The Ringmaster's Daughter

by Jostein Gaarder

so they can't see one another, covering an entire floor

  together, but without need of any mutual relationship; at

  this moment their only relationship is to me, and I examine

  them all in turn. If I divide tile number thirteen diagonally

  into two equal halves, I get two right-angled triangles -

  isosceles triangles - though of course I haven't touched

  them. I'm not the sort of person who goes round smashing

  up fittings, although, if I look at this tile much harder, my

  stare may crack it. I turn my attention again to the whole

  square of six times six. There's a lot you can do with six

  times six ceramic floor tiles � an awful lot, I think. You can

  write a story about each and every one, that's easy.

  I've pushed a chair out of the way and can now

  concentrate all my attention on forty-nine tiles. I can see all

  the tiles at once without shifting my glance. I think I must

  have a special faculty for viewing ceramic tiles. I'm par-

  ticularly satisfied with this last block, and I'll never forget it:

  seven times seven tiles is nothing less than the ultimate truth,

  the answer to the riddle of existence itself. The very kernel

  of existence is a square of forty-nine green and red tiles in

  Room 15 of the Hotel Luna Convento, Amalfi. I glance at

  the coat-stand, but I only have to turn my gaze back to the

  floor and I see the square again. It hasn't budged even a

  millimetre, and this is patently because the shape itself is

  firmly rooted in my mind. It isn't on the floor, but is created

  by the person who shifts his gaze. If I ever find myself in

  prison, I'll never get bored while I have this square of forty-

  nine tiles to think back on. I have glimpsed the world. If I

  draw an invisible diagonal line from the top right-hand

  corner, from the top corner of tile number seven, down to

  the bottom left-hand corner of tile forty-three, it gives me

  the two right-angled triangles already described. It's just the

  same as dividing a single tile, because a square is always a

  square. Each of the triangles has two legs seven tiles long.

  The sum of the lengths of each cathetus squared is ninety-

  eight tile lengths, but I'm not capable of working out the

  square root of ninety-eight. I've been to my cabin bag to

  fetch my pocket calculator: the square root of ninety-eight is

  9.8994949 tile lengths. So now we know, but it seems odd

  that the diagonal of seven times seven tiles can be such an

  ugly figure. It might almost be called an ambush, but then

  chaos has always had a particular talent for destroying the

  cosmos from within. But now there's something that

  doesn't add up, something haunting the tiles � and of

  course, it's the spirit hovering over the tiles that's doing the

  haunting � but I can't divide forty-nine by two, so how can

  half the tiles be red and half green? I feel confused, I've

  begun to doubt my own sanity.

  I am saved by an even higher order, a square of sixty-four

  tiles. I had only to push Ibsen's desk out of the way, though

  it was heavy and made a noise like thunder, and it is the

  middle of the night, too. Eight eights are sixty-four, no

  doubt about it. Now there are thirty-two red and thirty-two

  green tiles in the square and, without lifting a finger, I've

  established perfect harmony, I've re-established complete

  equilibrium between red and green, green and red. I can

  play chess now, too. Perhaps that was the idea all along. I'm

  good at playing chess against myself, and I'm good at playing

  without chessmen and have always been: first, second, third,

  fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth rank. I place the

  white pieces on the first rank: a, b, c, d, e, f, g and h. It's

  easy, I've got a full view of the whole board, I can see all

  the squares at once. One at a time I place the pieces on the

  board. Soon I can see them all quite clearly, they are made of

  black and white alabaster and are quite large. The biggest

  ones, the kings and queens, are over thirty centimetres tall.

  I'm the white king and I'm in the first row. I'm shown to

  a red seat - 1E it says on my ticket, a fine seat in the first row

  of the stalls, I deserve no less. On the great stage before me

  are ranged all the other pawns and pieces. I find the crowded

  lists of my own pawns in front of me slightly vexing.

  They're much too close and smelly, but far off to the left I

  glimpse the black queen. She's far away on 8D, she's also got

  a red tile to stand on - a good position as well, I think. I

  wave at her with my left arm, and she waves discreetly back.

  She's got a crown on her head, it sparkles in the purest gold.

  The chessman have taken their places, and now the game

  itself begins. I commence with an ordinary king's pawn

  opening: e2-e4, and she responds equally properly with e7-

  e5. I move my knight to protect the pawn: b1-c3. Then she

  makes a surprising move, she moves the queen from d8 to

  f6, but why? She's combative, she's daring! I move my pawn

  from d2 to d3 to protect the pawn at e4, and she ripostes by

  moving her bishop, f8-c5. What plan has the lady got up

  her sleeve? I move my knight again, c3-d5, and threaten her

  queen. I do it in order to try to force her to retreat. It's then

  that it happens, and without my being able to retrieve the

  situation: the queen comes up and takes a pawn, f6 takes f2.

