by David Szalay
‘I could send someone else.’
A faint smile acknowledges her thoughtfulness. He shakes his head – his haircut is corporate, mouse-coloured. ‘No.’
‘Might this cost him his job?’ she asks.
‘No, I don’t think so.’ He thinks about it some more. ‘No. If he was married, maybe. But he isn’t.’
‘What about Natasha Ohmsen?’ Elin asks.
‘Yeah, I was thinking about that,’ Kristian says, taking off his glasses. ‘We should keep an eye on her. Find out where she lives. We have her number, obviously – we can flip the phone. See what she’s up to. If Edvard tells me to fuck off – which he might, he’s pig-headed when he wants to be – we might get what we need from her.’
‘I’ll put someone on it.’
They sit briefly in silence.
Then she says, with a quiet smile, ‘How’re the girls?’
He is about to answer, to say something vague and positive, when his phone starts. Ulrik.
When they have spoken, he puts the phone in his jacket pocket. He says to Elin, ‘Edvard’s expecting me at his house in Spain this afternoon.’
2
It is forty degrees in Málaga when he arrives in the middle of the afternoon. The sea, from the plane, looked as dark as denim. The mountains looked prehistoric. From Hertz he picks up a white VW Passat, and with the air con shoved up as high as it will go, he enters Edvard’s address into the satnav.
The house is in a village somewhere up the motorway towards Córdoba. About an hour it will take to drive there, apparently.
He and Edvard last met only a week ago. That’s what he is thinking of as he drives away from the airport. The newspaper’s new owner threw a party. Edvard wasn’t the only minister there, but he was the most senior – the deputy leader of the party in power. He turned up as a personal favour to Kristian – Kristian’s own house-warming present for the new proprietor – and he stayed for only half an hour or so, sipping champagne on the lawn of the modest Danish-style stately home that had been hired for the occasion. Kristian made the introduction: Newspaper-owning millionaire, defence minister. Defence minister, newspaper-owning millionaire. He stood there watching with a sort of pride as they exchanged small talk. Afterwards he and Edvard spoke together for a while, at the edge of the gathering near an impeccably clipped hedge. Exchanged some tittle-tattle, discussed Edvard’s own prospects. Politically, the paper was on the minister’s side. He even wrote for them occasionally. Pieces were published under his name, anyway. Kristian sometimes wrote them. Most recently one about the virtues of less onerous labour-market regulation. Slightly odd, that the defence minister should be publishing something on an area of economic policy. He had his eye on the top job, that was an open secret. Which was partly why, as well, he stood on the lawn for half an hour nursing a glass of champagne last week in the pleasant summer weather – somewhat cloudy but no real threat of rain.
The motorway slams through a landscape of dry hills. For long stretches the only vegetation is the olive trees, millions of them, planted in tedious lines.
Near a town called Lucena the satnav instructs him to leave the motorway. The landscape is marginally less arid now. Some trees other than olives, not many, stand in the withering sunlight, shadows at their feet. Thin sheep on a hillside. A village with a white church, bells hanging still in little arches. The streets are empty. Siesta, he supposes. On the edge of the village is a house.
This is it.
The satnav tells him he is there.
A wall around a plot of land, one tree outside the wall, in the limited shade of which he attempts to position the white hire car. Then the gate, squeaking open on its hinges, a frisking from the minister’s close protection officers – two of them, expecting him, sweating in the heat – and the path up to the house.
The house is modest. A single-storey, white, with a porch at the front, a few white pillars. Some palmy-type plants of various sizes in pots. Dusty oleander. Some unpretentious furniture on the porch, a table and a few chairs: green-painted metal, with green-and-white striped cushions. On the wall of the house under the porch, some plates hung up for decoration.
The defence minister, in shorts, flip-flops and a short-sleeved shirt, is moving a sprinkler when Kristian arrives. His shirt hangs open to show the whitish hair on his front. He is also wearing a panama hat and sunglasses. He sees his visitor. ‘Oh, hello,’ he says, putting the sprinkler down. A green hose trails across the dry ground to a standpipe with a tap at the side of the house. A spray of water is visible where the hose is attached to the tap, obviously not very well.
