Professor Andersen's Night

by Dag Solstad

  Professor Andersen spent the last days of the year in his apartment, alone and indoors, only interrupted by short trips out for newspapers, the mail, food and drink. He kept watch on the window over on the other side. He recognised him now. He even observed him outside as he went out of the main door of the building and along the pavement, before he disappeared round the corner of Drammensveien. Not with a suitcase or other travel bags, fortunately. This was repeated several times. He could be gone for hours, but he always came back. Professor Andersen didn’t put on the light in his own living room, and was extremely careful not to move about in there in the few hours of daylight. But it was from the window here that he observed him, after the lights had been lit in the building on the other side of the street. He spent most of his time in his study, where he put on the light, but very often he stood behind the curtain in the dark living room and looked across at the window in the apartment in the building on the other side of the street, very carefully at that time of day when there was still daylight, motionless, on guard, so as not to arouse suspicion, something he didn’t need to bother about after dark. It was in this fashion he moved around in his own spacious apartment, from the dark living room, through the equally dark dining room, to the bright study, where he then sat down for a while and pretended to read, before he got up and went back through the rooms in the apartment, brooding, self-scrutinising, fully aware of what he was up to, but nonetheless shaken by the incomprehensibility of it.

  ‘It isn’t my not reporting it that worries me, or is it that after all?’ he asked himself. ‘Even if I can explain it. But why couldn’t I seek Bernt’s advice?’ he thought. ‘Why was I unable to let him, or someone else, in on this? That is the reason for it, that’s what’s behind it. The whole wretched mess, which is so extraordinary. It’s more sinister than I like to think about. Who am I? Who is sitting and standing and walking here, and not knowing where to turn, making certain that a man whom I don’t want to be associated with at all, with any of his misdeeds, doesn’t disappear from sight? If he disappears, I’m free again. But I don’t seem to want to be free again – that means something surely, but what?’ reasoned Professor Andersen.

  ‘I can’t pretend I’m not doing this absolutely voluntarily,’ he thought. ‘Even if I feel forced to do it. I have tied myself to this misdeed, which I don’t even dare think about, which has taken place in that apartment, after the curtains were drawn. Where is the body? The blood, all the shit, from the woman. The fair-haired woman, whom I think was young. What has that poor devil done in there? To be able to bear what he has done. Alone with the body. The blood (which he must have washed away, along with all the shit). Where is the body? It must be gone now, since the curtains are drawn back and the young man is going out in the evening and doing errands, whatever they amount to.’

  ‘Life really lasts too long nowadays,’ he thought. ‘In our day and age. There is probably a lot to be said for meting out a man’s life, all things taken into consideration, so it lasts about fifty-five years; then one has lived through the phases of one’s life, without wear and tear. Childhood, youth, maturity, manhood, and then a short final phase. That should be enough, everything after that is an ordeal. If one is fifty-five years old the maturing process has gone so far that one ought to realise things are moving towards a rapid close. Then one would take that into account. That is the natural life cycle, which progress has wiped out, as if it were a germ, and thus made us ridiculously vain, childlike, both in mind and body,’ thought Professor Andersen. ‘We live far too long, both as children, as youths, in the years we mature, and as mature men. And even then our ordeals haven’t started. The slow closing drama, fairly static, a horrible, slow end; the vainer you have been, the longer it lasts, this endless finale, the real face of modernity in the twentieth century. My life, in other words,’ Professor Andersen added.

  ‘Did I grasp the opportunity?’ he asked himself, suddenly, ‘Was that what I did? When I decided not to report it. It was terrible really, not to report it, that was what I didn’t understand. I was blinded by recklessness, that’s what I was. And am,’ he added. ‘Society exerts a tremendous influence over one. That was what I didn’t understand, despite always having preached it – to my students, for instance. Why have I set myself up against society in this way? What is it I want to see? In myself ? Or in him. He whom I saw murder?

