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Fiction

Inferno

By Gyrðir Elíasson
Translated from Icelandic by Victoria Cribb
Nordic Council Literature Prizewinner Gyrðir Elíasson discovers hell on earth, also known as Ikea.

We had just moved into an apartment in the suburbs, with all the hassle of fetching and carrying and doing the sorts of things that you really wouldn’t bother with if you didn’t feel socially obliged to. On the seventh day after we had moved in, my wife said we must go to IKEA to buy an armchair that would go better with the sofa than our old one. I didn’t raise any objections, though I could see absolutely nothing wrong with our existing chair.

“Remember the chair I showed you?” she said.

“What chair?”

“The one in the catalog.”

“No,” I said.

“You never remember anything.”

“I suppose you’re right,” I said.

The day passed in hanging pictures and arranging books on shelves and it was nearly coffee time when we finally set out on the chair-buying expedition. There was a hint of autumn in the air; leaves had begun to fall from the trees, and their trunks cast faint shadows on the lawns in the afternoon sunshine.

The traffic was hideous at that hour; it always is in this small town which tries so hard to play the big city. I had turned on the radio. Bob Dylan was singing a song from Street Legal. I listened, staring straight ahead through my sunglasses.

“You’re always so preoccupied when you drive,” she said, turning down the volume.

“Am I?” I said.

“Yes, always.”

SUVs accelerated past us, one after another.

The old sanatorium at Vífilsstadir came into view, surrounded by yellowing grass and clumps of trees, reminiscent of an abandoned country mansion, somewhere in Sweden perhaps—at least I always thought of Margit Söderholm when I drove past. Beyond the sanatorium were oval, scrub-covered hills that looked brown in the autumn sunshine. The IKEA building loomed in the distance. No one can understand how they got permission to build it right next to the scenic footpaths of the Heidmörk reserve, but there the monstrosity squats and it’s too late to do anything about it now.

“What an eyesore,” I said.

“What eyesore?” she asked, looking at me.

“IKEA,” I replied.

“I don’t think so,” she said, adding: “Park as close to the store as possible.”

The building cast a faint blue shadow on the car as I parked and we climbed out. We walked in through the revolving doors. Revolving doors are no fun anymore: they’re all remote-controlled. Even Chaplin couldn’t get a laugh out of them. There were quite a few shoppers inside, all flocking to the escalator, staring into space as they ascended. There was no telling whether their eyes held optimism for a bright future, courtesy of Swedish design, or mere blankness, empty of hope.

We stood on separate steps on the escalator, looking in different directions.

*

Once in the living-room section we wandered among the chairs and sofas, unable to find the chair my wife was searching for. To be honest, I couldn’t for the life of me remember what it looked like but I didn’t let on and made a pretense of peering round the store for it. A young man in a yellow shirt walked by and my wife hailed him.

“It was this chair,” she said.

“Which chair?” the assistant asked.

“This one here,” she said, pulling the catalog out of her handbag, turning to the page and pointing to the chair.

“Oh, that’s sold out.”

“Sold out?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“You’ve always sold out of everything.”

“Well, not always,” I said, in an attempt at mitigation.

“Yes, always,” she repeated stubbornly.

“I’ll just check for you,” the assistant said. As he walked away, he glanced back at us, collided with the corner of a sofa, and stumbled, but kept going.

A quarter of an hour passed and he did not return. There was no sign of anyone who looked as if they worked there; in fact remarkably few people seemed to find their way into the sofa department, as if it were somehow off the beaten track. For a moment I felt as if I had stumbled into a children’s story by Jens Sigsgaard.

I sat down on a brown leather sofa which felt pretty comfortable to me, but my wife remained impatiently on her feet the whole time, scanning the shop floor with a hawklike gaze.

“They employ nothing but morons here,” she said.

“Oh, come on, is that entirely fair?” I asked.

“Yes, entirely.”

In the end we gave up waiting and walked on through the store following the marked path and letting the arrows do our thinking. We didn’t stop to look at anything else on the way.

*

We came to the restaurant, where we were met by the smell of Swedish meatballs and I discovered that I was hungry. I dawdled by the entrance, looking into the room. There were not many people around; a few seated at the tables, others lining up at the counter, waiting for meatballs, potatoes, gravy, and lingonberry jam to be shoveled onto their plates.

The autumn sun poured into the room and I found myself staring at a man who was sitting alone at a table by the window. He had hunched shoulders, red hair, and a wispy beard, and wore a black coat with a turned-up collar and a belt of the same color that trailed on the floor. He was nursing a beer, gazing into the glass as if he could see nothing else, or as if the glass were a mirror that reflected the whole world.

