Amsterdam

by Ian Mcewan

  “Molly!” Clive managed to croak. “I’m sorry I can’t get up …”

  “Poor Clive.”

  “I’m so tired …”

  She put a cool hand to his forehead. “Darling, you’re a genius. The symphony is pure magic.”

  “You were at the rehearsal? I didn’t see you.”

  “You were too busy and grand to notice me. Look, I’ve brought someone to meet you.”

  Clive had met most of Molly’s lovers in his time, but he couldn’t quite place this one.

  Socially adept as always, Molly leaned over and murmured in Clive’s ear.

  “You’ve met him before. It’s Paul Lanark.”

  “Of course it is. I didn’t recognize him with the beard.”

  “The thing is, Clivey-poo, he wants your signature, but he’s too shy to ask.”

  Clive was determined to make everything all right for Molly and put Lanark at his ease.

  “No, no. I don’t mind at all.”

  “I’d be terribly grateful,” Lanark said as he pushed pen and paper toward him.

  “Honestly, you shouldn’t feel embarrassed to ask.” Clive scrawled his name.

  “And here too, please, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “It’s no bother at all, really it isn’t.”

  The effort of writing was almost too much and he had to lie back. Molly moved in closer again.

  “Darling, I’m going to give you one little telling-off, then I’ll never mention it again. But you know, I really needed your help that day in the Lake District.”

  “Oh God! I didn’t realize it was you, Molly.”

  “You always put your work first, and perhaps that’s right.”

  “Yes. No. I mean, if I’d known it was you, I’d’ve shown that thin-faced fellow a thing or two.”

  “Of course you would.” She put her hand on his wrist and shone a little torch into his eyes. What a woman!

  “My arm’s so hot,” Clive whispered.

  “Poor Clive. That’s why I’m rolling your sleeve up, silly. Now, Paul wants to show you what he really thinks of your work by sticking a huge needle in your arm.”

  The music critic did exactly that, and it hurt. Some praise did. But one thing Clive had learned over a lifetime was how to accept a compliment.

  “Well, thanks a lot,” he yodeled through a whimper. “You’re too kind. I don’t make much claim for it myself, but anyway, I’m glad you like it, really, thanks awfully …”

  From the perspective of the Dutch doctor and nurse, the composer lifted his head and, before closing his eyes, seemed to attempt, from his pillow, the most modest of bows.

  v

  For the first time in the day, Vernon found himself alone. His plan was simple. He quietly closed the door to the outer office, kicked off his shoes, switched off his phone, swept the papers and books from his desk, and lay on it. There were still five minutes before morning conference and there was no harm in snatching a quick snooze. He had done it before, and it must be in the paper’s interests to have him in top form. As he settled, he had an image of himself as a massive statue dominating the lobby of Judge House, a great reclining figure hewn from granite: Vernon Halliday, man of action, editor. At rest. But only temporarily, because conference was due to start and already—dammit—people were wandering in. He should have told Jean to keep them out. He loved the stories told in pubs at lunchtimes of the editors of old: the great V. T. Halliday, you know, of Pategate fame, who used to conduct his morning conferences lying on his desk. They had to pretend not to notice. No one dared say a thing. Shoeless. These days they’re all bland little men, jumped-up accountants. Or women in black trouser suits. A large gin and tonic, did you say? V. T., of course, did that famous front page. Pushed all the copy and let the picture tell the story. That was when newspapers really mattered.

  Shall we begin? They were all here. Frank Dibben, and standing next to him—pleasant surprise—Molly Lane. It was a matter of principle with Vernon not to confuse his personal and professional lives, so he gave her no more than a businesslike nod. Beautiful woman, though. Smart idea of hers, to go blond. And smart idea of his to take her on. Strictly on the basis of her brilliant work for Paris Vogue. The great M. L. Lane. Never tidied her apartment. Never washed a dish.

  Without even propping his head on his elbow, Vernon started in on the postmortem. Somehow a pillow had appeared under his head. This one would please the grammarians. He had in mind a piece written by Dibben.

  “I’ve said this before,” he said. “I’ll say it again. A panacea can’t be used for one particular illness. It’s a universal remedy. A panacea for cancer doesn’t make sense.”

