ANYWAY, enough of my small Cartesian dilemma. Darkness is falling, and there’s an exciting night out in Stockholm to enjoy. I return to my hotel for a quick change of clothes; my evening has already been spoken for. Tonight I’m to be entertained to a fine Swedish slap-up by none other than Professor Bo Luneberg: the man who’s been kind enough to fly me out to Stockholm on this interesting Baltic junket, the precise details of which seem rather to have slipped my mind. Bo Luneberg, let me explain, is a very old academic friend of mine. Or perhaps it would be truer to say I’ve known him over many many years. I’ve met him time and again at various academic conferences, heard him speak, in his dry, edgy expert way, at a variety of sumptuous, well-catered and pretty high-level international seminars right across the world. We’ve kept in touch, exchanged our printed thoughts, traded our off-prints. What Bo and I are, to express it correctly, is colleagues.
Luneberg follows what’s nowadays become rather an uncommon trade, though it once used to be universal. He’s a grammarian – teaching scientific English, the structures of human grammar, the nature of artificial languages here at the Royal Technological University. This is important, because now computers need all this, if not human beings. But that isn’t all. Bo is also a sober-suited academician, and in Sweden this is a very important office indeed. For the Swedish Academy (which, confusingly, was started by Gustav III Adolf in 1786, meaning that René Descartes’ plans for it can’t after all have played much of a part in its founding) is one of the world’s most powerful institutions – and all on the basis of a simple activity. The academy awards prizes. It awards famous prizes. Prizes worth a million dollars, prizes that keep Sweden in the eye of the world. Yes, my old friend and colleague is one of those eighteen dark-suited highly secretive scholars who each year, in some literary vault full of books and busts above the Stockholm Stock Exchange, cast their careful eyes over all the imaginative writings of the whole world, considering who shall receive the Nobel Prize for Literature. Occasionally he even calls me up to consult me on their choices – though, as far as I can remember, no recommendation I’ve made has ever been accepted, and no possible winner he has mentioned to me has ever actually been laurelled. He’s a man of very wide acquaintance, extensive travel, massive reading, curious learning, strange gossip, obscure discretions – in fact a little Melchior Grimm. And if anyone in the world knows the true story of what happened to Descartes, this would have to be the man.
Our rendezvous is fixed for seven, on the steps of the National Theatre, which faces out grandly over the now dark, wet, windy harbour. I arrive a little early, and stand waiting under the statues of the Swedish playwrights, looking out as bright-lit evening ferries glide by in the distance. Inside something by Strindberg is playing; but no doubt it always is. The City Hall clock strikes, its bells peeling across the water. Luneberg promptly appears, his grey hair neat, wearing his big-framed glasses and carrying a small black umbrella. He seems his usual sober self, except today he is clad in a Burberry sports jacket, which suggests either a strangely relaxed frame of mind or a gesture of politeness to a British visitor. He’s not alone. With him is a tall, leggy, handsome woman, blonde and middle-aged.
‘Hey, hey, my old friend,’ he says, shaking my hand, slapping my shoulder, tapping my chest, and introducing me to his companion, his wife Alma. She looks me over with haughty suspicion. I can understand why. The word ‘novelist’ must have been used in describing me, because it often has this effect. Then I see she is actually carrying a copy of one of my novels – which no doubt she will ask me to sign later if I prove to be an acceptable sort, and otherwise not. With the warmest apology, she explains that she would have liked to ask me to dinner, but unfortunately Swedes only entertain real friends in their houses. In any case, she understands, I am a writer, and will surely want to go somewhere very bohemian. Happily she knows the perfect place.
The perfect place is a café-restaurant a block or two round the corner. It’s one of those old-fashioned, panelled artistic cafés in the vieux art nouveau style. There are caricatures of writers and painters, portraits of actors and singers, framed on the walls, and many prints of eighteenth-century scholars, all of them looking weighty in their wigs. Several depict that low-cut Swedish nightingale, Jenny Lind, mouth open as usual. There are sepia photographs of a bearded Strindberg, showing him sitting in the café, bored and waiting for service – pretty much like ourselves. Neither the room, the cracked leather chairs, nor the waiters, who wear faded black suits and overwashed white aprons, have changed much either since the last century so creakingly turned. At the white-clothed tables a few gentlemen, nearly all middle-aged, suited, and trim-bearded, sit writing with biros over cups of cold coffee. With the benefit of the doubt, I imagine they are authors, journalists or scholars. Two elderly men play chess in a corner. The waiters, standing in a corner, go on chatting together idly.
