That same autumn Leonard got in touch with Jonas, and as soon as Jonas entered the basement room he knew that something was badly wrong. The aroma of simmering pasta sauce was noticeably absent. His friend greeted him with a face as deadpan as Buster Keaton’s. ‘I’ve made a horrible discovery,’ he said. ‘I’ve learned something that has changed my life. I’m not the person I thought I was.’
At the time Jonas had merely laughed at him, but much the same thought was to strike him years later, before his trip to Samarkand. The fact is, you see, that Jonas went all the way to Samarkand, to that blow-up in his mind, because he was in something of a dilemma regarding his future. He felt the need, therefore, to find some place far beyond the real world, a place where he could contemplate himself and his life at the greatest possible remove. And without realising it he fell back on Leonard’s choice of words: I am not the person I think I am. In short, Jonas set out on the long journey to Samarkand in order to discover himself.
After having sat for a long time exposing himself, exposing his body to the intricate beauty still discernible in the faded façades on Registan Square, Jonas got to his feet with the vague idea of visiting a nearby museum. It was at this moment that someone placed a hand, very lightly, on his shoulder. Jonas turned round and stared in bewilderment into the face of a man around his own age. He must have been sitting right behind him, in his blind spot, so to speak. The stranger smiled at the way Jonas started. ‘Tourist?’ he inquired, in pretty good English. ‘I did not think I would ever see a tourist here.’
Jonas was in no way prepared for what happened next. Although he ought to have been prepared. He was in a strange state of mind. And he was in Samarkand.
‘And you?’ Jonas asked.
‘I too am a tourist, although I suppose you could say this is my own country,’ the young man said.
Jonas was still feeling somewhat shaken by the sight of the other man. His features seemed disconcertingly familiar. Something about him filled Jonas with an uneasy curiosity. ‘I am from Leningrad,’ the young man said. ‘My name is Yuri.’ He offered his hand, they shook. Jonas also introduced himself, finished by saying ‘Norway’. As if it were a mantra. It never failed. Norway was a word which elicited a response from people, no matter where, as if they immediately associated it with something exotic, even those who did not even know that Norway was a country. The thought struck Jonas: there might be people in the world for whom Norway was a Samarkand, a spot so unreal that it acquired a magical, seductive aura.
Not so with Yuri. When he heard where Jonas was from he pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled something down on it with a pencil, so vehemently that the graphite virtually flew in all directions. He handed the slip to Jonas. Then he waited, in evident suspense, as if he had just handed over a passport which would gain him immediate entry into Jonas’s world. On the paper was a fractional equation: figures and letters and infinity symbols. Jonas could make neither head nor tail of it. ‘Abel,’ said Yuri. ‘Abel!’ he repeated, even more emphatically, pointing at the piece of paper. ‘From a proof of convergence criteria.’
Jonas realised that this had to be an extract from one of Niels Henrik Abel’s theorems, did not dare to admit that he was completely stumped, even though he had attended the same school as Norway’s greatest mathematician. He merely nodded. Affected to nod enthusiastically, knowingly.
‘One of my teachers showed me this,’ Yuri said. ‘He called Abel the Pushkin of mathematics. The poet of algebra.’
Jonas was quite taken aback by the thought of a country where a school-teacher could be acquainted with such advanced mathematics. Unless, of course, there was talk here of a Russian Mr Dehli. Jonas was intrigued by this: Abel, a Norwegian name and at the same time a word, a fascinating word at that, in a universal language. Abel and Samarkand could have been said to belong to the same word-class.
He considered politely taking his leave. He had been planning to visit a museum and then Timur Lenk’s mausoleum. He was constantly reminded by his surroundings of his mongoloid younger brother, Benjamin; Samarkand had been one of the Mongols’ cities, first destroyed by Genghis Khan, then designated their capital by the mighty Timur Lenk, or Tamburlaine, one of those restless rulers who had shaken the world.
But when Yuri invited Jonas to accompany him to a nearby chaikhana, or tea house, Jonas knew right away that this person was more important than any historic sight, more important, even, than Timur Lenk who had made the whole world tremble. Minutes later they were sitting surrounded by old men wearing turban-like headgear or small embroidered skullcaps, drinking tea under large, retouched photographs of Communist leaders. Yuri told him a little about himself. His father was a musician, a pianist; his mother worked in a shop selling ironmongery. He had an older sister who, when she wasn’t driving a truck, did nothing but read novels. ‘And I have a brother, a year older than me,’ Yuri said with a smile. ‘A real tearaway. Best at everything. And an incorrigible womaniser.’
Round about them men were eating shaslik or plov. Some were playing the mandatory chess or dominoes. Jonas heard what Yuri was saying, but tried to distance himself from it. He was in a ferment. The worst of it was that he knew what was coming. And come it did. ‘I also have a little brother with Down’s syndrome,’ Yuri said. ‘Do you know what that is?’
Jonas nodded. Took a sip of his green tea. Glanced round about, glanced out of the window. Dusk was falling. He ought to be getting back to his hotel. He felt dizzy, disoriented. He had been in a kind of trance ever since he had looked deep into the walls of the buildings on Registan Square, gazed into flat surfaces which had suddenly, as a whole, assumed a depth — or no, not depth: many dimensions, more than three.
The young Russian was still talking about his little brother with Down’s syndrome. Jonas was dreading the revelation of one particular fact. That, too, was forthcoming. ‘It was all my fault,’ Yuri said. ‘I won’t go into detail, but it was because of me that my mother had that baby.’
Jonas sat for a while saying nothing, hardly dared to ask. But: ‘What do you do?’ he said.
What was he to think if the young man opposite him told him that he was going to university, but that he had still not made up his mind which subject to study.
‘I’ve just been offered a job in television,’ his companion said.
Jonas breathed a sigh of relief. Some of his sense of unease left him.
‘Television,’ he said, laughing out of utter relief. ‘What’s so exciting about that?’
‘It’s the future — I thought everybody knew that,’ Yuri said, genuinely amazed that anyone should respond in such a way; not only that, but a young man from what could almost be described as an eastern province of the USA. ‘I want to make programmes,’ Yuri said. ‘Programmes that will work a change in people, make them think differently. Without that there is no hope for this bizarre country, these countries. You see — I can say this to you — Communism is already dead.’ The way he said this, lowering his voice and glancing wryly at the portraits of Politburo members, allowed Jonas to laugh even more.