Far Afield (40 page)

Soon enough he crossed that invisible yet palpable border between unknown and known. Puffins croaked in welcome, and some sheep looked up from grazing and nodded to themselves, or him, as if to say, He’s back. Jonathan slowed down a little, then came to a halt. And without exactly deciding to, he turned around and faced into the other world.

It didn’t look different from where he stood. Maybe the sky was more mottled and changeable over there, maybe the rocks were larger and more jagged, but then again, maybe not. Whatever it was, the animals were aware of it: the sheep simply didn’t cross over, as if acknowledging a fence. But the very air must be fenced as well, otherwise how explain the murres, terns, herring gulls who could go anywhere, and didn’t go there?

He couldn’t explain it. He took a few steps forward, inserting himself momentarily back into mystery. Was it a hum? What was it? What made him sure that he was not supposed to be there, and yet lured him in?

As he stood alert and watchful, he felt the atmosphere retreating like a tide ebbing at his feet, beckoning and teasing him: Here, here, just another step, come closer. But he knew that was a false promise. He would drown in it; he’d been gasping for breath in it not ten minutes before. It was neither livable nor comprehensible, and it was right there in front of him, defying him to make sense of it.

Jonathan stepped back. “Okay,” he said, to the empty grass rolling away from him. This was an admission of defeat and at the same time a salute to whatever was lurking out there. Something was out there, whether it was a
huldumaður
or an eerie miasma engendered by wilderness or a potpourri of his own anxieties strewn over the landscape. It didn’t matter which, Jonathan thought as he walked the familiar path home. Its identity was nothing,
its existence everything, a proof that anything was possible, that even he could be saved.

Surfeited with goodbyes, Jonathan stood on the deck of the
Másin
with his little bag slung over his shoulder, wishing the boat would leave. His last days had been a whirl of
temuns
and dinners. People he’d never visited, or even talked to, had snagged him on the street or burst into his kitchen with invitations. He’d seen more of private life in this one week than in a year, and he’d more than once considered staying on—just till September, well, maybe six weeks—to take advantage of his improved position. Musing himself through yet another long and brilliant summer was one way of easing the pangs of departure; even while doing it he felt himself detaching.

The night before he left was reserved for the Dahl family, including Sigurd, Jón Hendrik, and Jens Símun and his children. By then Jonathan was stunned with the amount of food and talk he’d ingested, and he sensed that his emotions weren’t up to the occasion. Their genuine sorrow at losing him didn’t quite penetrate, nor did it stir his also genuine gratitude and affection. Everything had already begun to look microscopic, telescoped, sealed in the past. And though Petur and Sigurd did their best to make Jonathan the centerpiece of the evening and turn the conversation to his future, his ignorance on the subject equaled theirs, and soon they were discussing how many lambs they expected to slaughter come fall.

Harvests of lambs, of cod and halibut, would there be
grind
, would there be storms, would the
Løgting
finally outlaw Danish in the schools, how about Lisabet
hjá
Jens Símun, absent and pregnant yet again, would she ever settle on a husband? The talk was familiar and at the same time fantastical, and Jonathan went home early, pleading exhaustion and his by-now well-worn “things to do.”

It was Heðin who managed, momentarily, to break
through. He was drinking coffee in the kitchen when Jonathan came downstairs in the morning.

“I didn’t want to miss you. If you’re leaving on the morning boat.”

“I am,” Jonathan mumbled. “Well, maybe not.” Then he imagined a whole afternoon spent on a new round of goodbyes. “I am.”

“Have some coffee.”

Jonathan drank and began to wake up.

“So, so, so,” Heðin said. “Jonathan. You will come back for my wedding next year. Okay?”

“I’ll try,” said Jonathan.

Heðin cocked his head. “You won’t come.” He sounded more surprised than hurt.

“Probably not.” Jonathan’s eyes filled up as soon as he’d said this. He bent his head so Heðin wouldn’t see, but a tear plopped into his coffee.

Heðin put his hand on Jonathan’s arm. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll think of you.”

At this Jonathan’s control slipped, and he put his hands over his face.

Heðin stood up. “Come on. You’d better go now.” He rinsed the coffee cups. Then he pulled Jonathan out of his chair. “We had a good time, eh?” he said.

