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Jakobsdottir 382



(b. 1930) Iceland



B



orn in eastern Iceland, Svava Jakobsdoitir also spent part of her childhood in Saskatchewan, Canada, -where her father "held a position as minister of the Icelandic Lutheran Church. She lived in Reykjavik, the capital of Iceland, for part of high school and college, but returned to North America to study English literature at Smith College (Massachusetts). Continuing her literary Studies at Somerville College, Oxford, and at Uppsala University in Sweden, she concentrated on Old Icelandic and modern Swedish literatures. From the study of literature, Jakobsdottir turned to its creation, publishing her first collection of stones, Twelve Women, in 1965. She has also published a now! and several other collections o/short stories, as well as three plays and several radio scripts. In her writing, Jakobsddttir frequently focuses on women's roles and expectations in contemporary society. Jakobsddttir has also sewed in several capacities within the political and diplomatic profession: first in Iceland's Foreign Ministry and later as an elected member of the Icelandic Parliament, a delegate to the United Nations, and a member of the Nordic Committee whose goal was the promotion of gender equality. After serving several terms in office, she gave up her political career to be a /nil-time writer. She is married to a/olklorist, Jon Hnefil! Adalsteinsson, and has one son.



A STORY FOR CHILDREN For as long as she could remember she had resolved to be true to her nature and devote all her energies to her home and her children. There were several children now and from morning till night she was swamped with work, doing the household chores and caring for the children. She was now preparing supper and waiting for the potatoes to boil. A Danish women's magazine lay on the kitchen bench as if it had been tossed there accidentally; in fact, she kept it there on purpose and sneaked a look at it whenever she got a chance. Without letting the pot of potatoes out of her mind she picked up the magazine and skimmed over Fru Ensom's1 advice column. This was by no means the column that seemed most interesting to her, but it was usually short. It was possible that it would last just long enough so that the potatoes would be boiling when, she finished reading it. The first letter in the column was short: Dear Fru Ensom, I have never lived for anything other than my children and have done everything for them. Now 1 am left alone and they never visit me. What should I do? Fru Ensom answered: Do more for them. 'Fru Ensom Danish: Mrs. Lonesome.



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This was the logical answer, of course. It was perfectly clear that nothing else was possible. She hoped that she wouldn't start writing to the magazines about such obvious things when the time came. No, these columns where people moaned and groaned were not to her liking. The columns which discussed childreating.and the role of the mother—or rather, the column, since both subjects were discussed in one and the same column—were much more positive. The fundamental aspects of childrearing had of course been familiar to her for quite some time now, but it did happen that she felt weak and fatigued at times. At that point she would leaf through the columns on child-rearing seeking courage and confirmation that she was on the right track in life. She only regretted having less and less time to read. The uncleaned fish awaited her in the sink and she withstood the temptation to read the child-rearing column this time. She closed the magazine and stood up. She limped a little bit ever since the children had cut off the big toe on her right foot. They had wanted to find out what happened if someone had only nine toes. Within herself she was proud of her limp and of her children's eagerness to learn, and sometimes she limped even more than was necessary. She now turned the heat down under the potatoes and began cleaning the fish. The kitchen door opened and her litrle son, who was six years old and had blue eyes and light curly hair, came up to her. "Mama," he said, and stuck a pin in her arm. She started and almost cut hetself with the knife. "Yes, dear," she said, and reached out her other arm so the child could stick it, too. "Mama, tell me a story." She put the knife down, dried her hands and sat down with the child in her lap to tell him a story. She was just about halfway through the story when it occurred to her that one of the other children might suffer psychological harm from not getting supper on time. In the boy's face she tried to see how he would take it if she stopped telling the story. She felt the old indecisiveness taking hold of her and. she became distracted from the stoty. This inability of hers to make decisions had increased with the number of children and the ever-increasing chores. She had begun to fear those moments which interrupted her usual rush from morning to night. More and more often she lost her poise if she stopped to make a decision. The child-rearing columns • gave little or no help at such moments, though she tried to call them to mind. They only discussed one problem and one child at a time. Other problems always had to wait until next week. This time she was spared making a decision. The door opened and all the children crowded into the kitchen. Stjani, the oldest, was in the lead. At an early age he had shown an admirable interest in both human and animal biology. The boy who had been listening to the story now slid out of her lap and took up a position among his brothers and sisters. They formed a semicircle around her and she looked over each of them one after the other. "Mama, we want to see what a person's brain looks like." She looked at the clock. "Right now?" she asked. Stjani didn't answer his mother's question. With a nod of his head and a sharp glance he gave his younger brother a sign, and the younger brother went and got a rope, while Stjani fastened the saw blade to the handle. The rope was then wrapped around the mother. She felt how the little hands fumbled at her back while the knot was tied. The rope was loose and it wouldn't take much effort to get free. But she was careful not to let it be noticed. He had always been sensitive about how clumsy he



