Jan Kjærstad - The Conqueror

Then came the silence, or lassitude: a kind of collective mental state like the way you feel on getting up, stiff and slightly dazed, to switch off the television late on a Saturday evening. The public could not know it, but it was at this point that Jonas Wergeland’s brother, Reverend Daniel W. Hansen, contacted the police — ‘after lengthy and painful consideration’ — having also seen the picture of the Luger in the paper. At police headquarters he had no difficulty in picking out the murder weapon from a selection of pistols and thereafter gave the name of the Luger’s probable owner. Reverend Hansen was, by all accounts devastated. But as he had said on arriving at the police station: ‘Here I stand, I can do no other.’

From that moment on the entire media picture — a picture which can safely be filed under the heading of New Expressionism — was dominated by one news story: Jonas Wergeland had been arrested, charged with the murder of his wife. The press promptly resorted to such phrases as ‘Norway’s crime of the century’. At any rate it was the perfect event for a well-developed information society. For a couple of days the country was in the grip of something approaching mass hysteria. The reaction to Wergeland’s arrest even exceeded all the commotion surrounding the death of the old king the year before, certainly in terms of column inches and television coverage. Reports on the Evening News showed people weeping openly in the street and taking photographs or shooting video film outside Villa Wergeland in Grorud, as if this were Hollywood. Some fans even went so far as to light candles outside the fence. A number of newspapers gave readers their own page in which to express their thoughts and feelings. An entire nation appeared to be ripe for counselling.

Everyone attempted yet again to get in touch with the person at the centre of it all. An interview, just a couple of quotes even, would have been the scoop of the year. But Jonas Wergeland had been remanded in custody, barred from receiving mail or visitors; and when this ban was lifted he would not speak to anyone apart from close family. His mother came to see him, and his little brother, known as Buddha. Indeed Buddha visited Oslo District Prison as often as was practically possible and was soon well acquainted with everyone there. Nonetheless, and even though the prison staff felt bad about it, they had to confiscate several of the odd presents he wanted to give Jonas. On one occasion he brought a kite. ‘What’s your big brother going to do with that?’ they asked. ‘I thought he could fly it from his cell window to drive out evil spirits,’ said Buddha.

The first person who was allowed to visit Jonas Wergeland, however, was Kristin, his daughter — a fact that did not go unnoticed in certain of the tabloids. Jonas Wergeland’s mother had shielded her from the worst instances of invasive reporting by taking refuge on Hvaler. But it was the girl herself who had asked to see her father, not only asked, in fact, but insisted. And what did they talk about? They talked about trees. Yes, trees. According to my source, they spent a whole hour chatting about trees. When her time was up, Kristin left with her father a drawing in which the tree underneath the ground, the root system, was as big as the tree itself.

But to return to my starting point, to the way in which the media gloated over the fact that the heroic image of Jonas Wergeland was crumbling like an icon riddled with rot, and how the lowest common denominator in every article was the word ‘demonic’. It was this particular expression that had — I can find no better word — arrested my attention and to some extent influenced my decision to accept the publisher’s almost unnecessarily lucrative offer. That had to be the deepest aim of the biography, the litmus test of its originality: to explain the nature of Jonas Wergeland’s demoniacal side. And that may have been why I got so bogged down, if you like, in all the material I had assembled since it did not offer the faintest glimmer of an answer to questions of this type. Until my rescuer showed up, what I had lacked, above all else — strangely enough, considering the panoramic view from my study window — was the perspective which would bring the lines of Jonas Wergeland’s life into relief, show me a theme and hidden passages instead of screeds of place names and dates. Due to these unexpected problems I had also begun to worry about another eventuality — something which my visitor, not without a touch of sarcasm, had hinted at on our very first meeting: that this assignment might be on the difficult side for someone who had hitherto wrestled solely with the past. Was it possible for me, with my background and experience, to disclose the essence of modern life?

Or, as my unknown helper — I almost used the word employer — said at the beginning of the third evening we spent together in the turret at Snarøya: ‘Every life seems banal the minute one tries to sum it up.’ Despite repeated offers of some refreshment — I humbly suggested a little Stilton and a glass of port — all the stranger asked for was a jug of water. ‘My only trouble is that I suffer from an abiding thirst,’ my visitor said with that barely discernible accent. ‘By the way — I would appreciate it if you would light the fire as you usually do; it’s so damned cold in this country.’

As soon as the logs caught light my visitor stretched hungry hands out to the flames, at the same time eyeing a caricature of myself that hung on the wall. Like President de Gaulle, I am always drawn with the face of an elephant, because of my prominent nose and big ears. I prefer to think, though, that it’s because I have an excellent memory — something I most certainly had need of at this time.

As usual the stranger was dressed in black, a colour that accentuated an almost startling pallor; and, although that face had the aspect of a scholar, I cannot say that I liked the person sitting across from me. I noted that the hands were covered in little scars, and the clothes emitted an indefinable odour reminiscent of burnt horn, or possibly it was the reek of a chemistry lab. This person told me nothing about who they were; merely stared at me, eagerly, expectantly almost, again apparently so brimful of stories that those lips could barely contain them.

‘This matter…engages me, Professor. Greatly. Personally.’ There were times, especially on those first evenings, when the stranger faltered or groped around, as if unable to remember or not knowing the right Norwegian word.

‘Would it be impolite of me to ask why?’

‘What if I were to tell you that I am involved in it, that I may unfortunately be partly to blame for Jonas Wergeland’s actions,’ the visitor said, sending me a glance that frightened me. ‘Would you believe me if I said that it was all the result of a wager? How could we know that it would have such — how shall I put it — unfortunate consequences?’

‘And what was this wager about?’ I ventured to ask.

‘It might be a bit difficult to explain on what plane it lay — I mean, to explain it to you. I could say that I, moving as I did in an entirely different sphere, as it were, quite simply bet that Jonas Wergeland would become a great man, “make a name for himself” as they say. My opposite number, if that is the correct term, bet that, with what talents he had, Jonas Wergeland would never amount to anything. You could say that we were betting on whether he would become a dragon or a sparrow.’

I was on the point of asking what the stakes in this wager had been, but my visitor had already embarked upon a preamble which was clearly meant to lead into that evening’s stories: ‘You might not think it of me, Professor, but I actually regard it as my duty to help you. Just because the image of a hero has been shattered doesn’t mean that it cannot be put together again, albeit as another image.’