Bad Intentions (10 page)

A
XEL FRIMANN HAD
his own office in the advertising agency Repeat, and he had personally designed its elegant interior. That was how he saw himself: he had style and class—and most people agreed with him. This was Axel Frimann's kingdom. In here he ruled supreme, in here he was creative and inspired, in here he would seduce people through the power of advertising, and he was an expert. He understood its psychology and mechanisms. He knew the power of humor and the importance of laughter, which made people open up, allowing the message to pour in, slip past every barrier. He was doodling on a notepad when one of his colleagues entered.

"It looks like we're getting the new razor account," he said. "It's made in Norway. It's called Hellrazor. Cool name, don't you think?"

He waved a sheet of paper. "They hope to force Gillette out of the Norwegian market, no less, and that's why they've hired us. So you know what you're up against. And they don't want us replicating an old pompous approach. We've got to come up with something completely new."

"Hellrazor?" Axel enthused. "The razor from hell. Those guys have a sense of humor, we can work with that."

He snatched the sheet. He studied the picture and the text, the razor, its features and hyped-up superiority.

"Let me guess," he said. "Hellrazor shaves closer than any other razor?"

His colleague shrugged. "I presume so. After all, it's brand new."

Axel shook his head and smiled. "But, really, how much closer can they shave?"

His colleague gave him a baffled look. "I suppose they're using new and better materials," he said. "Who cares? All we've got to do is make sure it sells, and better than Gillette, if possible."

"Then this is my idea," Axel said, "to get the message across once and for all."

He reclined in his chair and took a deep breath.

"A couple is asleep in bed. Black silk bed linen, white walls and curtains. Sun beaming through the window. Are you listening?"

"Yes," his colleague said.

"The alarm clock goes off, the man wakes up and embraces his beloved. He is unshaven, so we add a horrible rasping sound effect—sandpaper on sandpaper, for example. The woman pushes him away and goes into the bathroom. He follows her. The bathroom," he added, "has black tiles and recessed lighting. White china suite from Porsgrund and a lily in a wall-mounted vase. The man puts on a dressing gown and stands in front of the mirror. He picks up the razor while she brushes her teeth."

Axel Frimann paused.

"And then?" his colleague said. "What happens?"

"He's finished shaving. He goes to her for another hug. After all, he's just shaved. But above the collar of his dressing gown all we see is his skull."

"Eh?"

"The razor has gone right to the bone," Axel said. "All we see is his smooth, white skull. And then a voiceover at the end: 'Hellrazor. You'll never have a closer shave.'"

"Pull the other one," his colleague responded. "It's got bells on."

"I'm deadly serious," Axel Frimann said. "That kind of ad would match the name, and we're talking about a damn close shave, aren't we? So we'll give them a skeleton. We've got to address a younger, trendier market, and humor is very important."

His colleague disappeared, slamming the door behind him. Ten seconds later he opened it again and looked in. "That's not an ad," he said. "It's a mockery." He disappeared for the second time. Axel, however, was delighted with the idea. An ad like this would get everyone talking because it was outrageous, daring and witty. It would win awards. He chewed his pen. The violent burst of creativity had left him, he was alone and it grew silent around him. The silence made him feel like he was floating. He was overcome by the urge to bark orders, slam his fist on the table, bang on a door to show he was still here and still in charge. Something had started to trouble his otherwise tightly controlled universe: a tiny prickle when someone knocked on the door, a pounding heart whenever the telephone rang. A feeling that someone was following him when he walked down the street, a new awareness of sounds and footsteps, at night thoughts of detectives in an office discussing whether Jon really killed himself. Axel Frimann was restless. The light from the window irritated him, and then the silence was broken by a series of noises from the big building, doors slamming, telephones ringing, someone laughing—what the hell were they laughing at?

