Armand V

by Dag Solstad

  I also knew Paul Buer; for a time we belonged to the same circle, a group of students, and we shared a background, having grown up in the same town on the west side of the Oslo Fjord. Actually, it was Paul Buer that I was interested in for a literary project. And that’s not so strange, considering his tragic end. But it turned out to be Armand instead, maybe because of the indecipherable nature of his life, seen from my point of view. But it’s clear that Paul Buer’s life still interests me — the way he involuntarily flung himself onto a path which required him to respond, with great seriousness, with all of his “self,” to what for him was an incredible and aimless schism between the truth (in his terminology: scientific facts) and the State, something which for him resulted in fateful — meaning in the final instance, irretrievable — consequences, and this still incites my literary interest, even my conscience, not to mention literary passion. Maybe I have faith that I will end my work as an author with a novel at least dedicated to his memory, and, if I can find the courage, to his life.

  * * *

  36. Historical coincidences vs. historical necessities. Is it out of necessity that we proceed the way we do? That seems to be how it is. We can deduce this from two things. First, what exists seems immutable. But of course that’s not true. History presents many examples of the opposite, but when the opposite occurs, it’s easy to point to factors that caused the immutable to crack and a chasm to be revealed, so that the opposite of the immutable came into view and became a historical fact. For instance, the Soviet Union. When the Soviet Union collapsed, it wasn’t hard to point to why things happened the way they did. It was even easier to wonder why it hadn’t happened earlier. But prior to the collapse of the Soviet Union, for example in 1985, no one predicted the Soviet Union would collapse, that seemed unthinkable, and no one wanted to tarnish their own reputation by publicly expressing the idea that the Soviet Union would soon collapse, except through a nuclear war (which they would have lost).

  Second, what exists can be proven, meaning that it’s easy to explain why it is what it is, and not something else. We can explain historical development, and we can deny it only by means of speculations in which we don’t really believe. And what does this mean? It means that even if we don’t study our own time, we still have to submit to it. That’s what is immutable, and a fact, with all it comprises, signifying our perspective on time itself. We have to submit to it because for us there is no other time to which we can relate. Even Galileo had to surrender to his own time. He declared himself defeated by his contemporaries and renounced his theories as false. The reason was not only that he feared being judged and burned at the stake as a heretic, but he also feared that the rulers of his day had better arguments than he did. What do I say to this? That I too, confronted with the rulers, may be forced to withdraw my opinions, and do so quite voluntarily. Or keep them to myself.

  (signed) Armand V., Norwegian diplomat

  * * *

  37. It’s true, that old story about how the wings of a butterfly on Tahiti can set off a hurricane in the North Atlantic. How impressive it is that they’ve come up with this incredible, even unlikely, story. It’s called meteorology. Fact after fact, over hundreds of years. It’s not so strange that they’re wrong about tomorrow’s weather, given how many butterfly wings there are, how many things there are in general. Of course today it’s not possible to measure that sort of influence with precision, but just knowing about it affects our prediction or understanding of what the weather will be like tomorrow. If mistakes are made — and that’s always going to happen given what we know in our epoch — it will be at least partially because of such things as the butterflies — not their unpredictability, but our inability (up until now) to calculate the extent of this predictability, of butterfly wings, the whole world’s butterfly-wing predictability at the exact tenth of a second (or even less, the same millionth of a second, and subsequently, in the name of precision, at an even smaller fraction of time, etc., etc., etc., etc.) next to equally impossible things, such as the bending of blades of grass, the swaying of flowers (as well as other things, the bark of trees, the mold in the underlying soil, I could go on forever, until I end up creating a clear sky over the Hallingskarvet mountain range). That’s what Armand would have said on that day in the late 1990s when he received a visit from Paul Buer at his private residence in the embassy in Madrid.

  * * *

  38. Does Armand’s gaze reveal his seriousness? Not when he looks at the world. Or at others. But what if Armand’s gaze turns inward? It’s possible. It’s possible that Armand’s gaze may be turned inward, and that he then sees the seriousness that “is,” but that cannot be reached. Does the fact that it can’t be reached mean that it’s ineffable and beyond our understanding? Can I then say that this gaze is unbearable? That it peers into itself and catches sight of what is unbearable? After the usual phases of a human life have been lived?

  * * *

  39. “What remains after the usual phases of a human life have been lived?” What do I mean by that? That which is left after childhood, adolescence, manhood, and old age have all been lived, and an essence has crystallized? That which “is” Armand? Armand’s essence? The gaze of the sixty-three-year-old Armand. Is that the essence? The man who looks at others? At the world? “This is an attempt to express the dreamlike unreality of the time — beyond everything truly serious — that can never be reached, what remains after the usual phases of a human life have been lived.” Found among the notes. Two separate notes, written down independently of each other, but by the same person. It has to be the gaze. The aging man’s gaze. The gaze of the man who wrote these two notes, independent of each other.

  * * *

  40. His own death made him thoughtful. But more than his own inevitable fate he feared the future of humankind. To behold the dreamlike, fragmentary inactivity, beyond everything truly serious, that’s what is left after the usual phases of a human life have been lived.

