Falling Sideways

  She emerged from the WC, looking around for her panties, but he reached up to her thigh. “Wait, wait, no.” He caught her hand and drew her down, turned over, and put his face between her thighs, kissing the silken skin along the glowing flat plane that led to the dark plant of her delta. “So beautiful,” he whispered, and again, whimpered, “So beautiful! Angel!”

  She groaned, murmured his name. “Harald! Oh, Harald!”

  “Birgitte! Birgitte!”

  Yes!

  Midnight, and he pleaded with her to stay the night.

  “I can’t, darling,” she said.

  “Darling? That’s me?”

  She nodded, smiling, and he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face into the flesh of her neck and moaned, “Jesus Christ, I cannot let you go.”

  She laughed, happy, looked into his eyes a long moment, then kissed him deeply on the mouth.

  And then she was gone. He stood at the door, listening to her footsteps on the stair—pretty little feet!—descending, retreating from him, and finally the click of the door below, closing.

  He sat up alone by his window, gazing out over the rooftops of North Bridge, sipping cognac, thinking, I will marry her. I will. She will be mine forever. This time it will last. This is the woman of my life. To whom I will be faithful until I die. This time I will.

  “What happened with your marriage to Vita, Harald?” she had asked him as he lay on his back and she traced a fingertip through the hard creases of his abdomen.

  “Yeah,” he said, hands behind his head. “What happened?” And he tried to explain to her as the words he discovered in his mouth now explained it for himself: how he had married a woman he did not really love because she loved him. Or at least she wanted him. At the time he did not know what to do with his life, so he decided—not necessarily with full consciousness—it was better to be loved than to be lonely. Or at least better to be wanted than to be lonely.

  It took very few years for him to realize that this was not the case, and it took even fewer years for her to perceive that he didn’t love her. When she came to that realization, they already had two beautiful daughters, and her love turned cruel. To his surprise, battling to maintain his identity against her cruelty strengthened him, but at some point, he realized it was a battle to the death. She grew violent; finally he responded with violence; then there was nothing to do but file for divorce, which was the last cut to her pride.

  The pain he had caused her hurt him far more than her violence or her cruelty ever could. To compensate, he gave her everything he had won in the dozen years they were together, everything that his newfound strength had gained for him. Which made her hate him even more. So she took not only the two houses, selling one and keeping the other, and all his money, but their two little girls as well, his little angels, and now he was at her mercy when she would allow him to see them beyond the alternate weekends the court had granted.

  Well, he still had his strength, his passion. He knew he would never love again. “Women like that,” he said. Birgitte smiled quizzically at the statement. “Most women,” he modified. “For a while.” As a result, he had had several women passionately involved in trying to make him love them. When they realized it was a hopeless cause, they left him, right about the time he was ready for them to do so.

  “A regular Don Juan,” Birgitte said, not without admiration in her tone. Then, caressing his flat hard navel, she added more gently, “It sounds so terribly lonely.”

  He sipped his cognac. “Yes and no.”

  “What is yes, then, and what is no?”

  “Well, the yes is that now …” He looked into her eyes. “Goddammit, Birgitte, I …” He shook his head, shed a tear into his fingers while her fingers played in the hair at his neck.

  “How long can a man run from love?” he said. He touched her face. “You,” he said, and peered deeply into her eyes. “Are you the woman of my life?”

  22. Martin Kampman

  Kampman ordered his limousine at six forty-five P.M., early for him, but it was Thursday, and he had a standing appointment every third Thursday evening. He shoved his dinner plate to the corner of his desk, knife and fork assembled at five o’clock on the bone china, swallowed the last of the wine (one glass a day), and clicked off his desk lamp. The entire headquarters floor of the Tank was quiet. And that’s how it was to be on top. First in, last out. He stood there in the dark of his office, in the silence, and felt a sense of contentment, of power, rise within him and with it an agreeable tingle of anticipation. Slowly and evenly does it. Breathwaite and Jaeger were now in place. Marianne he would speak to in the morning. The others would follow.

