Barbara (17 page)

“Aye, isn’t it a bloody scandal,” Gabriel would say to his customers. He never tired of talking about Barbara’s boundless guile. While holding a weight from a pair of scales or a grain measure in his hand he would often stand and actually be lost for words at her behaviour, and he shook his head and snorted, “What a bloody scandal!”

Throughout that summer there had been a rare delight in going to the Royal Store, and this twenty-eighth of July the shop was also the first place the St Olaf’s Festival visitors made for as soon as they came ashore. The first to come was Niels Peter from Leirvík. He was a great joker, but most people were inclined to smile a little at his curiosity and lack of discretion. He blurted things straight out, and the expression French kids was out of his mouth almost before he got inside the door. But Gabriel simply told him to shut up and go to hell. Niels Peter was so crestfallen that he simply slunk away again. He did not understand a word of it and could only thank God for there not having been anyone else to hear him when he put his unfortunate question to someone in authority. This was an experience he did not want to share.

Other village folk came into the shop later. They were better able to observe the niceties. They were slow and ponderous and they wasted time on all sorts of talk about the weather and the way the harvest was coming on. But Gabriel said not a word about the great human harvest in Havn. It was remarkable; indeed it was a disheartening and disappointing start to the Feast of St Olaf. The odd visitor went so far as to ask whether there was any news. But they went no further. They were respectable farmers, who could sense which way the wind was blowing. And they obviously felt that the air in the Royal Store was not favourable to many questions today.

When they left, they were none the wiser. They were bursting with curiosity. They went up hill and down dale in the town, peering all over the place and staring in at every miserable window. They hailed other St Olaf visitors at random and asked them straight out whether
they
knew anything about these blessed French children. But no, no one knew anything; even Niels Peter knew no more than a vague rumour about this person and that person, a rumour that the others had all heard already. And yet this was to know far too little in view of the fact that they were now on the very scene of the crime. Whoops went past, and she was quite obviously expecting; aye, she was indeed. But Whoops had been like that so many times before.

They were not enjoying the brandy. No, all the signs were that this St Olaf’s Festival was going to be a dull affair. No one invited them inside, and you could not see a hand in front of your eyes in this fog. They could not find anything better to do than to go back and forth through Gongin – out to Tinganes and back again.

“Can’t you have a word with Gabriel,” someone suggested to Niels Peter.

He shook his head: “No, I can’t.”

“Oh yes, it’s easy for someone like you.”

“I could have asked him all right,” said Niels Peter, “but I don’t think he’s going to tell me anything. He probably won’t tell anybody except his closest friends. You could ask, Hans Lavus, you’re his cousin.”

Hans Lavus slowly turned his head, stared thoughtfully into space and closed his eyes a couple of times. He had white eyelashes.

“Aye, aye,” he finally nodded, but it sounded as though he were talking to himself rather than to any of the others.

“Aye, ‘cos you are his cousin, aren’t you?” Niels Peter continued.

Hans Lavus was not Gabriel’s cousin at all; he was a feebleminded vagabond known throughout the country and tolerated on account of his affability. He thought he was someone important – he usually referred to himself as a member of the Assembly. But his was a gentle, melancholy superiority that only had one fault – that he was susceptible to flattery. And now they all maintained that he was the only one of them to whom Gabriel would condescend to talk, he was not the one to deny it. His eyes began to come to life, and he looked around in delight: “Hm, well, my good men. Hmm, yes. What is it you want me to ask him about then?”

Niels Peter told him what to say. He was to say: “Well, Gabriel, my good man, what can you tell us about the French kids today?” And then he should offer him a pinch of snuff. Like this. Niels Peter straightened up and showed him how a great man would offer a lesser man a pinch of snuff. The farmers exchanged secret smiles. The devil of a man, this Niels Peter. But never mind, St Olaf’s Day was approaching. They all went into a corner. Hans Lavus was given a dram as well, and then they all made for Tinganes.

