The Fish Can Sing (60 page)

“Tell King Kristian of Denmark from me,” said Captain Hogensen, “that I know well what it is to be summoned from other lands to become a man of authority among the Danes.
They fetched me, a poor cottager with a crowd of starving children in Brei
afjör
ur, and placed me in charge of their warships. And that’s the way they fetched him too, a poor cottager with a crowd of starving children in Germany, and placed him in charge of the whole country in Denmark; and he of course did not know a word of their language, any more than I did. That’s how they put impoverished foreigners into the highest positions in the land in order to have their own way. Tell him that I do not blame His Majesty even though the Danes have committed one of the greatest blunders in the history of the world; and that was when they allowed Gú
múnsen, together with the English and the Faroese and other such races, to use drag-nets and trawls in the most important bays in this country such as Faxaflói and Brei
afjör
ur and scrape the bottom clean and destroy every single living creature, big or small. And with that, obviously, people like Björn of Brekkukot here are done for. Tell His Majesty that on every New Year’s Day since I came to Reykjavík I have left no stone unturned in my efforts to impress upon His Majesty’s highest servants in this country, Governors, Bishops, and King’s Ministers alike, my protests against this behaviour. And that’s that.”

I took Kristín of Hríngjarabær her milk for the last time. She was sitting in her corner-seat, quite blind now and very nearly totally deaf, with that clear, handsome look in her features, and the sun shining on her face.

“How are you today, Kristín dear?” I said.

“Oh, I have lived many lovely days here in our churchyard in sunshine and a westerly breeze like today,” she said.

When I was leaving she said, “I have had a little hank of wool since years ago, and as I heard you were going I have been trying hard to knit something from it. I have knitted these two little pairs of socks that I want to ask you to take with you in your bag for me. I want to ask you, when you’ve crossed the sea, to look up for me a poor woman called Mrs Hansen in Jutland. Tell the woman I made these socks myself and give them to her from me for the boy and the little girl, with my greetings.”

“Give me your bag, my boy,” said my grandfather. “My shoulders should be broad enough still.”

We walked through the turnstile-gate at Brekkukot which divided two worlds. My grandmother followed. We were on our way to the ship. It was growing dusk. Rain was falling on the autumn-pale grass. The boat which ferried passengers out to the ship had not quite arrived when we reached the quayside. I had promised to say goodbye to the superintendent. It did not take long to find him; he was sitting in his little cubicle next to the harbour sheds from which there always came a strong smell of carbolic and soap. He was sitting on a cobbler’s-stool at a rickety old table, binding a brush. When a second person came into his cubicle, there was no more floor space left. Throughout his whole establishment, the so-called harbour urinals, there was not a single piece of wood that was not scrubbed white. I think perhaps it must have been the cleanest hygiene establishment anywhere in the northern hemisphere at that time.

We never called him anything other than the Superintendent, and when I was small I had thought he was some sort of superintendent for the whole town, or even for the whole country. But now when I am growing older and begin to think of various famous institutions I have seen, and their directors, I feel that here was the man who should have been the superintendent for the whole world.

“Well,” he said, and stood up and looked at me with that warm, alive, cheerful look. “So it’s your turn now, my friend, to set off on your travels and buy me a little of the canary-seed they use abroad.”

“I didn’t know you kept birds here,” I said.

“Oh, I don’t,” he said. “But I always try to have a little titbit for the mouse that sometimes comes to visit me when the weather’s bad.”

Then he gave me a few
krónur
in small change for that purpose. As a joke I said, “What if I just use it to buy liquor for myself when I reach Copenhagen?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “That’s for you to decide. And now I wish you a good journey.”

“Thank you very much indeed,” I said.

“Oh, yes, and while I remember, and about time too,” he said.
“Perhaps you remember that I once took a gold coin off you, a long time ago.”

“As if I hadn’t forgotten all about that ages ago!” I said.

“Here is your gold coin,” said the superintendent. “And may things go well for you. May things go for you according to the deserts of all those who have a purpose in life; be it great or small, it doesn’t matter, just so long as they are determined not to harm others. And if you ever need a little money, then write to me, because I will soon be having difficulties in getting rid of my monthly pay.”

My grandfather opened the door and peeped in to tell me that the boat that was to take me to the ship was on its way.

I kissed my grandmother as she stood there on the quay in her long skirt, with her black shawl over her head and shoulders. I had never embraced this woman before, because embracing was not a habit in our house. I was amazed at how slender and light she was, and wondered if her bones were hollow, like those of a bird. She was like a withered leaf in my embrace for that one brief fraction of a moment that I held her in my arms.

“God be with you, Grímur dear,” she said, and added after a second, “And if you should meet a poor old woman like me anywhere in the world, then give her my greetings.”

My grandfather Björn of Brekkukot kissed me rather drily and said these words: “I cannot give you any good advice at this stage, my lad. But perhaps I could send you a bundle of dried fish with the midwinter ship. After that, we can see. And now, goodbye.”

When the boat had gone a few oar-strokes away from land they were still standing on the beach, gazing after the boy whom an unknown woman had left naked in their arms. They were holding hands, and other people gave way before them, and I could see no one except them. Or were they perhaps so extraordinary that other people melted away and vanished into thin air around them?

When I had clambered up with my bag on to the deck of the mail-boat
North Star
, I saw them walking back together on their way home: on the way to our turnstile-gate; home to Brekkukot, our house which was to be razed to the ground tomorrow. They were walking hand in hand, like children.