Salka Valka Read online

  Copyright © The Estate of Halldór Laxness

  Translation copyright © Philip Roughton, 2022

  Published by agreement with the Licht & Burr Literary Agency, Denmark

  First published as Salka Valka in two volumes

  by Bókadeild Menningarsjóðs, Reykjavík, 1931-1932

  First Archipelago Books Edition, 2022

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available upon request.

  Archipelago Books, 232 3rd Street #A111, Brooklyn, NY 11215

  www.archipelagobooks.org

  Distributed by Penguin Random House

  www.penguinrandomhouse.com

  Cover art: “Fish Market” by Sigurður Haukur Lúðvígsson

  (kindly provided for use by Doug McIntyre)

  Ebook ISBN 9781953861252

  This work is made possible by the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of the Office of the Governor and the New York State Legislature.

  Funding for the publication of this book was provided by a grant from the Carl Lesnor Family Foundation. This publication was made possible with support from Lannan Foundation, the Nimick Forbesway Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs. This book has been translated with financial support from

  a_prh_6.0_139924580_c1_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  First Part: Thou, Pure Grapevine

  First Book: Love

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Second Book: Death

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Second Part: The Bird on the Shore

  Third Book: Another World

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Fourth Book: Life’s Election Day

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  First Part

  Thou, Pure Grapevine

  First Book

  Love

  1

  The coastal steamer attends faithfully to its course, slipping down the middle of the fjord between the mountains, taking its bearings from the stars and peaks and arriving on schedule at Óseyri in Axlarfjörður, its horn blasting through the blowing snow. In the first-class smokers’ lounge, two smartly dressed travelers from Reykjavík are discussing the village’s faint gleams of light. Their conversation goes something like this:

  “When sailing on such a cold and bleak winter’s night along these shores, you get the impression that nothing in the world could be more insignificant and meaningless than such a small village under such high mountains. How do people live in such a place? And how do they die? What do they say to each other when they wake in the morning? How do they look at each other on Sundays? And what does the priest feel when he steps into the pulpit at Christmas and Easter? I don’t mean what does he say, but what, in all honesty, does he think? Does he see how pointless it all is? And what do the merchant’s daughters think about before going to sleep? Yes, what sorts of joys and what sorts of sorrows in fact thrive around those dim glimmers from their little oil lamps? I’m certain that in such places, people’s conviction of the futility of existence is reflected in each other’s eyes. Surely, everyone must admit that it’s absolutely useless to live in such a place, there being no low ground here except for that little valley, which apparently owes its bottom entirely to the river’s sediments. All culture, all human contentment, are created on level ground. In a place that’s impossible to escape, and where there’s never any hope of meeting strangers, nothing can ever be expected, either. What would happen, for instance, if the priest’s son stopped fancying the merchant’s daughter? Yes, what would happen? I’m just asking.”

  But now a boat is launched from shore and several hoarse, gruff men with beards and moustaches seize their chance to come alongside the steamer. “Down with the mail and passengers!” they roar, as if fomenting a frightful revolt. A traveling salesman from the south pushes his otter-fur hat down over his ears, buttons up his coat, and carefully climbs down the rope ladder into the boat. A mailbag, half full, is handed down to the boatmen. Nothing more?

  “Yes!” someone calls from the deck above. “We’ve got a woman with a girl here in third class. She says she’s going ashore. Don’t leave without them. They’re on their way now.”

  “Well, we don’t have any orders from the merchant Jóhann Bogesen about waiting here all night for some wretch of a woman. The passengers ought to be ready,” complained the head boatman.

  From deck came the reply:

  “We couldn’t get the woman out of her bunk any sooner. Seasickness has left her dizzy and cramping.”

  “Well, it’s none of our concern how seasick she’s been. We have no orders from Jóhann Bogesen about that.”

  Despite no one being able to cite any orders from Jóhann Bogesen, the woman appeared a few moments later, along with her child. The child was bundled quite well in woolen wraps, while the woman herself was pathetically ill-equipped for winter journeys at these northern latitudes, wearing an old, faded, ready-made coat that was far too small for her, dirty cotton stockings and shabby boots that would normally have been laced up to mid-calf, except that now one of the laces was broken, leaving half the shaft hanging loosely against her leg. Around her head she had tied a paltry cloth. In one hand she held the hand of her child, and in the other a small sack containing her worldly possessions. She stared fearfully at the boat as it bobbed up and down in the swell.