Gabriel took little notice of the procession, headed by Hans Lavus, that started to fill the shop. He stood weighing some corn for Whoops and was silent and official. Only when he was finished did he deign to cast a glance at the newcomers.

“Hmm, Gabriel, hmm, my good man,” were the words uttered by Hans Lavus in a voice that was gentle but stupid: “What can you tell us about the French children today?”

He smiled foolishly and rummaged around to extract a ridiculous snuff box from a filthy red handkerchief.

Gabriel almost blew up, but he managed to control himself. His quick brain had in a trice recognised the conspiracy stamped on the far too numerous and serious faces of the villagers. There was especially no mistaking Niels Peter’s face at the back of the crowd. A great laugh was ready, waiting for every word. For several seconds, no other sound was heard but that of Whoops’s asthma. Then, finally, in a tired and calm voice, Gabriel said, “Be off with you, Hans Lavus. I haven’t time to stand here fooling around with you all day. Here, take this.”

He flung a sugar lump across the counter. Hans Lavus greedily grasped the white cube and examined it with sticky, enchanted eyes. The village men stood watching helplessly. All their plans had gone awry. They felt foolish and had no idea how they were to get away with their dignity intact.

But now Whoops spoke. It started with a wheezing sound in her tight chest, but then her voice broke through:

“Aye, I think you should get out, Hans Lavus, and the rest of you had better go with him. Perhaps you don’t know that things have changed in the Royal Store now. But let me tell you that Gabriel’s not going to talk about French children any more. He’s been like some avenging angel all summer, mocking and telling lies about us ordinary people and accusing us of all having bastards. But the biter’s getting bitten now. So you can go home to your villages and tell everyone that. Because Gabriel’s got a French baby to look after himself. You can tell them that from Whoops. He’s going to marry the bailiff’s daughter on Sunday. And the baby’s expected already next month. And you can guarantee that the bailiff’s daughter isn’t a woman ever to have been to bed with Gabriel. No it was a far superior chap, a Frenchman, even if Gabriel is registered as husband and father twenty times over.”

Gabriel had stood throughout this pale and silent. When Whoops had finished, he said in a gentle, commanding voice, “I will go in and fetch the Store manager, so I will.”

“Yes, you just go in to him,” Whoops started all over again. “I don’t think he’ll be too keen on coming out and talking about French kids either. The fine folk have become ever so meek and mild recently. Whoops’s not the only one; there are both fine married ladies and fine daughters who are going to give birth in August.”

“You foul-mouthed witch,” said Gabriel. The idea that it was not merely he himself, but all the official class that was being scorned gave him renewed strength. “You watch your mouth,” he said ponderously, “for otherwise I’ll make sure you give birth in the Black Hole – understand?”

Whoops was by now closer to the door.

“Aye, you can have me put in the Black Hole a thousand times or laid on a bed of sharp stones,” she screamed, “but turn a French babe into a Gabriel babe – that you can’t do. Goodbye.”

The village men’s eyes had gradually grown bigger and bigger. They were almost horrified, and when the Black Hole was mentioned, they began to feel very uncomfortable. They slowly trooped out of the shop, weak-kneed at the sensation. Niels Peter stood bent over on the steps; his shoulders were shaking slowly as though he were sobbing. The village men at the front of the throng also began now to squirm a little. But there came not a sound from them. They simply got a move on, the entire crowd got a move on, indeed they were actually in a hurry to get away, and only when they reached a well-hidden corner did they stop and start to grin. They were so excited that they could hardly drink, and it was a long time before they found their voices again. But then a mighty sense of ease began to spread among them; the news and the wine filled them with warmth, and one of them started to sing a ballad. And during the course of the day it became more and more frequent that chance bits of ballads could be heard among the tarred wooden walls. The milky white mist blotted out every alleyway, and they couldn’t see a hand in front of their eyes, but the town was filled with invisible hilarity.

