by Dag Solstad
Some time after Easter he wheeled himself through the streets to the Town Hall, where the Treasury was located. He had no problems travelling by wheelchair through the streets of Kongsberg, neither physically nor psychologically. He greeted some remote acquaintances and they returned his greeting as naturally as they could. At the Town Hall he managed to get in on the ground floor, but not higher up, to the first floor, where the Treasury was. Instead of making the effort of carrying the wheelchair with him in it up to the first floor, his subordinates came down to the ground floor, where he had manoeuvred himself into the space behind the information counter. There he was served coffee, also rolls and Danish pastry, which the junior clerk had been sent out in a hurry to buy. They said he looked very well.
As he was about to say goodbye and wheel himself out onto the street again, the alderman came, so he had a conversation with him, while the Treasury employees went back to their work. After a bit of waffling, during which the alderman enquired whether his sense of humour was still intact (I’ll be damned if I ever distinguished myself by a great sense of humour here in the Town Hall, Bjørn Hansen thought gruffly), he came to the matter in hand. About what would happen when the period of his sick leave had expired. The alderman assumed that Bjørn Hansen would then apply for a disability pension, so that they could start the process of appointing a new treasurer without delay. In the alderman’s opinion, Jorunn Meck stood out as a very interesting candidate, what did Bjørn Hansen think of that? Bjørn Hansen was taken aback. He had no intention of resigning as treasurer. He had taken it for granted that he would continue as before – after all, nothing stood in his way except for the practical problem of getting from the ground floor to the first. But to the alderman it seemed all but indisputable that Bjørn Hansen would resign as treasurer now that he was disabled. He said, however, that there was no need for him to be completely cut off from the Town Hall milieu. ‘We would like to take advantage of your expertise as a consultant,’ he said. Bjørn said nothing to that. If he had been genuinely disabled, he would have protested most sharply, but not now, he simply didn’t have the strength. His head swimming, he wheeled himself out of the Town Hall and through the streets to his flat on the other side of New Bridge.
Home. In his own flat. In a wheelchair. The former treasurer of Kongsberg. Fifty-one years of age. The days went by. Time passed. The community nursing office was very satisfied with him. They thought he showed a positive attitude. He demonstrated a strong desire to master the small everyday problems by himself, and in an astonishingly short time he was able to do the shopping, prepare his meals, do the dishes and the laundry himself (except for awkward items like bed-linen and the like). All that remained for the home help to do once a week was the cleaning (Mari Ann had quit and would sit her A levels in the spring) and the heavy laundry. However, a community nurse visited him once every twenty-four hours. To check on him, in case he should need help with something, which might well be the case. For example, to fetch a book from a top shelf. Or something could have happened to him which left him helpless. The days went by. Time passes. The high point of the day was the expedition to the supermarket to do the shopping. First, the laborious operation of getting through the door of his own flat. Then into and out of the lift. Next, to get through the front door and fairly sail along the street to the supermarket, where it was cool and the floor was level and pleasant to roll along on. In the mornings there were few customers; he was almost alone among the mountains of merchandise. He wheeled his way down the aisles as though he were in the middle of a street, with enormous accumulations of, say, toothpaste, detergents, oranges, salami, cheese, milk, green apples, red apples and hamburgers on both sides. He took his time in there, sometimes more than an hour, rolling back and forth in the streets of the supermarket and picking up what he needed. He came to know the staff very well, both the women at the checkout and those who ran about supplying the shelves with constantly fresh tomatoes, mince, cream, fabric conditioner. He had the impression that they liked him. He was a kind of dignified invalid. Not obtrusively noisy or cheerful. Not steeped in suffering. But friendly and resigned in all his dealings.
