“All that you ask for, you shall have.” Somehow I had never been able to place it until now, when an old Christian text which I had learned as a child flashed into my mind again: “All these things will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down …”
The strangest thing about this ultra-distinguished funeral was that there was no cortege behind the coffin; where now were the Youth Fellowships, the schools, the University Citizens’ Association, the Road Sweepers’ Association, the Women’s Guilds, the Office Workers’ Association, the Artists’ Association, the Equestian Association? No, no people, no bystanders, no mourners; even the solitary dog which in its time had followed a genius of the celestial heights did not consider itself worthy of sniffing along behind this funeral. Was it conceivable that someone had furtively managed to lift up the coffin lid? And seen what? Portuguese Sardines? Or even D.L. itself? And then taken the news straight to the populace? And if so, who? Surely not the Communists yet again?
Ordinary citizens went about their business in the street in complete indifference, without so much as a glance in the direction of this ceremony. But a few paces farther on stood a crowd of street boys who were jeering at the tile-hats as they walked along beneath their burden. One could hear the atom poet’s elegy being hummed:
Oli the Figure is fallen,
Eclipser of the people,
The fell fiend of Keflavik;
He wanted to sell the country,
He wanted to dig up bones;
Wet as a jellyfish
He wanted atom war in Keflavik.
Oli the Figure is fallen,
Eclipser of our people,
The fell fiend of Keflavik.
I looked around for the quickest way to escape from this square, pressed my bouquet closer to me, and took to my heels. What point would there have seemed to be in living if there had not been these flowers?
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1982 by Halldór Laxness
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1193-8
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