The Flatey Enigma (11 page)

T
hormódur Krákur stood watch on the flagpole stand in front of the church for two hours around lunchtime and finally rushed down to the village to ceremoniously announce that the mail boat was now visible on the southern horizon. Some men walked toward the shore, dragging two handcarts and preceded by a flock of running children.

Benny in Rádagerdi put down his paintbrush when he became aware of the gathering crowd and sauntered after them out of sheer habit, even though he had no errand there. Life was so drab for a young man on this island that even the weekly arrival of the mail boat was something of an event. Maybe he’d know some of the passengers, and there was also always the hope of some workers from the south who might be on their way to the inner isles.

By the time the kids came charging around the corner by the fish factory, the mail boat had reached the tip of the island. It was an old white oak boat that was heavy and sluggish, although the skipper managed to maneuver it with surprising agility toward the pier. Valdi caught the hawser that was thrown to him over the gunwale and looped it around the bollard. Then the boat was tied at the back. Little Nonni followed his father every step of the way and paid no heed to the other children on the pier.

Two young boys in their Sunday best stood by the gunwale of the mail boat and were soon lifted onto the edge of the pier and followed by a brown suitcase crisscrossed with strings. A woman welcomed them, enveloping them both in a simultaneous embrace and calling them her darling little sweethearts. Three sacks of mail were then hoisted off the boat and placed on one of the carts, followed by four crates of malt ale and two sacks of flour that went into the other cart. This seemed to be the sum total of the delivery from this trip. The load that needed to be sent south to Stykkishólmur would only be loaded on board when the boat was making its return journey later in the day.

The men on the boat were preparing to depart again when the weary face of a tall man in a dirty light trench coat with a brown peaked cap appeared out of the forecastle and stiffly stepped onto the deck. He held a heavy case and scanned the pier with his eyes.

“Young man,” he shouted hoarsely at Benny, who was standing by the gunwale. “Would you grab this for me?” he asked, handing him the case. “But carefully now, carefully, I’ve got some fragile objects in there,” he added as Benny stretched out to take the case. The man clambered onto the edge of the pier, but then wobbled a bit and grabbed Benny’s arm for support.

“Bloody dizziness,” he said. “I think I must have just dozed off on the way. The journey seemed endless.” He looked toward the land and squinted his eyes at the fish factory on the embankment. “So this is the famous ancient island of Flatey in Breidafjördur. Is this it in all its glory then?”

“You can’t see the village from here,” Benny answered apologetically. “That’s on the other side of the island. That’s where all the houses are.”

“Is that right, my friend? What’s your name?”

“Benny…Ben.”

“Benny Ben. I see. My name is Bryngeir, a poet and writer, even though I’m temporarily hacking for a Reykjavik rag.”

“Just Ben…or Benny,” Benny swiftly corrected him. He was almost on the point of giving up on the name that he’d decided to adopt after reading a book about Ben Hur over one whole night two weeks ago.

“Put the case down really gently, Benny Ben pal,” said Bryngeir. “I have to check on its delicate contents.”

There was a rattle of glass from the case as it knocked against the pier. Bryngeir crouched over it, unzipped it, and pulled out a half bottle of rum. He unscrewed the top, poured drink into it, and knocked it back. Then he had another swig, this time straight from the spout, and straightened up, propping himself up against the lamppost on the pier.

Benny tried to guess Bryngeir’s age. His face looked rugged and gaunt, but something seemed to suggest that he wasn’t quite as old as he first seemed. He was probably forty. His dark hair had started to gray and recede. But one of his eyebrows was as white as snow, as were his eyelashes on the other side.

Bryngeir refilled the tap of the bottle.

“Would you be partial to a drop of rum, young man?” he asked Benny.

Benny looked up at the pier where the islanders could be seen making their way to the interior. There was no one left but Valdi, who was loosening the moorings of the mail boat. It wouldn’t do his reputation among the islanders any good to be seen boozing in the middle of the day, but he couldn’t say no to some slight refreshment. Besides, it was Saturday, after all.

