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“Another car.” Hei?ur laughs at her own humor, gasping as if she has whooping cough. She’s welcome to laugh. It’s funny. I hitched rides on trucks the whole way— first to H?fn, and then here. It didn’t cost a single kr?na. The man laughs and rocks giddily on the couch. The vehicle from H?fn was called HERMANN AND L?SA, REY?ARFJ?R?UR. It was L?sa who drove. She’s an absolutely lovely person. There were two of us coming from H?fn. I’m pretty sure the other fellow was French — handsome, wearing a red coat. “Yes, well,” Duncan said awkwardly. “I must confess we had to burn your mill.” A few minutes later he noticed he was still holding the money she had given him. Mother Brumbach shook her head.“After only three years he came north.” A woman = desire + vanity + the need to gossip + a confused mind. Having said this, I adore women’s concern for their appearance. So many men, so many poor girls, so many businesses make a living from it! There are many more people who live off women’s squandering than people who die from it. You can spend a lifetime on this, wondering whether you’re a coincidence or a miracle, if not both. I suppose for a person with my appearance, it’s certainly something to consider. Mom said a miracle. Why didn’t I get down to business and compel her to tell me the whole story while there was still time? What miracle am I, Mom? I’m me, I’m supposed to be here still after you’re dead, I’m entitled to know what I am. Hardly a truly Icelandic miracle. And don’t start talking about Hans Jonathan. I know that he was an immigrant from the Caribbean, born in Saint Croix in 1790, and he lived in Dj?pivogur, in eastern Iceland. He was pitch-black, but none of his descendants could look like that now. Anyway, according to the parish registers I’m not related to him. a two-year-old whirlwind who spoke in tongues Boy Capel’s beautiful girlfriends would say to him angrily: “Drop that woman.” Not being in the least jealous, I pushed him into their arms; this baffled them and they kept on repeating: “Drop that woman”. He replied in that utterly natural way he had, one that astonished people in an age of poseurs: “No. You might as well ask me to chop off a leg.” He needed me. “Tea? Where have you heard about taking tea?” asked the other aunts. “Does it amuse you,” he said, “to play themidinette?” We walk light as feathers from this cosmic store, framed by crossroads and the sky, with a Norwegian tankard and an Egyptian picture in our hands. A cream-yellow Bronco pulls quick as a flash into the parking area. An old model resembling a soapbox car, waxed beautifully and not a single dent to be seen. At the wheel is a rosy-cheeked bald man of around sixty, his face so smooth that it’s nearly taut. Next to him in the front seat is a finely dressed woman in her eighties. She steps out, nimble and straight-backed, with fresh waves in her blue hair, and goes straight into the shop, the man behind her in crackling new overalls. The kettle. He was referring to the yellowing plastic jug kettle, trying to manhandle it onto its base. The thing eventually connected with the power supply and the orange switch lit up. He looked over his shoulder. If only he could see this with me, he who occupies my mind— the glory of the landscape to the southwest on the final day in August. The man I recall and can’t forget..

Michael Beeson's Research

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