  I am in charge. I make the decisions. I steer the ship. I take care of things.

  And with that, in the shadows around him, the pleasurable fear of what lay before him this evening.

  The black company Mercedes waited at the curb on East Farimags Street outside the Tank. Karl, the chauffeur, stood beside the rear fender, his jacket buttoned, tie knot flush to his throat. He touched his cap. “Evening, Mr. Director.”

  Kampman nodded. “Evening, Karl. Everything well? Family?”

  “Excellent, sir.”

  Then he was settled back in the black leather upholstery, glass partition between them. Silence. Karl would survive the cut. Breathwaite was in place—that was the biggest single savings, five and a half mil. More, actually, with the new agreement to let his son come in for two years. Family charity. Saved him a good quarter mil more. Jaeger would take over what they still needed of Breathwaite’s function—without a raise for now, later with a cut. Kampman was pleased with the day’s work. He was even more pleased to be free of the oversize, pompous oaf. Much too long in the tooth. No one should be allowed to stay more than ten years, a dozen at best. Jaeger would soon be up for review. If young Breathwaite was quick enough and less oafish than his father and didn’t smoke, he might be good to take over Jaeger’s functions at half the price. But the key now would be the secretaries. There were forty of them in the Tank, earning between a quarter mil and 350,000. And big envelopes of time during which they did nothing but hold meetings that in fact were sessions of the coffee club. Gossip sharing, but also sessions of strategy planning, on how to milk the Tank for more—on Tank time. Paid Tank time.

  Each of thirty of those secretaries was attached to one case handler, consultant, or department head, a completely unnecessary luxury in the age of the personal computer. With the implementation of role-efficient procedures, each of those thirty could serve three or four, and the other twenty, who were serving two or three, could be serving four or five. A minimum savings right there of thirty million or more. In the next round. And the next round after that to slice away unnecessary case handlers, consultants, and department heads. Then unnecessary departments. In five years’ time, the Tank would be sailing at racing trim, and Kampman would have earned his negotiated bonus before moving on.

  As Karl signaled left on Bernstorffs Way and turned onto Tonysvej, Kampman felt the glitter in his own eyes as he contemplated the remainder of the evening.

  “Have a good night, Mr. Director,” Karl said, holding the limo door for him.

  Kampman nodded. “Remember me to your family, Karl.”

  One side of the double garage door was up, and the space where he normally parked his silver BMW stood empty. He stepped into the space. Only Karen’s orange Toyota was there. He let himself in through the garage entry, which opened onto a vestibule that gave access to the kitchen. He stood there amid the row of family Wellingtons, rain capes, hats, and garden workclothes. There were voices from the kitchen. Annoying.

  Adam and the new au pair girl, Jytte, were seated at the kitchen table, a cozy-draped teapot between them.

  Kampman smiled at Jytte. “Overtime?”

  “Karen asked me to stay on and watch the twins. There was a meeting she forgot.”

  “Well, no need to keep you up so late. Adam can watch the twins, can’t you, son?”


  Adam’s mouth jerked into a smile. “Uh, sure, Dad, I could do that.”

  Jyttle looked skeptical. “I don’t know. Karen asked me.…”

  Kampman chuckled. “It’s okay. Believe me.” He turned the heat of his smile on her. “I can drop you off on the way to my meeting.”

  23. Adam Kampman

  Adam poured another cup of tea, spooned in sugar, and watched his father touch Jytte’s elbow to guide her out the kitchen door. It pissed him off, that touch. Fuck you, Dad, he thought. Keep your hands off of her.

  His father glanced back with a smile. His nose twitched. “Beer,” he said. Adam saw that Jytte was watching. Her eyes seemed to question him, to challenge him to defend himself.

  “I had a beer with a friend.”

  “Fine. Who?”

  “A fellow I met.”

