The Dark Blue Winter Overcoat and Other Stories from the North

The Dark Blue Winter Overcoat and Other Stories from the North

The Dark Blue Winter Overcoat and Other Stories from the North

The Dark Blue Winter Overcoat and Other Stories from the North

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Overview

The best fiction from across the Nordic region, selected and introduced by Sjón - Iceland's internationally renowned writer

The North: home of epic storytelling, birthplace of the saga, where stories of human survival have long been sculpted by the region's natural elements, from sheltering forests to islands lashed by unforgiving seas. This exquisite anthology, selected by Sjón and Ted Hodgkinson, collects fiction from across the Nordic region in all its thrilling diversity; storytelling that is often rooted in the world of folklore and fairytale, or sometimes stark realism, and typically served up with a dark and dry wit.

Born in Reykjavik in 1962, Sjón is a celebrated Icelandic novelist and poet. He won the Nordic Council's Literature Prize (the Nordic countries' equivalent of the Man Booker Prize) for his novel The Blue Fox, and the novel From the Mouth of the Whale was shortlisted for both the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award and the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize. His novel Moonstone – The Boy Who Never Was (2013) received every major literature prize in Iceland. Sjón's biggest work to date, the trilogy CoDex 1962, was published in its final form in autumn 2016 to great acclaim and will be published in English by Sceptre. He has published nine poetry collections, written four opera librettos and song lyrics for various artists. In 2001 he was nominated for an Oscar for his lyrics in the film Dancer in the Dark. Sjón's novels have been published in thirty-five languages.

Ted Hodgkinson is a broadcaster, editor, critic, writer and Senior Programmer for Literature and Spoken Word at Southbank Centre, Europe's largest arts centre. Formerly online editor at Granta magazine of new writing, his essays, interviews and reviews have appeared across a range of publications and websites, including the Times Literary Supplement, the Literary Review, the New Statesman, the Spectator, the Literary Hub and the Independent. He is a former British Council literature programmer for the Middle East, North Africa and South Asia. He currently sits on the judging panel of the Royal Society of Literature Encore Award for the best second novel and the selection panel for the Rockefeller Foundation's Bellagio Fellowship. He has previously judged the BBC National Short Story Award, the British Book Awards and the Costa Book Awards.


Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781782273837
Publisher: Steerforth Press
Publication date: 10/09/2018
Sold by: Penguin Random House Publisher Services
Format: eBook
Pages: 256
File size: 1 MB

About the Author

Born in Reykjavik in 1962, Sjón is a celebrated Icelandic novelist and poet. He won the Nordic Council's Literature Prize (the Nordic countries' equivalent of the Man Booker Prize) for his novel The Blue Fox, and the novel From the Mouth of the Whale was shortlisted for both the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award and the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize. His novel Moonstone – The Boy Who Never Was (2013) received every major literature prize in Iceland. Sjón's biggest work to date, the trilogy CoDex 1962, was published in its final form in autumn 2016 to great acclaim and will be published in English by Sceptre. He has published nine poetry collections, written four opera librettos and song lyrics for various artists. In 2001 he was nominated for an Oscar for his lyrics in the film Dancer in the Dark. Sjón's novels have been published in thirty-five languages.
Born in Reykjavik in 1962, Sjón is a celebrated Icelandic novelist and poet. He won the Nordic Council’s Literature Prize (the Nordic countries’ equivalent of the Man Booker Prize) for his novel The Blue Fox, and the novel From the Mouth of the Whale was shortlisted for both the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award and the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize. His novel Moonstone – The Boy Who Never Was (2013) received every major literature prize in Iceland. Sjón’s biggest work to date, the trilogy CoDex 1962, was published in its final form in autumn 2016 to great acclaim and will be published in English by Sceptre. He has published nine poetry collections, written four opera librettos and song lyrics for various artists. In 2001 he was nominated for an Oscar for his lyrics in the film Dancer in the Dark. Sjón’s novels have been published in thirty-five languages.
Ted Hodgkinson is a broadcaster, editor, critic, writer and Senior Programmer for Literature and Spoken Word at Southbank Centre, Europe’s largest arts centre. Formerly online editor at Granta magazine of new writing, his essays, interviews and reviews have appeared across a range of publications and websites, including the Times Literary Supplement, the Literary Review, the New Statesman, the Spectator, the Literary Hub and the Independent. He is a former British Council literature programmer for the Middle East, North Africa and South Asia. He currently sits on the judging panel of the Royal Society of Literature Encore Award for the best second novel and the selection panel for the Rockefeller Foundation’s Bellagio Fellowship. He has previously judged the BBC National Short Story Award, the British Book Awards and the Costa Book Awards.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

