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.’
From the turret we could see the planes gliding in or taking off, so close that until darkness fell the logos of the different airlines were clearly visible; and if we turned round we could see the fjord, the boats slipping past, with an occasional, brilliantly illuminated colossus looking too big for the narrow channel.
‘Somewhere in Jonas Wergeland’s life there is a pattern,’ the stranger continued. ‘A pattern that generated the energy which, in turn, gave him the power to do what he did. What stories then, what series of events was it, that made Jonas Wergeland, a perfectly ordinary human being, capable both of creating that magnificent and inspiring television series and of being arrested and charged with murder? Because whichever way you look at it, no one can say that they did not appreciate the high standard of these programmes when they were broadcast, that they were not uplifting. And no matter what people may claim, no one, not even the most zealous inquisitor, knows anything about Jonas Wergeland’s motives — I’m talking here about his innermost motives — on that evening when he returned home from the World’s Fair in Seville.’
I could tell that I was tense, almost involuntarily tense. And at the same time grateful to be experiencing something I believe many people spend all their lives longing for: to meet a stranger who asks you to take a seat by the fire so that he or she can tell you what it’s all about.
‘This first story shows that to call Jonas Wergeland demonic is an oversimplification as outrageous as that of calling a dragon a monster,’ the stranger declared with fire reflected in those pupils and a concentration which made me feel the story was at that very moment being pulled out of its waiting room in the storyteller’s memory.
Radio Theatre Presents
On one of the threads that forms a spiral in Jonas Wergeland’s life he killed a dragon. And if we enter one of the coils in this spiral we find the following story:
They were going to put on a radio play. Not the way they had done as little boys, when they caught bumblebees and held them, buzzing and buzzing, inside shoeboxes. No, proper radio theatre. Jonas and Little Eagle were about to undertake a project that would represent the culmination of their career; they were going to record a play of their own writing, based on the story of St George and the Dragon. This undertaking did, however, present lots of challenges, and the greatest of these, aside from the different voices, was of course posed by the background noises, referred to in the trade simply as ‘background’: the sound effects which enable listeners to picture rafts heading towards dangerous rapids, or skiers in a snowstorm, if that is what is required. That was Ørn’s job, the sound effects; he was what you might call the floor manager. ‘There’s no sound I can’t make,’ was Ørn’s motto. I don’t know whether I have to spell it out for you, Professor, but when it comes to the question of which person has exerted the greatest influence on Jonas Wergeland’s life, the answer has to be Little Eagle — alias Ørn-Henrik Larsen.