Janet Garton Is Emeritus Professor of European Literature at the University of East Anglia, Norwich. She Has Published Books

Jan Kjærstad (born 1953) is a Norwegian author of a large number of novels and short stories, and is recognised today as one of the country’s leading writers. His most popular work, the trilogy Forføreren (The Seducer, 1993), Erobreren (The Conqueror, 1996) and Oppdageren (The Discoverer, 1999), won him the prestigious Nordic Council Literature Prize and has been translated into a string of languages, including English. Stories and story-telling, and the relationship between fiction and reality, are central preoccupations, and his works are often set in his native Oslo and address urgent contemporary issues, such as how to live authentically in an increasingly unstable world. Kjærstad is also a respected essayist and widely-read cultural critic.

Janet Garton is Emeritus Professor of European Literature at the University of East Anglia, Norwich. She has published books and articles about Nordic literature, including Norwegian Women’s Writing 1850-1990 (1993), Elskede Amalie (Dearest Amalie, 2002) and a biography of Amalie Skram, Amalie. Et forfatterliv (2011). She has also translated Bjørg Vik, Cecilie Løveid, Kirsten Thorup, Johan Borgen and Erik Fosnes Hansen. Some other books from Norvik Press

Johan Borgen: Little Lord (Translated by Janet Garton)

Jens Bjørneboe: Moment of Freedom (Translated by Esther Greenleaf Mürer) Jens Bjørneboe: Powderhouse (Translated by Esther Greenleaf Mürer) Jens Bjørneboe: The Silence (Translated by Esther Greenleaf Mürer)

Vigdis Hjorth: A House in Norway (Translated by Charlotte Barslund)

Amalie Skram: Betrayed (Translated by Katherine Hanson and Judith Messick) Amalie Skram: Fru Inés (Translated by Katherine Hanson and Judith Messick) Amalie Skram: Lucie (Translated by Katherine Hanson and Judith Messick)

Anton Tammsaare: The Misadventures of the New Satan (Translated by Olga Shartze and Christopher Moseley)

Ilmar Taska: Pobeda 1946: A Car Called Victory (Translated by Christopher Moseley)

Kirsten Thorup: The God of Chance (Translated by Janet Garton)

Selma Lagerlöf: Mårbacka (Translated by Sarah Death)

Viivi Luik: The Beauty of History (Translated by Hildi Hawkins)

Dorrit Willumsen: Bang: A Novel about the Danish Writer (Translated by Marina Allemano)

For our complete back catalogue, please visit www.norvikpress.com Berge

Jan Kjærstad

Translated from the Norwegian by Janet Garton

Norvik Press 2019 Original title: Berge (c) Jan Kjærstad. First published by H. Aschehoug & Co. (W. Nygaard) AS, 2017. Published in agreement with Oslo Literary Agency.

This translation © Janet Garton 2019. The translator’s moral right to be identified as the translator of the work has been asserted.

Norvik Press Series B: English Translations of Scandinavian Literature, no. 80.

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

ISBN: 978-1-909408-53-1

Norvik Press Department of Scandinavian Studies University College London Gower Street London WC1E 6BT United Kingdom Website: www.norvikpress.com E-mail address: [email protected]

Managing editors: Elettra Carbone, Sarah Death, Janet Garton, C. Claire Thomson.

Layout and cover design: Essi Viitanen.

This translation has been published with the financial support of NORLA.

INE WANG Jan Kjærstad

Apparently it was a crime beyond all comprehension. A hiker had rung the papers. Several people had been killed in a cabin in the wilderness of Nordmarka, way off the beaten track. Slaughtered, according to the tip-off. In a bestial way. Amongst the dead were well-known people, it was said. Extremely well-known. Terrorism. That’s what flashes through my mind. So it’s our turn at last. I’m standing here with my mobile phone in my hand. Trembling. Is this to be my lucky day after all? I’m shocked at the thought, I try to stop it, but it won’t be stopped, I feel a kick, because I’m at a low point, not just in my life, but here too, stranded on an island. I’ve been feeling out of place for a long time, standing here dressed up and sweaty, watching young couples running around in the sand in just their underwear, I can see that the party’s already getting wilder, I read the long text message again, just to make sure I haven’t read it wrong, and let my mobile slip back into my bag, like a weapon into its holster, I think, as Marie waves and points, I have to come down and sit on the rug, she pulls funny faces, I smile and indicate that I’m fine just here, raise my glass, at the same time concealing a grimace of contempt, regretting that I could be so stupid as to accept this wedding invitation, on Hovedøya island in the Oslo fjord of all places, the bridal couple in white, the guests in white, even I’m in white as the invitation demanded; and they were in luck, the weather on this late August day made you long for a parasol, and everything was so unbearably