  His father did not pursue the matter, but Adam could see he was not done with it. He didn’t want to tell him who it was. He didn’t want to tell him anything. Not until he had his thoughts better organized.

  “Tell your mom not to wait up. I’ll be beat when I get back. I’ll probably sleep in the basement room so I don’t disturb her.”

  Adam listened to the rustle of their movements through the boot room, heard Jytte say something, but could not make out the words. Sound of his father’s voice and the smacking of the door. Then the whir of the garage door on its automatic switch, the Toyota ignition, and the growl of its engine backing out the drive.

  Have a good day, son?

  Yeah, Dad. I killed my future.

  Good for you, sonny! What else did you do?

  Went to a bar in North Port.

  Great! Was it fun?

  It was fucking terrific! I drank beers with my new friend, Jes. And he introduced me to his friends there. And you know what he said when he introduced me? He said, “This is my friend Adam.” There was this tall skinny funny guy named Bjørn and a guy they call Zack who owns a big farm in Jutland, and he invited me to come stay there anytime for as long as I want. They really liked me, and I told them I quit school today and they cheered and bought me a Gammel Dansk, and we toasted my freedom. They invited me to come back again tomorrow, and you know what else? I felt so good when I got home that I had this great conversation with Jytte, and I told her all about everything, and she listened to all of it, and I could see in her eyes and in her smile that she liked me and that she thought it all sounded exciting, and you know what else? She’s going to meet me in North Port tomorrow, and she’s coming with me to the North Bodega.

  She’s coming with me.

  So you see, Dad: My new future is starting already. I was right. You were wrong. And Jes told me about what you do for a living. You fire people. How come I never knew that before, Dad? You keep it a secret? Ashamed, maybe? ’Cause I sure am.

  The tea was lukewarm, but it quenched the arid thirst of his mouth left there by the beers and schnapps. He wondered if there was any beer in the house. Sometimes when his mother and father had dinner guests, after the coffee, cold drinks would be served and cold bottles of beer. Maybe there were some down in the basement refrigerator, but there was a padlock on that. Where did he hide the key? If Adam could find it, he could get Jes to make a copy for him.

  The thought of Jes made him smile, remembering how at the bar Zack had said, “Speak to us of the sayings of Jalâl, O wise Jes.”

  And Jes got them all laughing. He got this expression on his face that made him look foreign and raised one hand like some kind of Arab priest or something and said, “Those of whom God has made apes and swine and slaves of seduction, theirs is indeed an evil state.” And, “The life of this world is nothing but play and sport.”

  “Heard,” little muscular Zack shouted in Danish. “Heard!” And he lifted his beer and all of them were cracking up with a high giggling laughter that made Adam feel a certainty he had not known since he was a child, perhaps had never known before.

  “Adam?”

  The twins stood at the kitchen door in their white nightdresses, barefoot, with big shy hopeful eyes. “Will you read to us?”

  The sight of them filled him with a sadness he did not understand. Poor kids, he thought. Poor sweet little kids. “Sure,” he said. “Sure I will.” And he followed them up the stairs to their room.

  24. Martin Kampman

  Kampman looked from the wheel to the girl as he pulled out onto Tonysvej. “You ought to get yourself a bicycle,” he said.

  “I have one. My parents are sending it from Tønder.” She sat far from him, pressed up against the door.

  He glanced at her with a smile. “Are you afraid of me?”

  “No.”

  He chuckled, lifting and dropping his shoulders rhythmically. “Good.” He could feel himself relaxing already in the thought of where he was headed. “What do you think of me?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  Kampman laughed again. “See? You are afraid of me. You’re afraid to tell me what you think of me.”

  “Being polite is not the same as being afraid.”

