Beatles (63 page)

‘Eh?’

‘They usually do that when there are loads of tourists around. It increases the pressure.’

‘So that’s what you learn at university. To give an enema!’

Cecilie laughed.

‘Come here,’ she beckoned and I went with her to see a puddle.

‘That’s the descent to Hell,’ she said.

The little pond was utterly still, green, I felt with my fingers, scalded myself.

‘Hell?’

I didn’t understand what she meant.

‘Can’t you see the descent?’ Cecilie smiled.

Then I saw it. Beneath the calm surface was a black hole, an abyss, right down into the earth, inside the earth.

‘They threw people down there in the old days,’ she told him.

I began to sweat.

‘And no one… no one knows how deep it is.’

‘Mmm.’

I was standing there staring hell in the eye as something exploded behind us. I almost fell face first into the hole and felt sulphur smack against the back of my neck. We turned and an incredible fountain surged towards the heavens, a water rocket, it rose and rose, it was unending. Strokkur was a mere bag of juice by comparison. Hot rain showered us, I bent my neck backwards trying to see the tip, fifty metres, a hundred metres, holding its position with a power that had blown me to the ground. Cecilie hauled me to my feet and danced round me.

‘It’s the Geysir!’ she shrieked. ‘It’s the Geysir!’

I joined in her jig, and for some time, while it was at its height, we were close to each other, an old intimacy was breathed back into life. Then the Great Geysir disappeared into the ground and the heat and the sulphur were all that were left.

‘It hasn’t erupted for years,’ Cecilie said, exhausted. ‘It gushed for us, Kim!’

I didn’t dare light a cigarette. I was frightened the whole country would be blown into the air.

It happened on the way back. We had only been driving for about a quarter of an hour when the front wheels suddenly buried
themselves in mud and we tipped forward like a short-circuited dodgem. Cecilie tried to reverse, but then the rear wheels became stuck. Cecilie tried to turn. We sank even deeper. Cecilie tried everything. Even that didn’t help. I thought Land Rovers could go under water. It wasn’t true. The crate was up to its doors in mud. Cecilie was becoming hysterical. She ordered me to push, but I didn’t think much to being a mud flap. The wheels spun deeper and deeper. I looked around. The flat landscape melted into grey fog. An icy wind stroked my back and I laughed. I was becoming hysterical.

‘We’ll have to wait in the car,’ I said. ‘Then at least we won’t freeze to death.’

‘Just a moment,’ Cecilie bawled. ‘Wait, who for? Father Christmas?’

‘For people.’

‘No one will come this way for at least a week! Don’t you know it’s Christmas Eve the day after tomorrow?’

In fact, I didn’t. But she would never have believed that.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Of course I know.’

‘And there was you perhaps hoping to celebrate Christmas in Iceland. You have your wish fulfilled now! Cosy here, isn’t it?’

‘Be a trifle difficult to find a Christmas tree,’ I said, trying to be humorous.

Cecilie staggered out of the car. And I followed.

‘I have to be home tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Day before Christmas Eve. Aren’t you goin’ home?’

‘No!’

She was close to bursting into tears. I wanted to console her, but I suppose there wasn’t much comfort in me.

‘If people won’t find us, we’ll have to find them,’ I said objectively.

For some reason she followed me. We plodded along the bumpy wheel tracks and neither of us could remember having seen a house on the way to the geysers.

We must have been wandering around for at least an hour and were near collapse. The wind pursued us from all sides. Visibility was getting worse and worse. Then Cecilie spotted something by the edge of the road like a sort of bird house for sea eagles. But it was a postbox. It gave us fresh heart and we left the wheel tracks and followed a trail into the fog and wasteland. We had been
lumbering along for quite a long time, hand in hand, it wasn’t the most pleasant countryside to go for a walk in on the day before Christmas Eve. And the moment we saw a farm, a narrow walled box and two byres, a snarling Norwegian buhund leapt forward and rounded us up with well-practised growls. We were rooted to the spot as the dog’s jowls came closer. At last an old man appeared on the doorstep of the house and yelled:
Seppi
! At that, the tyrant lay flat, wagged its tail and the master himself waddled towards us with a face covered in grey beard and an unkempt circle of hair around his knobbly bald pate.

