CHAPTER 11
Reverend Hannes stood by the living room window of the vicarage observing the movement of people beyond the cove. The boy he had sent down with the message had vanished from sight some time ago, and there was no sign of his request having been met.
“Maybe I should just go down and talk to Grimur myself,” the priest said uneasily to his wife, Frida, who sat in a comfortable armchair behind him, embroidering a white tablecloth. She looked up from her sewing, peering over her glasses, and sternly shook her head.
Reverend Hannes shuffled on his feet. “I think the authorities should know about this as soon as possible,” he said anxiously.
“No, you’re not going anywhere,” the priest’s wife snapped sullenly. “There’s no way you’re going down to Grimur’s filthy landing,” she added.
“It’s not so bad on the shore when it’s not raining. I can go in my old galoshes,” said the priest.
“Don’t you remember when you slipped on that whale oil and ruined your pants?”
Reverend Hannes remembered and gave up. He could also now see that the man from the district magistrate’s office was heading up the embankment beyond the cove with a heavy bucket in his hand and little Svenni following him at a short distance behind.
“Here comes that fellow from the magistrate’s office. I just hope he’s coming here, but I can’t see the district officer anywhere. He must have been busy.”
Frida shook her head again and muttered, “I think you’re better off telling the magistrate’s man about this. He’s of a higher rank. Besides, you can’t let Grimur into this house in his filthy working clothes. It’s indecent for an official like the district administrative officer to be walking around looking like that.”
Reverend Hannes decided not to comment. The woman was born and bred in Reykjavik and seemed to refuse to come to terms with the fact that on these islands men had to be jacks of all trades, and that they didn’t wash until the end of the day when they’d produced enough food for their families. Personally, he happened to like Grimur and Hogni, the teacher, and he tried to meet up with them as often as possible. There was always the hope of a good story or some fun conversation. Of course, the men sometimes gave off a bit of a smell after a day’s work, but that was just the way things were out on the islands. Reverend Hannes had been brought up in the Dalir district but had never had the guts to tell his wife that he actually quite liked that cowshed smell.
“Yes, you’re probably right,” he finally said. “The magistrate’s representative seems to be a responsible and well-educated man. He’ll probably know what the best thing to do is. This is a deadly serious matter.”
The priest stepped outside and waited for Kjartan to arrive under the gable of his house.
“I hope you’re here to see me,” said Reverend Hannes.
“Yes, the district officer sent me up and asked me to bring some fresh bits of seal to your wife while I was at it,” said Kjartan, handing him an old white iron bucket full of raw meat.
“Bless you for that, and God be praised for the food that He and the sea provide to man,” said Reverend Hannes, taking the bucket. He then invited Kjartan to step into the small room he reserved for receiving parishioners, but he deposited the bucket in a little pantry off the hall.
“I’ve just had quite a shock, yes, quite a shock.” Reverend Hannes poured coffee out of a thermos into two ready cups on the desk.
“Oh?” said Kjartan, picking up one of the cups.
“Yes, I walked down to the co-op earlier and saw the notice from your office when I was checking to make sure my mass notice was in its right place.”
“Yes?” said Kjartan.
“Yes and ahem…I think I know who the deceased is.”
“Really?”
“Yes, it just has to be Professor Gaston Lund from Copenhagen.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s a bit of a long story. The professor came here from Reykholar at the beginning of September of last year with some of the women who had been to the mainland to pick berries. He sent me Reverend Veigar in Reykholar’s regards and asked me if we could put him up for two nights, which, of course, was fine. He was obviously quite a distinguished man.”
The priest took the lid off a cake dish and handed it to Kjartan.
“Here, have a pancake with sugar.”
“He was Danish, you were saying?” Kjartan asked, taking a pancake.
“Oh yes. He was a professor from the University of Copenhagen. He’d spent the summer following the saga trails in the Flatey Book, i.e., the saga of Olaf Haraldsson and the saga of Olaf Tryggvason, in Norway, of course, and then he came out here to Iceland on a short trip, as I understand it. First he went east to Skalholt, where Brynjolfur served as bishop. Then he traveled north to Vididalstunga, where the manuscript was put together and written. After that he traveled west to Reykholar, where the manuscript was preserved for some time, and then over here to Flatey. He realized, of course, that no one could call themselves experts on the Flatey Book without first visiting the place the manuscript derived its name from. He also wanted to try to solve the old Aenigma Flateyensis, which I only realized later. From here he traveled directly to Reykjavik to catch a flight to Copenhagen. He was due to attend a very important manuscript symposium in Copenhagen, and then, of course, he had to start lecturing at the university straight after that.”
“But how did he end up in Ketilsey then?” Kjartan asked.
“It’s totally incomprehensible to me. He said good-bye to me when the mail boat was about to come in and set off for the pier with plenty of time to spare.”
“So how do you know it was him then?”
“I should have recognized him from the description of the clothes, but since I just assumed that he was in Copenhagen, it never occurred to me. But it was the note with the quotation from the Flatey Book that convinced me. It’s probably written in my handwriting.”
“Oh?” Kjartan pulled out the note that he had stuck into his wallet the night before and handed it to the priest.
Reverend Hannes took the note and nodded after glancing at it. “I’ve sometimes had to receive foreign visitors who come here on the Flatey Book trail,” he said. “I’ve tried to acquaint myself with the history of the manuscript as well as I can and, in the process, formed my own ideas about its history. The theory has been advanced that Jon Finnsson of Flatey inscribed the manuscript with those words that are quoted on the note to dispel any ambiguities regarding heirship. I, on the other hand, believe that he wrote this in the manuscript when he once lent it in Skalholt, quite some time before it was finally handed over to Bishop Brynjolfur. And I’m also sure that Jon Finnsson only intended to lend Brynjolfur the manuscript when he came for a visit in the belief that it would return to him once it had been transcribed and researched. Otherwise, he would have forfeited his ownership by his own hand with some declaration of ownership in the manuscript. A man doesn’t give away an inscribed book without transferring the ownership in writing first. That’s how it worked back then, and that’s how it works now. I explained all this to the professor and copied the text down on that note for him. We actually disagreed on whether the Danes should return the manuscript to Iceland or not. He was very opposed to the idea and was collecting material for a thesis to support his opinion. But I think I managed to get him to listen to my point of view. I believe that Jon Finnsson’s descendants or the Icelandic nation own the Flatey Book by right.”
Kjartan listened to the lecture but was still gnawed by doubt. “But the man must have been missed in Copenhagen. Why wasn’t there a search for him?” he asked.
“That’s what I simply don’t get. He led me to understand that he wanted very little attention on this trip and avoided meeting up with Icelandic colleagues or anyone he knew. These manuscript issues are so sensitive that he wanted to avoid any public debates here. Professor Lund was obviously one of the most prominent opponents on this issue. It’s also possible that no one in Copenhagen knew he was coming out here. He was a bachelor and didn’t contact anyone back in Denmark during his trip here.”
“Did he speak Icelandic?” Kjartan asked.
“Yes, yes. He could understand it quite well, and could read and write OK. But, as with most Danes, his spoken Icelandic was a bit ropey, of course, although he got by just fine.”