  ‘I can’t defend it,’ he thought. ‘That’s the heart of the matter. I’m not proud of it, not at all, but I couldn’t have acted otherwise. The thought of informing on him revolts me, even if he is a murderer, that is a fact which I just have to take into account. I understand this, and stand by it. But why couldn’t I tell Bernt about it, or someone else? What was it I feared in that connection? That I don’t understand. Did I fear Bernt’s arguments against it and his condemnation? I don’t think so, for I know the arguments myself and agree with them. No civilisation can accept and defend the notion that someone who witnesses a murder could fail to bring it to the attention of society. It is surely the primordial crime. Even a father is duty-bound to report his son, and he does so, and if he doesn’t, he suffers greater torment than I do now. I know all of this and am unable to disagree with it, but at the same time: I am also unable to report him. Not then and not now, either. Am I suffering from a boundless feeling of sympathy? In other words, compassion beyond all bounds? Am I suffering along with the murderer, and do I wish to continue to do so? But what about the murder victim? She is dead! Subjected to the primordial crime, but she is dead. The murderer is alive and must continue to be so. Along with me. Beyond all control, in secret. The murderer and his silent witness. The murderer who doesn’t know about his silent witness, but is watched by him and observed. When shall we meet? What on earth is this? Why don’t I want him to disappear from my life? Why do I fear that he’ll disappear from my life?’

  Agitated, Professor Andersen wandered around his apartment and brooded over thoughts which didn’t give him a moment’s peace. No matter how much he brooded, he found no answers to his questions. He felt harassed and irritable over trivial irregularities in his routine, such as not being able to find the cheese slice, which he thought he had placed there, in the kitchen drawer, but which he found on top of the fridge, something which unleashed great irritation, directed at himself, because he lived alone and didn’t have anyone else to blame when he couldn’t find his cheese slice. It was New Year’s Eve. The light was on in the window of the apartment opposite. Professor Andersen had purchased food and drink for a New Year’s Eve alone in his own apartment. Fillet steak. Horse. A good red wine. Italian, a Barolo. At any rate, he would treat himself to a good meal, while he kept an eye on the man in the apartment in the building over on the other side of the street. He had also decided to read the latest Shakespeare translation by the poet Edvard Hoem, chiefly to see what misunderstandings were to be found in the translation or adaptation. He thought he learnt a great deal by studying the misunderstandings which were liable to arise when the English spoken by mysterious beings living in the Renaissance period was translated into Norwegian, a stubborn minority language in the twentieth century. ‘Hmm, hmm,’ he thought, with a sudden burst of good humour and anticipation. But then the light was turned off in the apartment. In that one over on the other side of the street. He saw it from his study, from where he had a sideways view. He went quickly into the dark living room and stationed himself behind the curtain. A little later he saw the man coming out of the main entrance, dressed up for a party in thin, black shoes and a thick overcoat with a white scarf slung nonchalantly around his neck. He saw him walk up to a waiting taxi and get in. The sight almost annoyed Professor Andersen. He felt a little offended. Here he was, forced to spend New Year’s Eve all alone in a darkened living room, and then he, the other, goes out to amuse himself. ‘But he won’t amuse himself,’ thought Professor Andersen. ‘After all, he can’t do that any longer. It’s impossible for him, poor man. It’s just a game he has to go through with b
ecause life has to go on as before, as though nothing has happened.’