SUNDAY

NAJA MARIE AIDT

It was completely still on the terrace in front of the house where Iben was sitting on a bench with her back against the wall, enjoying watching the children bounce on the trampoline. She could hear Peter shouting something, making the children squeal with delight. It was such a beautiful day. The September sun crashed down from a cloudless sky. The cat snuck under the bench. They had all sat there eating breakfast a little while ago, and now Kamilla was inside doing the dishes with the girls. Iben closed her eyes and leaned her head back. She remembered a sad and pretty song that had always made her cry with joy when she was young. She whistled the opening lines to herself. Then someone was pulling on her sleeves. It was her son wanting to go down and throw stones into the pond at the far end of the yard. She got up and took him by the hand.

Mosquitoes swarmed over the water. She threw a stick in and told the boy that it was now sailing out into the wide world. But the boy replied that it would never come up from that mud-hole again. The girl bounced light as a feather up and down on the trampoline. Peter stood near them smoking. Then Kamilla came out on the balcony with a camera. "Smile!" she shouted. Iben and the boy went over to the others, and then all four of them looked up at her. Peter made the children say cheese. Kamilla suggested that they go to the bakery to get some pastries.

They put both children in the pram. The neighbourhood was abuzz with Sunday and late summer; people were busy with garden work and afternoon coffee, a group of teenagers played ball, and some younger boys sat in an apple tree and threw rocks at a small group of girls playing hopscotch. The strong orange afternoon light made everything look clear and almost surreal. Peter's brown eyes shone like illuminated stained glass, and she began to wonder about the yellow spot she thought he had in his left eye, which he definitely once had, but that she hadn't noticed in a long time.

"What a day!" he said, pushing her to the side so he could take over the pram. "And here we are taking a stroll," she said. "Yeah," he said, "here we are taking a stroll."

The bakery was closed so they had to go to the petrol station at the other end of town. They walked in step, side by side. They talked a little about the older girls. Iben said they should probably start thinking about birth control for the oldest one. "For Christ's sake, she's only fourteen!" Peter said, raising his voice. Iben told him that the youngest one was still lagging behind in school and was getting terrible grades. "You have to go over her homework with her more," she said. Peter snorted, "Birth control!" She looked up at a poplar tree and caught sight of a squirrel. She counted to ten slowly to herself. A large BMW was parking in front of them. "They've got too much fucking money around here," said Peter, stepping testily to the side as the car backed over a large puddle. "We'll never have that problem," she said. Then he stopped at the hotdog stand and got the children hot dogs with ketchup and relish. He bought a hamburger for himself. She had a bite, and he wiped ketchup from her cheek. They shared a pint of chocolate milk. "Like the old days," he said, with his mouth full of relish, "before we learned how to cook." "When we lived on fried cod roe," she said. "With mushy potatoes," he said. "Yeah, and that was because you insisted on cooking them in the duvets, like your mother taught you, but you can only make rice pudding that way." Then the girl began to cry and he pulled her out of the pram and swung her around. That scared her and she gulped down most of her hot dog. Iben hurried to walk ahead. It was such a beautiful day.

They stood in the convenience store at the petrol station, each with a child in their arms — he wanted a lemon pound cake and she, a marzipan cake. They ended up buying both. On the way back, he wanted to have a cigarette. "Why didn't you buy some yourself ?" she asked. "I didn't think of it," he answered, as she rooted around in her pocket for a match. She sighed. He began to hum an old pop song, and soon he was screaming it at the top of his lungs. People in their gardens turned to look at them. The girl fell asleep. The light grew deeper in colour, redder, and she said she'd heard that at some point people who are dying blaze up, become their old selves again, full of energy, so that their loved ones almost think that they're about to come round, and then suddenly they die; this feels unexpected and so it comes as a big shock. Peter threw his cigarette over a wrought-iron gate. "That's what they deserve," he said. "Did you hear anything I said?" she asked. "Rich bastards!" he yelled. The man passing them on the path in a polo shirt and tan trousers stared condescendingly, first at them, then at the worn pram, which they had bought for the older girls.

