The Flatey Enigma Read Free Page B

hasn’t been started yet this spring. Krákur’s cart is perfectly adequate,” Grímur answered.
    The deacon tilted on his toes again and said, “Yes, my cart is always used by the church for funerals here on Flatey.”
    “Very well,” said Kjartan. “Thank you for taking care of that.”
    Grímur wavered impatiently. “My wife, Imba, is ready with the lunch,” he said. “Let’s not keep her waiting.”
    They walked across the village with Thormódur Krákur leading the way. Shouldering his walking stick like a rifle, he swung his other arm to the beat of a military march. Women were tending to their clotheslines in front of several houses and curiously observed the men as they walked by. Thormódur Krákur outlined the lay of the land for Kjartan in a lofty voice and pointed with his free hand: “That’s the warehouse over there, and there’s the telephone exchange, and there’s the co-operative store,” he announced, “and this is where our blessed priest lives, Reverend Hannes, and that’s Gudjón’s boy there tentering the seal fur.”
    They walked past three furs that had been stretched on the gable with the furry side facing the wall, and a young man was nailing up the fourth.
    “And this is the cove and sea wall that was built and paid for in silver.” Thormódur Krákur pointed at a long wall of piled stones that enclosed a narrow cove. They were being followed by a coil-tailed black dog, and a pack of cackling multicolored hens stepped out of their way on the road.
    “And that up there is our church and graveyard, and behind the church there’s the oldest library building in Iceland. It’s not very big, but it contains various gems if you take a look. Even a perfect replica of the Book of Flatey , the most famous manuscript in Nordic history, the Codex Flateyensis , printed and bound by Munksgaard in Copenhagen and bequeathed to the library of Flatey as a gift to celebrate its hundredth anniversary.”
    The district officer’s house was painted in white with a green roof and stood on the edge of the slope overlooking the village. The name of the house, BAKKI , was painted in big black letters on a sign over the door. Thormódur Krákur escorted the men to the entrance and then took off his hat to say good-bye with a handshake.
    “I’ll be at your disposal then when you come back,” he said finally, tilting on his toes again. He then swirled on his heels and solemnly walked down to the village.
    “Does the deacon always dress like that?” Kjartan asked Grímur as he watched the man walk away.
    “No. Only on mass days and when he’s receiving dignitaries,” the district officer answered.
    “He considers me to be a dignitary then, since this is hardly a mass day,” said Kjartan awkwardly.
    Grímur laughed. “Yes, my friend. Krákur has a deep reverence for authority figures, especially if they happen to be from the magistrate’s office.”
    “What’s that medal on his chest for?”
    “That’s the medal of honor from the parliamentary celebrations of 1930. Krákur received it for making a down quilt for the Danish king,” Grímur answered.
    “You’ve got to give it to him, though,” Högni added, “he handles eiderdown better than most.”
    The mistress of the household welcomed them and ushered them into the living room where a small table had been laid for three.
    “I’m Ingibjörg. I hope you’ll be comfortable with us,” she said when Kjartan greeted her and introduced himself. She was a thickset woman with a conspicuous birthmark on her right cheek, and she was dressed in traditional Icelandic clothes and a striped apron.
    “I take it the magistrate’s assistant will eat fresh seal meat, will he not?” Grímur asked as soon as he sat down.
    Full of trepidation, Kjartan eyed several pieces of fat black meat steaming on a platter.
    “Yes, maybe a little,” he finally answered.
    Högni also took a seat, since the woman of the house didn’t seem to be expected to