Dag Solstad - Novel 11, Book 18

For this didn’t make sense. It was just a game. It wasn’t about the money. From the very start there had always been something evasive about Dr Schiøtz in regard to his cut of the money. As a condition of joining in, he had then said that he must have half of the insurance. But soon afterwards he had rejected the idea of taking out a more lucrative insurance, because it was too risky. But was it? Bjørn Hansen didn’t think so; no great risk anyway. But regardless, Dr Schiøtz was not willing to take any risk so that he might be able to stuff, let’s say, a million kroner straight into his pocket. But for a paltry 80,000 he sets to work. And is extremely eager to get his hands on the money. Rings up three times to ask if it has arrived. And when it does arrive he comes at once. It didn’t add up, not at all. Was he trying to make Bjørn Hansen think he had done it for the money? For 80,000 kroner? What was 80,000 kroner to Dr Schiøtz? Nothing. True, he was a drug addict, but he got his drugs from the hospital, free of charge. He had plenty of money and, besides, he had in no way, in all the years Bjørn Hansen had known him, given the impression of being greedy or tight-fisted. So why was he now trying to make Bjørn Hansen believe that this was exactly what he was — that he would do practically anything for 80,000 kroner?

Dr Schiøtz was looking for a motive he could live with, that was the only explanation Bjørn Hansen could see. To live with, vis-à-vis himself and vis-à-vis Bjørn Hansen. But also, in the last resort, the crux of the matter, Bjørn Hansen presumed: to live with if he fell and was ruined, if, that is, the whole affair should somehow or other come to light. And there was only one way it could come to light now: if either Bjørn Hansen or Dr Schiøtz ‘cracked’. If the doctor did, he would need a motive in order to explain his actions. Then he could say he had done it for the money, and Bjørn Hansen could confirm that, because he had noted Dr Schiøtz’s behaviour: the fact that he came as soon as Bjørn Hansen had obtained the money and that the money was the only thing he was thinking about. The doctor’s motive was greed, financial gain. And this, of course, society would swallow, because it was so despicable that nobody would think of admitting it unless forced to do so. Yet Dr Schiøtz found it absolutely necessary to cling to this despicable and untrue motive. If he were exposed he was finished, ruined, he knew that full well. Nevertheless he found it necessary, when he imagined himself finished, ruined, unmasked, to be able to say that he had done it for money. And for that he now needed Bjørn Hansen. To confirm his alleged motive after an imagined exposure, something so important to him that he was prepared to increase the risk of being exposed. For the chance that Bjørn Hansen might ‘crack’ was, of course, increased considerably now that, from Dr Schiøtz’s viewpoint, it must have dawned on him that Dr Schiøtz was not a fellow conspirator, someone he was morally obliged to protect, with the consequence that he must never ‘crack’, because then his co-conspirator would be ruined, but someone who went along purely for the money, even if he might have had a certain intellectual curiosity about the project, Bjørn Hansen supposed Dr Schiøtz thought that Bjørn Hansen was now thinking. But why was this so important to him? It could only mean that Dr Schiøtz did not want to have his real motives exposed to public scrutiny. He had done it for money. Not because he… Oh, what were Dr Schiøtz’s motives!

Bjørn Hansen had no way of knowing. But he knew they were of such a nature that Dr Schiøtz could not acknowledge them even to himself. He could acknowledge, if necessary, that he had condemned Bjørn Hansen to a wheelchair because he was willing to do so, for money, but not for anything else. That was when the true horror of this act dawned on Bjørn Hansen. Who was Bjørn Hansen? Who sat (voluntarily) in a wheelchair? What was so terrible about Dr Schiøtz, his fellow conspirator, preferring to be judged as a despicable and greedy human being rather than have the spotlight thrown upon what was really at stake?

‘It’s only half the amount,’ Bjørn Hansen said, limply. ‘It’s 40,000, not 80,000. I won’t risk withdrawing more. Not for the time being. You’ll get the rest in six months.’ The doctor looked at him and nodded. ‘That’s all right,’ he said. He stood there shifting from one foot to another, eager to get going. Bjørn Hansen threw up his hands. ‘Let’s say six months from today. Same place, same time.’ Dr Schiøtz nodded. He said a brief goodbye, without any pretence at being the thoughtful doctor visiting his patient.

After Dr Schiøtz had left, Bjørn Hansen remained alone. He was afraid of his own fate. He was completely alone, but someone else’s creation. He was someone else’s creation, but that someone else did not dare to be confronted by his handiwork — not in the eyes of others, nor in his own. What had he done? What was so terrible about this that even Dr Schiøtz had to prepare an escape route from the accusation that he was a party to Bjørn Hansen’s project? What was so frightening about Bjørn Hansen sitting voluntarily in a wheelchair, and about Dr Schiøtz having been instrumental in putting him there? To the doctor himself? Was it his motivation, or was it the act itself? Was it his reason for doing it, or was it the horror of Bjørn Hansen sitting in a wheelchair of his own free will? The reason for his involvement must, after all, have been similar to Bjørn Hansen’s own, although there is a difference between being a party to someone else placing himself in such a situation and actually being that someone else, Bjørn Hansen thought. He no longer gave much consideration to his own motives. He could no longer remember why he had been so obsessed with this idea. He knew he had been obsessed, but could no longer explain why. He sat there trying to think back, to find the thread that made him actually go through with it. It certainly wasn’t the life of a wheelchair user that fascinated him. Nor was it the thought of sitting in a wheelchair pretending to be paralysed when he wasn’t and thereby fooling everyone. It was not the irresistible fascination of making a fool of society — his friends, acquaintances, even his own son — that had driven him to this. What was it, then? He did not know. But he had done it. And when he thought about having done it and remembered the insane attraction he had felt when the idea struck him, he could accept that, deep inside, he felt a profound satisfaction at having carried out this act, which was now a fait accompli, and this profound satisfaction corresponded perfectly to the fascination he had felt at the thought that it was possible to carry out such an act, like an echo, an inward confirmation, a continuity, like a river that had finally found its course and now flowed calmly, unseen, through his innermost self. He had no problem dismissing any conception or idea he might have, and would continue to have, which might present a rational or praiseworthy explanation for it, because there was no such explanation. Every time he had tried, he would dismiss it mercilessly after a while. To call this act an ‘exploit’ or a ‘revolt,’ or a ‘challenge’, appeared to him to be pompous and slightly ridiculous. And he was incapable of seeing anything wonderful in being able to fool people into believing that he was paralysed and had to sit in a wheelchair when in reality there was nothing wrong with him (apart from his stomach, which still throbbed, and his teeth, which also still throbbed); it was really just stupid, embarrassing even, especially considering that he was drawing on society’s resources and subjecting people in the public health service, who were on the whole warm-hearted, often idealistic human beings, to a practical joke that in the cold light of day gave him a shameful, almost sickening taste in his mouth. Nevertheless, there was something about his having carried out this act that filled him with a moist, dark peace. That he neither could nor would deny, and it did not cease or come to an end even if Dr Schiøtz’s horror at this very same act also horrified him, in addition to his having to accept that now it was all up to him, as he sat there in his mute loneliness, to endure the sight of this act, which had given him insight, in a wholly fundamental way, into what is hidden behind the concept ‘to be led straight into perdition,’ with open eyes.