The Seducer Read online

  Praise for The Seducer:

  ‘An enormously accomplished and compelling novel by one of Scandinavia’s outstanding contemporary writers. Barbara J. Haveland and Arcadia Books have performed a great service by giving us Kjærstad in English at last’

  – Paul Auster

  ‘One of the most influential writers of his generation. Say his name, and I think of Milan Kundera, Martin Amis and Frank Zappa. The Seducer is a playful book’

  – Linn Ullmann

  ‘A tour de force about a famous film maker’s career and sexual adventures’

  – Publishing News

  ‘Norwegian, perhaps all Scandinavian literature, can never be the same after The Seducer’

  – Nordisk Literatur

  Jan Kjærstad

  The Seducer

  Translated from the Norwegian

  by Barbara J. Haveland

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Title Page

  Publisher’s Foreword

  The Big Bang

  Everything Flows

  The Great Discoveries

  Opera of the Waters

  Rattus Norvegicus

  Journey to the Centre of the Night

  Rattrap

  The White Patch

  Pyramid Playing

  Cleopatra’s Nose

  The Turtles

  All Roads Lead to …

  20,000 Leagues Under the Sea

  Polar Opposite of the Nervous System

  A Cut to the Eye

  Aqua Vita

  To Be or Not To Be

  Quantum Leap

  The Connoisseur

  The Strangest Thing

  The Cathedral Builder

  The Bomber Man Cometh

  Beyond the EEC

  Osiris

  The Magic Penis

  The Killing of the Seven Lovers

  What Price Beauty

  Strike the Christian Cross from your Flag

  The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire

  Isfahan

  Cities in Belgium

  Norwegian Wood

  Ultima Thule

  Tabriz

  Rhetorica Norvegica

  Smoke Without Fire

  The Hub

  Bukhara

  Opium of the People

  15·46·6

  The Happy Few

  Hell

  O Mio Tesoro

  Georgica

  A First Reader

  A Life of Harmony

  When We Dead Awaken

  The Knot

  The Kama Sutra in Norwegian

  The Ambassador

  Circle Circle

  East of the Sun, West of the Moon

  The Secretary

  Sowing Dragon’s Teeth

  The Invisible Man

  Code of the Planets

  The Great White Whale

  The Golden Fleece

  The Duke

  Taj Mahal

  Tabula Rasa

  Breaking the Light Barrier

  Paradise Lost

  Gynt in Paris

  Stave of Life

  Juggernaut

  The Seducer

  The East is Red

  Mammoth Sale

  The Jade Buddha

  The Battle of Hafrsfjord

  Broadcast

  The Mystery

  The Third Option

  Satori

  The Story Teller

  Imago Dei

  Spring

  About the Author

  Also published by Arcadia Books

  Copyright

  Publisher’s Foreword

  We make no secret of the fact that the novel the reader now holds in his or her hand proved to be something of a headache for the judges of our major competition to find the best biographical novel. Not only was this manuscript the most topical – and by far the most controversial – of all the many manuscripts submitted, but when, after lengthy deliberation, the judges did decide to present the award to this novel and opened the envelope containing the winning name, they found that the author preferred to remain anonymous and that any eventual prize-money, and any other fees, were to be paid into a bank account in the name of a small but well-known humanitarian organization.

  The question of literary merit aside, that we the publishers have had to consider whether the manuscript ought, in fact, to be published in book form, in line with the other two prize winners, was due, of course, to the extraordinary and much publicized events which form the basis for the novel – and, even more so, the grim sequel to said events of which, by the way, no mention is made in the novel. The fact that this book has been published serves, not least, as a reminder that in Britain freedom of speech is a constitutional right. Nonetheless, in an effort to forestall any unnecessary debate, we would like to point out that the publishing house’s legal advisors have gone through the manuscript, and, since a number of names which appear in this novel correspond to those of real people, copies of the manuscript have been passed to those individuals who might feel injured or offended by its content. We would like to make it clear that in every case – although for quite different and sometimes surprising reasons, to be sure – they have given their permission for this book to be published.

  Although the following account is founded on biographical facts, the validity of which can be checked by anyone so minded, it is just as manifestly a novel, allowing all of the liberties and the possibilities offered by that genre. We the publishers wish to emphasize that this is, in the final analysis, a piece of fiction, the ‘truth’ of which it will be up to the reader to decide.

  A brief notandum: several of the judges remarked on a certain linguistic inconsistency in the manuscript. We the publishers have not, however, made any alterations to the text, other than the correction of purely orthographical errors, not because the author is unknown but because in the case of such competitions we elect to publish the manuscripts as they stand.

  The Big Bang

  Let me tell you another story. Although I do not know whether that is possible, not after all that has been written and said, but at any rate let me try. I have balked at it for long enough, I admit. I have put it off and put it off. But I have to do it. Knowing full well that this will sound unutterably provocative and appallingly high-flown, I will be straight about it: I do it not only for myself but for the whole of Norway.

