Halldór Laxness Day #3

The Honour of the House

A Story by Halldór Laxness.

I brought home more than happy memories from my recent Iceland trip, and of all the things I did bring home, this slim volume was perhaps the most delightful and certainly the most unexpected discovery. It was first published in 1932 in a collection of stories (Fótatak manna) and was published in English by Helgafell in 1959. This a story of two sisters in a fishing town in Iceland, taking place over a span of years in the early part of the twentieth century.

This is a book whose form is shaped by a third-person omniscient narrative. As supplied by Laxness it is full of gossip and observations of small town life, sometimes quite funny, sometimes a bit misleading, but very effective in conveying a story of ordinary people whose lives seemed shaped by forces beyond their control. It is also a very sad story, a story of almost unbelievable familial cruelty, yet each turn of the plot somehow rings true. This isn't a morality play, for the very unusual ending ties it to ancient Icelandic beliefs rather than Christian principles. I read somewhere (sorry about losing the link) that Halldór was inspired by several true stories he had heard of- events which had occurred in his community's past, and indeed; this story has the feel of an oral history. While I read, I could almost hear my Swedish grandmother's voice as she used to gossip at the kitchen table- gossip is similar everywhere, and I suspect that the stylistic manner in which these stories are told is similar throughout the Nordic countries.

There was a movie made from the story by Guðný Halldórsdóttir in 1999 which was submitted for Academy Award consideration. The synopsis of that film seems to give the story a different dynamic in that the sisters' mother becomes the narrator.

While not a grand work of literature, it is a very well constructed story; those who have had issues in the past with Halldór's politics may find this kind of writing more palatable. Those interested in the dynamics of small town life should find it irresistible.

This is the third consecutive year that my Laxness blog-pal Rose and I have commemorated the date in 1955 when Halldór gave his memorable speech at the Nobel Prize banquet. Her review is here.


More on Halldor Laxness at Laxness in Translation

Castle House Tuesday Morning

Chapter 7 of Search For a Dancer, a serial memoir about a week I spent in Iceland. Mondays on Flippism is the Key

Ikea dominates the decor in The Castle House.

Universal, Scandi, neutral, Ikea’s greatest asset is that it doesn’t get in the way. Tables, chairs, kitchen utensils, bed and bath, its all there, the same as everywhere, Castle House is no exception. Even the little artistic touches in the room are inoffensive and forgettable. On the other side of the apartment door is Reykjavík in all its wind-swept glory, a mash-up of modernism, both early mid-century and post. Most of the buildings are less than than 100 years old; building booms in the 1920s, 40s, 50s and 60s shaped the inner city, while the outlying areas are more recent. It was Tuesday, my first morning in the Castle House. A breakfast of dismal English Weetabix and delightful European strawberries started my day.

I packed up my swim gear and left the apartment, walking between the National Museum and the church, then down to the path along the pond. I felt good, the air temp was in in the mid-thirties (3°c) and the sun was shining and the wind had yet to make its presence known. The mile-long walk to the pool was invigorating. Going past the cemetery, then alongside Grund, the senior residence (my room is ready) and then I turned off of Hringbraut and walked through the residential area, streets lined with pebble-dash and shell-dash stucco houses, mostly duplexes and four-plexes. They were old enough to be remodeled; construction activity was present in almost every block.

The Vesturbæjarlaug pool was a bee-hive of activity.

I did my laps, explored the various hot-pots, and finally settled in at the 40°c hot-pot. I saw Ingvar, the actor, make his rounds, and was soon joined by a man who recognized me from years previous. “You’re that guy with the Halldór Laxness website,” he said. I had recognized him immediately because he was a doppelgänger of one of my neighbors at home. We made some small talk, he asked why I was here. I mentioned the festival, and also said that I was going to meet up with some old blog-friends. “I’m having lunch with Silja A—, the writer at TMM, to talk about the new translation of Halldór Laxness’ Salka Valka. “Oh, you’re in good hands with Silja,” he said, smiling.

Everybody knows everybody here.

On the other side of the lap pool was a grass-covered earthen berm, it helped cut the wind and offered a bit of privacy. As I talked with my old ‘pal’ I noticed two men in swim suits lying on the side of the berm, feet up-head down. The air temp was warmer now, it had risen to 4°c (39°f) but it was still cooler than I would like when taking a nap in my Speedo. They must have stayed there for several minutes, I stopped watching after a while, when I looked up later they were gone. I looked at the clock and it was 1230 hours. My luncheon date was at 1400 hours, and on the other side of the city from the pool, about a half mile from my apartment. I said goodby to my tub-mate, and headed back to the apartment to prepare for the afternoon’s adventure.