“Thanks,” he said, taking a sip and coughing.

Bryngeir fished a half-smoked cigar out of his coat pocket and managed to light it after several attempts. “Is there any news about that dead man, the one they found here out on one of the islands?” he asked.

“He was Danish. They’ll be taking him south when the boat sails back this evening,” Benny answered, lighting himself a cigarette to keep Bryngeir company.

Bryngeir sipped on his bottle of rum and then said, “Yeah, I heard he was a Danish professor, the one and only Gaston Lund. Who was it that left him out there on the skerry?”

“No one knows. The guy from Patreksfjördur is investigating that.”

“The guy from Patreksfjördur?”

“Yeah, he works for the district magistrate. His name is Kjartan.”

“Kjartan? A lawyer?”

“Yeah. He’s just started working for the magistrate.”

Bryngeir puffed musingly on his cigar. “Tell me this, does this spy have a big scar on his forehead? From his left eyebrow up to his hairline?” Bryngeir pressed a finger against his forehead by way of illustration and drew an invisible line.

“Yeah, he has a scar like that.”

“Well what do you know? I think I heard that in Reykjavik. That Kjartan was working in Patreksfjördur.” Bryngeir took off his cap, shook it, and scratched his head before putting it back on again.

“Do you know him?” Benny asked, intrigued.

“Nah, not that much, but more than enough.”

“How do you mean?”

Bryngeir declined to answer. “Where can a man find accommodation around here?” he asked.

“Accommodation?” said Benny. “Just need to find someone with a free bed.”

Bryngeir broke into a grin. “Yes, of course. Guesthouses shouldn’t even exist in a Christian country, some godly man who liked to travel cheap once said. OK, let’s start walking and looking at the options. You can carry my case for me while I recover from the crossing.” He took another sip from the bottle and shoved it into his trench coat pocket.

Valdi of Ystakot watched them walking up the pier and jotted something into his notebook. Little Nonni sat on the bollard and stared at the mail boat, which had by now reached the west of the island and was heading north.

Benny stared furtively at the newcomer’s face as they walked. Finally, he just couldn’t hold it in anymore and came straight out with it: “What happened to your eye? Why is your eyebrow so white?”

“It was a woman, young man,” he answered without looking at Benny. “A woman did this to me after I seduced her one midsummer’s night. She said that from now on I would be marked out from other men and that this would serve as a warning to all women. The next time I looked into the mirror that’s what I saw. You better be wary of the female species, young man—you never know when you’ll meet a witch.”

The pair walked past the fish factory, and the doctor’s house soon came into view.

“This looks like a nice home,” said Bryngeir. “Reckon I might be able to crash here?”

Benny had his doubts. “I don’t think so, not unless you’re sick. The doctor lives here.”

Bryngeir halted. “And what’s his name? The doctor’s?” he asked.

“The doctor’s a woman. Her name is Jóhanna,” Benny answered.

“Doctor Jóhanna? Not Jóhanna Thorvald, surely?”

“Yeah, exactly. Do you know everyone?”

“It’s uncanny. My adversaries seem to be swelling around here,” said Bryngeir pensively, seemingly oblivious to Benny’s question. “No, we won’t look for any accommodation here. On we go, my dear friend Benny Ben.”

Bryngeir walked away from the doctor’s house with long strides, while Benny traipsed behind him with the case.

“Hey,” said Bryngeir. “Didn’t he stay with the priest, the late Gaston Lund?”

“Yeah.”

“Shouldn’t I try to stay there then?”

Benny looked at the case he was holding. “That could be a problem. They’re both teetotalers and they can’t stand boozing.”

“Good point, pal. Let’s avoid any hassles. So what does that leave us with then, young man? Isn’t there anyone around here who’s partial to a drop of rum, is hospitable, has a free bed, and knows something about the old
Flatey Book
?”

