The Journey Home: A Novel by Olaf Olafsson Page A

with sea salt, filling me with courage.
    As we emerged from the engine room, we were greeted by the clinking of glasses and crockery, and an unpleasant reek of smoke. The engineer invited me to sit with him in the smoking saloon and I couldn’t really do anything but accompany him, even though I had no interest in consorting with the people sitting in there. Supper had passed without strain as I had the good luck to end up between two Danes who spoke neither Icelandic nor English. To make things easier for myself I lied to them at the beginning of the meal that I didn’t speak Danish. They were therefore perfectly agreeable dinner companions.
    Now, however, I was defenseless. We had no sooner entered the saloon than the engineer began to introduce me to one passenger after another. Till now I had managed to keep myself to myself, avoiding having anything to do with any of them, but now there was no escape. No doubt he thought he was doing me a favor, assuming that my lack of sociability stemmed from shyness.
    “She knows about cars,” he said more often than once to break the ice. Unfortunately, he was successful.
    “Cars, hee hee,” tittered a young woman with a pale complexion and a white hat, her long fingers toting a cigarette-holder, which made them seem even thinner and whiter. The man with her began a long monologue about a Studebaker he apparently meant to buy shortly. I bore with the conversation which followed his declaration, trying to show the proper politeness so that the engineer wouldn’t think I was arrogant. All the same, I guessed from his expression that he read my mind and sympathized. But perhaps it was only my imagination. He took me to a table in the corner and asked whether I wasn’t in need of refreshment after all this car talk. Then he turned to wave to a waiter.
    I had no sooner sat down than the doctor of medieval literature slumped down in the chair opposite me. There was something about his manner which I didn’t like, a pathetic look that I hadn’t noticed before and couldn’t put my finger on but which immediately put my back up.
    “I’m finished,” he announced to me, continuing to drain his glass. “Finished,” he repeated. “Fini.”
    “That’s a shame,” I answered, instead of keeping my mouth shut.
    “Three years in Copenhagen and two in Edinburgh. And my father and mother think I’ve taken my exams. They think I’m the best-educated man in Iceland.”
    “And that you’ve discovered the author of
Egil’s Saga,
isn’t that so?”
    I looked around. The engineer had disappeared. I would have to wait.
    “My father’s a fisherman. He’s a fisherman,” he repeated, mumbling into his glass. “A fisherman,” as if he had only just realized the fact.
    The waiter brought me a glass of sherry.
    “Ingolfur will be back in a moment. He just had to step up to the bridge.”
    “My mother works in a bakery. I’m the eldest. Siggi is twenty and my sister Edda was confirmed this spring. They’re all going to meet me on the docks. All of them. And my father will put his fist on my shoulder and say: ‘we’re proud of you, my boy.’ ‘Dr. Hallgrimur Palsson,’ my mother will say solemnly. ‘Soon to be professor.’ ”
    He laughed, then his face crumpled and he began to sob.
    “I haven’t completed a single exam in the last three years.”
    He was sorry for himself. My goodness, was he sorry for himself.
    “And they’ve scrimped and saved. All these years they’ve been saving up.”
    There were two couples sitting at the next table. I noticed that the women were eavesdropping.
    “I’m going to drown myself tonight. I’m going to throw myself overboard before we get home.”
    His declaration clearly worried the women at the next table. They nudged their husbands. But I had had enough.
    “That’s a good idea,” I said. “What are you waiting for?”
    He looked stunned.
    “I’m going to
drown
myself,” he repeated. “Put an end to my life.”
    His voice