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Fiction

The Chamber Music

By Bragi Ólafsson
Translated from Icelandic by Lytton Smith
Bragi Ólafsson's Christmas tale blends chamber music and malevolence.

Allegretto villereccio

This Wednesday in the last week of November is the first winter evening of the season. Until now it hasn’t gotten that cold; instead, it’s rained every which way, and more than once since October I’ve thought of leaving this dreadful southwest corner of the country, of heading somewhere far away, somewhere up in the north, even going to another country, one where there’s a proper winter, like those we pretend we remember from childhood. But I still haven’t communicated the idea to my wife, who I know is perfectly happy with the warmth of a Reykjavík winter, and I don’t think I’ll mention it for a few days yet: if today’s weather forecast turns out to be correct, it’s going to be cold through the weekend—snowy, even.

I’ve decided to use this evening to read the last part of a book which I’ve so far had very great difficulty getting through: a six-hundred-page novel it would never have occurred to me to begin if the author weren’t a good friend of mine. I’m lying on the sofa, with this thick deadweight in my hands, making myself the promise that I’ll have a cigar once I’ve read two chapters, when suddenly the phone rings and I have no option but to get up and answer it; my wife isn’t at home and so it’s possible she might be calling me. But she isn’t. On the phone, which I’d left on the table, is my friend Bárður (I should point out that he isn’t the author of the aforementioned book) who, instead of introducing himself—as he normally does—launches straight into things, asking if I watch Spotlight, the program that follows the news on Reykjavík’s public television channel.

“If I usually watch it?” I ask, and Bárður rephrases his question: he wants to know if I customarily watch Spotlight and if I’m planning to watch it this evening. I say I’ll certainly be able to do so, since I’m not doing anything demanding, except for…I hold off on mentioning the book I’m reading; I know Bárður is not especially keen on the author of this six-hundred page book and I don’t want to risk him sounding off about both book and author. It’s difficult enough already to get through the text so that the author doesn’t interfere with my life any more than he’s managed to so far.

“There’s an interview with Oddgeir about the new release,” says Bárður, and I’m about to ask what new release he’s talking about when he fills me in. “He’s going to publicize the new CD they’ve made.”

“They who?”

“The string quartet.”

As I ask myself why I haven’t heard our mutual friend Oddgeir making a fuss about any forthcoming new release, I ask Bárður where he got his information. He answers by telling me something I already know: he’s related to the Assistant Program Director of the TV channel; his cousin leaked the information, just minutes ago.

“But why do you want me to watch the interview?” I ask. I’m curious, of course, to take a look at it, now that I know about it, but I’m eager to find out exactly why Bárður is asking me about it.

“I won’t be able to watch it,” replies Bárður. He tells me he’ll be on the way to the language school (where he teaches German); his class is scheduled for 7:30, and “I can’t afford” to be late, as he puts it.

“But why don’t they talk to the Englishman in the orchestra, what’s he called? Isn’t he the band leader?” I switch the handset over to my left hand so I can pour water into a glass with my right. Then I move a lit tealight a few centimeters closer to me on the table.

“I don’t know,” says Bárður, a little irritated. “I suppose they want to talk with Oddgeir because he is always so refreshing and so very cheerful. And, of course, it helps that he manages to speak Icelandic.”

“Strange that he hasn’t mentioned it to me,” I say, drawing a cigar from the half packet of London Docks which I’d fished up from my shirt pocket. “He typically lets me know about all his achievements.”

“He’s evidently too busy to talk right now. It must take quite the effort to prepare for something which he’s intent on peddling to his friends and relatives.”

I light myself a cigar using the flame of the tealight, and the smell of tobacco reminds me of Xmas. I look through the smoke at the twilight-steeped living room window and feel like the streetlamps outside somehow acquire more significance now it’s gotten cold around them.

“But is there anything wrong with releasing a CD now, before Xmas?” I ask, and smile to myself at Bárður’s baseless irritation. “You don’t release music—especially not chamber music—except at Xmas; it doesn’t sell at any other times. If it sells at all.”

Bárður has no reply, so I continue talking about Xmas and tell him that just this morning my mother invited my wife to go with her to the Canary Islands and stay there over Xmas; she’s already ordered the tickets, and they leave on December twenty-first.

“No, I’ll be at home,” I reply when Bárður asks whether I’m going with them. “I don’t have any desire to lie around sunbathing with some Brits and Hollanders over the Xmas holiday.”

“Well, yes, but still,” says Bárður, “I don’t like the idea that they’re going to release this CD. I have a very bad feeling about it.”

“A bad feeling!”

“That’s exactly what I have,” repeats Bárður, and emphasizes his concern by sighing into the handset.

I can picture the expression on his face at this moment: he resembles his father, a man who, despite having done rather well in life (financially at least), seems constantly eaten up with daily cares: over his seven decades he has developed a decidedly decision-weary expression which I expect will also characterize his son’s appearance in due time.

“It’s naturally too late to stop it now?” I ask, grinning to myself as to what purpose it could possibly serve to get in the way of a harmless event like a release by some string quartet. I don’t expect any reply from Bárður; I know him sufficiently well to know that he only ever listens to me when I say something that sounds like it could have come out of his own mouth. So it takes me by surprise when he answers, saying:

“Is it? It doesn’t necessarily follow that it’s too late.”

“No, why should it be?” I say, half-jokingly. “You must do everything in your power to block the release of a record by a string quartet in time for Xmas.”

“You know, an idea begins to take shape in my mind as we speak,” replies Bárður.

“Well, it’s downright immoral that a string quartet is releasing a CD in time for Xmas,” I add, watching the orange glow of the cigar with a smile. “And especially a private release like this one, entirely financed by the artists themselves. I’m guessing it’s a private release, since there isn’t a record label here in Iceland which trusts itself to publish classical music.”

“There is something to this, indeed,” says Bárður. “Why in heaven’s name should they release some CD in time for Xmas? But listen, I’m going to be late for the language school. We’ll chat when I get back home.”

I say good-bye to Bárður by telling him that I will watch the television show, that I’ll let him know what Oddgeir says. Then I turn on the TV.

Allegro agitato

Bárður had got it right: Oddgeir Hólmgeirsson was on television, talking with the host of Spotlight about the new record by the string quartet The Noel Experience. I had no idea that the music group Oddgeir and his friends were in had such a festive name. Once the show ends I relight the cigar, which I’d placed in the ashtray in the meantime, and rather than resuming the thick book I watch the next program, an educational show about the state of life in the ocean. When it ends I go over to the living room window and notice, to my great satisfaction, that it’s beginning to snow. I light another cigar and watch for a little while the peaceful, almost dreamlike snowfall which the streetlamps light as though on a movie set. I start toward the phone to see if Bárður is home yet, but when I pick up he’s already on the other end. “I was just going to call you,” I say.

“What did Oddgeir say?” Bárður asks. From his breathlessness, I gather he has just this minute gotten home. He’s probably still white with snow, hasn’t taken the time to dust himself off before leaping to call me.

“He said the record hadn’t yet completed production,” I say. “It’s due the second week in December. There was some problem with the information booklet.”

“Well listen to that, great!” says Bárður. “I know exactly what we ought to do.”

“What we ought to do?”

“It’s odd that he’s blabbing about it on TV,” he said.

“What do you mean when you say that we ought to do something?” I repeat.

“What else did he say?”

“He also said there will be a concert in Kópavogur on December thirteenth. Some kind of release concert, after the album arrives.”

“And was he alone? Wasn’t anyone else with him?”

“No, he only mentioned the other members. Noel White, who plays the cello. He’s the Englishman, the band leader, whom the quartet is named after.”

“That total jerk,” says Bárður, as though we’re discussing an acknowledged fact.

“The show will be repeated later on this evening, some time around midnight. You could watch it yourself.”

“I’ve no intention of watching that smug mug Oddgeir, I don’t intend to do him that kindness. But what else did he say?”

“He said that there was a new viola player in the group. Jürgen something, some Austrian guy, Jürgen Schlippen-something, it sounded like…”

“He’s not new,” Bárður cuts in. “He’s some totally talentless idiot who they grubbed up from some hole in Akureyri. He pretended to be a music teacher but then it came to light that he works as a cook at a second-rate Chinese carryout.” Before asking his next question, he whispers a curse, as though he’s just hurt himself, or dropped something. “Did he talk about Heiðdís at all?”

“Yes, he mentioned her, too. I thought she was still on maternity leave.”

“She’s another freak. She’s barely given birth before she’s determined to make a spectacle of herself for the sake of some record.”

“You should just watch the show later,” I say. I don’t entirely understand Bárður’s spite toward the members of the quartet.

“That troupe just gets more devilish,” says Bárður—leaving me more dumbfounded still —and he sighs right into the earpiece and spits out: “Noel White! Jürgen Schlippenbach!”

“But what was the idea you mentioned just now?” I ask.