The minister walks over to where Kristian is standing, sweating heavily, on the path.
‘Hello, Kristian.’
‘Hello, Minister.’
They shake hands. The minister’s handshake is exaggeratedly firm.
His face is tanned, handsome, tense.
‘Come and sit down,’ he says, gesturing towards the furniture on the porch. ‘You’re not dressed for this weather, are you?’ he laughs as they make their way there. Kristian has only been out of the A/C for a minute or two and already his shirt is sticking extravagantly to his back. Where his suit jacket hangs over his arm, his sleeve is sodden. ‘I didn’t have time to think of that,’ he says.
‘No,’ the minister says. ‘Please, have a seat. Would you like a drink?’
‘Just some water, please.’
Strings of beads hang in the open door of the house and the minister passes through them to fetch the drinks.
A minute later he emerges with another swish of the beads. He hands Kristian a glass of sparkling water with ice and a piece of lemon in it. He has furnished himself with a San Miguel. Heavily he sits down in the chair opposite and says, ‘Cheers.’ He is sweating too, though more lightly than his guest.
‘Cheers,’ Kristian says.
They drink thirstily in the waves of insect noise that assail the hot shade of the porch.
‘This is your house?’ Kristian asks.
‘It’s my ex-wife’s,’ the minister tells him. ‘She lets me use it sometimes. She’s Spanish,’ he adds.
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Well, now you do.’
Kristian lets his eyes wander nervously over the struggling vegetation.
‘Now,’ the minister says, impatient with the small talk, ‘why are you here, Kristian, and in such a hurry?’ He is plainly eager to know. His toes, having freed themselves from a flip-flop, have taken hold of a metal strut under the table.
Kristian has another sip of sparkling water, then he puts the dripping glass down on the table. He makes himself look the defence minister in the eye. He says, ‘Natasha Ohmsen. We know about you and Natasha Ohmsen.’
The insects, like the teeth of a comb sawing at something.
Finally the minister says, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Kristian smiles unhurriedly and takes off his glasses and wipes the sweat from his face with his sleeve. He puts his glasses back on. ‘You do know her?’ he says.
‘Yes, I know Natasha,’ Edvard says. ‘So?’
‘I have sources,’ Kristian says. ‘People talk.’
‘Who? What sources? What do you mean?’
‘I think you know what I mean.’
‘Well, I don’t know what you’ve heard …’
‘I have total faith,’ Kristian says, ‘in the information I have.’
‘Which is?’
‘Which is that you and Mrs Ohmsen are having an affair.’
‘That’s nonsense.’
Kristian shakes his head. ‘I don’t believe it is.’
‘Well, I’m telling you now – it’s nonsense. We’re friends, yes. Natasha—’
‘You’re more than friends,’ Kristian says, interrupting him. ‘This story isn’t about friendship. This story is about the fact that you and Mrs Ohmsen are, and have been for some time, very much more than friends.’
When Edvard says nothing, Krist
ian smiles again. It is a friendly smile. ‘Listen,’ he says. ‘I would not have gone to all this trouble today if I didn’t know this was true.’
He takes a sip of his water.
Then he says, ‘I don’t have any photographs to show you or anything like that.’
‘Then what makes you think it’s true?’
‘It’s my job to know what’s true, and this is true. The information I have is from sources I absolutely trust.’
‘Who?’ Edvard demands.
Kristian sighs tolerantly. He says, ‘All I would ask is that you look at what I have done here – I am here, in person, in Spain, to see you, today – and perhaps just admit that the information I have is true.’
The defence minister is picking nervously at the wet San Miguel label. He doesn’t say anything. The sunglasses make it difficult to tell what he’s thinking. His mouth is a hard horizontal line.
Kristian says, tenderly, ‘People know about this affair, Edvard. People are aware of it.’
