Read Online The Journey Home: A Novel by Olaf Olafsson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Olaf Olafsson
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you in London. I wish to meet him in private.
Secondly, I would like you to do well in your exams this spring to please
your mother. She deserves it.
Thirdly, I would like you to do your best in Sivertsen’s kitchen on Saturday
evening, as I have booked a table for two at Hotel Borg for eight o’clock. You
can tell your sister Jorunn, who is no doubt standing beside you as you read
this, that it would be my pleasure to invite her as my guest.
Father
11
Hands which were ignorant of what lay in store for them, eyes innocent of what they would see, afraid of nothing. An open smile and thick, coal-black hair, combed back. Of average height, I think, with broad shoulders.
I think.
When I try to picture him in my memory the first thing I see is the silhouette of his hands against white paper. He is sitting at the old desk which we bought in a moment of extravagance at an outdoor market that spring and installed by the window facing the garden. He’s holding a pen. Dusk is falling. He turns to me when I bring him hot water for his tea. All I can see is the smile in his eyes.
“Jakob, it’s getting dark,” I say, lighting the lamp on the table beside him.
The twilight trickles in slowly and silently, wrapping itself around my feet, mantling our bed on the other side of the room. He shifts the pen between his fingers when I lean down and touch him. I see the shadow on the pages in front of me.
“Shall we walk down to the lake?”
Leaving the lamp on, we set off, walking hand in hand. When we come down to the boats, which have been drawn up on the shore, I see a yellow gleam from the window up on the hill. I turn to him to point out the light but he has disappeared.
Darkness falls on the boats. I am still holding the shadow of his hand.
I must have been thinking about golden plovers and snipe when the waiter offered me coffee, which was why I responded to him more slowly than I would have liked. The food was adequate—bouillon, salmon and roast duckling— but I was amazed by the formality of the meal. The captain had invited me to take a seat by his side; it is clearly a much sought-after privilege to sit at his table.
About two hours before supper people had retired to their cabins. I went up on deck to get some fresh air. A young man whom I hadn’t noticed when we sailed from Scotland came over and began to talk to me.
I gathered that he had just finished a doctorate in Old Icelandic literature and would be taking over from the professor in Copenhagen the following year. I didn’t ask many questions, just nodded, as I wanted to be left in peace. But he chattered on, informing me uninvited that the passengers had mostly gone to have a rest, but would later wash from head to toe before donning their glad rags. He announced furthermore that the evening after sailing from Leith was particularly important as new guests had come on board who needed to be simultaneously summed up and impressed, as he put it. He talked as if he were above this sort of display, yet there was no doubt that it occupied his mind
“You’ll be invited to sit at the captain’s table,” he said. “You’re in the main suite. Everybody’s been asking about you.”
I noticed when I came on board that the passengers had a great deal of luggage with them, some even bringing iron-bound trunks. No doubt their clothes were carefully folded and wrapped in tissue paper. I imagined that all the little boxes I saw were for clothes brushes, sewing kits or cosmetics. Some of the gentlemen had
étuis
made of leather but none could compare with Anthony’s. I couldn’t help smiling when I thought of it. It contains metal holders for shaving soap, shaving brushes, hand soap, toothbrushes, toothpaste tubes and toothpowder containers. There are also many different types of pockets for razor and mirror, comb, hairbrush, nail pick and nail file, shoehorn, shoelaces, aftershave, face cream and scissors. Before each journey, Anthony checks that
you in London. I wish to meet him in private.
Secondly, I would like you to do well in your exams this spring to please
your mother. She deserves it.
Thirdly, I would like you to do your best in Sivertsen’s kitchen on Saturday
evening, as I have booked a table for two at Hotel Borg for eight o’clock. You
can tell your sister Jorunn, who is no doubt standing beside you as you read
this, that it would be my pleasure to invite her as my guest.
Father
11
Hands which were ignorant of what lay in store for them, eyes innocent of what they would see, afraid of nothing. An open smile and thick, coal-black hair, combed back. Of average height, I think, with broad shoulders.
I think.
When I try to picture him in my memory the first thing I see is the silhouette of his hands against white paper. He is sitting at the old desk which we bought in a moment of extravagance at an outdoor market that spring and installed by the window facing the garden. He’s holding a pen. Dusk is falling. He turns to me when I bring him hot water for his tea. All I can see is the smile in his eyes.
“Jakob, it’s getting dark,” I say, lighting the lamp on the table beside him.
The twilight trickles in slowly and silently, wrapping itself around my feet, mantling our bed on the other side of the room. He shifts the pen between his fingers when I lean down and touch him. I see the shadow on the pages in front of me.
“Shall we walk down to the lake?”
Leaving the lamp on, we set off, walking hand in hand. When we come down to the boats, which have been drawn up on the shore, I see a yellow gleam from the window up on the hill. I turn to him to point out the light but he has disappeared.
Darkness falls on the boats. I am still holding the shadow of his hand.
I must have been thinking about golden plovers and snipe when the waiter offered me coffee, which was why I responded to him more slowly than I would have liked. The food was adequate—bouillon, salmon and roast duckling— but I was amazed by the formality of the meal. The captain had invited me to take a seat by his side; it is clearly a much sought-after privilege to sit at his table.
About two hours before supper people had retired to their cabins. I went up on deck to get some fresh air. A young man whom I hadn’t noticed when we sailed from Scotland came over and began to talk to me.
I gathered that he had just finished a doctorate in Old Icelandic literature and would be taking over from the professor in Copenhagen the following year. I didn’t ask many questions, just nodded, as I wanted to be left in peace. But he chattered on, informing me uninvited that the passengers had mostly gone to have a rest, but would later wash from head to toe before donning their glad rags. He announced furthermore that the evening after sailing from Leith was particularly important as new guests had come on board who needed to be simultaneously summed up and impressed, as he put it. He talked as if he were above this sort of display, yet there was no doubt that it occupied his mind
“You’ll be invited to sit at the captain’s table,” he said. “You’re in the main suite. Everybody’s been asking about you.”
I noticed when I came on board that the passengers had a great deal of luggage with them, some even bringing iron-bound trunks. No doubt their clothes were carefully folded and wrapped in tissue paper. I imagined that all the little boxes I saw were for clothes brushes, sewing kits or cosmetics. Some of the gentlemen had
étuis
made of leather but none could compare with Anthony’s. I couldn’t help smiling when I thought of it. It contains metal holders for shaving soap, shaving brushes, hand soap, toothbrushes, toothpaste tubes and toothpowder containers. There are also many different types of pockets for razor and mirror, comb, hairbrush, nail pick and nail file, shoehorn, shoelaces, aftershave, face cream and scissors. Before each journey, Anthony checks that
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