by Dag Solstad
It was the power he displayed, without any cause, when it comes right down to it, that was frightening. Would it have seemed as frightening if Armand hadn’t noticed that the American ambassador had a pig’s head? If so, this episode wouldn’t have taken place. The pig’s head was the decisive element. It’s not so easy for you to get rid of a pig’s head, thought Armand pensively, and by “you” he meant the person he was addressing, which was himself. He knew he had encountered himself down there in the men’s room. Here was the power under which he lived and whose servant he was. He had taken part in something primeval tonight. Raw power was displayed. Bestial. These were the primeval conditions under which Armand so stylishly lived. And which he was definitely unwilling to give up. At the same time, it’s clear that a somewhat aging Norwegian gentleman who runs into the American ambassador in London in the men’s room and discovers that the man has a pig’s head is no longer capable of carrying out his diplomatic duties for his country. This was now Armand’s big dilemma.
The dilemma consisted of the fact that he was incapable of leaving the diplomatic corps. Both because of a certain familiarity combined with outward prestige, and also because of other reasons, which will soon come to light. Quite simply, it was a matter of feeling at home, or belonging, if you will. Armand felt at home in this Western cultural circle, it was his culture. Regardless of how interested he might be in other countries, or how much he learned about them — their history, religion, etc. — and no matter how much he enjoyed finding out about their customs, even adopting these customs when appropriate, and with the greatest respect, there were and would always be those countries that required actual dialogue. When Armand thought he observed that the American ambassador in London had a pig’s head, Armand was acting as an agent for others. That was not what he wanted, but the fact was that he was acting as an enemy agent when he saw such sights. Hence the horror he felt. For the others, those who were foreign, this was a normal sight. Considering the present state of the world, they would not be surprised that an American ambassador should appear with a pig’s head when he issued his directives; that was why those who saw such sights were called “the others,” the “evil” or the “hostile” ones, etc. Even ambassadors from so-called friendly regimes in the so-called third world weren’t entirely uncomprehending about seeing such sights as Armand had seen in the men’s room during that glittering event tonight. If Armand had said to the Egyptian ambassador, for instance: Did you know that the American ambassador has a pig’s head? the Egyptian ambassador would have glanced around cautiously to see if anyone else was listening and then he would have replied: No, that’s not possible. This could have been interpreted as an invitation to continue the conversation, which would have been vague, with many twists and turns, because each of them had to make sure he was not subject to some sort of provocation by the other. Naturally, Armand has not, as of today, had this sort of conversation with the Egyptian ambassador, but it would not be unthinkable. He could have said the part about the pig’s head to the Egyptian ambassador, but with the mutually accepted, though unvoiced, assumption that Armand was using it as a bad joke in an attempt to win favor with the Egyptian across the actual boundary lines that apply in the world arena. With this obvious indiscretion on Armand’s part, using what would be regarded as a bad joke, he’d be trying, as the Egyptian ambassador had to assume, to win his confidence, no doubt for another purpose than merely passing on a highly inappropriate joke. Yet it’s possible that the Egyptian, his interest piqued by all these vague and elaborate references to the American ambassador’s animallike appearance and image, might finally allow himself to be carried away by the intriguing and illicit content of these words about the specific pig’s head issuing from the mouth of the diplomat from the far North, so that he himself, in the end, might make a reference to his own Arabic knowledge, stubbornly denying that he’d ever heard or thought that the appearance of the American ambassador might remind anyone of, or resemble, a pig’s head, even in the artificial lighting of a men’s room, while at the same time brusquely admitting that he, in a roundabout way, had become aware of a rumor that in other parts of the world there was at least one American diplomat who actually was possessed of what was basically a pig’s head atop his muscular body, but that was probably just a malicious rumor, the Egyptian diplomat would have said, and then immediately taken his leave. This sort of conversation, even though in this instance it was only imagined, would indeed have been possible under certain conditions. But that was not the case when Armand spoke with ambassadors from friendly nations within the European culture. In general, it was unthinkable for him to say to the German, the Dutch, not to mention the Polish ambassador: Did you know that the American ambassador has a pig’s head? To say it to the Egyptian ambassador, possibly an honorable man from the third world, was dangerous for both Armand and the Egyptian, but to say it to the friendly Polish ambassador was unthinkable.
These kinds of thoughts, which now raced through Armand’s mind as he stood on the terrace facing the illuminated English park and smoked a cigarette while taking a moment to compose himself, did indeed show the realities to which Armand had to relate. What he’d allowed himself to think he’d observed in the men’s room was of such a nature that it made him a traitor to Norwegian interests vis-à-vis the United States, and it upset the revered friendliness that Norway had achieved with regard to the most powerful nation in the world. You can think what you like about Norway’s close relationship with the United States, but that was the reality with which Armand had to abide. For Armand there were no other options. He could not go over to those who were foreign — not even to get involved in the innocent maligning of envoys from Washington — to representatives of regimes from the third world whose actual legitimacy is based on having the blessing of the United States while they are afraid of their own people. Because this was no innocent maligning. This was no joke. The American ambassador had grasped the point and it would not happen again.
