65° - 01.07.1968, Blaðsíða 23

The newly elected President is a 51 year old
farmer’s son from the north of Iceland. He at-
tended the Grammar School at Akureyri and the
Universities of Copenhagen and Iceland as a
student of archeology and Icelandic Studies, and
has been Curator of the National Museum of Ice-
land since 1947. His doctoral thesis on heathen
graves in Iceland was accepted by the University
of Iceland in 1957. He has taken considerable
part in Iceland’s cultural life and is known for
his scientific work abroad. He is member of the
editorial board of Nordisk Kulturhistorisk Leksi-
kon (History of Nordic Culture) which the Nor-
dic countries are publishing collectively, but has
taken little part in politics. His opponent, Dr.
Thoroddsen was, however, for a long time one of
the leaders of one of the political parties, the
Independence (Conservative) Party. Many people
have interpreted the election result as a popular
expression of dissatisfiction with politics and poli-
ticians.
The Stone Wall Party
by
SVAVA JAKOBSDOTTIR
There was no doubt when Snorri went in that
the house was expecting guests. It was the first
party in this house. All the same, it seemed to
have taken on the atmosphere of older houses in
similar circumstances. In the air was all bustle and
excitement ,and perhaps a touch of anxiety too.
Its whole existence seemed to depend on what
was about to take place.
He sensed an air of reproach, also, for coming
home late. He had been delayed by various things
over which he had no control. It was not he who
had decided the pace, but an endless line of cars
that crawled along Hverfisgata Street, other cars
that came out of side-streets, red lights. The as-
phalt was gleaming with ice, and it would have
been dangerous to try and overtake. He had no
option but to keep in line and follow the others.
Yet at the same time he felt a certain relief that
he could not proceed any faster. That was why
he now had a guilty feeling.
The reproach came from the kitchen, mingled
with the smell of cooking and perfume. Without a
word he took off his overcoat, pulled a bottle out
of his briefcase and then stopped at the kitchen
door. His wife was already dressed for the party.
She stood by the stove in a low-cut black frock
and her hands were moving rapidly among the
pots and pans. Her self-assurance at once rose up
like a wall between them. Involuntarily he felt,
as so often before, that he did not belong here.
It was she who was giving the party. There had
never been parties at his home when he was a
child: people were just given food. Visitors used
to arrive from the country, from the district
where his parents used to live, people who had
travelled far and needed something to eat. His
mother would quietly lay the table. Never any
black, low-cut dress. Never any tense atmosphere
as though the meal were a long desired goal after
difficult sojourns in basements and rented apart-
ments.
Tonight the house was to he on show.
His wife looked round. He hastened to put the
bottle on the kitchen table.
She averted her gaze, furtively, and he was
ashamed. He had not wanted to be boorish, but
now he had rekindled the quarrel of the previous
morning. It had accompanied him into the house,
wrapped up in paper from the Wine and Spirits
Monopoly, and now it was standing on the kitchen
table. And it was just in that place that he had
sat, with his second cup of coffee in front of him,
the newspaper open.
The morning had been the same as any other
morning until he had said he had no money.
He had not enough for this bottle of sherry.
“No money?” she said.
Immediately it was obvious that there was
going to be a quarrel. It was if he had acquired
an extra sense that could detect them, see them
coming. And at the right moment he would escape.
A part of him would leave his body and the quar-
rel and would remain outside him, standing a
little to one side, detached and waiting, imper-
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