And when Edvard still does not speak, he says, ‘It’s my opinion that if I don’t do this story, at least one of my sources will take this information to another newspaper. The story is out. You have to accept that now.’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ Edvard says at last.
‘And we have no desire at all,’ Kristian tells him, ‘to damage you, politically or otherwise. We would not want to see anything published that would damage you.’
‘Then why publish it?’
‘Edvard,’ Kristian says, ‘the story is out. It will be published. The only question is when and by whom. And as I say, we have no desire to damage you politically …’
‘This will damage me politically.’
‘Maybe not. It depends how it’s presented.’
‘Anyway, politics is one thing,’ Edvard says, angrier, ‘private life is another. I want a private life. I’m young enough to want a private life. You must be able to understand that …’
‘Of course I can.’
‘If you don’t have a private life, you don’t have anything, you have nothing. You are nothing. You’re not a person, you’re just …’
‘I understand …’
‘Do you?’
The minister’s face is flushed, and shiny with indignant sweat.
Kristian waits for a few moments. Then he says, technocratically, ‘My view is that there are some matters, some stories, that have to be dealt with.’
‘That’s your view, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘What stories? Stories like this one?’ Edvard asks.
‘Like this one, yes …’
‘Why? This is my private life. I’m not married. I’ve always kept my private life private. I don’t tell other people how they should live their lives. You know I don’t. I’m entitled to a private life.’
Kristian says, ‘In an ideal world, that’s perhaps how it should be.’
An incredulous laugh from Edvard. ‘In an ideal world? Why? Why not in this world?’
Kristian says, after a few moments, ‘You are a senior minister and I don’t think you can use arguments about privacy to swat away an accusation that you have had an affair with a married woman.’
‘An accusation? That’s an interesting word.’
‘Allegation, then …’
‘I’m not married.’
‘I know that …’
‘I haven’t lied to anyone …’
‘I’m not suggesting that you have.’
‘What have I done wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Then why must I be punished?’
‘This isn’t about punishment.’
‘What is it about?’
‘It’s about the public’s right to know …’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Edvard mutters.
‘With respect, you are an elected public official.’
‘Does that mean I have no right to a private life?’
‘It means your right to one has to be balanced against other considerations.’
Edvard’s thumbnail has shredded part of the San Miguel label.
‘Other rights,’ Kristian says.
‘And Natasha? Is she an elected public official?’
‘No.’
‘Does she have no right to privacy then?’
Kristian frowns thoughtfully.
‘If this is published,’ Edvard says, finger jabbing, ‘it’s going to be open season on my private life and hers. You know that.’
Kristian wipes the sweat from his face again. He looks at his watch. It is quarter to five. He doesn’t have much time, if they’re to splash with this in the morning. He says, ‘I’ll tell you what. We won’t name Mrs Ohmsen. Okay? We won’t mention her name – if you work with us on this.’ He is sitting forward now. He feels his shirt adhering to his back. He says, ‘The story is out there, Edvard. It will come out. We want to help you on this. We want to do this as sympathetically as possible. So work with us. Okay?’
Edvard stands up. He looks out at the patchy lawn, his hand on one of the white pillars of the porch. ‘It’s not true that it won’t damage me politically,’ he says.
‘Why? As you say, you’re not married …’
‘And anyway,’ he says, ‘I think it’s over. With Natasha.’
Kristian feigns surprise.
‘Yes,’ Edvard says. ‘She’s ending it.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘How would you know?’ A hollow laugh. ‘Unless your source is Natasha herself.’
‘It isn’t.’
‘It’s not what I want,’ Edvard says. ‘I mean, to end it.’
‘How long has it been going on?’ Kristian asks.
‘Two years. More or less. I was hoping,’ Edvard says, still looking out to where the sprinkler has succeeded in making a muddy patch in the middle of the lawn, ‘I was hoping she’d leave her husband. No,’ he says. ‘She doesn’t want to do that.’ He sighs, pained. He is in his mid-fifties. Still in decent shape. Only a slight paunch, leathery with sunlight, with Spanish weekends. Long thin legs.