No, it would not happen again. There’s no doubt that the West (under the uncontested leadership of the United States) had subjugated the rest of the world, and that we therefore were privileged, that we as a whole (the United States and the close friends of the United States) were the rulers of the world. Then why be so strongly against it? When you’re a diplomat, even an ambassador, for a small country that has truly benefited from this? What the hell is your problem, Armand V., thought Armand as he stood there smoking his second cigarette on that mild English autumn evening. Ideas of your youth?
Yet he was against it. And he could do nothing about it. Because he couldn’t give it up. Because he was tied to this society and therefore also to its privileged place in relation to power itself, the center of the world; even though that’s not really what he wanted. It wasn’t the fact that the United States strove for world supremacy that its government, de facto, already had and would rather collapse than lose it; that would have been bearable, something he could bluntly conclude and eventually comment on, in a veiled manner; but the fact that he couldn’t let go of being part of the process, that truly shook him. He was an inextricable part of the fabric of power, on its way toward collapse. From such a perspective, which now became shockingly clear to him, he could not hand in his resignation as ambassador. He just couldn’t, that was his only and natural response. He had nowhere to go. He was an inextricable part, and all he could do was acknowledge how terrified he was at what he had become inextricably part of. He found himself within the system (as a representative for a small and insignificant country, but at a high diplomatic level) that actually was aiming for world supremacy. And if it did not attain world supremacy, it might as well collapse, as had happened with great empires before.
At a certain point in this lengthy series of arguments that Armand felt compelled to undertake, something merciless came into view. The realization that it had to do with us against them. Who “they” were might vary, just as the “we” might change
at different times, but those who are “we” were all inextricable parts, and that included Armand. Armand was an inextricable part; even before he began this lengthy and elaborate argumentation, he had realized it. And at the very end of this endless series of arguments, there was something horrifying that he could not get past, because it was here everything ended. You couldn’t get past it, that’s what Armand now realized. This end was an elementary requirement, which when spoken of out of turn wasn’t so dangerous and could then be tolerated, but when it wasn’t spoken about out of turn, it’s impossible to get past it. The final requirement that is at the bottom of everything and binds us together is this vow. A requirement, when it is required, to close ranks around the slogan “us vs. them.” Armand had gradually come to understand this, in all its horror. And he remained at his job.
“My poor son,” he thought as he felt the rush of history seize hold of him, piercing his empty, insignificant individuality, filling it up. Faced with Being and Nothingness. A farm wife’s worn-out shoe. A son’s failed optic nerve. In spite of everything, Armand thought, I have to confess that I am paralyzed. I can’t move, I am paralyzed. I have to confess that I can’t avoid it, I really can’t.
* * *
97. It occurs to me that in a previous footnote, long ago, it says that this book takes place in Oslo, abroad, up in the mountains, and during a sea voyage. Now I merely have to state: there is no sea voyage in this book.
* * *
98. Late in the fall, when he came to Oslo for a short visit to conduct consultations on official business, Armand also took a few days off to spend time up in the mountains, and there he met the twin sister, who was standing on the stairs when he arrived at her B and B. It was during the period when October became November, and he was the only guest. The hunters had long since gone home, so there were no more reverberating gunshots to be heard. Nature was quiet except for its own sounds. Both on the first evening and on the two following, he sat in front of the fireplace in the living room of the B and B, talking with the twin sister. It was as if he’d come home, home to this woman who now ran a B and B and who was in the process of closing up the place for the season. He and the twin sister were conversing in subdued and intimate tones. She asked him how he was doing, and he told her that he was doing well, considering the circumstances. She didn’t ask him how his son was doing, maybe she was waiting for Armand to bring up the subject, but since Armand did not, she didn’t ask. For his part, Armand didn’t ask about her husband, from whom she’d separated a few months back, nor how she felt about that happening, and since the twin sister didn’t say anything about it, he didn’t find out anything regarding where the husband was now or what had caused the breakup in their long-lasting relationship. She had been over forty-five when she got together with this man, who had moved into her B and B up in the mountains and who had also spent the winter months with her in her spacious apartment in Oslo. Armand’s contact with the twin sister had not diminished after she met this man, who was her own age and about the same age as Armand. Nothing had changed between them. They continued their intimate relationship as before. Armand had no problem relating to the twin sister and this husband of hers, whom he liked, although the man was of no real importance to him beyond the fact that he was the man with whom the twin sister lived and with whom she evidently got along well, until she, or he, no longer got along well with him, or her, and he had to leave. When the breakup occurred, the twin sister mentioned it to Armand the next time he came to visit (this was during the summer), and