Falling Sideways (8 page)
“Anyone sees a psychologist should have his head examined.”
“Fred!”
“That was ironic, dear.”
“Well, don’t
be
ironic about such things.”
“Anyway,” said Jaeger, and wondered if he had any chance in hell of salvaging the humorous twist that had been his point in the first place. “This guy invited me home to meet his family. We really hit it off, and he was helping me, but he invited me home and it turned out he lived in one of those god-awful rows of ten-story shoebox apartment complexes in Rødovre. I had to take the train out to Glostrup, and he met me at the station and led me across Rødovrevej. Jesus, their main street was a bloody highway with a metal fence in the middle of it. He brought me up to his apartment, and honest to God … He was always reminding me to be frank with myself about what I felt about things, and when I saw the, the
joint
he lived in, I was like, frankly, how can you take psychological advice from a guy who lives like this?”
Kis made a face at him. “Snob!” To Breathwaite, she said, “That was Harald’s response to my tale of a happy childhood in Rødovre!”
“You
told
him that!”
“What a couple of snobs!”
“Time for some elegant whiskey,” said Breathwaite.
“Not for me, thanks,” Kis said. “Harald, will you stay for dinner?”
“Thanks, no, Kirsten, it’s nice of you to ask, but I have an appointment.”
“And we all know about Harald’s appointments,” Breathwaite said.
Jaeger laughed and let him believe it. At least he had that to envy.
It was too chilly for the terrace, so they sat in the library and Breathwaite shut the sliding panel door. There were two bottles of malt on an expensive-looking table of dark wood between two red earflap chairs. “Did you want coffee, too?” Breathwaite asked. Jaeger smiled at the whiskey bottles and shook his head.
“This one is a prize,” Breathwaite said, and measured out a dram for each of them into crystal rock glasses.
Jaeger looked around for an ice bucket. “Got any ice?”
Breathwaite smirked. “If you want ice, I’ll give you a blended. This whiskey is thirty years old. You want it neat. With just a drop of distilled aqua.” He applied water from a glass beaker. “Listen, you know how to taste whiskey?”
“Yeah, with my tongue.”
“Do yourself a favor, try it my way just this once. First, nose it pretty good, let your nostrils sort through the strands of aroma. With this one you can expect a mix of nuts and sweaty socks …”
“That’s good?”
“That’s very good. Then take a little bite of it onto your tongue, right in the center of the tongue, hold it on the tongue by curling the sides up. Then let it roll over the sides, and when all your taste buds are getting a jolt, breathe in, just a bit. Whoa, whoa, don’t inhale it! Just sip a little air into the chamber of your mouth and feel how it—”
“Whoa!” said Jaeger. “Combustion!”
“Right. Now let the whiskey roll slowly down your throat.”
Jaeger sat back in his chair. “Jesus! I’m converted.”
“Right? Good?”
“Incredible.”
They tasted again, and Jaeger closed his eyes with pleasure. “I always thought all that stuff was pure snobbery. It really matters.”
“You bet it matters, buddy,” Breathwaite said, and reached across to a humidor and flipped up the lid. “Help yourself, Harald.”
“Jesus, are you going to offer me a job, or ask me for a loan, or what?”
“Suspicious little fucker, aren’t you, Harry?”
They prepared their cigars in silence. It occurred to Jaeger as he inhaled the aroma of the Cuban tobacco that for what this would have cost him he could have bought a liter, maybe two liters, of his usual Netto-blended whiskey, guaranteed not fewer than three years old, and have enough left over for three Flora Danica stogies if he absolutely felt like a smoke. But on the other hand, this wasn’t costing him anything. Yet.
Breathwaite torched him with a burning strip of cedar, and Jaeger filled his mouth with smoke and watched it drift up along the shelves of books, settle in a wispy blue ceiling halfway up. “How’re the kids and grandkids?” he asked.
Breathwaite shrugged. “The older kids are all set in their right-centrist rut. Young Jes is having trouble getting started.”
“He’s at Roskilde University Center, right?”
“In principle.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means in fact he is working at a Pakistani key-and-heel bar while he decides whether or not he wants to go further than a bachelor’s.”
