The Atom Station

8. He who dwells in the mountain-tops, and my father

The Nation’s Darling, the pride of all Iceland even though he was born in our forgotten valley, my valley, he who was the dearest friend of the nation’s heart, the reborn master-smith of this golden language, the resurrector who, by wiping away our blindness, gave us what we had never seen before, the country’s beauty, Icelandic Nature, and who sowed in the breast of posterity the secret sensitivity of the elf instead of heroism and Saga, while he himself lived in loneliness and died uncomforted in a far metropolis, overpowered by the apathy of this degenerate nation which he had touched with the wand of life, crushed by the hostility of degraded men towards things concerning the spirit, and culture, and art: again and again I had heard his name bandied about in unlikely places in Reykjavik, and always associated with the most ridiculous matters; first at the singing atom poet’s; then, because of the sale of the country, at a cell meeting; and now here. A country person in the city lets much go in one ear and out the other because he fails to understand the connection between things, cannot reconcile unrelated concepts.

“My friend the Darling has confirmed in your wife’s hearing…”

The household bondwoman, her face hot, pondered these words while she waited in her room for the master and Madam to go upstairs to bed so that she could tidy up the rooms for the night.

And at the same time another image came to my mind, the one that visits me in every difficulty and is the answer for me to many a question, not because I have ever understood it but most likely because it is so close to my own self, the marrow of my bones, the very substance of my blood: my father. And when I say his image, I do not mean that haggard face that once was full in the cheeks, the stringy body that once was strong, the hand long-ruined by primitive tools, nor the puckered weather-wise eye; I mean rather his spiritual image, the Saga, the one thing he acknowledged unreservedly with a sword in place of a scythe, ocean in place of land, a hero in place of a farmer—but yet softened by a century-old modern era, the era of the first volume of Fjolnir,[10] wrapping in silent bear-warmth the late-born elves who taught us to appreciate buttercup, bird, and star. And after having seen the pale necromancers who in that room with its many forgeries of Nature had talked long-windedly about mildewed bones to him who dwells inaccessible in the mountain tops, that fairy person deepest in our own breasts, I was refreshed and comforted by the memory of this rugged image of my origin.

And I was roused from my trance by a strange noise from below, a tear-laden cry, a scream. Was there murder in the house? Or childbirth in the next house? I opened my windows and there was silence all around, windows all dark: so it had to be here in the house. In a flash I was down the two staircases in my stockinged soles, and standing on the bottom step. Both the doors that were open earlier were still ajar, open into the street and open into the study.

“I hate you, hate you, hate you”—there was no trace of human sound in this hoarse screeching, nor in the mixture of inarticulate noises and coarse oaths which accompanied this inverted declaration of love. Then—“I will, I will, I will go to America.”

In the middle of the floor of the study this beautiful sleek woman lay on her back, her skirt up round her waist, wearing nylon stockings, silk panties and gilt shoes, belabouring the floor with her heels and fists and screaming, her bracelets jingling with the blows and one gilt shoe flying across the room.

Her husband stood at a distance, watching, wearing a surprised and helpless look; yet I suspected he had seen such a performance before and was not particularly amazed. But it would have been more than ordinary discourtesy towards such an excellent wife to behave as if nothing were happening when she went berserk. I say for myself that I stood as if nailed to the stop, dumbfounded at this unbelievable spectacle. When I had looked on for a while the man straightened himself slowly, walked to the door, and closed it with an apologetic smile. I closed the outside door and then went back up to my room, for it was not yet time to tidy up for the night.

The nice Americans would come when it was nearly midnight; they had stopped leaving their coats in the vestibule, and went straight to the master’s study; and if they came across a housemaid in the hall they patted her on the back and brought out cigarettes and chewing gum. Usually they did not stay long. When they left, the Prime Minister would arrive as before, then some more Ministers, the sheep-plague director, some Members of Parliament, wholesalers and judges, the mournful lead-grey man who published the paper saying that we had to sell the country, the bishops, and the oil-processing plant director. They often sat in conclave far into the night, talking in low tones, and went away remarkably sober.

And every time, on the day after these clandestine but dignified nocturnal visits by the great at this side of the street, it came about that other visits, public but rather less dignified, were paid at the other end of the street, whatever connection there might be between them: it was the populace paying a call on the Prime Minister. These people’s mission was always the same: to deliver addresses and present petitions to him not to sell the country; not to hand over their sovereignty; not to let foreigners build themselves an atom station here for use in an atomic war; Youth Fellowships, schools, the University Citizens’ Association, the Road-Sweepers’ Association, the Women’s Guilds, the Office-Workers’ Association, the Artists’ Association, the Equestrian Association: “In the name of God our Creator, who has given us a country and who wants us to own it, and which was not taken from anyone, do not sell from us this country which God wants us to own, our country; we beg you, Sir.”

There was unrest in the town; people ran from their work in the middle of the day and gathered fearfully in groups or sang Our fjord-riven fatherland; the most unlikely people hoisted themselves up and made speeches about this one thing:

When such visits were being made at the other end of the street, all the doors in our house were carefully locked and Madam said, “Draw the blinds in the south windows.”

