chapter  V I

Dear Mother, yesterday I did something out of the ordinary. I had my hair

cut. The barber was preoccupied with being comfortably lively, chatting

incessantly about trivialities until I grabbed the scissors, half-stood up

in the chair and ordered him to keep his mouth shut tight. My soul burned

with rage and my hands were shaking. I hate people who rape the language

with uneventful stories from the world of sport or idiotic reflections on

social issues which are deeper and more complex than all human folly. The

barber stood there motionless for a while, but when I sat down he inched

his way closer to me. He cautiously picked up a comb and ran it through my

thick hair. Mother, when I sensed how scared he was I put a hint of madness

into my eyes, narrowed them and burned his reflection.

When he eventually finished cutting my hair he stroked my neck continuously

with a soft brush. I leapt up sharply out of the chair, pulled out my

wallet and handed him a five-thousand crown note. Just as he was about to

give me my change a peculiar sympathy awoke in my breast, I tapped him

lightly on the back of the hand and said: "Keep it, pal." He thanked me

over and again and when the door closed he locked it.

As always when I have just had my hair cut I felt half-naked. With the wind

in my face as I strolled down Skólavördustígur, my spirit soared. I looked

in through the window of the tailor's and mentally donned every item of

clothing that my eyes set upon.

The green painted shop door was stiff, and I kicked at it many times until

the assistant came running up and let me in. I greeted that harmless

shopkeeper, and walked around the shop with confident, almost arrogant

steps. The selection of goods was extraordinary, so I chose myself a jacket

and trousers at random. Without trying them on I decided to buy those

beautiful clothes and handed the assistant my credit card, but then the

idiot began rambling on about how "he had some clothes exactly like that,"

"they'd lasted for ages" and "there wasn't a mark of wear on them after all

these years." I snatched the card away from him and strode for the door. He

won't get away with thinking I would fall for a hopeless salesman's

cheapest phrases. I went home cursing all the smarmy penny-pinchers whom I

wanted to crush like insects under the soles of my shoes.

At first it was cosy returning home, but then I could tell that there was

no living soul there, only Rover waiting for me in the freezer. I sat down

on a chair and wept. Mother, I was repulsively forsaken and knew that my

ill-temper was only the echo of my loss.

Bitterness was eroding my soul. I decided to switch from the defensive to

the offensive. In a flurry I tore off my clothes until I was standing naked

on the floor of the lounge. Then I took a hot shower, shaved and put on one

of Father's elegant evening suits. Admittedly it was on the large side but

that didn't matter as long as the braces kept the trousers up. I looked in

the mirror and saw a chunky, tall man with black hair. I cheered up for a

while, danced happy, light steps with the silence until I chanced to look

at my eyes, where sorrow crystallized in my clear blue eyeballs.

I walked down the stairs with ponderous strides, listening to my footsteps

which underlined the calmness in the house, a calmness which bathed my

solitude in light.

I opened the freezer, rummaged around and fished out Rover. He was

beautifully frozen and obedient. Very gently I rocked him in my arms and

talked to him until I felt my mind brightening. Then I kissed the frozen

fur, put my friend back in the freezer and made the sign of the cross over

him.

I grabbed a bottle from the red wine rack, sat at the piano and played

Solvejg's Song. As my fingers glided over the keyboard, up and down the

scale, the only thought I could entertain was to break out of my solitude.

I looked at the clock and saw it was just before eight, called a taxi and

before I knew it I was standing outside the opera house.

Fortunately there was a ticket left and I made myself comfortable in a seat

beside an elderly couple. They greeted me politely with a slow, respectful

bow of the head and smiled. There I was in my rightful place in life,

surrounded by elegantly dressed people who gave off the scent of expensive

perfume. Only at such places does the distinction blur between the fantasy

on the stage and life itself.

When the auditorium lights were dimmed a silent expectation reigned which

was broken every so often by a weak cough or someone clearing his throat.

Carmen was played by a young girl whom I had never seen before, but she had

noticed me. There was no doubt about that. Every word falling from her lips

was addressed to me, Mother. She was performing for me alone and the two of

us perceived the hellish grip we had on each other, her in the light on the

stage, me in the darkness of the auditorium. My heart was hot but I felt a

cold gush of pleasure flowing through my body. I unzipped my flies and

slipped at once into her naked embrace, until I was lying between her legs

with my rampant cock in her insatiable vagina. Suddenly a scream came from

the auditorium. The old, genteel hag sitting next to me had risen from her

seat, shouting at me. At that very moment I felt my hand bringing me

ecstasy. I stood up and sprayed warm semen over the bosom of the young

woman sitting in front of me. She screamed blue murder. The lights went on,

the singers stood still and gaped speechlessly into the auditorium. The

stage had shifted and unexpectedly I had become the centre of action in an

unwritten play. The old woman howled and shouted while the young girl

screeched and my mistress looked at me, slightly perplexed. She was the

only one who understood my performance completely.

Uniformed doormen rushed in, grabbed my hands and pulled me out into the

foyer, unnecessarily roughly. Mother, they had the police take me away,

those black ravens who only took a statement from me then sent me home

where the red wine was waiting on the piano.

The next morning I woke up, dressed to the nines, in my coffin with an

empty cognac bottle on my chest. My head was splitting. I crept out of my

shrine and walked slowly into the bathroom where I swallowed some strong

painkillers and quenched my thirst with cold water.

My left hand was covered with wounds and I recalled having written my

beloved a letter with my own blood, that sacred fluid. No one can write an

untrue character with that ink of the heart. After confessing my love to

her I committed the letter to fire where my words remain for ever and ever.

But no confession can be anything but the shadow of the love I bear towards

you, Mother.

The blood took me into the labyrinth of childhood memories where there was

a large, dark cupboard.

How often had I not lain there full of anguish and covered in blood without

knowing what I was to blame for? Whenever Father's rage subsided he would

call to me in a gentle voice, open the cupboard door and give me a paternal

hand to wash away the blood.

I feared Father's hands. Yet I enjoyed walking along the street with him,

feeling him squeeze my palm the way proud fathers do. But later I came to

realize I was just an accoutrement that made him look good, like a hat, a

suit or even a dog underlining its master's dignity. He endowed his own

face with the care and trust of the loving father. People who pat children

tend to be lulling their inner self, the evil within them. By stroking the

white skin of innocence they whisper to their half-asleep conscience:

"There, there, calm, calm."

I remember Father sending me out into the dusk to see what our grandfather

clock looked like to passers-by. It was more important to have an

impressive clock that was well visible from the street than for it to tick

in time with life inside the house. The days the three of us spent together

were a cruel world of existence which could not resonate with any

mechanism. The clock reflected existence, the glossy picture supposed to

deceive everyone. The interior of that illusion was worm-eaten, hanging

together on dishonesty, hate and disloyalty. It was a fragmentary idea

pasted with the strongest glue in the world, petit bourgeois vanity.

I drew the thick curtains, stripped off and lay down in the coffin. It was

enchanting to feel the soft silk against my naked skin. When I was falling

asleep revolting thoughts overwhelmed me. For a while I felt as if I had

treated you badly. The past tormented me, but by listening to the ticking

of the old clock deep in the darkness, I calmed down.

Black flowers are blossoming in my thoughts now. Black flowers with dark

shadows. They are nourished on hope.