Jaeger tasted the whiskey again. The inhalation process made him feel as though the whole top of his body were tasting it. As much as he was enjoying the drink and the smoke, he could smell depression hanging in the air of the elegant room and began trying to think of a graceful exit before he got depressed himself. He wondered if Breathwaite knew that he knew what had happened to him this morning.
“You get called in to Kampman after the meeting this morning?” Breathwaite asked him.
“No.” A little bubble of fear popped in Jaeger’s belly. Who knew what negotiations might have been made since the last news he heard? What tables might have been turned? “Called in for what?” he asked, his throat fumbling a note.
“To get the sack.”
Instantly Jaeger saw Amalie’s and Elisabeth’s sweet young faces in his mind, thought what might happen if he was going to get fired after all. Vita would have help from her father, but that was not the same. The thought of not being the one to provide for his little girls, of Vita being able to treat him as a father who did not provide for his daughters, opened a window onto the worst dread he could imagine, and he realized suddenly that truly he was nothing. All he had left in the world was his position at the Tank, and suddenly he understood that he had been allowing himself not to consider how vulnerable that might be,
was
. Had Breathwaite traded him off, somehow got his own back by selling him out? What the fuck could he do? He needed a smoke screen to hide his terror but didn’t dare raise the cigar to his teeth for fear his hand might tremble and give him away. He went for the whiskey instead, lowering his face to it so he didn’t have to lift the glass so high, and drained it, forgetting all the tasting techniques. It helped anyway, but not much. He thought of asking whether Breathwaite was on a mission for Kampman, but some instinct told him to keep his mouth shut.
“That’s what I got,” Breathwaite said.
“No!” Jaeger hoped to hell the grin in his heart did not shine through the mask of shock and sympathy. Breathwaite nodded, smiling wryly. Did he see?
“That’s right. Kampman is a fox.” Breathwaite sucked at his cigar, but it was cold. “He’s setting up a whole machine. Everyone’s going to take a course in how to lower the ax. All department heads. They’re going to offer psychological counseling, reemployment counseling, and a bag of money.”
The fear was crawling down into Jaeger’s testicles now. There was only one question in his mind, and he didn’t dare ask it, so instead he asked with appropriate shock, “You’re getting fired?!” Hoping to Christ Breathwaite did not already know that he knew.
Breathwaite put a finger to his lips, got up to check that the sliding door was shut tight. “I don’t want to upset Kis unnecessarily. No, I’m quitting.”
Was this bullshit? “I don’t understand.”
“As soon as we agree on what I get, I quit.”
“A golden handshake.”
“Golden shower is more like it. Kampman is a fox. Everyone knew this was coming, but when he didn’t do anything about it, he created the illusion that everything was fine, that there was some kind of alternate plan. Well, everything
was
fine. From Kampman’s viewpoint. Now he has an excuse to hack away all the deadwood before he rebuilds …”
“But
you
…?”
“
I
am an idiot. He’s got my whole network. It never occurred to me to wonder why he’s taken such a keen interest in my work for the past couple of years. He gave me everything I asked him for, so I gave him everything he asked me for. Now he’s got it all, and I’m superfluous. Seven years before my time.”
“But your contract …”
“Verbal. I made a verbal contract five years ago with Jørgen Fastholm. We had such a good relationship that I got lazy. Jørgen was not an easy guy—a CEO can’t be—but he always kept his word, and he didn’t pull this kind of crap on you.”
“But the Academic Union would—”
“Not a member. Like I said, I’m an idiot.” Breathwaite turned his eyes on Jaeger, who could see he wanted something, but Jaeger’s own need was stronger. “Who, who else, is—”
“You’re safe.”
“I’m safe?”
Breathwaite nodded. “You’re just going to have to work a little harder. You’ll be taking over a good piece of what I do. The rest will be farmed out.” He relit his robusto, puffing vigorously, cheeks hollowing with the effort. “Kampman asked me whether you were strong enough to do the job.”
“He did?” Despite himself, Jaeger whispered again, “He did?”
Breathwaite nodded. “I vouched for you from the start, and I’ll do it to the bitter end.”
Sweat was oozing down Jaeger’s back. Why was Breathwaite telling him this? Could he believe it? He had to. He did. Was it a trick? A strategy? Jaeger knew that he was not a strategic thinker, he knew that about himself. He ran on instinct and was meticulous about not being a threat to those who could hurt him. But why would Breathwaite tell him all this?