Jonathan wiped his face with his shirt sleeve and nodded.

Heðin was tactful enough to pretend he was busy and bustled off, leaving Jonathan to go down to the dock alone.

Now the engines were revving and heaving below his feet. In a matter of minutes he would be gone. He gripped the railing with both hands until his knuckles whitened and watched life in Skopun go on without him, boats unloading, old codgers gossiping, the fish factory foreman directing the stacking of crates of cod, the clouds dancing above the village in the blue untroubled sky of June, and saw all this
shrink behind him as he put the first five miles of ocean between himself and the past.

The ticket taker, who was not from Skopun, said, “Going over to Tórshavn for a few days?”

Jonathan decided to nod.

“Good weather.” Then peering at him, “You’re the American, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” This was not the ticket taker who’d been in charge of the box but the other one, who’d yelled at Jonathan for standing on deck in a storm.

“So how do you like the Faroes?” He smiled in anticipation of Jonathan’s praise.

How many times had he heard this question, accompanied by the same smug smile? Realizing he would never hear it again, Jonathan gave the best answer he could. “This is a beautiful country.”

The ticket taker raised his bushy eyebrows. “Beautiful! This is the most beautiful country in the world!” He stepped over to the railing and swept his hand across the view, offering it to Jonathan. “We have everything,” he said. “Am I right?”

“Absolutely right,” said Jonathan.

At the Hotel Hafnia he hung his change of clothes in the closet and took a shower, washing off months of Skopun. Now to get the plane ticket and call Eyvindur. But first he had to debate whether to give Daniela the present he had for her. It was the watercolor set, never used, uncovered in his bureau drawer when he was packing. Would she find it insulting? She probably painted in oil, when she painted. It was such a nice little set, though; he wondered why he’d never used it, then why he’d thought he would. An escape from anthropology, bought back when it seemed he’d never penetrate village life. He would give it to her, he decided.

The phone on his bedside table rang and Jonathan
jumped. He stared at it; he hadn’t answered a ringing phone for a year. He grabbed it before it could ring again.

“Hah. Aha. What do you say to sheep’s head? I bet you haven’t had
that
. It’s Eyvindur,” he added, quite unnecessarily.

“I was about to call you. How did you know I was here?”

“In a town the size of a thimble? In a country as big as a teacup? How could I not know you are here?”

“I’m leaving on Thursday.”

“I know that too,” Eyvindur yelped. “I know
everything
about you. I know you are coming to dinner tomorrow night to eat sheep’s head.” He paused. “I think you won’t like it. But Anna will make some fish too.”

“I’d love to come.”

“Bring your fiancée.”

“Eyvindur, I don’t think—”

He was off the line already, as usual.

At the Icelandair office Daniela was efficient and distant in her ugly uniform. Jonathan could hardly believe that they’d ever romped around together. He didn’t feel able to give her the present.

“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” he asked. He didn’t really want to.

“I can’t, thank you.” She looked into his eyes for a moment. “I could have a
temun
with you after work.”

Much better. But why couldn’t she have dinner? Jonathan scolded himself; it didn’t matter anymore. “Fine,” he said, “I’ll see you at the Hafnia.”

She was prompt, appearing in the dining room precisely at five. Eager to get it over with, Jonathan shoved the watercolor set onto her plate immediately. “This is for you,” he said. “A goodbye present.”

Daniela smiled and reached into her pocketbook. “I have something for you too.” She pushed a soft little package toward him.

He was taken aback, and saddened to know that if he
hadn’t found the watercolors, he wouldn’t have thought to give her anything. “You’re so sweet,” he said wonderingly.

“Open it.”

It was a pair of mittens, in intricate patterns of black and brown.

“I made them,” she said. “I know it’s cold in Boston.”

“Oh, Daniela.” Jonathan felt himself choking up.

She was busy admiring her present and didn’t notice. “This is perfect, Jonathan. You don’t know how nice this is. I can go out to paint in the evenings. It’s so easy with watercolors. And I’ve been silly, I wouldn’t get myself any.”

So they’d finally managed to make each other happy, he thought. It seemed pretty simple. And she rounded out his happiness by saying, “I don’t think I’ll come tomorrow night. You would like to say goodbye to Eyvindur alone, wouldn’t you?”