One night in the darkest part of winter there was a new development for this house: both foreign and Icelandic guests were asked to a party together. It was not a dinner party but a supper party. The guests arrived about nine, all in evening dress, all men, and were given cocktails while they were making their greetings. As for food, there were tables covered with American sandwiches, tongue, chicken, and salads, with all the appropriate wines, followed by delicious desserts. People ate standing. Finally a punch was heated in a bowl, and whisky and gin were served. Hired waitresses did the serving, and expert cooks stood by in the kitchen. The Yanks left early: and shortly after they had gone the aristocracy of Iceland began to sing Fellows were in fettle and O’er the icy sandy wastes. Around midnight, the waitresses brought word to the kitchen that the guests were beginning to fondle them as they poured out drinks for them. A little later the girls went home and the guests poured their own drinks. As the night wore on people became drunk, and Pliers helped the host to support those who could not shift for themselves, or carry them out into taxis. At the end of the party I was told to clear the tableware and leftovers, dry the spillings, empty the ashtrays, and open the windows. The only people left by then were the Prime Minister, very drunk in a huddle deep in a chair, and Snorredda’s jack-of-all-trades, Pliers, very sober, filling up his glass for him. The host had seated himself in his study with the connecting door open, and was leafing through a foreign magazine.

“Communists!” said the Prime Minister. “Bloody Communists. I love them. I shall kill them.”

“Listen, friend,” said his brother-in-law from behind the magazine. “You remember we have to get up early and go to a committee meeting tomorrow morning?”

“And we mustn’t forget that the nation’s independence now depends on Iceland knowing her bones,” said Two Hundred Thousand Pliers.

“Cowards! Come on if you dare!” said the Prime Minister.

“All the newspapers must combine over the bones question,” said Pliers. “The Communists too. But above all the clergy.”

“Why do I want to sell the country?” said the Prime Minister. “Because my conscience tells me to.” he said, and here he lifted three fingers of his right hand. “What is Iceland for the Icelanders? Nothing. Only the West matters for the North. We live for the West; we die for the West; one West. Small nation?—dirt. The East shall be wiped out. The dollar shall stand.”

“Friend, we mustn’t think aloud,” said Doctor Bui Arland. “There are people about. If we speak, what we are thinking could be misunderstood; or even understood, which God forbid.”

“I want to sell my country!” roared the Prime Minister. “Everything for only this. They can drag me by the hair all through the town…”

“Friend,” said the Doctor.

“Eat it yourself!” said the Prime Minister. “Though they flog me publicly at Austurvoll and kick me to Hell out of the Government I shall still sell my country. Even though I have to give my country away for nothing, the dollar shall conquer. I know Stalin’s a clever man, but he shall not be a match for the Prime Minister of Iceland.”

“And even though the whole nation betrays the Darling he shall still have me for a friend,” said Pliers.

“Where’s everybody?” said the Prime Minister, suddenly realizing that the guests were gone. A little later he overturned the glasses, stood up, and braced himself, and it was amazing what he managed; bracing himself was obviously something innate in this little fat man’s blood, the last thing that deserted him in this life; in actual truth he was so drunk that there was nothing left of him except his innermost instincts. Pliers supported him out and put his hat on his head and the man went on echoing himself on the way out through the hall and outside door: “I’m the Prime Minister. Stalin’s not so clever as I am. The dollar shall stand.”

The Doctor, his brother-in-law and colleague in the Snorredda enterprise, accompanied him and Pliers to the door. The party was over. They drove away, and the master looked at me with a smile.

“My brother-in-law is a delightful man,” he said, “and likes to make jokes sometimes when he is tipsy. Fortunately we do not have to commit them to memory; nor repeat them if we happen to drop in to a cell meeting.”

He leaned against a door-jamb and looked at me wearily, while his cigarette smoked itself between his fingers; and he had mentioned a cell meeting—did he then know everything, even that?

“He is really a very honest man,” said the Doctor. “At least when he is tipsy. In actual fact, no man is honest when sober; in actual fact, you cannot believe a single word that a sober man says. I wish I were drunk myself.”

He took off his spectacles and polished them carefully, put them on again, and glanced at his watch. “Bedtime, and long past it,” he said.

But he turned on his heel in the middle of the hall on his way up and continued his monologue: “As I was saying, you can always depend on him absolutely. If he swears something to you in confidence when he is sober, and pledges it on his honor, you can be quite sure that he is lying. If he swears it thrice in public on his mother’s name, then, quite simply, he means exactly the opposite of what he is swearing. But what he says when he is tipsy he really means, even though he swears it.”

I straightened up and asked, “Is he going to sell the country?”

“Are you not indifferent to politics?”

“Yes,” I said. “But all of a sudden I thought of my father; and the church. A-And the stream.”

“What stream?” he asked in surprise.

“The stream…” I was going to say more, but could not. I said no more. I turned away.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, and I felt him looking at me even though I had my back turned to him.

“Hm,” he said. “Good night.”

The crowds pressed closer and closer to Parliament House, the speeches getting more and more vehement, Our fjord-riven fatherland being sung ad nauseam, the shouts and catcalls everywhere: “Does Parliament not dare to answer?”

The Members of Parliament sat in secret session to discuss whether they should hand over Reykjavik or some other bay equally suitable for an atom station for use in an atomic war; and since the matter had not been anything like fully enough discussed, they were at a loss to know what answer to give to the singing parliament out there in the square. Occasional M.P.s could be seen peeping out of the balcony window with a smile that was meant to appear nonchalant but turned out to be a forced grimace. Eventually the front doors of the Parliament building were burst open by the pressure of the throng, and people began to stream inside. Then at last the balcony of Parliament House opened and on it appeared a little fat perky man who began to strike an attitude. He waited until the people below had finished singing Our fjord-riven fatherland, and settled his shoulders, fingered the knot of his tie, patted the nape of his neck with his palm, lifted two fingers to his lips, and cleared his throat.

Then he began to speak: “Icelanders,” he said, in a deep, calm, national-father voice; and the people fell silent, acknowledging the drama. “Icelanders,” he said, repeating this word that is so little in the world and yet so large, and now he lifted three fingers on high over the crowd; then he uttered his oath slowly and firmly, with long pauses between the words:

“I swear—swear—swear: by everything which is and has been sacred to this nation from the beginning: Iceland shall not be sold.”