Viktor Ingolfsson - The Flatey Enigma

“The Danish king Fridrik III reigned between 1648 and 1670. He had a keen interest in ancient knowledge and in 1656 wrote to Bishop Brynjolfur, instructing him to send him any antiquities, old stories, and documents that could be found in Iceland to increase His Majesty’s collection in the Royal Library. The bishop then communicated the king’s request to the Court of Legislature of the Althing, and in the same year he dispatched the Flatey Book abroad and it has been in the Royal Library ever since. Fridrik III acquired the Flatey Book as the king of Iceland, and one therefore needs to regard it as belonging to the Icelandic state. These are the reasons why Icelanders are currently requesting the book to be returned to Iceland, and this concludes this history of the Flatey Book.”

Hogni continued working on the seal pups when Grimur and Kjartan went off to the telephone exchange. All of the fur had been pinned to the gable of the hut, but there was still a lot of meat left on the carcasses and the fat was meant to be melted into oil.

Little Nonni came walking down the shore with a dented milk canister in his hand and timidly greeted the teacher.

“Have you read that Indian story I lent you yet, Nonni my friend?” Hogni asked.

“Yeah, twice.”

“Twice? That was unnecessary. We can go to the library together and see if we can find another fun book that you haven’t read yet.”

“I’m reading The Flying Dutchman. Dad got a loan of it.”

“That’s not a nice book.”

“I know. It’s really spooky.”

“Yes. It’s got a lot of ghosts in it. I wouldn’t lend that book to small children.”

“I only read it during the day and at night keep it where the potatoes are stored. That way I don’t get too scared.”

“I see. Have you planted the potatoes yet?”

“Yeah, yeah, almost all of them.”

“Have you caught any seal pups this spring?”

“No, none. Dad and Grandpa went out to check the net by Ketilsey this morning, but didn’t catch anything. It’s my fault, Dad says.”

“Why is it your fault?”

“I shat on the island and the seals smell the smell, Dad says. But I’m sure it’s more the dead man who’s to blame. The smell off him was a lot worse.”

Hogni found an old washing bucket and chucked some pieces of seal meat into it.

“There you go, lad. Take that home to your dad. Bring the bucket back tomorrow. Then we can go to the library and find something fun to read. Remember that books are your best friend,” he said, smiling.

Nonni took the bucket and placed it under his arm. Then, fully focused, he started walking toward home without saying thank you or good-bye.

“ Can you help me to understand the questions and answers in the Flatey enigma?” he asked.

“I can try to,” she answered.

Then she read out the questions one by one, looked at the answers that she had on the piece of paper, and then looked up the relevant chapter in the Munksgaard edition of the book, with well-trained fingers. She ran her finger along the text, maybe read a few lines out loud, but generally only vaguely explained what the chapter was about. He nodded silently if the answers were identical, but otherwise read out the alternative answers. In this manner they went through all of the forty questions, one after another…

Saturday, June 4, 1960

The eastern winds subsided during the night, and when dawn broke, the sun shone and a stillness hung over Breidafjordur. The water in the strait was dark blue and as smooth as a mirror, except for those spots where the tide swirled between the islets and shallows.

Kjartan gazed out of his bedroom window and recalled the old proverb that said that sunshine was of little use to the man with no sun in his heart. He took a few deep breaths and then started to pick up his clothes.

Grimur and Hogni had long left to go out and check on the seal nets by the time Kjartan finally stepped outside. Ingibjorg was in the kitchen stirring baking dough and listening to music on the radio. There was yellow dough in a large bowl, which she held firmly under her left arm as she stirred it vigorously with a big baking paddle in her right hand. In the shuffle some flour had been sprinkled over the table. Kjartan saw that the eggs she was using for the baking were big and had black spots on them.

“Those are great black-backed gull eggs from the spring,” she said as he picked one up to examine it. “There’s no need to spare any of those eggs in these recipes. There’s plenty of them at this time of the year, and they’re fine for baking, even if they’re a bit old and have started to gestate,” she added.

Kjartan drank his morning coffee and ate a slice of bread with lamb pate. He was gradually starting to feel better and more comfortable about his stay with the district officer and his wife, although he was still plagued by worries about the investigation. For a moment he managed to forget himself, though, by staring out the kitchen window at two white wagtails that were hopping between stones on the embankment; he whistled a few notes to the radio.

To his relief, Ingibjorg continued with her kitchen work and did not initiate any conversation with him. It was good to sit like that and just think a little. He also feared that if they started talking together, the conversation would soon veer toward his personal affairs, and that was something he was eager to avoid. He didn’t want to tell any lies, so it was best just to keep his mouth shut.

But he certainly had plenty of work to do. He intended to meet the islanders who had a motorboat at their disposal that would have been sturdy enough to make a journey to Ketilsey in the month of September, and he now asked Ingibjorg who they might be. She answered that there were only five, three once you excluded Valdi from Ystakot and Grimur, the district officer himself.

Ingibjorg listed the others as she broke another egg and added it to the baking dough: “There’s Asmundur, the storekeeper of the island store. He owns Alda, a beautiful white rowboat with a motor mounted on board. Then there’s Gudjon, my brother in Radagerdi, who has Ellidi, a six-ton open motorboat with a little wheelhouse on it, and Sigurbjorn, the farmer in Svalbardi, who owns Lucky, an old-fashioned motorboat; it’s green. They’re all decent, sensible, honest, and honorable people.”

Kjartan gave a start. Lucky could be the name of a boat. It had never occurred to him. There didn’t have to be any connection with the message the man in Ketilsey tried to leave behind, but it needed to be borne in mind in the investigation.

Kjartan knew the way to Radagerdi, and Benny was alone at home and still painting the window. He seemed to be glad of the interruption; he put down his brush and lit a cigarette.

“Mom and my sister Rosa are up in the shed milking the cows, and Dad’s with Sigurbjorn in Svalbardi, cutting his hair for the mass tomorrow,” he said when Kjartan inquired about the other members of the household.

“Cutting hair?” Kjartan wasn’t sure he had heard right.

“Yeah, Dad can cut hair a bit. He cuts it quite short, though, and it can be quite sore because his clippers aren’t as sharp as they used to be. That’s why I don’t want him to cut my hair. Sometimes a barber comes over from Stykkisholmur on the mail boat and cuts people’s hair while the boat goes off to Brjansl?kur. I prefer him. He knows how to cut hair with style. You can buy brilliantine from Asmundur at the island store.”

Benny stuck his smoldering cigarette into his mouth, took a comb out of his back pocket, and combed his blond hair back over his forehead.

“This is how Elvis combs his hair,” he explained, losing his cigarette as he did.