Senses

My translation of Pia Tafdrup's Senses pentalogy (five-volume collection), on which I have been working with the author during the past few years, is now complete.

The Critic

 by  Ólafur Gunnarsson 

(from the short story collection Herörin og fleiri sögur Forlagið 2023)

It is fair to say that he had been at my heels like a wolf since I started writing. It was not the bad reviews of my books of poetry, novels and short stories that bothered me the most, but the fact that  the man could never remember my name.

He had this to say about my first book of poems: "Bleak miniatures from Reykjavík nightlife. The author is set in clay.”

We first met at the publisher's Christmas party. I wanted to show that I harboured no ill feelings towards him, so I said hello and introduced myself. I could see no sign on his face that he knew who I was, even though he had led many people to show me sympathy after that bad review. 

My next work, two years later, was a five hundred-page novel about seafarers. I had been foolish enough to mention in an interview that I was writing the Independent People of the sea, and his response to the book was not positive: “The author has made it clear that he is writing a novel about seafarers inspired by Halldor Laxness’s rural chronicle, something that evades my comprehension. Of this it can only be said: unlike father, unlike son.”

And then he wrote a contemptuous full-page article. Yet it was the publisher's Christmas party, and I wanted to let the jerk know that he hadn't hurt me with the nasty stab in the back he had inflicted. He stood with his glass of white wine in the group of authors, giving a speech that I knew would be well received. I walked up to the group, offered my hand, and was about to introduce myself: Björn Örlygsson. However, he beat me to it and said, "Well, hello there, Gummi." The group chuckled, and I  retreated in embarrassment. The room around me misted over, and I staggered toward the exit to catch my breath and steady myself in the winter air. That is how those holidays went, and I no longer found any joy in my book about the seamen and their families. Some readers did praise me, but what pleasure was there in it when the wolf had already torn the heart from the book?

I began to keep track of what he produced. Sometimes he wrote provocative stuff but none of it was harsh. None of it approached the disgust he had let out about me. 

To my great astonishment the publishing house released a book by him, an anthology of Icelandic literature in which he was extensively involved. I wasn’t even mentioned in it. Presumably he didn't want to get his hands dirty. Another critic wrote a review of the anthology where he came to the conclusion that "Karl Kristjánsson's article on Laxness’s work is rubbish." I sang with joy! There, he got a taste of his own medicine. I walked around the city that day like the hero of Hamsun’s Hunger, crooning to myself far into the night:  “Rubbish, rubbish, the article on Laxness’s work is rubbish.”

It was time for the Christmas party, and I was looking forward to it. I was certain that Kalli the Critic, as he was known, would not dare to show up. But, lo and behold, the boor made his appearance. And he was in a good mood. I hesitated to greet him, thinking that the harsh criticism might have affected him, but that wasn't the case. He shook my hand and said, “Well, hello there, Gummi.” However, I could still see in his eyes that he knew who I was.

"My only joy was that his hand was cold, like a frozen haddock. It revealed his inner self. That he felt bad. 

Gummi! 

Now nine years had passed. In these nine years, I had published five books, all of which had received positive reviews except from Kalli the Critic.

I decided to put everything into the writing of my next book and throw caution to the winds. What did I have to lose? The articles of my tormentor had had such an impact that my status with my publisher had been significantly weakened. I delivered a lengthy book in which I leaned towards the style of Joyce’s Ulysses. And the reception was instant. “It is a pleasure for me,” he wrote, “to make  the author of this novel feel it is a vain hope that the scribblers of our time can measure themselves against the great bards, Laxness last year, Joyce this time.”

So that was that. But during the time I worked on this book it was only by intensely training with weights that it was possible for me to calm my nerves because of the review I knew was coming. I could now bench press 124 kilos.

I went to the Christmas party again. I felt as though everyone was staring at me and whispering, and some of the staff of the publishing house didn't even bother to greet me. That's how it was for me with the people who published my books. I couldn't let it pass without going to greet the man. No one should suspect anything bad about me! And then he replied to my greeting with these words:  “Yes, hello there, dear Gummi.”

