so they can't see one another, covering an entire floor
together, but without need of any mutual relationship; at
this moment their only relationship is to me, and I examine
them all in turn. If I divide tile number thirteen diagonally
into two equal halves, I get two right-angled triangles -
isosceles triangles - though of course I haven't touched
them. I'm not the sort of person who goes round smashing
up fittings, although, if I look at this tile much harder, my
stare may crack it. I turn my attention again to the whole
square of six times six. There's a lot you can do with six
times six ceramic floor tiles � an awful lot, I think. You can
write a story about each and every one, that's easy.
I've pushed a chair out of the way and can now
concentrate all my attention on forty-nine tiles. I can see all
the tiles at once without shifting my glance. I think I must
have a special faculty for viewing ceramic tiles. I'm par-
ticularly satisfied with this last block, and I'll never forget it:
seven times seven tiles is nothing less than the ultimate truth,
the answer to the riddle of existence itself. The very kernel
of existence is a square of forty-nine green and red tiles in
Room 15 of the Hotel Luna Convento, Amalfi. I glance at
the coat-stand, but I only have to turn my gaze back to the
floor and I see the square again. It hasn't budged even a
millimetre, and this is patently because the shape itself is
firmly rooted in my mind. It isn't on the floor, but is created
by the person who shifts his gaze. If I ever find myself in
prison, I'll never get bored while I have this square of forty-
nine tiles to think back on. I have glimpsed the world. If I
draw an invisible diagonal line from the top right-hand
corner, from the top corner of tile number seven, down to
the bottom left-hand corner of tile forty-three, it gives me
the two right-angled triangles already described. It's just the
same as dividing a single tile, because a square is always a
square. Each of the triangles has two legs seven tiles long.
The sum of the lengths of each cathetus squared is ninety-
eight tile lengths, but I'm not capable of working out the
square root of ninety-eight. I've been to my cabin bag to
fetch my pocket calculator: the square root of ninety-eight is
9.8994949 tile lengths. So now we know, but it seems odd
that the diagonal of seven times seven tiles can be such an
ugly figure. It might almost be called an ambush, but then
chaos has always had a particular talent for destroying the
cosmos from within. But now there's something that
doesn't add up, something haunting the tiles � and of
course, it's the spirit hovering over the tiles that's doing the
haunting � but I can't divide forty-nine by two, so how can
begun to doubt my own sanity.
I am saved by an even higher order, a square of sixty-four
tiles. I had only to push Ibsen's desk out of the way, though
it was heavy and made a noise like thunder, and it is the
middle of the night, too. Eight eights are sixty-four, no
doubt about it. Now there are thirty-two red and thirty-two
green tiles in the square and, without lifting a finger, I've
established perfect harmony, I've re-established complete
equilibrium between red and green, green and red. I can
play chess now, too. Perhaps that was the idea all along. I'm
good at playing chess against myself, and I'm good at playing
without chessmen and have always been: first, second, third,
fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth rank. I place the
white pieces on the first rank: a, b, c, d, e, f, g and h. It's
easy, I've got a full view of the whole board, I can see all
the squares at once. One at a time I place the pieces on the
board. Soon I can see them all quite clearly, they are made of
black and white alabaster and are quite large. The biggest
ones, the kings and queens, are over thirty centimetres tall.
I'm the white king and I'm in the first row. I'm shown to
a red seat - 1E it says on my ticket, a fine seat in the first row
of the stalls, I deserve no less. On the great stage before me
are ranged all the other pawns and pieces. I find the crowded
lists of my own pawns in front of me slightly vexing.
They're much too close and smelly, but far off to the left I
glimpse the black queen. She's far away on 8D, she's also got
a red tile to stand on - a good position as well, I think. I
wave at her with my left arm, and she waves discreetly back.
She's got a crown on her head, it sparkles in the purest gold.
The chessman have taken their places, and now the game
itself begins. I commence with an ordinary king's pawn
opening: e2-e4, and she responds equally properly with e7-
e5. I move my knight to protect the pawn: b1-c3. Then she
makes a surprising move, she moves the queen from d8 to
f6, but why? She's combative, she's daring! I move my pawn
from d2 to d3 to protect the pawn at e4, and she ripostes by
moving her bishop, f8-c5. What plan has the lady got up
her sleeve? I move my knight again, c3-d5, and threaten her
queen. I do it in order to try to force her to retreat. It's then
that it happens, and without my being able to retrieve the
situation: the queen comes up and takes a pawn, f6 takes f2.
