The Quiet Mother

47

The only properly God-fearing man Konrád knew was a hospital chaplain whom he met when Erna was ill. The man didn’t take his job too seriously despite being a true believer, and made no attempt to win over the atheist Konrád when they spoke together in the hospital corridor about Erna’s final days and hours. The chaplain mainly talked about what would happen afterwards, in particular the funeral, which Erna herself had actually organised down to the smallest detail. The chaplain had also performed the ceremony, and Konrád had subsequently met him and they’d got on well. It turned out that the chaplain knew a bit about sects and religious associations, including, among other things, the association called the Creation that was active at one time in town.

He was able to tell Konrád that its founder had been a drinker and had gone to the United States when it was common for Icelandic alcoholics to go there to sober up. While there, the man had met a televangelist, started attending religious meetings, claimed to have seen the light and testified to having experienced visions. He was saved by the Lord God Almighty, was baptised and returned to Iceland thirstier for God’s word than anything else.

He took an active part in Icelandic religious organisations but was never very influential until he founded his own congregation. He was thought a fiery preacher, spoke a lot about man’s weaknesses, and declared his devotion and that of the entire congregation to the Lord Jesus, laid hands on people and claimed to possess the gift of healing by the power of God, Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit. His church’s office was located on Álfheimar Street and he was immediately nicknamed Álfheimar Jesus by those positioned on the opposite side of the Scriptures.

The chaplain told Konrád that the man had been thought a real womaniser; he’d been so during his drinking years and hadn’t slackened in that regard despite becoming an expert in everything connected with forbidden fruits. All his devoutness didn’t prevent him from having affairs with married women in his congregation. A few grumbles were heard from his flock after its cuckolded members discovered the truth, but otherwise, everything went well and the congregation flourished.

Until he fell off the wagon.

The chaplain, Konrád’s friend, didn’t know the details, but the man did one scandalous thing or another while the demon alcohol had its way. It turned out that he’d engaged in fraud, tax evasion and forgery in order to profit as much as possible from the congregation and its members, among other things finagling an older couple out of the ownership of their home. He was convicted and went to prison. Yet God hadn’t completely abandoned his sheep, because while he was inside, the founder was redeemed a second time, had more water poured over him and rediscovered his healing powers, and had hardly stepped out of the prison onto Skólavörðustígur Street before he founded a new movement. It was the Creation.

Something had changed. Rakishness was a thing of the past. The man had dried himself up for the last time and, having become a strict ascetic, devoted himself with all his heart to his congregation. He didn’t preach much about forgiveness now, and had stopped chasing after women. On the other hand, now he thundered about rampant licentiousness, what with free love being practised on every corner. He warned against women’s liberation and was a great opponent of abortion, which was increasing in frequency and went, of course, hand in glove with the liberality of the times.

Although the chaplain told Konrád all of these things in a rather serious tone, he pointed out that the man, whom he’d met several times, was a colourful character and had been highly influential as a church leader during this second phase of redemption. He’d been adroit at reading his community and a skilful orator when appealing to their displeasure and frustration. He’d scraped together more followers than ever before. His congregation had grown and prospered and been quite prominent among the ones that happened to show these matters any interest. All until the founder died unexpectedly and suddenly of a heart attack at his home, two years shy of seventy.

He’d been such an autocrat that there was no one, really, who might naturally step up and take the torch following his death. Some attempts were made to find the congregation’s next leader, mainly at the instigation of the man’s widow, but the congregation itself dissolved slowly but surely. Over the months following their leader’s death, various members trickled over to other religious organisations, until nothing was left of what was once called the Creation and had come into being in the prison on Skólavörðustígur Street.

Konrád was thinking about all of this on his way to the Faxafen business district, where one of the founder’s sons ran a travel agency specialising in golf and football trips. The chaplain knew him because he’d gone on golf trips through that agency twice, and the trips had gone exactly as planned and agreed upon. The chaplain suggested Konrád contact that son if he needed further information about the founder, and even offered to talk to the man and set up a meeting. Konrád accepted his offer.

So the man was expecting Konrád, and couldn’t hide his curiosity because the chaplain had told him all about Konrád’s search. It wasn’t every day that an ex-policeman asked about his father, let alone that it was related in some way to something so tragic as the murder of the woman in the block of flats.

‘Was she in the congregation?’ asked the man, whose name was Einar. He was in his fifties and his face was tanned, as if he himself had just returned from one of the golf trips he sold.

‘No, she wasn’t,’ Konrád said. ‘I don’t know if she knew your father. Were you active in the congregation? Did you follow its activities?’