Gabriel was left behind alone in his shop. He went round with an old bag gathering up all the remains of corn and sugar and tobacco that had been spilt here and there on the counters. This confrontation had been worse than expected, and he realised that he could expect a couple of difficult days. But there was nothing for it. He had made up his mind, and it would be all right. It was only a question of keeping himself under control. The only trouble was that he was so unaccustomed to keeping himself under control when faced with this crowd of monkeys. But the more he controlled himself, the less they laughed and the fewer the costs.

The actual prize was sure enough. He had carefully considered it, debit and credit. Suzanne Harme was a good match, the best match in the country. It was a given thing that promotion would come along with her, and he had straightaway made the condition that the bailiff would appoint him his head clerk. This also gave him the almost certain prospect of being Harme’s successor. Admittedly, the bailiff had not taken upon himself to die in the near future, but he had nevertheless had one apoplectic fit.

That was the most important entry, but to that could be added the fact that Suzanne was both a beautiful and sensible woman. Gabriel never tired of repeating this to himself. She was no Barbara – thank God she was no Barbara! Admittedly, she was not untouched. But when you take over a piece of damaged goods just because it is damaged, you cannot at the same time demand that it should be undamaged. And Suzanne was only a
little
damaged, and it was also a lasting advantage that no one in
this
country would be able to boast of being the father of her child. That would have been confoundedly unpleasant.

Finally there was the advantage that although she was not exactly Barbara, Suzanne was still almost Barbara. There was after all something of Barbara about her, a Barbara without Barbara’s faults. Could it be better?

On the debit side, however there was the fact that in marrying Suzanne, he precluded himself from marrying Barbara. He did not really understand this question. For had he ever wanted to marry Barbara? Certainly he had not. Was it not far better not to be married to Barbara? Certainly it was. This account was in a bit of a mess. Why should it be an entry on the debit side that he was not to marry Barbara, when this same fact entered into several factors on the credit side? He thought about this more and more and was simply not sure of either himself or his accounting. Finally, he consoled himself with the thought that it was all only a question of how items were entered. Exactly, it was a question similar to that of profit and loss. Or the cash balance. That was put on the debit side as well. Curious, that.

The other entry on the debit side was the laughter. It was in reality only a small item that could not be compared with the others. But there was the confoundedly unfortunate quality to it that it had to be paid in cash, straight away. But after that it would admittedly be a thing of the past. What might be added to it later was probably not of any significance. So it was only a question of getting over it. Outlays were of course always embarrassing, but when you knew what you were getting for your money…

Neither did Gabriel tire of repeating this to himself; he comforted himself with it and so he remained bravely in his redoubt. It was not always easy to look the enemy in the eye; people were drunk and awkward today… That confounded Whoops had lit the torch of revolt, so to speak, and fired the rabble with disrespect. Were decent men from the villages not coming into the shop and making all kinds of snide remarks? Aye, he had a feeling that there was some kind of secret gathering round the corner where people were laughing at him and whence spies were sent now and then into the shop to test the atmosphere.

There had not been such a merry St Olaf’s festival for many years. The people of Tórshavn had enjoyed themselves during the winter, when the French ships were in port. Now it was the villagers’ turn. They had nothing to drink but brandy and the only dance they knew was the traditional one of the Faroes. But that, too, had its advantages; it had great advantages and was well suited to the occasion.

It was Niels Peter who started the dance. His great success out in the shop had made him the man of the day, and he was not one to hide his light under a bushel. With a strident voice he started off with:

The king he asked his daughter dear –

Matrori, matrori

Who’s your eldest son so fair?

Turalulu quack, quack, quack,

Turalulu quack, quack, quack,

Turalulu quack.

There was nothing wrong with that. But it was disrespectful and out of the ordinary that they should be dancing outside in Havn, just in front of the Royal Store. More and more joined the ring, and the high spirits and exuberance increased by the minute. A few more restrained men thought it was dangerous to taunt Gabriel in this way. They could see that he was a man who would advance in power and glory and who would be able to avenge himself when his hour came. But the younger ones refused to be told. They were drunk now and only thought of making mischief. When a pale and angry Gabriel came out on the steps and asked them to bloody well shut up, Niels Peter looked him in the eye and sang: