sixty-five to build up his pension in the last five years. By stopping him now, they saved at least six million plus benefits. The arithmetic was simple and clear. But even though Kampman was only thirty-nine, he had finesse enough to let that say itself.
Breathwaite knew he had to say what he had said next, though he profoundly regretted it. “And if I took a cut?”
Kampman only shrugged slowly, smiled ruefully, more a firming of the lips than a smile. An answer that was not an answer. Unquotable. They learned these things in their management courses. He would get not a golden, but a silver (rather a silver-plated) handshake. A half year’s severance. Half a million crowns. He converted to dollars—something he still had to do to get a real sense of the value of the figure. Not quite eighty thousand bucks gross.
Nothing, really. Nothing. Considering the Danish tax structure.
And conditional, it went without saying, on his delivering his Irish contacts.
Breathwaite considered what else he might say. He found himself thinking how old guys know how nasty young men are because that’s how they once were themselves, covetous and impatient, overrating themselves as they lunged out after what they wanted and did not have, what some older man was occupying, blocking them from. I was never like that. I wasn’t. I fought with hard work. Or am I kidding myself? If the soul is ever to know itself, it must gaze into the soul. That is, if you even have a soul. Anymore.
Then he remembered what he’d wanted to say to Kampman: “We knew this was coming. We saw it coming two years ago. Longer.”
“It was a possibility,” said Kampman with firm lips.
“Why didn’t we prepare for it?”
That shrug again. That rueful smile that was not a smile. Conveying what? An answer that was not an answer.
You saw the advantage in this , Breathwaite did not say.
Now, in the café, a black fly landed on the back of his hand resting on the tabletop. He flicked it away. It rose and landed again on his wrist. Another flick and it buzzed his nose. He backhanded at it, but it landed again a few inches from his beer, lifting and falling on its spindly legs that sawed against each other. Hideous little bat the size of snot. Breathwaite wondered if he would be fast enough to flatten it with the tip of his index finger, but at his first movement, the fly was up and buzzed his ear. This was unfair. It buzzed him again, and then he thought, What is that fly trying to tell me? As if it had an urgent message. As if I am a glorious planet, it lands here and there on me, touching down again and again despite my every effort to discourage it, to indicate that it is not welcome. Does it want me to kill it? Is life as a fly so miserable?
He finished his beer and strolled back toward the lakes, stood on the bank of Peblinge watching the swans float around like question marks. A duck crawled up onto the concrete lip of the bank and waddled over to him, perhaps thinking he had bread to share. The duck looked up at him and honked twice.
Which, Breathwaite thought, translated from duck as, No bread .
9. Kirsten Breathwaite
It was love at first sight. Leaving him behind about broke Kis’s heart. An eight-week-old golden retriever pup she had been offered by her boss for practically nothing. He looked like a little furry clump of golden sunlight, and the minute she set eyes on him, a name popped into her head. Amon-Ra. Who was that again? Then she remembered it was the name of the Egyptian sun god. Or, no, it was just plain Ra, wasn’t it? Better yet, and that was what she would call the pup. Ra . If she could call it anything.
Fred would never go along with it.
She stepped away from the building front on Østergade where she worked and felt the ache of emptiness in her arms where the little thing had been. So sweet. So sweet. She felt like a child whose father had refused her a pet. Helpless. Hopeless. She would do anything. I’ll take care of it,
Breathwaite knew he had to say what he had said next, though he profoundly regretted it. “And if I took a cut?”
Kampman only shrugged slowly, smiled ruefully, more a firming of the lips than a smile. An answer that was not an answer. Unquotable. They learned these things in their management courses. He would get not a golden, but a silver (rather a silver-plated) handshake. A half year’s severance. Half a million crowns. He converted to dollars—something he still had to do to get a real sense of the value of the figure. Not quite eighty thousand bucks gross.
Nothing, really. Nothing. Considering the Danish tax structure.
And conditional, it went without saying, on his delivering his Irish contacts.
Breathwaite considered what else he might say. He found himself thinking how old guys know how nasty young men are because that’s how they once were themselves, covetous and impatient, overrating themselves as they lunged out after what they wanted and did not have, what some older man was occupying, blocking them from. I was never like that. I wasn’t. I fought with hard work. Or am I kidding myself? If the soul is ever to know itself, it must gaze into the soul. That is, if you even have a soul. Anymore.
Then he remembered what he’d wanted to say to Kampman: “We knew this was coming. We saw it coming two years ago. Longer.”
“It was a possibility,” said Kampman with firm lips.
“Why didn’t we prepare for it?”
That shrug again. That rueful smile that was not a smile. Conveying what? An answer that was not an answer.
You saw the advantage in this , Breathwaite did not say.
Now, in the café, a black fly landed on the back of his hand resting on the tabletop. He flicked it away. It rose and landed again on his wrist. Another flick and it buzzed his nose. He backhanded at it, but it landed again a few inches from his beer, lifting and falling on its spindly legs that sawed against each other. Hideous little bat the size of snot. Breathwaite wondered if he would be fast enough to flatten it with the tip of his index finger, but at his first movement, the fly was up and buzzed his ear. This was unfair. It buzzed him again, and then he thought, What is that fly trying to tell me? As if it had an urgent message. As if I am a glorious planet, it lands here and there on me, touching down again and again despite my every effort to discourage it, to indicate that it is not welcome. Does it want me to kill it? Is life as a fly so miserable?
He finished his beer and strolled back toward the lakes, stood on the bank of Peblinge watching the swans float around like question marks. A duck crawled up onto the concrete lip of the bank and waddled over to him, perhaps thinking he had bread to share. The duck looked up at him and honked twice.
Which, Breathwaite thought, translated from duck as, No bread .
9. Kirsten Breathwaite
It was love at first sight. Leaving him behind about broke Kis’s heart. An eight-week-old golden retriever pup she had been offered by her boss for practically nothing. He looked like a little furry clump of golden sunlight, and the minute she set eyes on him, a name popped into her head. Amon-Ra. Who was that again? Then she remembered it was the name of the Egyptian sun god. Or, no, it was just plain Ra, wasn’t it? Better yet, and that was what she would call the pup. Ra . If she could call it anything.
Fred would never go along with it.
She stepped away from the building front on Østergade where she worked and felt the ache of emptiness in her arms where the little thing had been. So sweet. So sweet. She felt like a child whose father had refused her a pet. Helpless. Hopeless. She would do anything. I’ll take care of it,
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