  “Down with you, woman!” said the men.

  “God help us, Salka, if we’re supposed to go down there.”

  “Well, it’s pointless hanging about there like shark bait in the shade,” said the men.

  One of the steamer’s crewmembers gave the child a hand in starting down the rope ladder, and a boatman climbed halfway up it and helped her descend into the boat.

/>   “Mama, I made it,” said the child. “It was terribly fun!”

  Then they passed the woman down in the same manner. She was heavy and broad-waisted, with stocky legs and beefy loins; in short, quite a corpulent woman. Her face was gray and peaked from her discomfort and vomiting, while her hands were all red and swollen, like pickled meat, freshly boiled.

  Mother and daughter were seated on a thwart opposite one of the rowers. The woman held her sack snug in her lap, to keep it from getting wet. It was just an ordinary, hundred-pound gunny sack that appeared to contain a small coffer and perhaps a few scraps of clothing. The waves rose and fell, the empty boat rocked mercilessly and the woman stared fearfully into the darkness, while the girl at her side felt safe as could be. As the boat rose on the next wave, the girl asked her mother:

  “Mama, why are we going ashore here? Why aren’t we continuing south?”

  The woman clung desperately to the thwart as the boat slid into the next trough, turned her anguished face away from the spray and blowing snow, and finally replied:

  “We’ll try staying here for a while before going south in the spring.”

  “Why aren’t we going south straightaway, as you said? I’d been so looking forward to going to Reykjavík.”

  At a glance, the most peculiar thing about this girl was her deep voice, which sounded almost like a man’s. She had the nervous habit of screwing up her eyes and mouth, both when she spoke and when she said nothing. She would occasionally toss her head and could never keep her legs and feet still; her whole body roiled with unruly vitality.

  “Ever since we left, I’ve been looking forward to coming to Reykjavík and seeing those big painted houses and those pretty rooms with pictures on the walls that you spoke of, Mama. I want to live in such a room. And everyone in their Sunday best, Mama, always. Or maybe it isn’t true, then?”

  “Yes, it’s true, but we can’t go any farther just now, Salka dear. I’m so unwell. We’ll stay here for the winter, and try to find something to occupy us. Then in the spring, we’ll go south to all the fine weather.”

  “So the weather is always fine in the south? No, Mama, we should go on now. It’s only five more days…”

  “I’m so unwell. And it will make no difference to us if we wait here until the spring. I know that we’ll make it together, as we’ve always done. Don’t be angry with your mother, even if she’s unable to go to Reykjavík straightaway with her darling Salka. We must always be good friends.”

  “Yes, Mama, but it’s still a terrible pity.”

  Then the rower opposite them spoke up, looking at the girl:

  “We must walk in the ways of God.”

  The girl looked at him in the dull glow of the lantern in the stern, scowled, and said nothing. And at this pious declaration, the two travelers’ talk about their destination came to an end.

  When it seemed to the rower that his remark had fallen on deaf ears, it was as if he felt he ought to find some excuse for having stuck his nose into the private affairs of his passengers.

  “Well, that’s not to say that I’m recommending this poor little village to strangers. For I do not declare of my own accord, but rather by the wisdom of the Word that it is our dear Lord who determines where we lay down to sleep at night. It is true, this village is rather pathetic. I have now been here, either in the valley or the village, for forty-seven years, and in that time, nothing has ever happened. Yet God has not forgotten us. He has sent us the blessed Salvation Army of our Lord Jesus Christ to give us the opportunity to rejoice in our Redeemer. Before, we had only the dean, but he is old and frail now. And no matter how miserable and useless life may seem in a place such as this, it is impossible to deny that wherever souls bend their knees before the cross of Jesus Christ, there we find a true Canaan of God’s glory. I don’t suppose you’re already saved?”

  The woman thought things over for several moments as the boat continued splashing uncomfortably through the choppy waves of the inner fjord, and then answered:

  “No, but I hope that God will help me and show me the mercy of bringing me work, so that I can provide for myself and my girl. You don’t suppose there’s any work to be had here in the village for a time?”

  “What’s your name?” the man asked.

  “It’s Sigurlína.”

  The man was silent for a few moments, as if weighing the possibility of a woman with such a name finding work there.

  “What a pesky storm this is,” said the man.

