In the late night of April 7 1990, a catastrophic fire broke out on board the MS Scandinavian Star, a passenger ferry traveling between Oslo and Frederikshavn. Insufficient staff preparedness combined with jammed fire doors aided the propagation of the flames, while deadly hydrogen cyanide gas released from combusting laminates led to the loss of 159 individuals. Initially, the disaster was attributed to a traveler—a truck driver with a history of fire-setting. Given that this suspect too died in the incident and was unable to defend himself, the complete truth regarding the disaster stayed concealed for many years. Only in 2020 that a comprehensive documentary disclosed the fire was likely started deliberately as part of an fraud scheme.
In the first volume of Nordenhof's Scandinavian Star sequence, Money to Burn, an unidentified narrator is riding on a public transport through Copenhagen when she observes an older man on the street. As the bus moves away, she experiences an “eerie sense” that she is taking a part of him with her. Compelled to retrace the route in pursuit of him, the narrator finds herself in a setting that is both alien and deeply familiar. She presents readers to Maggie and Kurt, whose relationship is tested by the burdens of their troubled pasts. In the concluding section of that volume, it is suggested that the root of Kurt's disaffection may stem from a disastrous financial decision made on his behalf by a man known as T.
The Devil Book opens with an lengthy prose poem in which the narrator explains her struggle to write T's story. “Within this second volume,” she states, “we were meant / to follow him / from childhood up until / the night / when he sat anticipating for / the news that / the fire / on the Scandinavian Star / had effectively been / ignited.” Overwhelmed by the undertaking she has assigned herself and disrupted by the global health crisis, she approaches the story indirectly, as a form of allegory. “I came to think / that I / can do / anything I want / so this / is my work / this is / for you / this is / an erotic thriller / about businessmen and / the dark force.”
A tale gradually unfolds of a female character who spends quarantine in London with a virtual stranger and over the course of those days relates to him what happened to her a ten years earlier, when she accepted an proposal from a figure who claimed to be the evil entity to fulfill all her wishes, so long as she didn't doubt his intentions. As the elements of the dual narratives become more intertwined, we begin to believe that they are identical—or at minimum that the nature of T is legion, for there are demonic forces all around.
Another blaze is present: an ardent, magnetic commitment to writing as a form of activism
Literature teach us that it is the devil who does deals, not a divine being, and that we engage in them at our peril. But what if the protagonist herself is the devil? A third storyline comes finally to light—the story of a young woman whose early years was scarred by mistreatment and who spent time in a psychiatric hospital, under duress to comply with societal norms or suffer further harm. “[The devil] understands that in the game you've set for it, there are a pair of results: surrender or remain a monster.” A alternative path is finally revealed through a series of poems to the night that are simultaneously a call to arms against the influences of wealth and power.
Many British audience members of Nordenhof's series books will think right away of the London tower fire, which, though unintentional in cause, shares similarities in that the ensuing tragedy and fatalities can be attributed at in part to the dangerous trade-off of putting financial gain over human lives. In these initial books of what is projected to be a seven-book series, the fire aboard the ferry and the series of fraudulent business deals that culminated in mass murder are a ominous background element, showing themselves only in fleeting flashes of detail or inference yet projecting a growing shadow over all that occurs. Some readers may doubt how much it is feasible to read The Devil Book as a stand-alone work, when its purpose and significance are so intricately bound into a larger whole whose final form, at this stage, is uncertain.
There will be others—and I count myself as among them—who will become enamored with Nordenhof's project purely as text, as properly experimental writing whose ethical and creative intent are so profoundly entwined as to make them inseparable. “Write poems / for we require / that too.” There is another fire here: an intense, attractive commitment to the craft as a statement. I will persist to pursue this series, wherever it leads.
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