Salka valka, p.14
Salka Valka, page 14
The gloomy nights were followed by the asinine monotony of the day – the school with all its tedious repetition and tiresome merriment, for instance: “Here we go round the juniper bush, the juniper bush,” or: “Joachim Lived in Babylon,” which their teacher had learned in Denmark.[*3] But if she wandered down to the fishing sheds in the evenings, she could hear the news from the village, as entertaining as that could be. Some of it was said to have come from one of Jóhann Bogesen’s housemaids. It was reported, among other things, that the merchant’s fine daughter, who had returned home after all that schooling of hers in Copenhagen, was now so highly educated that it no longer suited her to eat and drink at mealtimes like ordinary people, but instead, she rang for roasted meat at three o’clock in the morning, though it was perhaps indicative of an even higher level of education that she had a young boy to come water her with cognac around midnight. “She’s pretending to be teaching him Danish, one of the tiddlers from here in the village, but it’s most definite— she has him bring her spirits.” A few evenings ago, the housemaid felt certain that she’d heard him leave the house, so she kept watch in the hallway outside the Miss’s bedroom door, waiting as time ticked away, until suddenly the bedroom door opened and out walked the young lady in an embroidered silk nightdress, staggering down the hall like a stuck calf, bumping from one wall to the other. She was trying to get to the bathroom – and the housemaid said she could swear that through the half-open door she could see into the Miss’s bedroom, where she noticed one of the boy’s boots standing in the middle of the room. Why hadn’t she gone in to see whether the boy himself was in there somewhere? It was simply because she was so sure that he was there; she could swear that she hadn’t heard him leave. Besides the fact that the young lady could have returned at a moment’s notice. The housemaid had seen no alternative but to hide in a closet in the hallway so that the Miss wouldn’t see her.
“And what child is it that has supposedly wound up in this misfortune?” asked a woman from the Army. “The boy from Kóf. Well, what do you know— I suppose it was to be expected from that apple polisher; he was only just confirmed. Well, as I’ve always said, the depravity of the rich is like the sea; if you knew what dwelt in it, you would never dare dip even your hand into it.”
The next night, Salka Valka dreamed of majestic palaces like the ones in fairytales. They were awash in bright flames. No, love did not burn in her breast like cheap, cheery candlelight in a poor house, but rather, her heart had become the fairytale palace, blazing with epic fire. The capitals of its columns were carved with monstrous faces with menacing tusks, smiling like walruses, coming to life and speaking in the fire’s gleam. And suddenly the fire latched onto the bases of the columns and began stretching itself up to the rafters, and all was in peril. She started from sleep, sweaty and anguished.
Often in the evenings, toward the end of work at the drying lot, Salka Valka spotted Herborg of Kóf coming from the store, sometimes carrying a number of packages, because she was an enterprising person and needed all sorts of things; for instance, she was often busy baking bread and cakes that she sold against credit to her account. She was known for her housekeeping prowess, a heroic woman of close to forty, tall, fine-fettled, with prominent teeth and an aquiline nose. She deemed none of the suitors here in the village worthy of her attention and refused all offers of marriage, but faithfully fulfilled her duty to her father and nephew, regarding it as a sacred sacrifice, being poor and having few relatives, which prevented her from settling in a larger village where the choice of men was richer, and in any case, it was doubtful that she would have been considered a promising match outside her own district. It was her lot to go through life unmarried due to the self-imposed bonds of her pride, and to preserve her dignity diligently. She maintained a natural distance from the muck of everyday life, and had never been the subject of gossip in the village, but was considered to surpass other women in cleanliness, thrift, chastity, and efficiency; all of the finer work in the village was carried out under her supervision: dressmaking, embroidery, crocheting, and more elaborate knitting. She helped to found the village’s Women’s Club and was appointed chairwoman of it, as a matter of course, by reason of the good terms she was on with the merchant’s family, which was the only home in the village that she frequented; she and the merchant’s wife were said to be friends. Naturally, there could be no Women’s Club here without the support of that house – no other home had anything to spare.
Now it so happened one evening as she was crossing the village square on her way home, a robust figure to behold, dressed in her respectable national costume, which she always wore outside the house, with her shawl draped in a queenly manner over her shoulders, that Salka Valka stepped unexpectedly in her path and greeted her, grimacing slightly as she did.
“Hello, Salvör dear,” replied the bachelorette. “It has been some time since you stopped by to see us— I think since Arnaldur was confirmed. How have you been, my poor wretches?”
“We’re no wretches,” answered the girl.
“You’re always so perky, in any case, Salvör dear, and I hope that you continue to be so, for my sake, because no one can keep you afloat but you yourself. Those who hold their heads high become someone. All things considered, more depends on how one carries oneself than who one really is. But I asked, simply because I have heard that he was so ill, your mother’s little boy— someone said that the dean had to be sent for.”
“Yes, he was baptized the other day,” replied the girl, “but I don’t think that helped much. He’s had some sputum in his lungs ever since catching a bad cold in the spring. He wails all night long.”
