The Ringmaster's Daughter Part 12

One group comprised those who couldn't complete projects they'd started, and so felt they could begin to complain about the quality of the goods they'd received. I experienced plenty of these mental somersaults. They amused me. It's ridiculous to complain about the road- handling qualities of a Jaguar if the real problem is that the car has an incompetent at the wheel. The chauffeur's characteristics are what's in question, not the Jaguar's.

Another group was the incorruptibles. These authors were especially unpredictable because they had nothing to fear from a personal point of view. They were nervous too; they were uneasy lest I was aiding others. Some displayed signs of a near-paranoid anxiety that something of that sort was happening. They fished, but they had nothing but an ocean of rumour to trawl, they weren't able to bring one solid catch to the surface. These incorruptibles also suffered from the delusion that my services were highly exclusive, but this only served to make them even more wary, for who was I really helping? Could it be that new comet, that c.o.c.ky young debutant who'd just run off with a prestigious literary prize?

People who owed me money made up a third group, people who weren't always willing to pay. In a few instances the sums in question were large. Neither the customer nor I liked the thought of it becoming publicly known that one of the year's best sellers was based on a set of detailed notes that hadn't emanated from the author's pen. None of us enjoyed it when I was forced to remind people about the tapes, but sometimes I felt I was driven to it. It was effective. The slapdash outward appearance of Writers' Aid made it all the more important that its contract work should be in good order.

The final group contained all the people who'd greatly benefited from Writers' Aid, both artistically and financially, but who felt themselves on shaky ground when they realised there were other victims in the web. The more they'd used my services, the further they had to fall, and the more frightened they were of losing face. They were ashamed of having accepted help, they felt disgraced for falling into the trap. It was understandable. But they were the ones who'd succ.u.mbed to the temptation to buy silk.

Even when they knew that I was operating on a large scale, several of my clients fell for the temptation of entering new contracts. They realised that the s.h.i.+p might be sinking, but they'd got the monkey on their backs and wanted more, more. As with all other drug dependency it was, perhaps, nothing more than putting off the evil moment. I asked one of them if he wasn't worried about being found out after his death. But he merely shook his head and told me that he wouldn't be around then anyway. I thought it a shameless p.r.o.nouncement, but it was also striking. One characteristic aspect of post-modern civilisation is an almost complete lack of respect for posthumous honour. Life is an amus.e.m.e.nt park, and consideration stretches no further than closing time.

The idea that such customers might hate me was some- thing quite different. But there isn't necessarily any inconsistency in being a heroin addict and loathing the heroin dealer at the same time.

I kept my own equanimity until one day I read a short article in Der Spiegel about a remarkable chess novel which had lately been published in Germany. I got a copy of the novel, read it straight through and was left deeply shocked.

The novel was based on precisely the same story I'd told Maria many years ago at Frognerseter only a few weeks before I'd made her pregnant. A number of details were different in the German version, all the names were new and the action took place in Germany, but the story itself was exactly the same as the one I'd invented - in some telling instances right down to its minutiae. The author was purportedly a Wilhelmine Wittmann, a person quite un- known to me, but of course the author's name might be a pseudonym.

Maria was the only person I'd told the chess story to, of that I was certain. It had remained unsold simply because I hadn't yet found anyone I thought was capable of doing it justice. So there were only two possibilities: either Maria had retold the story about Lord Hamilton to a third party, for example an author; or - and I found this even harder to come to terms with - Maria herself was hiding behind the pseudonym Wilhelmine Wittmann. The story was well told, I was quite pleased with the result, although for me the narrative had been almost inextricably linked with the Scottish Highlands.

This sudden sign of life from Maria thoroughly exasper- ated me. The synopsis for Das Schachgeheimnis was only one of dozens I'd squandered on Maria, and several of them had long since taken off as fully developed novels. Might there be other stories from the pen of Wilhelmine Wittmann? In that case Writers' Aid could risk ending up in really hot water.

Maria had already demonstrated that she had an impres- sive memory, and now she'd begun to play chess.

The Writing on the Wall

It was at this period that I began to establish myself abroad in a big way. It was high time. At home the web was becoming too intricate. Norway's population is small, but with a high proportion of writers. Soon it was very convenient to be able to make frequent trips to Germany, Italy, France, Spain and Britain.

First, I'd had to get myself a job in publis.h.i.+ng. I'd known for some time this would be a necessary step. Many editors had long been aware that I was a useful chap who provided their authors with thoughts and ideas of various kinds, and I was in their good books. With increasing frequency I was asked to read for them, on an official basis. It made an excellent change, it felt good to have some proof that I'd earned money. I'd had quite a time trying to convince the Inland Revenue that I earned anything at all.

