Jan Kjærstad - The Conqueror

But by now the discussion had risen onto a higher plane. Axel put forward the theory, based on Dr Christian Barnard’s recent magnificent achievement, that one could in all likelihood fix a broken heart simply by having a heart transplant — a typical five-aquavit argument. Jonas considered the time was right to insist that the Norwegian film Vagabond really deserved to rate as highly as The Battleship Potemkin and Citizen Kane , after which Viktor proceeded to enlarge upon the reckless notion that human thought was possibly just one of Mother Nature’s many whims, much like the spiral-shaped horns with which she had equipped certain long-extinct creatures, excrescences which were, in fact, of more harm than good to the creature — an assertion which I think can safely be counted as a seven-aquavit argument.

As the evening drew towards its close, with the table strewn with potato skins wrapped in crumpled silver foil and Axel revealing that he had at long last deciphered the meaning of the lyrics of Procol Harum’s celebrated hit ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’ and, just to make sure they got the point, bawling out the words ‘We skipped the light fandango, turned cartwheels ’cross the floor…’, Jonas, who was still at the lowest aquavit level, began once again to give loud vent to his worries about their Norwegian mock, the essay, which was only a week away. Viktor had no fears, he had worked out a strategy ages ago — a strategy which he would go on fine-tuning until the Prelim. He swore by the creativity of the afterglow of alcohol — or as he put it: its te , an inner force — particularly in evidence during the couple of hours when the brain came to life and lay there, razor-sharp, like a sparkling, freshly polished optical instrument. The only problem was how to get this limbo-like state between death and new life to coincide with the first hours of essay writing. Viktor planned to turn up for the mock exam suffused with a perfectly calculated afterglow, arrived at by drinking a variety of aquavits in a particular order, thus assuring himself of a dazzling overview of the subject matter. But it was risky — just one shot too many the night before could take him from the heights of the afterglow’s Capitol to the Tarpeian cliffs of the hangover the morning after.

‘So what’s your problem?’ Axel asks.

‘I could do with a dose of originality,’ Jonas says. And well he might. Up to this point, mediocrity had paid off; Jonas received his best marks ever for bland essays consisting of material copied from one source or another and totally devoid of individuality. ‘So how,’ he asked, ‘am I supposed to write an essay containing any trace of independent reasoning and still get a good mark?’

This question remained unresolved. Jonas left Seilduksgata as Viktor was getting to his feet, glass in hand: ‘I’ve finally discovered the deeper reason for why you and I are friends, Axel,’ he said. ‘It’s because I’m a Taoist and you’re a biochemist. There’s a parallel, you see, between the sixty-four possible hexagrams in the I Ching and the sixty-four possible combinations of base triplets in the genetic code!’ The last Jonas heard before he closed the door of the cinnabar-red room was Axel embarking on a long harangue on which of Ibsen’s totally crazy and unlikely endings was the most totally crazy and unlikely and announcing that he was going to call Agnar Mykle to ask what he thought — by this stage he was always ready to call Agnar Mykle — while Viktor had sat down at the piano and put everything he had into a rendering of ‘Bye, Bye Blackbird’ featuring some hitherto unheard-of harmonies — a ten-aquavit argument if ever there was one.

Jonas really did take this Norwegian mock exam seriously: so seriously that he took himself off to the extensive archives of The Worker , which were housed high up in the People’s Theatre building on Youngstorget; he had sought refuge here before when he had a tricky subject to write on for homework, lying as it did on the way from school to the subway. Here he sat, working his way systematically through folders containing cuttings on subjects which he thought might come up, so that he would be able, within a couple of hours, to resolve international questions presented to him under such ghastly, imperative headings as ‘Give an account of…’ or ‘Describe and discuss…’ But he was afraid that it was no use: that the result would still depend on how he felt on the day and on the sheer luck of the draw.

