The Seducer

When We Dead Awaken

Speaking of death, that reminds me that I ought to tell you something known only to a handful of people.

At one point, Jonas Wergeland was told that he was going to die — the big death this time.

It happened while he was attending the College of Architecture, at a time, what is more, when he had just stumbled on an angle that really whetted his appetite for his studies on Louis Kahn and his stimulating ideas on the significance for a building of light and shade. Jonas had discovered something suspicious — one might almost say a shadow — in his body. He went to see a doctor. The doctor frowned and wasted no time in sending him for tests, X-rays; the pictures came back, the diagnosis was plain. I won’t mention the word, everyone knows how rapidly such things progress, especially in the form that had struck Jonas. Jonas Wergeland was going to die; it was that simple, that inconceivable. You will have to excuse me. This entire episode invites so much sentimentality and pathos that I will have to keep this as short as possible. The main thing, surprisingly enough when one considers the terrible emotional upheaval experienced by Jonas Wergeland when other people died, is that he took the news calmly, with dignity, just as people are capable of altering their pattern of behaviour when the situation demands it, in time of war for example. Or, more radically: it might have seemed as if Jonas suddenly felt that he belonged to an alien civilization: one which took a very different view of death.

However, what is more interesting — cynical as that word may sound in such a context — for anyone wishing to gain some insight into Jonas Wergeland’s life are the consequences which this news was to have. Jonas Wergeland was not the sort to just lie down and die. The doctor had given him a rough idea of how long he had, and Jonas was left wondering: What now? Meaning: How far can I get on whatever fuel I have left?

From time to time in newspaper profiles and interviews, one finds people coyly professing that even if they were told they were going to die soon, they would go on living their lives as normal. When, after saying the necessary farewells to the necessary people — not least after a long talk with Buddha — Jonas set out for the Sinai peninsula and Jebel Musa; he really was going on living as if nothing had happened, seeing that he had already had the trip half planned. There was no thought in Jonas’s mind of legends of elephants dragging themselves off to their secret graveyard, nor of choosing a particularly spectacular setting in which to draw his last breath. And one thing is for sure: there was no religious motive behind it.

Shortly afterwards, by virtue of his usual efficiency and a last bit of help from Adam Smith’s The Wealth of Nations, Jonas touched down in Israel, and without so much as a glance at Jerusalem, without stopping to stick his own little slip of paper into the Wailing Wall, he took the quickest route, a military one, that is, by way of the Gulf of Aqaba, to the southern tip of the Sinai Peninsula. The skeletons of trucks and a tank left him in no doubt that he was now traversing borders that were taut as a bowstring. And yet nothing could have worried him less than the thought that a major war might break out, right under his nose so to speak.

As I say, there is no subtle way of telling this. And I admit that this is one point in the story when I am tempted to reveal who I am, since certain things would then be easier to understand. I apologize for the fact that, under the circumstances, I have to make such a demonstrative secret of my identity.

Be that as it may: Jonas reached his destination in the afternoon. For some time they had been driving through a rugged landscape, barren, hot, its mountains like earthenware that has cracked after firing. That was fine by Jonas. It occurred to him that the wheel had come full circle; that this was the rock-face of his childhood, Ravnkollen, taken back to its origins: to rock, to light, to shade, to silence. They rounded a headland to finally find themselves at the entrance to Wadi Shuaib, and down in the dip, surrounded by torn and craggy massifs, lay St Catherine’s Monastery, a cluster of buildings encircled by a stout wall like a little vessel, a lifeboat, a miraculous sign of human life, survivors in a sea of gigantic petrified waves.

