Free The Atom Station by Halldór Laxness Page B

night.
    THE SUPPER PARTY
    The nice Americans would come when it was nearly midnight; they had stopped leaving their coats in the vestibule, and went straight to the master’s study; and if they came across a housemaid in the hall they patted her on the back and brought out cigarettes and chewing gum. Usually they did not stay long. When they left, the Prime Minister would arrive as before, then some more Ministers, the sheep-plague director, some Members of Parliament, wholesalers and judges, the mournful lead-grey man who published the paper saying that we had to sell the country, the bishops, and the oil-processing plant director. They often sat in conclave far into the night, talking in low tones, and went away remarkably sober.
    And every time, on the day after these clandestine but dignified nocturnal visits by the great at this side of the street, it came about that other visits, public but rather less dignified, were paid at the other end of the street, whatever connection there might be between them: it was the populace paying a call on the Prime Minister. These people’s mission was always the same: to deliver addresses and present petitions to him not to sell the country; not to hand over their sovereignty; not to let foreigners build themselves an atom station here for use in an atomic war; Youth Fellowships, schools, the University Citizens’ Association, the Road-Sweepers’ Association, the Women’s Guilds, the Office-Workers’ Association, the Artists’ Association, the Equestrian Association: “In the name of God our Creator, who has given us a country and who wants us to own it, and which was not taken from anyone, do not sell from us this country which God wants us to own, our country; we beg you, Sir.”
    There was unrest in the town; people ran from their work in the middle of the day and gathered fearfully in groups or sang Our fjord-riven fatherland; the most unlikely people hoisted themselves up and made speeches about this one thing:
    You can impose on us limitless taxes; you can have companies that add many thousand per cent to the prices of the foreign goods we buy off you; you can buy two pliers and ten anvils a head, and buy Portuguese sardines for all the nation’s currency; you can devalue the krona as much as you like when you have managed to make it worthless; you can make us starve; you can make us stop living in houses—our forefathers did not live in houses, only turf hovels, and they were yet men; everything, everything, everything, except only this, this, this: do not hand over the sovereignty which we have battled for seven hundred years to regain, we charge you, Sir, in the name of everything which is sacred to this nation, do not make our young republic the mere appendage to a foreign atom station; only that, only that; and nothing but that.
    When such visits were being made at the other end of the street, all the doors in our house were carefully locked and Madam said, “Draw the blinds in the south windows.”
    One night in the darkest part of winter there was a new development for this house: both foreign and Icelandic guests were asked to a party together. It was not a dinner party but a supper party. The guests arrived about nine, all in evening dress, all men, and were given cocktails while they were making their greetings. As for food, there were tables covered with American sandwiches, tongue, chicken, and salads, with all the appropriate wines, followed by delicious desserts. People ate standing. Finally a punch was heated in a bowl, and whisky and gin were served. Hired waitresses did the serving, and expert cooks stood by in the kitchen. The Yanks left early: and shortly after they had gone the aristocracy of Iceland began to sing Fellows were in fettle and O’er the icy sandy wastes . Around midnight, the waitresses brought word to the kitchen that the guests were beginning to fondle them as they poured out drinks for them.