“You’re empty,” Breathwaite said. Jaeger heard it as an accusation and raised his eyes, startled, but Breathwaite reached for the thirty-year-old, refurbished Jaeger’s glass, then his own. “So what do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“You must be thinking something.”
Jaeger shook his head. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I’ve got a favor to ask.”
“Anything,” Jaeger blurted. “Anything I can. You always stood up for me. Without you, I wouldn’t be here.” Breathwaite had chaired the hiring committee fourteen years before that selected Jaeger out of a slush pile of over one hundred applications for his job. And had saved his arse more than once since. He would do whatever he could for Breathwaite. Within reason.
“You’re going to need some part-time help. Someone with English. To help with some of the international portfolios. Someone who can write perfect English and who can translate and who knows Denmark and Danish, too.”
“You don’t mean … You mean
you
want to work for me?”
Breathwaite’s gaze went chill. Jaeger saw a brief flash of disdain—or did he imagine it?—before the man’s mouth opened in laughter. “No! No no no. I’m done. I would appreciate your telling Kampman you need some part-time help and suggesting, very strongly suggesting, my son for the job. My youngest. Jes. Which I will already have suggested.”
Dome of the Rock Key & Heel Bar
With true discipline, the routine and its rhythm are internalized. Into the body. At 4:59 A.M., Kampman opened his eyes. He lay neatly on his back on his side of the bed. His right hand reached swiftly to the night table and lifted the clock down before his eyes: 4:59. He smiled at the green luminous ciphers, which confirmed what he already knew and stopped the alarm an instant before it sounded.
His aim was one day to so perfectly incorporate time into his bloodstream and nervous system that he could live without a clock. Simply know the time and trust that knowledge. Like the primitives. Only this would be the other end of the evolutionary cycle. Primitive understanding refined in modern managerial consciousness.
After folding back his side of the eiderdown, he rose smoothly in the dark room, glanced at Karen asleep in a heap across the mattress, tangle of tight yellow curls showing against the pillow, lit by a shaft of pale light from the driveway lamppost. The swell of the bedclothes over her hip stirred him; quickly he stepped into his slippers and crossed the room quietly, down to the foyer toilet, where he wouldn’t wake anyone, and watched the rod deflate as he leaked quietly against the porcelain. Piss hard-on. The urges sank away with it.
In the kitchen he did jumping jacks before the open back-garden door, watching morning mist lift off the grass, cool October air sweet in his nostrils. He touched his toes, touched the floor, flat-handed the linoleum, did side bends, back bends, squats on toes, and squats on flat feet until a light sweat filmed his flesh. Then he poured and drank seven centiliters of prune juice and climbed down the stairs to the basement bathroom.
Watching the calm of his blue eyes in the mirror, he brushed his teeth, shaved his lean jowls. Just before the prune juice kicked in, he stepped on the electronic scale. It was his custom to weigh himself, naked, before
and
after shitting each morning. Sometimes as much as a half-kilo difference. He looked before he flushed to read the day’s augury in what he had dropped. Two large brown nuggets. Neat. Internal harmony. Promised a good day. He cleaned himself meticulously with wet serviettes and relegated his produce to the plumbing system.
At five fifty A.M., in luminescent Helly Hansen running suit and self-illuminating Nikes, a purple-and-gold terry-cloth sweatband around his head (colors of the Tank logo), without knocking first, he briskly opened the door to his son’s room and entered swiftly, clicking on the overhead light.
“Adam. Y’wake?”
Silence. Scan the covers for telltale bulges. “Adam?”
“Yeah, Dad, thanks.”
Forced politeness. Self-control. It annoyed Kampman a little that the boy’s sleepy smile seemed exaggerated, effusive. And it annoyed him a little more that he didn’t rise with alacrity, that he was still in bed.
Hands beneath the covers.
Drop it, son!
It annoyed him that he had learned it was necessary to budget five minutes of a tight morning schedule for this reveille process. And it also annoyed him that these things annoyed him, for he wanted very much to respect his son, his firstborn by a dozen years, who had a lot of potential. If he would just get his butt in gear. He told the boy that from time to time. Not too often, but at certain moments when he judged it might have an effect.