The Great Weaver From Kashmir (36 page)

“You remind me of my mother.”

Both women felt the tactlessness in this remark, and were reluctant to respond. He had again snapped the thread of conversation with an unwieldy answer, and again they all fell silent. Finally Madam Valgerður said, in a half-cheerful, half-insulted tone:

“I scarcely recognize you as the same man, dear Steinn, you've changed so much.”

But suddenly the Director's wife lost control for a moment, and she said without any forethought:

“Yes, he has changed completely – terribly!”

As she spoke these words a cold shiver gripped her. She paled.

“Once I heard that you'd become a Bolshevik,” said Madam Valgerður. “I hope, God willing, that that was a misunderstanding.”

“I'm a Catholic,” he said.

“Catholic?! Catholic?!” repeated mother- and daughter-in-law flabbergastedly.

“I've been baptized
sub conditione.
”

Madam Valgerður could not keep from laughing to herself at this nonsense.

“Well, it's not worse than being a Bolshevik,” she concluded. “After all, Catholicism is just an innocent sect. Catholic! I do declare!”

“You don't believe in saints, do you?” asked the Director's wife.

“Why not?”

“Surely you must know that they're just men.”

He glowered at her again and asked:

“You don't believe in Örnólfur?”

The blood rushed to her cheeks, and her mouth quivered slightly. In spite of all appearances she must have been extremely sensitive. But when her mother-in-law saw her biting her lip she butted in and answered:

“It's quite a different thing to adore one's husband than to pray to dead men, as I hear they do in Catholicism.”

“Or the sale of indulgences!” began the Director's wife again. “I hope you don't believe that it's possible to buy forgiveness for sins from the pope!”

“No,” he said, still glowering at the pale young woman as if she were his enemy. “I don't believe it because that is nothing but ordinary
Lutheran slander. Only God forgives all sins. On the other hand, it is no mystery that the road to Hell is an easy one.”

“Do you think that I'll go to Hell?” she said, and tried to laugh lightly.

“That depends on whether you wish to see the essential difference between right and wrong,” he answered coldly.

Madam Valgerður still chuckled to herself and shook her head.

The Director's wife, however, was frightened, and could not bring herself to look at the guest. He was no longer a civilized man; he was a shape-shifter. The brilliancy of his youthful years had disappeared from his manner, replaced by something repulsive and dangerous.

“God Almighty, how you have changed, Steinn!”

Then she looked at her mother-in-law, tried to smile, and asked:

“What do you think Örnólfur would say?”

Steinn was not able to accept his grandmother's invitation and instead stayed at the hotel. He gave in, however, to her plea that he come daily to supper.

In truth he had changed a great deal; it became more and more apparent as the days passed. Before, he had spouted his heart out whenever he had the chance, with an unsteady glance; now he hardly ever said anything and brooded on unspeakable things, his pupils fixed in a stiff gaze; before, he was vigorous and flexible, held
his head high, stuck out his chest; now he was slow and looked constantly down at the ground, his movements slight and resolute. He no longer spoke with his hands, no longer fingered a cigarette case nervously; now he listened to others speak without showing any signs of impatience, whereas previously this had been impossible for him to do. Before, his lips had always been open, revealing his two front teeth; now his mouth was usually closed, and this change gave his face an expression of sternness. His face was marked with clear, strong lines, bearing witness to austerity and self-denial. His eyes were even more fleeting than in years past, and were shielded by heavy glasses with light-colored horn-rims. If he looked at a book, he took off his glasses quickly and read with bare eyes. His voice was clearer and fuller than before, but his pronunciation was tinged with a foreign accent. Sometimes he found himself lacking the right word, forcing him to change his sentences around in order to be able to say what he was thinking. Before, he had been a pretentious dresser; now his clothes were not only simple, but also coarse: his trousers were baggy, his boots of thick brown waterproof leather, his shirts and collars of nappy flannel-like material. His hair no longer reminded one of a lion's mane nor hung down the back of his head in comely waves, as it had in years past. Carelessness had spoiled its color; despite the reddish tinge it was almost ashen, cut badly, combed even worse. His locks hung in disorder upon his forehead. The backs of his hands were hairy up to the knuckles.