  Actually, he was glad the other had gone out. Henrik Nordstrøm, as he probably was called. It meant he was in for a quiet New Year’s Eve. At any rate, until well after midnight, he could with certainty bargain on that. Indeed, why make plans for some imaginary hour after midnight? He definitely didn’t need to sit up waiting for him to come home. He wouldn’t vanish for good tonight; possibly tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, but not tonight, he wasn’t dressed for that. So New Year’s Eve passed quietly. He laid the table in the dining room, and savoured his meal at about half past eight. Afterwards he sat down in his study with coffee and cognac and Edvard Hoem’s translation of Shakespeare. He got out his English version of Shakespeare, along with a previous translation of the same play into Riksmål, in addition to the most recent translation into New Norwegian prior to Hoem’s, and then compared Hoem’s translation, or adaptation, to the others. To his great relief he was soon engrossed in this. He noticed a few doubtful things that Hoem had done, and pondered for a long time as to what he meant by them; in fact, his solutions impressed him a little, but he did wonder how the poet himself would explain them, and to what extent his explanation would stand up. Indeed, it would be interesting to meet Hoem one day and discuss Shakespeare translations with him, thought Professor Andersen, in as satisfied a mood as one might reasonably demand of him. When it was approaching twelve, he got up from his comfortable armchair and decided to go out, in order to hear the ships’ sirens from the docks and watch the fireworks display.

  Soon afterwards, he was on Drammensveien. It was a wintry night. The snow was frozen and hung on solitary city trees under the street lamps. The pavement was slippery, dirty white, and the night was, of course, dark. It was cold, but he had dressed warmly, apart from his head, which was bare. He didn’t own a hat and he would rather not wear a cap, therefore he could feel the tips of his ears beginning to get cold. He walked briskly towards Tinkern Park, and followed the paths around it and over to the footbridge which stretched across the motorway between the sea and Skillebekk. Up there was a thick crowd of people, who were all out on the same errand as he was. He positioned himself in their midst, and soon the town-hall bells could be heard as they sounded twelve, followed by the sirens from all the boats in Oslo docks, and all the car horns from the taxis in Oslo city centre. The fireworks exploded in the sky in a powerful and entrancing spectacle. He heard people wishing each other Happy New Year, and champagne corks popping. From this footbridge over the motorway which passed right through Norway’s capital city, one had a very good view of the fireworks which were sent up from most parts of town, from both Skillebekk and Frogner, as well as from Aker Brygge and the docklands. They sparked and whined in the dark winter sky and the rockets whizzed off into boundless space, only reaching the edge of it right enough, but seeing them whine upwards, small red and yellow shots of lightning, gave one a good impression of the boundlessness of space, even here where it began, before they exploded, and unfolded themselves in glittering harmonious formations, a real fire-work display, with lots of bangs and beautiful colours against the bleak and cold night sky. It was a joy to behold, not least because all the others thought it was so joyful, thought Professor Andersen with a little smile. He stood there for a while among all the festive people, before he retraced his steps. By then the time was half past twelve, and up in his apartment he had a good glass of cognac, both in quantity and quality, he thought, before sitting down in his comfy armchair for a little quiet reflection. He had another good glass of cognac, both in quality as well as quantity, he thought, and then another. It had turned half past one, and Professor Andersen had no wish to go to bed. So he decided to go for a night-time walk.

  Professor Andersen went out for the second time that evening. He wandered in the streets round Skillebekk, where there was no longer anyone firing up rockets. It was cold and he noticed that he had too little on his feet. He really ought to have worn his boots and not ordinary shoes, even if they were thick-soled. Inside the apartments a surprisingly large number of lights were still on. ‘This is one of the biggest party nights of the year,’ thought Professor Andersen, ‘now that champagne plays a part, people neither want to go home nor go to bed. Cheerful,’ he thought. He arrived at Drammensveien, and began to follow it out towards Skarpsno. It was gone two now, and taxis continually drove past him, and the whole of Drammensveien became quite crowded with people who were walking home because they hadn’t managed to hail a taxi. He walked along Drammensveien and passed a number of embassies. The Russian, the French, the stately English residency, the Egyptian, the Iranian, Israel’s, Venezuela’s, Brazil’s. Had they also sent up rockets tonight? Professor Andersen wondered about that, and hoped so, for that would cast a reconciliatory light over everything, wouldn’t it? ‘Which I appreciate more and more as the years pass,’ he thought. He turned immediately after reaching the park out at Skarpsno, and walked back again. He passed more people, who hurried home while they glanced sideways and back-wards, on the look-out for an empty taxi. But the taxis which passed, and there were many, were all engaged. Outside his own building he remained standing for a while, relishing the fact that it was half past two in the morning and, although it was cold, he enjoyed being out so late. Then a taxi came to a halt by the pavement right in front of him, and he got out. The other. The murderer, who had now returned home. He walked straight past him, and Professor Andersen was able to see him up close for the first time. It lasted only a few seconds, before he bustled off across the street and unlocked the door in the gleam from the lamp outside the main entrance to the building where he lived. He fumbled a little with the keys, Professor Andersen noticed, but he wasn’t unsteady on his feet. ‘He’s neither drunk nor sober,’ Professor Andersen thought. And he didn’t seem unlikeable, but neither was he the opposite, in other words, instantly likeable. ‘This whole thing is strange,’ he thought, but no more than that. Somehow it was a bit empty. But he noticed all the same that his knees were shaking as he walked up the steps to his own apartment.

