All That Man Is

by David Szalay

  ‘I thought you were going back to work after.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘So it was nothing?’

  ‘It was short and sweet,’ Kristian said, taking back his fortified drink. ‘And now it’s over. That’s it.’

  ‘You could make time for her then?’

  ‘It happened in the office, mate. That’s the point. We didn’t have to make time. We were there all the time anyway.’

  ‘Where’d you do it?’ David asked through a scurrilous smile. Nicotine-stained teeth. ‘Stationary cupboard?’

  ‘In her office mostly.’

  ‘In her orifice.’

  Kristian swivelled on his stool more squarely to face the TV. He said, ‘It’s starting.’

  A more serious question – ‘Did Laura know about it?’

  ‘No, she didn’t,’ Kristian said. ‘And she won’t. And it’s not going to happen again.’ He took a swig of his drink, winced at the vodka, and said, ‘It was a mistake.’ And then, his attention already on the starting match, ‘We both lost focus for a bit.’

  *

  ‘How did he take it?’ Elin asks him.

  ‘Not great,’ he says.

  Elin makes a pained face.

  Kristian says, ‘There were a few tears.’

  ‘I’m sorry you had to do that, Kristian.’

  ‘C’est la guerre,’ he says. ‘I felt sorry for him, though.’

  ‘Well, again,’ Elin says, ‘I’m sorry you had to do it.’

  He smiles – quietly, sadly maybe. Just for a moment. ‘So how are we looking?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh, she’s been named,’ Elin says. ‘Natasha has.’

  ‘What, already?’ He thought it would be quick – not this quick. It’s not even ten in the morning.

  ‘It’s all over the Internet,’ Elin says.

  ‘Are any other papers naming her? We can’t be the first …’

  ‘Not yet. We’re watching.’

  He says, ‘I think we can give Søren Ohmsen a call at this point, don’t you? He might not know yet. I’ll get David to call him, okay?’

  ‘What’s he going to say to him?’

  Kristian says in a sunny voice, ‘“Good morning, Mr Ohmsen. Did you know your wife is having an affair with the defence minister?”’

  She sniggers. ‘We are terrible, aren’t we.’

  ‘C’est la guerre.’

  ‘Is that your catchphrase or something?’

  ‘Seems to be, yeah,’ he says. ‘Did you get that picture? Of the three of them. I’m sure there is one.’

  ‘Mikkel will be here in a minute,’ she says, ‘with what he’s got.’

  They are in the secret office – the one used for sensitive stories. It’s not actually secret, just away from the hustle of the newsroom, on another floor.

  She says, ‘Do you want to take a few hours, go home, get some sleep?’

  ‘Do I look that bad?’ he smiles. ‘Laura said I looked like shit.’

  ‘How is Laura?’ Elin asks.

  There’s a knock on the door. They expect it to be Mikkel. It’s not. It’s Elin’s PA, Pernille. She says, ‘I’ve got Ulrik Larssen on the phone. From Dahlin’s office. He’s angry.’

  ‘I’ll talk to him,’ Kristian says. ‘Okay?’

  Elin says, ‘I don’t mind talking to him.’

  ‘I think it’s better if I do.’

  ‘Okay,’ she says, ‘fine.’

  To Pernille he says, ‘Tell him I’ll call him back in a minute. Thanks.’

  ‘What are you going to say to him?’ Elin asks, when Pernille has left them alone again.

  ‘That we’re going to handle this as sympathetically as possible. That we don’t want to damage Edvard, etcetera, etcetera. Same as what I told Edvard. It’s even true. Ish. I’ll ask him if Edvard wants to do an interview.’

  ‘You’re shameless,’ Elin says, smiling at him in a way he likes.

  ‘I’ve got a thick skin,’ he tells her. ‘You know,’ he says, ‘Edvard said to me last night if he’d have become prime minister, he’d have offered me Ulrik’s job?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Do you think he was serious?’

  ‘Who knows. It’s a hypothetical situation, isn’t it. Now.’

  ‘I suppose we’ll have to increase your salary,’ she says, still smiling at him. ‘Again.’