  40B. “But more than his own inevitable fate he feared the future of humankind.” It’s difficult for me to chance a regular comma here, actually it’s simply impossible, so if it’s possible, I ask to be spared.

  * * *

  41. It’s true, that meteorological story about a butterfly’s wings on Tahiti setting off a hurricane in the North Atlantic. How impressive that humanity has come up with this incredible, even unlikely story that is called meteorology. Fact after fact over hundreds of years. Not so strange that they’re wrong about tomorrow’s weather, given how many butterflies there are, how many things there are in general.

  Of course today it’s not possible to measure that sort of influence with precision, but just knowing about it puts meteorology in its true perspective. If they’re wrong about the weather on a specific tomorrow — and they will continue to be wrong, given what we know in our epoch — it won’t be because of the butterflies’ unpredictability, but because of our inability to calculate countless unpredictabilities next to equally impossible things, such as the bending of blades of grass, the swaying of flowers, the peace of the forest.

  * * *

  42. It was his voice, or his way of speaking. It had fundamentally changed, he was certain of that, even though he hadn’t met, or spoken to, Paul Buer in more than twenty-five years. When he saw the list of the Norwegian representatives at the meteorological world congress in Madrid that year, he was pleased to find Paul Buer’s name, and it was with an almost childish joy that he signed the invitation to the reception at the embassy. He felt this way because it’s always with great anticipation that we meet an old friend again after so many years, but also because he was happy that Paul Buer was part of the Norwegian delegation; that meant he couldn’t have been thrown out of the professional community, as he had suspected might happen, and as he had feared. Armand hadn’t heard much about Paul Buer over the past few years, but he knew that he’d been extremely involved in some meteorological measurements being done in connection with whether
Oslo’s new main airport should be built in Hurum, Gardermoen, or Hobøl, and he seemed to have discovered some errors, irregularities, or even chicanery that was of decisive importance when it came to choosing Gardermoen in the end. When the Norwegian delegates arrived for the reception, Armand immediately recognized Paul Buer and smiled to himself as he looked forward to welcoming him. Certainly he had changed, but that was only natural, he was now a man in his fifties, so it was a slightly faltering version of Paul Buer he now saw, a more stooped version, stiffer and slower than the person he had known, but no doubt the same can be said of me, Armand thought, because the basic features are the same for both Paul and me. He shook Paul Buer’s hand, holding on to it for a long time as he allowed his joy to overflow at this reunion. But Paul Buer responded in a superficial and formal manner. Armand was astonished; didn’t Paul Buer recognize him by his appearance, or hadn’t it sunk in that the Norwegian ambassador’s name was identical to the name of his old childhood friend? Not wanting to startle him by exclaiming: But don’t you recognize me? he said instead: “How many years has it been since we last met?” And Paul Buer replied: “Exactly twenty-six years.” He was taken aback by the tone of Paul’s voice, and his surprise continued as he exchanged more words with him. His voice had fundamentally changed, and that put Armand on guard. The rhythm of his phrasing had no connection with the man who was speaking, it had no social connection, or consideration, there was no question about that, it was a fact. And he also spoke too loudly, as if he weren’t hearing his own voice or it wasn’t actually his. I need to make sure I don’t favor him over the other meteorologists just because he’s an old friend, thought Armand, so he turned to the man next to Paul Buer and got wrapped up in a joking discussion of the weather with him, since they were after all (as he pointed out) delegates at an international meteorological conference. But Paul Buer remained standing there next to his colleague instead of continuing into the reception area as the others who had been introduced before him had done, and he joined in with the joking discussion by making a couple of conventional statements about the weather in general, again spoken in that too-loud but extremely formal manner.

  Armand deftly wound up his welcoming remarks with Paul Buer’s colleague and then turned to the man standing next to him, and Paul Buer’s colleague moved on into the room. Fortunately Paul Buer then realized that he too should move on and not stand there taking up space, so to speak, while his old friend, the present Norwegian envoy to Spain, greeted his guests arriving for the reception.

  Later, no opportunity presented itself for a private conversation with Paul Buer. Armand was the host, with a host’s obligations. Certainly he had hoped that there would be occasion for the two old friends, who’d known each other in their youth, to have even just a few minutes alone, but such an occasion didn’t arise, even though Armand was on the lookout for just such an occasion. Yet it can’t be denied that the brief introductory meeting of the two men had made Armand deeply concerned about the state of his old friend. This was reinforced over the course of the reception. Again and again he heard Paul Buer’s voice rise above the others’ in a staccato and obstinate manner, even though what he said didn’t require the least obstinacy, but was part of an ordinary and easy-flowing conversation, which the rhythm of Paul Buer’s phrasing destroyed. His whole being and manner were colored by this staccato and obstinate voice, such that Paul Buer no longer made a good impression on those around him, though he had undeniably done so before, back when they were young students. Armand felt a jolt of sadness pass through him every time he, immersed as he was in easy conversations with others, heard his old friend’s disconnected voice slice through the air of the room, even from the far end of it. That is a man in need, he thought. That is a man trapped in his own battle for justice and truth. Nothing else matters to him anymore. The truth has become an internal obsession, everything else he does takes place outside his control, or interest. He has lost control. Or interest in having any control over external reality. The only thing with any effect on external reality is that the truth should make inroads there, so that reality can be restored, become whole again. Armand heard Paul Buer’s voice wherever he went. He tried again to find an occasion to speak to him alone, if only for a few minutes, so that their reunion might cause him, he hoped, to fall back to his natural tone of voice from the time before Paul Buer was knocked down by some chicanery that nobody wanted to change. But the closest he came to this was sitting at a small table over coffee and cognac, together with a group that included Paul Buer. Then he exchanged a few words with him, and he had to listen to Paul Buer talking to him with that same staccato and obstinate voice, which had apparently now become permanent. Even when he uttered some banal comment about how cognac was not something he drank every day, the tone of voice in which the words were spoken could easily be interpreted as a slightly tactless criticism of the debauchery practiced in the private residence of this Norwegian embassy, instead of a cheerful expression of contentment at being able to, once in a while, step beyond everyday parameters to enjoy sips of this noble elixir. But he must at least have retained his professional status, thought Armand. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here, as a delegate to this conference. In spite of everything.

