The Ringmaster's Daughter

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

  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 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

  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 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 br />
  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