It was at that point that Einar Gerhardsen — I almost said God — walked through the room. And bear in mind — this came to pass in the days when only the King was more popular than the old prime minister, or ‘Man of our Times’ as he was dubbed a few years later. He had an office on the ninth floor, he was writing his memoirs, writing, you might say the essay of his life.

Gerhardsen gives Jonas a friendly nod, possibly remembers meeting him on the stairs with Aunt Laura at home in Sofienberggata, although he may of course nod and smile at all goggle-eyed high-school students. It is a big moment all the same: Gerhardsen standing there tall and straight in a chequered shirt and knitted waistcoat: a road worker who truly had paved the Way. A symbol of security on a par with Mount Dovre, large as life in front of him. And actually talking to him, making Jonas feel he has to tell him how nervous he is about the essay, whereupon Gerhardsen smiles, and this in turn encourages Jonas to ask about NATO. ‘Because the fact is,’ says Jonas, ‘that a lot of the radical pupils at the school keep agitating for Norway to pull out.’

Maybe it was the complexity of the question that prompted Gerhardsen to invite Jonas into his office where, once they were settled on a sofa, he told Jonas in simple — I almost said ‘folksy’ — terms his opinion on this subject. Jonas listened intently, with his eyes on the long, wiry hands before him, which were constantly in motion, seeming to conduct the old premier’s words about what a difficult process it had been, a thumbnail sketch, and yet detailed, surprisingly detailed, so much so that Jonas almost felt guilty for taking up this man’s doubtless very valuable time. ‘The Norwegian ideal was of course impossible,’ Gerhardsen said in a slightly tremulous voice. ‘The idea of wanting to feel secure, but without being under any obligation.’ Initially, Gerhardsen told him, he had been in favour of a joint Nordic defence programme, and then, when this proved impossible to implement, of a Western alliance, although he was sceptical of American foreign policy. ‘That was a very hard time for me,’ he said, wringing his hands in mild embarrassment. ‘You could say that I doubted my way to saying yes.’ Jonas gazed with something approaching adoration at the monumental features across from him; the thought of the enigmatic stone figures on Easter Island flashed through his mind. Before he left, Jonas was given the second volume of Gerhardsen’s memoirs, the one which appeared in the bookshops that autumn and in which he had actually described Norway’s path to membership of NATO.

Came the day of the exam. Viktor showed up looking deathly pale and with a thumping headache. No cause for concern, he assured them; he was in perfect form, felt sharp as a razor. Jonas had been more strung-out than usual as he sat there waiting, freshly sharpened pencil at the ready, in the gym hall — normally a place for physical exercises, but now dedicated to mental gymnastics. He was not really surprised when he was handed the exam paper; it all had to do, as Viktor would have said, with alchemy: ‘Assess the importance of Einar Gerhardsen in Norwegian post-war politics’ read one option.

Jonas dashed off a rough draft, scribbling like mad, wrote down all he had read, all the conclusions he had reached, so pleased that he almost wept after he had made his fair copy and handed it in. He knew he could simply have presented the generally accepted view, that of a man who had spearheaded the rebuilding of the country and worked for social levelling and equality, of an era epitomized by unprecedented economic growth and a rise in prosperity which, perhaps more than in any other country, benefited all the people — he could have written about all of that and got good marks for it. As a reward for delivering exactly what was expected, the conventional response. But Jonas wanted, for once, to think for himself, to be provocative, and so instead he wrote — wrote so hard that his pencil snapped several times while he was still on the rough draft: the most important factor was that of international solidarity, he wrote, Gerhardsen understood that if there was one country in the world that could no longer act as if it were living in splendid isolation, that country was Norway, he wrote. Only through painful collaboration could one hope to contribute to détente and have a positive influence, he wrote. ‘Gerhardsen — possibly because he was a socialist first, last and always — embodied the will to see beyond the bounds of his own country,’ Jonas wrote. ‘Gerhardsen simply took up the fight for a political agenda which led Norway from being a spectator to being an active participant.’