He said three words in Icelandic, I assumed he was introducing himself, so I stuck out my hand and shouted ‘Kim Karlsen’. He gave a broad grin, spat sideways and dislocated my shoulder.

‘Gisle Tormodstad!’

Cecilie took over, it was strange to hear her speak Icelandic, she seemed drunk, or else I was, I was on a direct route out of reality, I just let things happen and that suited me fine. We followed Gisle and Seppi to the farmhouse, he conjured up an ancient jeep from under a tarpaulin, and after a lot of to-ing and fro-ing and kicks he got it going, and we rumbled off across the desolate plain and saw the Land Rover buried in mud.

We attached ropes and chains and Gisle coaxed it out, it was as easy as taking a splinter out of your finger. Cecilie gave thanks in Icelandic, and Gilse uttered a short sentence.

‘He’s invited us for coffee,’ Cecilie translated.

Gisle’s house was narrow, with all the rooms in one line. We sat down immediately, it was chilly there, stone walls, raw. Seppi started to like me and warmed my legs. On the bookcase there were big leatherbound volumes with gold writing on the spine. Gisle served us some dynamite coffee and schnapps from a shiny bottle with a black label.

‘Black Death,’ Cecilie whispered.

Gisle poured and we drank, it burned all the way down. Gisle poured again. There were tears in Cecilie’s eyes. The wind battered the windows. Gilse turned slowly and looked out. Afterwards he said a few words. Cecilie’s face went white and she dried her tears.

‘What’s up?’ I asked.

‘We’ll have to stay here. He says there’s a snow storm coming. We can’t drive over the mountains now.’

‘Did he say all that?’

Gisle added a sentence.

‘You’ll have to help him get the sheep inside,’ Cecilie interpreted.

I trudged after Gisle and Seppi across the farmyard and down to a hollow where I was surrounded by bleating. The wind was blowing the wax out of my ears and I could barely stand. Gisle had the sturdy gait of an elephant. Seppi went wild when he caught the scent of the sheep, ran round in big circles and gathered them until they were as tightly knit as a sweater. Then Gisle found two shaggy horses, which looked pretty weary, swung himself up on one and I deduced that I was supposed to do the same. I assumed I would be thrown straight off, but the beast was easier to mount than a ladies’ bike with balloon tyres. I let the wind blow through my hair, grabbed the mane and we rode home on either side of the flock while Seppi doubled back to pick up the stragglers. Cecilie was standing on the step when we arrived, with a telephoto lens, snapping away. I gave the nag a kick with my safety shoes, something happened, and I found myself on my face among the sheep. They trampled over me, pulled me along, I stared into matt, dry eyes, smelt the strong, pungent stench of sticky wool, and there was a lot of bleating. I heard Gisle laughing, the horse whinnying and Seppi growling, crawled to my feet and Cecilie took me into the house while Gisle saw to the animals.

I had to have three rounds of Black Death before I was myself again. Then Gisle and Seppi came in. He said three words. Cecilie smiled and looked at me.

‘He asked if you were Danish,’ she said acidly and rewound the film.

I gave a good, long shake of my head.

It began to snow.

Seppi lay by my legs and licked my shoes clean. Otherwise nothing happened. Outside, it grew dark. The storm hit the house. Gisle looked at us, nodding towards the bottle. I took a shot and passed it to him. He drank without shifting his gaze. His eyes were slow and deep. Seppi settled down in a corner and slept with one ear cocked. Cecilie put on more clothing. Then Gisle brought in some
food. He placed a large piece of meat on the table and I remembered that I hadn’t eaten since I had arrived in Iceland. Cecilie turned away, looking ill. Then I saw what it was. It was a sheep’s head with the eyes still in. Gisle cut off a slice and gave it to me. I put it carefully in my mouth and chewed for a long time. It tasted of plimsolls. He cut off another piece. I took it. He looked at me while I was eating. I wanted to say something. I had a tongue in my head. I remembered what Sphinx had chiselled into our brains in the second year.

I recited in Old Norse:

A beautiful smile spread across Gisle’s face. He passed me the bottle, trotted over to the bookcase and pulled out a big book.
Egils Soga
was printed on the spine. And then he read aloud to us for the rest of the evening, slowly, but with a clear, child-like voice. I understood nothing and had understood everything.

