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Authors: Michael Ridpath
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fifteen centimetres shorter. ‘Were you spying on me?’ Jóhannes answered, his brows knitting in disapproval.
‘I thought we had discussed this,’ said Snaer.
‘Oh, we have, we have,’ said Jóhannes. ‘On numerous occasions.’
‘Well, it looks as if we need to discuss it again,’ said Snaer, leading Jóhannes back into his classroom and shutting the door behind him. He took up a position in front of
the teacher’s desk and turned towards the older man. The break-time chatter of adolescents interspersed with the regular thud of a football seeped in through the window.
‘You know that the syllabus requires you to teach Njáll’s Saga and Laxdaela Saga to this age group. Those are possibly the two greatest sagas in the Icelandic
language. So why can’t you teach them?’
‘Because they are in baby talk,’ said Jóhannes.
‘They are simplified, perhaps, but they convey the essence of the originals. Much more than the essence.’
‘Baby talk,’ said Jóhannes.
‘But thirteen-year-olds can’t understand the originals. I have been teaching them for nearly twenty years, and I know they can’t.’
‘And I’ve been teaching them for over thirty years, and I know they can,’ said Jóhannes. ‘You spied on me just now. You saw my class. They love that saga.
There’s something for everyone: love, honour, fighting, murder, treachery, ghosts, witchcraft; everything a teenage child could possibly want. Sure, at first they might find it hard to
follow, but they learn. They learn quickly, and that’s the point.’
‘I admit you have a good reading voice. But why don’t you read them Njáll’s Saga ?’
‘I won’t read them anything in baby talk.’
‘Even though it is laid down in the National Curriculum?’
‘Even then.’
Snaer glared at him. ‘I also understand that you have been teaching Form Ten that Halldór Laxness is a lightweight.’
‘I have been teaching them to think critically. Just because he won a Nobel Prize it doesn’t mean everything he wrote is perfect. And the arrogance of the man! He took it upon
himself to make up his own rules for how Icelandic should be spelled, he thought our Viking ancestors were all vulgar brutes, and’ – here Jóhannes pulled himself up to his full
height – ‘he thought we should wash more. Why should I be told how often to have a bath by that communist?’
Snaer closed his eyes. Jóhannes waited. It was true that they had had this conversation before, three months before, shortly after Snaer was promoted to head of department. And indeed
Jóhannes had had the same discussion with all three of Snaer’s predecessors over the years.
The fact was that Jóhannes was a brilliant teacher of Icelandic literature. And language for that matter. Three of his former pupils held positions in the Faculty of Icelandic at the
University of Iceland; another one had won the Icelandic Literature Prize the year before. He inspired people to love their country’s language. And when push came to shove, all heads of
department respected that.
Except, perhaps, Snaer.
The younger man cleared his throat. ‘You have probably heard the rumours that with the government spending cuts the school is going to have to reduce its teaching staff by ten per
cent?’
‘No. I don’t listen to staffroom tattle,’ Jóhannes said, lying. Of course he listened to staffroom tattle.
‘The Principal has told me that we need to lose one member of staff from this department. He and I have discussed it, and we feel that as the teacher who is the least willing to embrace
what the school is trying to do, indeed what the government is trying to do to raise educational standards—’
Jóhannes couldn’t contain himself. ‘Raise standards? Lower them more like.’
Snaer ignored him. ‘—that you should be the one to leave.’
Suddenly Jóhannes realized what Snaer was saying. No one had ever called his bluff before. ‘You can’t be serious?’
‘I am
‘I thought we had discussed this,’ said Snaer.
‘Oh, we have, we have,’ said Jóhannes. ‘On numerous occasions.’
‘Well, it looks as if we need to discuss it again,’ said Snaer, leading Jóhannes back into his classroom and shutting the door behind him. He took up a position in front of
the teacher’s desk and turned towards the older man. The break-time chatter of adolescents interspersed with the regular thud of a football seeped in through the window.
‘You know that the syllabus requires you to teach Njáll’s Saga and Laxdaela Saga to this age group. Those are possibly the two greatest sagas in the Icelandic
language. So why can’t you teach them?’
‘Because they are in baby talk,’ said Jóhannes.
‘They are simplified, perhaps, but they convey the essence of the originals. Much more than the essence.’
‘Baby talk,’ said Jóhannes.
‘But thirteen-year-olds can’t understand the originals. I have been teaching them for nearly twenty years, and I know they can’t.’
‘And I’ve been teaching them for over thirty years, and I know they can,’ said Jóhannes. ‘You spied on me just now. You saw my class. They love that saga.
There’s something for everyone: love, honour, fighting, murder, treachery, ghosts, witchcraft; everything a teenage child could possibly want. Sure, at first they might find it hard to
follow, but they learn. They learn quickly, and that’s the point.’
‘I admit you have a good reading voice. But why don’t you read them Njáll’s Saga ?’
‘I won’t read them anything in baby talk.’
‘Even though it is laid down in the National Curriculum?’
‘Even then.’
Snaer glared at him. ‘I also understand that you have been teaching Form Ten that Halldór Laxness is a lightweight.’
‘I have been teaching them to think critically. Just because he won a Nobel Prize it doesn’t mean everything he wrote is perfect. And the arrogance of the man! He took it upon
himself to make up his own rules for how Icelandic should be spelled, he thought our Viking ancestors were all vulgar brutes, and’ – here Jóhannes pulled himself up to his full
height – ‘he thought we should wash more. Why should I be told how often to have a bath by that communist?’
Snaer closed his eyes. Jóhannes waited. It was true that they had had this conversation before, three months before, shortly after Snaer was promoted to head of department. And indeed
Jóhannes had had the same discussion with all three of Snaer’s predecessors over the years.
The fact was that Jóhannes was a brilliant teacher of Icelandic literature. And language for that matter. Three of his former pupils held positions in the Faculty of Icelandic at the
University of Iceland; another one had won the Icelandic Literature Prize the year before. He inspired people to love their country’s language. And when push came to shove, all heads of
department respected that.
Except, perhaps, Snaer.
The younger man cleared his throat. ‘You have probably heard the rumours that with the government spending cuts the school is going to have to reduce its teaching staff by ten per
cent?’
‘No. I don’t listen to staffroom tattle,’ Jóhannes said, lying. Of course he listened to staffroom tattle.
‘The Principal has told me that we need to lose one member of staff from this department. He and I have discussed it, and we feel that as the teacher who is the least willing to embrace
what the school is trying to do, indeed what the government is trying to do to raise educational standards—’
Jóhannes couldn’t contain himself. ‘Raise standards? Lower them more like.’
Snaer ignored him. ‘—that you should be the one to leave.’
Suddenly Jóhannes realized what Snaer was saying. No one had ever called his bluff before. ‘You can’t be serious?’
‘I am
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