His world was cracking up, flaking like dry paint. He experienced a heightened sensitivity everywhere as if life, which had so far never touched him, was suddenly sticking needles into his body. He raised his hands and studied them closely: the pale skin on his palms, the fine lines. Many of the lines were broken, weren't they? He leaned forward and rested his head on the desk, pressing his cheek against the warm wood. He picked up the scent of oak and furniture oil. I'm sitting here, Axel Frimann thought, and I'm alive. How does the body know when the end has come? Who decides when the heart beats for the last time, is there a code deep inside us, a limited amount of energy which we can consume, as when you wind up a toy?

Axel Frimann was not used to contemplating death. It made him edgy. His heartbeat felt a little irregular, he thought, his forehead clammy. He was also aware of a slight toothache, a molar in his lower jaw, only mild pain, though, of no consequence. He straightened up in his chair. Baffled, he stroked his chin. Yes, intermittent pain as though a tiny creature lived inside his tooth. He imagined a tadpole wiggling, not constantly, but at regular intervals. It became a more niggling pain, or rather it was like a faint vibration at the root of the tooth. He bent over his papers to continue his work, trying to focus on Hellrazor. He was still adamant that his skeleton in a dressing gown concept would work. But soon the niggling turned into more persistent pain. Axel Frimann felt a surge of irritation. He did not allow unexpected things to happen. Either I'll have to go home, he thought, or I need to take some painkillers. This is damn annoying.

He left his office and went outside, where his secretary, Ella, was sitting in front of her computer.

"Do you have some paracetamol?" Axel asked.

She gave Axel a warm smile and picked up her handbag. She rummaged in it for a moment. He could hear clattering from its depths.

"Sorry, I'm afraid not. Try Margaret."

Axel plodded down the corridor. His normally broad shoulders were slumped. He knocked on Margaret's door before entering. She was standing by the photocopier. Steam was coming from a mug of coffee on her desk.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"I've got toothache," Axel explained. "Do you have some paracetamol? Or something stronger?"

"Hang on, I'll check," she said and sashayed over to her desk. She had no chance with Axel, but she had never stopped hoping, and her bottom was undeniably her best asset. She pulled out a drawer and searched among pens and paper. She dumped a pile of stationery on the table, a pair of scissors, a glue stick, sticky tape and a box of paper clips.

"I usually have some," she said, "but I've run out. Ask Jorgen. Jorgen suffers from migraines. He's bound to have an emergency supply."

Axel Frimann knocked on Jorgen's door.

"Jesus Christ, what's wrong with you?"

Axel slumped in a chair. He pressed his hand to his cheek and gave him a suffering look.

"Something's wrong with my jaw," he said. "I've got this stabbing pain. I think it's an infected root, I can feel it all the way down my jaw. Do you have some paracetamol?"

But he left Jorgen's office empty-handed too. Axel had to go back. He shuffled down the corridors, opening one door after another, pleading his case like a beggar. There was the guy in the basement office, he remembered, who delivered the mail. Didn't he have rheumatism? And then there was Randi in the canteen, she was over sixty and must be afflicted by a range of ailments, wear and tear, he thought, pain in her neck and shoulders. The reception desk on the ground floor was staffed by a thin girl who always looked very pale. Her face was a mesh of green veins and
her hands always trembled. Anemic, he thought, and anorexic. Stress and possibly headaches. He wandered down the corridors, knocking on door after door, but everyone shook their head regretfully.

No one could put Axel out of his misery.

D
EAR DIARY
,

I've started looking at people as if seeing them for the first time. When I go out for a walk in the hospital park, I notice that they are lit differently. It's something to do with the way the sun hits them, it makes their faces glow. That guy on the bicycle, for example, who passed me this mornin
g,
he would never have acted as carelessly as I did. He would have taken responsibility and done the right thing. I could see it in his eyes and in the way he held his head. Because he knows he is worth somethin
g,
he knows that he is a good person. In his life there are clear rules which he always follows. The old lady holding the granny trolley who came out of the shop, she is bound to be the sort who helps insects to their freedom. And the shop assistant in the baker's where I bought rolls yesterday, the girl with the round cheeks, she is goodness itself. I used to be one of them. Once I belonged to this exclusive group of people with a clear conscience. It's hard to look people in the eye. My voice has lost its power. I'm waiting for the axe to fall, and I
know it will. How quickly it can change, the life we think has been marked out for us. We start the journey with good intentions, the gift our parents bequeathed us. And then, someone snaps their fingers and we find ourselves sidetracked; we end up in a foreign country. Suddenly we think differently about everythin
g,
we are in alien territory and other rules apply there. I no longer recognize my own life. I have lost my way, and the thing that happened is not fading away, either. I'm almost too scared to open a newspaper or switch on the radio because of what they might say and how much they will have found out. It's a miracle that I still walk around a free man.