I had the feeling I knew the man, but couldn’t immediately place him. Then suddenly it dawned on me.

It was August Strindberg.

Strindberg—who had feared hell above all else, a fear he had described in his writings— had ended up after death here, in a branch of IKEA in Iceland. This was the man who had claimed that Lund was hell on earth but knew little of Iceland and nothing of IKEA, which, after all, hadn’t existed in his day. As I watched, he seemed to slump lower and lower over his glass, condemned for all eternity. The man who had written in his diary: “Anyone who says that life is wonderful is either a swine or a halfwit.”

“Look over there,” I said to my wife, pointing across the room.

“Where?”

“Over there, by the window.”

“Who is it?”

“It’s August Strindberg.”

“Is he the manager?” she asked, without interest. Then perking up slightly: “Actually, I should have a word with him about the state of this store.”

“No, he’s an author,” I explained, then corrected myself: “Or was.”

“The old one, you mean?”

“Yes.”

She gave me a sharp glance.

“Are you pretending you can see ghosts now?”

“Well, I saw The Ghost Sonata once.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It is him,” I said.

She took hold of my jacket sleeve and more or less dragged me away toward the revolving doors.

*

The shade in the parking lot had deepened and the air was cooler now. We got into the car and I drove slowly away. I thought of turning on the radio again but decided not to.

“I’m never going back there,” she said, fastening her seat belt with a jerk.

“Never say never,” I replied daringly. My thoughts returned to Strindberg: how he had sat, devoid of all hope of redemption, the black belt of his coat trailing on the floor like a chain, his wide lapels not unlike the wings of a devil ray.

The low hills above the road looked magical in the soft light, their countless footpaths criss-crossing among the trees. I would have liked to go for a walk there with Strindberg; lead him out of this modern hell. I would have told him that I had once visited Lund and that he was quite wrong about the place.

But I didn’t.

I never went back.

Original Icelandic © Gyrðir Elíasson. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2011 by Victoria Cribb. All rights reserved.

English Icelandic (Original)

We had just moved into an apartment in the suburbs, with all the hassle of fetching and carrying and doing the sorts of things that you really wouldn’t bother with if you didn’t feel socially obliged to. On the seventh day after we had moved in, my wife said we must go to IKEA to buy an armchair that would go better with the sofa than our old one. I didn’t raise any objections, though I could see absolutely nothing wrong with our existing chair.

“Remember the chair I showed you?” she said.

“What chair?”

“The one in the catalog.”

“No,” I said.

“You never remember anything.”

“I suppose you’re right,” I said.

The day passed in hanging pictures and arranging books on shelves and it was nearly coffee time when we finally set out on the chair-buying expedition. There was a hint of autumn in the air; leaves had begun to fall from the trees, and their trunks cast faint shadows on the lawns in the afternoon sunshine.

The traffic was hideous at that hour; it always is in this small town which tries so hard to play the big city. I had turned on the radio. Bob Dylan was singing a song from Street Legal. I listened, staring straight ahead through my sunglasses.

“You’re always so preoccupied when you drive,” she said, turning down the volume.

“Am I?” I said.

“Yes, always.”

SUVs accelerated past us, one after another.

The old sanatorium at Vífilsstadir came into view, surrounded by yellowing grass and clumps of trees, reminiscent of an abandoned country mansion, somewhere in Sweden perhaps—at least I always thought of Margit Söderholm when I drove past. Beyond the sanatorium were oval, scrub-covered hills that looked brown in the autumn sunshine. The IKEA building loomed in the distance. No one can understand how they got permission to build it right next to the scenic footpaths of the Heidmörk reserve, but there the monstrosity squats and it’s too late to do anything about it now.

“What an eyesore,” I said.

“What eyesore?” she asked, looking at me.

“IKEA,” I replied.

“I don’t think so,” she said, adding: “Park as close to the store as possible.”

The building cast a faint blue shadow on the car as I parked and we climbed out. We walked in through the revolving doors. Revolving doors are no fun anymore: they’re all remote-controlled. Even Chaplin couldn’t get a laugh out of them. There were quite a few shoppers inside, all flocking to the escalator, staring into space as they ascended. There was no telling whether their eyes held optimism for a bright future, courtesy of Swedish design, or mere blankness, empty of hope.

We stood on separate steps on the escalator, looking in different directions.