For a year I stood in for an editor of translated literature in one of the big publis.h.i.+ng houses. I was one of many can- didates, but I was given the job as soon as I expressed an interest. I didn't even need to send in a written application.

I had a reputation and that was enough, everyone knew Petter. I was the eminence grise of the literary world.

It wasn't the least bit peculiar that a man like me applied for a job in publis.h.i.+ng. It was just strange that I'd been so long about it and that, although I had no formal qualifica- tions apart from baccalaureate, no one batted an eyelid. I was an autodidact, and I felt no shame at my lack of university qualifications, I'd simply skipped that stage. There are people who learn more from themselves than they can ever learn from others.

Happy the publisher who could open his doors to me. I would do a good job, no doubt about that, but secretly I knew that under cover of working for publishers I could make useful contacts abroad, acquaintances that would be hugely important for the expansion of Writers' Aid.

I remained with the firm for four years, but by the end of the first many key people in the large foreign publis.h.i.+ng companies knew who possessed the best grasp of literary life in Scandinavia. My job was to seek out foreign t.i.tles that merited translation into Norwegian. It was easy. The agents knew who to contact, they jumped on to the via mobile between the halls at the Frankfurt Book Fair and came chasing after me. It was fun, it was pure entertain- ment. They kissed me on both cheeks and showered me with business cards. They knew that the t.i.tles I didn't take had little chance in the Scandinavian countries, and so I became a kind of litmus test. Before a German or Italian publisher offered a t.i.tle to the j.a.panese or American market, they might turn to me and ask my opinion, and I would quickly report which t.i.tles I thought had a chance in the respective countries. I might provide the name of a contact, or I might put in a good word myself. I also gladly advised on reasonable contract terms. Thus, I was con- stantly being asked about matters that weren't strictly within my remit. While I was still an editor dealing with translated literature I'd already a.s.sumed a key role in dis- seminating Scandinavian literature abroad. I never said anything I didn't mean. If I informed a German publisher that a Danish or Swedish novel could become a great success in Germany, the publisher knew I'd weighed my words carefully. Weighing your words is important when you make your living in a social environment. Trust is something that is built up over time.

It caused much consternation when I knocked on the managing director's door one morning and handed in my notice as foreign books editor. But I had to move on. Since the early eighties I've been a scout for several large publish- ing houses abroad. As a scout my job has been to keep an eye on promising Scandinavian- and German-language t.i.tles and inform the publishers I represent as quickly as possible when I come across books that may be of interest. This provided me with a completely new platform and soon I was representing prestigious publis.h.i.+ng firms in many countries, which I also regularly visited.

While travelling I continued to hatch out new ideas and themes for novels. When I was younger I'd enjoyed thinking while walking in the mountains or taking a train across the Hardanger plateau. Conditions were no worse while cruising at 40,000 feet on the way to New York, Sao Paulo, Sydney or Tokyo. Sketching out an idea for a novel was the work of a few minutes, and I needed something to think about - my mind was just made that way. I couldn't stare out into the aisle wondering when the cabin crew would bring round the coffee again. I had a profession that was perfect for long-distance journeys. I could be thankful I wasn't an ordinary business traveller, far less a novelist. A notebook is nowhere near as unwieldy as the ma.n.u.script of a novel or an entire computer, and it's also a lot more discreet. Hegel, in his aesthetics, emphasised the idea that the purer and more brilliant the art form, the less the physical s.p.a.ce it requires.

My presence at book fairs and literary festivals the world over now went unremarked. I was paid to keep my eyes open. Ideally, I was supposed to know about an important novel before it was even published. But what no one could possibly guess was that in some cases I even knew about a novel long before it was written, indeed before even the author was aware that he or she was going to write it. This is naturally a fabulous position for a scout to be in and I've been a genius at placing major t.i.tles. People say I've a sixth-- sense.

Writers' Aid found it a great relief to be independent of Scandinavian writers for a change. I translated some of my most important synopses into English, German, French and Italian. It took a little work, but nothing insurmountable.

I've always enjoyed reading literature in its original lan- guage, it's almost a must. And so, as far back as the early seventies, one of my hobbies had been learning new languages. Writers' Aid was now building up an increasing corpus of writers to choose from. An American or Brazilian author would consider it relatively safe to buy an idea from a Norwegian. I began to make a fortune.

Part of my routine was keeping in close contact with agents, publishers and writers, and soon I became a man lots of people wanted to woo. There was no shame in having lunch with me at book fairs in Frankfurt, London, Bologna or Paris. Being seen sitting next to me could be regarded as an honour. I was much sought after, my pleasant personality was no professional disadvantage, and I spent many an enjoyable evening in the company of female publishers.