  ‘You know I’m not in it for the money.’

  ‘I thought you said this wouldn’t damage him. Edvard.’

  ‘Well, it depends what you mean by damage. He’s safe in his current job, I’d say. I’d better call Ulrik.’

  ‘What,’ Ulrik says, ‘the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Morning, Ulrik …’ Kristian is standing on the fire stairs, in a patch of sunlight.

  When he has finished with Ulrik, about ten minutes later, and spoken to David Jespersen, he finds Mikkel, the pictures editor, in the secret office with Elin. Mikkel has laid a load of photos out on the table and they are looking at them. Elin looks up. ‘What did Ulrik say?’

  ‘He feels we shouldn’t be running this story.’

  ‘Did he threaten us?’

  ‘Not with legal action. It’s fine,’ Kristian says, touching her on the elbow. ‘Hi, Mikkel.’

  ‘Alright,’ Mikkel says, hardly looking up from the images on the table, whose positions he is minutely, and frequently, and pointlessly, adjusting with trembling fingers. Edvard is in most of the pictures – a wide variety of settings and expressions. Natasha Ohmsen is in a few. There are one or two of Søren Ohmsen. And …

  ‘That’s the one!’ Kristian shouts, stabbing it with his index finger. He hardly ever shouts. It feels strange. ‘That’s the one,’ he says.

  The three of them. And yes, she is looking not at her diminutive husband, on whose arm she is – she is looking at the defence minister, tall and handsome and himself looking straight into the lens with a wonderfully sly smile. ‘That,’ Kristian says, ‘is fucking perfect. Tomorrow’s front page, yeah?’

  ‘I think so,’ Elin says.

  Mikkel silently moves it apart from the others.

  They are still looking at the pictures, trying to pick one of Natasha on her own, when Jeppe, the news editor, waddles in without knocking and says, ‘What’s going on here?’

  Kristian says, ‘We’re just having a look at these pictures, mate.’

  Ignoring him, Jeppe talks to Elin. ‘This is my story,’ he says, obviously outraged. ‘It’s my fucking story. You didn’t even want it at first.’

  ‘Yes,’ Elin says, turning to him, ‘it is, Jeppe, and you should be proud of it.’

  ‘So why you excluding me from it now?’

  ‘What I need from you this morning, Jeppe,’ Elin says, sort of taking him aside, ‘is to stay on top of all the other news. There is some other news, isn’t there?’ she laughs.

  ‘Why are you excluding me?’ Jeppe still wants to know.

  ‘Did you hear me, Jeppe?’ Elin asks, not laughing now. ‘I need you to stay on top of everything else this morning. I’m dealing with this. Okay?’

  ‘Isn’t that the deputy editor’s job?’ Jeppe says. ‘To stay on top of everything else.’

  Elin lets a few seconds pass, then says, ‘It’s what I need you to do. Okay? So go and do it.’

  Jeppe doesn’t move.

  You are so dead, mate, Kristian is thinking, still leaning over the photos.

  And then David Jespersen arrives excitedly, saying, ‘Just spoke to Ohmsen. The husband.’

  ‘And?’ Elin asks him, turning away from Jeppe, who is still standing there.

  ‘He told me to fuck off.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘No,’ David says. ‘He said I was scum.’

  ‘The man knows what he’s talking about,’ Kristian jokes, turning from the photos. ‘Did he already know about the affair?’

  ‘What I reckon happened,’ David says. ‘I think he did. What I reckon happened is yesterday night Dahlin told Natasha it was all coming out this m
orning, and she should tell her husband. So she told him.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ Kristian says.

  ‘And you know what makes it worse?’ David says. ‘It’s his fucking birthday today. Søren Ohmsen’s.’

  Kristian laughs. ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘I was looking at his Wikipedia entry. August fifth, nineteen fifty-eight. It is his birthday.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Happy birthday, Mr Ohmsen,’ David says, enjoying himself.

  ‘Have a look at these,’ Kristian says, meaning the photos.

  ‘Ah, the pics, brilliant,’ says David, taking a place at the table. ‘Alright, Mikkel.’