‘So bohemian, yes?’ says Alma Luneberg joyfully, waving gaily at the extremely sombre scene.
‘Very,’ I admit.
‘Usually there are many writers here, but they must be indoors tonight,’ she says.
‘It is a little wet,’ I say.
‘They say Strindberg often came here to write about his fruitless search for attention,’ says Bo.
‘I can believe it,’ I say, as the waiters fade from sight.
‘And where Lagerkvist wrote his famous work, The Hangman.’
‘Yes, I can believe that too.’
Two noisy drunks appear suddenly in the entrance, suggesting the promise of a change of mood. However they are quickly cornered, counselled, then summarily ejected by a group of what appear to be freelance social workers.
‘Welcome to Stockholm,’ says Alma. ‘Now shall we try to enjoy ourselves?’
Meanwhile Bo takes out an asthmatic nasal spray and refreshes his nostrils before interrogating me on various academic matters, mostly to do with the recent divorces or the sudden gay outings of a number of common professorial friends. He seems oddly preoccupied; but then, as Alma explains, he should not really be wasting his time here in a café at all. October is the Nobel Prize season. Bo should really be reading a stack of foreign books, or feeding highly misleading disinformation to the world press.
Suddenly a waiter drifts lethargically over toward us, bringing a much-thumbed, leather-bound menu with a picture of an agonized Strindberg on the front for us to study if we care to. By way of peaceful Nordic revenge, the Lunebergs in turn steadfastly ignore him. For a moment I entertain the immoral thought that I might ask the man for an ash-tray, but in this country the risks of massive liberal opprobrium always seem far too great, as in California. Brushing dandruff off Bo’s lapels, Alma leans over and asks me whether I am enjoying Stockholm. My opportunity has come at last. So the following conversation ensues:
ME
Actually I’ve spent rather a philosophical day—
SHE
You went to see the Vasa, of course—
ME
I did, of course. But I seem to be caught on the horns of a Cartesian dilemma—
HE
May I tell you you are looking pretty tolerably well for a man of, what is it, sixty plus?
ME (lying)
Well, not quite—
SHE
I know your age. It is printed right in the front of your book.
HE
We must not always believe what we read in books.
ME
Especially my books.
SHE
I only like proper books I can believe in.
HE
However, let us go to business. First let me recommend the excellent herring.
SHE
Believe me, if you have it, the taste will stay with you for as long as you live.
ME
But I already had herring at lunchtime. No, I think I’ll try the pasta. And may I have a bottle of beer?
A beat. Shocked faces.
SHE
A bottle of . . . beer?
HE
Nej, nej. We are alkoholfri here. Drink is a very big problem in Sweden.
ME
What, getting hold of it, you mean?
SHE
This is not Finland. We are a Viking people, not stable. Drink is very bad for us. It is the same with strong coffee. If you have a wild temperament, it is not a good thing. Bo, really, you have dandruff on your jacket again.
ME
Water then, please.
SHE
And herring, you say?
ME
I thought I asked for pasta.
SHE
Water is an excellent choice. But I really think if you come to Sweden you must absolutely try the herring—
HE
A Cartesian dilemma, you say? The mind-body problem, I suppose you mean—
ME
Yes. Only the problem is my mind and his body. I’ve looked round everywhere and I can’t find it.
SHE
Your mind?
ME
His body. I always thought Descartes was buried here.
SHE
Jo, jo, you are perfectly right.
HE
Well, half of him is perfectly right.
SHE
How can only half of him be right?
HE
Of course. Half can be right and half can be wrong. As you know, Descartes died here, and Queen Christina ordered he should be buried in the Royal Cathedral. So I hope you went and looked in the Cathedral?