*

Once in the living-room section we wandered among the chairs and sofas, unable to find the chair my wife was searching for. To be honest, I couldn’t for the life of me remember what it looked like but I didn’t let on and made a pretense of peering round the store for it. A young man in a yellow shirt walked by and my wife hailed him.

“It was this chair,” she said.

“Which chair?” the assistant asked.

“This one here,” she said, pulling the catalog out of her handbag, turning to the page and pointing to the chair.

“Oh, that’s sold out.”

“Sold out?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“You’ve always sold out of everything.”

“Well, not always,” I said, in an attempt at mitigation.

“Yes, always,” she repeated stubbornly.

“I’ll just check for you,” the assistant said. As he walked away, he glanced back at us, collided with the corner of a sofa, and stumbled, but kept going.

A quarter of an hour passed and he did not return. There was no sign of anyone who looked as if they worked there; in fact remarkably few people seemed to find their way into the sofa department, as if it were somehow off the beaten track. For a moment I felt as if I had stumbled into a children’s story by Jens Sigsgaard.

I sat down on a brown leather sofa which felt pretty comfortable to me, but my wife remained impatiently on her feet the whole time, scanning the shop floor with a hawklike gaze.

“They employ nothing but morons here,” she said.

“Oh, come on, is that entirely fair?” I asked.

“Yes, entirely.”

In the end we gave up waiting and walked on through the store following the marked path and letting the arrows do our thinking. We didn’t stop to look at anything else on the way.

*

We came to the restaurant, where we were met by the smell of Swedish meatballs and I discovered that I was hungry. I dawdled by the entrance, looking into the room. There were not many people around; a few seated at the tables, others lining up at the counter, waiting for meatballs, potatoes, gravy, and lingonberry jam to be shoveled onto their plates.

The autumn sun poured into the room and I found myself staring at a man who was sitting alone at a table by the window. He had hunched shoulders, red hair, and a wispy beard, and wore a black coat with a turned-up collar and a belt of the same color that trailed on the floor. He was nursing a beer, gazing into the glass as if he could see nothing else, or as if the glass were a mirror that reflected the whole world.

I had the feeling I knew the man, but couldn’t immediately place him. Then suddenly it dawned on me.

It was August Strindberg.

Strindberg—who had feared hell above all else, a fear he had described in his writings— had ended up after death here, in a branch of IKEA in Iceland. This was the man who had claimed that Lund was hell on earth but knew little of Iceland and nothing of IKEA, which, after all, hadn’t existed in his day. As I watched, he seemed to slump lower and lower over his glass, condemned for all eternity. The man who had written in his diary: “Anyone who says that life is wonderful is either a swine or a halfwit.”

“Look over there,” I said to my wife, pointing across the room.

“Where?”

“Over there, by the window.”

“Who is it?”

“It’s August Strindberg.”

“Is he the manager?” she asked, without interest. Then perking up slightly: “Actually, I should have a word with him about the state of this store.”

“No, he’s an author,” I explained, then corrected myself: “Or was.”

“The old one, you mean?”

“Yes.”

She gave me a sharp glance.

“Are you pretending you can see ghosts now?”

“Well, I saw The Ghost Sonata once.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It is him,” I said.

She took hold of my jacket sleeve and more or less dragged me away toward the revolving doors.

*

The shade in the parking lot had deepened and the air was cooler now. We got into the car and I drove slowly away. I thought of turning on the radio again but decided not to.

“I’m never going back there,” she said, fastening her seat belt with a jerk.

“Never say never,” I replied daringly. My thoughts returned to Strindberg: how he had sat, devoid of all hope of redemption, the black belt of his coat trailing on the floor like a chain, his wide lapels not unlike the wings of a devil ray.

The low hills above the road looked magical in the soft light, their countless footpaths criss-crossing among the trees. I would have liked to go for a walk there with Strindberg; lead him out of this modern hell. I would have told him that I had once visited Lund and that he was quite wrong about the place.

But I didn’t.

I never went back.

