Jón Gnarr - The Indian

Sometimes he holds my hand with one of his hands and strokes my cheek with the other while he tells me some boring story about how everything was in the old days, when he was little: how poor everyone was and how everyone was always cold, especially him.

He tells me the same stories over and over. They are sad and also often sentimental. One story is about how when my dad was little, he and his brother killed flies on the windowsill. Then they went out and saw a dead bird and began to cry. He looks deep into my eyes as though the story is hiding some deep message about life.

He’s often told me this story. I don’t understand the moral. I think it’s just a silly story. It’s okay to kill flies.

I try to hide my hands behind my back so he can’t reach them. It’s uncomfortable when he holds me so hard. It’s mean and annoying. He squeezes my hand and makes it hurt.

It seems like I’m an instrument on which he’s trying to play a tragic, sad song.

The worst is when I need to ask Dad for money. Like when I need money to buy something or go to the movies. I try instead to ask Mom.

— Mom, can I have money for the movies?

— Ask your father.

Mom never has any money.

I get a knot of anxiety in my stomach and my mouth goes dry when I need to ask Dad for money. Sometimes it’s okay and he just lets me have the money. If he’s in a good mood. But if he is in a bad temper then it’s not alright. When I approach him he stretches out his hand towards me. I give him my hand. Then he smiles gently at me. I have a strong feeling that he knows I’m going to ask him for money so I pretend to have some other reason for approaching him. Maybe he wants me to tell him that I am fond of him or some crap like that. You don’t say such things to your parents. Though there are small children who do, and they get a treat in return.

Maybe he’s hoping I’ll ask him to tell me some old story. It’s like I’m meant to do something for him, or else he’ll be bored.

It’s a play. One he makes up. A play about a sad, benevolent dad and an ugly, ungrateful son.

— You want to have a conversation with your dad?

— Yes, I mumble.

— Tell me something interesting.

— Can I have some money for the movies? I say quietly.

His face falls. He wasn’t expecting that. It’s like I’ve slapped him around the face with a wet rag. He’s disappointed and troubled.

First he sighs:

— Phwww.

I fall silent and look down at my feet. I know what’s coming.

— Movies? Didn’t I just give you money for movies?

He says “movies,” not “the movies.” That bothers me. But I don’t say anything because I don’t want to talk to him for any longer than is absolutely necessary.

— It’s a different movie.

He sighs again, and looks down like he’s utterly confused. I have this feeling that my theater trip is going to be over before it starts. I go to the movie theater about once a month.

After we’ve been silent for a short while, it’s like he’s been able to muster the spirit to get out his wallet.

— How much does the movie theater cost? he asks.

There’s sadness in his voice. I’ve managed to hurt him.

I tell him the cost. He takes the money out of his wallet and puts it in my hand. Then he squeezes our palms together and smiles weakly.

I feel like I hurt him, but not enough to break him completely. He’s good and gives me money even though I’m ugly and evil.

We stand like this for a moment. He won’t let go of my hand; instead, he squeezes it. Again I feel like there’s a stone slab lying across my chest. I can’t breathe. My stomach gets all warm. I feel sick. It’s like he’s forcing me to eat something I don’t want to. I want to scream: Stop it, it’s mean! But I steel myself.

— I need bus fare as well, I mutter.

There are tears in his eyes. He shakes his head as though he is both disappointed and surprised.

— How much? he asks, determinedly.

His tone is impersonal. It’s like he’s talking to someone he doesn’t know. Someone who is annoying and stupid. Dad definitely talks this way to criminals at work. The way he asks his question sounds like robbers have asked him for a ransom to get back a loved one, a ransom he doesn’t think he can meet.

I murmur the amount, ashamed. I feel like I’m evil; I’ve managed to wound him grievously. He gives me the money. He doesn’t take my hand. His eyes are full of sadness.

— Thanks, I mumble, trying to sound friendly.

He shrugs his shoulders.

I’m troubled when Dad is in one of these moods. It’s like all his grief and everything he has seen and experienced at work floods over me and burrows deep inside.

I decide to not ask for money for candy. It’s a luxury I can do without on this occasion.

Sometimes, after these encounters, it’s like he realizes why I’m so tedious. It’s not always this way. Sometimes he spreads out his outstretched arms, hugging me close and whispering something I don’t catch but know I’m meant to agree to, some promise I’m meant to keep. Usually, it’s a promise to be hardworking or not spend the money all at once.

I have to tear myself free from his arms. He lets me go slowly and whispers and mumbles all the time and strokes me on the cheek. I smile politely, nod my head and promise anything and everything.

But most of the time, all I do is manage to hurt him; he is left lonely and bored while I go to the movies to have fun with my friends.

I don’t know what he wants from me. I think maybe he feels bad about work and doesn’t have anyone to talk to. Perhaps he wants me to hug him. Or else he wants me to be more like Anton, calm and good and wearing terylene pants and accompanying him places the way Anton accompanies his mom.

I know my dad. But I don’t know who he is. He knows me, but not really. He’s seldom normal around me. I feel a little for him in our relationship. I think sometimes he feels there’s not that much worth caring about in me. He never praises anything I do and he belittles me when no one can hear. When he feels bad, it’s like he wants me to feel bad, too.

Sometimes he asks me about something I’m doing. But when I start to tell him, he stops listening to me and listens to the radio or something while I’m talking. That makes me miserable. I think he wants me to be miserable.

Everyone else thinks Dad’s great. Strangers tell me how interesting he is, or how hardworking, or how fortunate I am that he is my dad. They don’t know him the way he is at home. Maybe he changes as soon as he gets home. He’s always happy and fun when he’s out. Dad’s more interesting around people he doesn’t know.

Sometimes he comes out to the soccer pitch to fetch me for dinner. I try to run over to him so that the other kids won’t meet him.

He doesn’t say “soccer;” he says “kickball.” And he calls the football a “bladder” or a “pigskin.”

— Is this your bladder, Jón?

The other kids think he’s funny and entertaining. But I don’t want him to entertain them. I want him to entertain me.

I examine my family’s clothes; I read postcards they’ve written or received. Kristín left a lot of CDs in plastic cases. Now and then I listen to Fröken Fraken by Sven Ingvars; as I listen, I try to imagine my sister. I’m no closer to her. Ómar left nothing behind. It’s like the earth swallowed him. I don’t remember him at all. He’s a completely closed book. When he comes to visit I greet him with a handshake and introduce myself. Runa I know the most about. She’s really my only sibling, at least the only one I’d recognise in the street.