by Dag Solstad
When it first occurred to Armand, back when he was in his late twenties, that he actually could choose a career with the diplomatic corps, he hadn’t hesitated to make the decision. If his life had progressed differently — without this unfortunate yearning in his youth for glamour (even glitz and glitter) and comfort and with the whole world as his stage, which he thought stood gloriously open to him when he realized that he could actually become a diplomat — if he had instead settled for a meager life and the possibility of making an academic career for himself, then he wasn’t certain, not even now, that he would have valued it very highly. No, he would have made the exact same choice now, as an aging gentleman, as he had with youth’s boundless craving for a global life experienced in the reflection of vanity. Added to this was a third aspect that had been decisive in his assessments, which enhanced for him the attractiveness of the Norwegian foreign service: he was a player. He regarded himself as a player, and it was precisely this aspect about himself that Armand would not deny, even today, although he had to admit that the young Armand had overestimated both the fascination of the game and the opportunities available to him, something that had turned him into a fundamental cynic who did not acknowledge any deeper commitment to the duties he carried out for the powers he served. He hadn’t felt the need to commit to what he said or did. He didn’t need to stand behind his own words or deeds, as a means of assuring himself that he could carry out his obligations. This lent him a delightful feeling of independence. He hadn’t needed to invest himself in his diplomatic advancements; he could effortlessly focus on his official career and ensure that his conduct was always formally satisfactory to those he had agreed to serve. He had only an outward loyalty to those he represented. His joy at inwardly being a cynic in the (small) Norwegian foreign service had been great, even exceptional. The extent to which he agreed, or did not agree, with the gestures, statements, and attitudes that he was obligated to employ at all times, was basically quite irrelevant to him. And by the way, this was also irrelevant to his colleagues within the foreign service. His cynicism was well known — and accepted, even though Armand thought that his sense of irony, for the most part, was not understood by anyone other than himself. And that might well be true, when it came to those things that were closest to his heart, but there’s no doubt that most people within the Norwegian foreign service were well aware of his cynical nature, which they often discussed among themselves as Armand V.’s unsentimental way of getting hold of things, and which Armand himself considered his great strength as a diplomat. Just think of all the sentimentality I’ve avoided, not having to lay it on thick in all the contexts in which I’ve found myself; just think of how I could have been in the vanguard of sprinkling all sorts of intimacies around the Norwegian diplomatic corps, intimacies that would have made it completely impossible to function with all that tender-heartedness and naïveté in a cynical world, he thought. They really ought to have thanked me, because I’ve always kept a clear head and restricted all my emotions to my private quarters, he thought. And basically that’s what he’d done. The crowning achievement had been his reward. The much sought-after appointment as the Norwegian envoy to Great Britain, the ambassadorship in London. Yet it couldn’t be denied that he had now become a victim of these very same powers that he had so loyally served in such a skeptical and disloyal way, he thought. How can I accept that without falling apart?
Armand V. in service to his little Norwegian nation. With its strong, even unflinching, tie to the world’s mightiest nation, the United States. A population of less than five million people, but an economically strong nation. Favored with rich natural resources that could be exploited at times when there was particularly great interest in such resources in terms of international economic policies. During the Cold War, which had just ended, it had been a nation with a strategically central role, in terms of the military. Now, it was still an important oil-producing nation, with good statistical probability of oil-rich finds in unexplored Norwegian waters off the long coastline. An interesting country for its kindly disposed ally, the superpower United States, as well as for the European nations. For this small nation’s distanced foreign service agent, currently the country’s ambassador in London, it was a question of surviving under such circumstances without losing himself.
Because he did fear losing himself. In other words, he feared ceasing to relate to what was noble in his own life. In other words, he feared damnation. It had been there the whole time, as a threat, but now it had become acute. The fact that I can continue as before is a sign that I haven’t lost myself, he thought. It has merely reinforced my fear of that happening, and that’s good, even though it’s more troublesome than ever before. In fact, it can seem like sheer hell, and I really have to pull myself together in order to find the energy to fulfill obligations — and joys, he thought as he pulled into the driveway to the residence in South Kensington. It was late on Sunday evening, and he used his key card and the coded panels to let himself into the magnificent building where a new week awaited his efforts, official signatures, and diplomatic judgment, often his insight as well, before he could again drive off in one of the embassy cars to pick up his son for another weekend in London.
Serve his God? Armand was an atheist, or rather an agnostic. Serve his country? Armand, in his heart, had been a disloyal servant to his country, although not outwardly. Serve his society? Armand feared he was a hanger-on, regardless of how that was viewed. Now he was going to pick up his son, whom he had not prevented from becoming a professional soldier in a special unit that had fought the war to which Armand himself was strongly opposed, and who had returned from that war disabled. Yet the claim is made here, once again, that if Armand cannot be connected with a noble life, then he quite simply does not exist.