He turns to Kristian and takes off his sunglasses. His eyebrows are thick and fair. His eyes pale blue.
‘I feel like a fool, at my age, Kristian, feeling like this,’ he says. ‘About a woman.’
‘You shouldn’t.’
‘Well, I do.’ He has turned from the garden, the dry field of scraping insects, and is looking at Kristian, who is still in his seat, sweating. ‘When they said you wanted to see me, I hoped it wouldn’t be about this.’
Kristian smiles sadly. ‘C’est la guerre,’ he says.
‘You know I’ll never be prime minister now?’
‘No, I don’t know that …’
‘Oh, you do. This isn’t France, Kristian.’
‘And thank God for that.’
Ignoring the flippancy, the minister says, ‘It will make me seem unsound, won’t it. Not so much morally as emotionally … Unserious …’
Kristian says, ‘I think you should tell me what happened, from the start, just to make sure we have everything straight.’
‘You expect me to tell you everything?’
‘Not everything: just the main points. When did it start? How did you meet?’
3
In the parked Passat, with the air conditioning screaming, he phones Elin.
‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘He didn’t put up much of a fight. He’ll work with us on it. I’ll try and knock something out at the airport and send it to you. One thing,’ he says, thinking ahead, ‘see if you can’t find any photos of them together. They’ve met at social events. Her husband was there too, Søren Ohmsen. Maybe there’s a photo of them together. The three of them. That would be perfect.’
He says, ‘My plane’s at seven something. I should be in the office by elevenish. I’ll see you there.’
It is half past five. The sun is starting to leave its seat in the top of the sky, to lose some of its force. The thermometer on the
dash says 37°. The steering wheel, for a few minutes, is too hot for him to hold. He has to keep moving his hands on it as the satnav directs him back through the village and towards the motorway, south to Málaga.
He is thinking about the splash. Something like:
DEFENCE
MINISTER’S
SECRET
LOVE
And then a smaller headline underneath:
WEEKENDS OF PASSION IN SCORCHING SPAIN
Defence Minister Edvard Dahlin has been having a secret love affair with a married woman for more than two years. The 55-year-old father of two …
USES EX-WIFE’S HOUSE FOR SECRET LIAISON
The 55-year-old father of two …
The fifty-five-year-old father of two had tried, as they parted, to make a deal with him.
Kristian, already standing, holding his jacket, sweating, thought about it for a moment.
Then he said, ‘That’s nice to know.’
And smiled. And left. Walked down the path. Said, ‘Thanks, lads,’ to the minister’s security detail – two men in sweat-stained polo shirts and wrap-around sunglasses, sitting on white plastic chairs in the shade of a bulge of bougainvillea next to the gate.
It was an offer of sorts, wasn’t it, that Edvard had made him.
Not a serious one.
Not one worthy of serious consideration.
Edvard was not, to be honest, in much of a position to be making offers.
The 55-year-old father of two says he is ‘heartbroken’ that the mystery married woman …
That’s something to think about. The thing about not naming her. She’ll have to be named at some point. Hence his interest in the photos. She’ll be named within forty-eight hours, he thinks, staring at the motorway, overtaking yet another Dutch mobile home. Once people know she exists, she’ll be found and named within forty-eight hours. Will have to let someone else have the honour. Include some hints in the piece tomorrow. Yeah, mention her age.
The 55-year-old father of two says he is ‘heartbroken’ that the mystery married woman, 40, …
Maybe say something about her husband.
How about
The stunning brunette, 40, is refusing to leave her husband, one of Denmark’s richest men …
That might narrow it down too much. Want someone else to name her asap, that’s all, so we can tackle the thing properly. Use the pictures. He’s sure he’s seen a picture of them together, Edvard and Natasha Ohmsen, and maybe Søren Ohmsen too. Would be perfect, a picture of the three of them, with her looking at Edvard. Where was that picture taken that he saw? At some National Gallery event? Does Ohmsen give money to the gallery? Probably.