Infernó

Við vorum nýflutt inn í íbúð í úthverfi. Það hafði
verið mikið vesen við að sækja og fara með hluti og
gera ýmislegt sem maður nennti alls ekki en taldist
vera nauðsynlegt á mælikvarða samfélagsins. Það var
á sjöunda degi eftir að við fluttum inn sem konan
mín sagði að nú þyrftum við að fara í Ikea og kaupa
hægindastól sem passaði betur við sófann en sá sem
við áttum fyrir. Mér fannst nákvæmlega ekkert að
stólnum sem við áttum, en sagði þó ekkert
við því.
„Þú manst eftir stólnum sem ég sýndi þér?“ sagði
hún.
„Hvaða stól?“
„Þessum sem var í bæklingnum,“ sagði hún.
„Nei,“ sagði ég.
„Þú manst aldrei neitt.“
„Það er víst rétt,“ sagði ég.
Tíminn leið við að hengja upp myndir og raða
bókum í hillur, og það var komið fram undir seinna
kaffi þegar við lögðum loksins af stað í stólakaupin.
Það var farið að hausta lítið eitt, lauf tekin að falla af
trjánum og daufir skuggar féllu af stofnum þeirra á
grasflötina í síðdegissólinni.
Umferðin var skelfileg þennan seinnipart, einsog
hún er reyndar alltaf í þessari smáborg sem er að
reyna að sýnast svo stór. Ég hafði kveikt á útvarpinu.
Bob Dylan var að syngja lag af plötunni Street Legal.
Ég hlustaði, og horfði framundan mér gegnum
sólgleraugun.
„Þú ert alltaf svo utan við þig þegar þú keyrir,“ sagði
hún og lækkaði í útvarpinu.
„Er það?“ sagði ég.
„Já, alltaf.“
Jepparnir þutu fram úr okkur, hver af öðrum.
Gamli Vífilsstaðaspítalinn kom í ljós með gulnandi
grasið í kring og trjágróður, minnti á aflagðan herragarð,
eftilvill sænskan, að minnsta kosti kom Margit
Söderholm alltaf upp í hugann þegar ég ók þarna
framhjá. Að baki hússins voru ávalar og kjarri vaxnar
hæðir, brúnleitar núna í haustbirtunni. Álengdar birtist
Ikeabyggingin. Enginn skilur hvernig leyfi fékkst til
að byggja svona rétt við undurfagrar gönguleiðir í
Heiðmörkinni. En hérna var þetta bákn komið, og
því yrði ekki breytt.
„Ljótt hús,“ sagði ég.
„Hvaða hús?“ spurði hún og leit á mig.
„Ikea,“ svaraði ég.
„Það finnst mér ekki,“ sagði hún. Svo bætti hún við:
„Leggðu bílnum alveg upp við húsið.“
Daufblár skuggi af húsinu féll á bílinn þegar ég
lagði honum og við stigum út. Við gengum inn um
hringdyrnar. Það er ekkert gaman að hringdyrum
lengur, þær eru allar tölvustýrðar og jafnvel Chaplin
gæti ekki gert neitt skemmtilegt með þær. Inni var
töluvert af fólki, og það streymdi að rúllustiganum,
lét sig renna upp á við og horfði út í loftið. Það var
ekki gott að segja hvort í augnaráðinu var von um
bjarta framtíð með hjálp sænskrar hönnunar, eða bara
tómlæti, án vonar.
Við stóðum hvort í sínu þrepi rúllustigans og horfðum
í ólíkar áttir.
*
Í stofudeildinni reikuðum við milli stóla og sófa, en
fundum ekki stólinn sem konan mín var að leita að.
Ég mundi reyndar enganveginn hvernig hann leit út,
en lét ekki á neinu bera og þóttist vera að skima
eftir honum. Ungur maður í gulri skyrtu gekk hjá, og
konan mín kallaði á hann.
„Það var þessi stóll,“ sagði hún.
„Hvaða stóll?“ sagði afgreiðslumaðurinn.
„Þessi hérna,“ sagði hún, dró bæklinginn upp úr
handtöskunni sinni og fletti honum, benti á stólinn.
„Já, hann er uppseldur.“
„Uppseldur?“
„Því miður.“
„Það er alltaf allt uppselt hjá ykkur.“
„Ekki alveg alltaf,“ sagði ég og reyndi að milda þetta
aðeins.
„Jú, alltaf,“ sagði hún með festu.
„Ég skal athuga málið aðeins betur,“ sagði afgreiðslumaðurinn.
Hann gekk burt, leit um öxl í átt til okkar, rak sig á
sófahorn og hrasaði við, hélt svo áfram.
Korter leið, en hann kom ekki aftur. Það kom enginn
sem leit út fyrir að vera við afgreiðslu, og yfirleitt
