Novel 11, Book 18

by Dag Solstad

  After Dr Schiøtz had left, Bjørn Hansen remained alone. He was afraid of his own fate. He was completely alone, but someone else’s creation. He was someone else’s creation, but that someone else did not dare to be confronted by his handiwork – not in the eyes of others, nor in his own. What had he done? What was so terrible about this that even Dr Schiøtz had to prepare an escape route from the accusation that he was a party to Bjørn Hansen’s project? What was so frightening about Bjørn Hansen sitting voluntarily in a wheelchair, and about Dr Schiøtz having been instrumental in putting him there? To the doctor himself? Was it his motivation, or was it the act itself? Was it his reason for doing it, or was it the horror of Bjørn Hansen sitting in a wheelchair of his own free will? The reason for his involvement must, after all, have been similar to Bjørn Hansen’s own, although there is a difference between being a party to someone else placing himself in such a situation and actually being that someone else, Bjørn Hansen thought. He no longer gave much consideration to his own motives. He could no longer remember why he had been so obsessed with this idea. He knew he had been obsessed, but could no longer explain why. He sat there trying to think back, to find the thread that made him actually go through with it. It certainly wasn’t the life of a wheelchair user that fascinated him. Nor was it the thought of sitting in a wheelchair pretending to be paralysed when he wasn’t and thereby fooling everyone. It was not the irresistible fascination of making a fool of society – his friends, acquaintances, even his own son – that had driven him to this. What was it, then? He did not know. But he had done it. And when he thought about having done it and remembered the insane attraction he had felt when the idea struck him, he could accept that, deep inside, he felt a profound satisfaction at having carried out this act, which was now a fait accompli, and this profound satisfaction corresponded perfectly to the fascination he had felt at the thought that it was possible to carry out such an act, like an echo, an inward confirmation, a continuity, like a river that had finally found its course and now flowed calmly, unseen, through his innermost self. He had no problem dismissing any conception or idea he might have, and would continue to have, which might present a rational or praiseworthy explanation for it, because there was no such explanation. Every time he had tried, he would dismiss it mercilessly after a while. To call this act an ‘exploit’ or a ‘revolt,’ or a ‘challenge’, appeared to him to be pompous and slightly ridiculous. And he was incapable of seeing anything wonderful in being able to fool people into believing that he was paralysed and had to sit in a wheelchair when in reality there was nothing wrong with him (apart from his stomach, which still throbbed, and his teeth, which also still throbbed); it was really just stupid, embarrassing even, especially considering that he was drawing on society’s resources and subjecting people in the public health service, who were on the whole warm-hearted, often idealistic human beings, to a practical joke that in the cold light of day gave him a shameful, almost sickening taste in his mouth. Nevertheless, there was something about his having carried out this act that filled him with a moist, dark peace. That he neither could nor would deny, and it did not cease or come to an end even if Dr Schiøtz’s horror at this very same act also horrified him, in addition to his having to accept that now it was all up to him, as he sat there in his mute loneliness, to endure the sight of this act, which had given him insight, in a wholly fundamental way, into what is hidden behind the concept ‘to be led straight into perdition,’ with open eyes.

  Yes, the meeting with Dr Schiøtz had given him a jolt. He was truly alone with it now. In his flat. Day and night. But then the telephone rang. It was Herman Busk. Bjørn Hansen was glad. Perhaps Herman Busk picked this up, for he at once invited Bjørn over for Sunday dinner, which he accepted with thanks. He had not seen Herman Busk since the ‘accident’, having felt reluctant to do so, although Herman Busk had often hinted that they ought to be able to see each other again, rather than just talk on the telephone. But now he had said yes.

  Herman Busk picked him up on Sunday. He came up to the flat, which they left together, took the lift to the ground floor and entered the street. Herman Busk pushed him along the streets and roads to his villa in one of Kongsberg’s old residential areas. It was a fine sunny autumn day; the leaves on the trees had acquired a smouldering glow. There was a slightly nippy air, which had an enlivening effect on Bjørn Hansen in his wheelchair as he was rolled along by his friend Herman Busk. Herman Busk also seemed in high spirits, glad anyway. He spoke in a light and lively manner as he pushed the wheelchair along. When they arrived at the dentist’s home, Herman Busk rolled him carefully up the gravel-covered driveway. He manoeuvred him up the stairs, carefully and by fits and starts, and entered the hallway. Berit came to welcome him. Wearing an apron, she emerged through the door to the kitchen, from whence came a delicious fragrance of roast lamb.

  Herman Busk wheeled Bjørn Hansen into the drawing room, where the two gentlemen partook of some refreshment before dinner. Meanwhile Bjørn could hear and see Berit bustling about, sometimes in the kitchen, sometimes in the dining room, where she was putting the finishing touches to the table. Finally she came out and announced that dinner was served. Herman Busk got up and pushed Bjørn Hansen into the dining room. There the table was set, the same way he had seen it a hundred times before, except that where his chair had been there was now an empty hole, into which Herman Busk wheeled him. White tablecloth. An attractive china dinner set, crystal glasses, silver cutlery, and a white damask napkin nicely folded at each place setting. Herman Busk sat down in his usual seat. Berit brought in the dishes. Roast lamb, white beans and roast potatoes. Juice from the lamb for sauce. Simple and flavoursome. Berit insisted, now as before, on roasting the lamb a little more than was customary nowadays, so it was well done, and not pink inside, and although Bjørn Hansen usually preferred it pink, there was nevertheless nothing that could compare to Berit’s roast lamb, that he knew from experience, and now he was really looking forward to the meal. Herman Busk poured red wine and the dishes were passed around. Sunday dinner at Kongsberg, in the home of Busk, the dentist.