“Heiðdís Sigmundsdóttir!” adds Bárður, brusquely.

I repeat my question.

“I’ll tell you in good time,” answers Bárður, and as so often in our conversations—and I habitually let him get away with this—the topic of discussion suddenly switches to something other than what we were talking about a second ago. “But did you say you’re going abroad for Xmas?” he asks.

When I remind him that it’s my wife who’s going with my mother, not me, he asks if I’m going to be alone for Xmas, or if, given that my mother will be in the Canary Islands, I’ll head to my father’s.

“I’ll be alone,” I answer.

“But why not go to your father’s?”

“He will be with his friend.”

“Couldn’t you be there too?”

“He’s not my friend but my dad’s friend.”

“What on earth do you mean?” says Bárður, and adds: “Then all that remains is to invite you to come to ours for Xmas. Why in heaven’s name did your parents have to separate?”

“There’s no need for you to worry about me,” I say, while debating whether my situation is indeed the way my friend imagines it. “I’ll find something to putter about with.”

“And what about New Year’s Eve? Will you be alone for New Year’s Eve too?”

“I’m planning to be, yes.”

“No one is coming to visit you?”

“I’ll possibly stroll out to the New Year’s Eve bonfire,” I say. “I’ll possibly throw myself onto the pyre.”

“What in heaven’s name do you mean?”

Andantinoprestoadagio pesante

When I call Bárður two weeks later it’s not with the aim of discussing the publication of chamber music in Iceland. I want to let him know about the Xmas party at my workplace, the yearly schnapps-drinking affair which Bárður has sometimes accompanied me to instead of my wife, since she’s always been ill-disposed to my boss and can’t stand being under the same roof as him over Xmas. As always, Bárður makes appreciative noises about the invitation, then remembers he’s busy on the day it takes place. As we continue to talk about this and that I remember our earlier conversation and I tell him how Oddgeir Hólmgeirsson unexpectedly visited me about a week ago and gave me a proof copy of the quartet’s recording (a so-called CDR disk; he’d burned ten copies) and two tickets to the concert at Kópavogur for my wife and me.

In light of what I’ve just said about our mutual acquaintance, it strikes me as strange (not that I mind) that Bárður is calm on the other end of the phone. The Bárður who I’d half-expected to take up the thread from the other day and continue tearing apart our old friend and his musical companions seems far away, and instead I must be talking with some other version of this person, a different Bárður, one who listens calmly to me and—incredible as it sounds—acts like he’s really quite curious as to what I can tell him about the music on the quartet’s album. When I describe The Noel Experience’s plans for publishing and distributing the CD, he asks me about the technical details – things I know nothing about. The crowning gesture is that he doesn’t seem at all put out when I tell him of the good reception the record has received from a well-known Israeli violinist, temporarily a soloist with the Icelandic Symphony Orchestra; he’d received a copy from Noel White (probably the same kind of burned disk as I myself got from Oddgeir) and has promised to mention the album to a Japanese music company he is familiar with, a company which specializes in North European chamber music.

“So they know each other?” asks Bárður. “Our pal Noel knows the Israeli violinist?”

I said I thought that was so, but it seemed a bit peculiar—almost suspicious—that Noel White was suddenly “our pal” Noel; only two weeks before, he’d been a total jerk.

“Good for him,” says Bárður and now all of a sudden—it was bound to happen—I recognized a glint of the Bárður I was used to.

“Things are looking good for them,” I say. “At least, it can’t hurt to get such a great response before the record even comes out.”

“Well, yes. That’s all very nice and fine,” Bárður cuts in. “Everything seems to be going smoothly. Except for the fact that there won’t be a release.”

“What do you mean?”

“It might be a good thing to get a positive reaction before the record comes out, but the record does actually have to come out.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what I say: there won’t be a release by the Nouvel Experiment or whatever they’re called, this string quartet. At least, not this Xmas.”

Even though Bárður is far from the sort of person who tends to make things up—he is definitely concerned with what is, not with what could be—I have great trouble understanding that what he tells me next is indeed true. With the help of “a certain party,” he found out where the production of the quartet’s record was happening: in Austria, the home country of Jürgen Schlippenbach (that peerless amateur viola), at a firm called DADC. He’d called the DADC office, managed to talk to the production manager, and let him know that the artists, that is to say the string quartet The Noel Experience (on that occasion he got the name right), were halting the release of the record at this time. The firm could send the master back; the release was frozen for the foreseeable future.

There was a silence on the phone line for a time after Bárður unraveled this tale for me, and I don’t plan to repeat what I said once he’d conclusively managed to convince me (with technical details) that what he’d just finished describing was real. Put plainly: he’d contrived to withdraw the production order made by Oddgeir or whoever it was who’d sent the master to Austria—the order for this wonderful record which I’d so much enjoyed listening to and which I’d allowed myself to look forward to getting a finished copy of, a record which, according to what Oddgeir told me when he dropped by, was going to be especially well-produced, in what is known as digipack format rather than that disagreeable plastic form which is so prone to crack and scratch. With fitting severity in my voice, I let Bárður know I plan to tell Oddgeir about this, that I’m firmly resolved to do so, but Bárður maintains that I gave him the idea in the first place:

“I mean, it was actually you,” he says, sounding triumphant, “who asked me the other day if it was too late to stop it.”

“I was joking,” I say.

“Are you completely sure about that?” Bárður comes back.

“I know when I’m joking and when I’m serious,” I reply.

“Please, do tell him all about it,” says Bárður, and I can’t be completely sure what the real meaning behind those words is.

“But what put it into your head,” I say, attempting to sound as angry and annoyed as I can, “to get in the way of something which people are doing in good faith, something which doesn’t interfere with anyone, something which is evidently done out of… I’m not ashamed to say it: love and affection.”

“Love and affection?” sneers Bárður.

“I’m serious,” I say. “What you’ve done is Satanic: destroying things for people who’ve done you no harm and who aren’t trying to do you any harm. No one gets it into his head to do something like this except… no one but the devil himself has such thoughts.”

“What an awful racket,” says Bárður, as though I’ve been unjustly berating him. “Don’t you have your own copy? You can just consider yourself one of the lucky ones.”

I try to articulate the magnitude of the outrage Bárður has committed, but

I find myself lost for words. Once I’ve put down the phone I stare into thin air—no doubt looking vacantly ahead, which best describes my frame of mind—and then I light a cigar, resolving not to tell Oddgeir about this conversation. In my eyes, that conversation never took place, no more than the conversation between Bárður and the production manager of DADC in Austria.

Finale: moderato

Right now there are just over two hours left in the year. At the moment I am standing ten meters away from the New Year’s Eve bonfire at Ægisíða, having been alone all evening, and it’s beginning to snow for the first time since early December, after a month-long warm rainy spell. While I think back to The Noel Experience’s show at the concert hall in Kópavogur in the middle of the month, I let a few lively bars of a Haydn quartet run through my mind, bars which Oddgeir, Noel, Jürgen, and Heiðdís played for my wife and I, and for approximately seven or eight other listeners who might have been at the concert hall. The Haydn quartet was in fact not to be found on the album which they’d been planning to announce; the group had rehearsed new material when it became clear that, because of some strange mistake which had taken place with the foreman at the Austrian production company, the product, as Oddgeir phrased it when we met by chance before the concert, would not reach Iceland in time for the Xmas market.

And yet it’s not unlikely that this music, I mean the recording which was sent to Austria and then back again, is playing right now in the Canary Islands. Or, at least, at some point during this holiday period. I’d played Oddgeir’s CDR disc for my wife and she immediately became so enthusiastic about the music (not to mention the performance) that she insisted on taking a copy with her to Las Palmas. “What’s more, I’m absolutely sure that your mother will enjoy it, especially because it sounds like the Four Seasons,” she’d said, talking about how it would certainly be something they could listen to together in the sun, how it would create the perfect Xmas atmosphere.

I wasn’t ready to part with the CD—I felt I needed it here more—but when my wife didn’t drop the matter I took steps to procure an extra copy, even though Oddgeir had asked me to keep the recording just for myself.My first thought was to get one of my coworkers to burn the CD for me, but his machine was being repaired, and neither advice nor CD burners come cheap.  I had no choice but to turn to the one character who definitely shouldn’t be involved in this affair any more than he already had been: Bárður. Apart from my coworker, he’s the only person I know who has a computer with a CD burner. Obviously I didn’t enjoy approaching him with this particular task but I decided to look past his somewhat heartless conduct which had led to a situation where we, my wife and I, can’t buy a copy of the album in a record store or get it at a discount from Oddgeir. At the same time—to ease my conscience—I very clearly asked Bárður to burn absolutely only a single copy, and to please, please delete the file from the computer after he’d completed burning the CD.

When I went to get the CD from Bárður the following day he’d burned me two copies in case it occurred to me that someone else might enjoy it. I couldn’t help but smile when I took the CDs from my friend’s hands, and I let him know that he certainly wouldn’t be that someone. And I repeated that he would have to promise to delete the file from his computer.

