Amsterdam

by Ian McEwan

Vernon had phoned earlier in the week to apologize for setting the police on him—I

when he had proposed coming to Amsterdam to seal the reconciliation, saying he had business there anyway, Clive had been plausibly gracious in reply,

To one side three men were discussing Flaubert in whispers.

Who but Flaubert ?

“Look,” Clive said. “I had a drink all ready for you.” “And I got one for you.” “Well …” They each presented a glass to Lanark. Then Vernon offered a glass to Clive, and Clive gave his to Vernon. “Cheers!”

“I recently saw your name on a list of some very distinguished people. Judges, chief constables, top business people, government ministers …” Lanark flushed with pleasure. “All this stuff about a knighthood is complete nonsense.”

This concerns a children’s home in Wales. Top-notch pedophile ring. You were videoed going in and out half a dozen times. We were thinking of running a piece before I got bounced,

look, I meant what I said. I really am sorry about sending the police round to you. It was appalling behavior. Unconditional, groveling apologies.” “Don’t mention it again. I’m terribly sorry about your job and all that business.

“Let’s shake on it, then. Friends.”

he could stop thinking about work for a week, he could bring himself to fall in love with Susie. She was a good sort, straight down the line, she was a trouper, she’d stick by him. At the thought, he was overcome by a sudden deep affection for himself as just the sort of person one should stick by, and he felt a tear run down his cheekbone and tickle his

couldn’t quite be troubled to wipe it away. And no need, for walking across the room toward him now was Molly, Molly Lane! And some fellow in tow. Her pert little mouth, the big black eyes, and a new haircut—a bob—seemed just right. What a wonderful woman. “Molly!” Clive managed to croak. “I’m sorry I can’t get up …”

Look, I’ve brought someone to meet you.”

he couldn’t quite place this one. Socially adept as always, Molly leaned over and murmured in Clive’s ear.

It’s Paul L...

“Darling, I’m going to give you one little telling-off, then I’ll never mention it again. But you know, I really needed your help that day in the Lake District.”

mean, if I’d known it was you, I’d’ve shown that thin-faced fellow a thing or two.”

“Poor Clive. That’s why I’m rolling your sleeve up, silly. Now, Paul wants to show you what he really thinks of

your work by sticking a huge needle in your arm.”

From the perspective of the Dutch doctor and nurse, the composer lifted his head and, before closing his eyes,

seemed to attempt, from his pillow, the most modest of bows.

As he settled, he had an image of himself as a massive statue dominating the lobby of Judge House, a great reclining figure hewn from granite: Vernon Halliday, man of action, editor. At rest.

V. T., of course, did that famous front page. Pushed all the copy and let the picture tell the story. That was when newspapers really mattered.

pleasant surprise—Molly Lane. It was a matter of principle with Vernon not to confuse his personal and professional lives, so he gave her no more than a businesslike nod.

“This is 1996, not 1896. If you mean deny, don’t write gainsay.”

Molly and Frank. He should have guessed. She was plucking at Vernon’s shirtsleeve, she was using her personal connection with the editor to promote the interests of her current lover.

Dibben

had too much on his mind. His heart raced as he found a higher oracular style. “Turning to the Middle East. This paper is well known for its pro-Arab line. We shall, however, be fearless in condemning, um, atrocities on both sides …”

Vernon would never tell anyone about the scorching pain in his upper arm, and that he had just begun to grasp, though feebly, where he really was and what must have been in his champagne and who these visitors were.

then at last murmured reverentially, “It’s a spoiler.”

despite

the tide of public opinion running in Garmony’s favor,

in the country at large the politics of emotion may have bestowed forgiveness, or at least tolerance, but politicians do not favor such vulnerability in a would-be leader.

found George Lane pouring himself a scotch at the free bar. “Ah, Julian. Join me, won’t you?”

Garmony had heard rumors that it was Lane who had sold the photographs; Lane did not know how much Garmony knew.

George as an old friend of the Hallidays and as Vernon’s sponsor on the Judge, Julian at the behest of the Linley Trust, as Clive’s advocate in cabinet.

hoping the ex—foreign secretary’s presence might expedite the paperwork that dogs the international dispatch of a corpse.

“To the departed.”

George put his hand on Julian’s arm and said, “You know, I think you came out of it bloody well.”

“Oh yes. Most men would have hanged themselves for far less.”

“I hear the Birmingham premiere has been postponed.” “Canceled, actually. Giulio Bo says it’s a dud. Half the BSO refuse to play

it. Apparently there’s a tune at the end, shameless copy of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, give or take a note or two.” “No wonder he killed himself.”

“The Dutch and their reasonable laws.” “Quite,” Garmony said. “When it comes to being reasonable, they rather go over the top.”

Garmony and Lane shook hands and parted,

the former to spend more time with his family in Wiltshire, the latter to call on Mandy Halliday.