Jonas approached the monastery alone. Outside the walls lay a garden, its cypress trees breaking the monotony of the rock. He listened to the distinctive sound of the surrounding countryside, a faint sough in the air. Some Bedouins from the Gebeliyah tribe came into view then disappeared through the wall, although Jonas could not see how. Moments later, however, a monk appeared and let Jonas in, after pointing inquiringly at the mountain and receiving a nod from Jonas in return. Beyond the gate, on the way to the guest wing, Jonas found a warren of buildings and narrow alleyways reminiscent of a Greek village. He noted that the church was constructed out of massive blocks of granite, exactly like that back home in Grorud. Again he was struck by a sense of homecoming, or of finding some part of himself, a vital part, perhaps his heart. Jonas followed close on the heels of the monk with no intention whatsoever of seeing the exceptional collection of icons or the priceless manuscripts in the library or the glittering church containing the relics of St Catherine, the most unbelievable richness and splendour in the heart of a scorched, dun-coloured wilderness; he barely knew of their existence, he had but one thought in his head: to reach the top of Jebel Musa. He could tell his strength was failing, was afraid he would not be up to it.

Is this the most crucial story in Jonas Wergeland’s life?

He was shown into what looked like a monk’s cell. White walls. A narrow slit of a window. Light and shade. He lay down on the simple bed. Needed to rest. Closed his eyes. Here, too, he was aware of a gentle, soughing sound. Father Makarios, who looked after the monastery’s guests, came in; rotund, black hat and a coarse blue robe; a beard with an incipient tinge of grey. He set a bowl of olives on the table, some bread, a jug of wine. He walked over to the bed, looked down at Jonas, kindly, compassionately, stroked his brow. ‘Rest,’ he said in several languages. ‘Just rest.’

At that war-fraught time, few people journeyed to the Sinai Peninsula and the spot which was traditionally considered to be the world’s spiritual pole — from a Western point of view, that is — but it so happened that there was one other person lodged in the guest wing, a German social anthropologist, actually based at the Feirân oasis, who was making a study of the nomadic way of life and who promptly invited himself into Jonas’s room — not because he was sick but because he was sickening for company — and sat down on the only chair. Jonas was feeling weak and wanted to rest, but the German wanted to talk. Primarily about Henrik Ibsen. Jonas had long since ceased to be amazed by total strangers, encountered in the most desolate spots on Earth, who, the minute he said where he came from, would suddenly reveal a passionate interest in something Norwegian. In a way it was, therefore, not so surprising that in the middle of the Sinai desert, standing at death’s door, Jonas should be confronted with his most famous countryman.

Although Jonas was not really listening. He caught only fragments of a long opinionated monologue on Henrik Ibsen as a nomad. ‘Well, what else would you call a man who had lived abroad for thirty years, but a nomad?’ declared the German, popping an olive into his mouth. Or what would Jonas call someone who spent his whole life moving from one place to another and would never countenance the addition of any personal touches to his homes, with the possible exception of the odd painting? No buts about it: Ibsen was a man who never pitched his tent too firmly, said the German reverently. Did Jonas know that the famous playwright had to have the windows open while he was writing and that, besides taking his daily stroll, he also walked about while he was working? And Peer Gynt, an obvious self-portrait, what was he but a Bedouin in Norwegian national dress? Actually Ibsen was a lot like Moses, said the German, flinging out an arm, as if to encompass the countryside beyond those four walls: a man who had learned from nomads before going on to become an exacting prophet with strict moral precepts, exactly like Ibsen. And weren’t they both obsessed with climbing to the tops of mountains to attain the ultimate insight? Or had Jonas forgotten Gerd in Brand — and at this the German spat out a stone and suddenly began to quote, triumphantly, in broken Norwegian — how she spoke of the Black Peak that ‘pointed straight to Heaven!’ And Irene in When We Dead Awaken who wanted to pass ‘through all the mists. And all the way up to the pinnacle of that tower, that glows in the sunrise.’ All that was missing here among the mountains of Sinai were huge masses of snow under which they could be buried, the German joked, on his way out the door at long last. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘have you seen the sepulchre?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Piles and piles of skulls.’

Jonas shut his eyes and slept.

At three in the morning, while it was still dark and the monks were making their way to the first mass of the day, Jonas began the ascent. For breakfast he had had a grapefruit, that was all, a delicious grapefruit from the Feirân oasis, without feeling overly maudlin, even if the thought of a last supper did cross his mind. Father Makarios met him at the gate and handed him a little loaf of bread stamped with the image of St Catherine, strictly speaking only for communion use.