“It’ll have to come to light later whether I enjoy it,” he’d said; he hadn’t yet listened to his copy. “It’s not every day one is in the mood for chamber music,” he then added.

With some people it seems that what goes into the ears doesn’t have any influence on what happens between the ears.

Now, as I stand before the bonfire on New Year’s Eve and watch the flames crackle away in these final hours of the year, I recall what I said to Bárður on the phone a few weeks ago: that I would no doubt stroll out to the bonfire on the last evening of the year and perhaps throw myself onto the pyre. I look around me, into the half-lit darkness,and I wonder which of the men standing here near me in front of the crackling flames would leap after me and drag me away from the fire. If one ever gotthe idea to end one’s time on earth within this symbolic campfire—to burn one’s lone copy in the merciless flames—it would definitely be more advisable to slip unseen into the pyre some time during the day, or at least before the fire is lit.

What would Bárður’s view of this be? Without doubt, he is now standing outside on his balcony, a worried expression on his face, shooting fireworks into the air with his children. Possibly his father is there with him and his wife this evening, looking even more worried than his son, and in all likelihood much more worried than the two children who I can well imagine are already starting to worry about the future, based on the photographs I’ve seen of them.

I light myself another cigar and leave the warmth of the New Year’s Eve bonfire. On the way home, beneath a gentle, festive snowfall, I decide I’m in no mood for the annual New Year’s Eve comedy review on TV. Instead, I’m planning to get myself some whisky and have a cigar in my warm living room, and to finish reading the last part of the six- hundred-page novel, and then to let my first musical experience of the new year be the noise of fireworks—a noise which, once the wick has been lit, you can’t get in the way of, can’t stop.

“Stofutónlistin” © Bragi Olafsson. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2011 by Lytton Smith. All rights reserved.

English Icelandic (Original)

Allegretto villereccio

This Wednesday in the last week of November is the first winter evening of the season. Until now it hasn’t gotten that cold; instead, it’s rained every which way, and more than once since October I’ve thought of leaving this dreadful southwest corner of the country, of heading somewhere far away, somewhere up in the north, even going to another country, one where there’s a proper winter, like those we pretend we remember from childhood. But I still haven’t communicated the idea to my wife, who I know is perfectly happy with the warmth of a Reykjavík winter, and I don’t think I’ll mention it for a few days yet: if today’s weather forecast turns out to be correct, it’s going to be cold through the weekend—snowy, even.

I’ve decided to use this evening to read the last part of a book which I’ve so far had very great difficulty getting through: a six-hundred-page novel it would never have occurred to me to begin if the author weren’t a good friend of mine. I’m lying on the sofa, with this thick deadweight in my hands, making myself the promise that I’ll have a cigar once I’ve read two chapters, when suddenly the phone rings and I have no option but to get up and answer it; my wife isn’t at home and so it’s possible she might be calling me. But she isn’t. On the phone, which I’d left on the table, is my friend Bárður (I should point out that he isn’t the author of the aforementioned book) who, instead of introducing himself—as he normally does—launches straight into things, asking if I watch Spotlight, the program that follows the news on Reykjavík’s public television channel.

“If I usually watch it?” I ask, and Bárður rephrases his question: he wants to know if I customarily watch Spotlight and if I’m planning to watch it this evening. I say I’ll certainly be able to do so, since I’m not doing anything demanding, except for…I hold off on mentioning the book I’m reading; I know Bárður is not especially keen on the author of this six-hundred page book and I don’t want to risk him sounding off about both book and author. It’s difficult enough already to get through the text so that the author doesn’t interfere with my life any more than he’s managed to so far.

“There’s an interview with Oddgeir about the new release,” says Bárður, and I’m about to ask what new release he’s talking about when he fills me in. “He’s going to publicize the new CD they’ve made.”

“They who?”

“The string quartet.”

As I ask myself why I haven’t heard our mutual friend Oddgeir making a fuss about any forthcoming new release, I ask Bárður where he got his information. He answers by telling me something I already know: he’s related to the Assistant Program Director of the TV channel; his cousin leaked the information, just minutes ago.

“But why do you want me to watch the interview?” I ask. I’m curious, of course, to take a look at it, now that I know about it, but I’m eager to find out exactly why Bárður is asking me about it.

“I won’t be able to watch it,” replies Bárður. He tells me he’ll be on the way to the language school (where he teaches German); his class is scheduled for 7:30, and “I can’t afford” to be late, as he puts it.

“But why don’t they talk to the Englishman in the orchestra, what’s he called? Isn’t he the band leader?” I switch the handset over to my left hand so I can pour water into a glass with my right. Then I move a lit tealight a few centimeters closer to me on the table.

“I don’t know,” says Bárður, a little irritated. “I suppose they want to talk with Oddgeir because he is always so refreshing and so very cheerful. And, of course, it helps that he manages to speak Icelandic.”

“Strange that he hasn’t mentioned it to me,” I say, drawing a cigar from the half packet of London Docks which I’d fished up from my shirt pocket. “He typically lets me know about all his achievements.”

“He’s evidently too busy to talk right now. It must take quite the effort to prepare for something which he’s intent on peddling to his friends and relatives.”

I light myself a cigar using the flame of the tealight, and the smell of tobacco reminds me of Xmas. I look through the smoke at the twilight-steeped living room window and feel like the streetlamps outside somehow acquire more significance now it’s gotten cold around them.

“But is there anything wrong with releasing a CD now, before Xmas?” I ask, and smile to myself at Bárður’s baseless irritation. “You don’t release music—especially not chamber music—except at Xmas; it doesn’t sell at any other times. If it sells at all.”

Bárður has no reply, so I continue talking about Xmas and tell him that just this morning my mother invited my wife to go with her to the Canary Islands and stay there over Xmas; she’s already ordered the tickets, and they leave on December twenty-first.

“No, I’ll be at home,” I reply when Bárður asks whether I’m going with them. “I don’t have any desire to lie around sunbathing with some Brits and Hollanders over the Xmas holiday.”

“Well, yes, but still,” says Bárður, “I don’t like the idea that they’re going to release this CD. I have a very bad feeling about it.”

“A bad feeling!”

“That’s exactly what I have,” repeats Bárður, and emphasizes his concern by sighing into the handset.

I can picture the expression on his face at this moment: he resembles his father, a man who, despite having done rather well in life (financially at least), seems constantly eaten up with daily cares: over his seven decades he has developed a decidedly decision-weary expression which I expect will also characterize his son’s appearance in due time.

“It’s naturally too late to stop it now?” I ask, grinning to myself as to what purpose it could possibly serve to get in the way of a harmless event like a release by some string quartet. I don’t expect any reply from Bárður; I know him sufficiently well to know that he only ever listens to me when I say something that sounds like it could have come out of his own mouth. So it takes me by surprise when he answers, saying:

“Is it? It doesn’t necessarily follow that it’s too late.”

“No, why should it be?” I say, half-jokingly. “You must do everything in your power to block the release of a record by a string quartet in time for Xmas.”

“You know, an idea begins to take shape in my mind as we speak,” replies Bárður.

“Well, it’s downright immoral that a string quartet is releasing a CD in time for Xmas,” I add, watching the orange glow of the cigar with a smile. “And especially a private release like this one, entirely financed by the artists themselves. I’m guessing it’s a private release, since there isn’t a record label here in Iceland which trusts itself to publish classical music.”

“There is something to this, indeed,” says Bárður. “Why in heaven’s name should they release some CD in time for Xmas? But listen, I’m going to be late for the language school. We’ll chat when I get back home.”

I say good-bye to Bárður by telling him that I will watch the television show, that I’ll let him know what Oddgeir says. Then I turn on the TV.

Allegro agitato

Bárður had got it right: Oddgeir Hólmgeirsson was on television, talking with the host of Spotlight about the new record by the string quartet The Noel Experience. I had no idea that the music group Oddgeir and his friends were in had such a festive name. Once the show ends I relight the cigar, which I’d placed in the ashtray in the meantime, and rather than resuming the thick book I watch the next program, an educational show about the state of life in the ocean. When it ends I go over to the living room window and notice, to my great satisfaction, that it’s beginning to snow. I light another cigar and watch for a little while the peaceful, almost dreamlike snowfall which the streetlamps light as though on a movie set. I start toward the phone to see if Bárður is home yet, but when I pick up he’s already on the other end. “I was just going to call you,” I say.

“What did Oddgeir say?” Bárður asks. From his breathlessness, I gather he has just this minute gotten home. He’s probably still white with snow, hasn’t taken the time to dust himself off before leaping to call me.

“He said the record hadn’t yet completed production,” I say. “It’s due the second week in December. There was some problem with the information booklet.”

“Well listen to that, great!” says Bárður. “I know exactly what we ought to do.”