Dear Gummi.

“My name is Björn!” I shouted.  “I am Björn! And your article about Laxness’s work was rubbish. Rubbish. Rubbish. Rubbish.” 

It cut to the quick, but none of the authors who witnessed this outburst dared to smile.

I know where you live!" I exclaimed. "Do you realise that I know where you live?"

He did not respond, and I stormed out of the party, my mind far away. I wandered through the streets of Reykjavik in the cold and dark until dawn.

Now spring has come, the birds are singing, and the verdict was delivered today. It states, among other things: "The accused was found guilty of assaulting the victim outside his home. The assailant attacked the victim and caused various injuries: facial injuries, as the assailant stomped on the victim's head. Bruises on the neck. Also, injuries to the chest. A finger dislocated from its joint. Fractures from repeated kicks to the side. After the assault the victim has suffered from severe depression and is afraid to leave his home due to a fear that the assailant is waiting for him. As a result, the court's decision is that the assailant should pay the victim two million kronur in compensation and serve a nine-month conditional sentence. Additionally, he must cover all the legal costs of his defender, one hundred and seventy thousand kronur, as well as the fees of the victim’s  lawyer, one hundred and sixty thousand."

The verdict was delivered today.

The critic was present, and for the first time he greeted me by my full name.

My right name.

Of course I am indifferent to this verdict. Regarding the judgment, the defendant has this to say: People should not write criticism if they are in poor physical shape. 

Prelude

by Ólafur Gunnarsson

for Andrei Tarkovsky

It is 1938. My sister Elisabeth is five years old. My own birth is ten years in the future. My sister is playing when her mother calls her and asks her to run an errand. What she is to buy is written on a piece of paper. While the shop assistant is gathering together what is written on the paper she sees a piece of chocolate costing 25 aurar behind the glass in the attendant’s desk. But she doesn’t risk buying without asking permission. She takes the paper bag home and gives it to her mother and asks permission to go buy the chocolate. But her mother refuses. She goes out to play some more but she cannot forget the chocolate, it looked so delicious. She goes for a second time but her mother refuses again.

     She is playing with a shovel and a bucket. The longing for the chocolate becomes an obsession, she goes again and again and begs for 25 aurar, but her mother becomes gradually more obstinate in accordance with her persistence. There is little or no money and Elisabeth must understand. She is big enough to understand such a thing. She is all of 5 years old.

     She is sitting on the sidewalk and shoveling sand into the bucket. It begins to rain. Although the street is not asphalted and the sidewalk has no paving, a sturdy row of stones separates the sidewalk from the street. She builds a dam by the curb. Water is pouring down the street and no matter how much sand she brings to her dam it always seeps through, the water always wins the battle. She longs for the chocolate more than ever.

     Suddenly she sees a man walking down the street. He is holding some chocolate in a white wrapper. He lifts her io his arms and puts his cheek to hers. She leans her cheek toward him. Her cheek is cold from the rain and her hair is wet. The man is me. Her brother. I am dreaming but she doesn’t know that. I am not aware of that either because I am sleeping, a man now well into his seventies, but she has been dead a long time.   

The Catholic Priest

  by  Ólafur Gunnarsson 

(from the short story collection Herörin og fleiri sögur Forlagið 2023)

He had arrived at church half an hour before mass was due to begin, to listen to those who needed to confess in order to receive forgiveness of their sins. A couple was waiting, he had often listened to their complaints and didn't expect any big news, it was only in films that people asked for forgiveness for murders. He sighed inwardly.

The man's name was Leifur, the woman’s Ragna. Leifur rose to his feet in the first pew as soon as the priest appeared before the altar. Ragna continued to sit in the pew and wait. Leifur and the priest shook hands, walked to the confessional and sat down. The priest put a stole over his shoulders and waited patiently to hear what was on Leifur’s mind. Leifur straightened himself in his seat, crossed himself and cleared his throat. He was a tall and lanky man with black-rimmed glasses; the glasses made his eyes look bigger. The priest waited for a while, the man stared at the floor, his hair was thinning. 

