Jan Kjaerstad - The Seducer

Be that as it may: Jonas reached his destination in the afternoon. For some time they had been driving through a rugged landscape, barren, hot, its mountains like earthenware that has cracked after firing. That was fine by Jonas. It occurred to him that the wheel had come full circle; that this was the rock-face of his childhood, Ravnkollen, taken back to its origins: to rock, to light, to shade, to silence. They rounded a headland to finally find themselves at the entrance to Wadi Shuaib, and down in the dip, surrounded by torn and craggy massifs, lay St Catherine’s Monastery, a cluster of buildings encircled by a stout wall like a little vessel, a lifeboat, a miraculous sign of human life, survivors in a sea of gigantic petrified waves.

Jonas approached the monastery alone. Outside the walls lay a garden, its cypress trees breaking the monotony of the rock. He listened to the distinctive sound of the surrounding countryside, a faint sough in the air. Some Bedouins from the Gebeliyah tribe came into view then disappeared through the wall, although Jonas could not see how. Moments later, however, a monk appeared and let Jonas in, after pointing inquiringly at the mountain and receiving a nod from Jonas in return. Beyond the gate, on the way to the guest wing, Jonas found a warren of buildings and narrow alleyways reminiscent of a Greek village. He noted that the church was constructed out of massive blocks of granite, exactly like that back home in Grorud. Again he was struck by a sense of homecoming, or of finding some part of himself, a vital part, perhaps his heart. Jonas followed close on the heels of the monk with no intention whatsoever of seeing the exceptional collection of icons or the priceless manuscripts in the library or the glittering church containing the relics of St Catherine, the most unbelievable richness and splendour in the heart of a scorched, dun-coloured wilderness; he barely knew of their existence, he had but one thought in his head: to reach the top of Jebel Musa. He could tell his strength was failing, was afraid he would not be up to it.

Is this the most crucial story in Jonas Wergeland’s life?

He was shown into what looked like a monk’s cell. White walls. A narrow slit of a window. Light and shade. He lay down on the simple bed. Needed to rest. Closed his eyes. Here, too, he was aware of a gentle, soughing sound. Father Makarios, who looked after the monastery’s guests, came in; rotund, black hat and a coarse blue robe; a beard with an incipient tinge of grey. He set a bowl of olives on the table, some bread, a jug of wine. He walked over to the bed, looked down at Jonas, kindly, compassionately, stroked his brow. ‘Rest,’ he said in several languages. ‘Just rest.’

At that war-fraught time, few people journeyed to the Sinai Peninsula and the spot which was traditionally considered to be the world’s spiritual pole — from a Western point of view, that is — but it so happened that there was one other person lodged in the guest wing, a German social anthropologist, actually based at the Feirân oasis, who was making a study of the nomadic way of life and who promptly invited himself into Jonas’s room — not because he was sick but because he was sickening for company — and sat down on the only chair. Jonas was feeling weak and wanted to rest, but the German wanted to talk. Primarily about Henrik Ibsen. Jonas had long since ceased to be amazed by total strangers, encountered in the most desolate spots on Earth, who, the minute he said where he came from, would suddenly reveal a passionate interest in something Norwegian. In a way it was, therefore, not so surprising that in the middle of the Sinai desert, standing at death’s door, Jonas should be confronted with his most famous countryman.

Although Jonas was not really listening. He caught only fragments of a long opinionated monologue on Henrik Ibsen as a nomad. ‘Well, what else would you call a man who had lived abroad for thirty years, but a nomad?’ declared the German, popping an olive into his mouth. Or what would Jonas call someone who spent his whole life moving from one place to another and would never countenance the addition of any personal touches to his homes, with the possible exception of the odd painting? No buts about it: Ibsen was a man who never pitched his tent too firmly, said the German reverently. Did Jonas know that the famous playwright had to have the windows open while he was writing and that, besides taking his daily stroll, he also walked about while he was working? And Peer Gynt, an obvious self-portrait, what was he but a Bedouin in Norwegian national dress? Actually Ibsen was a lot like Moses, said the German, flinging out an arm, as if to encompass the countryside beyond those four walls: a man who had learned from nomads before going on to become an exacting prophet with strict moral precepts, exactly like Ibsen. And weren’t they both obsessed with climbing to the tops of mountains to attain the ultimate insight? Or had Jonas forgotten Gerd in Brand — and at this the German spat out a stone and suddenly began to quote, triumphantly, in broken Norwegian — how she spoke of the Black Peak that ‘pointed straight to Heaven!’ And Irene in When We Dead Awaken who wanted to pass ‘through all the mists. And all the way up to the pinnacle of that tower, that glows in the sunrise.’ All that was missing here among the mountains of Sinai were huge masses of snow under which they could be buried, the German joked, on his way out the door at long last. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘have you seen the sepulchre?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Piles and piles of skulls.’

Jonas shut his eyes and slept.

At three in the morning, while it was still dark and the monks were making their way to the first mass of the day, Jonas began the ascent. For breakfast he had had a grapefruit, that was all, a delicious grapefruit from the Feirân oasis, without feeling overly maudlin, even if the thought of a last supper did cross his mind. Father Makarios met him at the gate and handed him a little loaf of bread stamped with the image of St Catherine, strictly speaking only for communion use.

‘How can you know if that really is God’s mountain?’ Jonas asked, pointing into the gloom, to where he could just make out the contours of the cliff face.

‘Go up and sit there for a while and you will understand.’

On his way up the hillside, next to a thorn bush Jonas met a Bedouin boy carrying a torch who, as far as Jonas could understand, was offering him a camel. Jonas refused. The boy followed him anyway. Out of several possible paths, Jonas chose the steepest, the one Moses himself had supposedly chosen, known as the Penitent’s Way.

At the cliff face the path gave way to stones laid down to form steps. Jonas climbed slowly upwards. The physical action put him in mind of the stairs of his childhood, in the block of flats at Solhaug. He tried to think about his childhood but was unable to focus his thoughts. All he could hear was that quiet sough in the air. A vast presence that scattered all thoughts. Until, out of the blue, he thought of Louis Kahn, of his buildings. And thinking of this he had an impression of climbing a pyramid. Then all thoughts, or the possibility of grasping them, deserted him as if the exertion had deprived him of his ability to think. He started to cry, it is no secret; he walked on, weeping, but not with grief. It was surprisingly cold. Some of the steps were slippery, iced-over almost. He worked his way slowly up the mountain in the early morning, with the darkness already beginning to recede and the boy a little ahead of him, as if wishing to show him the way, as if afraid that Jonas might go astray. There were some steep slopes where Jonas felt as though he was on a ladder. He climbed slowly, step by step, thinking of a thousand trivialities, husbanding his energy, step by step, several thousand steps, several thousand trivialities, little thoughts split up into even smaller thoughts. They passed through two stone gateways, the second one coming just before a plateau on which stood an ancient cypress tree and a tiny chapel. Jonas embarked on the last steep stretch, feeling himself growing weaker and weaker, his thoughts more and more unclear, as if he were being overcome by sleep. He was on the point of collapse when the boy appeared, took his hand, made him sit down.