{"id":287626,"date":"2011-10-14T19:30:34","date_gmt":"2011-10-14T19:30:34","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.wdev.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent-dev\/2011\/10\/14\/children-in-reindeer-woods-by-kristin-omarsdottir-icelandic-literature\/"},"modified":"2018-04-16T16:16:54","modified_gmt":"2018-04-16T16:16:54","slug":"children-in-reindeer-woods-by-kristin-omarsdottir-icelandic-literature","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/2011\/10\/14\/children-in-reindeer-woods-by-kristin-omarsdottir-icelandic-literature\/","title":{"rendered":""Children in Reindeer Woods" by Kristin \u00d3marsd\u00f3ttir [Icelandic Literature]"},"content":{"rendered":"

We’re bringing Lytton Smith’s translation of Children in Reindeer Woods<\/em> next April, which is a ways off, I know, but it still seems like the perfect time to introduce this strange, haunting novel. <\/p>\n

This novel takes place at a “temporary home for children” called Children in Reindeer Woods, where eleven-year-old Billie lives. The book opens with an intense clash of styles, as a very pastoral description is uprooted by the sudden arrival of a group of paratroopers who kill everyone—except for Billie. Rafael, one of the soldiers, then turns on his compatriots, kills them, and decides to get out of the war and become a farmer with Billie. <\/p>\n

What war is this? It’s very unclear. Initially it might seem like WWII<\/span> (which doesn’t make a great deal of sense), but people use cell phones, a nun passes through on her way to buy a computer, etc. This sort of murkiness adds to the fable-like quality of the novel. <\/p>\n

Kristin \u00d3marsd\u00f3ttir<\/a> is the author of several books of poetry, short stories, novels, and plays. She received Gr\u00edman, the Icelandic playwright award, in 2005 fo the play Tell Me Everything.<\/em> <\/p>\n

Here’s an excerpt from Children in Reindeer Woods<\/em>, her first book to be published in English translation.<\/p>\n

vii. Rafael shouldered the weapon and took the crockery into the kitchen. Then he aimed the gun at the girl. \u201cYou can play for an hour before you go to bed. You\u2019ll play here.\u201d<\/p>\n

With the toe of his army boot, he gestured to an empty spot on the living room floor. Billie got up from the table, pulled down the hem of her dress, and curtsied.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you tall for your age?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

Tall like my father was, she was about to say, but stopped her motormouth dead.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou said you were . . . eleven years old.\u201d Billie nodded her head. \u201cThen you\u2019re tall for your age. Do you still play or not?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow does the daughter of the house spend her time?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not the daughter of the house.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow does a bright young thing spend her time?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWith Barbie dolls,\u201d replied Billie, bowing because she felt she was replying to a king and kings like being replied to with bows at the end of sentences. \u201cI am not a precocious child. I am late-developing, almost retarded, though I am not dyslexic. I
\nbelieve in God, the Father, the creator of heaven and the earth.\u201d<\/p>\n

Billie bowed. Rafael smiled without effort, and just as effortlessly the smile vanished from his face. His ordinary facial expression was in keeping with his physical strength and his deliberate movements.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere are the Barbie dolls?\u201d he asked inquisitively. She pointed to the red plastic box on the bookshelf. He rummaged around in the box. \u201cYou know what? It was a pleasure to dine with you.\u201d<\/p>\n

That\u2019s how a fully-grown man talks to a fully-grown woman, not to a girl, little or big. She stretched her back. Perhaps she\u2019d gotten big. \u201cThe pleasure was all mine,\u201d she replied, and curtsied.<\/p>\n

\u201cPlay,\u201d he commanded, setting the red box on the floor. Billie sat down. She had heard offhand comments that eleven-year-old girls were too big for Barbie. Perhaps she was retarded. Her father and mother had said, they were always saying, the two of them together and each of them separately:<\/p>\n

Billie dear, don\u2019t constrain your inner child.<\/p>\n

Be a child as long as you want, even if you become the object of ridicule.<\/p>\n

What does object of ridicule mean, Mom and Dad, what does object of ridicule mean?<\/p>\n

When you get laughed at.<\/p>\n

Why will I get laughed at, why will I get laughed at, Mom and Dad?<\/p>\n

We don\u2019t know you will get laughed at, but if, if, you get laughed at, you have our word that you can be the way you want to be, so long as it doesn\u2019t hurt others. Other people\u2019s laughter is not a death sentence. You can\u2019t let others change your habits.<\/p>\n

If she asked them whether she was retarded, they laughed like baboons. And so she took note of this, she would learn the truth for herself later. When she got bigger she would go to an institution, perhaps, and get the confirmation she currently lacked. The phone rang. Rafael, who was standing at the front door holding the cat, breathing in the evening breeze and the warm country air, turned in a half-circle and stared at the telephone. It was like he hadn\u2019t seen a phone before. Like it made a difference to stare at it. You have to answer it. Then he looked at Billie. Back at the phone. He let the cat fall from his arms and went towards the machine, which stood on a pillar in the hall. It might be Soffia. She usually rang about that time, after dinner. The phone\u2019s ringer fell silent. The army boots continued past the girl, and the man sat down in the rocking chair.<\/p>\n