“What we ought to do?”

“It’s odd that he’s blabbing about it on TV,” he said.

“What do you mean when you say that we ought to do something?” I repeat.

“What else did he say?”

“He also said there will be a concert in Kópavogur on December thirteenth. Some kind of release concert, after the album arrives.”

“And was he alone? Wasn’t anyone else with him?”

“No, he only mentioned the other members. Noel White, who plays the cello. He’s the Englishman, the band leader, whom the quartet is named after.”

“That total jerk,” says Bárður, as though we’re discussing an acknowledged fact.

“The show will be repeated later on this evening, some time around midnight. You could watch it yourself.”

“I’ve no intention of watching that smug mug Oddgeir, I don’t intend to do him that kindness. But what else did he say?”

“He said that there was a new viola player in the group. Jürgen something, some Austrian guy, Jürgen Schlippen-something, it sounded like…”

“He’s not new,” Bárður cuts in. “He’s some totally talentless idiot who they grubbed up from some hole in Akureyri. He pretended to be a music teacher but then it came to light that he works as a cook at a second-rate Chinese carryout.” Before asking his next question, he whispers a curse, as though he’s just hurt himself, or dropped something. “Did he talk about Heiðdís at all?”

“Yes, he mentioned her, too. I thought she was still on maternity leave.”

“She’s another freak. She’s barely given birth before she’s determined to make a spectacle of herself for the sake of some record.”

“You should just watch the show later,” I say. I don’t entirely understand Bárður’s spite toward the members of the quartet.

“That troupe just gets more devilish,” says Bárður—leaving me more dumbfounded still —and he sighs right into the earpiece and spits out: “Noel White! Jürgen Schlippenbach!”

“But what was the idea you mentioned just now?” I ask.

“Heiðdís Sigmundsdóttir!” adds Bárður, brusquely.

I repeat my question.

“I’ll tell you in good time,” answers Bárður, and as so often in our conversations—and I habitually let him get away with this—the topic of discussion suddenly switches to something other than what we were talking about a second ago. “But did you say you’re going abroad for Xmas?” he asks.

When I remind him that it’s my wife who’s going with my mother, not me, he asks if I’m going to be alone for Xmas, or if, given that my mother will be in the Canary Islands, I’ll head to my father’s.

“I’ll be alone,” I answer.

“But why not go to your father’s?”

“He will be with his friend.”

“Couldn’t you be there too?”

“He’s not my friend but my dad’s friend.”

“What on earth do you mean?” says Bárður, and adds: “Then all that remains is to invite you to come to ours for Xmas. Why in heaven’s name did your parents have to separate?”

“There’s no need for you to worry about me,” I say, while debating whether my situation is indeed the way my friend imagines it. “I’ll find something to putter about with.”

“And what about New Year’s Eve? Will you be alone for New Year’s Eve too?”

“I’m planning to be, yes.”

“No one is coming to visit you?”

“I’ll possibly stroll out to the New Year’s Eve bonfire,” I say. “I’ll possibly throw myself onto the pyre.”

“What in heaven’s name do you mean?”

Andantinoprestoadagio pesante

When I call Bárður two weeks later it’s not with the aim of discussing the publication of chamber music in Iceland. I want to let him know about the Xmas party at my workplace, the yearly schnapps-drinking affair which Bárður has sometimes accompanied me to instead of my wife, since she’s always been ill-disposed to my boss and can’t stand being under the same roof as him over Xmas. As always, Bárður makes appreciative noises about the invitation, then remembers he’s busy on the day it takes place. As we continue to talk about this and that I remember our earlier conversation and I tell him how Oddgeir Hólmgeirsson unexpectedly visited me about a week ago and gave me a proof copy of the quartet’s recording (a so-called CDR disk; he’d burned ten copies) and two tickets to the concert at Kópavogur for my wife and me.

In light of what I’ve just said about our mutual acquaintance, it strikes me as strange (not that I mind) that Bárður is calm on the other end of the phone. The Bárður who I’d half-expected to take up the thread from the other day and continue tearing apart our old friend and his musical companions seems far away, and instead I must be talking with some other version of this person, a different Bárður, one who listens calmly to me and—incredible as it sounds—acts like he’s really quite curious as to what I can tell him about the music on the quartet’s album. When I describe The Noel Experience’s plans for publishing and distributing the CD, he asks me about the technical details – things I know nothing about. The crowning gesture is that he doesn’t seem at all put out when I tell him of the good reception the record has received from a well-known Israeli violinist, temporarily a soloist with the Icelandic Symphony Orchestra; he’d received a copy from Noel White (probably the same kind of burned disk as I myself got from Oddgeir) and has promised to mention the album to a Japanese music company he is familiar with, a company which specializes in North European chamber music.

“So they know each other?” asks Bárður. “Our pal Noel knows the Israeli violinist?”

I said I thought that was so, but it seemed a bit peculiar—almost suspicious—that Noel White was suddenly “our pal” Noel; only two weeks before, he’d been a total jerk.

“Good for him,” says Bárður and now all of a sudden—it was bound to happen—I recognized a glint of the Bárður I was used to.

“Things are looking good for them,” I say. “At least, it can’t hurt to get such a great response before the record even comes out.”

“Well, yes. That’s all very nice and fine,” Bárður cuts in. “Everything seems to be going smoothly. Except for the fact that there won’t be a release.”

“What do you mean?”

“It might be a good thing to get a positive reaction before the record comes out, but the record does actually have to come out.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what I say: there won’t be a release by the Nouvel Experiment or whatever they’re called, this string quartet. At least, not this Xmas.”

Even though Bárður is far from the sort of person who tends to make things up—he is definitely concerned with what is, not with what could be—I have great trouble understanding that what he tells me next is indeed true. With the help of “a certain party,” he found out where the production of the quartet’s record was happening: in Austria, the home country of Jürgen Schlippenbach (that peerless amateur viola), at a firm called DADC. He’d called the DADC office, managed to talk to the production manager, and let him know that the artists, that is to say the string quartet The Noel Experience (on that occasion he got the name right), were halting the release of the record at this time. The firm could send the master back; the release was frozen for the foreseeable future.

There was a silence on the phone line for a time after Bárður unraveled this tale for me, and I don’t plan to repeat what I said once he’d conclusively managed to convince me (with technical details) that what he’d just finished describing was real. Put plainly: he’d contrived to withdraw the production order made by Oddgeir or whoever it was who’d sent the master to Austria—the order for this wonderful record which I’d so much enjoyed listening to and which I’d allowed myself to look forward to getting a finished copy of, a record which, according to what Oddgeir told me when he dropped by, was going to be especially well-produced, in what is known as digipack format rather than that disagreeable plastic form which is so prone to crack and scratch. With fitting severity in my voice, I let Bárður know I plan to tell Oddgeir about this, that I’m firmly resolved to do so, but Bárður maintains that I gave him the idea in the first place:

“I mean, it was actually you,” he says, sounding triumphant, “who asked me the other day if it was too late to stop it.”

“I was joking,” I say.

“Are you completely sure about that?” Bárður comes back.

“I know when I’m joking and when I’m serious,” I reply.

“Please, do tell him all about it,” says Bárður, and I can’t be completely sure what the real meaning behind those words is.

“But what put it into your head,” I say, attempting to sound as angry and annoyed as I can, “to get in the way of something which people are doing in good faith, something which doesn’t interfere with anyone, something which is evidently done out of… I’m not ashamed to say it: love and affection.”

“Love and affection?” sneers Bárður.

“I’m serious,” I say. “What you’ve done is Satanic: destroying things for people who’ve done you no harm and who aren’t trying to do you any harm. No one gets it into his head to do something like this except… no one but the devil himself has such thoughts.”

“What an awful racket,” says Bárður, as though I’ve been unjustly berating him. “Don’t you have your own copy? You can just consider yourself one of the lucky ones.”

I try to articulate the magnitude of the outrage Bárður has committed, but

I find myself lost for words. Once I’ve put down the phone I stare into thin air—no doubt looking vacantly ahead, which best describes my frame of mind—and then I light a cigar, resolving not to tell Oddgeir about this conversation. In my eyes, that conversation never took place, no more than the conversation between Bárður and the production manager of DADC in Austria.

Finale: moderato

Right now there are just over two hours left in the year. At the moment I am standing ten meters away from the New Year’s Eve bonfire at Ægisíða, having been alone all evening, and it’s beginning to snow for the first time since early December, after a month-long warm rainy spell. While I think back to The Noel Experience’s show at the concert hall in Kópavogur in the middle of the month, I let a few lively bars of a Haydn quartet run through my mind, bars which Oddgeir, Noel, Jürgen, and Heiðdís played for my wife and I, and for approximately seven or eight other listeners who might have been at the concert hall. The Haydn quartet was in fact not to be found on the album which they’d been planning to announce; the group had rehearsed new material when it became clear that, because of some strange mistake which had taken place with the foreman at the Austrian production company, the product, as Oddgeir phrased it when we met by chance before the concert, would not reach Iceland in time for the Xmas market.