When they got back to Kamilla's house, the girls came bounding up the garden path. The eldest smacked the garden gate into Peter's stomach. Kamilla came walking across the lawn with a coffee pot. "They're going down to get the dog at Madsen's," Iben said. "What the hell is the dog doing at Madsen's?" Peter asked. "They used to have a dog salon, Peter. You know that Mum and Dad always got Bonnie trimmed there." Peter looked at Iben with an expression that made her laugh hysterically. "Peter! It's a terrier," she said, miffed. "It needs to be trimmed once in a while, and Madsen does it on the cheap." Iben took the boy out of the pram and walked a little way away. "A terrier!" she heard him say, and she began to titter and pushed herself forward in order not to laugh outright. She could feel that Peter was watching her. She heard him laugh loudly. "You two!" said Kamilla, who was disappointed about the pastries. She had been looking forward to cream puffs. And it was cold now, even though all three of them were wrapped in duvets. Iben still didn't dare look at Peter. Laughter stirred in her throat; for a moment she was afraid she'd begin to cry. The boy stuffed a large piece of lemon pound cake in his mouth. The girl sighed in her sleep. Peter said, "Can you take the girls next weekend? Dorte's parents are coming to stay with us." "Poor you," said Iben, wiping the boy's mouth. He was busy pulling apart a dead flower. A cold wind blew the petals onto the grass. She had finally got control of herself. "I thought you were coming to Aunt Janne's birthday on Sunday," said Kamilla. "Sorry," said Peter, shooting Iben a look, who suddenly had to put her hand to her mouth to hold back the laughter. Kamilla leaned back in the chair. "How long have you two been divorced?" she asked. "Seven years in November," said Iben, looking at Peter. "Isn't that right?" He nodded. "Seven years in November," he repeated. The sun shone right in his eyes, and she finally caught sight of the yellow spot in the brown. She felt strangely relieved. She knew it was there somewhere.

Translated by Denise Newman

CHAPTER 2

THE MAN IN THE BOAT

Per Olov Enquist

The story, as I recounted it to Mats ...

This all took place the summer I was nine. We lived by a lake called Bursjon, a fine lake, large, with small islands. I was nine and Håkan was ten. A river passed through the lake, entering at the northern end and flowing out at the southern. It came from far up in Lappmarken, and in spring timber was floated downstream. In May I could see it all from our window: the lake filling with logs, lumps of ice and ice floes, the timber slowly drifting southwards, and then, one day that same month, finally disappearing.

But not all the timber went. Some of it strayed off to the side, got stuck on the shore, stranded. They were top-quality logs, thick and impressive; they were buoyant, riding high in the water. We knew what would happen to them. After a week the log drivers would come, nudge the logs out from the shore, manoeuvre them together and shove them off in the wake of the others. The log drivers walked along the shore, or some of them rowed in boats; they could clean up the lake in a day, removing everything. They were called the "rear crew". When the rear crew left, the lake was empty once more.

That was the reason Håkan and I hid the three logs. There was a ditch running into the lake, at the very spot where we lived. We hauled the logs into the ditch and up twenty metres, and then we laid them all in a long row, stashed away in the grass at the side, which covered them up, camouflaging them. It took a whole day. We knew very well it was forbidden, but Håkan said that it didn't matter, because it was only the company who would lose out, and they had enough money anyway. They could wait a year or two for their timber.

Håkan knew all about it. The day the rear crew left, we lay low at the edge of the forest, watching the log drivers. They were walking along the shore, while a rowing boat was out on the water. Now and then one of them found a log and dragged it into the water, and then the men in the boat took over. We could hear their voices. It was still spring; we heard them talking, but we couldn't hear what they said. And I remember how Håkan and I lay there in the undergrowth at the edge of the forest, out of view and motionless, watching the log drivers draw nearer as they talked to one another. When they reached the ditch where we had hidden our three logs, they stopped for a while and had a smoke, and I can still remember how clearly I could hear Håkan's breathing and my own heartbeat — as distinctly as if they were echoing in the cool spring air.