Benny broke into a smile. “Yeah. Sigurbjörn in Svalbardi.”

Question seven: What made it possible to ride around the coastline? First letter. That winter there was so much ice in Iceland than the sea froze all around the coastline so that it was possible to ride between the promontories of every fjord. The answer is “ice,” and the first letter is
i.

A
creaking sound penetrated the doctor’s house from the road as the handcarts were dragged past the building on their way down to the village. Jóhanna peeped out the kitchen window and watched them moving away and eventually disappearing down the slope behind the graveyard. The mail would therefore soon be reaching the telephone exchange, and she would be able to collect her newspapers. It was best to wait a bit, though. Stína, the postmistress, was pretty quick at sorting out the mail, but some of the islanders were bound to show up early to collect their mail and just have a chat. Jóhanna, on the other hand, was in no mood for socializing that afternoon. She heard more footsteps passing the house, and then silence descended on the neighborhood again. The redshank that nested on the edge of the road grew calmer and stopped twittering in alarm. Strange that it should have chosen to build itself a nest in such an inconvenient place when there was no shortage of undisturbed nesting ground nearby. And it had laid its eggs in the same place the spring before.

Half an hour later, Jóhanna looked up from the book that she was leafing through when she heard a faint moan from the next room. She stood up and walked in to her father.

“Are you in pain, Dad?” she asked.

“Not too much, but it would be good to get the afternoon dose now,” her father answered. He lay under a white quilt in a high medical bed, looking shriveled and emaciated.

She glanced at her watch and fetched the dose from the pharmacy, which was a little room off the infirmary. He flinched slightly as she injected the dose into the intravenous drip connected to his arm, but he swiftly felt the effect of the opiate and closed his eyes again.

“Would you like me to read for you for a while?” she asked.

“No, I’m going to rest a bit.”

“The mail boat has arrived. I’ll go get the papers soon. We can read them when I come back. I won’t be long.”

He braved a smile and said, “I somehow feel I’ve read enough. I think I’ll soon be meeting my namesake, the late Snorri Sturluson and the mysterious author of Njál’s saga.”

He closed his eyes and dozed off. She adjusted his quilt and gently kissed him on the cheek.

Question eight: Greatest skiing champion. First letter. They ended up on a big mountain. It was a steep, narrow slope, which ended abruptly in a precipice dropping to the sea. King Harald Sigurdsson said to Hemingur, “Entertain us now with your skiing.”

Hemingur answered, “This isn’t a good place for skiing because there is little snow now and it’s stony and there is hard ice on the mountain.”

The king answered that he would not really be putting his skills to the test if conditions were perfect. So Hemingur put on his skis and zigzagged down the slope. Everyone agreed that they had never seen anyone ski so well. He skied down the slope at such speed that it was a wonder he did not fall. The answer is “Hemingur,” and the first letter is
h.

B
ryngeir and Benny continued on their walk down the road toward the village. Benny was curious and asked the visitor what had brought him to Flatey, but Bryngeir was slow to answer and seemed to be more interested in taking in the surroundings. “Benny Ben, my friend,” he finally replied, “the Reykjavik gutter press isn’t in the habit of sending its best hacks out on long trips just because a heap of bones has been found on a deserted island. But as soon as it transpired that they were the bones of that Danish manuscript speculator who’d spent the winter in the remoteness of the fjord and forgotten to ask someone to pick him up, people started to sniff a story. And when I heard that the deceased was Gaston Lund and that this whole mystery was somehow connected to my old pet love, the
Flatey Book
, I immediately asked to be sent out here to solve the crime.”

“What did you think was so significant about the
Flatey Book
?” Benny asked.

Bryngeir looked at his companion. “Have you read the book, young man?”

“No, it’s too long. I started once, but I found it boring. And some of the words are written in a weird way.”