And yet it’s not unlikely that this music, I mean the recording which was sent to Austria and then back again, is playing right now in the Canary Islands. Or, at least, at some point during this holiday period. I’d played Oddgeir’s CDR disc for my wife and she immediately became so enthusiastic about the music (not to mention the performance) that she insisted on taking a copy with her to Las Palmas. “What’s more, I’m absolutely sure that your mother will enjoy it, especially because it sounds like the Four Seasons,” she’d said, talking about how it would certainly be something they could listen to together in the sun, how it would create the perfect Xmas atmosphere.

I wasn’t ready to part with the CD—I felt I needed it here more—but when my wife didn’t drop the matter I took steps to procure an extra copy, even though Oddgeir had asked me to keep the recording just for myself.My first thought was to get one of my coworkers to burn the CD for me, but his machine was being repaired, and neither advice nor CD burners come cheap.  I had no choice but to turn to the one character who definitely shouldn’t be involved in this affair any more than he already had been: Bárður. Apart from my coworker, he’s the only person I know who has a computer with a CD burner. Obviously I didn’t enjoy approaching him with this particular task but I decided to look past his somewhat heartless conduct which had led to a situation where we, my wife and I, can’t buy a copy of the album in a record store or get it at a discount from Oddgeir. At the same time—to ease my conscience—I very clearly asked Bárður to burn absolutely only a single copy, and to please, please delete the file from the computer after he’d completed burning the CD.

When I went to get the CD from Bárður the following day he’d burned me two copies in case it occurred to me that someone else might enjoy it. I couldn’t help but smile when I took the CDs from my friend’s hands, and I let him know that he certainly wouldn’t be that someone. And I repeated that he would have to promise to delete the file from his computer.

“It’ll have to come to light later whether I enjoy it,” he’d said; he hadn’t yet listened to his copy. “It’s not every day one is in the mood for chamber music,” he then added.

With some people it seems that what goes into the ears doesn’t have any influence on what happens between the ears.

Now, as I stand before the bonfire on New Year’s Eve and watch the flames crackle away in these final hours of the year, I recall what I said to Bárður on the phone a few weeks ago: that I would no doubt stroll out to the bonfire on the last evening of the year and perhaps throw myself onto the pyre. I look around me, into the half-lit darkness,and I wonder which of the men standing here near me in front of the crackling flames would leap after me and drag me away from the fire. If one ever gotthe idea to end one’s time on earth within this symbolic campfire—to burn one’s lone copy in the merciless flames—it would definitely be more advisable to slip unseen into the pyre some time during the day, or at least before the fire is lit.

What would Bárður’s view of this be? Without doubt, he is now standing outside on his balcony, a worried expression on his face, shooting fireworks into the air with his children. Possibly his father is there with him and his wife this evening, looking even more worried than his son, and in all likelihood much more worried than the two children who I can well imagine are already starting to worry about the future, based on the photographs I’ve seen of them.

I light myself another cigar and leave the warmth of the New Year’s Eve bonfire. On the way home, beneath a gentle, festive snowfall, I decide I’m in no mood for the annual New Year’s Eve comedy review on TV. Instead, I’m planning to get myself some whisky and have a cigar in my warm living room, and to finish reading the last part of the six- hundred-page novel, and then to let my first musical experience of the new year be the noise of fireworks—a noise which, once the wick has been lit, you can’t get in the way of, can’t stop.

Stofutónlistin

Allegretto villereccio

Þetta miðvikudagskvöld í síðustu viku nóvembermánaðar er fyrsta kvöld þessa vetrar sem með réttu er hægt að kalla vetrarkvöld. Fram að þessu hefur ekki kólnað að neinu ráði, það hefur hins vegar rignt í allar áttir, og oftar en einu sinni síðan í október hefur hvarflað að mér að láta loks verða af því að flytja burt af þessu skelfilega suðvesturhorni, bara eitthvað langt í burtu, þess vegna norður í land, jafnvel yfir í annað land þar sem boðið er upp á almennilegan vetur, eins og maður þykist muna eftir í barnæsku. En ég hef ekki enn orðað þá hugmynd við konuna mína, ég veit að hún er fullkomlega sátt við þessi reykvísku vetrarhlýindi, og ég býst heldur ekki við að ég muni hafa orð á þessu á næstu dögum ef svo fer að veðurspá dagsins í dag stenst, að það verði kalt fram yfir helgina, jafnvel snjói.

Ég hef ákveðið að nota þetta kvöld til að lesa síðustu kafla bókar sem ég hef undanfarið átt í mestu erfiðleikum með að komast í gegnum; sex hundruð blaðsíðna skáldsögu sem mér hefði aldrei dottið í hug að byrja á ef höfundur hennar væri ekki góður vinur minn. Ég er lagstur upp í sófa, með þungan doðrantinn í höndunum og samning við sjálfan mig þess efnis að ég fái mér vindil eftir tvo kafla, en þá allt í einu hringir síminn og ég neyðist til að standa upp og svara vegna þess að konan mín er ekki heima, og þar af leiðandi gæti það verið hún sem er að hringja. En það er ekki hún. Í símanum, sem ég hafði síðast skilið eftir á stofuborðinu, er Bárður vinur minn (það er líklega rétt að taka fram að hann er ekki höfundur bókarinnar sem ég minntist á) og í stað þess að kynna sig – sem hann er allajafna vanur að gera – þá kemur hann sér beint að efninu og spyr hvort ég horfi á Kastljósið, þáttinn sem kemur í framhaldi af fréttum Ríkissjónvarpsins.

„Hvort ég horfi á það yfirleitt?“ spyr ég, og Bárður umorðar spurningu sína; hann vill vita hvort ég sé vanur að horfa á Kastljósið, hvort ég ætli að horfa á það í kvöld. Ég segist alveg eins geta gert það, ég sé ekki að fara neitt sérstakt, nema þá að … ég hætti við að nefna bókarlesturinn, ég veit að Bárði er ekki sérlega vel við sex hundruð blaðsíðna höfundinn og ég vil ekki eiga það á hættu að hann fari að agnúast út í hann og bókina; nógu erfitt á ég með að komast í gegnum textann svo persóna höfundarins fari ekki að flækjast enn meira fyrir en komið er.

„Það er viðtal við hann Oddgeir út af útgáfunni,“ segir Bárður, og ég er í þann veginn að fara að spyrja hvaða útgáfu hann eigi við þegar hann upplýsir mig um það: „Hann er að fara að kynna geisladiskinn þeirra.“

„Þeirra hverja?“

„Strengjakvartettsins.“

Um leið og ég spyr sjálfan mig hvers vegna ég hafi ekki frétt af því að Oddgeir vinur okkar sé að vesenast í einhverju útgáfustandi bið ég Bárð að segja mér hvar hann hafi komist að þessu. Hann svarar með því að rifja upp fyrir mér skyldleika sinn við aðstoðardagskrárstjóra Sjónvarpsins, það hafi verið frændi hans sem lak upplýsingunum í hann, bara núna fyrir nokkrum mínútum.

„En af hverju viltu að ég horfi á þetta viðtal?“ spyr ég. Auðvitað á ég eftir að kíkja á það, fyrst ég á annað borð veit af því, mig langar bara til að vita hvers vegna Bárður er að biðja mig um það.

„Ég næ ekki að horfa á það sjálfur,“ svarar Bárður. Hann segist vera á leiðinni í málaskólann (þar sem hann kennir þýsku), hann sé með tíma klukkan hálf átta, og „hafi ekki efni á“ að vera of seinn, eins og hann orðar það.

„En af hverju tala þeir ekki við Englendinginn í hljómsveitinni, hvað heitir hann aftur? Er hann ekki aðalmaðurinn í bandinu?“ Ég flyt símtólið yfir í vinstri höndina til að hella vatni úr könnu í glas með þeirri hægri. Svo færi ég logandi sprittkerti um nokkra sentimetra nær mér á stofuborðinu.

„Það veit ég ekki,“ svarar Bárður, ögn pirraður. „Ætli þeir tali ekki við Oddgeir vegna þess að hann er alltaf svo hress og kátur. Svo talar hann náttúrlega íslensku.“

„Skrítið að hann hafi ekki minnst á þetta við mig,“ segi ég, og renni vindli út úr hálfum London Docks pakka sem ég hef fiskað upp úr skyrtuvasanum. „Hann er nú vanur að láta mig vita af öllum sínum afrekum.“

„Hann er greinilega of upptekinn til að tala við vini sína þessa stundina. Það hlýtur náttúrlega að taka svolítinn tíma að vera að búa til eitthvað sem hann ætlar sér svo örugglega að selja vinum sínum og skyldmennum.“

Ég kveiki mér í vindlinum með loganum í sprittkertinu og tóbaksilmurinn minnir mig á jólin. Ég horfi í gegnum reykinn á rökkvaðan stofugluggann og finnst eins og götuljósin fyrir utan öðlist einhvern veginn meiri merkingu þegar það hefur kólnað í kringum þau.