The son often spent Friday evening, or Saturday evening, alone in his father’s residence in London since Armand was frequently busy on the weekends, attending events that required Norway to be represented on the ambassador level. These events often had an aura of grandeur about them, taking place in the full radiance of crystal chandeliers, with livery-clad servants waiting on the guests, and Armand would attend wearing coat and tails. During one of these events — it must have been on a Saturday evening — he met the American ambassador. Actually, rather than say that he met the American ambassador, it would be more fitting to say that he ran into him. It was in the sparkling clean men’s room, where they had both gone to relieve their bladders, and they stood side by side at the urinals, each attending to business as they chatted amiably with each other. At first Armand had been alone in the enormous, sparkling white men’s room, and he’d found that a bit odd since there were so many people at this official event which he had been required to attend, and the fact that only one person, meaning himself, should find a need to take a piss at a specific moment seemed rather unlikely. But then he heard the door open, and in came another penguin, which was how many would describe, as Armand often did himself, the tuxedo-attired gentlemen, and the man came hurrying over to the urinal next to Armand instead of, as Armand would have done in his place, taking up position at one of the twenty available urinals farther away, and he immediately began chatting amiably with Armand about the sort of work they shared, getting right to the point as he unzipped his fly. It was the American ambassador. Armand had met him before, several times in fact, he’d even had lunch with him on two occasions, because the ways of diplomacy are inscrutable, and sometimes it may be that questions Washington wishes to have answered — for example sensitive questions regarding the Middle East — cannot always be put forth via a conversation between the United States ambassador in Damascus or Cairo and the Norwegian ambassador in those same cities, but instead can be discussed more appropriately, or at least be put forth more cautiously, at a lunch between Washington’s representative in London and the Kingdom of Norway’s representative in that same city, even though Norway actually has nothing whatsoever to do with those sensitive
questions. So Armand knew him well, though it’s not easy to say whether the American ambassador felt he knew Armand well, but perhaps it can be assumed he did. At any rate, the American ambassador chatted away, covering topics that extended from his fly to his tails, and from his tails to the soles of his feet. Armand was more reserved. He wished he could have made a joke about the man’s head. The American’s head. The American’s head was disproportionate. To describe it fully you’d have to say that his head towered on top of his shoulders, not that it towered on top of his neck, which would be the usual thing to say. His neck, throat, and head formed a single unit, a massive, fleshy unit. His neck was huge, having expanded to vast proportions, most likely having grown in width throughout the ambassador’s entire career, steadily and progressively, all the way around. On the front of what could be called the head there was a face that was incredibly fleshy, but equally pronounced and strong in character. Because the entire head consisted of the neck, throat, and face, he looked like a pig, because that’s what is precisely so characteristic about a pig, the only difference being that the front of the pig’s massive head is called the snout, while it was labeled the “face” when it came to the American ambassador. So the American ambassador had the head of a pig, and that made Armand act reserved as he stood there talking to the amiable man from Washington. They stood there urinating into the urinals. Armand hadn’t noticed that the American ambassador had a pig’s head on the previous occasions they’d met, though he should have noticed since it was so obvious, but of course that was because the circumstances of their previous meetings hadn’t lent themselves to such observations. He, Armand, was after all a diplomat from a friendly nation vis-à-vis the American ambassador, and naturally there were certain limitations to the sort of observations he could allow himself to make, face-to-face, to the ambassador of the equally friendly world power, the United States. But this time they happened to meet by accident, and under such casual circumstances that Armand could allow himself to take a close look, and then he saw what he saw. He didn’t like what he saw. He felt very uncomfortable. Especially because the American ambassador kept on chatting, as if his pig’s head caused him no embarrassment whatsoever. But it was embarrassing for Armand V. He knew that when he was back at his residence late in the evening, he would hope that his son had gone to bed and wasn’t pacing in the room that was his, using his white cane, so that he, Armand, could make his way unnoticed to his own bedroom, take off his official attire, and go straight to bed. He knew he would not reflect on what he’d experienced that evening, as was his habit, often with great and unrestrained, sometimes caustic glee. He knew he would be afraid to fall asleep because he was afraid the pig’s head would haunt his dreams and remain there, but he knew that he would nevertheless force himself to go straight to bed and hope for the best, hoping that the pig’s head would be gone when he woke up in the morning. In the meantime, he was here. Together with the envoy from Washington who happened to have a pig’s head. They were standing next to each other, urinating into their separate urinals. Armand finished first and turned around to go over to the sink to wash his hands. He took his time and also rinsed his face. A moment later the American ambassador also finished urinating, and he came over to the sink. He stood at the sink right next to Armand, and when he saw that the Norwegian ambassador was washing his face, he did the same. The American ambassador washed his pig’s head with a little, contented squeal. As he dried his face with a small towel, Armand watched the American ambassador also drying his face and hands while chatting amiably with his Norwegian friend, saying something confidential. Armand nodded as he tried to smile. Yes, he did try to smile, since he was, after all, an experienced diplomat. They headed for the exit. The man with the pig’s head held open the door for Armand to allow him to go first. But Armand didn’t want to do that. He motioned for the American ambassador to exit first, to be followed by Armand V. from Norway. But the American ambassador insisted. He gave a pleased wink with his pig’s head and insisted. He seemed greatly pleased with himself. But Armand repeated his courteous gesture and said: “Youth before beauty.” That’s when the whole scene changed. The American ambassador’s expression changed completely. He gave Armand a nasty look. His pig’s snout turned malicious, frightening. His body went rigid with rage. He waved his hand resolutely as he glared at Armand and then at the door. Armand obeyed. He could tell there was no other option. This was no joke, and Armand walked past the American ambassador who stood there with a furious expression on his pig’s head as he deigned to allow Armand to go past.
