David Szalay - All That Man Is

‘Maybe one of the topless ones. Next week, when things are quieter. They’re with Morten.’

‘Was it just me,’ David asks, ‘or was there some sort of vibe this morning? I mean with Jeppe, when I came in.’

‘It wasn’t just you.’

‘What’s up?’

Kristian shrugs. ‘I don’t know. There’s going to be a shake-up soon. Maybe something to do with that.’

‘What sort of shake-up?’

‘The sort where people get sacked.’

‘Seriously?’

‘That’s what I’m told.’

‘We don’t have enough people as it is,’ David says.

‘I know.’

‘The work each of us is doing, it used to be done by two, three people.’

‘Those days aren’t coming back,’ Kristian says.

They are sitting on tall stools at the counter in the window. Outside, people pass by. Suits, office workers. The still surface of Peblinge Lake is blackish, full of clouds. It is one of those fresh northern summer days. Leaves moving languidly in mild wind.

‘What about me?’ David asks.

‘What about you?’

‘Am I safe?’

Kristian tips latte into his mouth. ‘You’ll be okay,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘I need this job,’ David says. ‘Two years’ time, I’ll be forty.’

‘Me too, mate.’

‘I’ve got two kids to pay for.’

‘I said don’t worry about it. You can still go home now, if that’s what you’re wondering.’

‘Nothing’s going to stop me doing that,’ David says. ‘I’m a fucking zombie. What about you? You alright?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You did an all-nighter as well, yeah?’

‘Yeah. I suppose.’

‘You don’t want to go home, get some kip?’

‘No.’

‘What,’ David says, trying to understand, ‘you’re worried about this shake-up?’

‘Not at all.’

‘So why don’t you take a few hours off?’

Kristian, tired, is staring at the surface of the lake.

Then he says, ‘You don’t understand, mate. There’s nowhere else I want to be. This is where I want to be.’

A moment passes.

David is looking at him, trying to understand.

‘This is what I live for,’ Kristian says. ‘This. What happens here.’

And that’s the truth, he thinks, finishing his latte, when David has left.

David Jespersen has left.

Headed home to the flat in Nørrebro he lives in now. The flat with not a lot of furniture in it. Empty fridge — a few lagers, not much else. Monochrome bedroom. Not unlike the place the two of them shared…

What?

Nearly twenty years ago.

Went out on the pull together then, sometimes. Saturday afternoon, watched football together. IKEA sofa. Empty fridge — a few lagers, not much else. Weird that that’s Dave’s life again now. Out on the pull.

He has finished his latte. Is still staring at the unperturbed surface of the lake.

Must be tired, to sit here staring like that.

Out on the pull.

Seems like another world, that.

He thinks for a moment, with something that threatens to turn into pain, of Elin, and the times they had. Two years ago.

Two and a half.

Very professional they were about it.

Lost focus. In the office. Orifice. Office. Office. Is what I live for. And that’s the truth. He has left the Starbucks and is in the lobby — modern marble — waiting for the lift. Thinking of Edvard now, Natasha Ohmsen. The story. The dangerous information detonating, tearing through the fabric of public life. He feels the adrenalin start to move in him. The lift doors shut. Yeah, this is what it’s about now. This. The guerre.

He leaves the office two hours earlier than usual. Mid-afternoon, half-empty train to Gatwick. A window seat on the plane. Weak tea, and a square of chocolate with a picture of Alpine pasture on the wrapper. And then it hits him. Floating over the world, the hard earth fathoms down through shrouds of mist and vapour, the thought hits him like a missile. Wham. This is it. This is all there is. There is nothing else.

A silent explosion.

He is still staring out the window.

This is all there is.

It’s not a joke. Life is not a joke.

—

She is waiting for him at arrivals, holding up an iPad with his name on it, though she knows what he looks like from his picture on the website and approaches him, smiling, as he stands there facing the wall of drivers with their flimsy signs.

‘James?’ she says.

The difference in height is significant.

‘You must be Paulette.’

She has a scar — is it? — on her lower lip, a pale little lump, somewhat off centre. There is a handshake. ‘Welcome to Geneva,’ she says.

And then, the motorway — on stilts, through tunnels. France. The low sun on one side of his face. Fresh evening light.

She says, ‘So, tomorrow.’

‘Yes.’ He is watching something outside, something on the move in the green-gold light. Everywhere he looks, he sees money.

‘I’ve arranged for us to meet them at the site,’ she says.

‘Fine. Thank you.’ She is efficient, he knows that. She answers his emails promptly, with everything he needs.

He had started speaking to her in French, as he followed her out of the arrivals lounge. She had answered in English, and for a minute there was a silly situation with each of them speaking the other’s language.

An immaculate, turning tunnel — a sound like holding a shell to your ear.

Then the long, late-summer dusk again.

He says, in English, ‘What’s the weather going to be like? Tomorrow.’ It is important, will make a difference.

‘Like this,’ she says. ‘Perfect.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘I arranged it for you.’ It sounds slightly awkward, the way she says that.

He smiles tiredly.

Stops smiling.

Shifts his feet in the footwell.

‘Well,’ he says, after too long a pause, ‘thank you.’

The surge of the motorway is making him sleepy.

The lush glow of everything. Outside, green slopes strive skywards, rich with evening sunlight, thickly gold.

—

Les Chalets du Midi Apartments consists of twelve brand new apartments in one of the most lovely valleys in the French Alps. There is a wide variety of 1, 2, 3 and 4 bedroom apartments available from 252,000 euros ex VAT located in a central location in the lively and popular village of Samoëns. The village of Samoëns is a charming French village with many shops, restaurants and bars…

How many years has he been doing this now?

They leave the motorway at Cluses, and she pays a toll.

Cluses is prosaic, a series of small roundabouts. Flower baskets hanging from street lights. Midget plane trees brutally pollarded in the French fashion. It is where she lives, she tells him. She leans forward over the wheel to look up at some window and, pointing with a lifted index finger, says, ‘That’s where I live.’

‘Okay,’ he says, pretending to be interested.

Then they have left the town and are hairpinning up the side of the valley. On the other side, mountains soak up what is left of the sunlight.

She lowers her window a little. The air smells of manure, wet grass. ‘Do you know the area?’ she asks.

He says he doesn’t. ‘Mostly we do stuff a bit further south,’ he explains. ‘Cham. Val d’Isère.’

She nods.

‘Courchevel.’

She works for the developer, Noyer.

‘I cover part of Switzerland too,’ he tells her.

‘I see.’

The hairpins are over. The road passes through villages, under trees, through massing shadow.

‘This is nice,’ he says politely.

She nods again. ‘Yes, it’s nice, up here.’