David Szalay - All That Man Is

She lifts the plate up towards him, offering him another.

‘No. Thank you,’ he says. ‘No.’

—

Ushered through the dark, narrow hall — past hanging coats and hats, and a mirror that tells him nothing — he finds himself in the stairwell again.

The door of the flat closes and he starts down the stairs, spurning the besmirched lift. The cement stairs are darkly shiny, polished by decades of footfall so that they look wet even though they aren’t. At each landing there is an island of light from the window, and a line of communal pot plants — rubbery leaves, dead leaves, crusty soil. At the bottom, metal postboxes with little nameplates. A metal thing set in the floor for scraping the mud off your shoes. Some notices on the wall, a slew of junk mail. The heavy door with its two panes of safety glass, the lower one spider-webbed with damage.

He stops there.

For some time he stands there, in the dim daylight.

A strand of cobweb waves in the air over a radiator. He is looking at it, waving in the rising heat of the radiator. Everything is perfectly still, except for that strand of cobweb, waving.

He stands there, watching it.

He is still standing there, watching the cobweb, weirdly absorbed in the way it moves.

Then he shoves through the heavy front door, makes it screech on its hinges.

He shoves through it, out into the world again.

Two and a half hours it takes, to drive to the sea. First the flat land, then the limestone hills, then mountains. Sparse vegetation. The motorway, which starts at Zagreb, is empty. It is a Wednesday morning in early November, that might be why. And now Hans-Pieter has switched on the windscreen wipers — a slow, intermittent setting. They sweep, and stop. They sweep, and stop. Each time with a little squeak. Drizzle obscures the distances of flat farmland in the early part of the drive. The wipers sweep, and stop. Deserted villages, strung out along the road. Dark fields of stubble or ploughed soil. The landscape undulates slightly, is the most that can be said for it.

Next to Hans-Pieter in the front is Maria.

From where he is sitting, Murray can see her chewing at her gum, staring without interest at the dull landscape.

He is actively pleased, at this point, that she is Hans-Pieter’s lookout, not his own. She isn’t his problem. He turns the other way. They are just passing through one of those villages, fucking awful place. One-storey houses line the road, in little fenced plots of land. There is some sort of pub, he sees — a sign with a Pan logo, a sign saying Pizza . That’s it. That’s the village. That’s the life you have here. Murray watches it taper to nothing. More dead fields.

There’s this point when you think, Why pretend? What’s the point? Who’re you trying to fool?

Who are you trying to fool? Yourself?

So what is the point?

There is no point.

What difference does it make anyway?

We’re all headed to the same place.

They are talking in the front, Hans-Pieter and Maria. Talking in low voices so that he can’t hear, over the noise of the engine and the wheels and the wind, what they are saying exactly. It surprised him, this invitation. Last night, he was in Džoker, talking to Matteus about football, when Hans-Pieter turned up in his duffel coat, ordered a white wine. He put in his two cents about the football — a stupid opinion, Murray thought. Then Hans-Pieter said, ‘We’re thinking of taking a trip to the seaside tomorrow. You want to come?’

They were perched up on tall stools, facing the shelves of spirits, and the postcards that people had sent over the years, and that Matteus had pinned up. Not that many of them, less than ten.

Murray said, ‘Isn’t the weather a bit shite for that?’

Hans-Pieter had a quick, timid sip of wine. ‘Should be okay tomorrow,’ he said. ‘They say.’

Murray shrugged. ‘Okay then. If Maria doesn’t mind.’

‘It was her idea,’ Hans-Pieter told him.

It was her idea.

What was that about?

Part of Murray allowed himself to think that this meant it was him she fancied, and had done all along.

That just wasn’t true, though, was it?

What this was actually about was that she felt sorry for him. That she and Hans-Pieter, when they talked about him at all, talked about how fucking pitiable he was.

Word was out about Blago, what had happened with that. Blago did indeed seem to have gone to Germany. Murray’s money seemed to have gone with him. The man and the money had vanished, anyway. Hans-Pieter’s advice was to tell the police, tell them everything. Murray was too embarrassed to do that. And anyway the police already knew him, from that time after the Irish pub. He just didn’t want to see them again, simple as that.

The rain is intensifying.

Hans-Pieter ups the tempo of the wipers.

So much for the weather forecast.

Maria turns to Hans-Pieter to make a similar point. She has a fat whitehead near her mouth. A stud in her nose. He’s welcome to her, Murray thinks.

—

Once they hit the motorway it takes an hour and a half. Murray nods off. Wakes to stark limestone hills. Then the sea, greyly glittering. They park in a municipal lot — plenty of space, today — and find a place for lunch. A mixed grill for Murray, with that sweetish red-pepper sauce they do here. A glass of the local plonk. A squall passing outside. Maria is being friendly. She does most of the talking. Hans-Pieter hardly says anything. He picks at his grilled fish, prising flesh from bone, and rarely lifts his eyes from it. The lazy silence of a man in settled circumstances, letting his other half entertain the guest. Intervenes to correct her sometimes, that’s all. She has rings on most of her fingers. Blue eyeshadow. She’s encouraging Murray to go to the police — they’re still talking about that. It’s what they’ve been talking about for a week. He hasn’t even told them the true amount Blago took from him. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He wants to forget all that. She’s just trying to be nice, though. Shouldn’t be impatient with her.

‘What’s the point?’ he says. ‘They’ll not find him.’

She is adamant. ‘How do you know ?’

She just likes the drama of it, he thinks. At least it’s something — something has happened at least.

‘You can’t let him get away with it!’ she insists.

‘I shouldn’t have trusted him,’ Murray tells her, feeling the wine a bit. ‘I was an idiot. End of.’

It’s raining outside again.

Murray and Maria have flaming sambucas.

I was an idiot. End of . Put that on my fucking tombstone, Murray thinks as they leave and head for the sea — down some steps, through some drizzly streets. He has dropped back now. Hans-Pieter and Maria are hand in hand, up ahead of him. Jack Sprat would eat no fat…That’s what they look like, those two — Jack Sprat and the wife.

No, he’s okay, Hans-Pieter, the shy Dutchman in his duffel coat.

She’s okay as well, waddling along next to him.

They’re my only friends, anyway.

I was an idiot. End of .

There aren’t really beaches here. There are walkways along the shore, winding paved paths, overleaned by spry old pines. Dry patches of paving stones under the pines. On one side as they walk, former villas of Austro-Hungarian notables, now hotels. On the other side, steep steps or even ladders down to strips of shingle, or empty terraces, or little marinas. The sloshing sea. Slapping at green-matted walls. At squeaking jetties.

He is kissing her. Hans-Pieter is kissing Maria, leaning down to her, snogging in the shelter of his upturned collar.