The Icelandic Canadian - 01.03.2003, Side 39

Vol. 57 #4
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
175
cleared the road for about half a kilometre
in either direction from our driveway.
My father found more work for him to
do. He seemed disoriented, and confused
by many things, but was happy to be busy.
From time to time, I noticed him staring
absently at the shed.
That evening, everyone had something
to do except me, and the man. Tammi had
Brownies, Lisa had dance lessons, Brian
went out with one of his friends who had a
driver’s license, and my father left to return
Uncle Bart’s tongs. My mother was busy
doing laundry, so I amused myself and the
stranger by teaching him how to play
checkers. We sat on the bed in the room
that was now designated as his, and he
made such an indent in the mattress that
the checkerboard and I were always in
jeopardy of falling towards him.
I had brought my mother’s tape
recorder in, too. It was not very good, as
tape players were not common in those
days, but I sometimes recorded stories I
made up to play them back for myself or
anyone else who would listen. It got me
into trouble once, when I recorded over
one of Brian’s KISS tapes. He had been try-
ing to throw me into the well when my
mother noticed and stopped him in the
nick of time. Afterwards, she secretly gave
me a fifty-cent piece, so I can’t honestly say
that I regretted the mistake.
I was hoping to record the man speak-
ing, but checkers of course is not exactly a
noisy game, so I was not having much luck.
I was also feeling a bit sick, because I had
tried to eat as much as he
had at dinner, but I had
scarcely consumed a
twentieth of what he had
packed away. I won-
dered if it was eating
such large quantities of
food that made him so
heavy.
We played checkers
for awhile, but he seemed
to lose interest after los-
ing every game. I sug-
gested doing a puzzle,
and although I don’t
think he understood
what I was talking about, he realized that it
meant something other than checkers, so
he agreed. I got off the bed and pointed
towards the closet, because the puzzles
were kept on the top shelf, which was too
high for me to reach. The man got off the
bed and opened the closet door.
He was immediately struck on the
head by my father’s bowling ball, which
had been put up there and forgotten about.
The man was stunned, and I quickly
switched the tape recorder on, hoping he
would start swearing again. I thought if I
could capture his words on tape, I could
play them for my Sunday School teacher,
and perhaps ascertain whether or not it was
heavenly speech. When he did, he accom-
panied his words with gestures, so I was
better able to understand what he meant.
This is how our conversation went
“Jasja... Hva8 er Jjetta?”
“It’s my Dad’s bowling ball.”
“Ha? ... Hvar er eg?”
“What?”
“Hvar er—JE, jaetta er vitlaust!” He
paused, and looked out the window toward
the shed. Then he laughed and said, “Jaaa!
Nu man eg!” and pulled me out the door
with him. “Komdu!” he said, “Grattu ekki,
drengur!”
“Well, you’re hurting my arm!” I said,
because he was.
“AfsakiS.”
“Well, it’s okay. But let me put my
boots on first.”
Once we were outside, he marched
right up to the shed and tried to open the