Will Chancellor - A Brave Man Seven Storeys Tall

He read about the famous Icelanders, the man and his daughter who fought off a bear, and realized they were his best shot at finding his father an ally.

After getting a jump start for his dad’s Ford Escort, Owen drove to the Sigurðsson homestead to ask the father and daughter for a favor. He waited half an hour to get an audience with the father; the daughter shuttled from call to call in the other room. Ástríður, and to a lesser extent Ólafur, were national heroes. It was just a matter of time before she got a postage stamp. Her dad might even get one too.

Every news crew in Iceland had managed to make it to the Sigurðssons’ corner of Tröllaskagi. After a week, the international press got wind of the story and sent field agents from London. These were the journalists who passed while he waited on the front porch, leaning on the rail where Ástríður had rested her gun. The family had seen all manner of foreigner in the past two weeks, but no one like Owen. And never had they expected anyone to ask for more than an autograph. Owen explained the situation.

— I’m the guy who was inspired by your story and is here to ask you to do something you don’t want to do.

Owen waited for a reaction. No smile. No sign the father even understood. Then the man took a chair.

— Go ahead. You’re off to a great start. Don’t let me stop you.

— Do you mind if I sit?

The man said nothing. Owen sat.

— I suppose the worst thing a child can do to his father is run away without a word. Either that, or spend years making his father feel irrelevant. I did both. And my father, Professor Joseph Burr, did what he had to do to bring me back to the fold.

— What do you want, man?

— My father was speaking to a large crowd in Athens when a protestor stormed the stage with a Molotov cocktail. In an attempt to protect the crowd, he threw the bottle away. But it exploded. And chaos erupted. And he became a political pawn. The conservatives made him into an outlaw.

— I’m indifferent to politics.

— So is he. He is a world-class scholar and a kind-hearted man. He can teach English, Latin, and Greek. It’s probably best to keep him away from philosophy.

— In exchange for what?

— A story. In a few months, I want you to say you saw him take a rowboat out into the fjord and get swept away.

— So your father is a fugitive, living where?

— In a cave just on the other side of this mountain.

— And you want me to say I saw him drown.

— I don’t want to undercut your heroism. If you saw him drown, people might ask why you didn’t try to save him. I’m thinking something like, you met this odd fellow named Joseph Burr sometime in September. In October, on the other side of the country in Egilsstadir, a friend of yours saw the same man pushing a rowboat into the fjord.

— My friend told him a storm was coming, but he went anyway.

— Perfect.

— Understand, your father really will die if he tries to last out winter in a small cave. There’s no fuel for fire.

— That’s an interesting point. And I’m sure it would be much easier to have your daughter’s tutor living in the house, or even in the barn, provided it’s warm.

— Ah. Jesus. Does he bring any real skills with him? Do you have a picture of the man?

Owen set a printout of the New York Times article on the dining table. This was the only one to include favorable quotes from his former students. Ólafur leaned forward and scanned the piece.

— But will he be eager to clean sheep all winter? Does he have the hands for it?

— Are you kidding? He’ll get giddy at the thought of checking that box on the US Immigration form that asks “Have you handled livestock recently?”

— So he will be returning to America eventually.

— That depends on who wins in November. Honestly, I have no idea when he’s going to be able to return to the States, if ever. I need to talk to a good lawyer. I’m not sure he’s actually guilty of anything.

— And if he can’t go back?

— I suppose he will keep living in the cave and come back down every winter that you’ll have him to help you on the farm and teach your daughter. At least for a few years, until things calm down. I’ll be here every year in early September. I’m hoping that by this time next year I have a check for an advance on one of his books.

— He would be content to live in a cave for eight months a year?

Owen thought of mentioning their missing garage door in California, but decided to let it go.

— My dad’s an outdoorsman. He loves camping. And the valleys of Tröllaskagi are the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.

— When does this need to happen?

— If you are willing to help, I’ll leave a small package poste restante with the post office in Dalvík; inside will be a map and your contact information. He should be hiking down in a month. After he finds the message, I’d guess it’ll be a few days before he makes it here. He thinks all those helicopters were after him and not the bear, so he’ll be taking his time to get my package. You know the timeline better than me. If a cold front comes in, you might want to tell him to get the hell out of here.

— Why us?

— You’re the only people I can think of whose word would never be questioned. If you, or one of your friends, saw Joseph Burr climb into a boat, then Joseph Burr climbed into a boat. You’re heroes. And you’re a family. You know the absurdities that come with the territory.

Ástríður had been on a phone call with the BBC. She paused halfway down the staircase, surprised to find a giant in her living room.

— Who’s this?

— The son of your new tutor. He’s just leaving.

Owen asked a final favor of them both:

— Oh, and if it comes up, don’t tell him the helicopters were for the bear. Let him have his Saga.

Later that night, parked on the shoulder of the Ring Road with his hazards blinking, flopping back and forth in the reclined passenger seat and waking every hour to turn the heater on high, Owen thought of blackout curtains, a bed that was almost long enough, and a hot cup of coffee. He should have learned by now to avoid exhausting himself, but his thoughts were tumbling to California and Stevie. After a few hours he rejoined the desolate road.

He drove into Reykjavik at dawn and waited in the mechanic’s parking lot, tracing H’s with the gearshift until the shop opened. Owen hoped to get enough for a plane ticket. Lacking leverage, he was given enough for a bus ticket to Keflavik Airport, a few meals, and a few magazines. He took it.

A sales agent for Iceland Air patiently secured authorization for the one-way fare to SFO from President Gaskin’s office. Owen felt like a recruited athlete when she added that the university would have someone waiting on him when he landed.

White sandals dangled between her fingers, sleeves of the oatmeal sweater she found in his dresser curling away from the blue finch-feet of her inner wrist, the wrist he kissed before he left. Before he had to leave. The sea, a fluted column rolling to her feet.

She wasn’t exactly disappointed, but she had been so sure that the sand would be white and smooth as a shell’s interior or, if not white, starfish orange. Instead the beach was dark enough to camouflage the hauled-out seals and pooled with cold lakes mirroring the clouds. She swam only once, as Gaskin had predicted, and now felt daring when the water lapped over her bare ankles.

A shared delusion made this California. It was no warmer than Berlin. Here the wind rose with purpose, capable of eroding a cliff, content with shivering a pool. And yet the people here wore shorts. Tenured professors wore shorts to lecture — not many, but some, and some was something. She followed their lead. Despite the cold, the sun had etched in flip-flop tan lines, a white gull drawn on the top of each foot.