  The black queen is at close quarters, holding me in check.

  She smells of plums and cherries, but I can't touch her, that's

  the terrible thing. I've committed the worst sin in the chess-

  player's book, I've not seen beyond the next move, and I've

  not kept account of previous moves in the game. I've for-

  gotten that the queen has a past, she's of noble lineage, her

  house is full of silk, and now she has a clandestine bishop

  on the diagonal from C5 and, in this moment of truth, it

  is he who prevents the queen from being taken. It's check-

  mate!

  It was a short game, far too short. I was pinned in a corner

  by the black queen and my game is lost. I'm guilty, not

  wilfully, but through gross negligence. I'm ashamed. That's

  the answer, I'm ashamed. And I � who have always pointed

  out that shame is no longer an element in people's lives - I

  go off and commit the most outrageous misdeed that any

  man can be guilty of.

  I lay down and have managed to sleep for a couple of hours.

  When I opened my eyes it was like waking up to the very

  first, or the very last, day of my life. I had such a beautiful

  dream about a little girl who came walking towards me with

  a big posy of babies' slippers. It was by Lake Sognsvann, or

  in Sweden by one of the big lakes there. But it was only a

  dream.

  I am at my desk once more, it's nine o'clock. I've done

  my packing and I'll go down and check out in a couple of

  minutes. If Beate won't let me leave my cabin bag in her

  bed-sit, I'll ask if I can deposit it at the police station. I won't

  leave it at the hotel whatever I do
. I'm not the sort who

  returns to collect things.

  I feel something important is missing. Then I realise what

  it is: when and where was I supposed to meet Beate? We

  never arranged anything. All the same, I must get out of

  here, I must escape from my own consciousness.

  I'll leave my laptop in the room. I'll lose it here or leave it

  here, people can wonder which. I've deleted all files that

  needed deleting, but not the ones that are meant to remain.

  There are lots of them, an impressive number. There are

  more than enough synopses and ideas for people to help

  themselves to, enough for several dozen literary careers,

  maybe more. I can stick a note to the machine saying that it

  belongs to all the authors of the world. I could write: here

  you are, help yourselves, everything is gratis. Then they

  could do whatever they liked with it, they could just carry

  on as far as I'm concerned, they could just carry on dis-

  porting themselves.

  But I change my mind. I write TO BEATE on a

  yellow note and stick it to the machine. For my part, I

  have no desires other than to be an ordinary person. I only

  want to look at the birds and trees and to hear children

  laugh.

  Someone is knocking at my door. 'Just a moment,' I call

  out, then I hear Beate's voice. She says she'll wait for me

  down by the convent gardens.

  It is the first, or the last, day of my life. I don't know if I

  dare hope for a miracle. I'll save this and sign off. Everything

  is ready. Ready for the greatest leap.

  [DUST COVER]

  Jostein Gaarder was a teacher for many

  years before he began to write full-time. He

  lives in Oslo with his wife. They have two

  grown-up sons.

  Cover design by Sidonie Beresford-Browne

  Cover illustration by Louisa St Pierre

  Weidenfeld & Nicolson

  The Orion Publishing Group

  Orion House

  5 Upper Saint Martin's Lane London WC2H 9EA

  Sophie's world

  'A marvellously rich book. Its success boils down to something quite

  simple - Gaarder's gift for communicating ideas' Quaidian

  'Challenging, informative and packed with easily grasped, and imitable,

  ways of thinking about difficult ideas' Independent on Sunday

  'A terrifically entertaining and imaginative story wrapped round its tough,

  thought-provoking philosophical heart' Daily Mail

  'Seductive and original ... Sophie's World is, as it dares to congratulate itself,

  "a strange and wonderful book"' T&S

  Maya

  'As with Sophie's World, Maya immediately absorbs the reader with

  complex themes and notions that are presented in a bold and

  imaginative way.' Waterstones Quarterly

  'The best-selling author of Sophie's World returns with another

  wonder-filled philosophical expedition ... this time going into the realm

  of the meaning of life and love. Gaarder's enthusiastic and surreal

  unravelling of ideas are temptingly absorbing.' The Scotsman

  'This is a weighty novel of ideas, written to instruct as well as entertain.'

  Daily Mail

  A PHOENIX HOUSE BOOK

  ISBN 0-297-82923-8

  780297

  829232