Ю Несбё - The Jealousy Man and Other Stories

‘No,’ Odd Rimmen lied. Because naturally he had been well aware that the uncompromising and apparently puritanical choices he had been making since that evening at the Charles Dickens Theatre not necessarily would but very likely could result in exactly the same thing as was happening now.

‘Let me think about it.’

‘The recording is next week but they need an answer today. I’ve booked your flight to New York.’

‘I’ll get back to you.’

‘Great. You sound very happy by the way, Odd.’

There was a pause, a moment in which Odd wondered whether she might have unintentionally identified what he was really feeling. Triumph. No, not triumph, for that would suggest a goal he had consciously been aiming for. And all he had been aiming for was to organise things in such a way that he could write truthfully, without worrying about anyone or anything, and certainly not his own so-called popularity.

All the same. He had just been reading the neuroendocrinologist Robert Sapolsky’s description of how a recovering alcoholic’s reward centre in the brain can be activated simply by walking down the street where his favourite bar from the old days is; even though he has no intention of drinking, the acquired expectation from the days of his drinking will liberate the dopamine. Was that what was happening to him now? Was it the mere prospect of a worldwide attention focused on his person that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up? And he wasn’t sure, but was it maybe panic at the thought of ending up in the same old mess as before that made him grip the phone tighter and say a cold, hard no.

‘No?’ Sophie repeated, and from the slight confusion in her voice Odd realised she thought he was responding to what she had said about him sounding happy.

‘No I won’t be going on the talk show,’ he specified.

‘But... your book. Odd, honestly, this is a fantastic opportunity to tell the world that it exists. That real literature does exist. You’ve got to do it!’

‘If I did do it then I would have betrayed my vow of silence. I would have betrayed all those who, according to you, praise me for my integrity. I would have become the clown again.’ (He noticed that he was using the Conditional.)

‘In the first place there’s no one to betray, Odd. You’re the only one who’s committed to your silence. And as for being a clown that’s your vanity talking, not the man to whom literature is a calling.’

There was an edge to the editor’s tone Odd Rimmen hadn’t heard before. As though she’d just about had enough. Had already had enough. She simply didn’t believe he was being honest. That he, with his anti-Charles Dickens attitude, had become more like Charles Dickens than Dickens himself. Was that it? Was he just playing the part of the principled artist? Well, yes and no. His frontal lobe, the part of the brain that, according to Sapolsky, was responsible for considered decisions, that was probably honest. But what about the nucleus accumbens, the pleasure centre that demanded enjoyment and immediate reward? If the two of them were devil and angel, one on each shoulder whispering into his ears, it wasn’t easy to know which he was listening to, which was his true master. All Odd Rimmen could say with certainty was that he had been honest that evening he left the theatre. But hadn’t something happened once he discovered that his steadfast resistance to being publicly promoted had resulted in exactly the opposite, that he had become the priest who, with his vow of celibacy, had paradoxically become a sex symbol, and who in all secrecy — secretly even from himself — enjoyed it?

‘Odd,’ said Sophie, ‘you’ve got to head for the light. D’you hear? Head for the light! Not the darkness.’

Odd coughed. ‘I’ve got a book to write. Tell them that, Sophie. And yes, you’re right, I am happy.’

He ended the call. Felt a warm hand touch his neck.

‘I’m so proud of you,’ said Esther, sitting in the garden chair beside him.

‘Are you?’ Odd turned and kissed her.

‘In an age where all people do is run after the clicks and the likes? You bet I am.’ She stretched her arms in the air and yawned, supple as a cat. ‘Shall we go into town or just eat home this evening, what d’you think?’

Odd wondered who it was who’d leaked the news that he’d said no to a film of The Hill. Whether it was Sophie. Or whether indirectly he was responsible himself, since he had, after all, mentioned it to several people who might have spread it about.

Going to bed that evening he thought of what Sophie had said about heading for the light. Wasn’t that what you said to people who were about to die? That when they reached the other side they would see a bright light and they should turn their steps in that direction? Like a moth to the garden lamp that in another moment would scorch off its wings, Odd thought. But he had another thought too: had Sophie meant that, as a writer, he was dying?

Autumn came, and with it a withering of Odd Rimmen’s creativity.

He’d heard other writers talking about writer’s block but never quite believed in it himself. At least not for him. He was Odd Dreamin’. The golden goose. The stories just rolled out of him whether he liked it or not. So he assumed it was something that would pass and took the chance to spend more time with Esther. They went for long walks together, discussed literature and films. A couple of times they drove to Paris in Odd’s old Mercedes and visited the Louvre.

But the weeks passed and still he couldn’t write. His head was empty. Or rather, it was filled with things that didn’t make for good literature: good sex, good food, good drink, good conversation, real closeness. The suspicion arose: was it the fault of all this happiness? Had it made him lose the despairing courage that had driven him to explore those dark corners from which he had sent back his reports? But even worse than the euphoric happiness was the sedate security. The feeling each day that nothing was really all that important, just as long as he and Esther had each other.

They had their first quarrels. The way she did the housework. Whereabouts things were kept. Trifles, things that he had never normally bothered with. But enough for her to pack a bag and say she was off to London to spend a few days with her parents.

Odd thought it was a good thing. Now he’d find out if that was enough to get Odd Dreamin’ up and about again.

Sunday morning he had moved out from his study to the garden table under the dead apple trees, and then indoors again to the dining-room table. Didn’t help. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t manage more than a couple of meaningless sentences.

He considered ringing Esther to tell her he loved her but didn’t. Instead he asked himself if he would be willing to exchange happiness and Esther for the ability to write again.

Maybe the answer didn’t surprise him, only the speed with which it came: yes, he’d make that trade.

He loved Esther, and right now he hated writing. But he could live without Esther. On the other hand, without writing, he would die, wither and rot.

He heard the door open.

Esther. She must have changed her mind and taken an earlier train.

But from the sound of the footsteps Odd knew it couldn’t be her.

Someone was standing in the living-room doorway. Long, open raincoat over a suit. Dark hair and a sweaty quiff plastered against his forehead. Panting.

‘You stole her from me,’ said Ryan, his voice hoarse and quavering. He stepped forward and raised his right hand. Odd saw that it held a gun.

‘And for that you want to kill me?’ asked Odd. He was a little surprised to hear how matter-of-factly he spoke, but he was only saying what was on his mind. He really was more curious than afraid.