  “Hey, Mama,” said the girl. “I’m sure I would have eaten more soup if we’d had more time. And more salt meat.”

  “She’s uppity enough, the girl,” said the man. “Might I ask, are you a widow?”

  “No.”

  “Might I ask, why aren’t you continuing to Reykjavík, then?”

  “I’m hoping that God is here in Óseyri in Axlarfjörður, no less than in Reykjavík,” said the woman, thereby beating the man at his own game.

  “Do you have any kin here?”

  “No, but I’m hoping I can find somewhere to stay tonight. I can pay, you see.”

  “You ought to be saved,” the man said. “By the way, I don’t know whether the Army takes in women.”

  They were only a few oar-strokes away from land.

  “Would you please be so helpful as to point me the way to the Army?”

  “I suppose I could bring you there,” said the man, “after we’re done unloading the steamer.”

  The traveling salesman from first class made a few witty remarks as he stepped onto the quay, and then strode off and disappeared. The woman, however, waited at the end of the quay, holding her sack in one hand and her child’s hand in the other, until the rower was ready to bring her to the Salvation Army headquarters. Never has a more insignificant woman stepped ashore in a more insignificant village. Finally, he signaled to them to follow him.

  The ground was covered in deep, barely trodden snow, making the going difficult. The snow blew straight into their faces, as it always does with such people. They passed a few fishing sheds and turned left, following the shore. Faint lights peeked out from the small windows of the huts of the fishermen and day laborers. It did not cross her guide’s mind to offer to carry the woman’s sack. Finally, they came to a low wooden shanty with various alcoves and extensions, light gleaming in a few of its windows.

  “There’s the entrance,” said the man. “If you should find yourself in need of anything here in the village, ask for Cadet Guðmundur Jónsson. I’m in the good graces of the merchant Jóhann Bogesen, as well, and if I were in your shoes, I would turn first to his wife. She is a great woman. Give my regards to Captain Anderson. Good night. And if you go to see Mrs. Bogesen, please convey her regards from old Cadet Jónsson; she’ll know whom you mean, the dear woman.”

  The mother and daughter walked up a few steps, entered a vestibule, and began brushing the snow from their clothing. The woman took the rag off her head, shook it, and tidied her dirty-blond, unkempt hair. From a side room came a noisy babble of people speaking in rather surly tones. Still, the woman ventured to knock on the door, and after a short wait came a shout from within:

  “Come in, damn it!”

  She opened the door hesitantly, as helpless people do, and peeked in. The girl peeked in, too. There, a large number of men sat at small, bare tables under a dense cloud of tobacco smoke and the odor of alcohol, and on the tables in front of them stood labeled bottles of the sort legal in restaurants. Although none of the men appeared drunk, their general state of mind suggested that they kept something stronger in their back pockets.

  Several of them looked sullenly toward the door, but none appeared to feel any particular urge to assist the unfamiliar woman.

  “May I speak to the man in charge?’ she asked.

  “Shut the door. It’s not so bloody warm in here.”

&nb
sp; Mother and daughter stepped over the threshold and shut the door. On the wall hung a portrait of General Booth, and another of a drunkard’s wife holding her children close, protecting them from her husband, who was on a rampage, having come home ragged, tattered, and sloshed. Hanging beside these were elaborately decorated tablets embellished with Bible verses in Danish. The woman raised her hand to her hair again to tidy it a touch more, so that no one should doubt her womanly respectability: she was certainly not uncomely, despite the strenuous sea voyage having left her somewhat haggard, and although her lips may have been colorless at the moment, they were nonetheless lush enough not to preclude them from tempting drunken sailors forced to stay ashore by the rough weather; she acted utterly self-possessed.

  “What does she want?” asked one of the men.

  “The man in charge,” answered another.

  “Leave this to me,” said a third. He was a big man of around thirty, dark-haired, with a pockmarked, copper-colored face. His features were regular and strong, but a fire burned in his rust-colored eyes, dissolute, unrestrained, and wild. His voice was strong and deep, yet with nuances that occasionally bordered on the lyrical, forming a perfect contrast to his coarse, careless comportment. He was dressed in blue trousers and a gray jersey, with a red handkerchief around his neck.

  “Good day to you, dear,” he said, tickling the woman piously under her chin, without so much as a glance at the girl. “Did you come with the mail steamer? Have a seat. I’ll do anything you wish, and even more; both bad and good.”