The only compet.i.tors in my niche were other scouts. The same best-seller couldn't be placed with both Seuil and Gallimard.

When I arrived at the Children's Book Fair that spring, I quickly sensed that it might turn out to be my last visit to Bologna. On the very first morning I detected that things were not as they should be. I'm hypersensitive to friendly or hostile atmospheres and always have been.

I got talking to a French editor just after the halls opened.

He'd recently had a big success with a story based on one of my synopses. The author, whom I'd met in a pub at the Edinburgh Book Festival several years earlier, had been faithful to my intentions, and the novel was stylistically elegant. He had paid a substantial advance, and I was to get five per cent of all future royalties both in France and on translated editions. The book had been awarded several prizes and had already appeared in seven or eight different languages. I had clear confirmation of these conditions on a dictaphone ca.s.sette, now safely deposited in a bank box together with a copy of his bank's payment advice. I also had an acknowledgement on a tape recorded from my phone at home in Oslo. I always readily supplied my home phone number to authors, the tape recorder was undetectable, and to avoid misunderstandings I would always recap our agreement.

It wasn't long before I was convinced that the French editor knew all about the provenance of this prize-winning novel. Could the author himself have told him? And if so: why? Had he absolutely no sense of pride?

Nothing was said directly, but from the way in which this editor began to quiz me, I gathered he had a suspicion that the help I'd given the author in this instance was nothing unusual. He was even confident enough to start asking me if I knew of anything else that was cooking.

Finally, when I indicated that I wasn't comfortable with his inquisitive prattle - simply by picking up my paper cup of coffee and strolling off towards the German stands - he took me by the arm and said: 'Careful, Petter.' It was kindly said. But I don't think it was kindly meant. I interpreted his words as a threat. Perhaps he was fearful of his author's reputation - and by implication the good name of the entire publis.h.i.+ng house.

I stood exchanging a few words with the editorial director of one of the large German publis.h.i.+ng firms. He told me they had a particularly strong list that year. I was given a gla.s.s of spumante, but the man I was talking to had no notion that the preliminary work on two of the books we were speaking about, had been done in Oslo many years earlier. It made no difference.

I went round the book fair's halls all morning. I was working, I'd always loved such halls, they were good places to be. The halls and corridors of the big European book fairs were my personal imperial palaces, and my favourite of all was this vernal residence in Bologna. I ate better in Bologna.

Bologna had more women.

I loved going from country to country in the fair's halls, greeting colleagues from every corner of the globe.

Relatively few authors came to Bologna, but I saw my books on the displays. I had inspired dozens of books for children and teenagers over the years, but I was the only one who recognised my own fecundity. I loved talking to editors about the new books I'd initiated. I gave my opinion, I thought it only fair, and I wouldn't balk at tearing one of my own novels to pieces if I thought it was badly written. I might say that the author had squandered the plot, or at least could have used it much better. Then I might say in my own words what I considered to be the kernel of the novel. It was fun. Lots of editors found food for thought, for not all of them could expose a novel's underlying intrigue as succinctly as me. It was a joy. I didn't always manage to read every t.i.tle from cover to cover before a book fair, but in broad terms I was able to give an account of the content of every book that, from an early stage, I'd had dealings with. I really knew my stuff. There was no doubt about that.

At this Bologna Book Fair, however, I had the feeling that something had altered since the Frankfurt Book Fair six months earlier. During the morning I greeted perhaps a hundred acquaintances. This was nothing unusual. Greeting a hundred people in the course of a morning isn't many at a book fair, at least not for me.

On this occasion I became more and more convinced that some of them were in league. Not all, of course - I noticed that as well. To include everyone I'd had dealings with over the course of the years, would have been as impossible as bringing all the forest ants together into one ant-hill. But a number of them had been conferring. That might mean time was up - my time was up.

An Italian agent grabbed hold of me and spontaneously exclaimed: 'So you have come to the fair this year, have you?' This was an odd question on two counts: she could see that I was there, and I'd been coming to the book fair at Bologna for the past ten years at least. A bit later I met Cristina from one of the big Italian publis.h.i.+ng conglomer- ates. We'd known each other for years. Cristina had the loveliest eyes in the world and its second s.e.xiest voice, after Maria. But now Cristina put a hand to her forehead as soon as she caught sight of me, as if I was the ghost at the feast. 'Petter!' she cried. 'Did you read that article in the Corriere della Sera?' She wasn't able to say more before she was shanghaied by a Portuguese I'd only vaguely met. He was new. And some sort of scout as well. My head was reeling.

