CHAPTER 33
After the Whitsunday mass, the congregation drank coffee on the slope below the Flatey church. The weather was still fine so everyone sat outside, but otherwise the community center would have been opened for the after-mass coffee. The guests from the various isles took out their picnics, and little clusters of different ages and genders soon formed. District Officer Grimur found himself grouped with the old farmers of the islands. The first topic for discussion was the Dane who had been found out on Ketilsey. One of the inner isle farmers was convinced that foreign pirates had left the man there. And maybe also a treasure. Had anyone looked into that? Grimur confirmed that their investigation had revealed that there was no treasure to be found on Ketilsey. It was then prophesized that the island would be haunted for generations to come and it would yield very little while the curse lasted. Most of them agreed and glanced at the Ystakot clan, Valdi and Jon Ferdinand, who had exclusive rights on that skerry. The two men kept to themselves, drinking coffee and nibbling on the pieces of cake that someone had handed them, but the boy was nowhere to be seen.
Grimur told the farmers that a reporter from Reykjavik had arrived on Flatey and that he was here to dig up a story about it. The district officer asked the men to be careful about what they said to this guest. There was no need to implicate the locals on the islands in this unfortunate event. There had been enough damage done as it was.
The conversation then shifted to farming and forecasts. There was good news on the pricing front. The head of the co-op had heard that they could get eight hundred kronur for a good seal pup fur and at least fourteen hundred kronur for a kilo of cleaned eiderdown. This could be one of the islands’ best farming years if the weather stayed good.
Question seventeen: King Harald’s meal. Fifth letter. King Olaf walked out to the pond where the children were playing. Then the king called the boys over and asked Guttormur, “What would you most like to own?”
“Fields,” the boy answered.
“How vast would you want the fields to be?”
Guttormur answered, “I would want the ness to be completely sown every summer. There would be ten farms on it.”
Next the king asked Halfdan, “What would you most want to own?”
“Cows,” he answered.
“How many?” the king asked.
“So many that it would be tight for them to drink together if they were to stand all round the lake side by side.”
The king answered, “That would be a big herd. And what would you want, Harald?”
“Soldiers,” he answered.
“How many?”
“I’m not very good at counting,” he said, “but I think it would be good if there were enough of them to eat all of my brother Halfdan’s cows in one meal.”
The king laughed and said, “You are bringing up a king here, Mother!”
The answer is therefore “Halfdan’s cows,” and the fifth letter is d.
CHAPTER 34
Dagbjartur spent the rest of Whitsunday tracking down Arni Sakarias. He wasn’t at home in Raudararstig, nor at the swimming pool or the diner in Austurbaer. “Try Cafe Hresso,” said the lifeguard at the municipal swimming pool, “or 11 Laugavegur.” It was in the cafe on Laugavegur that Dagbjartur finally found the author in the company of a group of good friends. Arni Sakarias was slightly tipsy and introduced the detective to his buddies.
“This good man here works for the detective division of the police force and is specialized in liaising with poets and writers. Salute him.”
Dagbjartur nodded to them and got straight to the point with Arni Sakarias: “Did you know Gaston Lund, and did you know that he was connected to a child in Iceland?”
“Those are big questions,” Arni Sakarias answered. “That can’t be answered on an empty stomach. Let’s just go to Hotel Borg and have some dinner, beef patties and fried eggs, courtesy of the police department.”
Dagbjartur wasn’t sure he’d be able to get a reimbursement on these bills but didn’t want to run the risk of insulting Arni Sakarias. After all, the man was under no obligation whatsoever to answer these questions, and it was therefore best to keep him happy. One cheap meal wouldn’t go to waste if he got some good information out of it in return.