To which he nodded. And had the good grace to add, “I like saying goodbye to you alone also.”

“Jonathan—”

Whatever she was going to say, he didn’t want to hear it; he could already hear it anyhow:
Do you think you’ll come back?
He stood up abruptly, shaking the cups in their saucers. She followed his lead, and in the small, empty lobby they embraced for the last time, a polite hug without the slightest undertone of desire. He felt ashamed for his coolness, and as soon as she slipped out of his arms he wanted her back to do it right. She was opening the door; he grabbed her around the waist.

“Let’s have a better goodbye,” he said, and kissed her till they both were out of breath.

“I must go,” she said, disentangling herself, straightening her hair.

“Yes.”

“I really must.” She stood looking at him. “Oh—” she stepped toward the door again, “Farewell, Jonathan.”

* * *

A free evening: as always in Tórshavn, Jonathan fretted at the lack of bars. A bar would be the perfect place to spend his last night alone, getting sentimental with a bunch of tipsy strangers. But there would be bars aplenty soon enough, and forty kinds of shampoo and too many people—he pushed all that out of his mind. He would go buy himself a murder mystery for the plane and then take a stroll around the harbor.

He was in luck. The stationery store had received a new shipment, and there were two Agatha Christies he hadn’t read. He bought them both; after all, he had a long trip ahead. As he put them in his pocket he thought how odd it was that by Friday he would be back in Cambridge, where there was a bookstore on every corner, stacked to the ceiling with things he hadn’t read. He felt queasy imagining it. Was it all necessary, the shampoo, the books, the six varieties of oranges—more than that, was it even true? Were his memories of lavish choice accurate?

Jonathan walked in a daze down to the harbor. He wished now he’d booked a passage alongside his box. Two weeks at sea seemed like a good way to adjust to the change he was about to undergo. The fact that Boston was barely twenty-four hours away from this—the wooden boats with their Viking prows, the sod-roofed shacks along the shore, and all the wild enormous landscape of sky and sea—was unbelievable. Maybe it wasn’t true either. He sat down with his legs dangling off the pier and looked across the fjord to the shadowy mass of Sandoy, his island home.

He waited there for a swell of emotion that never came. He expected to feel regret, to indulge finally the tears he’d had to hide in front of Heðin and Daniela, while the gulls keened a requiem for his loss. Instead he watched the light change over the water and smelled the fishy, oily, sea weedy air, content to sit swinging his feet until he was tired enough to go back to the hotel.

In the dining room the next morning, making his way through a stale piece of Danish pastry, Jonathan saw a tall fellow dressed in khaki and with Hush Puppies on his feet ambling along the self-service breakfast line. Something about him was familiar—with a shock he realized it was Bart, his old pal from the Army, the Air Force, the CIA, or wherever he was from. He jumped up to greet him.

“Hey, Bart!”

The man turned around. He wasn’t Bart. Jonathan backed away.

“Sorry,” Jonathan said, in Faroese. “I thought you were someone else.”

The man squinted. “You speak English?”

Jonathan laughed. “I’m American. Are you?”

A nod. “I would never have picked you for an American.”

“I’ve been here for a while.” Jonathan wondered if that explained anything. “Well, my name’s Jonathan.” He extended his hand.

The man squinted at his hand for a moment, then took it. “Ridgely,” he said.

“Is that your first name or your last name?”

Ridgely stacked a couple of pastries on his plate and didn’t answer.

Undeterred, Jonathan asked, “Are you here to look at the system?”

Ridgely shot him a black look and shook his head.

“Oh, come on. Everybody knows about it.”

“Sloppy,” said Ridgely. “Bad security.”

“So, anyhow,” Jonathan floundered, “do you know Bart? Who was here last year.”

“He’s moved on.” Ridgely bobbed his head at the ceiling.

“Fired?”

“Permanently laid off.” A mean smile flitted across Ridgely’s face. “Dead, you might say.”

Jonathan was confused, as he suspected he was meant to be. “Is he actually dead?”

Ridgely wasn’t telling.

Poor old Bart, with his terrible cough and his lax sense of security. Jonathan tried one more time, in honor of Bart’s memory. “He looked pretty sick when he was here.”