  I realize there are many people who believe they know everything there is to know about Jonas Wergeland, inasmuch as he has risen to heights of fame which very few, if any, Norwegians have ever come close to attaining and been subjected to so much media exposure that his person, his soul as it were, has been laid open as strikingly and in as much detail as those ingenious fold-out illustrations of the human body presented for our delectation in today’s encyclopaedias. But it is for that very reason, precisely because so many people have formed such hard-and-fast opinions about Jonas Wergeland, or Jonas Hansen Wergeland as his critics liked to call him, that it is tempting, even at this point, to say something about those sides of his character which have never come to public attention and which should serve to shed considerable new light on the man: Jonas Wergeland as the Norwegian Tuareg, Jonas Wergeland as a disciple of the Kama Sutra, as champion of the Comoro Islands and, not least, as lifesaver.

  But to begin in medias res, as they say, or in what I prefer to call ‘the big white patch’, representing as it does a stretch of terrain of which Jonas Wergeland – all of his fantastic journeys notwithstanding – was totally ignorant, and which he would spend the remainder of his life endeavouring to chart.

  It all started with Wergeland asking the taxi driver, who had been stealing curious, almost incredulous, glances at him in his rear-view mirror all the way into t
own, to stop at the shopping centre, just where Trondheimsveien crosses Bergensveien, a spot where Jonas had stood on countless occasions, contemplating the way in which all roads in the world are connected. Although he could not have said exactly why, Jonas wanted to walk the last bit of the way to the house, possibly because the light that evening was so enchanting; or because it was spring, the air smelled of spring, spring to the very marrow; or because he was glad that the plane journey was over, filled with a sense of relief at having cheated Fate yet again. Which brings me to another fact known to very few: how much Jonas Wergeland, globetrotter, hates flying.

  Wergeland was returning home from the World’s Fair in Seville, but he was now making his way across ground which, for him, had every bit as much to offer as any World’s Fair, representing as it did that spot on the Earth’s crust which was closest to his heart. He strolled along, wheeling his lightweight suitcase behind him; breathing in the spring air as he let his eye wander over the climbing frame in his old kindergarten and beyond that to the stream down in the dip: the Alna, a stream up the banks of which he and Nefertiti had made countless expeditions, with Colonel Eriksen on a leash and an airgun over the shoulder, in search of its beginnings, which had long posed a mystery as great as the sources of the Nile once did. He walked past the old Tango-Thorvaldsen shoe shop, to which annual visits had had to be made: a sore trial to Jonas these, both because his mother could never make up her mind and because the shoes were always too big, agonizingly so, even after they were long worn out. It was spring, the air smelled of spring to the very marrow, and Jonas passed Wolfgang Michaelsen’s villa where he could almost hear the swooshing of the Märklin trains over the tracks of what must have been the biggest model railway in Northern Europe. Jonas strolled along, trailing his suitcase, smelling, listening, drawing the air deep down into his lungs; seeing in the twilight the coltsfoot, like tiny sparks of yellow growing along the side of the road and up the slope towards Rosenborg Woods, which they had used to call ‘Transylvania’, because they had had to cut across this bit of ground after the spine-chilling Dracula films they saw, far too young, at film shows in the People’s Palace. It was spring, the air smelled of spring, and Jonas was feeling extraordinarily fit and well, free, thanks to the air, thanks to the fact that the plane journey was over, or perhaps because straight ahead of him he had the low blocks of flats where he had grown up, or because on the other side of the road he could see his own house, popularly referred to as Villa Wergeland, sitting under the imposing granite face of Ravnkollen, in such a way that he sometimes felt protected, sometimes threatened by the very bedrock of Norway.

  Jonas Wergeland turned in through the gate, trailing his suitcase. It was spring, the hillside smelled of spring, as did the air. It had that edge to it, Jonas noted: chill but bordering on the mild. He felt light, full of anticipation; he was happy, genuinely glad at heart to be home. The only thing causing him a twinge of unease was a touch of incipient nausea as if he might have eaten something dodgy on the plane.

  He rang the bell, just in case anyone was home. No one came to the door. He let himself in, left his bag of duty-free and his suitcase in the hall before wandering into his office and sifting through the considerable pile of mail that had accumulated. Many of the letters were from people he did not know. Fan mail. He picked up the bundle of letters to read in the living room, to enjoy them, have a good laugh and roll his eyes at the weird notions that people had, their clumsy questions, then it occurred to him that he had better play back the messages on his answering machine. The first was from Axel Stranger: ‘If your Grace would be so good as to call me. Concerning a trivial matter which cannot wait: namely the future of mankind.’

  Jonas could not help but laugh, switched it off, he could listen to his messages later, now he just wanted to relax, open some of the precious booty from his duty-free bag, stretch out on the sofa, listen to music, look at a couple of letters, let his mind wander. He glanced towards the door of Kristin’s room. The bed was neatly made, cuddly toys and dolls all in a row; he concluded that she must still be with her grandmother, down at Hvaler.

  Jonas headed for the living room with a smile on his lips, flicking through the bundle of letters in his hand, inspecting the handwriting on one while wondering what sort of music he should play. He was relieved to be back home, he was filled with a great sense of contentment: a feeling that might be described, to use a rather lofty word, as peace.

