65° - 01.07.1968, Blaðsíða 34

Old Egill sneezed explosively and wiped his
nose. “Give me a preacher who can swallow a mite
of cognac and tell a good tale, even if he can’t do
more than christen and bury.” He drummed
dirt-caked fingernails on the snowy tablecloth,
sighed, then rose to depart.
“You’d best go stockingfooted tonight,” he told
Geir, and shuffled out, quite forgetting to thank
for the dinner.
They took the dishes into the kitchen.
“Geir, what does that man want?“ she whisper-
ed, then frightened that she should whisper in her
own house.
“Trouble.”
“What he said about Ingi ..
“It wasn’t Ingi — just someone who looked
like him. That man is no killer; I know him and
all about him.”
“I’m so glad.”
Geir stood staring from the window at the
smooth grass around the church. The last red of
sun burnished the old church like a gem. All so
peaceful, and in that peace they saw the slender
figure of Ingi leave the church, hesitate in their
direction, then turn to the opposite road, walking
slowly.
Geir looked at her and the hardness left his
face and something else replaced it. He gripped
her shoulders so tightly it almost hurt.
“You are not afraid, are you? Say you under-
stand. Say that you love me!” He strained her
closely to him, but almost as though he were
clinging.
For him I could do everything and anything,
she swore silently.
“And still no answer?” He hadn’t heard her
vow.
“Oh Geir, you know!”
But he had moved and was again staring
through the window, so she turned after a moment
and began to wash the dishes.
“If you could only talk,” she said.
“I have to you. You know everything. Has it
helped ?“
“Yes,” she said smiling.
“Well, I guess we’ll survive in spite of him,
then,” he said with forced lightness.
On the way upstairs he remembered to take
off his shoes, and like guilty children they crept
past his listening room, but holding hands. Once
inside they both laughed a little shakily, united
again.
The preacher had put a Bible on the bed.
“Bastard.”
He scooped it up and held it tightly. “All right.
Would you like to marry me?”
“No.”
He relaxed all at once and put the book in a
drawer.
“I have nothing against the Good Word, but I
won’t be persecuted.”
“Nor will I marry you for the wrong reasons."
“Then the preacher be damned,” he said.
But the Bible won that night by its very pres-
ence in the too-quiet house.
“We’ll have services at two o’clock,” Rev. John-
son said at lunch. “It doesn’t matter that the re-
pairs aren’t finished. It’s time to get things on an
established basis, make a clean sweep. There
hasn’t been a Sunday service here for four years,
if I am correctly informed.”
His face was determined as he munched on his
bread, and his eyes were not darting, but peering
inwardly at something Elm could not see. She was
glad that Geir was late.
“It came to me last night where I saw that
teacher before. No, no, he’s changed his name,
of course, but I never forget a face. What does
he skulk for? The church is tolerant. I am a toler-
ant man, otherwise I would not have been called.
In a case of this sort, the man cannot be freed
unless he declares himself. He committed an un-
holy crime, although he has paid for it by im-
prisonment.”
“What are you saying!” Elm felt her head
would burst.
“That teacher. I know about him. I saw his
citizenship papers today."
“It isn’t true!” She was about to say that Geir
could confirm it, but she did not.
The preacher looked beyond her. “Individuals
don’t matter, but their everlasting souls do. In
your sort of community this concept is apparently
beyond understanding, but that is why I am here.
“He has paid his debt to society, but not his
debt to himself and his fellow man,” the voice
went on while Elm stared, only half conscious
that Geir had come in and was standing by the
door. “This lost lamb cannot be saved until the
world knows his sin and of its payment. Only
then can he escape from the cloud which hangs
over him.” He continued munching on the bread,
his little eyes fixed brilliantly on some point in
space to which he addressed his argument.
32
65 DEGREES