David Szalay - All That Man Is

‘Who knows. It’s a hypothetical situation, isn’t it. Now.’

‘I suppose we’ll have to increase your salary,’ she says, still smiling at him. ‘Again.’

‘You know I’m not in it for the money.’

‘I thought you said this wouldn’t damage him. Edvard.’

‘Well, it depends what you mean by damage. He’s safe in his current job, I’d say. I’d better call Ulrik.’

—

‘What,’ Ulrik says, ‘the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

‘Morning, Ulrik…’ Kristian is standing on the fire stairs, in a patch of sunlight.

—

When he has finished with Ulrik, about ten minutes later, and spoken to David Jespersen, he finds Mikkel, the pictures editor, in the secret office with Elin. Mikkel has laid a load of photos out on the table and they are looking at them. Elin looks up. ‘What did Ulrik say?’

‘He feels we shouldn’t be running this story.’

‘Did he threaten us?’

‘Not with legal action. It’s fine,’ Kristian says, touching her on the elbow. ‘Hi, Mikkel.’

‘Alright,’ Mikkel says, hardly looking up from the images on the table, whose positions he is minutely, and frequently, and pointlessly, adjusting with trembling fingers. Edvard is in most of the pictures — a wide variety of settings and expressions. Natasha Ohmsen is in a few. There are one or two of Søren Ohmsen. And…

‘That’s the one!’ Kristian shouts, stabbing it with his index finger. He hardly ever shouts. It feels strange. ‘That’s the one,’ he says.

The three of them. And yes, she is looking not at her diminutive husband, on whose arm she is — she is looking at the defence minister, tall and handsome and himself looking straight into the lens with a wonderfully sly smile. ‘That,’ Kristian says, ‘is fucking perfect. Tomorrow’s front page, yeah?’

‘I think so,’ Elin says.

Mikkel silently moves it apart from the others.

They are still looking at the pictures, trying to pick one of Natasha on her own, when Jeppe, the news editor, waddles in without knocking and says, ‘What’s going on here?’

Kristian says, ‘We’re just having a look at these pictures, mate.’

Ignoring him, Jeppe talks to Elin. ‘This is my story,’ he says, obviously outraged. ‘It’s my fucking story. You didn’t even want it at first.’

‘Yes,’ Elin says, turning to him, ‘it is, Jeppe, and you should be proud of it.’

‘So why you excluding me from it now?’

‘What I need from you this morning, Jeppe,’ Elin says, sort of taking him aside, ‘is to stay on top of all the other news. There is some other news, isn’t there?’ she laughs.

‘Why are you excluding me?’ Jeppe still wants to know.

‘Did you hear me, Jeppe?’ Elin asks, not laughing now. ‘I need you to stay on top of everything else this morning. I’m dealing with this. Okay?’

‘Isn’t that the deputy editor’s job?’ Jeppe says. ‘To stay on top of everything else.’

Elin lets a few seconds pass, then says, ‘It’s what I need you to do. Okay? So go and do it.’

Jeppe doesn’t move.

You are so dead, mate , Kristian is thinking, still leaning over the photos.

And then David Jespersen arrives excitedly, saying, ‘Just spoke to Ohmsen. The husband.’

‘And?’ Elin asks him, turning away from Jeppe, who is still standing there.

‘He told me to fuck off.’

‘That’s it?’

‘No,’ David says. ‘He said I was scum.’

‘The man knows what he’s talking about,’ Kristian jokes, turning from the photos. ‘Did he already know about the affair?’

‘What I reckon happened,’ David says. ‘I think he did. What I reckon happened is yesterday night Dahlin told Natasha it was all coming out this morning, and she should tell her husband. So she told him.’

‘Yeah, maybe,’ Kristian says.

‘And you know what makes it worse?’ David says. ‘It’s his fucking birthday today. Søren Ohmsen’s.’

Kristian laughs. ‘You’re joking.’

‘I was looking at his Wikipedia entry. August fifth, nineteen fifty-eight. It is his birthday.’

‘No way.’

‘Happy birthday, Mr Ohmsen,’ David says, enjoying himself.

‘Have a look at these,’ Kristian says, meaning the photos.

‘Ah, the pics, brilliant,’ says David, taking a place at the table. ‘Alright, Mikkel.’

Mikkel, a man of few words, just nods, and with his quaking middle finger moves one of the pictures a millimetre to the left.

‘So nothing we can use from Ohmsen?’ Kristian asks. ‘No quotable quotes?’

David says, ‘Are you shocked, Mr Ohmsen? Eff off. Are you dismayed? You, sir, are scum. Is there anything you would like to say, Mr Ohmsen? Mr Ohmsen? Not there. Hung up on me.’ David is looking at one particular picture of Natasha Ohmsen — the one where she looks really tasty. ‘Actually,’ he says, ‘he did say something else.’

‘What?’

‘How did you get this number?’

‘How did we get it?’

‘From his wife’s phone records.’

‘Keep quiet about that,’ Elin says, finally joining them. She has been standing apart, in thought, since Jeppe left a few moments earlier. ‘So,’ she says, ‘which ones we going to use then?’

While she and Kristian discuss that question, Mikkel wordlessly shows David some unusable pap shots — he just starts handing them to him, they speak for themselves — of a famous actress sunbathing naked. ‘Fuckinell,’ David says.

‘When you’ve finished looking at those,’ Elin says to him, ‘I want you to get on to the antenatal clinic. I want more information about that before we do anything on it. At the moment all we’ve got is Edvard’s word.’

‘That’s right,’ Kristian says. It was something he discussed with Elin earlier, something that had occurred to him in the middle of the night, waiting for his flight at Charles de Gaulle: that Edvard might have been lying to him when he said, ‘It’s mine, she says. She isn’t keeping it.’ There was something weird about the way he said that. And if they printed it and it wasn’t true — if it wasn’t his, or she was keeping it, or she wasn’t even pregnant — he would have his opening to sue the shit out of them.

‘What, you think he might be lying?’ David asks, still taking pictures from Mikkel. ‘Fuckin ell ,’ he says again, even more impressed.

‘Who knows?’

‘That would be pretty devious, wouldn’t it?’

‘I want something more than just what he said to Kristian.’

‘Fair enough. I have been in all night, though,’ David points out.

‘I’ll take care of it,’ Kristian tells her.

‘Yeah?’ she says. ‘Okay.’

‘I’ll get Katrine onto it,’ he says, surveying their final selection of photos. ‘It’s her sort of thing.’

‘Does that mean I can go home and get some kip?’ David asks.

‘I suppose it does,’ Elin says kindly. ‘Off you go then, fuck off.’

—

When he has sent Katrine to the antenatal clinic, with some money, to try and find out exactly why Natasha Ohmsen spent an hour there yesterday, Kristian takes the lift down to Starbucks. There are some franchises at street level, and sometimes he spends ten minutes in the Starbucks, having a small latte and letting his head clear.

He finds David Jespersen in there, eating a sandwich. ‘I thought you were going home, mate,’ Kristian says, joining him.

‘I am, after this,’ David says. ‘Did you see those shots Mikkel had of what’s-her-name?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Muff on display and everything.’

Kristian, unsmilingly, is taking the lid off his latte.

‘We okay to use them?’ David asks.