The Fish Can Sing (29 page)

If people adhere to the doctrine that words are spoken in order to hide one’s thoughts, that words mean something entirely different, sometimes even directly opposite to what they are saying, it is possible, occasionally at least, to reconcile oneself to them and to forgive the poet; not to mention if the words in all their strangeness have the task of indicating the truth in music; one is forced to acknowledge them then to a certain extent – for the music’s sake.

One day when it was nearly spring I arrived as usual for my lesson with the precentor. And as usual when I was clumping up the steps to the front door, I was probably wondering whether I was really wearing the right shoes. Be that as it may, I had no sooner knocked on the door than it was opened, and there on the threshold stood Blær.

I am not going to try to describe this woman; what she actually looked like does not concern this story, and anyway I have
forgotten it long ago. Her appearance was as far removed from telling the truth about her as any words would be. In my eyes she was not only the beautiful miller-girl and the fisher-girl and the sad little maiden in the grove, the furious huntress Diana and the virgin nun; she was also the trout and the lime-tree, the song of the water and the litany; in a word, Schubert.

She looked at me. “Daddy is not at home,” she said. “He asked me to take the lesson with you.”

I said nothing. I stood rooted to the threshold. She went on looking at me. Everything began to go black.

“Come,” she said, and took me by the hand when I did not move. She took me inside and made me sit down at the harmonium. I felt that I was dying, and perhaps I did die a little, or rather began to die in the way that the cocoon of the chrysalis cracks at the end of winter; but unfortunately I did not die so thoroughly that I achieved new life like a butterfly.

“What were you to practise?” she asked.

“I can’t remember,” I said.

She opened the exercise book and said, “Then play something you have practised already.”

“I’ve forgotten it all,” I said.

“Then just play the scale,” she said. “You can’t have forgotten that.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve forgotten the scale.”

“That’s impossible,” she said. “No one can forget the scale, because it’s only the note sequence.”

But on my oath, I could not even remember the note sequence any longer. And then she started laughing. I got up from the harmonium and went to the door. I walked across the room in my boots, with the pliers in my pocket and the tuft of hair which refused to lie down; and she followed me with her eyes.

I never went there again. I stopped learning to play the harmonium. Spring came. I had my confirmation, and passed my exams. Grandpa Jón went back west to the Dalir. I did not dare even let myself be seen anywhere near the house, scarcely even dared look in its direction. Sometimes it occurred to me that I might steal over there some night when the days began to shorten again. But then I remembered the night watchmen.

I was in my eighteenth year when Gar
ar Hólm returned to Iceland for the second time. By then the superintendent’s snuff had all been used up long ago, and the pouch lay shrivelled and dusty on the shelf; but there was still something left in the gold-pouch.

Articles began to appear in the newspapers saying that the singer was expected soon, but no one knew when. At last it was announced that he would be coming on the mail-boat
North Star
in the first week of August. He had been living on the other side of the world, giving concerts in Australia and Japan. Now the invitations were pouring in from opera-houses all over Europe and America, but he did not choose to tie himself to any one opera-house while the whole world was his oyster.

At the start of the hay-making, everyone started talking about preparations to welcome Gar
ar Hólm: the nation had to put its best foot forward when the world singer was swept home on the crest of his fame, back to the lowly home-town that foreign travellers always described as huddled up against the North Pole. A meeting was held of the various captains of the ship of state, such as the town council, the fire brigade, the literary society, the brass band, and the women’s society The Bracelet. At this meeting it was decided to erect across the pier a triumphal archway garlanded with flowers, and then to have four powerful stalwarts at hand to carry the singer shoulder-high through the archway; trumpeters were to be there, to play the Björneborgernes March, and gaily-dressed girls were to come forward to present bouquets. It was intended that the sheriff of Reykjavík would make a little speech, and furthermore it was taken for granted that one or other of the nation’s epic poets, presumably the editor of the
Ísafold
, would compose an ode. It was expected that Gar
ar Hólm
would greet his home-town with a song when he stepped ashore, but no agreement could be reached about which balcony he was to sing from.

During the days before the
North Star
arrived there was a rush to give buildings a coat of paint; Gú
múnsen’s Store, for instance, was painted grey-green, as was the office of the
Ísafold
, and the Theological Seminary also availed itself of the opportunity to be painted the same colour. Shops in the side streets like Veltusund and Fischersund refused to be outdone, and displayed enlarged portraits of the great man in their windows among all the soap and hemp and match-boxes and saucepans. Lapel-badges with pictures of the artist were on sale, yet another image of the man who gazed entranced at the golden carriage wheeling across the skies.

If ever it happened that a few weeks passed without any mention of Gar
ar Hólm in the newspapers, someone at home in Brekkukot would perhaps say something like – “Yes, he was a nice boy, Kristín’s little Georg, when he was growing up here in the churchyard.” It goes without saying that the silence about him at Brekkukot deepened the more fuss there was made about him outside. The wave of fame associated with his name was never less likely to burst through our turnstile-gate than when it was beating most strongly against it from outside.

Somehow or other I could never really and truly believe that this ceremonial reception would ever take place; and I shall make no bones about it now – it never did take place. It seemed to me that people were always being duped by Gar
ar Hólm, whether he was coming or going; but he never let himself be duped, not even with a triumphal arch and a brass band – indeed, his upbringing in the churchyard would have been wasted on him otherwise. Nor was he ever likely to conform to the expectations of others.

I can remember the day the
North Star
arrived as if it were yesterday. Naturally it was raining and blowing half a gale – who would have expected anything else? The eight or ten little girls stood soaked and freezing at the quayside, and their knees shook and the rain beat down on their bouquets. A handful of weary workmen carrying their wind-instruments, among them the crippled shoemaker from Brunnhús, were almost perished with
cold; and it rained into their instruments. They decided to play the Björneborgernes March before there was any sign of the ship’s boat, just to thaw out their mouths and fingers. The word went round that the sheriff was about to put his coat on and had his goloshes on already. And then, in the middle of the March, someone arrived with a message from the deck of the
North Star
to say that Gar
ar Hólm was not among the passengers, it was all some sort of misunderstanding, he was in Paris right then giving a concert. The bandsmen stopped playing, emptied the water out of their instruments, and dispersed. The sheriff was reported to have taken his goloshes off again. The little girls ran home in the rain with their flowers. And the garlanded triumphal archway was taken down.