Jonas stood in the National Gallery’s red room, next to J.C. Dahl’s huge painting from Stalheim, that sweeping vista, and thought of how they would kiss and kiss, greedily, avidly; how Sarah would stand with those longed-for fingers of hers on the nape of his neck before running them through the hair at the back of his head as if she had found some invisible strings on which she could play; and they would stand there intertwined, intent on losing themselves in one another, and he would note the way her nostrils vibrated when she kissed him, just as they did when she was playing the violin, and his tongue would meet hers and he would think to himself that he would never break contact with it, that nothing could drag him away from that mouth, not even the sight of a neighbour, such a notorious gossip as Mrs Five-Times Nielsen; and they would stand there, kissing unrestrainedly, and the days would pass, and the outdoor cafés would open, offering prawn smørbrød and foaming glasses of beer, and the long children’s parade would pass them by on May 17th, shouting and cheering and waving flags in their faces; but they would carry on kissing, totally engrossed, while summer came in with blaring brass in the small circular bandstand directly opposite and people popped into Studenten for fragrant ice-cream cones; they would stand with their lips pressed together while pigeons landed and shat on the statue of Henrik Wergeland in Studenterlunden and young men came out of Cammermeyer’s bookshop carrying copies of Line by Axel Jensen; they would kiss and kiss even while Spanish-speaking tourists unfolded maps round about them and different flags were raised on the poles along Karl Johan as heads of state from various countries saw fit to visit the city, and the weeks would pass and they would kiss, feverishly, oblivious to the fact that school had started and schoolchildren were pouring out of Norlis’ bookshop armed with new sets of compasses and rulers, and focused-looking law students were once again strolling into lectures in the old University banqueting hall; they would kiss while tempting posters advertising the season’s programme were hung up outside the National Theatre and even when autumn drew on and the leaves fell off the lime trees still they would stand there kissing, observed on the last Friday of the month by cabinet ministers driving, discreetly, impotently, past them and up to the Palace in black limousines; they would kiss, shamelessly, insatiably, while people walked by on their way to see American films at Palassteatret, they would kiss, stand there embracing, mouth to mouth, only snatching a breath every now and again, much in the way that whales occasionally rise to the surface, while the Town Hall bells marked each hour with a different folk tune they would remain in this haze, kissing despite the fact that it began to snow, kissing all the harder in fact, to keep warm; and they would stand there, lost to the world, as Christmas approached, with festive decorations in the street and people going into the record shop to buy Bach’s Christmas Oratorio as a present for especially dear friends, and they would kiss as the New Year fireworks banged and crackled above their heads, they would kiss, unfazed by the decidedly merry diners emerging from Restaurant Blom, reeking of brandy and trying vainly to hail cabs, and they would kiss as folk trudged past with skis over their shoulders, off to catch the tram to Frognerseter, they would go on kissing until spring came, with birds singing and newly-sprung, heart-shaped leaves on the lime trees and ejaculating fountains in Studenterlund, Jonas would stand there for an eternity, kissing Sarah, and perhaps for that very reason this kiss would be as much of a revelation as if she had removed her mask at the very end of an exhausting masquerade and when it was gone so too would the thrill, though Jonas could not have said why or how — if, that is, it was not that the thrill lay in the mask and not in the face, and all at once Jonas realised that he was kissing an illusion, depths which again turned out to be flatness; in any case, Jonas would have to tear himself free and with the kiss thus over he would say a cheerful, but uneasy goodbye.
They would go on seeing one another for some months, would kiss repeatedly over those months, but because what he had found behind the mask was not what he had hoped for there would come a day when he would decide to break it off, and he would be strengthened in his conviction that Sarah, like him, had reached the stage where she wanted to do more than kiss — yet again Jonas would, in other words, find a romance being struck by Melankton’s syndrome. Unless, that is, his own fear or, to couch it in more positive terms: his honourable intent, was actually a vicarious motive. For what if all of this merely concealed a horror of losing his independence, a fear of having to consider another human being?
And he would take her back to that corner on Karl Johan, imagining that she would not make a scene with so many people about. But when he said it, said that it was over, breaking it to her as considerately as he could, she would not let him off that easily and she would ask him why, and he would finally come up with the answer for which he had searched on a couple of previous occasions, an answer which, while it might smack of high romance and chivalry, would strike at the heart of the matter; and even though this answer had been drawn from another person’s life Jonas would now feel mature enough to use it himself: ‘You’re not worthy,’ he would say and even though he said it gently and was at pains to assure her that someone else would find her worthy, she would simply stand there staring at him in disbelief, and then, still with her eyes fixed on his, she would scream, really howl, so stridently and piercingly that everybody, every single person on or about Karl Johan would look round in alarm, but still she would go on wailing, as unabashed as when they had kissed; a ghastly shriek, like the screech from the highest violin string, with her hands over her ears. Then she would turn on her heel and hurry away, while in his head, like a grim echo, he would hear a verse from ‘Have You Seen Her Face’.
She would be off school for a week. This would surprise him. They had gone out together for a few months, they had talked for hours, played music to one another. And now — it would dawn on him that he had not known anything about her, not a blind thing.
Jonas stood in the National Gallery, where he and Leonard were supposed to be investigating the possibilities of being allowed to film in the sculpture gallery, but where instead Tchaikovsky’s exquisite music had led him up to the first floor, to the room containing J.C. Dahl’s huge painting from Stalheim. He listened to Sarah B. playing the violin, watched her fingers as the orchestra came to the end of ‘Serenade in C-major’. There was a burst of applause, loud and heartfelt. One starry-eyed gentleman, clearly a tourist, possibly American, went up to Sarah and presented her with his ring before bowing gallantly and walking out. She got to her feet, smiling, and came over to him, to Jonas, and said: ‘I didn’t know you were into paintings. Are you into music too?’
Jonas looked from her face to her fingers, from her fingers to her face. She was a closed book. He stood there facing Sarah B. and knew that he would soon be embarking upon an arduous expedition. What should he take with him?
This question, one which was to colour his whole life, stemmed from his summer with Bo Wang Lee and their assiduous endeavours to find the Vegans’ hiding place in Lillomarka. Bo Wang Lee lived in the United States, but was spending a month at Solhaug, in the end block of flats, with his Norwegian mother. His father was at home in the States — he was an American, an archaeologist and his surname was Lee. His mother, surname Wang, was in Oslo to complete a course at the university. The flat belonged to Bo’s mother’s sister. Jonas knew that Miss Wang worked on one of the ships of the Norwegian American Line — that was the sort of fact boys tended to pick up. She was on holiday in Florida with her boyfriend, who also happened to be the man responsible for the model ship which Bo had launched at Badedammen. The flat was sparely furnished and had the air of a place owned by someone who was not at home much. What with all the suitcases and cardboard boxes which Bo and his mother had brought with them, some of the rooms seemed more like ship’s cabins to Jonas, an impression which was reinforced when he went to the toilet and found himself sitting looking at two photographs hung on the wall, just at eye leveclass="underline" the MS Oslofjord and the MS Bergensfjord, two floating palaces. Jonas sometimes thought of that summer with Bo as being like a wonderful cruise through totally uncharted waters.