  Mikkel, a man of few words, just nods, and with his quaking middle finger moves one of the pictures a millimetre to the left.

  ‘So nothing we can use from Ohmsen?’ Kristian asks. ‘No quotable quotes?’

  David says, ‘Are you shocked, Mr Ohmsen? Eff off. Are you dismayed? You, sir, are scum. Is there anything you would like to say, Mr Ohmsen? Mr Ohmsen? Not there. Hung up on me.’ David is looking at one particular picture of Natasha Ohmsen – the one where she looks really tasty. ‘Actually,’ he says, ‘he did say something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How did you get this number?’

  ‘How did we get it?’

  ‘From his wife’s phone records.’

  ‘Keep quiet about that,’ Elin says, finally joining them. She has been standing apart, in thought, since Jeppe left a few moments earlier. ‘So,’ she says, ‘which ones we going to use then?’

  While she and Kristian discuss that question, Mikkel wordlessly shows David some unusable pap shots – he just starts handing them to him, they speak for themselves – of a famous actress sunbathing naked. ‘Fuckinell,’ David says.

  ‘When you’ve finished looking at those,’ Elin says to him, ‘I want you to get on to the antenatal clinic. I want more information about that before we do anything on it. At the moment all we’ve got is Edvard’s word.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Kristian says. It was something he discussed with Elin earlier, something that had occurred to him in the middle of the night, waiting for his flight at Charles de Gaulle: that Edvard might have been lying to him when he said, ‘It’s mine, she says. She isn’t keeping it.’ There was something weird about the way he said that. And if they printed it and it wasn’t true – if it wasn’t his, or she was keeping it, or she wasn’t even pregnant – he would have his opening to sue the shit out of them.

  ‘What, you think he might be lying?’ David asks, still taking pictures from Mikkel. ‘Fuckinell,’ he says again, even more impressed.

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘That would be pretty devious, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I want something more than just what he said to Kristian.’

  ‘Fair enough. I have been in all night, though,’ David points out.

  ‘I’ll take care of it,’ Kristian tells her.

  ‘Yeah?’ she says. ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’ll get Katrine onto it,’ he says, surveying their final selection of photos. ‘It’s her sort of thing.’

  ‘Does that mean I can go home and get some kip?’ David asks.

  ‘I suppose it does,’ Elin says kindly. ‘Off you go then, fuck off.’

  *

  When he has sent Katrine to the antenatal clinic, with some money, to try and find out exactly why Natasha Ohmsen spent an hour there yesterday, Kristian takes the lift down to Starbucks. There are some franchises at street level, and sometimes he spends ten minutes in the Starbucks, having a small latte and letting his head clear.

  He finds David Jespersen in there, eating a sandwich. ‘I thought you were going home, mate,’ Kristian says, joining him.

  ‘I am, after this,’ David says. ‘Did you see those shots Mikkel had of what’s-her-name?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Muff on display and everything.’

  Kristian, unsmilingly, is taking the lid off his latte.

  ‘We okay to use them?’ David asks.

  ‘Maybe one of the topless ones. Next week, when things are quieter. They’re with Morten.’

  ‘Was it just me,’ David asks, ‘or was there some sort of vibe this morning? I mean with Jeppe, when I came in.’

  ‘It wasn’t just you.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  Kristian shrugs. ‘I don’t know. There’s going to be a shake-up soon. Maybe something to do with that.’

  ‘What sort of shake-up?’

  ‘The sort where people get sacked.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘That’s what I’m told.’

  ‘We don’t have enough people as it is,’ David says.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘The work each of us is doing, it used to be done by two, three people.’

  ‘Those days aren’t coming back,’ Kristian says.

  They are sitting on tall stools at the counter in the window. Outside, people pass by. Suits, office workers. The still surface of Peblinge Lake is blackish, full of clouds. It is one of those fresh northern summer days. Leaves moving languidly in mild wind.

  ‘What about me?’ David asks.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Am I safe?’

  Kristian tips latte into his mouth. ‘You’ll be okay,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I need this job,’ David says. ‘Two years’ time, I’ll be forty.’