Arni Sakarias wasn’t open to questions as they walked down Laugavegur, but instead launched into a lecture on contemporary poetry. It was not until he had received his payment in food at Hotel Borg that he finally came to the detective’s question:
“You’re asking about events that took place during the royal visit of June 1936, when King Christian the tenth came over. The king was still a bit wary after his previous visit for the celebration of the Althing in 1930. Everywhere he went, conversations seemed to veer toward the Icelandic sagas, as if he was supposed to know them inside out, and he never knew what answers to give. So this time he decided to bring along a Danish scholar who was an absolute expert in the field, Gaston Lund. His job was to follow the king every step of the way and answer on his behalf if the topic of the sagas cropped up. As soon as the Icelandic government got wind of this, they were dead scared that the Danish expert would wipe the floor with the Icelanders, so they called in an Icelandic expert of their own to follow the conversations and join in if the need arose. The person they appointed for the job was me. Already on the banks of the harbor, one could see that Lund had done his homework because the king delivered a short speech in Icelandic. The day after that, we went on this dreadful trip east to the waterfall of Gullfoss and Geysir and stayed in Laugarvatn. Gaston Lund and I were like two roosters in a cock fight, although as in most cock fights, most of the energy went into strutting about and flapping our wings, but there was little actual pecking. Then we started to relax a bit, and it all ended in a wonderful booze-up.”
Arni Sakarias pondered the memory wistfully before continuing with the story: “The following day, on the way to Reykjavik, we went to the Sogsvirkjun power plant, and some silly inauguration ceremony took place there. Then there was a dinner party in the evening at Hotel Borg, and that’s when the real story begins.”
Arni Sakarias leaned over the table toward Dagbjartur and lowered his voice: “I arrived at the hotel early because I had some errand I wanted to discuss with Gaston Lund before the dinner party. I announced my arrival at reception, and a bellboy was sent up to his room with a note from me. I waited patiently because I knew he was preparing for the party and that it could take a while. Foreign guests were gathering in the foyer before going into the hall, and I greeted some of those I knew. Despite the crowd, I couldn’t help but notice a young woman who had planted herself on a chair in reception and was obviously waiting for someone. She was very pretty to look at and nicely dressed without being ostentatious. Standing beside the woman, there was a boy who was probably ten years old. He was also well dressed and all spruced up. No one paid them much heed, and I was probably the only one who was giving them any attention. Even though the woman was considerably younger than I was, I nevertheless allowed myself to feast my eyes on her every now and then. She was the best looking woman in the room, and I can never resist eyeing a pretty woman if I get a chance. Meanwhile, it was quite some time before Gaston Lund appeared. I was standing to one side, talking to one of the king’s retainers, and I didn’t notice straightaway that Gaston had come down the stairs. Then I saw him standing on the bottom step and gaping in horror at the woman and the boy, who were walking toward him across the reception floor. The woman said something to him when they met and offered him her hand. He responded very oddly, by refusing to accept her greeting and slipping his right hand behind his back, as if to avoid her touching it. The woman then slipped her arm around the boy’s shoulder, pushing him forward at the same time and saying out loud in Danish, ‘Gaston Lund. This boy is your son.’ Lund then backed off, moving back up two steps, and glared at him with a gaping jaw, speechless. This was beginning to attract some attention. The woman looked around apologetically on both sides and then at Lund again. She entreated him to speak to them, by all means. Then, it was as if Lund had suddenly snapped out of a trance. He beckoned the doorman over and, pointing at the woman and boy, shouted, ‘Out, out!’ The boy, who up until that moment had been so polite, started to bawl his eyes out, and so did the woman, yes, the woman, too. I’d never seen such a pitiful sight. All the dignity she possessed vanished with that single wave of his hand. Her back stooped and she stared bleary-eyed and blankly at the floor without uttering a sound. ‘Out! Out!’ Lund shouted, horror-stricken, and waving his arms. The doorman took the woman by the arm and the boy by the collar and practically dragged them out of the building. Everyone who had been in the foyer witnessed the scene and now stared at Lund. Then he turned on his heel and ran up the stairs. The woman’s words echoed in the foyer as people repeated them. ‘She said the boy was his son,’ they kept on repeating, both in Icelandic and Danish. Those who knew Gaston Lund better than the others recalled that he had come to Iceland in the summer of 1926. Could he have had a relationship with this woman and fathered that boy? Regardless, his behavior was considered as nothing less than shameful, and he never showed himself again for the rest of trip. The story reached Copenhagen and tarnished his reputation. I’ve never been ashamed to tell this story if I’m asked. I don’t think Gaston Lund came to Iceland again until last autumn.”