The story of Ari Fróðason and his wife Hugborga # 88208
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The story of Ari Fróðason and his wife Hugborga. A novel by Guðbergur Bergsson.
When the rocker mentioned the soul, the poppers began to thicken. They spat clouds from their mouths and threw rocks at the rocker, who jumped over the rocks and shot them off his toes toward the sky.
This is a terrible situation among the youth, Inga said to Ari Fróðason as she watched the stone-throwing.
Everything is a tune! replied Ari Fróðason. The boys are starting a band, and I had lent them the garage. I was told that they had received a famous offer from Hollywood, a promise to play in a big movie. That's why I like the boys. No doubt they will conquer the peak and reach the top of the pop world. The boys have a big heart, on an international scale. They are a sign that they can sell themselves like a turnip.
Hasn't the pop world become incredibly vast? Inga asked. I hear it must be bigger than the world we live in. Then I mean the third world too, she added and laughed; and the other world for good measure.
"Yet one can lay the world at one's feet like a dog, if one has the will," said Ari Fróðason, putting one arm around Inga's waist. Yet it is said that it is more difficult to conquer a woman. Within her is the spirit world.
Do, do, go, Inga said, clapping her hands as she looked warmly at Ari Fróðason, and she added:
It would take a triple pop star to do that. No asteroid illuminates the spirit world. But it seems to me that the pop stars we look up to must sooner or later fade into the rain outside the garage. Such stars should be content to conquer the program Songs of the Young People on the radio, but not look outside, to wait and howl outside the many garages of America.
It seemed that the pop musicians had heard Inga's words. For at once it was as if a high-voltage life-threatening voltage had been applied to a huge electric guitar. Loud singing from television antennas on the rooftops, and the rockers turned green with envy and blood red with anger, when two shiny guitars flew like mirrors from the pop musicians' hands and scattered starlight and thunder over the neighborhood. Windows in the nearest houses shook with the thumping of the guitars, doors rattled as if the houses had been shaken by a toothache.
It didn't matter, shiny guitars were thrown up into the window, where Ari Fróðason and Inga stood with their hands clasped behind their backs. Inga had almost disappeared into Ari Fróðason's ice. Her legs looked like pillars under his belly. The guitars roared through the windows and would undoubtedly have stunned the couple who were about to pass, had the cables on the bulge at the bottom not prevented them from moving further. Many might have thought that there were human guitars on the move. They roared like bulls. Ari Fróðason's hair stood on end, while goosebumps covered Inga's entire body. Inga and Ari Fróðason threw themselves on the floor in a fit of rage and cried a little water from nothing but their eyes. That's how they saved their lives. Broken glass rained down on them. Then the guitars ended up back on the street, knocking over five flower pots in their fall. But fifty blue records from Bing and Gröndal held their ground on the walls, along with souvenirs from ten sunny countries and all kinds of gift items made of gilded tin. But it rang louder than if an army of dragons had chosen freedom and rushed out of the leather-bound books on the bookshelves, shaking their tails and hooves.
When the rocker mentioned the soul, the poppers began to thicken. They spat clouds from their mouths and threw rocks at the rocker, who jumped over the rocks and shot them off his toes toward the sky.
This is a terrible situation among the youth, Inga said to Ari Fróðason as she watched the stone-throwing.
Everything is a tune! replied Ari Fróðason. The boys are starting a band, and I had lent them the garage. I was told that they had received a famous offer from Hollywood, a promise to play in a big movie. That's why I like the boys. No doubt they will conquer the peak and reach the top of the pop world. The boys have a big heart, on an international scale. They are a sign that they can sell themselves like a turnip.
Hasn't the pop world become incredibly vast? Inga asked. I hear it must be bigger than the world we live in. Then I mean the third world too, she added and laughed; and the other world for good measure.
"Yet one can lay the world at one's feet like a dog, if one has the will," said Ari Fróðason, putting one arm around Inga's waist. Yet it is said that it is more difficult to conquer a woman. Within her is the spirit world.
Do, do, go, Inga said, clapping her hands as she looked warmly at Ari Fróðason, and she added:
It would take a triple pop star to do that. No asteroid illuminates the spirit world. But it seems to me that the pop stars we look up to must sooner or later fade into the rain outside the garage. Such stars should be content to conquer the program Songs of the Young People on the radio, but not look outside, to wait and howl outside the many garages of America.
It seemed that the pop musicians had heard Inga's words. For at once it was as if a high-voltage life-threatening voltage had been applied to a huge electric guitar. Loud singing from television antennas on the rooftops, and the rockers turned green with envy and blood red with anger, when two shiny guitars flew like mirrors from the pop musicians' hands and scattered starlight and thunder over the neighborhood. Windows in the nearest houses shook with the thumping of the guitars, doors rattled as if the houses had been shaken by a toothache.
It didn't matter, shiny guitars were thrown up into the window, where Ari Fróðason and Inga stood with their hands clasped behind their backs. Inga had almost disappeared into Ari Fróðason's ice. Her legs looked like pillars under his belly. The guitars roared through the windows and would undoubtedly have stunned the couple who were about to pass, had the cables on the bulge at the bottom not prevented them from moving further. Many might have thought that there were human guitars on the move. They roared like bulls. Ari Fróðason's hair stood on end, while goosebumps covered Inga's entire body. Inga and Ari Fróðason threw themselves on the floor in a fit of rage and cried a little water from nothing but their eyes. That's how they saved their lives. Broken glass rained down on them. Then the guitars ended up back on the street, knocking over five flower pots in their fall. But fifty blue records from Bing and Gröndal held their ground on the walls, along with souvenirs from ten sunny countries and all kinds of gift items made of gilded tin. But it rang louder than if an army of dragons had chosen freedom and rushed out of the leather-bound books on the bookshelves, shaking their tails and hooves.