Viktor Ingolfsson - The Flatey Enigma

The king answered that he would not really be putting his skills to the test if conditions were perfect. So Hemingur put on his skis and zigzagged down the slope. Everyone agreed that they had never seen anyone ski so well. He skied down the slope at such speed that it was a wonder he did not fall. The answer is “Hemingur,” and the first letter is h.

Bryngeir and Benny continued on their walk down the road toward the village. Benny was curious and asked the visitor what had brought him to Flatey, but Bryngeir was slow to answer and seemed to be more interested in taking in the surroundings. “Benny Ben, my friend,” he finally replied, “the Reykjavik gutter press isn’t in the habit of sending its best hacks out on long trips just because a heap of bones has been found on a deserted island. But as soon as it transpired that they were the bones of that Danish manuscript speculator who’d spent the winter in the remoteness of the fjord and forgotten to ask someone to pick him up, people started to sniff a story. And when I heard that the deceased was Gaston Lund and that this whole mystery was somehow connected to my old pet love, the Flatey Book, I immediately asked to be sent out here to solve the crime.”

“What did you think was so significant about the Flatey Book?” Benny asked.

Bryngeir looked at his companion. “Have you read the book, young man?”

“No, it’s too long. I started once, but I found it boring. And some of the words are written in a weird way.”

Bryngeir shook his head. “Then I can’t explain the magic of the Flatey Book to you, boy. No more than I could describe a Rembrandt painting to a blind old bag or a great Wagner opera to a deaf loan shark or a sexy young whore from Morocco to a eunuch. But I don’t see why that jewel should be named after this pathetic dump of an island just because it was kept here under some lousy mattress for a few decades. It would have been more appropriate to call it the Hunvetninga Book, Tunga Book, or Vididalur Book in honor of the men in Vididalstunga who actually put the manuscript together and wrote it. They were geniuses, my boy, absolute geniuses. Let’s drink to them, Mister Benny Ben!” Bryngeir took a swig from the bottle of rum.

Benny had no interest in the subject. “I don’t give a damn about what they call the book. Maybe I’ll just read it later sometime,” he said, staring at the bottle with thirsty eyes.

They paused on the ridge overlooking the village, and Bryngeir scanned the houses below. He asked Benny about the crofts and the people who lived in them. Benny answered with some reluctance, since he found it a pretty unexciting topic for discussion.

Bryngeir was particularly interested in the district administrative officer.

“He’s an OK guy, good at hunting seal and puffin but lazy when it comes to making hay,” said Benny. “Hogni, the teacher, normally cuts his share, and Grimur rakes. And then he reads the papers and argues about politics.”

“Do you reckon he could have taken that dead man out to the island?” Bryngeir asked.

“No, definitely not, even though he has the best boat. The engine is brand-new. He normally doesn’t take the boat out of the water in the autumn, unless the sailing route is completely frozen. But do you really think that someone from here would have deliberately left that Danish guy on the island?”

“In my experience as a reporter, everyone is guilty until proven innocent, lad. I’ve got to dig up some story because the only expenses my editor gave me on this trip were a bus ticket and a stingy traveling allowance that ran out at the beginning of the journey for some reason.”

Bryngeir took another swig from the bottle and finally offered Benny some as well.

“Do you reckon I can get something decent to eat from any of these fine hosts?” he asked.

Benny seemed to think that was quite likely. They walked on down the pass and across the village to the house in Svalbardi.

The croft was a stately wooden house with a concrete basement, one story, and a loft. Close by were a storehouse, sheepcote, and barn. Sigurbjorn, the farmer, sat at a grindstone outside the barn, which he spun with a pedal, sharpening a big knife.

“I see you know how to make some sharp weapons around here,” Bryngeir said to the farmer.

“This is just the missus’s kitchen knife, but good to have close at hand if the farm needs protecting,” Sigurbjorn said ironically.

“I come in peace,” Bryngeir grinned. “I hear that the locals here will never turn away a traveler who needs a roof for the night.”

Sigurbjorn put down his knife and eyed the man a moment. “A bed can normally be found for a decent guest,” he said. Bryngeir took out his bottle of rum, took a sip, and then handed it to the farmer.

“And maybe even some food then if the guest makes a contribution?” he asked. Sigurbjorn took the bottle, sniffed its contents, and then downed it in a single gulp.

“Was that the sum total of the contribution?” he asked, handing the emptied bottle back to him. Bryngeir signaled Benny to approach with the case. “Here’s a little extra.” He took a full bottle out of the case and unscrewed the lid. Sigurbjorn stood up from the grindstone. “Let’s go inside and look into the larder, lads.”

Question nine: Small heart. First letter. Thorgeir Havarsson went to Hvassafell and there were some men standing outside. The shepherd had come home from his sheep and stood there in the field, leaning forward on his staff. He was slightly hunched and had a long neck. When Thorgeir saw this, he drew his axe and let it fall on the man’s neck. The axe cut very nicely, and the head came flying off, landing a short distance away. Thorgeir later said, “He never did anything wrong against me, but to be honest, he was so well positioned for the blow that I couldn’t resist the temptation.” When Thorgeir died some people say that they cut into his heart because they wanted to see what the heart of such an audacious man was like. People say that his heart was rather small; and some people believe that it is true that the heart of a courageous man is smaller than that of a coward. The answer is “Thorgeir,” and the first letter is t.

Author Arni Sakarias was not listed in the phonebook, so the only way Dagbjartur could meet the man was by going to his house and seeing if he was home. He lived in a small block of apartments, and the main entrance was unlocked. Dagbjartur found his place on the second floor, but the doorbell was broken. As he was knocking on the writer’s door for the fourth time, a neighbor stuck his head out in the corridor and asked the policeman to cut out the racket. He said the author had gone up to the municipal pool for a swim, as he always did at this time of the day.

Dagbjartur found Arni Sakarias in the shallow pool where he was lethargically floating on his back with an inflated black cushion under his head, in the middle of a bunch of kids who were playing in the water. The policeman knew the author by sight; Arni Sakarias was a recognizable figure around the town, tall and chubby, with a shock of hair and a bushy beard.

It took Dagbjartur a few moments to attract the swimmer’s attention. Once he had, he introduced himself and asked, “Are you familiar with some old riddle that’s supposed to be connected to the Book of Flatey?”

The shortsighted Arni Sakarias peered at him through the thick and wet lenses of his glasses.

“The Flatey enigma, Aenigma Flateyensis. Yes, young man. I know the story quite well.”

Dagbjartur wasn’t used to being addressed like this anymore, not now that he was well into his forties, even though he looked older, but Arni Sakarias presumably didn’t see too well, even with his glasses. But as it happened, Dagbjartur could still consider himself to be young when he compared himself to this author, who was well into his seventies.