copenhagen on the very day that the representatives of the Great Power were demanding an agreement; with the result that Parliament was up to the eyes in selling on that particular day, and had no time to hold a ceremony. The Prime Minister sent a chit down to the harbor and asked for the bones to be shoved into his warehouse at Snorredda until the meeting was over. In fact, that meeting lasted well into the night, because the Commies are against the dollar, and so they didn’t manage to sell before nearly dawn. And in the meantime these devils grabbed their opportunity and stole the bones.”
“So we have been sold?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, the sovereignty’s gone, I suppose, that’s all right. Reykjaness is going to be some special resting-place for welfare missions going east and west.”
“And who all said Yes?” I asked.
“You’re surely not so childish as to need to ask that?” he said. “Naturally all the fatherland-hurrah chaps said Yes.”
“The ones who swore on their mothers?” I asked.
“D’you imagine anyone else would want to sell our country?” he said.
“And the people?” I asked.
“Naturally they ordered us in the police force to prepare the tear-gas and other tidbits for the people,” he said. “But the people did nothing. The people are children. They are taught that criminals live in Skolavordustig[25] and not Austurvoll. Their faith in this wavers a bit, perhaps, from time to time, but when politicians have sworn often enough and hurrahed for long enough, they begin to believe it again. People don’t have the imagination to understand politicians. People are too innocent.”
“Yes, I suppose I knew well enough the way things were going when they began to swear oaths up north in the summer,” I said. “All trivial matters have ceased to take me by surprise. But since I have been so lucky as to meet a friend, I would like to ask you one thing: what news is there of—the Northern Trading Company?”
“You don’t know that either?” he said.
“I know nothing,” I said.
“Not even that he’s up the road now?”
“Who is where?”
“Since you haven’t heard anything,” he said, “I doubt if I’m the right person to tell you the news.”
“Up the road?” I went on asking. “What is up the road?”
“In Skolavordustig,” he said.
“The prison?” I asked.
“We call it up the road,” he said. “Up the road: where the small fry go. But all in good time, my dear; I believe things will improve. He got so far, in fact, as to buy the Cadillac off Pliers, his fellow parishioner. In actual fact he only blundered in one thing, despite the fact that the organist had often warned him about it, and us alclass="underline" if you are going to commit a crime, you must first get yourself a millionaire, or else you are just a ludicrous person; and belong up the road; in Skolavordustig.”
“And the firm?” I asked.
“It never existed,” he said. “And no merchandise, either. He never, indeed, actually claimed that the merchandise existed, he merely said: the merchandise will arrive soon. And then he sold and sold everything imaginable, and accepted payment. But when at last he stood there with the money in his hands and was going to start importing the goods for his customers, Snorredda claimed priority for foreign currency. And the Government, which is one of Snorredda’s assets, had come to the decision that petty young businessmen were for the axe.”
“I can’t understand what’s gone wrong with my legs,” I said, and took hold of his arm; truth to tell I had simultaneously a feeling of nausea and sparks before my eyes, as if I were going to faint; and I asked him to halt for a moment, and dashed my free hand across my eyes to wipe away this plague.
“I shouldn’t have started gossiping about this,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “But I’m a little tired after the journey still.”
After that we walked arm in arm across the road and behind the buildings; to the house; and I pulled myself together enough to be able to say: “Oh well, since we are a sold people in a sold country, I suppose nothing matters very much any more.”
“Now we’ll see what sort of mood our organist is in,” said the unself-conscious policeman.
25. Before and after atomic war
Of course this favorite of fortune was in a good mood. He was working on his flowers, with sleeves rolled up to the elbow and earth on his hands, planting roses, thinning, snipping off withered leaves, weeding, preparing the ground for winter. Various plants were still well in bloom, including a few of the roses. But when one looked around, one saw that the house was emptier than ever before, the battered harmonium away, the picture gone from the wall. Apart from the flowers there was little left except the three-legged sofa which required such skill to sit on.
“Good morning,” said the organist, fresh and cheery from his beloved daily work, his mere presence a peace-giving refuge, “and be welcome.”
He wiped off the earth and offered me his warm hand, kissed me, bade me welcome to the south, flattered me, and laughed at me—“Do please have a seat, the coffee will be ready in a twinkling.”
We put my wooden suitcase under the legless corner of the sofa and sat down, and he laughed—at us for sitting on such a wretched sofa, and at himself for owning it.
“And where is Cleopatra?” I asked.
“Cleopatra took off when my mother died,” he said. “She though she might get a bad reputation off me. Cleopatra always had a petit-bourgeois streak in her, even though she was a great woman; and Napoleon the Great a great man.”
“Napoleon the Great?” said the unself-conscious policeman in surprise.
“Fancy, so you can open your mouth after all. How very solemn you are, my friend,” said the organist.
“What is a man to say these days?” said the unself-conscious policeman. “The whole nation has lockjaw. As Ugla and I were just saying, people are so innocent that they cannot believe such a thing is possible; the man in the street hasn’t got the intelligence to imagine anything like it. Just when we had finished fighting for seven hundred years!”
“Would it be impertinent to ask what you are talking about, my friend?” said the organist.
“Sell the country, bury bones,” said the unself-conscious policeman. “What else?”
“What’s all this, children?” said the organist. “Don’t you want to have any heroes?”
“That’ll be the day.” said the unself-conscious policeman. “Heroes! Not half!”
“A man who risks everything for his cause, even his good name if his cause is defeated—I do not know who is a hero if not he,” said the organist.
“Then Quisling was a hero,” said the unself-conscious policeman, “for he knew right from the start both that he would be hanged and that the Norwegians would execrate him after his death.”
“Goebbels murdered his six children and his wife before committing suicide, rather than yield to the east,” said the organist. “It is a fallacy to think that heroism is in any way related to the cause that is fought for. We Icelanders, who have the greatest heroic literature in the world, ought to know what a hero is; the Jomsvikings[26] are our men, they made obscene remarks while they were being beheaded. We do not doubt that in the Fascist armies there were proportionately as many heroes as in the Allied armies. The cause makes no difference to the heroism. For myself, I believe that the Icelandic nation has gained a few heroes in the last few days.”
26
A semi-legendary, highly exclusive band of Vikings, who lived spartan and war-dedicated lives in the Baltic city of Jomsborg (now unknown) in the tenth century. They were wiped out in the battle of Hjorungavag, against Earl Hakon of Norway.