The Atom Station

14. Oli Figure murdered

As a result of the Prime Minister’s last oaths there was no more discussion for a while about selling the country. There was now to be an interval of a year, followed by Parliamentary elections over the matter, and meanwhile attempts were to be made to get the representative of the Great Power to moderate the wording of the application: to ask not for a base for attack or defence in an atomic war, but rather for a shelter for any welfare missions which might be dispatched to alleviate the sufferings of European races. A temporary truce was declared between street and State. The Communists stopped saying that F.F.F. was going to sell the country, and F.F.F. stopped writing that people had to be true Icelanders and dig up bones. But in the middle of the calm that had fallen over country sales and exhumations, the main tidings of Christmas were that Oli Figure was found in a hut down by the sea with his head smashed in; the iron bar with which he had been assaulted lay nearby. As is the custom when murders are committed, little was written about it in the newspapers, so as not to offend the murderer and his family; until someone had the fine idea of blaming the murder on an unknown American negro, for it did not matter in the least if a colored Yankee and his family were offended.

When I came home one evening, between Christmas and New Year, there, standing in the hall, was the man who was to me the most unknown of all, the most incomprehensible and the most distant, even though he was closest of all to me in that mysterious disintegrating way which I shall never admit: the father of the children; the husband of the woman; that famous man, my employer.

“Hello.”

I replied, “Good evening.”

There was no party on, and the house was silent. He had just arrived from the airport, and his leather case stood in the hall.

“Where are the children I gave you?” he said.

I said I hoped they were out enjoying themselves.

“Let us hope so,” he said. “People should enjoy themselves while they can, for the time comes when they are bored with enjoying themselves. I would give a lot to be able once more to enjoy going to the cinema.”

I only wanted to disappear as quickly as I could behind locked doors, for I could never think of anything to say when he spoke to me; I am sure that in my eyes could have been clearly read the palpitation of my heart at his return, once more chatting in that bantering melancholy absent-minded way of his.

“Good night,” I said abruptly and without preliminaries, and turned to go.

“Ugla,” he said.

“What?”

He inhaled so deeply on his cigarette that no smoke came out. I paused in the doorway.

“These children,” he said.

I waited in the doorway and watched him smoke.

“It is said that a man forgives those he understands, but I think that is a fallacy; at least, a man first and foremost forgives those he does not understand, such as children. Now the year is almost at an end and the main juvenile entertainment of the year is approaching—blowing up the police station. My cousin the Chief of Police is always telling me to keep the little boy indoors. Should I bother to do that at all? My children have anyway always taken part in blowing up the police station on New Year’s Eve. I think it much the simplest thing just to let them blow it up, forgive them, and then build a better police station.”

“Forgive me for being so silly,” I said, “but—blow up the police station? On New Year’s Eve? The children? Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Doctor Bui Arland. “But it is always possible to think something up: New Year’s Eve is the time that reminds us most of the impotence of the self in time. Previously, children could conquer God by loving Him and praying; He made them shareholders in omnipotence. Now God has departed, no one knows where—unless something of Him is left in the Smaland-American sect. And the children raise a rebellion against the impotence of the self in time.”

“But the police station?” I said.

“Perhaps that is one of the symbols,” he said, “a symbol the child understands; a symbol of this enemy of the self; a symbol of this disembodied power that says: You have no share in omnipotence. New Year’s Eve—time is passing; you are not only impotent in time, but soon there will be no self at all. Do you understand me?”

“No,” I said. “I think we need a Youth Center, that’s all.”

He smoked and smoked, but no smoke ever appeared, and he puckered up his eyes against the headiness of the tobacco.

“No wonder you do not understand me,” he said. “A healthy person does not understand philosophy. But you who do not understand philosophy, tell me this—what is to be done with children? A Youth Center, you say. Perhaps. Previously, when we understood the god but not the man, there was no difficulty in bringing up children. But now: the god, the only thing we understood, has betrayed us. Man is left by himself, the unknown. Could a Youth Center help in such a case? I’m sorry for detaining you like this.”

“It gives me nothing but pleasure to hear you speak, even though I don’t understand you,” I said.

“Say something yourself now,” he said.

“I haven’t anything to say.”

“A Youth Center,” he said. “Yes, it could well be. But…”

“And now I ask for a day nursery,” I interrupted, and felt myself suddenly go hot all over.

