THE OLD boarding house at Number 11 Tomtegaten no longer stands. The whole street was demolished some years ago. Little is left of the scene the Norwegian writer and Nobel Prize winner, Knut Hamsun, describes in his semi-autobiographical novel Hunger. Only the original ochre facade of the nearby railway terminal remains. A huddle of junkies wait outside. They eye me forlornly as I walk across the tramlines towards them. The station has sprawled into a labyrinth of offices to obliterate any evidence of the street having been there. It is as though Norway wanted to erase all memory of the novelist. Yet somewhere beneath all that steel, concrete and glass Hamsun lived. The house stands out so vividly in my mind's eye that I begin to search for evidence of it in the maze of escalators and passages which ably obscure any remnants of its existence. There isn't even a plaque to commemorate it.
I know that somewhere round here lies the very spot where the landlord of Number 11 beckoned Hunger's hero across to the door, and motioned for him to be quiet before inviting him to peer through the keyhole. The hero can make out two figures on the bed. His landlord's wife's naked legs show stark white against the dark quilt; she is heavily pregnant. The new tenant, a seaman, is lying between them.
Her husband is trying to stifle his laughter at the sight of her old father sitting on the settee on the other side of the room. Unable to look away because of his paralysis, he is forced to witness the event. Risque even now, this scene had a dramatic effect on conservative Oslo at the turn of the century. Nobody had written like that before. It is likely that this was a real episode in Hamsun's life. At the end of the Second World War the ageing writer was tried as a Nazi sympathiser. For that reason, few people read his books now, and yet Hunger was to change the course of Western literature. From the station it is possible to pick the steps of Hamsun's hero as he stalks Ylayli, the imaginary name he gives the young woman he becomes obsessed with. He follows her up and down Karl Johans Gate from the royal palace at its opposite end. The first half of the street is pedestrianised now. Above the jewellers, the shoe shops and restaurants, the buildings have altered little in the last 100 years. In the Grand Cafe, had he looked through the large windows, he might have caught sight of Henrik Ibsen quaffing and dining. Here the pavements widen into a boulevard lined with trees. Running down the centre there is a garden with open-air cafes. The people of Oslo sit here on summer evenings drinking beer and gossiping as they watch the promenade of the fashionable young. Ibsen's plays are still performed at the National Theatre at the far end of the boulevard. Across the road is another of the dramatist's haunts, Theatre Cafi. Its Art Nouveau interior is as it was in his day - a small orchestra plays from the gallery each evening. The menu is largely Norwegian, luscious reindeer steaks a speciality. Ylayli walks on with her friend, dogged by Hunger's hero. Just before the university they turn right and walk up Universitet gate and past the National Gallery. Far fewer people know of Edvard Munch than know of his painting, The Scream, which hangs inside. After the Mona Lisa, it is the most famous painting in the world. No other picture so captures the soul of the 20th century. …