Sometimes he would also wheel himself down to Lågen to look at the river. Or he rolled about the streets. Then he would often strike up a conversation with old acquaintances, who all seemed relieved that he had confronted his fate with such composure. Did that make him feel ashamed? No, he considered their reactions with an inexpressible remoteness. About the same as when his son visited him, just after Easter. If the doorbell rang now, he opened the door. The worry that Turid Lammers might be standing outside he now regarded as fanciful. And Herman Busk would not come. He spoke to Bjørn Hansen by telephone. Then Bjørn could interrupt the conversation if he felt something emerge from deep down that made it impossible for him to continue. Outside the door a seller of raffle tickets or a child might be standing. Or sometimes the community nurse (one of three women), or the home help, a black man about thirty who came once a week. Did he fear being found out? Not at all. For that, his case was too unbelievable. He did not have to sit on tenterhooks when visited by the community nurse, wondering whether he behaved correctly at every moment. Even if he should get excited or be careless, make movements that a trained nurse knew were incompatible with the movements a man who was paralysed from his hips down could possibly make, she would never have registered it. For the possibility that he might do it did not exist for her, so that, even if she had seen something, she would still not have seen anything. Indeed, even if she had seen him get halfway to his feet in the wheelchair to reach a volume in the bookcase, she would not have believed her own eyes. Of that he was absolutely certain.
Dr Schiøtz was behind all the arrangements that made it possible for Bjørn Hansen to live without the least fear of being found out. It was the doctor who had explained to him that he had nothing to fear, not even from the first examination at the hospital, when Dr Schiøtz coldly and calmly allowed a nurse to assist him. And, indeed, the nurse had suspected nothing, even though she had helped lift the town treasurer out of his wheelchair and onto the examination table. Although Bjørn Hansen had concentrated intensely on simulating a paralysed person, he was still an amateur and could easily have been found out by a nurse’s sharp eye, if such vigilance had been within the bounds of possibility in such a situation; the secret happened to be, of course, that it was not.
It was Dr Schiøtz who had arranged everything; Bjørn Hansen was the actor who performed his simulations, but according to Dr Schiøtz’s instructions and convincing interpretations. However, the most important of the physician’s arrangements were those that he undertook in order to prevent Bjørn Hansen from coming into contact with anyone who might have been able to unmask him. Other doctors, in the absence of Dr Schiøtz, ergotherapists and physiotherapists. In other words, to prevent Bjørn Hansen from having to stay in a convalescence home and being subjected to rehabilitation and expert training programmes. Sunnaas Hospital was a threat, which only Dr Schiøtz’s authority prevented Bjørn Hansen from becoming acquainted with. Dr Schiøtz pointed out that it was unnecessary to send the patient there, a training programme at home was an equally effective solution and much less expensive – an argument that proved irresistible. In order to hinder a Kongsberg physiotherapist from treating Bjørn Hansen, however, Dr Schiøtz had to do a bit of juggling, he had told him, but it would work out all right and not be discovered, unless this whole case were to unravel for other reasons.
Bjørn Hansen found himself in a wheelchair. In his own flat. Wheeled himself about in the flat, letting time pass. Enjoyed looking forward to his strenuous expeditions to the cool spaces and streets of the supermarket. He could not complain. In fact, that would be quite unthinkable. This had been his plan, which he had put into effect. However, fundamentally, he was the creation of Dr Schiøtz.
With more than a touch of displeasure, he began to look upon himself as an artwork signed Dr Schiøtz. Bjørn Hansen now realised
that Dr Schiøtz had knowingly chained him to a wheelchair, for life. He could have prevented it (when Bjørn Hansen was sent from Vilnius to his Kongsberg Hospital office in a wheelchair on the Tuesday of Holy Week, he could, once the two of them were alone, have said, ‘We’ll stop now,’ and then Bjørn Hansen could have gone no further), but he did not dare to. On the contrary, he pushed on, inexorably. In an unendurable atmosphere (a ‘dangerous game’) he had staged that last journey over to the Other Side, from which there was no return without catastrophic consequences for both of them (and for Dr Lustinvas). Up to this point they would both have gone free (although not Dr Lustinvas): Dr Schiøtz because he would have exposed Bjørn Hansen’s deception and left no clues that pointed back to him (in case Bjørn Hansen should try to implicate him, as a hypothetical possibility); and Bjørn Hansen because he had obviously gone mad and consequently would have been reported ill and consigned to psychiatric treatment before he could resume his position as treasurer of Kongsberg. But instead, Dr Schiøtz had carried out the plan mercilessly, without even asking Bjørn Hansen if he really wanted to go on, in those few seconds before it became serious and he was committed to it for life. It was as if Dr Schiøtz feared that Bjørn Hansen, who after all sat in a wheelchair and knew he would remain there, even though he did not need to, but had to if he took this last little step without protesting about it, might nonetheless give the alarm at the last moment, before this preposterous and dangerous game had turned serious. What were Dr Schiøtz’s motives? What forces could be driving him?
