The Flatey Enigma by Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson

Author:Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: AmazonEncore
Published: 2012-02-20T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER 31

Sunday, June 5, 1960

The state radio made sure all Icelanders realized Whitsunday was on its way. Psalms bellowed out of Ingibjörg’s radio, filling the district officer’s home. The radio choir was singing Icelandic Whitsunday psalms.

It was still bright and slightly cloudy over Breidafjördur, and the wind had subsided and seemed to be turning. The farmers scrutinized the sky above and forecast good weather for the day and then rain in the evening. That wasn’t such a bad thing, since the fields needed a sprinkle. The wells were also running low. But it would be good if the dry weather could hold up during the day while the church guests were walking about.

A festive atmosphere had spread across the village by the time Kjartan descended from the loft at around ten and peered outside. Grímur had put on his dark Sunday best, and he looked washed and shaven. His mop of hair was combed back, and he had brushed his bushy beard. Ingibjörg was wearing a pretty bodice and had sprayed herself with perfume. Pastries were served with the morning coffee.

The national flag had been hoisted on the high flagpole in front of the church and flapped gently in the warm breeze. Here and there people could be seen strolling about, but no one was working. Days of rest were sacred, especially Whitsundays.

Through the kitchen window, Grímur watched motorboats loaded with church guests from the inner isles approaching the strait between Hafnarey and Flatey.

“It used to be a more impressive sight back in the days when the island boats came to mass under lily-white sails. I think the good Lord probably preferred that,” he said wistfully in between the names of the boats he was rattling off, as well as the names of those who were probably on board. Every now and then he lifted an old pair of binoculars to his eyes to confirm the identity of a person he had already guessed.

“Yes, yes, I knew it, that’s the Skáley boat,” he said smugly.

The travelers made the crossings in the boats in their everyday clothes, but carried church clothes with them in suitcases, as well as picnics in chests and flasks of coffee. People stepped ashore on Eyjólfur’s pier and vanished into the houses of friends and relatives only to reappear in the village again a short time later, dressed in their festive clothes. Some knocked stealthily on Ásmundur the storekeeper’s window, and he ushered them into the store through the back door on the eastern side of the building. The store was naturally closed on holy mass days, but he could always make an exception for people in dire need. The co-op, on the other hand, was firmly locked since it was next door to the vicarage and the priest himself was a member of the company’s board.

Högni, the organist, rounded up all the choir members once all the boats had arrived and walked ahead of the group up to the church. They were supposed to rehearse before the mass.

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