‘No, sorry. Naturally, I grew up with all that religious fervour but had no interest in it. Dad dragged us to the meetings, but I just wanted to play football. He made us kids sing for the congregation and so on, and used us to help spread his message, if necessary. As soon as I was old enough and mature enough to rise up against him, I did. Let’s just say that I left home at an early age.’

The man smiled and asked pro forma whether Konrád had any interest in football or golf trips. There was a huge number to choose from, maybe more than he realised. Konrád said he had no interest in golf, but followed English football closely, and now he knew where to turn if he wanted to take a football trip.

‘Just visit us online,’ said the man, smiling. ‘Everything’s online now. Not a single soul comes here any more, as you can see,’ he added, looking over the empty room. ‘It’s a bit strange.’

‘Did the congregation have any children’s programmes?’ Konrád asked, bringing them back to the subject.

The man had to think about it. His father’s congregational work clearly hadn’t touched him much. He apologised and said it had been a long time since he stood before the congregation and sang hymns with his siblings. But yes, he vaguely remembered the children’s activities, especially around holidays like Christmas and Easter, and he’d met the children of congregation members back in the day, but, no, he hadn’t kept in contact with any of them. To tell the truth, he hadn’t thought much about those times, and mentioned in passing that his father had had two children with his first wife but divorced and soon remarried, and had had four children with his second wife.

‘Would that be your mother?’ Konrád asked.

The man said yes.

‘Did your mother help run the congregation, or did she focus more on looking after the home, as was customary in those days?’

‘She took an active part in the congregation,’ said Einar. ‘She was very energetic. She took care of more or less everything, us kids and her husband, and was a prime mover in that organisation. She baked, prepared food, made coffee and served it. A powerhouse and true Christian, through and through. Prayed and did so much to keep it all going.’

‘Do you remember what congregation members thought about abortion?’

‘They condemned it,’ Einar replied. ‘Absolutely. My mother found abortions truly abhorrent. I think she was a huge influence on my father in that regard. It was probably her more than anyone who gave him material for the pulpit.’

‘Do you remember whether people who weren’t entirely sure about the issue of abortion looked to her or your father? Even mothers who were pregnant but had doubts about having children?’

‘I’m sure of it,’ said Einar. ‘Absolutely sure, even though I don’t remember any specific examples. I know that people came to them, and especially to Mum, for advice, people who were in financial trouble, yes, definitely young mothers, drinkers. People looking for spiritual guidance.’

‘Do you remember a woman named Sunnefa...?’

‘Sunnefa?’

‘I think she was in the congregation.’

‘Was she a nurse or something like that?’

‘Trained as a midwife.’

‘I remember a friend of my mother’s by that name. She was in the congregation and looked after us sometimes when we were little. Sunnefa? It must have been her. I wonder what happened to her. I haven’t heard anything about her for many, many years.’

‘She died quite a while ago,’ Konrád said. ‘She was studying midwifery but came up against the college and its administrators with her views. She was a virulent opponent of abortion, like your mother. They had that in common.’

‘But, wait, I don’t understand this, what does all this have to do with the woman who died?’ Einar asked. ‘That Valborg? How does she come into this? You said she hadn’t been in the congregation.’

‘She knew this Sunnefa,’ Konrád said. ‘In the early 1970s. Valborg was pregnant. Sunnefa may have delivered the baby and placed it in foster care. It was done in secret. Sunnefa was in the congregation.’

‘Do you mean that someone in the congregation took the child in?’

‘That’s a possibility.’

‘And you...?’

‘I want to find the child,’ said Konrád.

Einar had been leaning back in the chair at his desk, surrounded by posters of foreign football teams and sun-drenched golf courses. Now he straightened up and looked seriously at Konrád.

‘I... I remember a boy...’ he said. ‘Was it a boy or a girl? That she had?’

‘I don’t know,’ Konrád said.

‘You should talk to my sister. She might remember it better. But I remember a boy who hung around Dad and we never really knew where he came from. He stayed with us sometimes and once I remember he came with us to our summer cottage, but he didn’t talk much and I never really got to know him, and then we stopped seeing him altogether. It was, like, at the end of the seventies. He was the same age as my sister and they actually kind of became friends.’

‘How old was he?’

‘He was around six,’ said Einar, leaning forward in the seat. ‘Once I asked my dad about him and I remember him saying that the boy was having a hard time and we should be nice to him. And then Dad said something that I didn’t understand.’

‘What was that?’

‘“Nobody wants him.” He kind of whispered it to me. “Nobody wants him.”’