That evening she told me to look my best, for there were some distinguished men from America coming to talk to her husband. She said that I was to open the door for them and invite them in, but warned me not to greet them or look at them and above all not to look affable, for foreigners misunderstood such things. If I knew no English it was safest just to be silent; and I should be particularly careful not to say “Please” when I brought them soda-water. “My husband will see to the whisky,” she said.
I waited half-anxiously throughout the evening for these guests who were so high class that they could be soiled if an ordinary person greeted them. At last they arrived. Their car sped up to the front gate and was speeding away again almost at once, and they on the doorstep with a finger on the bell; I opened the door and let them in. One was a stout man in general’s uniform, the other a lanky man in civilian clothes. I had expected them not to look at me, much less dirty themselves by offering a greeting, but it was not like that at alclass="underline" these men were kindliness itself and it was as if they had met an old girlfriend. They smiled genially and talked nineteen to the dozen; and one of them patted me on the back; there was no question of my being able to hang up their coats and headgear for them, they did that for themselves. The general, moreover, dug into his pocket for a handful of chewing gum and gave it to me, and the other, not to be outdone, gave me a packet of cigarettes. To tell the truth, I had hardly ever met more affable people, and yet so free and easy; so that I forgot all the stiff manners which had been impressed on me, and I smiled and was their friend. When I brought them the soda-water and glasses a moment later they were seated beside the master of the house with maps in front of them, both of Iceland and the world. The master stood up and came towards me and helped me to put down the tray and asked me to be at hand in case they should need anything with it, but they required nothing all evening. Near midnight their car came up to the gate and they rushed off; for some reason it was not considered a good idea to let their car pause for any length of time outside the house.
Very few minutes passed before there was another visitor on the porch. This was the first time I had seen the Prime Minister, Madam’s brother, I knew only that he lived in the corner house a minute away down the street, but I recognized him from his pictures. He did not give me so much as a glance when I opened the door, but more or less barged through me into the house, still wearing his hat. When I took in a glass and cold soda-water for him, the master said in his very Icelandic way, “And this is our mountain-owl from the north.” But the Prime Minister lit himself a cigar, his shoulders hunched, with an expression on his face of pained constipation, full of assumed profundity, and made no reply to such trivialities.
From midnight onwards more and more visitors filtered in; I suspected that the Prime Minister had been telephoning and rousing them from sleep. Some of them were the type who give the impression that the center of the universe is always where they themselves happen to be. They sat in the Doctor’s study and talked in low tones, and did not get drunk. I was told that I should go to bed, but far into the night I felt that the house was some sort of clandestine marketplace.
At dusk next day I went to the baker’s shop on the corner opposite the Prime Minister’s house; there was always a pensive girl standing there behind the counter serving milk and bread, and sometimes there was a young man standing in front of it, talking to her. And suddenly there was unrest in this restful street, with loosely-knit groups of young people milling around in front of the Prime Minister’s house; something had happened, there was vehemence in their eyes, and no one was smiling. Curious passers-by paused on the pavement, and windows in the vicinity were thrown open. Under a lamp-post stood two policemen with black helmets and truncheons; and I don’t suppose it was burnt cork they had smeared around their eyes?
“What’s this?” I said to a dignified-looking man who was hurrying along the street with a profound air. He replied tersely, “It’s the Communists,” and vanished. Now I began to get curious in earnest, and put the same question to someone in grubby overalls; he looked at me in amazement at first, then replied rather brusquely as he turned away, “The country is to be sold.”
“Who’s going to sell the country?” I said aloud to myself out in the middle of the street, and people looked at me in surprise. After a little while I heard the groups of young people start to shout at the Prime Minister’s house, “We don’t want to sell Iceland, we don’t want to sell Iceland.”
Some young man climbed on to the wall in front of the house and began to harangue the Prime Minister’s windows, but the police walked over to him and told him to stop, since there was no one at home—the family had gone out into the country for the day. Little by little the youth stopped making his speech, but someone suggested we should sing Our fjord-riven fatherland, and this was done. Soon the youth contingents drifted away, heading down town, still singing; the people on the pavements dispersed, and the windows in the vicinity were closed again.
The baker’s shop was still open, the girl still behind the counter and the young man in front of it; they were looking very serious, with large clear eyes, and did not notice when I said Good evening.
“Was that the Communists?” I asked.
“Huh?” said the girl, coming to with a start and glancing at the boy.
“It was the Teachers’ Training College and the Young Men’s Christian Association,” said the boy.
“What’s happened?” I asked.
He asked whether I did not read the newspapers, but I laughed and said that I was from the north. Then he showed me an article in the evening paper which said that a request had been received from one of the Great Powers that Iceland should sell, lend, or give it her capital city, Reykjavik, otherwise named Smoky Bay, or some other bay equally suitable for attack or defense in an atomic war. I was speechless at such nonsense and asked in my innocence if this were not the same as everything else one read in newspapers: one of the first things I had been taught as a child was never to believe a single word that was written in newspapers.
“Listen,” he said, “don’t you want to take part in a lottery in aid of the Youth Center? You can go round the world in an aeroplane.”
“Or get a sewing machine,” added the girl.
“I have no wish to go round the world,” I said. “And I can’t do anything with my hands.”
“But you want a Youth Center,” said the boy.
“What for?” I asked.
“You’re from the north, I’m from the west, and there’s no Youth Center,” said the boy.
“So what?” I asked.
“Every cultural subject in the world is cultivated in a Youth Center,” he said. “The Icelandic nation should be the best educated and the noblest nation in the world. Capitalism says that Iceland’s youth should be like the wild ponies that are never given shelter. That is wrong. Iceland’s youth should have the largest Center in the country.”
“What does it cost?” I asked.
“Millions,” he said.
“I have twenty-five kronur,” I said. I had been thinking of buying myself some underclothes.
“Aren’t you with Bui Arland’s wife?” asked the girl. I said yes.
“Don’t say another word,” said the boy. “The ones who have the Thieves’ Company in New York? They could build a Youth Center on their own with the money they have stolen from us with their fraudulent price-scales all through the war. Take about ten tickets.”
“Would it not be better for me to support the church my father is going to build up north in Eystridale?” I asked.