  Frank Dibben had the gall to come right over to Vernon. “I happen to disagree,” the deputy foreign editor said. “Cancer can take many forms. A panacea for cancer is perfectly good idiomatic use.”

  Frank had the advantage of height, but Vernon remained supine on his desk to demonstrate that he was not intimidated.

  “I don’t wish to see it again in my newspaper,” he said calmly.

  “But that’s not my main point,” Frank said. “I’d like you to sign my expenses.” He had a sheet of paper in his hand, and a pen.

  The great F. S. Dibben. Raised his expenses to an art form.

  It was an outrageous request. In conference! Rather than stoop to argue, Vernon pressed on. This also was for Frank, from the same piece.

  “This is 1996, not 1896. If you mean deny, don’t write gainsay.”

  It was a matter of some disappointment to Vernon that Molly should approach now to plead Dibben’s case. But of course! Molly and Frank. He should have guessed. She was plucking at Vernon’s shirtsleeve, she was using her personal connection with the editor to promote the interests of her current lover. She was bending over to whisper in Vernon’s ear.

  “Darling, he’s owed. We need the money. We’re setting up together in this sweet little place on the rue de Seine …”

  She truly was a beautiful woman, and he had never been able to resist her, not since she had taught him how to roast porcini.

  “All right. Quickly. But we must get on.”

  “In two places,” Frank said. “Top and bottom.”

  Vernon wrote “V. T. Halliday, editor” twice, and it seemed to take him half an hour. When at last he had done, he continued with his remarks. Molly was rolling up his shirtsleeve, but to ask her why would have been yet another distraction. Dibben too was still hanging around Vernon’s desk. He couldn’t be bothered with either of them just now. He had too much on his mind. His heart raced as he found a higher oracular style.

  “Turning to the Middle East. This paper is well known for its pro-Arab line. We shall, however, be fearless in condemning, um, atrocities on both sides …”

  Vernon would never tell anyone about the scorching pain in his upper arm, and that he had just begun to grasp, though feebly, where he really was and what must have been in his champagne and who these visitors were.

  But he did interrupt his speech and fall silent for a while, and then at last murmured reverentially, “It’s a spoiler.”

  vi

  That week the prime minister decided on a cabinet reshuffle, and it was generally reckoned that despite the tide of public opinion running in Garmony’s favor, it was the Judge’s photograph that did for him. Within a day the ex—foreign secretary discovered, in the corridors of party headquarters and down among the backbenchers, that there was little appetite now for his November challenge; in the country at large the politics of emotion may have bestowed forgiveness, or at least tolerance, but politicians do not favor such vulnerability in a would-be leader. His fate was the very obscurity the editor of the Judge had wished on him. Julian Garmony was therefore able to make his way to the airport VIP lounge, to which his recent status still afforded him access, unencumbered by state papers and unattended by civil servants. He found George Lane pouring himself a scotch at the free bar.

  “Ah, Julian. Join me, won’t y
ou?”

  The two men had not seen each other since Molly’s funeral and shook hands warily. Garmony had heard rumors that it was Lane who had sold the photographs; Lane did not know how much Garmony knew. Garmony in turn was uncertain about Lane’s attitude to his affair with Molly. Lane did not know whether Garmony realized just how much he, George, despised him. They were to travel to Amsterdam together to escort the coffins back to England, George as an old friend of the Hallidays and as Vernon’s sponsor on the Judge, Julian at the behest of the Linley Trust, as Clive’s advocate in cabinet. The trustees were hoping the ex—foreign secretary’s presence might expedite the paperwork that dogs the international dispatch of a corpse.

  They carried their drinks through the packed lounge—most people were VIPs these days—and discovered a relatively empty corner by the door to the lavatories.

  “To the departed.”

  “The departed.”

  Garmony thought for a moment, then said, “Look, since we’re in this together, we may as well get it out of the way. Was it you who supplied the pictures?”

  George Lane drew himself up a useful inch and said in a pained tone, “As a businessman I’ve been a loyal supporter and contributor to party funds. What would be in it for me? Halliday must have been sitting on them, waiting for his moment.”

  “I heard there were bids for the copyright.”

  “Molly assigned the copyright to Linley. He might have made a few quid. I didn’t like to ask.”