„En er eitthvað að því að gefa út disk núna fyrir jólin?“ spyr ég, og brosi með sjálfum mér yfir ástæðulausum pirringnum í Bárði. „Þú gefur ekki út tónlist – ég tala nú ekki um svona kammertónlist – nema fyrir jólin; hún selst ekki annars. Ef hún á annað borð selst.“

Bárður á ekkert svar við fullyrðingu minni svo ég held áfram með umræðuefnið jólin og segi honum frá því að núna í morgun hafi móðir mín boðið konunni minni með sér til Kanaríeyja, til að vera þar yfir jólin, hún sé búin að panta miðana, þær fari út tuttugasta og fyrsta desember. „Nei, ég verð heima,“  svara ég síðan þegar Bárður spyr hvort ég fari ekki með. „Það er ekki alveg minn stíll að liggja innan um einhverja Breta og Hollendinga í sólbaði yfir jólahátíðina.“

„Jæja, en allavega,“ segir Bárður, „mér líst ekki á að þeir séu að fara að gefa út þennan disk. Ég hef einhverja mjög slæma tilfinningu gagnvart því.“

„Slæma tilfinningu!“

„Það er bara það sem ég hef ég,“ ítrekar Bárður, og undirstrikar svo áhyggjur sínar með því að blása inn í símtólið.

Ég sé fyrir mér svipinn í andliti hans á þessu augnabliki; hann líkist föður sínum, manni sem þrátt fyrir að hafa gengið fremur vel í lífinu, að minnsta kosti fjárhagslega, virðist vera stöðugt heltekinn af áhyggjum hversdagsins og hefur á tæpum sjö áratugum fest framan í sér ákveðinn mæðusvip sem mig grunar að muni einnig einkenna andlit sonar hans þegar fram líða stundir.

„Það er náttúrlega orðið of seint að stoppa þetta af núna?“ spyr ég og glotti með sjálfum mér; hvaða tilgangi gæti það hugsanlega þjónað að koma í veg fyrir jafn saklaust fyrirbæri og útgáfu einhvers strengjakvartetts? Ég býst ekki við að fá svar frá Bárði, ég þekki hann nægilega vel til að vita að hann hlustar í raun ekki á mig nema þegar ég segi eitthvað sem hljómar eins og það gæti komið út úr hans eigin munni. Það kemur mér þess vegna á óvart þegar hann svarar með eftirfarandi orðum:

„Er það? Það þarf nefnilega alls ekkert að vera að það sé of seint.“

„Nei, er það nokkuð?“ segi ég í hálfkæringi. „Þú verður að gera allt sem í þínu valdi stendur til að koma í veg fyrir að það komi út einhver diskur með strengjakvartett fyrir jólin.“

„Ég held það sé nefnilega eins og ein hugmynd að fæðast í kollinum á mér,“ svarar Bárður.

„Það gengur náttúrlega ekki að einhver strengjakvartett sé að gefa út disk fyrir jólin,“ held ég áfram, og horfi brosandi í fallega appelsínugula vindilglóðina. „Sérstaklega ekki af því að þetta er svona einkaútgáfa, algerlega fjármögnuð af listamönnunum sjálfum. Eða ég geri ráð fyrir því að þetta sé þeirra eigin útgáfa, það er ekkert plötufyrirtæki hérna á Íslandi sem treystir sér að gefa út klassíska tónlist.“

„Það er nefnilega nokkuð til í því,“ segir Bárður. „Hvers vegna í ósköpunum ættu þeir að vera að gefa út einhvern disk fyrir jólin? En heyrðu, ég er að verða of seinn í málaskólann, við heyrumst þegar ég kem aftur heim.“

Ég kveð Bárð með þeim orðum að ég muni fylgjast með sjónvarpsþættinum, ég muni láta hann vita hvað Oddgeir sagði. Svo kveiki ég á tækinu.

Allegro agitato

        Bárður hefur rétt fyrir sér: Oddgeir Hólmgeirsson birtist á sjónvarpsskjánum og spjallar við umsjónarmann Kastljóssins um nýja geisladisksútgáfu strengjakvartettsins The Noel Experience. Ég hafði ekki haft hugmynd um að þessi músíkklúbbur Oddgeirs og félaga kallaðist svo hátíðlegu nafni. Að þættinum loknum kveiki ég aftur í vindlinum sem ég hafði hvílt í öskubakkanum og í stað þess að halda áfram með bókina þykku horfi ég á næsta dagskrárlið í sjónvarpinu, það er þáttur úr fræðslumyndaröð um lífríkið í hafinu. Þegar honum lýkur geng ég út að stofuglugganum og sé, mér til mikillar ánægju, að það er byrjað að snjóa. Ég kveiki mér í nýjum vindli og horfi svolitla stund á hæga, nánast draumkennda snjókomuna sem götuljósin lýsa upp eins og í kvikmyndaveri. En þegar ég tek upp símtólið, í þeim tilgangi að athuga hvort Bárður sé kominn heim úr málaskólanum, þá kveður allt í einu við hringing og það er rödd Bárðar sjálfs sem ávarpar mig þegar ég tek upp tólið.

        „Ég var að fara að hringja í þig,“ segi ég.

        „Hvað sagði Oddgeir?“ spyr Bárður ákafur, og ég þykist greina á hröðum andardrættinum að hann er nýkominn inn. Mér finnst heldur ekki ólíklegt að hann sé hvítur af snjó; hafi ekki gefið sér tíma til að dusta af sér áður en hann hljóp í símann til að hringja í mig.

        „Hann talaði um að diskurinn væri ekki kominn úr framleiðslu,“ segi ég. „Hann kæmi aðra vikuna í desember. Það voru víst einhver mistök í sambandi við upplýsingabæklinginn sem átti að fylgja með.“

        „Heyrðu, það er flott! “ segir Bárður. „Þá veit ég nákvæmlega hvað við gerum.“

        „Hvað við gerum? “

        „Undarlegt samt að vera að blaðra um þetta í sjónvarpið,“ segir hann.

        „Hvað áttu við með því að við ætlum að gera eitthvað?“ endurtek ég, en Bárður svarar með því að spyrja:

„Hvað sagði hann fleira?“

„Hann sagði frá því að þeir væru með tónleika í Kópavogi þrettánda desember. Einhvers konar kynningartónleika, þegar diskurinn væri kominn.“

        „Og var hann einn? Var enginn með honum? Var enginn annar úr kvartettnum með honum?“

        „Nei, hann taldi bara upp hina meðlimina. Hann heitir Noel White, sá sem spilar á sellóið. Það er þessi Englendingur, aðalmaðurinn, sá sem kvartettinn heitir eftir.“

        „Það helvítis fífl,“ segir Bárður, rétt eins og um þurra staðreynd sé að ræða.

        „Annars er þátturinn endurtekinn seinna í kvöld, einhvern tíma um miðnættið. Þú getur horft á hann sjálfur.“

        „Ég ætla ekki að fara að horfa upp á þetta sjálfbrosandi smetti á honum Oddgeiri, ég ætla ekki að gera honum það til geðs. Og hvað sagði hann fleira?“

        „Hann sagði að það væri nýr víóluleikari í hópnum. Einhver Jürgen eitthvað, einhver Austurríkismaður. Jürgen Schlippen eitthvað, það hljómaði eins og …“

        „Hann er ekkert nýr,“ grípur Bárður fram í fyrir mér. „Þetta er einhver algerlega talentlaus hálfviti sem þeir grófu upp úr einhverri kjallaraholu á Akureyri. Hann þóttist vera að kenna tónlist þar en svo kom í ljós að hann vann sem kokkur á einhverju annars flokks chinese take-away.“ Áður en hann ber fram eftirfarandi spurningu blótar hann í hálfum hljóðum, eins og hann hafi rekið sig í eitthvað eða velt einhverju um koll. „Talaði hann eitthvað um Heiðdísi?“

        „Jú, hann minntist líka á hana. Ég hélt reyndar að hún væri ennþá í barneignarleyfi.“

        „Það er nú enn eitt tilfellið. Ekki fyrr komin af fæðingardeildinni en hún þykist ætla að fara að blása sig út á einhverjum geisladiski.“

        „Þú verður bara að horfa á þetta á eftir,“ segi ég, og játa fyrir sjálfum mér að ég skil ekki alveg heift félaga míns í garð meðlima kvartettsins.

        „Þetta er nú meira andskotans liðið,“ segir Bárður – til að gera mig enn gáttaðri á afstöðu hans til tónlistarmannanna – svo blæs hann í símtólið og hreytir út úr sér: „Noel White! Jürgen Schlippenbach!“

        „Og hvaða hugmynd var þetta sem þú varst með?“ spyr ég.

