Jan Kjaerstad - The Seducer

And then what happens? The bomber returns, that’s what — the bomber strikes again. Just when Jonas is thinking that he could not be any happier, he trips over an invisible cord, one of the bomber’s tripwires; except that this particular wire is not reported in any newspaper, and neither is the shattering explosion. But for years afterwards Jonas Wergeland was to be haunted by the memory of the bomber and the thought of that day.

It was an evening just before Christmas, and they were at the ice rink. Jonas cherished, as I said earlier, something approaching a hatred of winter, the only part of it he could stand was the skating and not only because Roald Aas had danced with his sister. There was something about the sheen of the ice, particularly under the floodlights in the evening, which fascinated him; and something about going round the turns, feeling the centrifugal force. He also liked the atmosphere in the cloakroom of the clubhouse, where you could buy beef broth, hot and strong, from the guy who spent the rest of his time swanning about, collecting entrance money in a bag like the ones used by the bus conductors, leaving you with the impression that you were going on a journey. I ought also to mention that all of this took place during what was a golden era in Norwegian skating history, a time when Norwegian skaters had to fight over the three places on the winners’ podium, and boys — incredible as it may seem today — wanted racing skates for Christmas.

They had just finished playing a game of tag on the inner rink, the girls with white covers over their figure-skates with most of them wearing those helmet-shaped crocheted hats which were all the rage that year and never again, when Jonas — in a fit of hubris or, more correctly, in his eagerness to show Margrete that there is at least one winter sport that he is good at — hits on the idea of doing the 5,000 metres, and, as if that weren’t enough, he challenges a guy from the Labour Skating Club, who happens to glide by at that moment, using an ostentatious catlike technique.

The guy from the LSC is only too pleased to take Jonas on, is happy to get a bit of practice; he grins at Jonas’s presumption; grins at Margrete, who doesn’t seem too wild about the idea of this race, as they get off their marks in the 5,000 metres, a bit of an improvised start, since they are both skating in the same lane. After setting a pretty stiff pace in the first lap, the boy from LSC glances over his shoulder, to find to his surprise that Jonas is still on his tail; he does not know that Jonas is a wizard, unbeatable, and that Jonas really can skate, that he even likes to skate, practises a gently swaying style and has long since become so fast that he can skate right round a turn without taking any ordinary strokes in between; he remembers the first time he got the stride right all the way round, the feeling of breaking the sound barrier. The rink staff have started playing music over the loudspeakers, they have put on the autumn’s new release, the Beatles’ Help album, and it will take the boys almost as long to do the twelve and a half laps of the 5,000 metres as it takes to play the first side of the album. They skim on across the ice, Jonas ten metres behind the LSC guy. Jonas knows he has to take it easy, make each move with the minimum of effort — And now my life is changed in oh, so many ways, my independence seems to vanish in the haze — they are skating almost in step, gliding smoothly, swinging round the turns, the other guy in his smart green and black club colours, the letters on his back, close-fitting ‘devil’ cap and skin-tight top, Jonas in a weird, amateurish — but nonetheless lucky — outfit: knickerbockers like those worn by cross-country skier Harald Grønningen, a jersey knitted by Rakel in a pattern similar to the one in which alpine skier Stein Eriksen was often photographed and a dark-blue woollen hat with a little white bobble of the sort worn by ski-jumpers, most notably by Toralf Engan. Even Jonas’s clothing testifies to the fact that he is unbeatable, a wizard, as he glides round and round, staying loose to prevent stiffening up, both hands behind his back, he glances towards the gang of girls standing in a cluster on the inner rink — Were you telling lies? Ah, the night before — knows that they are watching, sees Margrete — Was I so unwise? Ah, the night before — Jonas Wergeland is doing the 5,000 metres on the Grorud circuit, he cannot put a foot wrong, although he really isn’t in the right form for this, but he finds his form nonetheless, has no trouble maintaining his speed, he’s a wizard, unbeatable, he hardly needs to try, it’s as if the glare of the floodlights were propelling him round; he swings his right arm out towards the entrance, relishes the sense of physical control, tilts his weight over to take full advantage of the curve, feels the centrifugal force helping him round and into the next long stretch, skates lap after lap under the floodlights, gliding from side to side, perfectly balanced — Gather round all you clowns, let me hear you say, ‘Hey, you’ve got to hide your love away ’ — shaves the verge of snow on the turns, glides on and on, as one of the girls takes a few dance steps towards them on her figure-skates and shouts ‘Come on, Jonas!’; he revels in the feel of the skate blade on the smooth ice, freshly sprayed, the crisp crackle; he makes the most of each glide, knows that he must not push it, endeavours to keep his push-off soft but springy, is starting to feel the air tearing at his lungs, can tell it won’t be long before his back is begging to be allowed to straighten up — oh, yes, you told me, you don’t want my lovin’ any more, that’s when it hurt me, and feeling like this I just can’t go on any more — skates on and on, pushing off, catching sight of his own tracks in the ice, it’s like something is wrong, he has lost his way, gone round in circles, but he is still ten metres behind, lap after lap, knows that the other guy ought to be in better form, but Jonas is skating on willpower, dredging up strength from way down in the basement, as the jargon has it, catches a whiff of beef broth, glances at Margrete in the midst of the cluster of girls, locks onto the heels of the LSC guy, notes that his opponent’s stride is shortening, he is looking down at the tips of his skates, a bad sign according to radio commentator Knut Bjørnsen; one more lap and Jonas is breathing down his neck — I don’t wanna say that I’ve been unhappy with you, but as from today, well, I’ve seen somebody that’s new — it’s all very well to say that Jonas ought to have realized that the songs which are ringing out across the ice, especially when taken as whole, could never bode well. Then, just as he passes his opponent in the crossover lane, exhausted, but happy and proud, only half a lap from the finish, with the Beatles chanting out the message, loud and clear — you’re gonna lose that girl, yes, yes, you’re gonna lose that girl, you’re gonna loooooooooooose that girl — some sixth sense tells Jonas Wergeland that this is going to go wrong, even though he is going to win, beating the LSC guy — who cannot believe his eyes — by ten metres. Jonas is coming out of the final turn, which he skims round beautifully, one arm swinging loose, picturing himself in the Classic Norwegian Position. And what, you may ask, exactly is the Classic Norwegian Position? Well, the Classic Norwegian Position is that assumed by Knut Johannesen, pictured on the turn in the 10,000 metres at the Olympics in Squaw Valley in 1960, when he took the gold and set a new world record, wearing that timeless white jersey with the Norwegian flag over the heart, and with his body — thanks mainly to the line of his right leg — extending upwards from the ice to form a perfect diagonal, an image which is to many Norwegians what the statue of a discus thrower is to the Greeks: it doesn’t get any more beautiful or more aesthetically pleasing than that — and just as Jonas is picturing himself being photographed in the Classic Norwegian Position, he catches a glimpse of Margrete walking off through the gate, and then she is gone.