  ‘Me too, mate.’

  ‘I’ve got two kids to pay for.’

  ‘I said don’t worry about it. You can still go home now, if that’s what you’re wondering.’

  ‘Nothing’s going to stop me doing that,’ David says. ‘I’m a fucking zombie. What about you? You alright?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You did an all-nighter as well, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. I suppose.’

  ‘You don’t want to go home, get some kip?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What,’ David says, trying to understand, ‘you’re worried about this shake-up?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘So why don’t you take a few hours off?’

  Kristian, tired, is staring at the surface of the lake.

  Then he says, ‘You don’t understand, mate. There’s nowhere else I want to be. This is where I want to be.’

  A moment passes.

  David is looking at him, trying to understand.

  ‘This is what I live for,’ Kristian says. ‘This. What happens here.’

  And that’s the truth, he thinks, finishing his latte, when David has left.

  David Jespersen has left.

  Headed home to the flat in Nørrebro he lives in now. The flat with not a lot of furniture in it. Empty fridge – a few lagers, not much else. Monochrome bedroom. Not unlike the place the two of them shared …

  What?

  Nearly twenty years ago.

  Went out on the pull together then, sometimes. Saturday afternoon, watched football together. IKEA sofa. Empty fridge – a few lagers, not much else. Weird that that’s Dave’s life again now. Out on the pull.

  He has finished his latte. Is still staring at the unperturbed surface of the lake.

  Must be tired, to sit here staring like that.

  Out on the pull.

  Seems like another world, that.

  He thinks for a moment, with something that threatens to turn into pain, of Elin, and the times they had. Two years ago.

  Two and a half.

  Very professional they were about it.

  Lost focus. In the office. Orifice. Office. Office. Is what I live for. And that’s the truth. He has left the Starbucks and is in the lobby – modern marble – waiting for the lift. Thinking of Edvard now, Natasha Ohmsen. The story. The dangerous information detonating, tearing through the fabric of public life. He feels the adrenalin start to move in him. The lift doors shut. Yeah, this is what it’s about now. This. The guerre.

  6

  1

  He
leaves the office two hours earlier than usual. Mid-afternoon, half-empty train to Gatwick. A window seat on the plane. Weak tea, and a square of chocolate with a picture of Alpine pasture on the wrapper. And then it hits him. Floating over the world, the hard earth fathoms down through shrouds of mist and vapour, the thought hits him like a missile. Wham. This is it. This is all there is. There is nothing else.

  A silent explosion.

  He is still staring out the window.

  This is all there is.

  It’s not a joke. Life is not a joke.

  She is waiting for him at arrivals, holding up an iPad with his name on it, though she knows what he looks like from his picture on the website and approaches him, smiling, as he stands there facing the wall of drivers with their flimsy signs.

  ‘James?’ she says.

  The difference in height is significant.

  ‘You must be Paulette.’

  She has a scar – is it? – on her lower lip, a pale little lump, somewhat off centre. There is a handshake. ‘Welcome to Geneva,’ she says.

  And then, the motorway – on stilts, through tunnels. France. The low sun on one side of his face. Fresh evening light.

  She says, ‘So, tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes.’ He is watching something outside, something on the move in the green-gold light. Everywhere he looks, he sees money.

  ‘I’ve arranged for us to meet them at the site,’ she says.

  ‘Fine. Thank you.’ She is efficient, he knows that. She answers his emails promptly, with everything he needs.

  He had started speaking to her in French, as he followed her out of the arrivals lounge. She had answered in English, and for a minute there was a silly situation with each of them speaking the other’s language.

  An immaculate, turning tunnel – a sound like holding a shell to your ear.

  Then the long, late-summer dusk again.

  He says, in English, ‘What’s the weather going to be like? Tomorrow.’ It is important, will make a difference.

  ‘Like this,’ she says. ‘Perfect.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘I arranged it for you.’ It sounds slightly awkward, the way she says that.

  He smiles tiredly.

  Stops smiling.

  Shifts his feet in the footwell.

  ‘Well,’ he says, after too long a pause, ‘thank you.’