Iceland review - 2019, Blaðsíða 107

105
Iceland Review
during the off-season), he would later be described
by the Danish painter Carl Bloch as “physically
the most perfect man” he had ever seen. Decades
ahead of his time, Müller warned his contemporar-
ies against a sedentary lifestyle: against smoking,
drinking, and indigestible food (writing that nature
avenges herself “with mathematical certainty”).
Müller’s prescience may explain why his legacy lives
on in West Reykjavík (although the Commander has
never read his book).
It’s a daily spectacle that always begins the same
way, with a rallying cry that all of the patrons of
West Reykjavík’s pool are now long familiar with:
“The exercises are beginning!” Meant to be taken
as an amiable invitation (everyone is allowed to par-
ticipate), but bellowed, as it is, in the Commander’s
deep, resonant voice, with backing vocals from
his adjutant, Ragna (68), it sounds more like a
directive.
This rallying cry sends the Commander’s troop
– Skuggi (71), Hrönn (73) Björn (68), and Margrét
(75), among others – scuttling, half-naked, from the
hot tubs and pools to the far corner of the facilities,
where they line up, in loose formation, in front of
their leader.
They’re not the most vigorous of units, but what
they lack in youth, mobility, and grace they more
than make up for in spirit; there is singing, there
is laughter, there is semi-impromptu poetry (a few
members take turns composing topical quatrains,
which they then sing).
The exercises include “the Helsinki” (invented
by the Commander), where the Müllerist swings
both hands upward and then downward, as if
wielding a pair of ski poles; “the Archer” (a classic
from the Müller canon), where the practitioner
pretends to fire a bow, while the Commander
cautions, “don’t shoot the priest!” (a reference to
rev. Ólafur Jóhannesson, who distributes coffee in
plastic cups to the Müllerists at the conclusion of
their exercises); along with several trunk-twisting
calisthenics that are executed with various degrees
of gracefulness.
It all began as an accident, with an accident.
In 1982, perched upon scaffolding ten feet above
the ground, the Commander felt the platform
beneath his feet collapse, sending him plummeting,
knee-first, into a flat rock (he had worked in con-
struction for most of his life). During rehabilitation,