  Another laugh barked from his throat, and suddenly he was interested in what might be concealed behind her huffy face. She was warm to everyone in the house except him. To him she was only polite, and he could sense she disliked him. Or perhaps she was just afraid of men in general. Maybe her father had given her a hard time. He glanced at the long slim line of her leg, crossed over the other, then up at her breasts, which looked like half oranges pressing against her aquamarine T-shirt. She pulled the lapels of her jacket together and zipped it up, and he turned to her face with a smile on his lips aimed to tell her he could see her thoughts and acknowledging that she had interpreted his correctly.

  “Are you a slave to good manners, then?”

  “It’s the way we are. But if someone is impolite or naughty to me, he’ll get to know it pretty fast.”

  “Naughty? I like that.” He stopped for a light at Trianglen, then turned up East Bridge Street, hooked right on Århus. “Just for fun, try just once to take off the mask of your good manners. Just like that. Like removing a hat. And tell me what you think of me. Open and free. I won’t hold it against you. On the contrary.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I think you’re not very nice.”

  This was good. “And why should I be nice?”

  “It’s nice to be nice.”

  He turned left at the foot of Århus Street. “Not for me it’s not. If I went around being nice all day, the company I’m responsible for would go right down the slippery slope. I’m not paid to be nice. I’m paid to run an organization. Everyone else is free to go around being nice. My job is to take care of things.”

  They were on Strandboulevarden now.

  “It’s just up there,” she said, “where the red mailbox is on the wall by the tall windows. That’s my room right there.”

  He pulled in along the curb. “Nice place,” he said. “One of those high-ceilinged places with fancy plaster moldings. Rent-controlled.”

  “I just have a room.”

  “What do you give for it?”

  “Isn’t that a personal question?”

  “Is your room furnished?”

  “Yes,” she said with annoyance. “Why?”

  “Because I bet you’re paying two thirds of the rent on that whole apartment. If your room is furnished, the law allows that. So you get to live in one fifth of the place and pay two thirds of the rent. That’s not very nice, either, is it?” He grinned and leaned across to open the door for her, being careful not to touch her.

  “Thanks for the ride,” she snapped.

  “You should thank me for the lesson. Think about it.”

  He watched her let herself into the front door of the building, saw the lobby light come on, then a few moments later the light in the first window to the right of the front door on the ground floor—just as she had said, right alongside the mailbox. Funny she would have told him that. Volunteer information. To someone who was
not nice. He could see the outline of her body behind the long-curtained window. One of the vent windows up top was open. Typical Jutland girl. Sleeps in a cold room. Fresh.

  Clutching, he threw the Toyota into gear and pulled out.

  He parked up near the Teachers College, around from the Radiometer offices, and sat behind the wheel, thinking. He was excited. The girl had excited him. He would have to talk to Karen about her, about letting her go. Are you certain she’s suitable? She seems to be getting a little too friendly with Adam. He chuckled mirthlessly, lifting and dropping his shoulders.

  The dashboard clock said eight. He would be late. The thought brought a bemused smile to his lips. He raised his haunch to get his billfold from the hip pocket of his runners, removed two thousand-crown notes and three hundred-crown notes, which he folded and buttoned into the inner pocket of his jacket. Then he chucked the billfold and his omega wristwatch into the glove compartment and locked it. He zipped his key ring into the hidden collar pocket inside his jacket, pulled his halfpenny running cap low on his forehead, and got out of the car.

  Through the dark chill autumn evening, alongside Emdrup Pond he jogged, inhaling the crisp, mulchy air as anticipation built in his blood, in his lungs. He was trembling as he came out into the light of the streetlamps on Emdrup Way, past a row of old yellow-brick apartment houses to a newer building, red brick, clean, well lighted.

  He rang, spoke into the two-way, was buzzed in, crossed the bright lobby, and rode the elevator to the third floor, where he pressed the bell on an unmarked door. He was admitted by a smiling middle-aged woman, dressed more like a receptionist than the receptionist at the Tank—primly middle-class, though with a touch of silk-and-wool British elegance. He liked that. It excited him. He already had two of the five notes folded in his palm, two of the hundreds, and he passed them to her.