‘How can you know if that really is God’s mountain?’ Jonas asked, pointing into the gloom, to where he could just make out the contours of the cliff face.

‘Go up and sit there for a while and you will understand.’

On his way up the hillside, next to a thorn bush Jonas met a Bedouin boy carrying a torch who, as far as Jonas could understand, was offering him a camel. Jonas refused. The boy followed him anyway. Out of several possible paths, Jonas chose the steepest, the one Moses himself had supposedly chosen, known as the Penitent’s Way.

At the cliff face the path gave way to stones laid down to form steps. Jonas climbed slowly upwards. The physical action put him in mind of the stairs of his childhood, in the block of flats at Solhaug. He tried to think about his childhood but was unable to focus his thoughts. All he could hear was that quiet sough in the air. A vast presence that scattered all thoughts. Until, out of the blue, he thought of Louis Kahn, of his buildings. And thinking of this he had an impression of climbing a pyramid. Then all thoughts, or the possibility of grasping them, deserted him as if the exertion had deprived him of his ability to think. He started to cry, it is no secret; he walked on, weeping, but not with grief. It was surprisingly cold. Some of the steps were slippery, iced-over almost. He worked his way slowly up the mountain in the early morning, with the darkness already beginning to recede and the boy a little ahead of him, as if wishing to show him the way, as if afraid that Jonas might go astray. There were some steep slopes where Jonas felt as though he was on a ladder. He climbed slowly, step by step, thinking of a thousand trivialities, husbanding his energy, step by step, several thousand steps, several thousand trivialities, little thoughts split up into even smaller thoughts. They passed through two stone gateways, the second one coming just before a plateau on which stood an ancient cypress tree and a tiny chapel. Jonas embarked on the last steep stretch, feeling himself growing weaker and weaker, his thoughts more and more unclear, as if he were being overcome by sleep. He was on the point of collapse when the boy appeared, took his hand, made him sit down.

Jonas regarded the boy curiously. He had noticed that his feet barely seemed to touch the steps.

At the top, which they reached after a break and another two hundred or so steps, was a chapel with a corrugated iron roof and a mosque, both of pink granite. The boy disappeared, and Jonas sat down, exhausted, on a knoll close by the mosque, facing the cliff edge, from which the slope fell away sharply. Right at the very edge lay a little circle of small stones. Jonas walked over to it, still out of breath, and removed a few stones, creating an opening, he had no idea why, then sat down again. The sun was just coming up. Jonas felt limp, listless; he sat there, surveying the rugged mountains stretching out in all directions, sharp, jagged earthenware that had cracked, but which was now starting to turn every shade of violet and pink, making Jonas feel as if the entire landscape had not only been formed in, but had now been transported back to, a bygone geological age, to a time before man walked the Earth. The view did not make him feel at all dizzy or sick, possibly because the whole scene had an abstract air about it, giving no illusion of a broader perspective. It made no difference whether the distances, the heights, were great or small. There was still nothing but light and shade and silence. Jonas sat there on his own: looking out across the mountains and listening to the wind, a soft sough, louder now. All of a sudden, the Bedouin boy popped up out of nowhere with a hot cup of tea. Jonas pulled out his Hohner Chromonica mouth organ and gave it to the lad before he disappeared once more behind some hillocks. Jonas tried to eat, took a piece of the bread stamped with the image of St Catherine, drank half the tea.

All day he sat there alone. No one else came along. The boy did not show himself again either. Jones sat there on the top, in the blazing sun, watching the jagged mountain peaks changing colour, like the spines of gigantic chameleons: pink and blue, terracotta and ochre, shifting to red and grey. Like one huge, glowing crystal. A prism, he thought, breaking the light up into colours. Or lifting the landscape out of time and space. As if he were already in some other place, beyond life. Nothing but light, nothing but shadows, nothing but silence. He tried to think, to take stock as it were, but no thoughts came. He was a blank. And all the while this indefinable soughing was all around him. A sough that was pure silence. At one point, just as he was about to nod off, he felt, or thought he felt, the distinct touch, as of a finger, on his brow, describing a circle several times and then shooting off in a straight line.

