Jan Kjærstad - The Conqueror

Jonas was conscious of Gabriel pulling down his trousers. He half expected a hand to close over his balls and squeeze, but instead felt the touch of lips on him; even in his befuddled state he could tell that his penis was in somebody’s mouth, that he was being sucked off and that, in the state he was in, it was not as horrible as it might have been. He felt relieved, hoped it would stop there, things could maybe go on as before if it would just stop there, but it didn’t stop there; a remarkably muscular, hairy arm flipped him over onto his stomach. ‘Like an elephant’s trunk,’ Jonas thought wildly, not knowing what made him think of that.

He wanted to scream, but no sound came out. He tried to roll out of the bunk, or shove Gabriel off him, but the old man was strong, gripped him tight. Jonas felt totally helpless. Or was that how he wanted to be? And did he, nonetheless, hear a cry for help? Did it escape his lips, or did it only sound inside his head, like an echo of the scream he had heard in a grove of trees only a few months earlier, a scream that still resounded inside him? He relaxed. Let it happen. Knew, as Gabriel penetrated him from behind, that he would never fathom that sensation, say whether it hurt like hell or felt like heaven, whether he was being punctured or pumped full of something, whether he would die or live when it was over. For a moment it felt as if something long and thick was being pushed inside him, a baseball bat, a beer bottle, any one of the things with which, in their fantasies, Laila, Mamma Banana, had pleasured herself, something which made him think his body was going to rip apart, be pulverized. It was not just a feeling in his bowels; it was like having something stabbing into his brain. Like being given a lobotomy, the thought shot through his mind.

Say it did hurt — how did he endure it? Jonas Wergeland endured it because in a split-second of clarity he saw what this was: it was something he had to go through. It was a sacrifice. It was something he had to do because of Laila, in order to live down the shame, the fact that he had watched her suffer in Transylvania and had not intervened. And yet that was only half the truth, because he also knew that his lack of resistance now would be to his advantage later. It was part of a tacit agreement. If I had managed to get out of there before it happened, I’d have been Mr Average, nothing but a dilettante, for the rest of my life, he thought later.

Earlier that evening, in a moment of weakness possibly induced by his first glass of whisky, Jonas expressed a certain doubt as to his abilities. He really wanted to make his mark in some field or other, he had to, he told Gabriel — rather bumptiously perhaps — but he wasn’t sure whether he had what it took. I feel it’s worth pausing here for a moment, because Jonas Wergeland made this admission even though he was actually in the midst of composing his ‘Dragon Sacrifice’, the musical work which, with remarkable self-confidence, he assumed would cause a sensation or at least a scandal. As I say, it may have been said in a moment of weakness, but it does indicate that behind the cocky façade, Jonas Wergeland was not blind to the fact that he tended to overestimate himself.

It was then that Gabriel pointed out to him that he had a rare gift. He straightened his bowtie as he was speaking — in addition to his usual, outmoded, chalk-striped suit he was wearing a bowtie, perhaps to mark the fact that this was a big day. Gabriel reminded him of the first time they had met, at the Torggata Baths. Did Jonas know why Gabriel became interested in him?

‘Because I didn’t dare to dive off the five-metre platform?’

‘No, because I peeked into your cubicle and saw the pictures you had drawn on your schoolbag. They were fantastic. Where did you get the idea for them?’

‘From a dragon head I saw once.’ Jonas had drawn the Academic’s designs on the flap of his leather satchel with a black Magic Marker.

Gabriel looked as though he was turning something over in his head, an impression reinforced by the creaking of the rigging. He took a hefty swig of his whisky before saying: ‘Now listen carefully, Jonas, because what I’m going to say now you have to write down on a piece of paper and put it in a casket and guard it well because it is worth more than pearls. Write: “You have to put a twist on everything you do.”’ Gabriel took another mighty swig from his ship’s tumbler. ‘D’you follow me?’ he asked urgently. ‘You have to let yourself be inspired by those crisscross patterns of yours.’

‘Carvings,’ Jonas said.

‘I don’t give a bugger what they are, as long as you put your money on those lines. Metaphorically speaking, if you know what I mean. You’ve no idea how much difference a little twist can make. You’re a Napoleon, lad. Wake up!’

Beyond the skylight it was pitch black, but the paraffin lamp cast a warm, if dim, light on the table. Jonas noticed how Gabriel’s gold tooth glinted as he talked; it seemed to him that it was glinting more than usual, as if to underline the importance of his words.

These figures, Gabriel went on, these figures which Jonas had mastered, were more than enough. Jonas had to get it into his head that he could be ordinary and brilliant at one and the same time. It was like good, old Bohr’s theory of complimentarity: there were two explanations which, while they might well be mutually exclusive, were both essential in order to arrive at a full description of him. Most ‘great’ individuals were also perfectly ordinary people in many ways, exceptional only in a few, crucial areas. That was what it came down to: excelling within a narrow field.

Jonas sat there shaking his head, shaking his head in an effort to ward of this temptation or offer; but this only added fuel to Gabriel’s fire. Had Jonas forgotten what country he was living in, dammit? The most egalitarian society on earth, a land with an almost pathological bent for equality. And what did that mean? It meant that any talent that was the slightest bit above the average stood out like a red fox among a pack of grey lemmings. Had Jonas truly never noticed that? Norway was a paradise for charlatans. In no other country in the world did it take so little to catch the attention of a whole nation.

‘In the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king,’ Jonas said, repeating a saying that Gabriel was fond of quoting.

‘Exactly,’ Gabriel said, gratified. ‘Everybody makes the same mistake. They think they have to be Leonardo da Vinci in order to do great things. But you don’t need to strive for brilliance; an ounce of originality will do the trick. At the moment, anyway. Because you should think yourself lucky: we’re living in an era when the most heroic thing you can do is to appear on the telly! Here, take the bottle — it’s time you grew up. That’s it: fill it up. You have to have an eye for the main chance, Jonas, see how far you can get even with very limited resources. A nose for how to weave a few commonplace elements into something greater is all it takes.’

‘But wouldn’t it still be commonplace?’ Jonas asked, sitting back on the bench, his head growing more and more befuddled, from the whisky, from the smells of the boat: smoke, tar, paraffin — and from Gabriel’s words.

‘Wrong again. Put a number of ordinary things together and you can get something pretty phenomenal. Not to say, terrifying. Take a dragon, for instance. What is it, except a dog with a twist? A dog with wings. Or four or five animals put together to form something extraordinary.’

His gold tooth glinted, flashed. Jonas liked what he was hearing, liked it a lot. But he felt scared too.

‘It doesn’t take much,’ Gabriel said. ‘Look at me.’ He stood up, pulled out a key and wound up the ship’s clock before going out to slice more bacon. ‘I’m an actor, remember,’ he called from the galley. ‘I know what I’m talking about.’