Fish Can Sing (Panther) by Halldor Laxness

Author:Halldor Laxness [Laxness, Halldor]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2010-09-30T04:00:00+00:00

25

A MAN IN THE CHURCHYARD?

In Löngustétt one could see signs that something was afoot, this time at the Ísafold offices. The editor was not going to rest content with a mere coat of paint; he had also hired a carpenter to spruce up his balcony with a lathe-turned balustrade. At this time the editor of the Ísafold was considered to be the most likely person to become the King’s Minister after the next elections. Now the rumour spread that this leader of men was going to give a banquet on Saturday evening, to which were invited all the more important shopkeepers and the most distinguished consuls in the country, as well as the officers of any Danish naval vessels in Icelandic waters at the time; but the special guest of honour was to be the man who had come to Iceland in a French warship, Garðar Hólm the opera singer. On this occasion nothing was printed in the newspapers in advance, for people had learned by experience that it was best to be on the safe side when talking about celebrities. But although there were no advertisements or articles this time, the populace of the town guessed that the balcony had been balustraded so that Garðar Hólm might be able to step out on to it and greet the country with song when he had eaten.

It was a late-summer morning in Suðurgata. The sea-breeze had not yet started to breathe over the Nesses; the Lake was calm and beautiful apart from an occasional ripple. As usual I was up and about at first light to let the cow nibble the tufts of grass between the paving-slabs. I had her on a halter so as to keep her away from the rotting fence round the vegetable garden. I sat on the stone dyke at the roadside and listened to the cow grazing in the stillness of the dawn as my grandmother’s chimney was beginning to smoke.

There was no one stirring except for a few red-bearded peat-cutters who sat on their frame-carts as solemn as Biblical pictures, whipping their lazy hacks on the way south to Vatnsmýri where there were once the greatest peat-pits in the whole world. The clucking of the hens was just about reaching its climax, with all the dedicated lack of humour which is the chief characteristic of the hen-run.

Then suddenly I heard the iron gate at the footpath into the churchyard being opened; the hinges squeaked. When I looked round I saw a woman come out of the churchyard and pull the gate shut behind her, a plump and glowing girl wearing Danish clothes with her coat flapping open; and in one hand she held her hat by the elastic as if she were carrying a bucket. At first she looked at me without seeing me; she was deep in thought, and I imagined that she had got up early to go to the churchyard to mourn a lost friend. She set off in the direction of town.

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