The Fish Can Sing (46 page)

Was this an act put on for my benefit and for Madame Strúbenhols? Or for Professor Dr Faustulus? It was surely not for the benefit of the Store’s confidant, who wore such an imperious mask every day in Löngustétt but put on a lackey’s face when he was invited in behind the counter? But there was one thing that was not play-acting – the red blotches that came and went like fleeting clouds on the neck of the daughter of the house.

The first of the courses that were sent through to the large table in the centre room consisted of sugar-browned potatoes accompanied by all kinds of jams and sauces so thick as to be almost solid; then came, one after the other, such varied commodities as toasted white bread and smoked lamb, pickled whale and sardines; and then, as sudden as a Jack-in-the-box, there came steaming hot blood-sausage. Hard on its heels came singed sheeps’-heads and bilberries mixed with lovely red brambleberries; and then other provisions that it would take too long to enumerate. It was almost as if one had broken into a food-shop. Here each and every person could eat his fill according to his own particular fads and fancies about nourishment, and each in his own way too; some started with the toasted white bread and ended with the pickled whale, others began with brambleberries and ended with the sheeps’-heads or sour whey – for drinks were served as well, cows’ milk and French red wine in addition to the liquid already mentioned. Bringing up the rear came a soup tureen filled with incredibly thick porridge, which was set before the old patriarch Jón Gu
mundsson; in accordance with some doctrine from Scotland, this particular dish was at that time considered particularly wholesome for the stomach.

When the torrent of food from the kitchen began to abate,
merchant Gú
múnsen invited the guests to take their places at the table, and people seated themselves wherever they liked, with the exception of the hostess who, by old Icelandic custom, stood in the middle of the room and supervised the serving. Merchant Gú
múnsen called upon Madame Strúbenhols, who was sitting beside Professor Dr Faustulus, to produce her mandolin. The editor of the
Ísafold
reached into his pocket and distributed copies of a table-song which he had composed and printed, entitled
Table-song for Family and Friends, to be Sung at the Table to the Tune of
Don Giovanni
by Mozart
. Surprising as it may seem, there was no mention in the title of the occasion for this “Family and Friends Party”, so people had to decide for themselves whether they were there to celebrate the jubilee of Gú
múnsen’s Store or to welcome a friend and compatriot who had carried Iceland’s fame throughout the whole wide world, even to the Pope as well as to Mohammed ben Ali. But whatever the nature of the party may have been, and for whatever reason the people were assembled, or whether this was just a normal evening meal in the house, people now began to sing the poem printed for the occasion. Unfortunately, the singing was less robust than it might have been, for several of the guests were without their spectacles. The poet himself, however, seemed to enjoy his own poem tolerably well, and not only had to lead the singing but even to sing whole verses solo; but merchant Gú
múnsen let loose great bursts of song every now and again, and his voice rose above everyone else if he was lucky enough to hit on the right line in the printed text. Gar
ar Hólm listened to the singing with inscrutable grimaces and gestures; the patriarch Jón Gu
mundsson, on the other hand, paid no heed to such tomfoolery and straight away started on his porridge, and mumbled to himself throughout the singing. No sooner had Madame Strúbenhols laid aside her mandolin at the end of the song than Professor Dr Faustulus pulled seven eggs and a small dried fish from the top of this talented lady’s dress.

This was the opening of the poem, according to the printed copy which can be found among the pamphlets in the National Library:

One of the elderly ladies in national costume turned to the world singer Gar
ar Hólm, whom she had managed to confuse with Professor Dr Faustulus, and asked with great dignity:

“Are they not very short of meat in Denmark, Doctor? I have heard that the poor people over there live on practically nothing but cabbage and beans.”

The singing had only just stopped echoing in people’s ears. Suddenly it was as if from out of the singer’s dark enigmatic grin there stepped an old spinster, dressed up to the nines, who began to whine in a ghastly falsetto a nonsensical verse to the same melody from
Don Giovanni
. I was not very sure what meaning the company saw in this extraordinary performance; some of them perhaps thought that this was the final verse of the table-song, and indeed there is no doubt that the poet’s face lengthened as he listened. Everyone stared at the singer except the patriarch Jón Gu
mundsson, who went on eating his porridge. For all I know, the people there were thinking that this very sound, this old woman’s whine, was the famous world-singing that had so charmed the Pope. Certainly, no one smiled. Madame Strúbenhols merely raised and lowered her head in order to be able to study this man from beneath her spectacles, through them, and over them. Professor Dr Faustulus stopped pulling food out of the top of Madame’s dress for a while, and stared dumbfounded; it was as if no dove from anyone’s top-hat had ever taken this conjurer quite so much by surprise before.