“How long is it since your last confession?" asked the priest.

“About six months, I'm not sure.”

They waited in silence until the priest asked: “And what is on your mind?”

“I am envious. I’m a furniture maker. My friend and colleague established his own workshop. Everything has turned to gold in his hands. He is rolling in money. He owns a mansion, a fancy car, and everything one could possibly think of. The couple spend half the year abroad on vacations. He owns a house in Spain. I can't for the life of me understand why God distributes wealth so unevenly.”

The priest felt like saying that God was not a cooperative society, but he refrained. The only thing that occurred to him to remark was: "We don't know why some people are rich and others are poor.” Jesus said, "The poor will always be among you."

"I’m not saying that I’m poor; I just sometimes resent the fact that I’m not rich like so many other people are.”

 The priest continued to bide his time.

"And then there are the women," said Leifur. "My sister-in-law, for example. I can't stop thinking about her. And sometimes it seems like she's flirting with me. But that's probably just foolishness. She's probably just being kind. But I dream about her. And they’re not ordinary dreams. I dream that I am sleeping with her."

“But has anything like that happened?”

“No.”

“Then you must try to stop thinking about her.”

“I have. But as I said, she comes to me in dreams.”

“God doesn't blame you for your dreams. Have no fear.”

The priest thought to himself: the same small matters as usual, and now he will begin to talk about his wife and their squabbles. 

 "I got angry with my wife the other day,” said Leifur.“Our grandchildren were visiting, and I wanted them to eat at mealtime, but she let them go and made  them sandwiches twenty minutes before we were due to sit down and have dinner.

“I was making the dinner. And it got on my nerves when the kids had no appetite. Our daughter has separated from her husband; they have three children. They didn't make any effort to keep the marriage going. That’s how it is. I would have got divorced several times if I had given up on the relationship right away.”

"God wants spouses to show each other love and compassion. Remember your wife in your prayers. Then there will be great rejoicing in heaven. In addition, you should say ten Hail Marys, three Our Fathers, and contemplate the suffering of Christ on the Cross.” The priest raised his hand and said, “I absolve you of your sins. God has forgiven you. Go in peace.”

Leifur stood up and walked out. Well, thought the priest. What will his wife have to say? Will it still get on her nerves that he allows himself a shot glass of brandy with his coffee while he watches the evening news? I must remember to pray for him.

He saw that someone touched the confessional door, and Ragna came in. She was a well-dressed woman, with no grey in her black hair, cut straight across her forehead. Her hair was so dark that her face appeared pale. She had a determined demeanour. She sat down, composed herself in the chair, and crossed herself. 

"How long is it since you last confessed?" asked the priest.

 "I think it's eight months," said Ragna.

The priest waited expectantly for her to confess her sins.

"It's my husband. We have constant rows. We were at dinner with the grandchildren, and when they didn't behave properly and politely at the table, he lost his temper. What kind of behaviour is that? The poor children are practically fatherless. They are separated, my daughter and Ari. He was downright mean to Ásta, and that’s why I think Leifur should be kind to the children. Little Anna began to cry and said: ‘Grandad is mean.’

Now she will turn to the glass of brandy, thought the priest.

"I almost wish he had had a glass of brandy before dinner, then he would have been in a better mood. He can never forgive himself for not establishing a furniture factory with his friends a quarter of a century ago. He claims it's my fault, that I didn't want to mortgage the apartment, when it was he himself who didn't dare. But this nightly drinking of brandy has to stop. Both my sons and I have attended family therapy at AA to try to figure out how we can help him. But he dismisses it all and continues to drink. And if I see someone handsome on TV, like Richard Gere, and comment, he gets jealous. It's ridiculous."

"One shot glass of brandy in the evening can hardly be considered a major sin," thought the priest. She has only talked about Leifur's shortcomings and has not mentioned her own sins.

 "Is there anything else?" asked the priest.

"I haven't really done anything except complain about my husband. Maybe I think too much about his faults and don't appreciate his worth. Perhaps that's what I should ask God to forgive me for?"

Well, that caught me by surprise, thought the priest. I won't press her further. The Mass is about to begin.

The priest raised his right hand and said, "I absolve you of your sins. In addition, you must say ten Hail Marys and the same number of Our Fathers as penance. Go in peace. God has forgiven your sins."

Ragna stood up. The priest removed the stole from round his neck and followed her out of the confessional. No one else had arrived for Mass. The priest sang the Mass and received the body of Christ himself.

Leifur and Ragna approached him, and he administered the Holy Eucharist to them both.They walked along the length of the church and exited. The priest returned the chalice with the host to the tabernacle. When he turned round, he noticed that someone had entered the church. Now, who is this? thought the priest, not recalling having seen this person before. He walked toward the stranger as he approached the centre of the church floor. When he got closer, he saw that the man, swollen and red-faced, was intoxicated. 

"What can I do for you?" asked the priest.

"I had to get to the church," said the man. "I had to talk to someone."

"And are you Catholic?" asked the priest, somewhat cautious. The man leaned on a pew for support.

"No, do I have to be Catholic to come here?"

“It might be better for you to talk to your own parish priest."

"I have no idea who that is. I haven't been to church since I was confirmed."

How do I get rid of this drunkard? thought the priest.

"Can't you just listen to me for a moment?" said the intoxicated man, leaning on a pew for support. He was unsteady on his feet.

"Yes, you are welcome," said the priest. "But I don't have much time. Let's sit here in the front, by the altar.”  I just hope it's not marital issues, he thought.

They walked to the front of the church and sat down.

 "Well, what is it that you want to talk about?"

"I'm just came from abroad," said the man. "I'm an airline pilot. I've mostly been working here and there around the world but not at home. I was with Cargolux for many years, and the ace pilot Steini Flug is a good friend of mine. He fought in the Second World War. I worked for a firm that took on the task of flying weapons for the U.S. military to Iraq. I came to the highway they called "The Road to Hell." Thousands of people were killed as they fled on that road. Their lungs burst as the cluster bombs swallowed all the oxygen. I will never forget the man who sat at the window of his in his car. He was like a pile of salt in human form. If anyone had touched him, he would have turned into a heap. His teeth gaped in his face. That was all that was still human about him. And I had been involved in flying weapons to Iraq. I had been involved in killing these people. Can God forgive something like that? Or will I go straight to hell when I croak?”

The pilot looked at the priest. It was a long time since the priest had seen someone in such anguish. He empathised with the man.

 "God is loving, and His mercy fills the earth. If you repent, He will surely forgive you."

 "And can you grant me forgiveness? I've heard that a Catholic priest can do that."

“Unfortunately, I cannot grant you forgiveness for your sins. I do not have the authority since you are not Catholic. But I will pray for you."

 He looked at the man; nothing could be read from the man’s expression.

"Is there no way you can grant me forgiveness? Can't you do something for me? Can't you make an exception?"

"Unfortunately, I cannot. But as I said, I will pray for you. God knows the hearts of people and recognises when one who has committed a sin truly repents. Go in peace and trust in Jesus."

 

He stood up, and the pilot rose with difficulty. He crossed himself awkwardly before the altar.

They walked on. The pilot bade farewell with a handshake and walked away carefully along the ice on the lawn of Landakotstun into the darkness. 

The priest watched him go. Perhaps I should have made an exception? he thought. What did Christ do when the woman touched the hem of his garment so that his strength failed? He said, "I was not sent for you." The woman replied: “Truth, Lord: yet the dogs eat of the crumbs which fall from their masters' table. “Then Jesus answered and said unto her, “O woman, great is thy faith: be it unto thee even as thou wilt.”

translated by David McDuff

About Dostoyevsky

 https://akonkka.blogspot.com/2024/01/dostojevskista.html