“Yes, if it’s relevant.”
Yngvi put the cat down, got up, and began pacing the floor. “Well, the Danish store had a cutter that used to sail from Hafnarfjördur under a skipper named Jón,” he began. “He and Jacob did not always see eye to eye about when to go to sea, though Jón usually prevailed. One morning Jón and his coxswain were on the beach looking at the weather, when Jacob the Dane appeared; Jón advised against putting out to sea but, deviating from his custom, let himself be pressured by the store manager. Jacob watched the men row out to the cutter, as did a group of other people, among whom was an old man named Ari, who had lost two sons and a grandson to the sea and was now alone in the world. He was flensing a seal that had been knocked out and washed ashore by the heavy surf two days previously. ‘May god be with them tonight,’ the old man supposedly said, at which Jacob is reported to have asked, ‘Tror du også det bliver blæsevejr?’ (Do you also believe it will blow a gale?)”
Yngvi’s pronunciation of the Danish was very convincing, and he was putting on quite a show, acting out the story as he told it. “Then the old man said, ‘I do not predict the weather, but I can see a thing or two.’ To which the Dane asked, ‘Og hvad ser du nu?’ (What do you see now?) Old Ari replied, ‘No one on board that ship is fated to die, so she will return safe to harbor, but I do see that neither you nor your male descendants will die of old age in your beds.’ Jacob’s response was to shove the old man to the ground and stride away. That night a storm blew from the east, and the cutter was buffeted this way and that across the sea for days on end, but thanks to his stalwart crew and fine seamanship, Jón managed to hold his course and steer the ship back into harbor when the wind abated.”
“Did the prophecy come true?” Hrefna asked.
“Jacob Kieler the merchant, whom we might call Jacob number one, fell off a horse and broke his neck. He had a son, Jacob Kieler number two, who drowned in a pond on his third birthday. His other son, Alfred, the father of engineer Jacob Kieler, number three, and Matthías the musician, was killed when his car overturned and rolled down the Kambar Mountain road. You know what happened to father and son Jacob Kieler, numbers three and four.”
“So Matthías is the only one left,” Hrefna said.
“Yes. Perhaps he will be the one to debunk the prophecy and live to be a hundred, dying peacefully in his sleep.”
“I do hope so,” Hrefna remarked.
“Yes, he has had his share of suffering, poor old fellow.”
“Really?”
“Well, we know he was in a German prison camp during the war. Apparently, he has never wanted to talk about that experience, but it was definitely no more of a joyride for him than it was for others who went through the same.”
“Do you know anything more about this royalist business?” Hrefna asked, changing the subject.
“I always say that in Iceland we have one president and two hundred thousand kings, so we don’t need another one,” Yngvi laughed. “No, I haven’t gone into it any further since the article. There is probably enough material there for a whole book. I am too lazy for historical research, though. I can’t be bothered to hang out in archives digging through dirty old papers; I much prefer sitting in cafés chatting with people. When I’m lucky, I get some gossip I can use for newspaper articles. I’m also good at genealogy. What was your paternal grandfather’s name?”
“Never mind that,” Hrefna said, a note of annoyance in her tone.
“Oh, well. And yet that’s one part of this Kieler case that amuses me particularly, as I am somewhat involved.”
“Yes?”
“I often sit in cafés with young university students. These kids like to hear their family traced back a few generations, though they rarely know their own grandparents’ patronymics. If you write it up for them, they’re even prepared to pay, or at least treat you to a coffee. One day I met a young woman who turned out to be offspring of this noble Kieler family, name of Elísabet Árnadóttir, born and raised in the north, daughter of Kirsten, who is the daughter of Jacob the engineer. But you probably know that. Well, who should be sitting at the next table over but Diddi, youngest son of Siggi Pistol.”
“Who’s Siggi Pistol?”
“Siggi Pistol was the guy who was jailed for several months after Jacob Senior was shot.”
“Why was he called Siggi Pistol?”
“It’s just an awfully cruel habit people have of dishing out nicknames. They started calling him that when he was in prison. Have you ever heard the story of the guy who happened to see a rat on the shore when he was a young boy? He shouted, ‘Look, a rat!’ and his friends took to calling him Óli Rat, as a joke. He was a promising young man, but this unfortunate nickname became so associated with him that it completely ruined his life. What girl do you think wants to marry Óli Rat? He hanged himself before he was twenty.”