Sjón - Moonstone - The Boy Who Never Was

He scans the crowd for the girl and finds her on the green to the left of the building, with the families of the great and good. Today Sóla G— is dressed like Irma Vep when she was to be sent to the penal colony in Algiers: all in black down to her black leather ankle boots, a wide-brimmed black hat decorated with a black ribbon on her head; her face pale.

Outside Thomsen’s Magasin a group of sailors from the Falcon stand and marvel at how subdued the Icelanders seem on what should be a day of national rejoicing. They are right that in most respects the gathering bears more resemblance to a funeral than to the birth of a sovereign state. People hang their heads; many of the women’s faces are hidden behind mourning veils; the men wear black bands on their arms.

At a quarter to twelve the brass band strikes up “Ancient Land of Ice,” and men doff their hats during the performance — which proves to be so marred by lack of practice that it is torture to the ears — and afterward the minister of finance ascends the steps before Government House and embarks on the solemn oration.

As the minister speaks of the hearts of the nation, of their late leader, of the culmination of a hundred-year struggle, of braving the stormy seas, and of the honor of the national flag, the boy can’t help thinking that this is exactly the sort of occasion at which the Vampires would strike. For example, by firing a shell at it from their fearsome portable cannon. But of course that would merely be a diversion. In the chaos created by the act of sabotage, other members of the criminal gang would dynamite the vaults of the National Bank and break into the state treasury — then escape the country by seaplane.

Where would they place the cannon? Well, they could disguise themselves as French missionaries and rent rooms on the top floor of Thomsen’s Magasin. That would provide a clear line of sight.

Turning to look over his shoulder, the boy examines the store from roof to ground, at which point his eye alights on the sailors. One of them, a muscular fellow with a blond mustache, catches sight of him as well.

On the steps the minister brings his speech to a close.

And as the swallowtail flag of the new sovereign state of Iceland is hoisted up the lofty pole by Government House and the Islands Falk fires a twenty-one-gun salute in its honor, the eyes of boy and sailor meet.

A fanfare of horns carries through the door: “Rise, thou youthful flag of Iceland!”

Inside the hardware store of Thomsen’s Magasin, boy and sailor are locked in a fevered embrace — as they exchange deep kisses, the boy tastes the Dane’s vinegar-sweet tongue and wonders briefly if he himself tastes of coffee — he’d led the sailor behind the French stores into Kolasund, the alley where he sometimes takes gentlemen after midnight to service them in the shadow of the latrine, and it just so happened that the warehouse door had been left open.

They remove their winter jackets without breaking off their kiss. The sailor tugs the braces off the boy’s shoulders, pulls his shirt tails out of his waistband, and inserts his right hand under the shirt, stroking the boy’s back, while holding the nape of his neck with the left. The boy clutches the sailor’s buttocks in both hands, pressing him close as he thrusts his own hips forward, so their rock-hard penises rub together through their clothes. The sailor moves his hand around to the boy’s chest, pinches a nipple between thumb and forefinger, and twists it.

The warehousemen are standing in the square in front of the building, a stone’s throw from the sailor’s shipmates, listening with them to the captain of the Falcon as he passes on to the assembled crowd the greetings of King Christian X, his parliament and nation. Standing beside the lathe, meanwhile, surrounded by chains of all sizes, by bolts and nails, tins of paint, hammers and pliers, overalls and boots, the boy and the Dane continue their lovemaking.

The sailor eases the boy’s trousers down his thighs and drops to his knees. Holding the boy’s cock, he licks his balls, rolling the testicles around with his tongue before running it from the root to the purple dome, which he tickles with his mustache before closing his lips around it.

The brass band plays “King Christian.”

The boy leans back against the lathe while the sailor sucks him, supporting himself with one hand while playing with the Dane’s blond hair with the other.

Nine cheers of hurrah resound outside in the square.

Detaching himself from the sailor, the boy raises him to his feet, unbuttons his fly, puts his hand inside his underpants, takes hold of his stiff member, pulls down the foreskin, runs the tip of his thumb over the swollen dome, clasps it, and, rubbing gently, spreads the bead of moisture that is squeezed out of the top.

The sailor sticks his index and middle fingers in his mouth, wetting them well, then runs his hand under the boy’s balls, sliding his fingers along the ridge to the anus, where he begins to open a way for himself. The boy, emitting a low groan, tightens his grip on the sailor’s cock and rubs harder.

The ceremony before Government House is drawing to a close.

The boy turns to the lathe and bends over it. The sailor enters him.

First the Danish national anthem, “There Is a Lovely Land,” is sung, then the Icelandic, “O God of Our Country.”

It seems the cheers will never end.

In the very instant that Máni Steinn climaxes, he feels the sailor’s hot seed spurting inside him — and the warehouse door is kicked open.

There’s a despairing cry in Danish from the doorway:

— Mogens, what the hell are you doing?

Seconded in Icelandic:

— What the devil is this filth?

The latter words are accompanied by a blow from a clenched fist that knocks the boy senseless.

— Put him out of his misery, I say … Easy enough to hide his body … the mortuaries are full of nameless wretches … Give him to the medical students to skin … they’ve been snapping up the bodies of prostitutes … Nothing left of Good-time Jóka but the bare bones … split among them for souvenirs … the nights they spent with her before she went down with the flu … Ha-ha … Put him out of his misery, I say, put him out of his misery …

Máni Steinn has his ear pressed to the door of the room where he is being held, trying to make out the conversation on the other side. No one backs up the shouted suggestion of the agitated individual who wants to “put him out of his misery.” Nor is the boy alarmed by such talk. He has realized that the men meeting to decide his fate are not the type. The agitated man is shouting more to himself than to the others:

— Drown him like a rabid cur … The bloody brat’s got the eyes of a sheep-killing dog …

But the other men’s unenthusiastic response to the idea that they should murder and fillet the boy does not make them innocent of the wish to solve the problem by the quickest possible means.

* * *

The last thing people want to see at the dawn of the Icelandic sovereign state are headlines in the domestic or Danish press about a sodomy scandal in Reykjavík.

The country would be a laughingstock in Denmark; opponents of its new sovereign status would make capital out of the incident for ridicule and derision in the snide manner that is the trademark of the Danes; declaring good riddance to this nation of “up the assers” who are incapable of leaving Danish sailors alone — why, they might even dub the country Assland and choose a crude flag for it as a mockery. Yes, the Danish papers can be relied on to hold the Icelander responsible for the perverted act, and to whitewash the sailor, although he had of course already been badly infected with the vice before he ever came to the country with the Falcon . Fortunately, the captain of the warship is supporting their decision to hush up the affair. The vessel has left port and the sailor will be subjected to Danish naval discipline.