Armand told her he was sorry to hear it, because, as already mentioned, he liked the twin sister’s husband. But when the twin sister didn’t mention it again, Armand didn’t ask about him; after all, it was the twin sister to whom he was connected, to her intimacy and her approval. Thanks to her, he had not lost contact with his own daughter, whom he’d conceived with the twin sister’s twin sister. When she had acquired this B and B, she’d taken care of the daughter up here in the summertime, and she’d sent word to Armand, who immediately came to visit if he happened to be in Norway and was able to do so. In this manner he had caught a glimpse of his own daughter for a few days each year as she grew up. And this had led to him attending his daughter’s wedding and visiting the couple in their married-student apartment in Bergen later on, and to anticipating the continuation of his family, which had not yet occurred. Now they were sitting in front of the fireplace in the living room of the B and B, having an intimate conversation. He said that in addition to doing well, considering the circumstances, he was also feeling apprehensive, which had led to bad dreams. He was thinking about the world, both the external and internal ones. He said no more than that, and they both fell into an intimate silence, interrupted only by the other person quietly offering a few conciliatory remarks. That was how they spent the first two evenings of his visit to the twin sister’s B and B up in the mountains. He had a few pangs of guilty conscience because he’d left his son back at the institute outside London over the weekend to take these extra days in the mountains and visit the twin sister, but he shook off these feelings. There was no use thinking about that. His son had to learn to live his own life, a lonely life, alone with the fact that when he opened his eyes in the morning there was nothing to see, and that wouldn’t change as the day went on, as all the days passed, until the end. But right now he was here. With this woman, who exists only in these footnotes with little connection to any unwritten novel. Even though she exists only in these lines, the tooth of time has also taken its toll on her, and left its mark. And that has somehow subdued them. They never confided anything to each other. They shared one secret, from years back, during their younger days. She knew all about his second marriage, and while it lasted, they’d had no contact with each other. Once it was over, Armand, not the twin sister, got in contact again. In the following years the twin sister made occasional visits to the embassies where he was ambassador, staying in a guest room in the residence. At that time she also bought this B and B, and Armand would visit her there. Nothing ever went on between them; they both knew that at any moment they could enter into an intimate relationship, but neither of them wanted that. Not now. Not after Armand had had his second marriage, which he may have always regretted, and yet that’s what happened. When he later visited her and she rejected him, he never tried to make a play for her, sexually. He never told her about the women he’d known over the years, with whom he’d had short or long-term relationships; this was over a period of twenty years, from the time of his marriage to his son’s mother up until now, and he avoided even mentioning the name of any woman he may have escorted to a specific place or event, maybe not wanting to hurt her, at least that’s what he sometimes thought, but he knew it wasn’t true. She would not have been hurt; on the other hand, Armand feared that she might have become closed off, or more guarded; in any case a woman’s name would cast a shadow over, or get in the way of, the intimacy they both felt characterized their relationship, and then this intimate relationship, merely because of some random name, might come to an end forever. That may seem strange, but I, as the person writing this, think that’s the way it was. In spite of the fact that they avoided talking about what most affected them personally, about what was most heartbreaking to them as individuals, and despite the fact that — unless one person insisted, and that happened rarely — they treated each other as tactfully as possible in order to retain what they both would probably call the intimacy of their relationship, Armand would still maintain that he could talk to her about everything. They carried on intimate conversations, he listened to her, she listened to him. She was the one who could offer him approval. This relationship, which had lasted thirty years and was linked to a tacit agreement, a secret that excluded so much and made it impossible for them to talk to each other about everything, can be viewed as a distillate illustrating the melancholy which this special, disconnected, but possibly satellite-like footnote expresses.
He stayed up in the mountains for thr
ee days. In the daytime he took long hikes over the slopes. It was late in the fall, as October merged into November. The B and B would soon close for the season, and the twin sister was busy packing up and stowing away everything, so she couldn’t go with him on these long hikes. The hunters had long since gone home, so there were no more reverberating gunshots to be heard. Nature was quiet except for its own sounds: the rain pouring down; the fog, which sounded damp; the wind blowing against the B and B’s wooden siding, which creaked; the tiny crackling of brittle ice that showed up wherever there was a trace of water, from the big expanses of water on ponds and lakes, to the moisture on the trampled grass and moss, and on the steep, rough trails; the mighty presence of the mountain peaks in poor visibility, like a peal of thunder. Armand went on long hikes, taking in deep breaths of the soothing mountain air. On the third day he said goodbye to the twin sister and drove his rental car back to Oslo. From there, he would return to London.