Ю Несбё - The Jealousy Man and Other Stories

‘Of course there’s stress,’ you said, yawning as you stretched your stockinged foot so that it touched my knee. ‘I would have preferred it to take less than three weeks, but I presume it takes time to find the best and most secure method. For example, if it’s to look like an accident and at the same time be painless, that probably requires a lot of careful planning.’

‘Do you get your money back if this plane goes down?’ I asked and took a sip of the gin and tonic.

‘No. They said that because their expenses are so high for each client, and the clients are, after all, suicidal, they have to insure themselves against the client getting in before them, intentionally or not.’

‘Hm. So, at most you have twenty-one days left to live.’

‘Soon just twenty and a half.’

‘Right. And what do you intend to do with them?’

‘Do what I’ve never done before. Talk and drink with strangers.’

You emptied your glass in one long swallow. And my heart began to pound as though it knew already what was going to happen. You put the glass down and laid a hand on my arm. ‘And I want to make love with you.’

I had no idea how to respond.

‘I’m going to the toilet now,’ you said. ‘If you follow in two minutes, I’ll still be there.’

I felt something happen. An inner rejoicing that wasn’t merely desire, but something affecting my whole body, a feeling of being reborn I had not had in a long, long time, and, if the truth be known, I had never expected to feel again. You had positioned the palms of your hands on the armrests as though about to rise from the seat, but you remained seated.

‘I guess I’m not that tough,’ you sighed. ‘I need to know whether you’re actually coming.’

I took another sip to give me a moment. She looked at my glass as she waited.

‘What if I have someone?’ I said, and could hear that my voice sounded hoarse.

‘But you don’t.’

‘What if I don’t find you attractive? Or I’m gay?’

‘Are you afraid?’

‘Yes. Women who take the sexual initiative frighten me.’

You studied my face as though searching for something. ‘OK,’ you said. ‘I’ll buy that. I’m sorry, it really isn’t my style, but I don’t have time to pussyfoot around. So what are we going to do?’

I could feel myself calming down. My heart was still beating too fast, but the panic and the instinct for flight were gone. I turned the glass in my hand. ‘Do you have a connecting flight from London?’

You nodded. ‘Reykjavik. It leaves an hour after we land. What were you thinking of?’

‘A hotel in London.’

‘Which one?’

‘The Langdon.’

‘The Langdon’s good. If you stay there more than twenty-four hours the staff know your name. Unless they suspect it’s an illicit affair, in which case their memories are Teflon-coated. But anyway, we won’t be staying there more than twenty-four hours.’

‘You mean...’

‘I can rebook the Reykjavik flight for tomorrow.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. Does that please you?’

I thought about it. I wasn’t pleased. ‘But what if...’ I began, but then stopped.

‘Are you worried they might do it while you’re with me?’ you asked, and chinked your glass brightly against mine. ‘That you find yourself with a corpse on your hands?’

‘No.’ I smiled. ‘I mean, what if we fall in love? And you’ve signed a contract saying you want to die. An unbreakable contract.’

‘It’s too late,’ you said, and laid your hand over mine on the armrest.

‘Yes, that’s what I’m saying.’

‘No, I mean the other thing is too late. We’ve already fallen in love.’

‘Have we?’

‘A bit. Enough.’ You squeezed my hand, stood up and said you would be back in a moment. ‘Enough for me to be glad I have maybe three weeks.’

While you were away in the toilet the stewardess came by and took our glasses and I asked if we could have two extra pillows.

When you came back you had put fresh make-up on.

‘It’s not for you,’ you said, clearly reading my thoughts. ‘You liked the way it was a bit smeared, didn’t you?’

‘I like it both ways,’ I said. ‘So then who is the make-up for?’

‘Who do you think?’

‘For them?’ I asked and nodded in the direction of the cabin.

You shook your head. ‘I recently commissioned a survey in which the majority of women asked replied that they wore make-up to feel good. But what do they mean by good? Is it just the absence of feeling uncomfortable? Uncomfortable at being seen as they really are? Is make-up really just our own self-imposed version of a burka?’

‘Isn’t make-up used as much to accentuate as to hide?’ I asked.

‘You accentuate something and you hide something else. All editing — at the same time as it clarifies — involves a cover-up. A woman applying make-up wants to attract attention to her lovely eyes so that no one notices her nose is much too big.’

‘But is that a burka? Don’t we all want to be seen?’

‘Not all. And no one wants to be seen as they really are. Incidentally, did you know that in the course of a lifetime a woman spends as much time putting on make-up as the entire duration of conscription for men in countries like Israel and South Korea?’

‘No, but that sounds like a comparison involving a random collection of information.’

‘Exactly. But not involving a random collection.’

‘Oh no?’

‘The comparison is one chosen by me and naturally, it is, in itself, a valid observation. Fake news doesn’t necessarily mean fake facts, it can involve manipulative editing. What does the comparison tell you about my view of sexual politics? Am I saying that men have to serve their country and risk their lives while women prefer to beautify themselves? Maybe. But a little verbal editing is all it would take for that same comparison to show that women are as afraid of being seen as they really are as nations are of being conquered by enemy forces.’

‘Are you a journalist?’ I asked.

‘I edit a magazine that isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on.’

‘It’s a woman’s magazine?’

‘Yes, and in the worst possible sense of those words. Do you have any baggage?’

I hesitated.

‘I mean, when we land in London, can we take a taxi straight away?’

‘Just hand baggage,’ I said. ‘You still haven’t told me why you put on make-up?’

She lifted a hand and stroked my cheek with her index finger, just under my eye, as though I too had been crying.

‘Here’s another comparison involving random facts,’ she said. ‘More people die every year from suicide than from war, terrorism, crimes of passion, in fact all murders, combined. Beyond any doubt, you are the most likely murderer of yourself. That’s the reason I put on make-up. I looked in the mirror and could not bear the sight of the naked face of my own killer. Not now that I’m in love.’

We looked at each other. And as I raised my hand to take hers she took mine. Our fingers intertwined.

‘Isn’t there something we can do?’ I whispered, suddenly breathless, as though I were already running. ‘Can’t we buy you out of this contract?’

She put her head on one side, as though to observe me from another angle. ‘If it were possible, then it’s not certain we would have fallen in love,’ she said. ‘The fact that we are unobtainable for each other is an important part of the attraction, don’t you think? Did she die too?’

‘What?’

‘The other one. The one you wouldn’t talk about when I asked if you had a wife and children. The kind of loss that leaves you afraid to fall in love again with someone you’re going to lose. The thing that made you hesitate when I asked if you have any baggage. Do you want to talk about it?’