But they walked on. And they didn't see the logs. The next day the lake was empty of timber and log drivers, and the rear crew had gone for another year. But we still had the logs. And the lake was ours. We alone had command of it now, for the whole summer.

We waited two days, just in case. But I remember being woken early on the morning of the third day by someone knocking on my window. It was Håkan, who had climbed up the fire escape to the first floor and was hanging there, making faces and sticking out his tongue and tapping on the pane of glass. I got up and walked across the floor, which was comfortably cool under my feet, and I could see that Håkan was holding something in his hand: a hammer. We were going to do it today. Right now.

I threw on some clothes. I must have eaten breakfast as well, but it couldn't have taken long. I ran out. Håkan was sitting behind the house, by the wall, wearing his red shirt and blue plimsolls, holding the hammer and a packet of three-inch nails, and smiling at me as I approached.

"Now, damn it," he said, "we're going to start building!"

That morning we began constructing the raft. We dragged the logs out into the water again, placed the longest in the middle and the other two on either side, and whacked some struts on top. One cross plank at the front, which we nailed onto the logs; three planks in the middle and two at the rear. We used three-inch nails, except at the back, where we used six-inch ones that Håkan had got hold of somewhere.

"When we don't need it any more," he said in a thick voice, his mouth full of nails, "we'll chuck the planks away and pull the nails out. If we leave the nails in, it's really bad for the saw blade. And it ruins the old boys' piecework rate."

He worked in silence for a moment, and then he said, "You mustn't forget the piecework rate."

Håkan was only a year older than me, but he knew a huge amount and he taught me lots of things. I remember that summer very well: we built a raft of three logs; it had a sail on it; Håkan was there. It was the summer I was nine and he was ten. It was 1943.

It only took a day to finish it.

* * *

Håkan weighed thirty-eight kilos and I weighed thirty-five. The logs lay deep in the water. Generally, only a tenth of the log sticks up. It depends partly on how green it is. Some are pretty much sunken timber, while others float high in the water. Together, we weighed seventy-three kilos. When the wind blew, the waves nearly always splashed over the deck and came up in the gap between the logs. The water was quite cold to begin with, no more than 14 to 15 degrees; we were wearing wellingtons. Apart from that, the raft was well kitted out. For the most part, we pushed ourselves along. The pole was exactly three metres long and reached quite a distance out. Two pieces of plank were supposed to be paddles (but it was almost impossible to paddle; very slow at any rate). We had provisions in a small food container right at the back (secured with a one-inch nail to the rear platform). They consisted of: 1 bottle of water, 1 piece of sausage (10 cm long), 1 half-loaf, 8 biscuits, 1 knife, 100 grams margarine, 20 sugar cubes, 1 small tin of treacle (a kind of dark syrup that the cows were given, but Håkan maintained it was better than ordinary syrup; I didn't like treacle myself, but he wanted to take a tin with us and I didn't argue). Those were our provisions. Our armoury on the raft was a wooden crossbow with six arrows, a willow slingshot for pine cones plus ammunition (thirty-five cones) and Håkan's old catapult with spare elastic and ten smallish stones.

There was no doubt, we ruled the lake.

However, the day I have to tell you about, when everything ended and everything began, we went out quite late. It was after seven in the evening; we had said we were going fishing, for which we were given permission. It was August. For the last two days, we had been experimenting with a sail on the raft, stretching a sheet between two long sticks. Sometimes we held onto the sticks ourselves, at other times we tried to lash them down. Neither way really worked, but this evening there was a good wind, coming straight off the land. After we had secured the provisions and ammunition, we set out. The sun was just setting on the other side, the wind was strong and we could see we were skimming along nicely, being blown out into the middle of the lake. It was all rather lovely; I didn't want to mention it to Håkan, but as the sun went down, it was beautiful. Whenever I confided to him my thoughts about that kind of thing, Håkan would laugh.