Why had Dr Schiøtz forced this through? What possible joy could it give him to chain a healthy person to a wheelchair in this way? It was certainly not in order to see him sitting there, for at the beginning of September Bjørn Hansen could report that he had not seen Dr Schiøtz since the ‘examination’ at Kongsberg Hospital five months ago. At first he had thought it was because Dr Schiøtz refused to take the risk of calling on him because someone, say, the community nurse, might then ‘surprise’ them together. But why would that have mattered? A doctor calling on one of his patients, what suspicion could be aroused by that? None at all, at least not if they were ‘surprised’ only once, which would not be very probable, even if Dr Schiøtz had visited Bjørn Hansen both often and regularly. But Dr Schiøtz had called him. He had spoken to the doctor on the telephone. Three times in the last two months. He had then been the caring doctor who rang up to encourage him. In a gentle voice he had asked how he was doing, and when Bjørn Hansen had replied that ‘life must go on’, he had praised him. He had given him sound advice about building up the strength in his arms, because now the arms alone must, after all, replace much of what arms and legs jointly had done so simply and efficiently before. Finally he had asked about some practical matters, such as the fact that Bjørn Hansen, on the alderman’s recommendation, had applied for a disability pension, besides asking about whether Bjørn Hansen had received the insurance money he was entitled to. It was no great sum, only 160,000 kroner, ordinary travel insurance. But by enquiring about it – as he did every time he called – Dr Schiøtz was hinting at what bound their fates together, because it had been part of their agreement that Dr Schiøtz would receive half of the insurance money. In fact, at some point during the planning stage they had discussed whether Bjørn Hansen should take out a larger insurance but had decided against it, because it was too risky to take out an insurance of that size shortly before the accident it was to cover occurred. But by referring to this modest travel insurance every time he called, Dr Schiøtz had given Bjørn Hansen a secret sign that he had not ‘forgotten’ him or repressed their common project, which had now been realised, but that he still felt bound by it, which Bjørn Hansen heard with a sense of relief.
At the beginning of September the insurance company informed him that the money had been released and deposited in his bank account. He had the community nurse take out 20,000 kroner. A few days later he contacted Peter and had him take out 25,000 kroner, of which he gave his son 5,000 kroner, which made him very happy. He met his son in front of Kongsberg Engineering College, on the open plaza there, which was flooded by a bright autumn light; sitting in his wheelchair, a plaid over his knees, he handed his son 5,000 kroner before rolling home again. He rang up Dr Schiøtz at the hospital. During their conversation he mentioned that the insurance money had arrived. Then he put 40,000 kroner in an envelope and waited. Dr Schiøtz came the same evening.
Bjørn Hansen received the doctor sitting in his wheelchair; he opened the door to him in his laborious way and rolled ahead of him into the living room. Dr Schiøtz met his own creation, which at the same time was Bjørn Hansen’s own project. This meeting ended in dismay for Bjørn Hansen, for when Dr Schiøtz had left, Bjørn Hansen remained behind, totally isolated and with a picture of himself that really gave him a fright. At first he had been disappointed because his attempt at achieving contact with the doctor was rejected. Every invitation to a mutual understanding was refused. Dr Schiøtz was on a mild high and all he was interested in was the money. What Bjørn Hansen had understood as a formal confirmation of their pact – in the sense that Bjørn Hansen, by giving Dr Schiøtz the envelope, had fulfilled his obligations and Dr Schiøtz, by receiving it, confirmed that he, for his part, had taken on these obligations, so that the handing over of the money was to be seen as a symbolic act that bound them ever closer to each other – was lost on Dr Schiøtz; for him the money was the main thing, and the only reason why he happened to be there. This was obvious from his behaviour. Looking restlessly about him, his face lit up when he caught sight of the envelope, which Bjørn Hansen had laid on top of the sideboard, the sole item there. ‘Is that . . .?’ asked the doctor, and when Bjørn Hansen nodded he snatched the envelope. He put it in his inside pocket and looked at his watch. ‘Very sorry,’ he said, ‘but I have to go now. I have an important appointment.’ Bjørn Hansen looked at him – that was the moment when he felt dismayed.