  Happy New Year, Professor Andersen! It’s delightful to wake up to the New Year Concert from Vienna and the ski-jumping competition at Garmisch-Partenkirchen on 1 January in a new year. All of it on TV. Soon it will be work days at the university and slowly the days will get lighter. His name was Henrik Nordstrøm. He didn’t leave his apartment with, for instance, two heavy suitcases, early in the morning, not on 1 January nor 2 January nor 3 January, there were lights in the windows over there, he lived there, permanently. It was his home. Henrik Nordstrøm. On 3 January Professor Andersen was back in his office at the university at Blindern, after the long Christmas break (at least as far as the university staff were concerned). Greeted colleagues, and received visits from the first master’s degree students to arrive. He prepared his first lecture, which he was to give as early as 9 January. He noticed that the newspapers hadn’t reported any woman missing whom he might have connected to the murder he had witnessed. He did observe Henrik Nordstrøm now and again when he left his apartment and stood at the tram stop and waited for a tram going towards the city centre. Professor Andersen had got into the habit of glancing across at the apartment on the other side of the street, but he had stopped standing concealed behind the curtain, and he had long ago gone back to normal lighting in his living room. But he had noticed that it was only in the morning that Henrik Nordstrøm stood at the tram stop and waited for a tram. Otherwise he got into a car, in the mid-range category, as they say, and drove off, or he took a taxi. The car he left standing parked outside the building where he lived, although rather a long way down the street, as a rule, on account of trouble finding a parking space, he presumed. As the weeks passed Professor Andersen grew more and more surprised. For there was still no woman reported missing who could be connected to the murder. The woman who had been killed was not missed. Evidently no one noticed the absence of the young, fair-haired woman. Why not? Was it possible that o
ne could just disappear without further ado, and no one would notice? Professor Andersen thought that sounded strange, and concluded that the woman probably had been married to Henrik Nordstrøm or in some other way related to him, so he had been able to keep her disappeareance concealed. In that case, it would just be a question of time before the net tightened around him, as they say. And he must know that himself: the arsenal of excuses and explanations as to why she wasn’t around any more, for instance, to family and friends, colleagues at work, if she had had any, would one day come to an end, or be worn so thin that they would unravel and suspicion would be aroused, for instance in the minds of the young woman’s parents or of her brothers or sisters. It was just a question of time before he was caught. It occurred to Professor Andersen that that had been an assumption that he, Professor Andersen, had made the whole time. It was something he had reckoned with, as a certainty, and which had been lying there under all the emotions this case had aroused in him, and all the questions he had asked himself, regarding himself and his motives, in connection with it. He was dealing with a person in distress, someone fleeing from his misdeed, but one who knows that he will soon be caught. However, at the end of January and beginning of February there was still no one in the murderer’s closest circle whose suspicions were strong enough to have had any kind of consequences for Henrik Nordstrøm.