Gisle went to bed early. He led us to a room on the first floor and went on his way. There was a narrow bed alongside the wall. We could hear the storm. Cecilie sat down in the corner. I lay on the bed. Cecilie remained sitting. We could feel the storm.

‘Don’t you want to lie down?’ I said. ‘Room for two here.’

She didn’t answer. The rug under me was as stiff as a cactus and smelt of sheep.

‘Aren’t you tired?’

She didn’t answer. She just looked at the bed with disgust. And then some devilry got into me.

‘If you mean to fight for the workin’ classes, you should be prepared to sleep in their bloody beds,’ I said.

She didn’t even meet my eyes, she just got up and reclined on the bed with her back to me.

I put a hand on her head.

‘I’m having my period,’ she whispered.

And so we lay there until the light transfixed us and Seppi barked the cock’s clarion call.

Cecilie didn’t want any breakfast. Gisle stood on the doorstep as we drove off into the white countryside. Seppi ran after the car yapping. We could see Hekla in the east. The storm was over. Everything was deserted and quiet. The car engine. We drove for two hours to Reykjavik without uttering a word. After parking outside her house entrance, she said, ‘We can catch the plane if we hurry.’

‘Are you goin’ home, too?’

‘No.’

She ran up and collected my few possessions and I put on my boots. And then we left, out of town once again, into the American zone, past the soldiers with machine guns at the ready. Cecilie rolled down the window and spat.

‘When are you comin’ to Norway?’ I asked.

‘In the summer. Maybe.’

We approached the airport and I was reminded of an old film we had seen together, in black and white. Parting of the ways beneath the wing in atmospheric fog.

I got out of the car and received a hug through the window.

‘Have you got your ticket?’

‘Yes. Don’t wait until the plane has taken off. I’ll be on it. You can be sure.’

She drove off at once. I was left standing in a cloud of exhaust and snow. A bus full of American soldiers rolled past. A fighter jet screamed above my scalp.

I stumped into the transit hall, over to the bar. People laughed out loud, held their noses and pointed. A Christmas carol was being played on the loudspeakers. I found a shop with souvenirs.

At first she began to cry, clung to me and sobbed, then she backed away with a sniffly nose and the questions came so thick and fast that I needed a queue number.

‘What’s that smell on you?’

‘Think it’s sheep,’ I said, putting my gym bag down in the hall. Dad was in the sitting room decorating the Christmas tree and sent
me a quick nod as if I had just been downstairs to collect the post. Pym was sitting on the Christmas star.

‘Where’ve you been?’ Mum shouted.

‘Iceland.’

‘Iceland? What were you doing in Iceland? Why don’t you tell us anything? Have you completely forgotten about us? Last summer you didn’t say anything when you went to France, either! What’s got into you?’

I almost about-turned in the doorway, but I was broke and from the kitchen I could smell pork ribs and all the Christmas baking that my mother always did.

Dad appeared with cotton wool in his hair and glitter down his shirt.

‘Where have you been, did you say?’ he asked.

‘Cold country, six letters.’

‘But what were you doing there?!’ Mum shrieked. ‘What has Iceland got to do with you?’

‘I visited Cecilie. She’s studying in Reykjavik. Thought of starting there, too. Geology.’

The atmosphere changed in an instant. The future shone from her eyes and Mum was all over me again.

‘But you could’ve told us, Kim. We’ve been so frightened for you. You have to promise us you won’t go anywhere without telling us.’

‘Okay.’

‘Do you promise?’

‘I promise, Mother.’

I disinfected myself in the bathtub, then sampled a foretaste of Christmas food, after which, exhausted, I dived between freshly ironed sheets, lay there listening to the train going round the bay and the tram in Drammensveien, took out the Kurér to tune into Europe, but the batteries were dead. I lay there counting sheep, in my boy’s room, on the night of 23 December 1971.

It was well above zero when we trudged over to see Granddad in the home. Someone must have mixed up the dates. The thermometer was hovering on plus ten. Winter was not what it had once been. Father Christmas was wearing a raffia skirt.

‘Indian winter,’ I said.

All three of us laughed, a family on their way through the warm, wet Christmas streets.

‘You could’ve had a haircut,’ Mum teased, tugging my hair.

‘I
have
had a haircut. The year before last.’