“Ah yes, I’m afraid we are against Communism,” he said, and yawned wearily. “We are not reflex-conditioned to it, as they say in psychology; we are conditioned against it and consequently afraid of it. But no one doubts that Communism will win, or at least I know of no one who doubts it—I can confide all this to you because the hour is twelve midnight, and a man becomes loose-tongued then, if not downright frivolous. You, on the other hand, are not conditioned against Communism and you have no occasion to be afraid of it; so for that reason you can be a Communist if you like, it’s quite becoming for a healthy country girl from the north to be a Communist—more so, at least, than being a lady. I understand you, even though I myself would rather prefer to go to Patagonia.”

“Patagonia?” I said. “What’s that? Is it an island?”

“Perhaps I should rather come to you,” he said: “to the overshadowed valley, the secret place, as Jon the Learned[13] put it. Perhaps we shall set up house and keep a ewe and play the harmonium. Good night.”

“Well then, now we shall go to a cell meeting,” I said on New Year’s Eve, and took Gold-ram with me—to the organist’s. Later the boy told me that it had been the most enjoyable New Year’s Eve he had ever spent, and that he had never once wanted to blow up the police station all evening. And yet nothing really happened at the organist’s except the usual—coffee, cakes, and cordiality. The Cadillac was parked outside, and the pram stood inside the room. The gods were highly elated and said they had murdered Oli Figure to celebrate Christmas.

“What about the Cadillac?” asked the fat unself-conscious policeman.

“Pliers is in America,” they replied. “And we have the keys.”

“I’ll be surprised if you don’t come a cropper over stealing the Cadillac,” said the unself-conscious policeman.

The atom poet sang the Greek hillsmen’s song Ammanamma, which was like the howl of an extremely unhappy dog, and Brilliantine accompanied him on the salted fish. Then they sang a dirge they had composed in memory of Oli Figure:

There was a country pastor sitting in the kitchen playing Ombre with the host and the two policemen; they were all in excellent humor, particularly the pastor, who had been with the gods and got some Black Death from them. When I arrived with the boy they quickly made room for him in the Ombre game, and the fat policeman, who was off duty that New Year’s Eve, gave him some snuff from a silver mull, making him sneeze, instead of serving him with tear gas in front of the police station, as he had done the previous year. The old woman went round with water in a cardboard box saying Please do, and patted us on the cheeks and blessed everyone in the world and asked how the weather was. Cleopatra lay on the broken sofa, elegantly dead, with half of her set of false teeth in her lap.

During the dirge for the last Oli Figure the twins woke up, and the god Brilliantine had to take them one on each knee; oh, they were such blessed little darlings, with their dark eyes and that fine chestnut down on their heads; and when I looked at their faces I understood why the old woman loved mankind so unreservedly. They stopped crying when they were perched on a knee, and the god dangled them up and down and sang.

I saw to the coffee entirely, so that the host should not have to interrupt his card game. Over the coffee the gods began to argue about divinity with the country pastor; they demanded that he should light their cigarettes for them and pray to them and preach about them in church on Sundays. The god Brilliantine claimed to be the madonna in male form, the Virgin Mary with penis and twins; and Benjamin said that he had composed the atom poem ‘Oh tata bomma, tomba ata mamma, oh tomma at,’ which was at one and the same time the beginning of a new Genesis, a new Mosaic Law, a new Corinthian Epistle, and the atom bomb.

The pastor, a big thickset man from the west, said that the right thing to do would be to take off his jacket and give them a hiding; the Godhead had never manifested itself in fools, he said, and the devil and not he would light their cigarettes for them: “And might I inquire of the right honorable police officers how it is that self-confessed murderers are not thrown into jail?”

The unself-conscious policeman replied, “Committing a crime is the least of the difficulties, my dear Reverend; it can be much more difficult to prove that a person has committed it. The last time these young men were up before a judge they falsely confessed to twelve other crimes as well, so that the whole matter had to be gone into afresh and no one has got to the bottom of it yet.”

Eventually the pastor lit their cigarettes for them and was given more Black Death. The gods asked if any others wished for some Black Death? A tiny croak was heard from Cleopatra and she fluttered an eyelid; but then she died again.

“Reverend Jon, hand me Cleopatra’s teeth for the girl twin to play with,” said the god Brilliantine. “And can I ask for a drop more milk for the boy twin?”

Then the town clock struck twelve and the ships hooted in the harbor. The pastor stood up and went to the battered organ and played “The year has now passed into the bosom of time,” and we all joined in, and then we wished each other a happy and prosperous New Year.