ME
I did. And he’s not there.
HE
Nej, nej. That is a Lutheran Catheral. He was a Catholic. Also he had many enemies in Sweden. They would never have allowed it for a moment.
SHE
You should have gone to the Catholic church, of course.
HE
I did. He’s not there either, is he?
HE
Nej, because the Catholics thought he was a freethinker. The Vatican banned his works. Finally they had to bury him in an unconsecrated graveyard with the suicides.
ME
I can imagine in Sweden that’s quite a crowded place.
SHE
Well, our weather does not suit us. Really we were born for bright skies and sun, only we don’t have them here. In summer we try hard to be happy. Only in the winter do we remember how very terrible life really is.
HE
It’s the same graveyard where Olaf Palme was buried.You must go there.
ME
And then I’ll find Descartes’ tomb?
HE
Nej, nej. They dug him up again. He was taken off to Copenhagen. In a brass coffin two and a half feet long.
ME
He was quite a lot bigger than that, surely?
HE
But most of him was missing. He had become a kind of secular saint. People had been stealing his bones.
ME
So I need to go to Copenhagen?
SHE
Yes, of course you must, it’s a beautiful place. Only he is not there, of course.
ME
Quite. Of course.
SHE
The French were afraid the British would steal him, to create a political embarrassment. So they had him dug up again and put him in a coffin to take him to France. But when it arrived the customs wouldn’t admit it.
ME
Drugs?
HE
No, books. Atheistical books. Coffins were often used to smuggle in contraband. But finally they let him through and he went to the Abbaye de Saint Victoire. The freethinkers tried to hold the new burial, but the church prevented it.
ME
And that’s where he is, the Abbaye de what?
HE
No. Not at all.
(He raises his glass, of water.)
May I propose a toast to welcome you to Sweden. Skal!
SHE
Jo, jo, skal!
ME
Yes, indeed, skal! So – where is he now?
HE
He was dug up in the Revolution, when the abbey was destroyed. The revolutionaries wanted to put him in the Pantheon. Soufflot had just completed it as a state tomb for the old regime. Now the Jacobins decided to fill it with their heroes of reason. Mirabeau, Rousseau, Voltaire.
SHE
Maybe you remember the great procession when they moved the corpse of Voltaire? The coffin was two storeys high. They performed all his plays in the streets. It took over seven hours for the cortège to pass through the heart of Paris.
HE
It was meant to display the triumph of reason. Do you know in the Revolution even Notre Dame was turned into a Temple of Work and Reason?
SHE
Lenin did the same thing with the great cathedrals of Petersburg. You will be seeing them very soon, don’t you know? When we make our wonderful trip to the far end of the Baltic.
ME
Good. But are you really sure Descartes is in the Pantheon? I don’t remember that at all.
HE
Nej, nej. Voltaire was, yes. The ashes of Rousseau. But when Descartes got there he was rejected. Some of the Jacobins were also anti-Newtonians. They refused to let him in.
SHE
A bit like Lundkvist. One of Bo’s colleagues on the Nobel Prize committee. He always refused to admit Graham Greene.
HE
Not because he was not a Newtonian, Alma.
SHE
Nej, nej. Because of all those immoral fornications.
ME
Right, so we’ve got Descartes being turned down for the Pantheon. What did they do with him next?
HE
They left his coffin out in the Garden of the Museum of Monuments.
SHE
Oh, see! There is also a very good pickled saltfish, if you prefer something entirely different from the herring.
ME
No, thanks. And that’s where I can find him now?
HE
Nej, nej. The museum was closed down after Napoleon. So they moved him again and buried him in the Latin Quarter. The church of Saint-Germain-des-Pres.
ME
Which is where I can find him?
HE
Well, whatever is left of him. Only one or two bones. Most of him had disappeared by now. You see, each time there was a new coffin, new pompes funèbres, new elegies, new coats of arms. Each time they opened him up he got a little bit less. People took his bones away. After he was dug up in the Revolution, his skull was cut into tiny pieces. To put into rings and give to philosophers.
SHE
Wouldn’t you love one? A piece of the famous cogito?
