Sometimes Jonas and Little Eagle went up to visit the waiters who held sway, in their dark-blue mess jackets, in the serving pantry. If there wasn’t too much to do Mr Gundersen would make the boys that exotic beverage, an iced tea, or he would explain how to use the mysterious cash register, when he wasn’t over at the warming counter, teaching them a real fakir’s trick: how to balance two scalding-hot plates on one hand.
What surprised Jonas most, on these visits, was all the fuss when somebody famous sat down at one of the tables. The shout would suddenly go up: ‘Sonja Henie’s here’, and everybody knew that a glass of champagne rosé would shortly be carried out to the lithe lady in the white fur, who sat with her gold champagne whisk at the ready. Occasionally, the waiters would also cluster behind the automatic swing doors into the restaurant, the opening mechanism of which could be overridden to allow them to peer discreetly at the diners through the two narrow panes of glass. Sometimes Mr Gunderson would lift up Jonas and Little Eagle in turn and point out a particularly famous patron. ‘That rather starchy-looking gent over there is Francis Bull,’ he would say. ‘And the handsome, curly-headed chap over by the dance floor is Toralv Maurstad.’ Another day a lanky-looking character caught Jonas’s eye. ‘That’s Leif Juster,’ Mr Gundersen said. ‘He’s got his dog underneath the table — don’t tell anybody!’
One such moment was to have a certain bearing on Jonas Wergeland’s life. More folk than usual had flocked excitedly around the door into the Mirror, including the ladies from the coffee kitchen half a flight down, and when the boys asked Mr Gunderson what all the fuss was about — was it a government minister, a shipping magnate? — he told them, beaming with pride, that none other than so-and-so himself was sitting there in the restaurant, eating black grouse in a cream sauce. Neither Jonas nor Little Eagle recognized the name. Mr Gundersen snorted. They must be joking! Did they really not know who that was? He was a presenter on the Evening News. ‘He’s on the TV,’ Gundersen intoned respectfully, as if these words put paid to all questions, all doubt.
And eventually the boys were lifted up to the glass and Jonas saw this person, a newsreader whose name need not be cited here, since he has been completely forgotten, as a name that is, because he no longer appears on television, although he still works for NRK and now fulfils, it must be said, a far more important role. Let me remind you that this was in the infancy of television, when the Evening News wasn’t even broadcast every evening. Some people may perhaps remember the opening credits: a globe with the programme’s title swirling around it in a streamer, accompanied by a fanfare of trumpets. This was a time when people regarded these NRK employees, these perfectly ordinary journalists, almost as being the voice of God Himself.
Jonas did not, however, react with the same awe as the waiters and the others. He did remark on the lovely light that fell on the newsreader, partly from the window and partly from the mirrors and the crystal, in such a way that a special aura seemed to hang about him; but what Jonas notices above all else is that in front of him, at this very moment, this personage has his dessert, has one of the Grand’s celebrated Napoleon cakes, as if — through his choice of dessert — wishing to underline his status as a modern-day conqueror.
Only later was the significance of this episode brought home to Jonas. He realized that television did something to people. Or, more importantly: it had never occurred to Jonas that a person could sit quite still in a chair, yet still be out there conquering. You hardly had to do a thing. All you had to do was to read from a sheet of paper, all you had to do was show your face. Your power stemmed not from wealth or knowledge but from being seen. Could there be any cheaper form of fame? Unbeknown to himself, once he had comprehended this Jonas felt an unutterable sense of relief.
This lesson did not sink in, however, until much later. In the first instance, it was remarkable that Jonas, despite having seen the restaurant and these famous people, did not for a moment cherish a dream of one day sitting there himself, or think that some day there might even be a couple of lads sitting in that kitchen who, when someone said: ‘This chateaubriand is for Jonas Hansen’, would cry out: ‘Wow! Jonas Hansen!’ No, after these visits, Jonas had only one thought: he wanted to be a chef.
After Jonas, his surname long since changed to Wergeland, had made his first appearance on television, as an announcer, when he had in other words taken the first step towards a degree of celebrity the like of which has rarely been seen in Norway, one of the first things he treated himself to was, however, a meal at one of the capital’s finest restaurants. One could, therefore, ask oneself whether Jonas Wergeland perhaps denied his own boyish instinct, which said that a skilled chef was much more to be admired than a face that simply read from a sheet of paper. It might look as though his aim was not to serve but to be served. Or, to put it another way: as though he chose the side of reality’s coin which showed the golden surface, rather than the clamorous, steaming, value-forming chaos on the reverse.
Maybe I’m being unfair. Because, in the studio, Jonas Wergeland never quite rid himself of the feeling that he actually found himself in a vast kitchen, that in making programmes, his ideal was to dish up tasty, aromatic food for the people of Norway — they were, so to speak, patrons in his restaurant, a chamber full of light and magic mirrors.
~ ~ ~
I — yes I, the professor — feel compelled to interrupt here. I feel a powerful need to apologize for what I would call the form of the preceding pages, which is not at all like anything else I’ve ever written. I have weighed up the pros and cons, I have tried every alternative and still, believe me when I say: this is the best solution. For all concerned.
In other words, it was not me personally who took the initiative for this project. I was contacted, not to say headhunted, by the publishers, to write as they put it, ‘the definitive Wergeland biography’. They assured me, in the most fulsome terms, that I was the ‘perfect’ man for such an assignment, and since the prospects of commercial gain seemed more than fair, they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse — to coin a phrase from less law-abiding circles.
That said, I cannot deny that I was tempted, that the thought had already crossed my mind. For a long time, even after everything came to light, I had felt a certain sympathy for, and possibly a distant affinity with, Jonas Wergeland. Besides which, it really got my back up to see how he was treated. Thanks to a combination of a major success and a painful divorce, I know how it feels to be hounded by sensation-hungry reporters.
I think we can safely say that the year 1992 was an annus horribilis not just for the British queen but also for Jonas Wergeland. Who does not remember the shock, the disbelief, on that spring evening when the killing of Wergeland’s wife, Magrete Boeck, was the lead item on the Evening News? Even the newsreader looked profoundly affected, stunned almost. Like most people, I followed every news broadcast during the days that followed, feeling both fascinated and appalled. And there was plenty to hold our interest. I cannot recall ever having seen such an explosion in the media before, with extended television broadcasts and extra editions of the tabloid papers; anyone would have thought, from the headlines, that the royal palace had been blow sky-high — yes, that’s it: you’d have thought some accident had befallen the Norwegian monarchy.
Shocking news stories come and go, and some people may already have forgotten the whole thing. Allow me, very briefly, to remind you of the intriguing spreads in the newspapers, featuring faithfully rendered sketches of the crime scene, Villa Wergeland, with arrowed boxes containing descriptions of each room, not least the living room, where even the outlines of a polar-bear skin and the body of Margrete Boeck were depicted with an astonishing wealth of detail and graphic bravura. There was a welter of theories, a welter of voices all striving to understand, explain, comfort. Both friends and opponents of Jonas Wergeland, even the odd relative, made effusive statements. What everyone longed for, was positively screaming out for — not surprisingly — was some comment from Jonas Wergeland himself, seeing that it was he who had found her, he who had reported her death. It was as if they expected, more or less demanded, that he answer questions along the lines of: ‘What did you feel when you arrived home from the World’s Fair in Seville and found your wife murdered?’ Only after some days did word get out as to what had happened when the police arrived at the villa on the evening of the murder: Jonas Wergeland had broken down completely and had had to be admitted to hospital. When it became known that Norway’s top television celebrity was lying in Ullevål Hospital, practically in a state of shock, it is no empty platitude to say that an entire nation felt for him.