The Fish Can Sing (15 page)

“I can’t remember who baptized me,” I said. “But my name is Álfgrímur. Er — is there a man in the coffin?”

“You might call him that, my child,” said Pastor Johann. “On the other hand we don’t know for sure who baptized him, or whether he has any name at all.”

“I always baptize the sea-scorpions before I bury them,” I said.

“Indeed,” said Pastor Johann, “we are not burying him because we know who he is, but because we know that God loves all men equally; He feels the same love for me and you and Eyvindur the carpenter there who is holding your other hand as He does for the man who is lying in that coffin.”

“Is it perhaps the man who was lying in the mortuary the other day and whose face is gone?” I asked.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” said Pastor Johann. “His face is missing, so to speak, and that is why we do not know who he is. We think we know he may be a certain person; but it could just as well be someone else. We know only one thing: that God created all men equal, and the Saviour saves all men alike.”

The coffin was lowered into the grave and Pastor Johann went over to the edge of the grave and took some earth on his spade (which I think was called a trowel) and said a few words; then he took my hand again and led me to the edge of the grave and said:

“And now, Álfgrímur, we shall sing the psalm that Hallgrímur Pétursson wrote on his little daughter’s death for all men who live and die in Iceland.”

Pastor Johann then began to sing in his brittle old man’s voice, weary and tuneless.

and I held his hand and joined in the psalm in my clear childish voice; and thus I began to sing for the whole world. It was not without pride that I felt myself somehow to have been chosen to sing both for the living and the dead. Jónas the policeman also sang, and Eyvindur the carpenter too. The lame man who owned the hearse-horses was also trying to sing. And the birds sang.

When we had finished singing we stepped back from the grave. Pastor Jóhann was still holding me by the hand. His gown was longer at the front than the back because he now walked with a stoop.

“That, when all is said and done, was a fine funeral,” said Pastor Jóhann. “A lovely funeral. May God grant us all such a fine funeral.”

I said nothing as I trotted along beside him and he led me by the hand. I could not really understand why it was that Pastor Jóhann thought it such a fine funeral, when there were not even any horses.

The old cathedral pastor bade me farewell at the lych-gate.

“Goodbye, little boy,” he said. “And if you are ever playing in the churchyard here when we are officiating at a funeral, and you see a procession that is not very large, I mean a rather small, good procession like the one today, for example, you are welcome to join in and sing with us. I am not very good at singing, I’m afraid. But even though I’m not very good at singing, I know that there is one note and it is pure. Here are ten
aurar
for you. Give my greetings to Brekkukot, give my greetings to your grandfather and your grandmother. I thank them also for the singing.”

How very old and worn his purse was! But the ten-
aurar
piece he gave me was beautiful. At that time, caramels cost only half an
eyrir
each.

One fine day it so happened that an elderly woman swathed in dark shawls was sitting on the horse-stone across from the cottage-door at Brekkukot, trying to summon up enough courage to knock on the door. Then my grandfather arrived and greeted this woman and raised his hat.

“You must be Björn of Brekkukot, surely,” said the woman. “God give you good day.”

She was pale, with bulging eyes and protruding teeth. She was wearing thin-shoes, and her skirts came down to her ankles. She looked very thin and frail inside all these skirts and shawls.

“Who are your people, if I may ask, and where do you come from?” asked my grandfather.

“I am from Landbrot, out east,” she said.

“That’s a good step, if I may say so,” said my grandfather. “Are you visiting someone here in the south?”

“No, nothing like that,” said the woman, and smiled. “I have come here to die.”

“Just so,” said my grandfather. “Won’t you come in and have something warm?”

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” said the woman. “But I must confess that I have heard many good things about you people here in Brekkukot. And if you want to do an unknown woman from the east a favour, then I want to ask you to be so kind as to allow me to die here with you.”

“Well, you are not asking much,” said my grandfather. “But we are not so well equipped for that sort of thing here as the hospitals.”

“I have just come from the hospital,” said the woman. “I travelled here to the south early this spring in search of a cure, but they say it’s too late. I have only a few weeks left, I’m told.”

“Yes, as I say, even though the odd person has been glad to creep in here in order to kick the bucket,” said my grandfather, “there is not much nursing we can give the sick. There is no room here except for a couch in the mid-loft with old Jón the pilot, who calls himself Hogensen, and Runólfur, who spreads manure.”

“Oh, there’s no need for anything fancy with me,” said the woman. “But there’s always a snag to everything. There is one small thing I have promised my family.”

“Your affairs are your own to decide, my dear,” said my grandfather.

“Well, it’s like this, Björn,” said the woman. “I have to be sent back east when I am dead.”

“Ah, so that’s it,” said my grandfather. “A seven or eight days’ journey, no less! Don’t you know that we have a churchyard right under our noses here, so to speak, my good woman?”

Yes,” said the woman, “but it’s your churchyard.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” said my grandfather. “And don’t sit out here on that stone any longer.”

“I would rather not come into the house,” said the woman, “until this matter is settled. I promised my children before I left that I would have myself sent back east when the time came. They are alone. And they are only youngsters. And our Lykla is calving in September.”

“I don’t have anyone to send all the way east to Skaftafell District,” said my grandfather.

“I have been thinking of having myself sent back east as freight,” said the woman. “But someone would have to look after me on the way.”

“I have always understood that people don’t need very much looking after once they are dead,” said my grandfather.

“We have to prevent them from burying me west of Skaftafell District,” said the woman. “I flatly refuse to lie west of Skaftafell District. I have always lain in Landbrot; and that is where I am going to lie.”

“Then do you not want to set off with the postman while you are still on your feet?” asked my grandfather.

“I have always wanted to die with strangers,” said the woman.

But however long or little they argued about it, the outcome was that the woman came inside, and my grandfather uttered the phrase he always used when making visitors welcome:

“Have a seat and show us some cheer, my good woman.”

She was certainly a woman of foresight, but rather cold in her manner and not particularly attractive. A bed was made up for her without a word in the cubicle beside us in the mid-loft, even though my grandfather would not take upon himself any obligations concerning her after she was dead.

“Who are you?” said Captain Hogensen.

“I am called Thórarna, and I come from Landbrot.”

“Have you come to town on a pleasure-trip?” asked Captain Hogensen.

“One could doubtless call it that,” said the woman.

“Quite so,” said Hogensen, and cleared his throat before adding, “Well, I am called Captain Hogensen, of the Hogensen family out west at Helgafell. I served under the Danish kings in my time, and piloted them all over Brei
afjör
ur. That’s the way of it, my good woman.”

“Fancy that,” said the woman.

“By the way, who are the local magistrates and the main people of note out there in Landbrot?” said Hogensen.

My grandmother interrupted: “You must not tire the woman, Hogensen dear, she is ill. She just wants to lie in there until she gets better.”

“Oh, I can’t feel very sorry for people so long as they still have their sight,” said Hogensen. “And it’s not worth while shutting that bit of door between us, my good woman, because even though I myself might be a little tedious these days, we sometimes have some entertaining people to talk to up here, like Runólfur Jónsson. And at night when everyone is asleep, up comes our philosopher, who is a commandant in the municipality. That’s the way of it. And which are the most important farms out there in Landbrot, my good woman?”

“My own plot of land, I suppose,” said the woman.

“Precisely,” said Hogensen. “Owns one plot of land. And isn’t that quite enough, my good woman? My forefathers owned
lands all over the place – and here I lie. It is just as it says in the memorial ode that Sigur
ur Brei
jör
composed about the late Jón Hákonarson, my grandfather: