Moonstone: The Boy Who Never Was

xxii

The first film to be shown in Reykjavík when the epidemic began to abate at the end of November, and it was thought safe to gather in public again, was called Sister Cecilia—“the lyrically beautiful love story of a young artist,” in four parts. The proceeds of the ticket sales went to support the many children who had been left orphaned by the epidemic.

Although Máni Steinn was running a little low on cash after his busy days and nights with Sóla G— and Dr. Garibaldi Árnason — he’d had neither the energy nor the opportunity to pick up any trade — he was still sufficiently well-off to be able to invite the old lady to a show at the New Cinema.

Not that it was an easy matter to persuade her to accept the offer. First she told him it wasn’t fitting for him, a child in her care, to treat her to anything. He replied that he had turned sixteen on April 23 and that it was only natural that their roles should be reversed. Such was life.

Well, then the old lady pleaded in her defense that she had already been to the kinematograph long ago, more than once in fact — if not three times, then at least twice — and it had always been the same damned waste of time, apart from one newsreel from Thingvellir that included a brief glimpse of Reverend Matthías Jochumsson, seated in a chair with knees spread wide, a walking stick between them and a bowler hat on his head, and that was only because the grand old man of poetry was a relative of theirs.

However, when the boy described for her the company and amenities in the more expensive seats of the New Cinema — which included an ashtray in the arm of every chair — she grudgingly agreed to accompany him.

The old lady said she had always envied the father of her landlord downstairs, who got to sit with his friends in the smoking room, wreathed in a fog of cigars, and whenever she was sent in there with soda water or a new decanter of brandy, she used to linger with them in the cloud of tobacco for as long as could be considered decent.

The film was delayed by thirty minutes while the cinemagoers offered one another their condolences, passing from row to row, neither pressing hands nor embracing but bowing their heads and repeating the same words of consolation with the variations “your daughter,” “your sister,” “your wife,” “your husband,” “your son,” “your brother”—since everybody had lost someone.

A silence fell when the last member of the audience entered the auditorium. It was the teenage girl who had been shut up for thirteen days with the bodies of her mother and brother. She was led in between a nurse and an orderly from the lunatic asylum at Kleppur. From the look in her eyes it was plain that she would not understand the words of sympathy that were burning on everyone’s lips.

The lights went down.

Children appeared on the screen, escorted by an angel; holy sisters knelt before a tombstone; lovers were denied a happy ending.

The screening was accompanied by Reynir Gíslason’s Orchestra, and to begin with the music managed to drown out the sighing and weeping. Thick smoke rose from the more expensive seats, where the men were chain-smoking cigars in the hope that this would stifle their sobs.

When they came out afterward, the old lady wiped a tear from her eye and extracted a promise from the boy that he would never again invite her to the cinema.

xxiii

The sun casts its rays over the town. The weather couldn’t be finer; dry and not a cloud in the sky. Máni Steinn threads his way through the throng by the harbor like a needle through sackcloth until he reaches a good spot on the docks.

There the Danish warship Islands Falk is lying at berth, festooned with bunting from mast to mast, the Danish national flag taking pride of place over the Icelandic one.

Shortly after the cathedral bell has tolled half past eleven, the marines of the Falcon stand to attention on the deck of the ship, then march ashore with rifles at their shoulders and flashing bayonets. Thus equipped, they progress with regular steps from the docks to Government House, where they form an honor guard below the wall of the green. The brass band Harpa is already there with its leader, Reynir Gíslason, haggard from lack of sleep.

The thick press of people sets off in pursuit of the column of marines, and the boy allows himself to be carried along. Most of the spectators take up position on Lækjargata, some standing in the square, others lining up on the slope to the right of Government House. He finds himself a spot in the square.

The officers of the Falcon approach, decked out in uniform, with the consuls of foreign powers, and together process up to the main entrance, before which stand members of the government and the Reykjavík worthies who have been invited to attend the ceremony. Among the guests, the boy spies the landlord from downstairs and the broker Gudbjörn Ólason, father of Sóla G—.

He scans the crowd for the girl and finds her on the green to the left of the building, with the families of the great and good. Today Sóla G— is dressed like Irma Vep when she was to be sent to the penal colony in Algiers: all in black down to her black leather ankle boots, a wide-brimmed black hat decorated with a black ribbon on her head; her face pale.

Outside Thomsen’s Magasin a group of sailors from the Falcon stand and marvel at how subdued the Icelanders seem on what should be a day of national rejoicing. They are right that in most respects the gathering bears more resemblance to a funeral than to the birth of a sovereign state. People hang their heads; many of the women’s faces are hidden behind mourning veils; the men wear black bands on their arms.

At a quarter to twelve the brass band strikes up “Ancient Land of Ice,” and men doff their hats during the performance — which proves to be so marred by lack of practice that it is torture to the ears — and afterward the minister of finance ascends the steps before Government House and embarks on the solemn oration.

As the minister speaks of the hearts of the nation, of their late leader, of the culmination of a hundred-year struggle, of braving the stormy seas, and of the honor of the national flag, the boy can’t help thinking that this is exactly the sort of occasion at which the Vampires would strike. For example, by firing a shell at it from their fearsome portable cannon. But of course that would merely be a diversion. In the chaos created by the act of sabotage, other members of the criminal gang would dynamite the vaults of the National Bank and break into the state treasury — then escape the country by seaplane.

Where would they place the cannon? Well, they could disguise themselves as French missionaries and rent rooms on the top floor of Thomsen’s Magasin. That would provide a clear line of sight.

Turning to look over his shoulder, the boy examines the store from roof to ground, at which point his eye alights on the sailors. One of them, a muscular fellow with a blond mustache, catches sight of him as well.

On the steps the minister brings his speech to a close.

And as the swallowtail flag of the new sovereign state of Iceland is hoisted up the lofty pole by Government House and the Islands Falk fires a twenty-one-gun salute in its honor, the eyes of boy and sailor meet.

xxiv

A fanfare of horns carries through the door: “Rise, thou youthful flag of Iceland!”

Inside the hardware store of Thomsen’s Magasin, boy and sailor are locked in a fevered embrace — as they exchange deep kisses, the boy tastes the Dane’s vinegar-sweet tongue and wonders briefly if he himself tastes of coffee — he’d led the sailor behind the French stores into Kolasund, the alley where he sometimes takes gentlemen after midnight to service them in the shadow of the latrine, and it just so happened that the warehouse door had been left open.

They remove their winter jackets without breaking off their kiss. The sailor tugs the braces off the boy’s shoulders, pulls his shirt tails out of his waistband, and inserts his right hand under the shirt, stroking the boy’s back, while holding the nape of his neck with the left. The boy clutches the sailor’s buttocks in both hands, pressing him close as he thrusts his own hips forward, so their rock-hard penises rub together through their clothes. The sailor moves his hand around to the boy’s chest, pinches a nipple between thumb and forefinger, and twists it.

The warehousemen are standing in the square in front of the building, a stone’s throw from the sailor’s shipmates, listening with them to the captain of the Falcon as he passes on to the assembled crowd the greetings of King Christian X, his parliament and nation. Standing beside the lathe, meanwhile, surrounded by chains of all sizes, by bolts and nails, tins of paint, hammers and pliers, overalls and boots, the boy and the Dane continue their lovemaking.

The sailor eases the boy’s trousers down his thighs and drops to his knees. Holding the boy’s cock, he licks his balls, rolling the testicles around with his tongue before running it from the root to the purple dome, which he tickles with his mustache before closing his lips around it.

The brass band plays “King Christian.”

The boy leans back against the lathe while the sailor sucks him, supporting himself with one hand while playing with the Dane’s blond hair with the other.

Nine cheers of hurrah resound outside in the square.

Detaching himself from the sailor, the boy raises him to his feet, unbuttons his fly, puts his hand inside his underpants, takes hold of his stiff member, pulls down the foreskin, runs the tip of his thumb over the swollen dome, clasps it, and, rubbing gently, spreads the bead of moisture that is squeezed out of the top.

The sailor sticks his index and middle fingers in his mouth, wetting them well, then runs his hand under the boy’s balls, sliding his fingers along the ridge to the anus, where he begins to open a way for himself. The boy, emitting a low groan, tightens his grip on the sailor’s cock and rubs harder.

The ceremony before Government House is drawing to a close.

The boy turns to the lathe and bends over it. The sailor enters him.

First the Danish national anthem, “There Is a Lovely Land,” is sung, then the Icelandic, “O God of Our Country.”

It seems the cheers will never end.

In the very instant that Máni Steinn climaxes, he feels the sailor’s hot seed spurting inside him — and the warehouse door is kicked open.

There’s a despairing cry in Danish from the doorway:

— Mogens, what the hell are you doing?

Seconded in Icelandic:

— What the devil is this filth?

The latter words are accompanied by a blow from a clenched fist that knocks the boy senseless.