8 Berge romantic, with the wedding ceremony in the monastery ruins and everything, the word of God and birdsong and tears of joy, a cool female, presumably lesbian, vicar, lots of hot air, solemn, far-too-solemn words about love, the greatest of all and la-di-da, doggerel, doggerel, but just the tiniest bit moving. It was just as much a Celtic ritual, a dash of Tolkien, surrounded by tall leafy trees, the flock of people in white amidst all the shimmering green, poetry reading, kissing, unrestrained kissing, champagne in plastic glasses, masses of champagne, the vicar too drank the champagne greedily, and I was surrounded by shouted conversations which became even more meaningless as they all got mixed up together. ‘Skål for the newly-weds,’ I hollered, just to be a part of it, people began to stumble on the stone steps of the ruins, screaming with laughter, I should never have come, Marie was a much younger colleague from the paper, murdered, and she was pregnant as well, she had admitted, in a bestial way, I felt like an old-timer alongside Marie’s contemporaries, to hell with them, lucky bastards, and everything was so resolutely informal and improvised and abandoned, we were hippies in 2008, forty years too late; of course there was not to be any stiff wedding lunch, it was a picnic, many dead, they’d brought rugs and baskets, occupied the meadow sloping down towards the northern beach, the one facing Lindøya island, and they spread it all out with shrimps, French bread, lemons, salad, wine from cooler bags, some people lit barbecues in the designated areas, so that an aroma of grilled meat, mixed with the smell of grilled lobster, soon lay over the rocks and the hill up towards the forest, and we had an orgy of food, we drank, we toasted, spontaneous speeches were made, one platitude after the other, of course people had brought guitars, there was singing, raucous singing, ‘All you need is love’, to hell with them, lucky bastards, all these shamelessly attractive young people with their lives ahead of them, well-known people; some danced, some smoked, and not just ordinary cigarettes, there was abandoned kissing, there was abandoned petting, several couples disappeared

9 Jan Kjærstad into the forest, giggling, soon they’ll be skinny-dipping, I think as I watch, I recognise the mood, fifteen years ago I would have gone skinny-dipping myself, now I’m just depressed by all this happiness, genuine happiness, I admit grudgingly, whilst searching for an excuse to be able to sneak off home. That’s why I see the text from Ulrik as a life-line, a chance to get out of here. These killings. Many people murdered in the forest. I catch a whiff of something, a whiff of a heaven- sent opportunity. Who would have thought that on one of the loveliest of late summer days ... In the city no-one knew that in the forest not far away ... Sooner or later it had to happen here too ... I can feel it. A current of air. Something is happening. Every- thing is changing. I turn away, no-one takes any notice, I find the steep path up towards the westerly canon emplacement, the high point with a view towards Bygdøy, towards the Fram and Kon-Tiki museums, towards the town and the looming hill to the north. What has happened in the spruce forest behind it? In a bestial way. The yells from the beach below get louder and louder. I catch a glimpse of Marie, whirling round and round like a Dervish. Shouldn’t she be a bit more careful? My gloominess returns. Where did this melancholy come from? Is it the awareness that Heggholmen is just nearby – the island of Heggholmen, where I met Martin one tropical Midsummer Eve at the beginning of the nineties? I didn’t feel at all out of place at that party, a bacchanal which was held in a large outbuilding decorated with leafy branches, just next to some summer cabins near the water. There we had garlands of flowers in our hair, paper lanterns in the rafters, parma ham and melon, a whole roast lamb, bowls of strawberries, barrels of wine, two acoustic guitars and everyone singing – when I think about it, it was not very different from the wedding celebrations I’m running away from right now. The difference was Martin. And that I was young, younger, in the middle of

10 Berge my journalism course, Martin had just finished and got a job on a paper, I was unsure, wondering whether I should drop out of studying and do something else, but Martin urged me to go through with it, said it was the world’s most important profession, we were the fourth estate, for Christ’s sake, he was glowing with eagerness, pushed a strawberry between my lips, I had nothing against creeping into the bushes, kissing, felt just as carefree, just as crazy, as the wedding guests I can see on the beach below me; there was something about Martin’s eyes, a look that struck sparks, I didn’t feel horny, just turned on when I looked into them, and later in the evening we were shown around an artist’s place on the southern point of the island, and were given more wine, an exclusive wine, in a studio down by the water’s edge, and we sat there drinking amongst extraordinary paintings and sculptures, and I was the finest work of art in the place, whispered Martin, and we swam, we swam naked, that first evening we met, we kissed, we did everything you do when you meet on a warm Midsummer Eve by the fjord and fall in love at once. I wasn’t drunk, I was turned on. I can feel it flare up. Long ago. Lost. Slaughtered? I ring the paper and get through to Jakob who is holding the fort this Saturday, he doesn’t know much more, but there are blue lights, he says, top priority, he says, people are on their way there now. ‘Where?’ I ask. ‘Blankvann, not too far from the Kobberhaug hostel,’ he says. Bloody hell, could that be right? I’d gone skiing there on the way to the Kikut viewpoint together with Martin. Sodding Martin. ‘According to what we’ve picked up from the police, the tip-off is right,’ says Jakob. ‘Someone found the bodies this afternoon.’ ‘How many?’ I ask. ‘Five,’ he says. ‘Perhaps more.’ My eyes follow a wedding guest as he strips off his shirt before helping himself to grilled lobster. I feel groggy, and it’s not from the champagne, the wine or the smell of burnt meat. ‘Terrorism?’ I ask. ‘Looks like it,’ says Jakob. ‘Five dead?’ I repeat. ‘Yes, at least, they say it’s a hell of a mess,’ he says.