HE
Except be careful. They are probably not genuine. You see, there were actually two skulls of Descartes. The other was discovered right here in Stockholm, some time later.
ME
So which one was genuine?
SHE
The Stockholm one. We know it was his, because it had his name on it.
ME
Good. Then presumably I can go and see it.
SHE
Nej, nej. We sold it, for a very good profit. To the French, of course.
ME
Of course. So where is it now?
HE
In the Museum of Man in Paris. You will find Saint-Simon on one side of him, and on the other the bandit Cartouche.
SHE
So you see, even though it is very hard to be alive, it is sometimes even harder to be dead.
HE
However we should not be talking of this at all. It is completely the wrong story. I didn’t ask you to come here for Descartes at all. I invited you here at our expense to be part of the Diderot Project.
ME
Yes, but I don’t understand what you’re intending with this Diderot project. And to tell the truth I’m beginning to like the Descartes story even better.
HE
You have no choice. As Diderot’s Fatalist would say, it is already written in the Book of Providence above. You are in this story, not that one. It is already decided for you. So here are your tickets for the ferry, and your visa to enter Russia. The ferry is called the Anna Karenina, by the way.
ME
Good. I love a literary ferry. What will we do in Russia?
SHE
We follow the Enlightenment Trail. You remember how Denis went as a philosopher to Catherine’s court?
HE
There will be eight of us altogether, by the way. Some excellent people have agreed to take part. We meet tomorrow at two o’clock, in the Stadsgardeskajan Terminal. Just pick up a taxi from your hotel—
SHE
Oh, and don’t pay too much. Swedish people are very honest, but they like to take away your money. I simply hope it is able to sail, and there isn’t a very bad problem.
ME
Yes, so do I. These ferries really are safe, are they?
SHE
Of course, they are unsinkable. Nothing ever goes wrong in the Baltic.
HE
You’ve written a paper, I hope? We are expecting the most excellent papers.
ME
I don’t think you even mentioned that when you invited me to come—
HE
You must write one. We hope to publish them in a book afterwards. I booked a conference room on the ship. You realize the Baltic is the perfect place for a seminar?
ME
Oh yes? I was hoping to see it, actually. I’ve always longed to sail through the great archipelago. It’s beautiful, yes?
SHE
Of course, it is very beautiful. That is where is born our savage Nordic souls. I expect you will see it, through the portholes, while we are listening to the papers. In any case you are a seasoned traveller, it says so in your book. Perhaps you will sign it for me. We have all the signatures. Nabokov, Bellow, Brodsky, Morrison. You see, you are truly in Nobel company.
ME (signing)
I feel very honoured. Shall I put your names?
SHE
Please don’t write anything else. Just your name. It will be more valuable like that when we want to sell it.
ME
There then. So what did you mean when you said you hoped we’d be able to sail?
HE
Oh, don’t you consult your daily journal, or watch the excellent CNN? There’s an extremely serious crisis in Russia right now—
SHE
Yeltsin dismissed the Duma. Now they are shut up in the White House and there are tanks outside. Maybe there will be a bloody Communist coup. Bo, you have dandruff on your jacket again. I do hope you are not losing your beautiful hair.
ME
Oh. What do you think might happen?
HE
Maybe they will shut the border. Just as they did before, in 1917.
ME
You mean we could be shut out of Russia?
HE
Or in it, of course. That would be very much better. Then we would have plenty of time for our project.
ME
Our project?
HE
The Diderot Project. To track down what has happened to all our friend’s books and papers after they went to the Hermitage. You know that story, of course.
ME
The Empress bought his library, yes?
HE
Absolutely. And they still keep finding new material. Maybe we will discover a whole new novel or something.
SHE
Or a fresh work of philosophy. Some of his love letters to his mistress—
ME
Fine. Or maybe they’ll just put us in jail.
HE
It’s possible. Tell me, do you care for opera?
ME
Very much.
HE
They have it there, you know. Kirov and so on.
ME
I heard.
SHE
It will be such an adventure. Maybe you will even be able to write a book about it. I believe you said the herring?
I have the herring, of course.