  So there he stood, with one hand on the handle of the living-room door, Jonas Wergeland, the first artist of note in his field in Norway, the man with a silver thread running down his spine, balls of gold and, as someone put it in a newspaper article, a brain as sharp and polished as a great diamond; Jonas Wergeland stood there, feeling well pleased. Behind him lay a successful trip, one which had, what is more, given rise to a number of original ideas of which the people of Norway would reap the benefit in the not-too-distant future. And he had every reason to feel pleased with himself, no one could blame him for that; anyone in his shoes would have been pleased with themselves. Jonas Wergeland did not only have everything, he was everything, one might even go so far as to say that he ranked second only to the king. No wonder then that for many years he had referred to himself, in his head, as the Duke.

  Jonas Wergeland stood with his hand on the handle of the living-room door in his own home and was instantly conscious of the metal itself, its coldness; he contemplated the brass, the little scratches on the surface. Again he was aware of that vague but distinct nausea, a surge of nausea. Suddenly he remembered the three loaves lying on the kitchen worktop, the fact that there had been no smell of new-baked bread when he walked in.

  Jonas Wergeland stood with his hand on the door-handle and was filled all at once with a desire to stay just there for a long, long while, had no wish to enter the room, stood there knowing, like someone who has stepped on a mine, that he would be blown sky-high the moment he raised his foot. But he had to. He took stock as it were, recapitulating the whole of his remarkable career in the blink of an eye as if he knew he was about to suffer a dreadful loss of memory, before turning the handle, opening the door and pulling up short on the threshold. The first thing he noticed was a distinct smell, the sort that hangs in a room where the television has been left on for days on end. Then his eye fell on the picture of Buddha, before alighting on the figure lying on the living-room floor, a woman. She looked as though she was asleep, but Jonas knew she was not sleeping.

  So there he stood, Jonas Wergeland, as so often before, at the end of a long, hard journey, a wave of nausea building up inside him, on the threshold of his own living room, in the most famous villa in Grorud. And I might as well reveal right here and now that here lies the heart of my story: Jonas Wergeland, standing in a room with a dead woman, caught in the colossal psychological big bang that gave birth to the universe which, in the following account, I intend to explore.

  For those who do not know, I ought perhaps to add that the woman on the floor was none other than his wife.

  Everything Flows

  Once more he was thrown into the vortex, as they picked up speed and were drawn relentlessly onwards into the next stretch of rapids to suddenly find themselves caught up in an inferno of white water and whirlpools as if they were riding a tidal wave or had been swept away by an avalanche, and it was all happening too fast, Jonas felt, far too fast, he had no time to latch onto the details and already had that feeling of nausea, that ghastly nausea that always hit him when he had flown too high, when everything was reduced to the grotesque. Jonas Wergeland sat, soaked to the skin, in a frail rubber dinghy with more or less sheer walls of rock flying past on either side: concentrating, amid all the thoughts whirling around in his head, solely on keeping a tight grip on the rope running around the rim, while flattening himself against the bottom like a terrified bird in the nest. Everybody has to die sometime, he thought to himself, and now it’s my turn.

  Jonas cursed himself for being there, crouc
hed on his knees as if in prayer, hanging on for dear life on this ride with death, at the bottom of a narrow gorge with only a thin layer of rubber between him and the rapids’ seething embrace, when he could have been lounging on the hotel terrace, sipping a highball and contemplating the weird assortment of hotel guests from every corner of the globe, maybe picking out an Ellington number on the piano, drawing applause from lethargic Swedish aid workers in desperate need of a bit of R and R. Or he could have done something sensible and, above all, perfectly safe, and taken a walk up to the dusty, neglected museum to gen up on the geology and history of the region, in a room right next door to Livingstone’s letters and measuring instruments and his partially mauled coat.

  But instead, on an October morning in the mid-eighties, he had dutifully presented himself at the pool along with the others, to be briefed by a sun-bronzed smart-arse who took full advantage of the rather tense atmosphere, dishing out flippant bits of advice and telling macabre jokes, about the fearsome ‘stoppers’, for instance: a sort of vertical wave, usually occurring at the bottom of a stretch of rapids, which could drag a man under and keep him down there for ages. So it was with some misgivings that Jonas had filed along behind the others later on, as they clambered down the steep path to the bottom of the gorge through which the Zambezi continued its seething progress after the falls, zigzagging through deep and uncannily narrow canyons. The light was dazzling, the air as full of powerful odours as a chemist’s shop and humming with insect life. Halfway down the native bearers made tea for them and even sang a few songs, seeing to it that the party acquired a little local colour into the bargain.

  Down by the river itself, at the point where they were to board the rafts, Jonas stood for a moment listening to the roar of the falls farther up, millions of litres per second thundering downwards into an inferno of a chasm, a phenomenon so daunting and yet so fascinating that he could see why some of the natives imbued it with divine significance, believing this to be the wellspring of the world. And indeed they were surrounded by a strange almost unreal landscape which left one with the very distinct impression that man had no business here, that this was a paradise for plants and animals and the little lizards in particular.