For this didn’t make sense. It was just a game. It wasn’t about the money. From the very start there had always been something evasive about Dr Schiøtz in regard to his cut of the money. As a condition of joining in, he had then said that he must have half of the insurance. But soon afterwards he had rejected the idea of taking out a more lucrative insurance, because it was too risky. But was it? Bjørn Hansen didn’t think so; no great risk anyway. But regardless, Dr Schiøtz was not willing to take any risk so that he might be able to stuff, let’s say, a million kroner straight into his pocket. But for a paltry 80,000 he sets to work. And is extremely eager to get his hands on the money. Rings up three times to ask if it has arrived. And when it does arrive he comes at once. It didn’t add up, not at all. Was he trying to make Bjørn Hansen think he had done it for the money? For 80,000 kroner? What was 80,000 kroner to Dr Schiøtz? Nothing. True, he was a drug addict, but he got his drugs from the hospital, free of charge. He had plenty of money and, besides, he had in no way, in all the years Bjørn Hansen had known him, given the impression of being greedy or tight-fisted. So why was he now trying to make Bjørn Hansen believe that this was exactly what he was – that he would do practically anything for 80,000 kroner?
Dr Schiøtz was looking for a motive he could live with, that was the only explanation Bjørn Hansen could see. To live with, vis-à-vis himself and vis-à-vis Bjørn Hansen. But also, in the last resort, the crux of the matter, Bjørn Hansen presumed: to live with if he fell and was ruined, if, that is, the whole affair should somehow or other come to light. And there was only one way it could come to light now: if either Bjørn Hansen or Dr Schiøtz ‘cracked’. If the doctor did, he would need a motive in order to explain his actions. Then he could say he had done it for the money, and Bjørn Hansen could confirm that, because he had noted Dr Schiøtz’s behaviour: the fact that he came as soon as Bjørn Hansen had obtained the money and that the money was the only thing he was thinking about. The doctor’s motive was greed, financial gain. And this, of course, society would swallow, because it w
as so despicable that nobody would think of admitting it unless forced to do so. Yet Dr Schiøtz found it absolutely necessary to cling to this despicable and untrue motive. If he were exposed he was finished, ruined, he knew that full well. Nevertheless he found it necessary, when he imagined himself finished, ruined, unmasked, to be able to say that he had done it for money. And for that he now needed Bjørn Hansen. To confirm his alleged motive after an imagined exposure, something so important to him that he was prepared to increase the risk of being exposed. For the chance that Bjørn Hansen might ‘crack’ was, of course, increased considerably now that, from Dr Schiøtz’s viewpoint, it must have dawned on him that Dr Schiøtz was not a fellow conspirator, someone he was morally obliged to protect, with the consequence that he must never ‘crack’, because then his co-conspirator would be ruined, but someone who went along purely for the money, even if he might have had a certain intellectual curiosity about the project, Bjørn Hansen supposed Dr Schiøtz thought that Bjørn Hansen was now thinking. But why was this so important to him? It could only mean that Dr Schiøtz did not want to have his real motives exposed to public scrutiny. He had done it for money. Not because he . . . Oh, what were Dr Schiøtz’s motives!
Bjørn Hansen had no way of knowing. But he knew they were of such a nature that Dr Schiøtz could not acknowledge them even to himself. He could acknowledge, if necessary, that he had condemned Bjørn Hansen to a wheelchair because he was willing to do so, for money, but not for anything else. That was when the true horror of this act dawned on Bjørn Hansen. Who was Bjørn Hansen? Who sat (voluntarily) in a wheelchair? What was so terrible about Dr Schiøtz, his fellow conspirator, preferring to be judged as a despicable and greedy human being rather than have the spotlight thrown upon what was really at stake?
‘It’s only half the amount,’ Bjørn Hansen said, limply. ‘It’s 40,000, not 80,000. I won’t risk withdrawing more. Not for the time being. You’ll get the rest in six months.’ The doctor looked at him and nodded. ‘That’s all right,’ he said. He stood there shifting from one foot to another, eager to get going. Bjørn Hansen threw up his hands. ‘Let’s say six months from today. Same place, same time.’ Dr Schiøtz nodded. He said a brief goodbye, without any pretence at being the thoughtful doctor visiting his patient.