He no longer let himself be enticed into discussing thought- provoking topics, preferring most to add something to the conversation only when it turned to a completely worthless topic, seemed
no longer to voice his own opinion about anything except when he insulted the things that most others enjoyed, and then used logic that kept everyone thoroughly confused. When least expected he would come up with questions or comments that were either farfetched or unbecoming. In his presence any kind of weather could be expected: people could not help but feel apprehensive about what he was going to say next. No one was safe when he was around. Although he listened calmly to those who spoke to him and never objected, one got the impression that people suspected him of considering everything that was said to him vanity and idiocy. He hardly ever smiled.

And how completely different was the woman sitting here than the child to whom Steinn Elliði had said good-bye at Þingvellir one summer night five years ago. What had happened to the lighthearted, thoughtless laughter of the young girl? It no longer sang out; eternity had locked it away. Her countenance no longer shone with naïve expectations and unfulfilled dreams. Her eyes were like silvery velvet or splintered lead. She was a woman, tall and lissome, the shape of her body roundish and soft, causing her smallest movement to become a stylized performance. Her vaulted bosom and thickset, strong hips revealed incessantly in their charming comeliness the copiousness of female fecundity, her bearing was locked in the fetters of habitual kindheartedness, puritan precaution, and anesthetized passions.

Once at dinner he was seated opposite the chair of the master of the house. There were no other guests but the Director's wife's best girlfriend, whom Steinn had known in his childhood, always called Sigga P., now called Madam Sigríður Geirdal, the daughter of an official in town. Steinn spoke to her informally.

He was asked how he had spent his first day at home. Thanks very much, he had walked over to Kleppur,
¹¹¹
then had gone to his father's house and met with old Guðmundur. Finally he had sat in the hotel for three hours and read Icelandic. He hadn't seen an Icelandic book for five years.

What had he read?

“
Morgunblaðið
.” He had borrowed several of last year's issues from old Guðmundur.

“Is that what you call literature!?” said the young women.

“Ellingsen is advertising patten overshoes and sailcloth,” he said.

Silence.

“The firecrackers from Cremona come in countless colors and styles,” he said.

Madam Sigríður picked up her handkerchief.

“I the undersigned need a wife immediately,” he said.

First Madam Sigríður laughed out loud, then Diljá.

“Didn't you read anything other than the advertisements?” asked his grandmother.

No, he hadn't read anything other than the advertisements. They were the most interesting part of the newspaper. The other stuff was blather.

“But sometimes there are articles in
Morgunblaðið
by Sigurður Þórólfsson and Halldór Kiljan Laxness,” said his grandmother.

When Madam Sigríður had stopped laughing he looked at her and asked:

“How long ago were you married?”

“About two years ago. Diljá and I were married at about the same time,” answered the young madam, frankly and innocently.

“Do you have children?”

“No, not yet,” and she laughed shyly.

“Why not?” he asked.

Both young women reddened and looked ashamed, but Madam Valgerður reminded her grandson that in this country it was not customary to ask women such things in such a way. Then there was a short silence, and Madam Sigríður took a bite of food in a dignified and noble way, as if she were offended.

“I hope we're not eating rotten dog,” said Steinn Elliði. His lack of respect for the sensitivity of his table companions seemed to be entirely limitless.

“You certainly can be terribly rude to the young ladies,” said Madam Valgerður.

“Is there a Latin dictionary here?” he asked.

“A Latin dictionary, yes, there's some sort of dictionary rubbish out on Örnólfur's shelves. Hopefully you're not planning to delve into Latin at high summer, child!”

“Is it forbidden?”

“You've read far too much during your days, Steinn Elliði,” said the Director's wife.