Bryngeir shook his head. “Then I can’t explain the magic of the
Flatey Book
to you, boy. No more than I could describe a Rembrandt painting to a blind old bag or a great Wagner opera to a deaf loan shark or a sexy young whore from Morocco to a eunuch. But I don’t see why that jewel should be named after this pathetic dump of an island just because it was kept here under some lousy mattress for a few decades. It would have been more appropriate to call it the
Húnvetninga Book, Tunga Book
, or
Vídidalur Book
in honor of the men in Vídidalstunga who actually put the manuscript together and wrote it. They were geniuses, my boy, absolute geniuses. Let’s drink to them, Mister Benny Ben!” Bryngeir took a swig from the bottle of rum.

Benny had no interest in the subject. “I don’t give a damn about what they call the book. Maybe I’ll just read it later sometime,” he said, staring at the bottle with thirsty eyes.

They paused on the ridge overlooking the village, and Bryngeir scanned the houses below. He asked Benny about the crofts and the people who lived in them. Benny answered with some reluctance, since he found it a pretty unexciting topic for discussion.

Bryngeir was particularly interested in the district administrative officer.

“He’s an OK guy, good at hunting seal and puffin but lazy when it comes to making hay,” said Benny. “Högni, the teacher, normally cuts his share, and Grímur rakes. And then he reads the papers and argues about politics.”

“Do you reckon he could have taken that dead man out to the island?” Bryngeir asked.

“No, definitely not, even though he has the best boat. The engine is brand-new. He normally doesn’t take the boat out of the water in the autumn, unless the sailing route is completely frozen. But do you really think that someone from here would have deliberately left that Danish guy on the island?”

“In my experience as a reporter, everyone is guilty until proven innocent, lad. I’ve got to dig up some story because the only expenses my editor gave me on this trip were a bus ticket and a stingy traveling allowance that ran out at the beginning of the journey for some reason.”

Bryngeir took another swig from the bottle and finally offered Benny some as well.

“Do you reckon I can get something decent to eat from any of these fine hosts?” he asked.

Benny seemed to think that was quite likely. They walked on down the pass and across the village to the house in Svalbardi.

The croft was a stately wooden house with a concrete basement, one story, and a loft. Close by were a storehouse, sheepcote, and barn. Sigurbjörn, the farmer, sat at a grindstone outside the barn, which he spun with a pedal, sharpening a big knife.

“I see you know how to make some sharp weapons around here,” Bryngeir said to the farmer.

“This is just the missus’s kitchen knife, but good to have close at hand if the farm needs protecting,” Sigurbjörn said ironically.

“I come in peace,” Bryngeir grinned. “I hear that the locals here will never turn away a traveler who needs a roof for the night.”

Sigurbjörn put down his knife and eyed the man a moment. “A bed can normally be found for a decent guest,” he said. Bryngeir took out his bottle of rum, took a sip, and then handed it to the farmer.

“And maybe even some food then if the guest makes a contribution?” he asked. Sigurbjörn took the bottle, sniffed its contents, and then downed it in a single gulp.

“Was that the sum total of the contribution?” he asked, handing the emptied bottle back to him. Bryngeir signaled Benny to approach with the case. “Here’s a little extra.” He took a full bottle out of the case and unscrewed the lid. Sigurbjörn stood up from the grindstone. “Let’s go inside and look into the larder, lads.”

Question nine: Small heart. First letter. Thorgeir Hávarsson went to Hvassafell and there were some men standing outside. The shepherd had come home from his sheep and stood there in the field, leaning forward on his staff. He was slightly hunched and had a long neck. When Thorgeir saw this, he drew his axe and let it fall on the man’s neck. The axe cut very nicely, and the head came flying off, landing a short distance away. Thorgeir later said, “He never did anything wrong against me, but to be honest, he was so well positioned for the blow that I couldn’t resist the temptation.” When Thorgeir died some people say that they cut into his heart because they wanted to see what the heart of such an audacious man was like. People say that his heart was rather small; and some people believe that it is true that the heart of a courageous man is smaller than that of a coward. The answer is “Thorgeir,” and the first letter is
t.