  Conversation came easy and was carefree, as it should be. Berit and Herman Busk were both radiant at having their old guest and friend back at the dinner table again. But in the middle of the meal Bjørn Hansen felt that he had to go to the lavatory. He grew annoyed with himself – he could have remembered to go at home before Herman Busk came to pick him up, but he had no doubt been too excited. Now he tried to hold himself back, but after a while he had to admit that it wouldn’t work. He was very sorry. ‘It causes so much commotion, and it’s no fun for you either,’ he said when Herman Busk got up and wheeled him out to the lavatory. There they confronted a fresh ordeal. The lavatory was too small to accommodate the wheelchair. As opposed to Bjørn Hansen’s flat, Herman Busk’s house was not adapted to wheelchair users (Bjørn Hansen lived in a modern block of flats from the mid-1980s where disabled access was part of the regulations. If I hadn’t lived in that flat I would probably never have come up with the idea that has led me to where I am now, Bjørn Hansen had often thought, half jokingly). Herman Busk was desperate. He looked at Bjørn Hansen in bewilderment.

  ‘I’ll manage,’ Bjørn Hansen said, ‘but I would like to be alone.’

  Herman Busk opened the door to the lavatory, placed the wheelchair with Bjørn Hansen in it by the wall and quickly left. He returned to the dining room, while Bjørn Hansen quietly got out of the wheelchair. He walked, on tiptoe, into the lavatory. It was the first time he had done this, having all along been particular about following the rules of the game, even when he was all alone in his flat and had been faced by some pretty demanding tasks, from the point of view of a wheelchair user. But now he had got up and was pissing, standing bolt upright as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  The Busks were waiting in the dining room. Out here Bjørn Hansen stood bolt upright pissing. What if they knew! Suddenly Bjørn Hansen felt an intense desire that H
erman Busk should inadvertently come into the hall and see him standing there pissing. It wouldn’t have been so improbable. Herman Busk must certainly have wondered whether Bjørn Hansen had managed to get to the lavatory on his own or whether he should perhaps help, in spite of everything. But it was impossible. Herman Busk would never have been so tactless. Bjørn Hansen had asked to be left alone and Herman Busk understood why. He did not want to be seen in a humiliating position, like, for example, crawling along the floor towards the lavatory and hoisting himself onto the toilet seat, then making his way back again in the same humiliating (because someone was watching) way. He could trust Herman Busk. He knew that he and Berit sat in the dining room, at the dinner table, paying close attention, listening, ready to come running if they heard a crash (as he fell) and understood that he needed help. But otherwise not. He was completely confident of not being found out as he stood there, bolt upright, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  Nevertheless, he was not able to relinquish his intense desire to be seen. By his friend Herman Busk, who would suddenly turn up in the hall and see him stand there, exactly as he had been before the ‘accident’ had struck him down so senselessly. He was certain that Herman Busk would understand. Hssh, Bjørn would have whispered as he pressed his forefinger to his lips in front of a gaping Herman Busk, who could scarcely believe his eyes. But when Bjørn Hansen made the sign for hssh, Herman Busk would have pulled himself together, nodded, and made a sign in return, with his hands, to indicate that he was happily surprised. He would become an initiate – and what more could Bjørn Hansen wish for himself than to initiate his friend Herman Busk into this incomprehensible thing that he had imposed on himself? Perhaps they could initiate Berit, too, although this was something Bjørn Hansen was less certain of. But Herman Busk would understand him. Not why he had done it, but that he had done it, and because he had done it he would accept it and let himself be initiated into it. Bjørn Hansen was certain that Herman Busk would understand it and accept it. If he stood here long enough, Herman Busk would sooner or later come out, for if Bjørn did not return, he and Mrs Busk would exchange uneasy glances, and Herman would have to overcome his reluctance to go out there and possibly see his friend in a situation he did not want to be seen in and which, accordingly, Herman Busk did not want to see his friend in. But something must have happened now, since it was so quiet out there and Bjørn had not returned. If I stand here long enough, Bjørn Hansen thought, my friend will sooner or later come out and see me, and I will have an ally in my life. But he refrained from doing that. He finished his piss, shook his prick, walked (on tiptoe) into the hall and quietly got back into his wheelchair. It would not have been right to do it. What he did was not right either, but this was what his life had become. He could not change that, not for a beautiful (and maybe dubious) dream that his friend might become an ally. His fate was to live without anyone being initiated into the hair-raising fact that he sat in a wheelchair as if paralysed without being so. He wheeled the chair down the narrow hallway and into the dining room, where Herman Busk had opened the door wide in anticipation of his coming back. Their faces lit up when they saw their unfortunate friend, who had at long last chosen to return as a guest in their home.

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  Epub ISBN: 9781446485897

  Version 1.0

  Published by Harvill Secker 2008

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  Copyright © Dag Solstad 2001

  English translation copyright © Sverre Lyngstad 2008

  Dag Solstad has asserted his right under the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  First published with the title Ellevte roman, bok atten in 2001

  by Forlaget Oktober, Oslo

  First published in Great Britain in 2008 by

  Harvill Secker

  Random House

  20 Vauxhall Bridge Road

  London SW1V 2SA

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9781843432111