Jón Gnarr - The Indian

Most of all, I’d like to know about my parents, these strange people who live with me but never say anything that reveals their identity. Who is Dad? What does he feel? What is Mom thinking all that time she’s sitting in the kitchen? Where did they meet and why did they get married? How are they doing? How do they feel about me?

I root about in closets, scour letters, sniff clothes, pore over images, and try to puzzle together from it all a picture of the secret facets of my existence.

— Where are my dolls? asks Runa.

— I didn’t take them.

— Yes, you did. You took them.

— No, it was Action Man.

Runa starts laughing.

— What? asks Mom from the kitchen.

— He’s completely cracked, this boy. He says Action Man took my dolls.

— Just leave him be.

Sometimes I’m playing with Action Man when I come across stuff. Action Man is my friend. He’s my favorite toy. I also have The Lone Ranger. He’s not as cool as Action Man. He’s also a cowboy. I’d have preferred Tonto because he’s an Indian. The Lone Ranger does the dangerous tasks. Sometimes it lands him in a lot of trouble and he needs Action Man to save him.

Once I made a parachute out of a plastic bag and let The Lone Ranger test it. I threw him over the roof of the house.

He broke both his legs.

Then Action Man turned into a doctor. He took The Lone Ranger home and fixed his legs with scotch tape.

I’d never do that with Action Man. I take great care of him.

He was with me when I found the dolls. Two of them. One had long blond hair and the other was a brunette with short hair. I took them out of the box and went outside with them. I didn’t mean to break them. It happened inadvertently. I was playing that some bad guys had taken them captive and tied them together over a fire pit. I hung them from a wooden spit using some wire, and lit the fire. Action Man had to save them. But while I was playing with him, the fire got so big it burnt the dolls.

I held a funeral for them. I dug a hole and put them in it. Then I shovelled it over and set a cross there. Action Man and The Lone Ranger were the only guests at the funeral.

I can’t tell Runa what happened. She’ll definitely get mad. I’d find it annoying if someone took Action Man and broke him.

I go outside. Mom and Runa are still talking in the kitchen.

Spring is in the air. The snow is gone and the sun is shining. It’s only a little bit cold. I go over to Stebbi’s. Stebbi is my friend. He’s in the Indian Club with me. We’re the only two people in it. No one else is allowed to be in our Indian Club.

When we grow up, we’re going to move to Arizona and live like real Indians in protected areas. Stebbi even has an Indian costume his mom sewed him. But he can’t use it because it’s too small.

I ring the bell. His mother comes to the door.

— Is Stefan home?

I take care not to call him Stebbi. If I do, his mom says that there isn’t a Stebbi who lives there. She wants him to be called Stefan.

— Are you wearing your long johns? she asks.

— Yes.

I pull up my pant leg and show her. Stebbi’s mother is a good woman. She’s strict, but still good. She doesn’t want me to get cold. Many parents don’t want their kids playing with me. Some forbid it outright.

— Want to play?

— No, I can’t play with you.

— Why not?

— My mom’s forbidden it.

Maybe the kids are just using this as an excuse because they don’t want to play with me. Most of my friends’ parents have forbidden their children from playing with me at some point or other. But not Stebbi’s mom. She’s the only one who can read my dad’s handwriting for me.

Sometimes when I come home, there’s a note on the table my dad has written. I can’t read his handwriting. No one in the street can read his handwriting except Stebbi’s mother.

I’d never prank her. I’d never throw eggs at her door or put a water hose through her window or a dead bird in her mailbox. Or cat poop in her shoe or in the pocket of her coat.

But when I was little, I did damage her campervan. I didn’t mean to. I broke all its windows and lights. I don’t know why. Sometimes I do things and I don’t know why I do them. I just do, not realizing what I’ve done until afterwards.

Stebbi comes to the door.

— Want to play?

— Play what?

— Outside somewhere.

We walk down into the valley. We’re Indians. Stebbi is a riot. Though sometimes he’s a bit of a coward. One time, we ran away from home and were going to sleep in an igloo. We were going to live as long as it was snowing. But Stebbi got homesick. We started to fight and he began to cry so I took him back home. And once we were going to go on an adventure. We spread peanut butter on crackers and put juice in a bottle. He was wearing his Indian costume and I had my feather headdress. We both had our knives. We were going to stay out all day and try to go somewhere no one had ever gone before. But halfway there Stebbi pooped his pants and we had to turn around.

— Shall we set something on fire?

— Do you have any matches?

I show him my matchbox. It’s full.

— Wow!

When we get down into the valley we go straight into the ditch. Indians don’t let anyone see them when they are sneaking about.

We pad along the bottom of the ditch through the valley. From time to time we try to light a small fire but the grass is so short that the fire dies out. We go past Fossvogs School towards the forest. No one sees us.

Along the way, we see a dead sheep that has drowned in the ditch. I poke her in the back with a stick and then turn her head up out of the black swampy water. It’s a disgusting sight. She has no eyes. We hurry on.

In front of the forest is a large patch of withered grass. We hide ourselves in the trees and after a while light a fire. This fire doesn’t die out; it grows quickly and spreads out. White fumes of smoke climb to the sky. Once the fire is lit in one place, we run away. We hide ourselves and see if any adults turn up. Then we light a fire somewhere else.

It’s not long before the fires cover a huge area. There’s a lot of smoke over the neighborhood. We look at each other, flushed, full of excitement and anticipation. We know, of course, that we’re not allowed to set fires. But they’re so much fun. And it’s not dangerous. I don’t know anyone who’s died from a grass fire. They light one in Fossvogur every spring. What kids think is fun often gets banned. And adults think things are incredibly dangerous when they aren’t.

— Shouldn’t we stop now? asks Stebbi.

— Hold on, I say.

I tear up a large bunch of withered grass and set fire to it. Then I run around and set fires wherever there isn’t a fire. Stebbi is obviously stressed out.

— Be careful!

The smoke gets in my eyes and blinds me. The heat is unbearable; I can’t breathe. There’s fire everywhere! I feel a chilling sting on one leg and look down. My pants are on fire. I smack the fire with my palms and it goes out. My leg is scorched and smarting. But my fear gets the better of my pain. What have I done?

— Jónsi?

I can’t think. I run towards the voice. The smoke is so thick that I can’t see anything. I don’t see Stebbi until I am almost on top of him.

— Wow!

— Are you crazy?!

His voice shivers with fear. I can hear the lump welling in his throat. We run away. Behind us rises an ocean of fire, like a giant wall is crossing the valley, pushing the smoke ahead of it.