65° - 01.07.1968, Blaðsíða 33

him and he was a gifted musician, respected. He
had come from Canada with Geir, hut was neither
Icelandic nor Canadian; that much they knew.
In the two years he had been in Iceland, however,
he had mastered the language and become nation-
alized, even to changing his name. Probably a
refugee, with all the problems they always had,
but always before he had smiled at her, perhaps
because he knew she was Geir’s friend.
The pastor was patting the head of one of the
children as she looked in the church.
“So you are one of twelve, my son. How proud
your parents must be. And those five other child-
ren just here are your cousins? Fantastic, but
then in a small town ...”
One of the workmen sidled past her, paint
bucket in hand. “I feel my rheumatism coming
on,” he said sourly.
Over the supper table Rev. Johnson’s eyes were
busy and he ate sparingly. He was at first distant,
and then over-hearty with old Egill, his “country-
man”, who, though he had changed his shirt for
the occasion, still needed a bath and the hairs
clipped from his ears. Egill shrewdly responded
by making unnecessary use of his snuff rag and
relating all the gossip of the community in a
wicked way that made the pastor’s eyes shift even
more quickly and gleam with fervor. He kept
glancing at Geir, though. He couldn’t place him.
He questioned him, found it surprising that an
apparently well-educated man should be working
as a laborer in this remote village. Ah yes, he
remembered well the Canadian town which Geir
had lived in, having spent a few months there some
fifteen years ago on a temporary leave of absence
from Europe, but he never forgot a face. He tried
to pin down mutual acquaintances, but Geir evad-
ed him and turned the subject back to the minister
himself.
No, he had never married. He believed that an
effective pastor worked best without encumbrance,
though he would need a housekeeper for the new
rectory, a suitable woman. Was it true that house-
keepers generally had several fatherless children
with them? Frankly, the illegitimacy statistics
were astounding; however the world was filled with
souls who sinned unknowingly, and he himself
was a tolerant man, merely a helping hand of the
Almighty. No man needed to be afraid of his
fellows. The thing to do was unburden one’s soul
and receive forgiveness. His Lutheran brethren
didn’t agree with his evangelicism, but a vigorous
approach was what the church needed. He paused
to measure a teaspoon of sugar for his coffee,
refusing the cognac Elm had served for the occa-
sion.
What admirable independence Elm showed in
keeping a boardinghouse. He hoped her lodgers
didn’t cause her any difficulties?
And at Geir’s restive silence, his little eyes
narrowed again and his brain clicked and record-
ed and his eyes darted back and forth between
Geir and herself. Unaccountably she blushed,
and the minister cleared his throat and announced
his bedtime.
“I rise early to go about my work,” he said,
patting Egill chummily on the shoulder, but you
go ahead and have your cognac. I am a light
sleeper, but don’t let that trouble you,” he added.
“Even in this one day I feel I have come home to
my countrymen.” At the door he paused. “Inter-
esting fellow, that music teacher. Reminds me of
a fellow I met once in the course of my work in
the early days. Not the same, of course, that one
had an odd name, but the resemblance is startling.
Horrible. The man killed his mother. Imagine
anyone in his right mind doing a thing like that.
Poor lost soul. Where did you say the teacher was
from?”
Geir finished his cognac before answering and
Elin saw him suddenly as a stranger, thin-lipped
and hard.
“White Plains. He was in a tuberculosis sani-
torium there for many years. We met when we
were both deciding to emigrate to Iceland.”
“Oh, you knew him before?” He waited.
“Briefly.”
“Yes, well, of course you have much in com-
mon, two Canadian Icelanders sharing your ex-
periences in the new country. Actually, the old
country, but new to you both, in a way. The fellow
I met lived in Europe, but the resemblance is un-
canny. I even met the creature ...”
Elin opened her mouth to speak, then shut it.
Geir had risen and was gathering plates together,
a thing he never did. She could not see his face.
“Good night, preacher,” old Egill said suddenly.
“Get a good sleep. The devil wakes early here,”
he added, taking an extra pinch of snuff.
“The devil is no more here than anywhere else,
friend,” said the preacher gravely, and he glanced
at Elin and Geir as he left.
Elin took the dishes from Geir and their eyes
met anxiously.
“You don’t have to help,” she said.
“I will anyway,” he muttered.
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