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Norræna Húsið

Chapter 15 of Search For a Dancer, a serial memoir about a week I spent in Iceland in 2022. Mondays on Flippism is the Key

After the JFDR boutique gig ended I went around the block to a basement space beneath the Smekkleysa record shop where the Apparat Organ Quartet was setting up. They were a trio now, the late Johann Johannsson was unable to make it, obviously. I had seen them in 2006, in the big Art Museum space, that show was a completely demented aural and visual assault. It was my introduction to Johann, a massive talent that I was fortunate to see perform five times. The remaining members were all older now, of course, I believe one member may be close to 80! The small room (that had been nearly empty when I had seen Hekla there the day before) was stuffed with cheesy and antique electronic keyboards and organs. They joked that they were an “Apparat cover band—better than the original!” I know how temperamental those old electronic gizmos can be but they got them all working, as far as I could tell. The music was as nutty and unpredictable as ever. I stayed as long as I dared to—the place was hot and over-filled and, as I had already seen someone collapse at an Airwaves event, I didn’t want to repeat the experience.

I braved the dark walk through Hlómskálagarður park, dashing across the busy Hringbraut highway, and walked down Sæmundargata, the street leading up to my destination: Norræna Húsið. The Nordic House was designed by acclaimed Finnish modernist architect Alvar Aalto (1898-1976) and is one of his later works, a hidden gem among his better-known masterpieces. He also designed all installed furnishings, lamps and nearly all of the furniture. It is a multi-use building, including a restaurant, library, workshops and, most importantly for tonight, a performance space. I tingled in anticipation as I walked up the path to the building’s entrance.

I have spent many hours here, starting in 2009, when I saw Hraun (a folksy band), Hafdis Huld (a singer-songwriter), Oh Land (a ballerina/singer), Casio Kids (a marvelous band playing cheesy keyboards), Toggí (a salty raconteur), and Pascal Pinon: a quartet of girls who changed my life. In 2018 I saw Petúr Ben (troubadour), Nini Julia Bang (a musical witch), Liva Mo (a singer/raconteur), and Bláskjár (singer-songwriter). Because this ‘house’ is about a mile from the center of town, it always seems to be a bit of an adventure to make the trek through the area that was featured so memorably in the Halldór Laxness book The Fish Can Sing. This year, coming off 2 seasons of Covid cancellations, everything had been scaled back: there were no decorations and the only act was Dawda Jobarteh and his Kora, a traditional Gambian harp.

One may wonder how a Gambian folk-musician made his way to the Nordic House in Iceland, but I found it to be a welcome change. Dawda lives in Copenhagen and his musical career is an example of how the world is changing. With most major European cities supporting a mix of cultures, sometimes uneasily, this diversity renews artistic traditions. He moved from Gambia in 1999 and settled in Denmark. Dawda is solidly rooted in one of West Africa's most illustrious musical dynasties but it is as an international musician that he has found his place, and key to this is his willingness and enthusiasm for working with musicians from different backgrounds and traditions.

Dawda’s set was brilliant.

The Kora is a type of harp, with strings attached to a fret board. It is set up so that it could be played in counterpoint, the strings for the left hand playing bass and the right hand the melodies. There was a ton of culture being expressed in Dawda’s songs, ineffable spirit-messages from the past. The twenty people in the audience were mesmerized. It was unfortunate that he was the only performer, rather that the 3 or 4 they used to feature in pre-Covid times. It also seemed as if the show was thrown together at the last minute, with only a day notice in the festival schedule and its being held after dark, unlike the leisurely all-afternoon affairs I had attended at earlier Airwaves. I stayed through his solo set but then reluctantly left (when he was joined by a singer) because the evening’s Airwaves events at the major venues were starting.

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Móðir, kona, meyja

Chapter 13 of Search For a Dancer, a serial memoir about a week I spent in Iceland. Mondays on Flippism is the Key

“I think that was our conversation, as nearly as one can recall a conversation when a woman talks to a man and a man to a woman, for of course the words themselves say least of all, if in fact they say anything; what really informs us is the inflection in the voice (and no less so if it is restrained), the breathing, the heart-beat, the muscles around the mouth and eyes, the dilation and contraction of the pupils, the strength of the weakness in the knees, as well as the chain of mysterious reactions in the nerves and the secretions from hidden glands whose names one never knows even though one reads about them in books; all that is the essence of a conversation - the words are more or less incidental.” ~ Halldór Laxness, The Atom Station

Of all those bloggers whom I’ve interacted with over the years, K stands apart.

