Jan Kjærstad - The Conqueror

And yet there is still a chance that he wasn’t there at all, that instead of following her into the bedroom he wrote her a loving note to say that he would be away for a day, then walked out the door, because there was one person, Professor, one of our most famous architects no less, who doggedly maintained — I have this from a reliable source — that on that very day — the same, that is, on which Khomeini returned in triumph to Iran — he had bumped into Jonas Wergeland in Trondheim, in the afternoon that is, outside Nidaros Cathedral, where Jonas was doing some sketches for a project which, with all the hesitancy of the novice, he immediately began to describe: ideas for a new kind of church, ‘a space formed by light’, part of an assignment at the College of Architecture, while at the same time sounding out this well-established architect on the possibility of a job in his office when he had completed his studies, because as he said, or is supposed to have said, he was going all out for this and only wanted to work with the best.

But all the signs are that Jonas Wergeland spent the rest of that day indoors, in Ambassador Boeck’s museum-like flat in Ullevål Garden City, more specifically in the white bedroom where, after having asked or begged or threatened Margrete and received no reply and after having contemplated her face at length, with some of the same mind-reeling wonder, or dread, as when he had stood looking at a cathedral, he pulled back and dealt her a searing slap in the face, causing her to roll her head on the pillow in pain. ‘Tell me it’s not true,’ he said.

‘Shall I tell you the truth or the truth you want to hear?’ she said.

Jonas could tell that this was bound to end badly, that something was already starting to collapse, as relentlessly as a fragile structure of ice hit by a little puck, and at that moment, as he was lifting his hand to strike her again, even though he didn’t want to, he wished he could turn the clock back almost two years, to an early summer before he met Margrete again, but long after he had entered the College of Architecture and, at last, begun on what he believed to be the right course of study. His only problem was money; his money had run out. He feared that there would be no more travelling for him. He could have borrowed money, of course, but he hated being in debt. Then one day in late May he meets his cousin, Veronika Røed, in the street, quite by chance — to the extent that anything happens by chance — and she, being in a good mood, invites him to the nearest café where, because it’s a very long time since they last saw one another, they sit for some hours. And the odd thing is — if one can regard it as odd — that on this day of all days Veronika is bursting with excitement about a plan she has, a plan based on information she has picked up in the circles in which she is currently moving, working as she is — as the final part of her course at the Norwegian College of Journalism — on a dissertation on certain captains of the business world, a topic of her own choosing. ‘Information is the most valuable of all commodities today, Jonas!’

He could not help admiring her: dark and sultry, face framed by black hair that flowed down over a striking and doubtless very expensive silk scarf. Her suit too was exceptionally smart, her work as a financial journalist seemed to have had an unconscious effect on her choice of dress. She came to the point. Since they were related, she was going to give him a really hot tip; she placed a hand over his, as if insisting: ‘This is your big chance to make some money,’ she said. ‘A lot of money, and fast,’ she said. ‘How?’ he asked, when she paused. ‘Buy shares in Tandberg,’ she said or almost whispered, rummaging around in her briefcase and producing a chart which showed movements in the price of Tandberg shares over the past four years. ‘Look at this,’ she said, or whispered, ‘look how low the share price is now, the lowest it’s ever been, down to thirty kroner.’ The factory was in trouble, but Veronika had it from a reliable source that it would be receiving an injection of fresh capital in the very near future, which meant that the share price was soon going to rise sharply. ‘But don’t tell anyone,’ she said, in a voice which reminded Jonas of summers when they were children playing in the attic of his grandfather’s house. ‘It’ll be our secret.’

Jonas took the sheet of paper from her. It was a risky proposition, that he could see; temptation was being put in his way, but it was a serious temptation, that much he understood: the prospect of making some easy money, a lot of it — without moving a muscle. And his cousin couldn’t possibly know that he was short of cash. ‘Why bother playing about with those buildings, Jonas, all those drawings that hardly ever come to anything?’ Again the slender hand, the long fingers, the beautifully manicured nails, on his hand. ‘Why not make some money, get rich quick?’

He heard her. Heard her all too well. For a second he saw himself from the outside, or felt it with every bit of his being: how the pupils and irises of his eyes were replaced by dollar signs, like Uncle Scrooge’s in the American comic books. And although he did not know it, in this he was embodying the spirit of the times. Because the people of Norway were standing on the threshold of an era marked by market liberalism and a swing to the right, by free play in so many areas. In parenthesis I must be permitted to say that at this point they were also in the process of letting an historic opportunity go to waste, since the existence of a welfare state presupposed two things: national solidarity and economic know-how. In the fifties they had had the first, but not the second. Now, on the other hand, they had at long last acquired the latter, only suddenly to throw the former overboard. As Denmark had its Legoland, so Norway was transformed into an Egoland.

‘What about you?’ Jonas said.

‘I’m buying 100,000 kroners’ worth,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been so sure of making a real killing.’ As she spoke she had unwittingly tied a knot in her scarf, one of the fine knots that their grandfather had taught them.

I ought perhaps to point out that in those days buying shares in Tandberg could be a somewhat hazardous business. Things were not going well for Tandberg Radios Ltd. Veronika certainly did her bit to persuade him, but there was something else which did just as much to sway him: the name of Tandberg was rich in nostalgia. For Jonas, to buy shares in Tandberg was to invest in a beautiful dream, something he believed in, a grand vision. To put money into Tandberg was to put money into the motherland. Jonas knew that for far too long Norwegian exports had consisted solely of raw materials and semi-fabricated products, as was the norm for an industrially underdeveloped country. If, however, one wished to build a modern industrial society — and this was one of Vebjørn Tandberg’s big dreams — one had to be properly geared up for the production of finished goods; the electronics industry in Norway, not least, was in need of a boost. The more Jonas thought about it, the more confident he felt. Absolutely nothing bad could happen to a cornerstone company like Tandberg. Everybody, a whole nation, would come to its aid.

There was only one snag: ‘I don’t have any money,’ he said, feeling perhaps slightly relieved.

‘That’s the trouble with you,’ she said. ‘You don’t dare take chances. You don’t dare to risk more than you’ve got.’ And then, quick as a flash: ‘You could borrow the money.’ Then: ‘You could borrow it from someone who won’t charge any interest.’ And then, as if it were the final phase of a three-stage rocket launch: ‘I’m sure my Dad would lend you the money.’