Open Grave

Three

Associate Professor Johansson’s house was equipped with a four-meter-high glassed-in tower, where he cultivated his sun-loving plants. In the winter the thermostat made sure that the temperature was favorable for Mediterranean flora, around twelve degrees Celsius. He was particularly proud of a magnificent olive tree.

From his tower he had a good overview of the neighbors. Partly hidden behind foliage he could observe the peaceful life on the block.

He often had his morning coffee up there, read the newspaper, and puttered. So too this morning. The front page of Upsala Nya Tidning was naturally taken up by the news about the prize.

The associate professor lived at number seven and Professor von Ohler at number three. Sandwiched between these two scientists was a true humanist, Torben Bunde, literary scholar and writer, who from time to time entertained Uppsala residents with newspaper articles. It might be mental bric-a-brac about all sorts of questions-why the bells in Vaksala Church were tuned in minor, while those in Holy Trinity were tuned in major-or else flattering pieces appeared about some representative from the local rural gentry who happened to own a painting whose signature Torben Bunde found intriguing, or was simply of interest because Bunde played bridge in the house.

But principally his contribution consisted of very seriously intended reviews of books, preferably works that few had heard of and even fewer read.

It was a mystery to the readers that the editors let these screeds be published year after year. There were those who maintained that it was a conscious tactic. Through publication the image of the literary scholar as a fool, a charlatan, was reinforced, and the intent was thus that people should be amused at his expense. The section was called “Culture and Entertainment” after all; the literary scholar could very well be put in the latter category.

The price was high, however; those who were not initiated in the intricate academic game in the city, such as souls incorporated into the city from Östervåla or Lycksele, observed it all with wonder.

Associate Professor Johansson was convinced that Bunde in number five was now wrestling with considerable problems. He had seen him retrieve the newspaper from the mailbox by the street and immediately unfold it, and then remain standing as if paralyzed. Obviously it was there and then the news reached him that his neighbor had been presented with the world’s most prestigious scientific prize.

How would Bunde react? Send flowers, like so many had done thus far-too expensive; visit his neighbor-an absurd idea, because it had never happened before; call-improbable, as Bunde was hard of hearing; write an article in homage-less probable, as despite unlimited self-confidence he surely had the feeling that he was not conversant in the subject; write a scathing article where he went on the attack against the selection of prize winners-more likely, even though he was no more conversant in that subject.

Or perhaps pass over all of it with silence? And when some acquaintance brought it up he could smile, tip his head, and mutter something indulgent that could be interpreted any number of ways.

By not showing so much as an ounce of desire to bask in the radiance that now fell on the whole street he could reject the selection of prize winners in an elegant way, while he high-mindedly did not utter anything obviously unfavorable. Perhaps he could simply let slip something about the professor’s failing health.

There were several possibilities and from his lookout point the associate professor sensed that internally Bunde was in uproar. After the initial shock the neighbor had raised his eyes toward Ohler’s house, and his look had expressed unfeigned astonishment, as if he had never noticed the building before.

The associate professor lingered in his tower. This morning the otherwise rather sleepy street would surely be somewhat livelier than usual. Already a number of couriers had delivered flower arrangements, curiosity seekers had cruised past in their cars. The professor’s housekeeper, who had been there as long as the associate professor could recall, was no doubt hard at work arranging vases. The associate professor had seen glimpses of her in the windows on several occasions.

She would stop on the sidewalk outside his house, praise his plantings, perhaps comment on the weather or some everyday incident. Once, perhaps ten years ago, he had received a compliment. That was after he had given her a few violet tulips, which she had admired during the spring.

“You are a good person, associate professor,” she had said when, embarrassed but very pleased, she received the package of bulbs.

He understood that it was an uncommonly generous statement coming from Agnes Andersson. Perhaps also a veiled criticism of the professor; hadn’t she emphasized “associate” a little? He would like to believe that.

Now he glimpsed her in the professor’s study on the second floor, as she drew back the dark-brown curtains, opened the windows, and fastened them wide open. The associate professor tried to smile sarcastically at the futility of trying to air out all that was old in the Ohler house, but it was not a convincing smile, more a grimace that illustrated the distress he felt.

He ought to be proud; as someone involved in the breakthrough in the IDD project he could claim a share of the credit for the prize. But the proper delight would not appear. Twenty-two years ago-he remembered it was a Thursday in May, as usual pea soup was served for lunch-he read the thirty-page summary in The Lancet, an article that landed as a sensation, and he saw that his own name was missing.

Decades of toil and his name was omitted. An inconceivable ignominy. As if there was room for only one. The one who got to shine, receive congratulatory telegrams and telephone calls from near and far, and now the Nobel Prize.

Associate Professor Johansson’s entire worldview took a serious blow that spring day. In principle he had long been aware of the academic machinations, backbiting to maneuver colleagues out, fighting for funding, where no means were shunned. But now it struck him personally and with such force that he questioned his own research achievements, his entire career. The insult of being ignored he also read as a sign of a kind of general societal rottenness.

After that day he started to distrust everything and everyone. He never ate pea soup again. That, and the associated Swedish pancakes, came to symbolize the mendacity in the world.

The years up to retirement were marked by great indifference. The excitement and enthusiasm had disappeared. He was running on idle.

A lecture trip to Göttingen, Hamburg, and Berlin was the only occasion when he got to experience some of the sweetness of victory. It was intended for Ohler to travel to Germany, but his wife’s death came very conveniently for the associate professor. He was sent as a replacement and got to receive much personal evidence of his German colleagues’ appreciation. One of them he still kept in contact with. To him he could be completely frank. The conversations and correspondence with Horst Bubb were the valve where the excess steam, when the pressure got too high, could be let out.

Horst had also called early in the morning, something which nowadays otherwise happened only on the associate professor’s birthday, and tried to cheer him up. The German, who had worked with Ferguson for fifteen years at the Max Planck Institute, understood the associate professor’s feelings very well.

They happened to talk about Ferguson in particular, now retired and living in Vermont, according to Horst very aggrieved. The associate professor got the idea that his friend, by apportioning the bitterness to several researchers involved and in that way diluting it, wanted to alleviate the associate professor’s disappointment.

His colleague had also mentioned something about an article that might possibly appear in an influential newspaper with a quiet but very clear criticism of the selection of prize winners. According to Horst this was being initiated by a certain Wolfgang Schimmel, an influential doctor from Munich, who intended to gather a number of significant names behind him.

The associate professor, despite his own frustration, strangely enough remained unresponsive to all this talk about the injustice that was now being committed. He was already tired of it all and wished that the festivities on the tenth of December would be over, the articles cease, and Ohler become a name, not for the day, but instead one in the line of prize winners, who after a few years only the chief mourners would remember.

Ohler was no Einstein, Bohr, or Curie, who would write themselves into scientific history, so let all this go away, he thought in his tower.

“Let it go away, let us die,” he mumbled.

The lemon tree in front of him responded at that very moment by dropping a leaf.