        „Heiðdís Sigmundsdóttir!“ bætir Bárður við með þjósti.

        Ég endurtek spurningu mína.

        „Ég segi þér það seinna,“ svarar Bárður, og eins og svo oft áður í samtölum okkar – og ég hef yfirleitt leyft honum að komast upp með – er umræðuefnið orðið eitthvað allt annað en það var fyrir eins og einni sekúndu. „En hvað segirðu, ert þú að fara út um jólin?“ spyr hann.

        Þegar ég minni hann á að það er konan mín sem er að fara með mömmu, ekki ég, spyr hann hvort ég verði þá einn um jólin, hvort ég fari þá ekki til pabba míns fyrst móðir mín verður líka á Kanaríeyjum.

„Ég verð einn,“ svara ég.

„En af hverju ferðu ekki til pabba þíns?“

„Hann verður hjá vini sínum.“

„Og getur þú ekki farið þangað líka? “

„Hann er ekki vinur minn þó hann sé vinur pabba.“

„Hvers lags eiginlega er þetta!“ segir Bárður, og bætir síðan við: „Það liggur við að maður bjóði þér að koma til okkar um jólin. Af hverju í ósköpunum voru foreldrar þínir að skilja?“

„Farðu nú ekki að hafa áhyggjur af mér líka,“ segi ég, um leið og ég velti fyrir mér hvort hlutskipti mitt sé í raun og veru eins slæmt og vinur minn ímyndar sér. „Ég finn mér eitthvað að dunda við.“

„Og um áramótin líka? Verðurðu einn um áramótin líka?“

„Ég geri ráð fyrir því, já.“

„Það kemur enginn til þín?“

„Ég labba kannski út á brennuna,“ segi ég. „Ég hendi mér kannski á bálið.“

„Hvað meinarðu?“

Andantino – presto – adagio pesante

Þegar ég hringi í Bárð tveimur vikum síðar er það ekki í þeim tilgangi að ræða útgáfu kammertónlistar á Íslandi. Ég er að láta hann vita af jólaveislu atvinnurekanda míns; árlegri brennivínsdrykkju sem Bárður hefur stundum fylgt mér í, eiginlega í stað konu minnar sem hefur alltaf verið sérlega illa við yfirmann minn og aldrei getað hugsað sér að vera stödd undir sama þaki og hann í jólamánuðinum. Eins og venjulega tekur Bárður vel í boðið en man svo skyndilega eftir að hann er upptekinn daginn sem það er haldið. Þegar við síðan höldum áfram að spjalla um hitt og þetta í símanum rifjast upp fyrir mér samtal okkar um daginn og ég segi honum frá því að Oddgeir Hólmgeirsson hafi óvænt heimsótt mig fyrir viku síðan og gefið mér prufudisk með upptökum kvartettsins (svokallaðan CDR disk sem hann lét brenna í sirka tíu eintaka upplagi) og tvo miða á tónleikana í Kópavogi, handa mér og konunni minni.

 Í ljósi þess að ég minnist á kunningja okkar, fiðluleikarann Oddgeir, kemur mér það þægilega á óvart hversu Bárður er rólegur í símanum. Sá Bárður, sem ég átti hálfpartinn von á að tæki upp þráðinn frá því um daginn og héldi áfram að úthúða okkar gamla félaga og hans músíkölsku vinum, virðist vera víðs fjarri, en í stað hans er engu líkara en ég sé að tala við einhverja aðra útgáfu af manninum; einhvern annan Bárð sem hlustar rólegur á mig og virkar – jafn lygilega og það hljómar – eins og hann sé sérstaklega áhugasamur um það sem ég hef að segja honum um tónlistina á geisladiski kvartettsins. Og í kjölfar þess að ég upplýsi hann um hvað The Noel Experience hefur í hyggju að gera varðandi kynningu og dreifingu á disknum spyr hann mig út í tæknileg smáatriði – hluti sem ég kann ekki svörin við. Það sem síðan kórónar að því er virðist breytt viðhorf hans í garð Oddgeirs og félaga er að honum kemur það hreint ekki á óvart þegar ég segi honum hversu góðar undirtektir hin fyrirhugaða útgáfa hafi fengið hjá þekktum ísraelskum fiðluleikara sem staddur er á landinu vegna einleikstónleika með Sinfóníuhljómsveit Íslands; hann hafi fengið eintak frá Noel White (væntanlega sams konar brenndan disk og ég fékk sjálfur frá Oddgeiri) og lofað því að koma upptökunum á framfæri við japanskt fyrirtæki sem hann er kunnugur og sérhæfir sig í útgáfu á norður-evrópskri kammertónlist.

„Þannig að þeir þekkjast?“ spyr Bárður. „Noel kallinn þekkir sem sagt þennan ísraelska fiðluleikara? “

Ég segist halda það en finnst þó svolítið einkennilegt – nánast grunsamlegt – að Noel White skuli allt í einu vera orðinn að Noel kallinum; hann sem fyrir hálfum mánuði var helvítis fífl.

„Gott fyrir hann,“ segir Bárður, og fyrst núna – það hlaut að koma að því – glittir í þann Bárð sem ég hef hingað til talið mig þekkja.

„Þetta virðist allavega líta vel út hjá þeim,“ segi ég. „Það skemmir að minnsta kosti ekki að fá svona góð viðbrögð áður en diskurinn kemur út.“

        „Já, já, það er allt gott og blessað,“ grípur Bárður fram í fyrir mér. „Allt í fínasta lagi með það. Fyrir utan þá staðreynd að það verður engin útgáfa.“

        „Hvað meinarðu?“

        „Það getur verið að það sé jákvætt að fá góð viðbrögð áður en diskurinn kemur út, en þá verður diskurinn líka að koma út.“

        „Hvað meinarðu?“

        „Ég meina það sem ég segi: það verður engin útgáfa hjá þessum Nouvel Experiment eða hvað sem hann er kallaður, þessi strengjakvartett. Að minnsta kosti ekki fyrir þessi jól.“

        Jafnvel þó Bárður sé langt frá því að vera sú manngerð sem dytti í hug að skálda upp hluti – hans veruleiki er bundinn við það sem er, ekki það sem gæti verið – á ég afskaplega bágt með að viðurkenna fyrir sjálfum mér að það sem hann segir mér í framhaldinu sé í raun og veru satt. Með hjálp ákveðins aðila, eins og hann kallar það, segist hann hafa fundið út hvar átti að framleiða geisladisk kvartettsins, það hafi verið í Austurríki, heimalandi Jürgens Schlippenbach – þess óviðjafnanlega víóluamatörs – nánar tiltekið hjá fyrirtæki sem kallast DADC. Hann hafi hringt á skrifstofu DADC, fengið að tala við framleiðslustjórann og látið hann vita að listamaðurinn, það er að segja strengjakvartettinn The Noel Experience (í þetta sinn fer hann rétt með nafnið), væri hættur við útgáfu geisladisksins að svo stöddu, að fyrirtækið mætti senda upptökurnar til baka; útgáfunni yrði frestað um óákveðinn tíma.

        Það myndast þögn í svolitla stund á símalínunni eftir að Bárður hefur rakið fyrir mér þessa sögu, og ég ætla ekki að endurtaka þau orð sem ég læt út úr mér inn í símtólið þegar honum hefur endanlega tekist að sannfæra mig um (með tæknilegum smáatriðum) að það sem hann hefur nýlokið við að segja mér sé allt satt og rétt. Með öðrum orðum: honum hefur tekist að draga til baka framleiðslubeiðnina frá Oddgeiri, eða hver það nú var sem sá um að senda upptökurnar til Austurríkis; þessar fínu hljóðritanir sem ég hef svo sannarlega haft gaman af að hlusta á og látið mig hlakka til að fá í endanlegri útgáfu; útgáfu sem mér skildist á Oddgeiri þegar hann heimsótti mig að yrði sérlega vönduð, í svonefndu digipack formati, ekki hinum hvimleiðu plastumbúðum sem eru svo gjarnar á að brotna eða rispast. Með tilheyrandi hörku í röddinni læt ég Bárð vita að ég muni segja Oddgeiri frá þessu og ég er reyndar staðráðinn í því á þessu augnabliki, þrátt fyrir að Bárður vilji meina að ég hafi átt hugmyndina að þessu:

„Varst það ekki annars þú,“ segir hann, allt að því sigri hrósandi, „sem spurðir mig um daginn hvort það væri nokkuð of seint að stoppa þetta af?“

„Ég var að grínast,“ segi ég.

„Ertu nú alveg viss um það?“ spyr Bárður á móti.

„Ég veit hvenær ég er að grínast og hvenær ég er að tala í alvöru,“ svara ég.

