The Great Weaver From Kashmir by Halldór Laxness Page B

protect your ship. And I said to him that even if he had never heard my prayers before, it didn’t matter: I could forgive him everything if he would hear my prayer just this once. “Keep watch over them, my dear God,” said I. “Don’t let them perish!”
    Every morning I asked: “Did a ship come from abroad today?” But my blessed father was serious and strict, much like your father, and he had a lot to think about. That summer Örnólfur was home on his last summer holiday from the university. And Örnólfur was always so kind, the only one at home who had a soul. No better man exists than Örnólfur. He was always willing to talk to me. I often felt like Örnólfur was a little boy, he was so sincere and humble. He alwayswent and got a copy of Morgunblaðið when I asked, and checked on the ships. And ship after ship came, but some were blown up. And finally I started thinking that your ship had sunk.
    The atmosphere at home was like this when Örnólfur was gone, that a little girl never dared to say anything about what was on her mind. But I got my chance one morning when Örnólfur was alone in the dining room after breakfast, and I asked: “Örnólfur, do you think that their ship will sink?” He was reading foreign newspapers, but he looked up, stroked my cheek, and said: “No, no, Diljá dear, they don’t cross a danger zone. Steinn Elliði will make it home just fine.”
    And he stroked my cheek again and looked at me for a long time.
    One morning early in September, Örnólfur came to Grandmother and me and said: “The Bothnia has reached Grótta. Grímúlfur and his wife sent a telegram from the ship yesterday, but it wasn’t delivered until this morning. They’ll be in the harbor in half an hour.”
    I was overcome by such joy when I heard this wonderful news that I forgot to thank God for hearing my prayer until half a month later. And when we reached the pier the ship was just anchoring. The passengers leaned over the railing, smiling and greeting their friends on the pier. Your father was standing there in his plain black overcoat with its silk collar, serious as usual. Next to him stood your mother in a new fur coat, and you slipped your hand under her arm. I can still see you there, in a blue sailor suit, your trousers reaching down to your heels, with new patent-leather shoes, in a gray, unbuttoned overcoat, not wearing a hat, your hair parted to one side like a grown-up man. I wouldn’t let you out of my sight. You disembarkedbefore your parents and said hello to us. I gave you my hand without a word. I was only ten and you were twelve. And I felt like you’d come home from war. I thought that during the last few months you’d heard nothing but the roar of cannons and seen nothing but fire.
    But all I could think was “Jeremiah!” because when it came down to it you were so incredibly full of yourself. You bowed to us as if you were greeting strangers overseas, and when you bumped into someone you said, “Um verzeihung,” because you’d been with your mother at a German spa during the summer, while your father was down south in Spain. You were so arrogant that whole day that I didn’t dare to look at you, except in secret. I didn’t dare to come into the dining room while you ate breakfast with us. I stayed in the kitchen with the maids. Oh, how terribly disappointed I was!
    But on the next day you came to us alone. Grandmother gave us chocolate and fruit. You were completely different than the day before: you’d put on shorts, a sweater, and waterproof shoes like every other Reykjavík boy, and you were starting lyceum in the fall. You spoke more naturally and told us about everything you’d seen. You’d seen everything. You’d seen ropedancers, and black men swallow fire, and bears ride bicycles, and horses dance polkas. And you’d