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was with his hands. Just as Stjani raised the saw up to her head the image of the childten's father came into her mind. She saw him in front of her just as he would appear in a little while: on the threshold of the front door with his briefcase in one hand and his hat in the other. She never saw him except in the front doorway, either on his way out or on his way in. She had once been able to imagine him outside the house among other people or at the office, but now, after the children had been born, they had moved into a new house and he into a new office, and she had lost her bearings. He would come home soon and she still hadn't started frying the fish. The blood had now begun to flow down her head. Stjani had gotten through with the saw. It seemed to be going well, and fairly quickly. Now and then he stopped as if he were measuring with his eyes just how big the hole had to be. Blood spurted into his face and a curse crossed his lips. He nodded his head and the young brother went immediately and got the mop bucket. They placed it under the hole and soon it was half full. The procedure was over at the exact moment the father appeared in the doorway. He stood motionless for a while and pondered the sight which presented its.elf to him: his wife tied up, with a hole in her head, the eldest son holding a gray brain in his hand, the curious group of children huddled together, and only one pot on the stove. "Kids! How can you think of doing this when it's already suppertime?" He picked up the piece of his wife's skull.and snapped it back in just as she was about to bleed to death. Then he took over and soon the children were busy tidying up after themselves. He wiped most of the blood stains off the walls himself before he checked on the pot on the stove. There was a suspicious sound coming from it. The water had boiled away and he took the pot off the stove and set it on the metal counter next to the sink. When he saw the half-cleaned fish in the sink he realized that his wife had still not gotten up from the chair. Puzzled, he knit his brow. It wasn't usual for her to be sitting down when there was so much to do. He went over to her and looked at her attentively. He noticed then that they had forgotten to untie her. When he had freed her they looked into each other's eyes and smiled. Never was their harmony more deeply felt than when their eyes met in mutual pride over the children. "Silly urchins," he said, and his voice was filled with the concern and affection that he felt for his family. Soon afterward they sat down at the table. Everyone except Stjani. He was in his room studying the brain under a microscope. Meanwhile, his mother kept his supper warm for him in the kitchen. They were all hungry and took to. their food briskly; this was an unusually late supper. There was no change to be seen in the mother. She had washed her hair and combed it over the cut before she sat down. Her mild expression displayed the patience and self-denial usual at mealtimes. This expression had first appeared during those years when she served her children first and kept only the smallest and most meager piece for herself. Now the children were big enough so that they could take the best pieces themselves and the expression was actually unnecessary, but it had become an inseparable part of the meal. Before the meal was over Stjani came in and sat down. The mother went 10 get his supper. In the kitchen she boned the fish thoroughly before putting it on the plate. When she picked up the garbage pail to throw the bones away she let out a scream. The brain was right on top of the pail. The rest of the family rushed out as soon as her scream reached the dining room. The father was in the lead and was quick to discover what was wrong when he saw "



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his wife staring down into the garbage pail. Her scream had died out, but it could still be seen in the contours of her face. "You think it's a shame to throw it out, don't you, dear?" he asked. "I don't know," she said and looked at him apologetically. "I didn't think." "Mama didn't think, mama didn't think, mama didn't think," chanted one of the children who had an especially keen sense of humor. They all burst out laughing and the laughter seemed to solve the problem. The father said he had an idea; they didn't have to throw the brain out, they could keep it in alcohol. With that, he put the brain into a clear jar and poured alcohol over it. They brought the jar'into the living room and found a place for it on a shelf of knickknacks. They all agreed it fit well there. Then they finished eating. There were no noticeable changes in the household routine due to the brain loss. At first a lot of people came to visit. They came to see the brain, and those who had prided themselves on their grandmother's old spinning wheel in the corner of their living room now looked with envy upon the brain upon the shelf. She felt no changes in herself either at first. It hadn't become a bit more difficult for her to do housework or to understand the Danish magazines. Many things even turned out to be easier than before, and situations that earlier had caused her to rack her brain no longer did so. But gradually she began to feel a heaviness in her chest. It seemed as if her lungs no longer had room enough to function and after a year had passed she went to the doctor. A thorough examination revealed that her heart had grown larger usus innaturalis et adsidui causa.1 She asked the doctor to excuse her for having forgotten all the Lalin she had learned in school, and patiently he explained to her how the loss of one organ could result in changes in another. Just as a man who loses his sight will acquire a more acute sense of hearing, her heart had increased its activity a good deal when her brain was no longer available. This was a natural development, lex. woe,3 if one may say so—and at that, the doctor laughed—there was no need to fear that such a law could be anything but just. Therefore she didn't have to be afraid. She was in the best of health. She felt relieved at these words. Lately she had even been afraid that she had only a short time to live, and this fear had become an increasingly loud voice within her breast which said: What will become of them if I die? But now she realized that this voice, whose strength and clarity grew steadily, was no prophecy, but rather the voice of her heart. This knowledge made her happy because the voice of one's heart could be trusted. The years passed and her heart's voice showed her the way: from the children's rooms and her husband's study to the kitchen and the bedroom. This route was dear to her, and no gust of wind that blew through the front door was ever strong enough to sweep away her tracks. Only one thing aroused fear in her: unexpected changes in the world. The year they changed counter girls at the milk store five times she was never quite all right. But the children grew up. She awoke with a bad dream when her oldest child, Stjani, began to pack his suitcase to go out into the world. With uncontrollable vehemence she threw herself over the threshold to block his exit. A sucking sound could be heard as the boy stepped on her on his way out. He thought