It is at this precise point that I find it hardest to recall exactly what happened — but I'll try to explain it all the same. Håkan was sitting in front and said he had just spied an enemy skiff we needed to ram. He ordered full sail, commanded the crew to stand by with the grappling irons, and he went astern to fetch the crossbow, which was lying in the middle of the raft. By this time, the waves were fairly high and it was dusk as well. Now I remember better: darkness had started to fall, except in the direction the sun had set, where the sky was still red — and Håkan stood up and walked astern to fetch his crossbow. The whole surface of the raft was quite slippery and slithery, and I saw him stagger and step to the side; and then he lost his balance. It all happened right in front of me. Håkan's silhouette swaying and toppling over against the deep pink horizon. I remember it clearly. And I remember equally clearly his face in the water; I could see he was scared and embarrassed at the same time (scared because he couldn't swim very well, embarrassed because he had been so clumsy).

There was a heavy swell on the lake. I held my hand out to him. It was just as the light was fading; poor visibility, extremely cold water, a deep pink streak where the sun had set. Håkan's face, down there in the water, smiling, as if he were thinking: Damn it, how stupid of me! And I stretched out my hand to him.

The next thing I remember must have been quite some time later. An hour perhaps, probably more. I was sitting aft. Håkan was sitting at the bow end, on the forward platform. He was sitting with his back to me, huddled up. Huddled up, as if he was freezing cold. When I looked around on the raft, I realized we must have lost a lot of our things in the confusion when Håkan fell in. The sail was gone. The bits of wood that were supposed to be paddles were gone. The pole to push ourselves along with was gone. The entire raft was empty, apart from the nailed-down food container with emergency provisions, because I was sitting on that — and apart from Håkan and me, sitting hunched up, at either end of the raft.

And yet the most remarkable thing was something else; and I have thought long and hard about this since, and come somehow to the conclusion that there is a gap in my memory somewhere. The remarkable thing was that the wind had stopped, totally. It was utterly calm: the waves had subsided, the water was like a mirror. It was completely still and completely dark. It felt like the middle of the night, but the moon had risen. It was shining. The moon was almost full, the night was black, the water flat; but the moon was shining. It looked so strange. In the shimmering path of moonlight reflecting on the lake was a silent raft, almost a wreck, and on it two boys crouched; the water was like silver, still and absolutely soundless.

(Continues…)


Excerpted from "The Dark Blue Winter Overcoat"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Sjón and Ted Hodgkinson.
Excerpted by permission of Pushkin Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents

INTRODUCTION Ted Hodgkinson and Sjón, 7,
Sunday Naja Marie Aidt (Denmark), 13,
The Man in the Boat Per Olov Enquist (Sweden), 18,
In a Deer Stand Dorthe Nors (Denmark), 34,
The White-Bear King Valemon Linda Boström Knausgaard (Sweden), 39,
The Author Himself Madame Nielsen (Denmark), 54,
A World Apart Rosa Liksom (Finland), 66,
The Dark Blue Winter Overcoat Johan Bargum (Finland), 87,
Weekend in Reykjavík Kristín Ómarsdóttir (Iceland), 103,
The Dogs of Thessaloniki Kjell Askildsen (Norway), 114,
From Ice Ulla-Lena Lundberg (Åland Islands, 123,
"Don't kill me, I beg you. This is my tree." Hassan Blasim (Finland/Iraq), 132,
From Zombieland Sørine Steenholdt (Greenland), 144,
Avocado Guðbergur Bergsson (Iceland), 165,
Some People Run in Shorts Sólrún Michelsen (Faroe Islands), 172,
1974 Frode Grytten (Norway), 179,
May Your Union Be Blessed Carl Jóhan Jensen (Faroe Islands), 200,
San Francisco Niviaq Korneliussen (Greenland), 208,
Notes from a Backwoods Saami Core Sigbjørn Skåden (Saami-Norwegian), 236,
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHIES, 243,
COPYRIGHT ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS, 251,

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From the Publisher

Sjon is the trickster that makes the world, and he is achingly brilliant. — Junot Diaz
Sjon is an extraordinary and original writer. — A. S. Byatt

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