T
HE DENTIST DIAGNOSED
that Axel had an infected wisdom tooth. The tooth was on the left side of his mouth.

"From the outside everything looks fine," the dentist said, "but it's rotten to the core. It's often the way," he joked.

He held the X-ray up to the light and pointed.

"I've never seen the like, though," he said. "It's aggressive. I'll need to open it up and clean it out. And I'm afraid you'll have to brace yourself for a certain amount of discomfort."

Axel's cheeks were flushed. He was furious because he had been forced to submit to another man, another man's breath and another man's hands. He was anesthetized and the whole of his lower jaw felt numb, and he could not feel his tongue. I'll be drooling like an idiot all day, he thought. After the treatment he was given some painkillers, but they only dulled the ache slightly. He drove home, opened a bottle of Gran Feudo, collapsed on his sofa and poured himself a glass of wine, which he gulped
down. The roots of his teeth were throbbing, sending waves of pain to his head; violent, burning spasms which took his breath away. He had heard that such infections could spread and attack the whole jaw, and for a moment he panicked. He imagined that his chin would crumble, that it could never be repaired, and that he, Axel Frimann of the fine profile, would end up a chinless freak. He massaged his jaw and felt very sorry for himself. The pain, which originated in the roots of his teeth, found its way to the top of his head, where it threatened his pride. Axel Frimann was a wronged man. Something he could not control had disregarded his excellence and decided to act as it pleased. And this something cared nothing for his exalted position but tormented him as though he was just anyone.

The doorbell rang. He knew it would be Reilly.

"What are you on this time?" Axel asked when he saw his swimmy eyes.

"Georgia Home Boy," Reilly said.

"And what is that?"

"GHB. Or Salty Water," Reilly said. "Or Jib. Known and loved by all. What's up?"

He stepped inside.

Axel wanted to say that he had a toothache. However, he started telling Reilly a different story, and he didn't understand why. He wasn't in the habit of confiding in anyone. People who opened up were like babies spewing milk. But it was as if the pain unlocked something he would normally have kept quiet about. There was an ache inside him that he had ignored for a long time.

"I went to the hospital yesterday," he said. "To see my dad."

Reilly gave him a look of surprise. Axel never spoke about his father. Perhaps he was ashamed of him or perhaps his illness was too hard for him to deal with. In just a few seconds he had been robbed of his father, a handsome man, who had suddenly collapsed in a ditch. He had lain in a hospital bed ever since, pale and shapeless like sausage meat.

"I'll tell you what happened," Axel said, "so that you know. We were walking down the road, my dad and I. Four years ago. It was summer. I had come to visit them at their holiday cottage. We had gone to buy some eggs from a nearby farm. My mom needed them for baking. Idyllic, don't you think? Father and son on a country road on a warm, sunny day. He was fifty-three years old. Fifty-three, Reilly. He was a good-looking man, he was still in great shape and everything. You remember that, don't you, that he was a good-looking man?"

Reilly nodded. He had splayed his feet to keep his balance. His head was spinning and he would have preferred to sit down, but he didn't dare move.

"It was a warm afternoon," Axel said. "I remember a few details. Insects. Stinging nettles by the roadside. An awful lot of stinging nettles. They have their own special smell, by the way, did you know that? You can make soup from them, but I can't imagine it tastes very good."

Reilly was unsure where this was going. Not that the business with Axel's father was a secret; everyone knew he was a goner, that he would never walk again. But Axel was so pale and his eyes so black, as though he might attack the first person he saw. And I would be the first person, Reilly thought. He retreated a step, just to be on the safe side.