In 2004 blogs were all the rage, especially so in Iceland. K was the mother (móðir) of 3-year-old twins, with a husband and a cat. Reading between the lines on her blog, it seemed that she was under-employed for her education and a bit lonely, missing the friends of her youth, many of whom had been scattered to the winds. Her blog was somewhat a mommy-blog, but with an additional focus on culture and her life on the ‘rock.’ I had had two young boys myself once so it was fun to follow her parenting efforts. She posted pictures of herself and her children doing things; an idyllic Flickr-fairy-tale-land. I had sent her a box of books that my boys had enjoyed when they were young. Other pictures on the blog showed her on nights out with friends; proto-selfies. She was the first blogger I met IRL, during the 2006 Iceland Airwaves. Her graciousness, charm and perceptive wit made my day. I met with her again in 2009, right after I had attended a poignant concert, I was so affected by it that it made me tear up a bit. She comforted me then, and even called me later to make sure I was alright. In 2012 I met her with her young son and she was radiant: in full-móðir mode. We had fallen out of touch since then, life gets in the way of the best of intentions.

I was a bit early so I was already in Hlemmur (food hall) when I spotted her walking down the street. She worked just around the corner and was on a lunch break so this would be a time-constrained affair, unlike the other occasions when we lingered over coffee. She looked great, of course (myndarleg kona), I had always felt a bit shabby sitting next to her. Professor Batty meets Eve Kendall. Getting together with her was never quite seamless—several times we had failed to connect due to a misunderstanding or a sudden event, or something would up to cause us to reschedule. This time was no exception, she had mis-read my email to be for a meeting a week earlier which caused her to email from a restaurant with ‘Where are you?’ message while I still a thousand miles away.

But now we were here, together again in the eternal now, ordering Krösti-burgers. We took our buzzer to a quiet table away from the main doors and began catching up. What a difference ten years makes: K was now in the midst of a painful divorce from her second husband. I had never met her first (an investment banker with a porn-addiction) but I did meet her second husband. I wasn’t too impressed by him, but then spouses of blog-pals (and I’ve met several, some of each gender) are not really interested in you and can be hostile, and may even consider you to be a threat. I think I won’t be going there again. Closure. This whole trip could be considered closure of sorts; the blog-era is nearly dead, displaced by e-commerce and about to be overwhelmed by AI. While one can never be entirely honest on a blog I try to be. AI posing as human is, by definition, a lie.

One positive thing K had going for her was that she had finally gotten her dream-job, working as a translator in the Icelandic Foreign Ministry, extremely precise and challenging work that paid well and was not without its perks (including junkets to European capitals!) As my days of gainful employment are over, I again felt a twinge of guilt in imposing on her schedule. We talked a bit about the Icelandic theatre scene and she gave me the lowdown on a musical I would be seeing in a couple of days. The musical was a big thing, it was the first full-blown  production since the Covid restrictions were lifted. One of the characters was on the autism spectrum, and there had been a row about having a ‘norm’ portray him. K’s involvement with autism has been vigorous and constant over the years, active in many circles (her blog was even called Aspie Mum) and she was the narrator for a documentary film on the subject of autism in women (konur) in 2019.

When she was a young woman (meyja) she had lived in both Iceland and abroad, she was an au pair and had even won some renown for her flamenco dancing! Now her life was less free, having to raise her son with a faithless husband during an epidemic will put a damper on the most optimistic soul. I wished there was something I could do or say to make things better, I doubted if my words of consolation could have much of an effect. She had picked me up when I was down. I thanked her again for taking the time to see me and after finishing our meal we walked back to the Foreign Ministry. She pointed out a nearby art gallery (ministering to foreigners?) as having a good selection of artists (and indeed it did) and then she was gone.

Some friends are life-long, some friendships flare-up brightly, only to quickly burn out. Some friendships are simply a case of parallel lives, two stars a drift in the heavens, each gaining a little energy from the radiance of the other and then parting to fade away to oblivion.

Svo lít ég upp og sé við erum saman þarna tvær stjörnur á blárri festinguni sem færast nær og nær. Ég man þig þegar augu mín eru opin, hverja stund. En þegar ég nú legg þau aftur, fer ég á þinn fund. ~Megas

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