in helping the old people arrange a will and, in the years following
his parents' death, he'd gone about Antwerp all but bragging about
the way he'd managed to twist them around his little finger.
Despite all this, Wim managed to set up as a diamond merchant
and over the years became very wealthy. His great sorrow was that
he'd never had a family. There were no women in Wim's life other
than Lucy, and as a result he had no heir. The only thing that
added a bit of comfort and delight to his existence was that he
occasionally had visits from Lucy for old times' sake. As time went
on she sometimes asked his advice in marital matters. Kees wasn't
an easy man with whom to share both bed and board.
If their younger brother were to die before them, Kees and Klas
had, in common decency, to inherit part of Wim's fortune, and
when at a relatively young age he contracted an incurable disease, he
stated in his will that his last wish was that Kees and Klas should
open his large safe together. Rumours in Antwerp had it that the
safe contained cut diamonds worth millions of Belgian francs.
Wim died a few months after signing his will in the presence of
witnesses, and now Kees and Klas got together to open the safe.
They took with them a prominent commercial lawyer. When, with
greed in their eyes, they opened the priceless ark, there was a huge
explosion which killed all three of them instantly. There hadn't
been a single diamond in the safe, nor any bills or notes. Kees
and Klas had inherited nothing but a booby-trap, but by way
of recompense, it was of impeccable provenance and beautifully
designed in every way.
The newspapers soon christened this grotesque episode 'the triple
murder post-mortem', and the events had several judicial con-
sequences. In his will, Wim had bequeathed all his remaining
valuables, other than those in the safe, to Lucy, Kees' widow. But
could the courts be absolutely certain that she wasn't implicated in a
conspiracy with the triple murderer? There was no doubt that she'd
visited Wim several times at his premises over the years, more often
during his final year, and she made no attempt to deny this.
Perhaps she'd also had access to the safe? The authorities also learnt
that Lucy had recently consulted a divorce lawyer with the idea of
filing for a separation from Kees on the grounds that theirs was a
cold, dead and childless marriage.
A legal man was now appointed to look after the dead diamond
merchant's interests as well. For who could be sure that Lucy alone
hadn't placed the bomb in the safe after Wim died? And what had
become of all his diamonds? Wasn't it odd to brand a prosperous
diamond merchant a triple murderer before the matter even came to
court?
A case was never brought against Lucy, but because of the nature
of the evidence the court also issued an injunction against calling the
deceased diamond merchant a murderer or a triple murderer. Or as
the judge expressed it: 'Innocent until proven guilty!' And as he
dismissed the court: 'De mortuis nil nisi bene'.
Because of the judicial sequels, all the press reports and perhaps
also the loss of both husband and in-laws, Lucy decided to leave
Antwerp. Just a few days before she was due to fly to Buenos Aires
to live with a cousin she had there, she celebrated her thirtieth
birthday, and on the very anniversary a well-dressed man knocked
at her door. He gave her his card and said that he represented a large
firm of brokers. He had a small suitcase in his hand which his client
had asked him to deliver personally to Lucy van der Heijden's door
on this date. Lucy signed the receipt and, as soon as the man had
gone, she opened the suitcase. It was full of cut diamonds. There
was a handwritten slip of paper with the diamonds, and on it was
written: Dearest Lucy, I wish you every happiness on your thirtieth
birthday. Live for us both. Your own Wim.
*
The web had begun to alter in character. From now on its
skeins were spun from client to client as well. And so it got
denser and denser and more and more dangerous. Gradually,
the symptoms of decay manifested themselves in four
distinct groups.
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
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 cocky 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
succumbed 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 ship 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. Bu
t he merely shook his head and told me that he
wouldn't be around then anyway. I thought it a shameless
pronouncement, 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 amusement
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
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 publishing. 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 publishing 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 �minence grise of the literary world.
It wasn't the least bit peculiar that a man like me applied
for a job in publishing. 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 publishing
companies knew who possessed the best grasp of literary
life in Scandinavia. My job was to seek out foreign titles
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 titles 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 title to the Japanese or American
market, they might turn to me and ask my opinion, and I
would quickly report which titles 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 assumed 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 titles
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 publishing 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 manuscript 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 space 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 titles. 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 competitors 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 cassette, 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