“And you’re still plodding along in men’s trousers— and nearly a grown woman. What’s the meaning of such unseemly behavior?”
“I don’t care what anyone says.”
“But you should care, my dear. You mustn’t make a habit of disregarding either your honor or your shame. Don’t you think that people have enough to talk about already, without you drawing their attention unnecessarily? Young girls ought to be respectable; otherwise they develop bad reputations.”
“I’m certainly no woman— and never will be. I don’t care what anyone says.”
“Well now, I have never heard the like! I honestly think that there might be something wrong with you— a nearly grown-up girl! Well, I have no time to waste listening to such nonsense. Goodbye, dear. Good luck with everything. You’re so peculiar.”
“Goodbye,” said the girl, and she watched Herborg hurry away, dignified and self-assertive. Then she jumped into action and ran after her.
“Come to think of it, I’ll walk home with you now,” she said.
“Well, my dear, please do. I’ll make us coffee.”
They walked together in silence up the crooked path to Herborg’s home at Kóf – perhaps the cottage had been given this unusual name because it appeared to people as if it reached immoderately high up the slope, or perhaps it had originally been built in one hurried, sweaty go, for instance between the homily and gospel. It was small, with turf walls, a tarred iron roof and red gable that faced the slope, as if it were in constant, private conversation with the mountain, and on the gable was one four-paned window with a white frame. Behind the cottage, the side of it facing the village, was a little vegetable patch. It was the most well-tended one in the entire village, accessed through a tiny wooden lattice gate on hinges; a narrow flagstone path led from the gate through it and then along the farm wall to its doorstep. It was all so tidy and assiduously cared for. Alongside the vegetable patch, a little stream babbled night and day as it ran down from the mountain and headed for the shore.
Inside, everything was much the same as in other workers’ huts, only cleaner. Along one outer wall was a passage with two doors, one opening onto the family room, the other the kitchen, which Herborg preferred to call the cookhouse, as they did at the merchant’s. Before, the family room had had only two beds; now, following Arnaldur’s confirmation, there were three. By the window was a little table, which, between mealtimes, was always covered with an embroidered cloth and decorated with a pretty porcelain dog. In one corner stood the young lady’s dresser, topped with a number of small, framed photographs. On the walls hung portraits of Hallgrímur Pétursson, Jón Sigurðsson, Oscar II, King of Sweden, and Victoria, Queen of England, in a fancy cloak. On the bookshelf were copies of the Icelandic family sagas, Biographies of Magistrates, the periodical Vigilance, the Hymnal, a few dime novels and religious tracts with beautiful illustrations – they’d been bought as an act of charity from a sopping-wet Seventh-day Adventist who’d come to the village, his clothing muddy, ragged, and torn by barbed-wire fences.
As soon as Herborg entered the house, she took off her shawl, folded it carefully and laid it in the dresser, took off her national costume and hung it behind a curtain, put on a pretty morning gown, and then led Salka to the kitchen and bade her sit down on a small bench.
“I’ll make us a spot of coffee,” said Herborg, with the pleasant expression that people put on when they offer coffee.
But the girl just sat there awkwardly, unable to think of anything to say and regretting having gone with the woman, whom she thought was probably trying to determine the reason for the girl’s doing so, when, of course, there was none.
“Well,” said the woman, rather than nothing at all. “I must say that I feel you hold somewhat unnatural views, my dear— to be a properly made girl, yet not wanting to be a girl.”
“Do you find it fun being a woman?” asked the girl. But at this question, the commonsensical maiden laughed out loud, but only for a moment, before turning serious again and tending to the kettle and firewood.
“There’s no point asking such questions, dear child,” she then said. “We must act in accordance with God’s providence in all of these things.”
“Mama also believes that there is a God who created man, just as it says in the Bible stories. That may have been the case in the past, and in an entirely different country than this one. It doesn’t apply to me. I’m just an ordinary illegitimate child, born in the north.”
“God creates everyone equally, my dear. I would have thought you had learned at least that at school.”
“Take my little brother Sigurlinni, for instance. I know very well that God didn’t create him, as it says nothing about that in our schoolbooks. At school, we learn only that God created Adam, and I won’t say anything about that, as I know nothing about it; it’s sure to be true, as it’s in print. Of course, a lot happened in antiquity that we know nothing about, especially in other countries. But I know exactly how Sigurlinni came to be. It was like this: Steinþór, that damned lout who couldn’t leave anything in peace that he thought was a woman, just got into Mama’s bed with her. And when I drove him away, Mama just got into his bed with him— is this the sort of thing you call providence?”
“You mustn’t judge the whole world by your mother, who is rather unsteady, the poor thing, as everyone knows— though I am not going to say anything unkind about her because of it, God knows; I wish her only the best. We ought to be charitable and tolerant toward those who stumble, and I for my part pushed hard for the Women’s Club to send her that gift this past autumn, children’s items and such; not that I am boasting, but the things were all brand-new from the store, though it may not have been of much use in such a wretched hovel as the old couple’s at Mararbúð, which keeps out neither wind nor rain. All are alike under God’s guidance, both rich and poor and not least those who stumble; God blows His breath of life into their children as well.”