  Garmony, sipping his scotch, reflected that the Judge was bound to protect its sources. If Lane was lying, he did it well. If he wasn’t, then Linley and all his works be damned.

  Their flight was called. As the two were going down the stairs to the waiting limousine, George put his hand on Julian’s arm and said, “You know, I think you came out of it bloody well.”

  “Oh really?” Without seeming to, Garmony moved his arm away.

  “Oh yes. Most men would have hanged themselves for far less.”

  An hour and a half later they were being driven through the streets of Amsterdam in a Dutch government car.

  Because they hadn’t spoken for rather a long while, George said airily, “I hear the Birmingham premiere has been postponed.”

  “Canceled, actually. Giulio Bo says it’s a dud. Half the BSO refuse to play it. Apparently there’s a tune at the end, shameless copy of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, give or take a note or two.”

  “No wonder he killed himself.”

  The bodies were being held in a little mortuary in the basement of the main Amsterdam police station. As he and Lane were being led down the concrete stairs, Garmony wondered if there was a similar secret place beneath Scotland Yard. He would never find out now. The official identifications were made. The ex-minister was drawn aside for a discussion with Dutch Interior Ministry officials, leaving George Lane to contemplate the faces of his old friends. They looked surprisingly at peace. Vernon had his lips parted slightly, as though he were halfway through saying something interesting, while Clive had the happy air of a man drowning in applause.

  Soon Garmony and Lane were being driven back through the city center. Both men were lost in their own thoughts.

  “I’ve just been told something rather interesting,” Garmony said after a while. “The press have got it wrong. We all have. It wasn’t a double suicide at all. They poisoned each other. They had each other destroyed with God knows what. It was mutual murder.”

  “My God!”

  “Turns out there are these rogue doctors here, pushing the euthanasia laws to the limits. Mostly they get paid for bumping off people’s elderly relatives.”

  “Funny, that,” George said. “I think the Judge ran a piece on it.”

  He turned away to look out of his window. They were passing at walking pace down Brouwersgracht. Such a pleasant, well-ordered street. On the corner was a spruce little coffeehouse, probably selling drugs.

  “Ah,” he sighed at last. “The Dutch and their reasonable laws.”

  “Quite,” Garmony said. “When it comes to being reasonable, they rather go over the top.”

  Late in the afternoon, back in England, having settled the business of the coffins at Heathrow and passed through customs and then spotted their respective drivers, Garmony and Lane shook hands and parted, the former to spend more time with his family in Wiltshire, the latter to call on Mandy Halliday.

  George had his car stop at the far end of her street so he could walk for a few minutes. He needed to plan what he would say to Vernon’s widow. But instead, as he strolled through the cool and soothing dusk, past ample Victorian villas, past the sounds of the first lawnmowers of this early spring, he found his thoughts turning pleasantly in other directions: Garmony beaten down, and trussed up nicely by his lying wife’s denials of his affair at her press conference, and now Vernon out of the way, and Clive. All in all, things hadn’t turned out so badly on the former-lovers front. This surely would be a good time to start thinking about a memorial service for Molly.

  George reached the Hallidays’ house and paused on the front steps. He’d known Mandy for years. A great girl. Used to be rather wild. Perhaps it was not too soon to ask her out to dinner.

  Yes, a memorial service. St. Martin’s rather than St. James’s, which was favored these days by credulous types who read the sort of books he himself published. St. Martin’s, then, and he alone would make the speech, and no one else. No former lovers exchanging glances. He smiled, and as he raised his hand to touch the doorbell, his mind was already settling luxuriously on the fascinating matter of the guest list.

  FIRST ANCHOR BOOKS EDITION, DECEMBER 1999

  Copyright © 1998 by Ian McEwan

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Anchor Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Nan A. Talese, a division of Doubleday Publishers, in 1998. The Anchor Books edition is published by arrangement with Nan A. Talese Doubleday.

  Anchor Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the Nan A. Talese/Doubleday edition as follows: McEwan, Ian.

  Amsterdam / Ian McEwan.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  I. Title.

  PR6063.C4A47 1998

  823′.914—dc21

  98-41401

  eISBN: 978-0-307-43479-1

  www.anchorbooks.com

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