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77
When Løbner returned to Copenhagen, his heyday was
past, and, in this respect, he was no different than his
homeland. At this point, Denmark was a half-blind
geographical bagatelle located on the Øresund. The
Swedish had taken Norway, and even though Frederik VII’s
jurisdiction still included an area extending down to
Eideren, there were voices who demanded that both Slesvig
and Holsten join the new German Confederation. As a
result, it was in question how long Jutland would be still
called a Danish peninsula.
A smile tugged at fru Løbner’s lips and for a short moment
she resembled her peculiar nickname:
Sildahøvdið
or
“Herring Head.”
“Now I know you,” she said, placing a hand on Old Tóvó’s
arm. “You’re Tórálvur from Geil.”
She gestured to the outer door and asked him to follow. On
the other side of the walk lay the county administrator’s
yard, and within it was the storehouse. She kept the key to
the padlock on a cord around her neck, and when she
opened the door, Old Tóvó put his hand to his heart.
Oh, what a beautiful sight! Several handsome barrels of
salted meat stood there on the floor. Besides whale meat
and blubber, she also had lamb and guillemots in brine. On
a trough sat some lightly salted mutton packed in white
cloth, and the shelves held several jars in which fru Løbner