\u201cDoes the phone ring much?\u201d he asked, massaging his forehead.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt sometimes rings in the morning. Sometimes in the evening. Not often.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWho calls?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSomeone or other.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you know any names?<\/p>\n

She shrugged her shoulders; she couldn\u2019t possibly say, my Mom. Perhaps the man would be sorry to hear her mom wasn\u2019t dead. She dressed the Barbie dolls in new clothes, she combed their hair. The phone rang again. She acted as though the machine didn\u2019t exist. The phone went dead. Rafael\u2019s eyes closed.<\/p>\n

The cat slunk slowly across the f loor, nuzzled at the rocking chair and the army boots, then jumped up onto the soldier\u2019s lap. With his eyes still closed, he made room for the animal and put a hand on its fur. The other hand grasped the weapon, which rested on his chest like a bow and violin on a sleeping fiddle player\u2019s chest. While he slept, because he snored, the playing girl took charge, and the dolls began to speak, competing to speak as though they had eaten lots of eggs, talking in soft voices: <\/p>\n

viii. Ragga: I\u2019ve gotten into even more trouble because I\u2019m pregnant and going to have a child. I\u2019ll leave it on the doorstep of some rich folk. I wouldn\u2019t let anyone suffer my poverty and hardship.<\/p>\n

Sara: I\u2019ll take the child, dear Ragga; I cannot have children because in truth I have metalbelly.<\/p>\n

Ragga: What is metalbelly, Sara babe?<\/p>\n

Sara: Ugh, let\u2019s not talk about it at this elegant party. Thank you for coming, my darling angel.<\/p>\n

Ragga: Are you going to see Gugga? Teddy cut off her hair and sold it.<\/p>\n

Sara: Let\u2019s go and steal something from Teddy. Quick.<\/p>\n

Ragga: Good idea! I likewise am dead tired of this party. It\u2019s much more entertaining to go and play outside.<\/p>\n

Sara: I had to host this party, my darling cinnamon bun, so no one would think that I\u2019m retarded. Sara whispers to Ragga: I am, you see, retarded.<\/p>\n

Ragga: Me too. Don\u2019t tell anyone. Come and steal something from Teddy, Guggalugga\u2019s husband.<\/p>\n

They arrive at bald Guggalugga\u2019s home.<\/p>\n

Ragga: Guggalugga, you\u2019re quite the sight! You\u2019re bald.<\/p>\n

A bald Barbie doll is added to the group.<\/p>\n

Gugga: Don\u2019t say that, Ragga, please, be nice to me.<\/p>\n

Ragga: It\u2019s best to speak the truth my angel, my raisin bun, I hope you\u2019re not ill, dear Gugga. Where is that guy? Where\u2019s that jerk of a guy?<\/p>\n

The new Barbie doll, a boy-doll, who has been added to the crowd: I\u2019m good. I\u2019m good. As the saying goes: everything\u2019s hay in hard times. I\u2019m good. God bless us, God bless us all. I\u2019ve sinned and now I repent. All the worst things humankind has
\ndone had gathered inside me. I repented. God bless us, my child. Everything\u2019s hay\u2014<\/p>\n

Sara and Ragga beat Teddy to pieces.<\/p>\n

Gugga: Girls, be nice to Teddy. It\u2019s not like you think, my hair will grow back.<\/p>\n

Ragga: It won\u2019t grow back, you donkey, you\u2019re a doll.<\/p>\n

They stop beating Teddy, who cries like an old crone.<\/p>\n

Gugga: Girls, listen, please. Teddy\u2019s momma ordered him to steal my hair because she said she would disinherit him if he didn\u2019t and she gave him a lot of money for the hair. We were starving. Our stomachs howled. We would have died of hunger.
\nDidn\u2019t you notice that we were beginning to lose weight?<\/p>\n

Ragga: Is it better to be rich and bald?<\/p>\n

Ragga punches Teddy.<\/p>\n

Gugga: You\u2019re one to speak, Ragga, pregnant and about to sell some rich people your child.<\/p>\n

Ragga: I\u2019m not going to sell it. I\u2019m giving it away. That\u2019s quite different. My offspring won\u2019t be bought and sold like your hair.<\/p>\n

Sara: I shall give Gugga my hair. I\u2019m giving Guggalugga my hair.<\/p>\n

\u201cWait a moment, I need to fetch the scissors,\u201d said Billie, standing up.<\/p>\n

\n<\/a>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

We’re bringing Lytton Smith’s translation of Children in Reindeer Woods next April, which is a ways off, I know, but it still seems like the perfect time to introduce this strange, haunting novel. This novel takes place at a “temporary home for children” called Children in Reindeer Woods, where eleven-year-old Billie lives. The book opens […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":292,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[67486],"tags":[43556,6046,42996,27366,18236],"class_list":["post-287626","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-articles","tag-children-in-reindeer-woods","tag-icelandic-literature","tag-icelandic-week","tag-kristin-omarsdottir","tag-lytton-smith"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/287626","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/292"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=287626"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/287626\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":342646,"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/287626\/revisions\/342646"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=287626"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=287626"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rochester.edu\/College\/translation\/threepercent\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=287626"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}