The black queen is at close quarters, holding me in check.
She smells of plums and cherries, but I can't touch her, that's
the terrible thing. I've committed the worst sin in the chess-
player's book, I've not seen beyond the next move, and I've
not kept account of previous moves in the game. I've for-
gotten that the queen has a past, she's of noble lineage, her
house is full of silk, and now she has a clandestine bishop
on the diagonal from C5 and, in this moment of truth, it
is he who prevents the queen from being taken. It's check-
mate!
It was a short game, far too short. I was pinned in a corner
by the black queen and my game is lost. I'm guilty, not
wilfully, but through gross negligence. I'm ashamed. That's
the answer, I'm ashamed. And I � who have always pointed
out that shame is no longer an element in people's lives - I
go off and commit the most outrageous misdeed that any
man can be guilty of.
I lay down and have managed to sleep for a couple of hours.
When I opened my eyes it was like waking up to the very
first, or the very last, day of my life. I had such a beautiful
dream about a little girl who came walking towards me with
a big posy of babies' slippers. It was by Lake Sognsvann, or
in Sweden by one of the big lakes there. But it was only a
dream.
I am at my desk once more, it's nine o'clock. I've done
my packing and I'll go down and check out in a couple of
minutes. If Beate won't let me leave my cabin bag in her
bed-sit, I'll ask if I can deposit it at the police station. I won't
leave it at the hotel whatever I do
. I'm not the sort who
returns to collect things.
I feel something important is missing. Then I realise what
it is: when and where was I supposed to meet Beate? We
never arranged anything. All the same, I must get out of
here, I must escape from my own consciousness.
I'll leave my laptop in the room. I'll lose it here or leave it
here, people can wonder which. I've deleted all files that
needed deleting, but not the ones that are meant to remain.
There are lots of them, an impressive number. There are
more than enough synopses and ideas for people to help
themselves to, enough for several dozen literary careers,
maybe more. I can stick a note to the machine saying that it
belongs to all the authors of the world. I could write: here
you are, help yourselves, everything is gratis. Then they
could do whatever they liked with it, they could just carry
on as far as I'm concerned, they could just carry on dis-
porting themselves.
But I change my mind. I write TO BEATE on a
yellow note and stick it to the machine. For my part, I
have no desires other than to be an ordinary person. I only
want to look at the birds and trees and to hear children
laugh.
Someone is knocking at my door. 'Just a moment,' I call
out, then I hear Beate's voice. She says she'll wait for me
down by the convent gardens.
It is the first, or the last, day of my life. I don't know if I
dare hope for a miracle. I'll save this and sign off. Everything
is ready. Ready for the greatest leap.
[DUST COVER]
Jostein Gaarder was a teacher for many
years before he began to write full-time. He
lives in Oslo with his wife. They have two
grown-up sons.
Cover design by Sidonie Beresford-Browne
Cover illustration by Louisa St Pierre
Weidenfeld & Nicolson
The Orion Publishing Group
Orion House
5 Upper Saint Martin's Lane London WC2H 9EA
Sophie's world
'A marvellously rich book. Its success boils down to something quite
simple - Gaarder's gift for communicating ideas' Quaidian
'Challenging, informative and packed with easily grasped, and imitable,
ways of thinking about difficult ideas' Independent on Sunday
'A terrifically entertaining and imaginative story wrapped round its tough,
thought-provoking philosophical heart' Daily Mail
'Seductive and original ... Sophie's World is, as it dares to congratulate itself,
"a strange and wonderful book"' T&S
Maya
'As with Sophie's World, Maya immediately absorbs the reader with
complex themes and notions that are presented in a bold and
imaginative way.' Waterstones Quarterly
'The best-selling author of Sophie's World returns with another
wonder-filled philosophical expedition ... this time going into the realm
of the meaning of life and love. Gaarder's enthusiastic and surreal
unravelling of ideas are temptingly absorbing.' The Scotsman
'This is a weighty novel of ideas, written to instruct as well as entertain.'
Daily Mail
A PHOENIX HOUSE BOOK
ISBN 0-297-82923-8
780297
829232