The Last Samurai

I hope you won’t be discouraged if I stand my ground. I think it’s wonderful that you show such a grasp of the importance of the theory, and I’m thrilled that you like my writing.

Yours,

Val Peters

I had told myself not to expect anything, but I must have been expecting something. In spite of the article, in spite of all the books, I’d kept hoping for something so brilliant I couldn’t have thought of it myself. I looked down at the piece of paper in my hand with its bold careless signature, and I wished more than anything in the world that it had not been written by my father.

If anyone else had written it, I would have written back to point out that the whole article talked as if selection at the level of genes, individuals and species were the same thing and that he needed to clear up this confusion even if he was arguing against Dawkins as the article claimed to, and I would have pointed out that he hadn’t answered any of my arguments. I still didn’t want to annoy, however, so I let it pass. The crucial thing was that he had put his address at the top of the page. I looked the street up in the A-Z, and it was not far from the Circle Line.

5

For David, with best wishes

I took the Circle Line and I went to my father’s house and stood outside.

I knew I had two half-brothers and a half-sister, but I was pretty sure they lived with their mother. At about 10:30 a woman came out of the house. She got in a car and drove off.

I wasn’t sure whether to go up to the door. I didn’t know what I’d say—I thought I’d blurt out something stupid. I crossed the street and looked at the windows. I couldn’t see any movement. At about 11:00 I saw a face.

At 11:30 the door opened again and a man came out and down the steps. He looked older than I’d imagined him; the pictures I’d seen must have been taken years ago. He was less handsome than I’d imagined, even after the pictures; I’d forgotten that she had been rather drunk by the time she kissed him.

He reached the street and turned right. At the corner he turned right again.

I went back again the next day. I had in my backpack the introduction to aerodynamics, a book on calculus for engineers, the Penguin translation of Njal’s Saga, Brennunjalssaga, Gordon’s Introduction to Old Norse and The Count of Monte Cristo in case I got bored, plus four peanut butter and jam sandwiches and a tangerine. There was a bus stop with a low wall beside it across the street from his house. I sat watching the house, reading Njal’s Saga and flipping back and forth between the Icelandic and the Penguin.

Njal and his sons were at a court called the Althing. Skarp-Hedin, one of Njal’s sons, had killed a priest. I did not really understand how the court worked. Njal’s son-in-law Asgrim and the Njalssons went from booth to booth looking for support. First they went to Gizurr’s booth and then they went to the Olfus booth to see Skapti Thoroddson.

‘Lát heyra at,’ segir Skapti.

‘Let us hear your errand,’ said Skapti.

‘Ek vil biðja ik liðsinnis,’ segir Ásgrímr, ‘at ú veitir mér lið ok mágum mínum.’

‘I need your help,’ said Asgrim, ‘for myself and my kinsmen.’

I had been working on Icelandic for three weeks so it wasn’t too bad. There were some things I couldn’t do without a dictionary. Nothing happened in the house.

‘Hitt hafða ek ætlat,’ segir Skapti, ‘at ekki skyldi koma vandræði yður í híbýli mín.’

‘I have no intention,’ said Skapti, ‘of letting your troubles into my house.’

Ásgrímr segir: ‘Illa er slíkt mælt, at verða mnnum á sízt at liði, er mest liggr við.’

Asgrim said, ‘These are mean words; you are of least use when the need is greatest.’

The postman came to the house with the second post. The woman came to the door to take it; there seemed to be a lot of letters. I ate a peanut butter sandwich.

‘Hverr er sá maðr,’ segir Skapti, ‘er fjórir menn ganga fyrir, mikill maðr ok flleitr, ógæfusamligr, harðligr ok trllsligr?’

‘Who is that man,’ said Skapti, ‘the fifth in the line, that tall, fierce-looking, troll-like man with the pale, ill-starred look?’

Nothing happened in the house.

Hann segir: ‘Skarpheðinn heiti ek, ok hefir ú sét mik jafnan á ingi, en vera mun ek ví vitrari en ú, at ek arf eigi at spyrja, hvat ú heitir. ú heitir Skapti óroddsson, en fyrr kallaðir ú ik Burstakoll, á er ú hafðir drepit Ketil ór Eldu; gerðir ú ér á koll ok bart tjru í hfuð ér. Siðan keyptir ú at prælum, at rísta upp jarðarmen, ok skreitt ú ar undir um nóttina. Síðan fórt ú til órólfs Loptssonar á Eyrum, ok tók hann við ér ok bar ik út í mjlsekkum sínum.’

‘Skarp-Hedin is my name,’ he replied, ‘and you have often seen me here at the Althing. But I must he sharper than you, for I have no need to ask you your name. You are called Skapti Thoroddsson, but once you called yourself Bristle-Head, when you had just killed Ketil of Elda; that was the time you shaved your head and smeared it with tar, and bribed some slaves to cut you a strip of turf to cower under for the night. Later you fled to Thorolf Loptsson of Eyrar, who took you in and then smuggled you abroad in his flour sacks.’

Eptir at gengu eir Ásgrímr út.

With that they all left the booth.

Nothing happened in the house.

Skarpheðinn mælti: ‘Hvert skulu vér nú ganga?’

‘Where shall we go now?’ asked Skarp-Hedin.

‘Til búðar Snorra goða,’ segir Ásgrímr.

‘To Snorri the Priest’s booth,’ said Asgrim.

Njal’s Saga was a bit hard in places but not too hard. The aerodynamics was a real killer. I read a couple of pages but I wasn’t in the mood. Nothing happened in the house.

I went back to Njal’s Saga. Snorri said that their own lawsuits were going badly, but he promised not to take sides against the Njalssons or support their enemies. He said:

‘Hverr er sá maðr, er fjórir ganga fyrir, flleitr ok skarpleitr ok glottir við tnn ok hefir øxi reidda um xl?’

‘Who is that man, fifth in the line, the pale, sharp-featured man with a grin on his face and an axe on his shoulder?’