Armand, wearing his coat and tails, walked up the stairs and into the glittering ceremonial halls, one after the other. Since he felt a strong need to compose himself, he found a door that led out onto a terrace facing an illuminated English park. He stood on the terrace, next to a pillar, and lit a cigarette, which he smoked, and in that manner finished an endlessly long series of arguments. He decided that he might as well do it now, there was no reason to postpone it any further. He’d seen enough, experienced enough, understood enough. For an aging gentleman who was also a diplomat, in fact the Norwegian ambassador to Great Britain, there’s nothing new under the sun; even discovering that the American ambassador has a pig’s head shouldn’t be cause for either surprise or alarm. Especially not for him, Armand V. He was not alarmed. About what he’d seen. About the fact that he’d seen it. About the fact that he hadn’t avoided seeing it, but had actually acknowledged that he’d seen it and then behaved in accordance with this sight that was at first embarrassing and then gruesome. And so real, so true to nature. But weren’t there other ways to describe the American ambassador? Such as a face that was resolute and strong in character, or maybe a somewhat roughly chiseled and massive face that nevertheless redeems itself upon closer acquaintance. That was how he could imagine ambassadors from other friendly nations might write home to their governments in secret reports after being asked to describe their impressions of the new American ambassador in London. Why couldn’t he have seen the American ambassador in the same way when the ambassador came over and stood next to him at the urinals? Instead of being embarrassed by the fact that the Washington envoy had a pig’s head, why couldn’t he have thought of it as a face that was “resolute and strong in character,” that might even seem appealing “upon closer acquaintance?” Then it would also have been easier to live with the American ambassador’s display of power. Of course I can turn around and go back into the ceremonial hall, thought Armand, go back into the splendidly lit hall and casually stroll around until I catch sight of the American ambassador again, from a certain distance, so that he doesn’t catch sight of me, and from a distance I could observe him and find out that I’m wrong about him having a pig’s head; no one is treating him conspicuously, everyone is showing him the proper respect as he stands there, a somewhat chunky man, though for an American you might say he’s merely powerfully built, and with a somewhat rough, but friendly and amiable face atop his powerful body. That’s all I need to do, and then I’ll be able to regain my peace of mind. It’s true that I ended up in disfavor down there, but the person I fell into disfavor with is just an ordinary man, and not a bestial monster, and besides, it was a private matter, not a diplomatic situation. But Armand did not do this. It was pointless. Because there was no doubt that Armand had both seen and thought that this man who came into the men’s room after Armand was already there and stood at the urinal next to him to relieve himself, had indeed possessed a pig’s head that was so real, so true to nature. That was a fact, and Armand could not get around it. It does not go unpunished if you see that the American ambassador has a pig’s head and then try not to see it. As do all the others in this hall, thought Armand.
But the power he displayed really scared me, Armand then thought. Why such uninhibited rage, and real willingness, an uninhibited willingness to express it over such a trivial matter? Because instead of modestly thanking the Washington envoy in London for being generous enough to
allow me to exit the men’s room first and even holding the door open for me, I failed to appreciate this generosity and responded as if I thought I could display the same generosity and hold the door open for him. That was stupid, but even worse was my remark. “Youth before beauty.” What I meant to say, of course, was “youth before age,” but I got confused. Maybe because it must have occurred to me that it would seem inappropriate to call him a “youth,” since he looks to be, after all, a man in his late fifties, so almost a contemporary of mine, and for that reason I changed age to beauty, or rather, what I should have said was beauty before age, but that’s equally stupid; no, it must have been his pig’s head that made me uncomfortable. That must have been it, because what I, finally, came up with was that his so-called youth had to go before my own beauty, and that says everything about how he must have taken my view of what his beauty was, and he almost had reason to act as insulted as he did. And yet: the power he displayed scared me.