What more can I say? Some stories simply cannot be told.

Jonas ate the rest of the bread and drank what was left of the tea. He had been considering staying there, just lying down, shutting his eyes, but as the sun began to go down he felt better and stood up. He was better. He stood for a long time gazing at that prehistoric landscape, shimmering as if with precious stones, and felt himself all over, while the soughing round about him seemed almost to take on the nature of something physical, of a golden room. He walked over to the steps and began the descent. Halfway down, as dusk was falling, rapidly, he met the boy with the torch. The boy smiled, held the mouth organ out to him, a bar of silver in the gloom. Jonas waved it away, giving the boy to understand that he was to keep it.

The story could have ended there, but this incident was to have consequences that are known to me, and me alone — consequences that would affect an entire world. The fact is that when Jonas broke that little circle of stones on the top of Mount Sinai, he intervened decisively in history for the first and last time.

At some point in our lives we all do it. It is just that we do not see it.

So I will give it to you straight: it was Jonas Wergeland who was responsible for the president of Egypt, Muhammed Anwar Al-Sadat, flying to Jerusalem, thereby taking one of the most sensational initiatives of the latter half of the twentieth century. I know, and I understand, that many people will find this hard to believe. Nonetheless: look at the date. Jonas Wergeland was sitting on the top of Mount Sinai at the beginning of November 1977. And on November 20 President Sadat spoke to the Knesset in Jerusalem.

Everyone, not least the experts, has wondered about this trip and how it could have come about — a trip which led in a roundabout way to the meetings at Camp David and a peace treaty between arch-enemies Egypt and Israel. It is no exaggeration to say that Sadat’s offer to fly to Jerusalem took the whole world by surprise, bypassing as it did all of the formalities and questions of protocol and thus vaulting over the solid barriers of mutual distrust. Absolutely no one could have predicted such a courageous action, indeed all knowledge of the Middle East conflict pointed to the exact opposite. Sadat himself had roundly dismissed any idea of such a thing only months before making the trip. Nor does the myth of an invincible Israel serve as an explanation: that was quashed by the October war.

So what, if I might ask, prompted this unprecedented and totally unexpected decision on the part of Sadat, this unique attempt to breach the walls of a rigid mindset, and indeed to change actual events? Because behind this journey lay an idea that sought to alter Israel’s fundamental attitude, its way of thinking, its arrogance: a vision which, and deservedly so, was rewarded with the Nobel Peace Prize. The Arab world had had thirty years of living at loggerheads with Israel, fought four wars, witnessed a succession of massacres and acts of terrorism, felt hate, bitterness. A huge psychological barrier had grown up, a wall of suspicion and fear between the two parties. They were, as Sadat himself put it, in the process of being ‘caught in a terrible vicious circle’. Note that expression: ‘vicious circle’.

All written and oral sources affirm that Sadat said not one word about this extremely bold initiative until just a few days before November 9, when he announced his intention at the opening of the new session of the national assembly. A look at Sadat’s activities immediately prior to this date shows, however, that he set out on a round trip to Rumania, Iran and Saudi Arabia just as Jonas was arriving in Sinai. Hence, I can reveal that it was on the flight from Saudi Arabia back to Egypt, while he was in the air directly above Jonas Wergeland, who was sitting atop Mount Sinai breaking a circle of stones, that Sadat was struck by the impulse which would, only a couple of days after his landing in Cairo, burst into full bloom: the idea that he should go to Jerusalem alone.

How can I possibly make such an assertion? Because I know it is so. And since for many people such a notion goes against the grain, I merely offer it as one theory to be set alongside all other explanations: that way at least it can be considered. That is all I ask.

So, how do the pieces of a life fit together?

Jonas Wergeland returned to Norway and after a few weeks he went to see the doctor, even though he knew there was no need. He was quite healthy. The X-rays, the tests, revealed a perfectly normal inner landscape. The doctors were baffled. And who can blame them? After all, medical science has not really advanced all that far.