slæddust furðu fáir þarna í sófadeildina, nánast einsog
hún væri ekki í alfaraleið í búðinni. Andartak fannst
mér ég vera staddur í barnasögu eftir Jens Sigsgaard.
Ég sat í brúnum leðursófa, býsna þægilegum, en
konan mín stóð óþolinmóð allan tímann og horfði
haukfránum augum yfir salinn.
„Þetta eru tóm fífl hérna,“ sagði hún.
„Er það nú alveg víst?“ sagði ég.
„Alveg.“
Að lokum gáfumst við upp á að bíða og gengum
eftir merktum stígnum áfram gegnum búðina, létum
örvarnar hugsa fyrir okkur. Við skoðuðum ekkert annað
á leiðinni.
*
Þegar við komum að matsalnum barst ilmur af steiktum
sænskum kjötbollum að vitum, og ég fann að
ég var að verða svangur. Ég staldraði við í gættinni
og leit inn í salinn. Þar var frekar fátt, en þó sátu
nokkrir við borðin. Aðrir stóðu við afgreiðsluborðið
og biðu þess að kjötbollum og kartöflum með sósu
og týtuberjasultu yrði mokað upp á diskana.
Haustsólin skein inn um gluggann, og mér varð starsýnt
á mann sem sat einsamall við eitt borðið útvið
gluggann. Hann sat álútur, var rauðhærður og með
gisið skegg, í svörtum frakka með uppbrettum kraga,
og samlitt beltið lafði niður á gólfið. Hann var með
bjór fyrir framan sig, og starði ofan í glasið einsog
hann sæi ekkert annað, eða glasið væri skuggsjá þar
sem mætti sjá heilan heim.
Mér fannst ég kannast við manninn, en áttaði mig
ekki strax á honum. Svo rann skyndilega upp fyrir
mér ljós.
Þetta var August Strindberg.
Strindberg, sem hafði óttast helvíti meira en nokkuð
annað, og hafði skrifað um þann ótta sinn, en var nú
lentur hér eftir dauðann, í Ikea á Íslandi. Hann sem
hafði haldið að Lundur væri helvíti á jörð, en vissi fátt
um Ísland og ekkert um Ikea, enda var það ekki til
á hans dögum. Ég sá hvernig hann einsog seig meira
og meira saman yfir bjórglasinu, dæmdur maður um
alla eilífð. Hann sem hafði skrifað í dagbók sína: „Sá
sem segir að lífið sé dásamlegt, er annaðhvort svín
eða hálfviti.“
„Sjáðu þarna,“ sagði ég við konuna mína og benti
yfir salinn.
„Hvar?“
„Þarna útvið gluggann.“
„Hver er þetta?“
„Þetta er August Strindberg.“
„Er það forstjórinn?“ sagði hún áhugalaus. Svo lifnaði
aðeins yfir svipnum og hún bætti við: „Eiginlega
ætti ég að láta hann heyra hvernig þessi búð er orðin.“
„Nei, hann er rithöfundur,“ sagði ég og leiðrétti mig
síðan: „Eða var.“
„Þessi gamli meinarðu?“
„Já.“
Hún leit snöggt á mig.
„Þykistu vera farinn að sjá afturgöngur?“
„Ja, ég sá Draugasónötuna á sínum tíma.“
„Hvað ertu að meina, maður?“
„Þetta er samt hann,“ sagði ég.
Hún tók í jakkaermina mína og nánast dró mig
áfram, í átt að hringdyrunum.
*
Skugginn á planinu hafði dýpkað og það var orðið
svalara. Við stigum inn í bílinn og ég ók hægt af stað.
Ég ætlaði að skrúfa aftur frá útvarpinu en hætti við
það.
„Þarna kem ég aldrei aftur,“ sagði hún og spennti á
sig beltið með rykk.
„Aldrei að segja aldrei,“ áræddi ég að segja. Ég fór
að hugsa um Strindberg, hvernig hann hafði setið,
sviptur allri von um lausn og þetta svarta belti á frakkanum
sem lafði niður á gólfið líkt og hlekkir. Stórir
frakkaboðungarnir ekki ósvipaðir börðum á djöflaskötu.
Lágar hæðirnar fyrir ofan veginn voru seiðandi í
mildum bjarmanum, og ótal göngustígar lágu þar um
allt kjarrið. Ég hefði viljað fara þangað í göngu með
Strindberg, leiða hann út úr þessu víti nútímans.
Ég mundi hafa sagt honum að ég hefði einusinni
komið til Lundar og hann hefði alveg verið á villigötum með
þann stað.
En ég gerði það ekki.
Ég kom aldrei þarna aftur.

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