But the girl let these arguments go in one ear and out the other and went on with her own train of thought:
“It’s not enough that he cries all day, lying wrapped in a bag on the kitchen floor— although at least it’s warm in the kitchen— no, he also starts sometimes just after bedtime and bawls until morning, and sometimes I can’t even call it bawling, it’s a kind of wail, like a cat in heat, and Mama sits there trying to quiet him all night long, rocking him and crooning and shushing him, but it does no good, because it’s quite clear that he isn’t crying simply out of naughtiness, the poor thing— it’s some sort of illness; some think it’s scrofula. And then we had no milk for three months this winter – the cow calved at Christmas – and of course we couldn’t buy any milk, I have a slight bit of credit at the store, but they won’t let me buy anything with it. Mama has no credit; she couldn’t even buy a handkerchief to save her life. And the old couple gives every penny that it can squeeze out of the store to their son and daughter, who live in different villages, are both married and have houses full of children, and they’ve experienced illness, too; apparently, they’ve lost quite a few children to scrofula. It may very well be true that God helps Adam and Abraham and Noah and various other people in foreign countries— but this is just how it is for us.”
“Well, I don’t want to say anything unkind about your mother, the poor dear,” said Herborg, “but she really should have known better. Life is not a toy, but rather, is subject to a Judge who grants to each his just reward. She is simply paying her debt, the woman. Nothing that people call joy can be had for free in this world. Keep that firmly in mind, my dear, when the time comes for you to live your own life. God will not be mocked.”
“That may very well be,” said the girl. “I’m so young. I know so little. But one thing I do know, now that we are on the subject of me, is that God is angry with me despite having no reason to be so, because I have never received from Him any joy for which He must avenge Himself on me. Yet I can’t even get my own wage paid to me by the store, and they say that I’m not allowed to buy anything with that money, at least not until I’m confirmed. But what right do they have to forbid it? I want to buy myself clothing with the money that I have earned. I don’t want to have to go around in the damned old hand-me-downs from the merchant’s household— people recognize them at once and point at me. And the people I think about and maybe even care for, they won’t even look at me— but luckily, I don’t think about anyone or care for anyone. I have just as much right to wear decent clothing as certain people here in the village who wear finer stuff. People who think themselves better than others are revolting. I despise them like dogs. Fie on anyone who thinks he’s better than me.”
“God help you, child,” said Herborg, astounded at how agitated the girl was. “I didn’t think that any child could think such ugly thoughts. I always thought that you were a sensible girl, Salka dear— you made such good progress in your studies when Alli was tutoring you. And it was only the day before yesterday that I heard the schoolmaster himself comment on how mature you are for your age. But then you sit there spouting such horrid nonsense, which doesn’t make a grain of sense and is un-Christian as well.”
“I don’t care,” said the girl defiantly. “I may very well be an idiot, as everybody said I was when I first came here. All I know is that those who pretend to be clever aren’t any better than the rest of us. Because they just let the rich seduce them with money into all sorts of depravity.”
“What do you mean, child? What in the blazes are you talking about?”
“Nothing. I’m just talking to myself. I know that no one understands me; no, no one. But it doesn’t matter. I’m nothing, anyway, just the daughter of a whore, as the kids used to shout at me when I was little. I just wish the best to all those who are having fun. I’ll be going now. My apologies for having come home with you. To be honest, I don’t know why I did.”
Perhaps, however, she wasn’t really serious about leaving right away; soon the coffee would be ready, and she yielded to Herborg’s calming persuasions to stay. Herborg fetched her photo album and laid it on Salka’s knees in order to divert her thoughts from wearisome topics, and the girl began flipping through it. It was obvious to Herborg that something was distressing the girl, so she started telling her all about the people in the photos, and girl looked and listened as if in a dream. Her head didn’t clear until Herborg pointed to a photo of a woman that took up a whole page in the album, and informed her that it was the dear departed Solveig, Alli’s mother.
It was a three-quarter portrait of an attractive young woman in Danish dress. Her eyes were deep and kind, but in their depths lay a great seriousness, even suffering, mysterious and magical, and the girl felt as if she had known this face for a very long time. This woman’s features were much softer, more refined than those of her sister, but the family resemblance was unmistakable. The woman in this pleasant portrait, with her deep, softly sad eyes, was in fact Arnaldur’s mother, the woman who disappeared behind the blue mountain. The girl looked up abruptly and said:
“It’s certain she’s dead, then?”
Herborg gave her an inquisitive look and asked coldly: “What makes you ask such a thing?”
“I don’t know,” said the girl evasively. “I thought that she may have just left.”
“Who put that stupid idea into your head?” asked Herborg, rather brusquely this time, and she straightened her back, took several steps away from the girl, and then turned to her, placed her hands on her hips and stared at her with the look of a public prosecutor.