usus mnaturalis et adsidui causa vime Latin: law of life.



3 lex



Latin: a case involving unnatural and persistent use.



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^e vvas moaning and. parsed a moment and said that she herself was to blame No O ne had asked her to lie down there. She smiled as she got up because what he had said wasn't quite right. Her heart had told her to lie there. She had heard the voice clearly and now, as she watched ham. walk down the street, the voice spoke to her again and said that she could still be glad that she had softened his first steps out into the world. Later on they all left one after the other and she was left alone. She no longer had anything to do in the children's rooms and she would often sit in the easy chair in the living room now. If she looked up, the jar on the shelf came into view, where the brain had stood all these years and, in fact, was almost completely forgotten. Custom had made it commonplace. Sometimes she pondered over it. As far as she could see, it had kept well. But she got less and less pleasure out of looking at it. It reminded her of her children. And gradually she felt that a change was again taking place within herself, but she couldn't bring herself to mention it to her husband. She saw him so seldom lately, and whenever he appeared at home she got up from the chair in a hurry, as if a guest had arrived. One day he brought up the question himself of whether she wasn't feeling well. Pleased, she looked up, but when she saw that he was figuring the accounts at the same time, she became confused in answering (she had never been particularly good in figuring). In her confusion she said she didn't have enough to do. He looked at her amazed and said there were enough things to be done if people only used their brain. Of course he said this without thinking. He knew very well that she didn't have a hrain, but she nevertheless took him literally. She took the jar down from the shelf, brought it to the doctor and asked if he thought the brain was still useable. The doctor didn't exclude the possibility of its being of some use, but on the other hand, all organs atrophied after being preserved in alcohol for a long time. Therefore it would be debatable whether it would pay to move it at all; in addition, the nervi cerebrates4 had been left in rather poor shape, and the doctor asked whether some clumsy dolt had actually done the surgery. "He was so little then, the poot thing," the woman said. "By the way," said the doctor, ''I recall that you had a highly developed heart." The woman avoided the doctor's inquiring look and a faint pang of conscience gripped her. And she whispered to the doctor what she hadn't dared hint of toher husband: "My heart's voice has fallen silent." As she said this she realized why she had come. She unbuttoned her blouse, took it off and laid it neatly on the back of the chair. Her bra went the same way. Then she stood ready in front of the doctor, naked from the waist up. He picked up a scalpel and cut, and a moment later he handed her the gleaming, red heart. Carefully he placed it in her palm and her hands closed around it. Its hesitant beat resembled the fluttering of a bird in a cage. She offered to pay the doctor, but he shook his head and, seeing that she was having difficulty, helped her get dressed. He then offered to call her a taxi since she had so much to carry. She refused, stuffed the brain jar into her shopping bag and slipped the bag over her arm. Then she left with the heart in her hands. Now began the long march from one child to the next. She first went to see her sons, but found none of them at home. They had all gotten a berth on the ship of state



4 nervicerebrates



Latin: cerebral nerves.



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and it was impossible to tell when they would return. Furthermore, they never stayed in home port long enough for there to be time for anything other than begetting children. She withdrew from the bitterness of her daughters-in-law and went to see her oldest daughter, who opened the door herself. A look of astonishment and revulsion came over her face when she saw the slimy, red heart pulsating in her mother's palm, and in her consternation, she slammed the door. This was of course an involuntary reaction and she quickly opened the door again, but she made it clear to her mother that she didn't care at all about her heart; and she wasn't sure it would go with the new furniture in the living room. The mother then realized that it was pointless to continue the march, because her younger daughters had even newer furniture. So she went home. There she filled a jar with alcohol and dropped the heart into it. A deep sucking sound, like a gasp within a human breast, could be heard as the heart sank to the bottom. And now they each stood on the shelf in their own jars, her brain and her heart. But no one came to view them. And the children never came to visit. Their excuse always was that they were too busy. But the truth was that they didn't like the sterile smell that clung to everything in the house. [1975] Translated by



DENNIS AUBURN HILL