OK, I thought. I should have read the article in the Corriere della Sera. It wasn't like me to be poorly informed, but it had been weeks since I'd last been south of the Alps. I didn't like the sudden change of tone, in the empire. There were conspirators abroad, perhaps a revolution in pro- gress, and what happens to an emperor when there's a revolution?

I'd had enough for one day, even though I'd done no business. As I made for the main entrance, I caught sight of a Danish author who'd just managed to get a novel for teenagers published in Italian. I didn't think it particularly well written, but its plot was impressive and had been based on some notes he'd bought from me at a literature festival in Toronto. I considered a friendly nod was the least I deserved. It can be hectic at a book fair, but the Dane looked away as soon as he noticed me, it was almost as if he was surprised to see me alive. Perhaps being unwilling to look someone in the eyes isn't so odd if you think the said individual is no longer in the land of the living. It struck me, too, that it must be hard to meet an old friend's eyes just a few hours or days before he disappears - and more especially, I thought, if you foresee a role for yourself in the disappearing act. My imagination was too lively. I was in a bad mood. I'd begun to work up a synopsis for a novel about my own demise.

I went straight to the main entrance and took a taxi back to my hotel. I was staying on the fourth floor of the Baglioni. Once inside my room, I pulled the stopper off a bottle of mineral water from the mini-bar, threw myself down on the large double bed and fell asleep with the bottle in my hand. When I awoke abruptly after a long, deep sleep, I had the momentary fear that I'd made my debut as a bed- wetter.

A few hours later I was sitting with a beer in the Piazza Maggiore. I was restless. There were publis.h.i.+ng people at almost every cafe table, and I was on nodding terms with the majority. Some greeted me amicably, but this evening there were also others who didn't. I felt them staring at my back. I felt ostracised.

When I'd been in the mood, I'd sometimes come to this place to seek female companions.h.i.+p for the evening. Either with someone I already knew well or a woman I'd just been introduced to. There were no husbands or wives at a book fair, and although at Bologna both s.e.xes were probably evenly represented, there wouldn't be a single spouse. I always took a double room at the Baglioni. Many editors and agents lived far more modestly.

I caught sight of Cristina, she was sitting with Luigi outside a neighbouring cafe. Luigi wasn't merely a brilliant publisher in his own right, he was also the son of the legendary Mario. Once, when in Milan, I'd been lent Mario's box at La Scala, where I'd watched a pa.s.sable performance of Turandot.

As soon as I noticed Luigi at the adjacent cafe, I began thinking about my mother. She would have loved sitting in Mario's box at La Scala, she would have behaved like a queen. But I'd sat in the box alone that evening. If my mother had lived perhaps Writers' Aid wouldn't have existed, and presumably then I'd never have met Mario, either. If my mother had lived just a bit longer, everything would have been different, and perhaps Maria and I would never have met.

I began thinking about Das Schachgeheimnis again. Several years had pa.s.sed since its publication. I'd immediately pulled the synopsis out of the binders containing notes for sale and thrown it away. What would Maria's next move be, I wondered? I felt jaded.

At a nearby table people were speaking a Slavonic lan- guage I didn't understand, but I had the feeling they were talking about me. I heard voices behind me too, and I sensed that everyone in the cafe was discussing The Spider. I began thinking of Hans Christian Andersen's fairy tale about the feather that turned into five hens. Pa.s.s it on! Pa.s.s it on! There were always rumours buzzing round a book fair, there was nothing new in that, but now they were whispering about me. I felt a p.r.i.c.k of anxiety, I didn't know why, but I was nervous. Perhaps the thing about Hans Christian Andersen and the hard stares behind me were merely figments of my imagination. Anyone who's starting to develop a persecu- tion complex should never stay too long at a book fair.

I decided to return to my hotel and take a sleeping pill, but then I remembered something Cristina had said in the hall. I left some money on the table for my beer and walked through the cafe guests towards Cristina and Luigi. They hadn't seen me. I tapped Cristina on the shoulder and said: 'The Corriere della Sera?'

They both jumped. Perhaps they'd been talking about me as well. Cristina glanced quickly at the clock and said she had to go. I thought it odd that she had to leave just as I arrived.

Earlier in the day she'd been quick to start a conversation with a Portuguese and now she merely offered me her chair, waved goodbye and walked across the square in the direction of the cathedral. As she scurried away, she and Luigi exchanged a glance. It was as if his look said: You get off, I'll deal with Petter.

I looked at Luigi. 'What was in the Corriere della Sera?' I asked.

He leant back and fished out a packet of cigarillos from his jacket pocket. It was a signal that this might take a while.

'Have you heard of The Spider?' he asked.