  When the reception was finally over and it was time for the guests to take their leave from the evening’s host, including Paul Buer, Armand again shook his hand, this time to say goodbye, and he seized the opportunity to ask Paul Buer whether he might join him for lunch the next day. But Paul Buer said that he couldn’t. By then the conference would have started, and every minute would be filled. This reception was only possible because it was held the day before the conference began, on the very evening when the Norwegian delegates arrived in Madrid.

  “But I could possibly decline an invitation to an official event on Thursday evening,” Paul Buer added, in his unsettling and unwavering voice.

  “I’m afraid that I’m busy that evening, and unfortunately it’s not an invitation I can decline,” replied Armand, sadly.

  * * *

  43. Here we’ll break in to insert ourselves in a footnote that diverges from the chronological course of events. At this point in the novel up above, or in the text out there, which is actually complete and can only be landed like a fish, Paul Buer has long since met his end. When this happened, it caused no ripple in the text down here, the real text, the one that will shine in the end.

  But now a ripple does occur, at a point that has nothing to do with Paul Buer, but which still has to do with his demise. When Armand V. got the news of Paul Buer’s passing, you couldn’t really say that he was surprised. His first reaction was to wonder whether he should have done more to arrange a private meeting with him that time in Madrid. Paul himself had not been unwilling; he had even suggested that he could cancel an invitation to another event on that Thursday so he could meet with Armand. But Armand couldn’t make it, it was absolutely impossible. That is, it would have been possible under one specific condition. Meaning if he’d been afraid that if he didn’t meet Paul Buer on that Thursday evening, it would spell his end; if he had been so sure of this, he could have used it as a candid justification for canceling an arrangement that could not be called off except under utterly extraordinary circumstances. But this wasn’t the situation, not at that time, and not now either, just a few months later, now that it’s known that Paul Buer’s tragic demise had occurred. And even if Armand might have suspected that Paul Buer would meet his tragic fate only a few months later, would having dinner in Madrid with him have possibly altered in any way what was about to happen? No. No doubt it was regrettable that nothing came of any dinner with the two of them; after all these years, it might have been good for both of them, it might even have turned into an evening full of the joy of reconnecting; but in terms of what happened, it would have had no effect whatsoever. That was determined by something else entirely. And Armand knew it. That’s why Armand took the news of Paul Buer’s demise in st
ride. But he was shaken, and he pondered a good deal about what sort of powers had gathered in Paul Buer’s mind and had been ravaging there in the final years of his life. Everything points to the fact that Paul Buer had not expected to be ignored when he was able to present clear proof that there’d been chicanery with the meteorological data in conjunction with the politics regarding where the future main airport for Oslo should be located. It didn’t matter to Paul Buer whether the airport was to be located in Gardermoen or Hurum, but when he had discovered an obvious technical error that could have catastrophic consequences for the decision-making process if it was not pointed out and corrected, he considered it his duty to speak up. He couldn’t understand it when he was ignored, and when he did at last understand it, he could not accept it. It went against everything he’d believed this society was based on, and from then on nothing mattered to him other than truth, justice, and the restoration of the old order Paul Buer had lived by as a natural fundamental principle. Viewed in this way, it is far from certain that a private dinner with Paul Buer that time in Madrid would have been any sort of edifying affair; for that to happen, it would have to be presupposed that the professional diplomat, Armand, succeeded in directing the conversation smoothly toward topics other than this grievance which had struck Paul Buer in his battle for truth and justice, and in the best case it would have resulted in a couple of hours’ relief for Paul Buer from his agitated state of mind; and that would have been worth it, we can say in hindsight, but whether it could have saved Paul Buer’s life has to be ruled out, or almost ruled out. Yet if only he could have managed, Armand thought, to see Paul calm down even for a brief moment, and experience a moment of tranquility, oh yes, he would have given a lot to see that happen, but that was an impossible thought, from first to last, both the idea that they could have had dinner together, the two of them, back then in Madrid, and that the dinner might have unfolded as Armand now fantasized about the way it could have gone.