“Yes, he has certainly read too much for his own good,” said Madam Sigríður perkily. But the Director's wife wanted to turn the conversation toward a more harmless topic, and asked:

“What poet do you regard most highly these days, Steinn Elliði?”

“David,” he answered.

“David from Fagraskógur! No, now that's a new one!” said Madam Sigríður.

“King David who taught,” he corrected.

“Hopefully you don't mean the one in the Bible?” asked the madam.

“Yes, I do.”

“I can scarcely believe you've become attached to the Bible,” she said.

“The Bible doesn't really go down very well in my case,” testified Madam Valgerður. “We aren't what you'd call champions of the faith in this house.”

“Otherwise I find it hard to believe what I've heard, that you've become a Catholic,” said Madam Sigríður.

“Curious people, those witless folk at Kleppur. They were supposed to be mowing the grass. One sat with his legs stretched out in the grass and sang. Another was trying to stand on his head. They don't believe in bourgeois decorum. It was as if I saw standing before me the incarnation of what Jacques Maritain calls
l'avènement du moi,
which he considers to be the hallmark of Lutheranism.”

“But you don't mean that all Lutherans are crazy?”

“As soon as you, my dear ladies, stop believing in bourgeois decorum, you will be admitted to Kleppur.”

“What do you mean by bourgeois decorum?”

“Oh, it's something left over from old Catholic ethics, which have long since been worn out.”

“I've wandered into Catholic churches several times,” said the Director's wife, “and they are the most wretched buildings that I've ever seen given the name ‘houses of worship.'”

“That's sad,” he said.

“Their robes, however, are showy enough,” said Madam Valgerður.

“Or, one might add, how those Catholics kneel there in front of each other and pray out loud!” said Madam Sigríður. “I'll be damned if that's better than in the Salvation Army. It's absolutely disgusting to see such fawning before God. It's downright perverse.”

“We'll let them say their prayers,” said the Director's wife. “What scandalizes me most are those Catholic preachers. Such damned nonsensical harping I have never heard in my life. The last time I was in a Catholic church the priest talked about the redemptive work of Jesus Christ. And what wisdom, good gracious! The way he told it Jesus Christ didn't resemble a person at all, but instead some sort of theological gorgon; he had one foot sunk in dog-boring references to the Old Testament, the other in preposterous stories about the apostles and the church fathers. (“There now, Diljá, you've said enough,” interrupted Madam Valgerður.) It was like the romance about the bishop from Aberdeen by Sigurjón in the bank.”

He did not show up the next day. Perhaps he couldn't bear the atmosphere of bourgeois society. They kept food warm for him that evening and finally telephoned the hotel, but he hadn't been seen there since early in the morning. No one knew where he was.

“You insulted the boy yesterday with what you said about the priests, Diljá dear,” said Madam Valgerður gravely. “It doesn't do to be so blunt with folk even if they are of another faith. I would never do that. One can hint at one's opinions if necessary, but such words as you used – no, Diljá dear, we've got to be pleasant to the poor boy. There is no doubt that he hasn't had as many as seven happy days since he left this country, the poor dear.”

“Didn't he start by saying that we were all crazy?” said the young woman sharply. “Every last word that he said at the table last night was an insult.”

“Absolutely true. Steinn's comments are a little insensitive, but I can understand him much better like this than the way he was before, when he never said anything that wasn't poetic prattle; now he's more like one of the family. His grandfather was never gentle. And what do we women know about religions, Diljá dear, which is right and which wrong? We shouldn't trouble ourselves with such questions. And if someone believes in something different than we do, that's his business. It could very well be that their popes are just as good as the bishop here. How would we know? And concerning Jesus Christ, no one knows anything for sure, so it should be all the same to us whether he's preached in a different way in
the other religions than we're used to hearing from the Reverend Haraldur.”

“If Steinn keeps on in the same way as yesterday, I'm not eating at this table any longer.”