        „En endilega segðu honum frá þessu,“ segir Bárður, og ég geri mér ekki alveg grein fyrir hvort raunveruleg meining er á bakvið þau orð.

„En hvernig dettur þér í hug,“ segi ég og reyni að hljóma eins sár og reiður og mér er unnt, „að koma í veg fyrir eitthvað sem fólk er að gera í góðri trú, eitthvað sem káfar ekki upp á neinn, eitthvað sem er augljóslega gert af … mér liggur við að segja: ást og alúð.“

„Nei, andskotinn hafi það,“ segir Bárður. Svo endurtekur hann síðastnefndu orð mín með djúpri vanþóknun.

„Nei, í alvöru,“ segi ég. „Það er nánast eitthvað satanískt við þetta; að stoppa af saklausa jólaútgáfu, að eyðileggja allt fyrir fólki sem hefur ekki gert þér neitt og kemur ekki til með að gera þér neitt. Það dettur engum í hug að gera eitthvað svona nema … það er enginn nema Djöfullinn sjálfur sem fær svona hugmyndir.“

„Voðaleg læti eru þetta!“ segir Bárður, rétt eins og ég hafi ómaklega ráðist á hann. „Ert þú ekki sjálfur kominn með eintak? Þú verður bara að líta á þetta þannig að þú sért einn af þeim heppnu.“

Ég reyni hvað ég get að móta einhverja setningu í huganum sem hugsanlega gæti útskýrt með ótvíræðum hætti hvers lags ódæði Bárður hefur framið, en ég á í raun og veru ekki orð. Þegar ég hef lagt niður símtólið horfi ég fram fyrir mig í dágóða stund – líklega tómur í framan, ef ég á að lýsa hugarástandi mínu – síðan kveiki ég mér í vindli og ákveð að láta það vera að segja Oddgeiri frá samtali okkar Bárðar. Í mínum augum hefur þetta símtal aldrei átt sér stað, ekki frekar en símtal Bárðar við framleiðslustjóra DADC í Austurríki.

Finale: moderato

Á þessu augnabliki eru ekki nema rúmlega tvær klukkustundir eftir af árinu. Ég stend í um það bil tíu metra fjarlægð frá áramótabrennunni við Ægisíðuna, einn míns liðs (búinn að vera einn allt kvöldið), og það er byrjað að snjóa í fyrsta sinn síðan snemma í desember, eftir tæplega mánaðarlangt rigningar- og hitaskeið. Á meðan ég rifja upp tónleika The Noel Experience í Tónlistarsal Kópavogs í miðjum mánuðinum læt ég renna í gegnum hugann nokkrar fjörugar hendingar úr síðasta hluta Haydn kvartettsins sem Oddgeir, Noel, Jürgen og Heiðdís léku fyrir mig og konuna mína, og á að giska sjö eða átta aðra hlustendur sem mættir voru í tónleikasalinn. Haydn kvartettinn var reyndar ekki að finna á geisladisknum sem til stóð að kynna; hópurinn hafði æft upp nýja efnisskrá þegar ljóst var orðið, vegna einhverra einkennilegra mistaka sem höfðu átt sér stað í samskiptum fjórmenninganna við framleiðslufyrirtækið í Austurríki, að pródúktið, eins og Oddgeir orðaði það þegar við hittumst af tilviljun fyrir tónleikana, næði ekki inn á íslenska jólamarkaðinn.

Það er hins vegar ekki ólíklegt að sú tónlist, það er að segja hljóðritunin sem send hafði verið til Austurríkis og síðan aftur til baka, hljómi þessa stundina á Kanaríeyjum. Að minnsta kosti þessa dagana. Ég hafði spilað CDR diskinn frá Oddgeiri fyrir konuna mína og hún varð á samri stundu svo hrifin af tónlistinni (og ekki síður flutningnum) að hún krafðist þess að fá eintakið með sér til Las Palmas. „Ég er líka alveg viss um að mamma þín hefði gaman af þessu, sérstaklega af því þetta hljómar ekki ósvipað og Árstíðirnar eftir Vivaldi,“ sagði hún og talaði um að þetta væri aldeilis eitthvað sem þær gætu hlustað á saman þarna fyrir sunnan, það væri í þessu svo fín jólastemmning. Ég var þó ekki alveg tilbúinn til að láta frá mér diskinn – mér fannst ég hafa meiri þörf fyrir hann en þær – en þegar konan mín linnti ekki látum féllst ég á að láta búa til aukaeintak, jafnvel þótt Oddgeir hefði beðið mig um að hafa upptökurnar algerlega út af fyrir mig. Mér hafði fyrst dottið í hug að láta einn vinnufélaga minn brenna fyrir mig diskinn, en þegar í ljós kom að græjurnar hans voru í viðgerð voru góð ráð dýr (rétt eins og sjálf tækin sem þurfti til brennslunnar) og mér varð það fljótlega ljóst að til að þurfa ekki að bregðast konunni minni var ekki um annað að ræða en að snúa mér til þeirrar manneskju sem síst hefði átt að tengjast þessu máli meira en komið var, það er að segja til Bárðar. Fyrir utan vinnufélaga minn var hann sá eini sem ég vissi að ætti tölvu með geisladiskabrennara. Auðvitað leið mér ekki vel að leita til hans með nákvæmlega þetta erindi en ég ákvað að horfa framhjá hinu fólskulega athæfi hans sem hafði einmitt komið í veg fyrir að við hjónin gætum keypt aukaeintak af disknum í plötubúð eða fengið hann með afslætti hjá Oddgeiri. Hins vegar – til að friða samvisku mína – bað ég Bárð lengstra orða að brenna alveg örugglega ekki nema eitt eintak, hann yrði síðan að lofa mér að eyða skjalinu úr tölvunni að lokinni brennslu.

Þegar ég síðan sótti diskana til Bárðar daginn eftir hafði hann brennt fyrir mig tvö eintök; eitt til vara ef mér dytti í hug að einhver annar hefði gaman af þessu. Ég gat ekki annað en brosað þegar ég tók við diskunum úr hendi vinar míns, en lét hann vita að ef einhver annar hefði gaman af þessu þá væri það alveg örugglega ekki hann; vildi hann gjöra svo vel að búa ekki til fleiri eintök og fyrir alla muni: eyða skjalinu.

„Það á nú eftir að koma í ljós hvort ég hef gaman af þessu,“ sagði hann; hann væri ekki búinn að hlusta á sitt eintak. „Það er ekki á hverjum degi sem maður er í skapi fyrir svona kammermúsík,“ bætti hann við.

Hjá sumu fólki virðist það sem fer inn í eyrun ekki hafa nokkur áhrif á það sem gerist á milli þeirra.

Núna þegar ég stend við áramótabrennuna og horfi á eldtungurnar kveikja í síðustu klukkustundum þessa árs, rifjast upp fyrir mér það sem ég sagði við Bárð í símanum fyrir nokkrum vikum, að ég myndi eflaust labba út á brennu á gamlárskvöld og kannski henda mér á bálið. Ég horfi í kringum mig í upplýstu Vesturbæjarmyrkrinu og velti fyrir mér hverjir af þeim karlmönnum sem standa næst mér hér við snarkandi brennuna myndu hlaupa á eftir mér og toga mig í átt frá eldinum. Hafi maður á annað borð látið sér detta í hug að enda sitt skeið inni í þessum táknræna varðeldi – að brenna sitt eina eintak í miskunnarlausum logunum – væri auðvitað mun nær að lauma sér óséður inn í brennuna einhvern tíma seinnipart gamlársdags eða að minnsta kosti áður en kveikt er í.

Hvaða skoðun ætli Bárður hefði á því? Hann sem stendur eflaust núna úti á svölum hjá sér, áhyggjufullur á svip, og skýtur upp flugeldum með börnunum sínum. Hugsanlega er faðir hans hjá þeim hjónum þetta kvöld, með enn meiri áhyggjur en sonurinn, og væntanlega margfalt meiri áhyggjur en barnabörnin tvö sem af þeim ljósmyndum sem ég hef séð af þeim má auðveldlega ímynda sér að kvíði einhverju nú þegar, hafi áhyggjur af því sem er framundan.

Ég kveiki mér í nýjum vindli og yfirgef hlýju áramótaeldsins. Á leiðinni heim, undir mjúkri og hátíðlegri snjókomunni, ákveð ég með sjálfum mér að ég sé ekki í skapi fyrir áramótaskaupið í sjónvarpinu. Í staðinn ætla ég að fá mér viskí og vindil inni í hlýrri stofunni, ljúka við að lesa síðasta kafla sex hundruð blaðsíðna skáldsögunnar, og láta síðan fyrstu tónlistarlegu upplifun mína á nýju ári vera púðursprengingar; eitthvað sem þegar hefur verið ákveðið að muni hljóma og engin leið er að koma í veg fyrir eftir að kveikurinn hefur verið tendraður.

© Bragi Olafsson.

 

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