Clive stared at Michael.
“I’ve secured funding for the department for more than thirty years. Every single time money was handed out,” he whispered.
“And that’s why you need to stop now. While the going is good. It can’t last. You will be given fewer and fewer grants and, finally, none at all. Besides, the University Council demands it. An immediate merger and your retirement.”
“I’m in my prime,” Clive objected.
“I should have told you before we left. Or on the plane, at least,” Michael said, “but it wasn’t easy.”
“Business class tickets and a Michelin star dinner? Was that the department’s attempt at a golden good-bye? And what about the meeting?” Clive shouted triumphantly. “That meeting which I, very conveniently, failed to be invited to.”
“I’m really very sorry,” Michael said again.
Clive clenched his fist.
“I want to be alone,” he hissed. Michael threw up his hands.
“I’m sorry, old boy,” he said in a convivial tone. “Life goes on, eh? You made a huge contribution, we all know that… without you the department wouldn’t have had such a high profile, and—”
“I want to be alone,” Clive roared.
“Calm down. It’s not my decision,” Michael said, hurt, and headed for the exit. He shook his head lightly as he left. He was merely the messenger.
When Clive was alone, he stared at the huge PowerPoint screen. He felt numb and consumed with hate. When he heard footsteps, he thought Michael had come back. But it wasn’t Michael, it was the young woman from Helland’s funeral. She held out her hand, and he shook it out of pure reflex.
“My name’s Anna,” she said. “I would like to talk to you, please.”
“You were at Helland’s funeral,” he said. “Why were you staring at me?”
“I was surprised to see you,” she replied calmly. “Curious.”
Her eyes were almost yellow and there was a touch of defiance about her mouth.
“And why is that?” Clive started gathering up his papers and returning them to his briefcase.
“I’m Professor Helland and Dr. Tybjerg’s postgraduate student,” she said. “I’ve written my dissertation on the controversy surrounding the origin of birds. There are some anatomical details I would very much like to discuss with you. I’ve come to ask if you would meet me in the Vertebrate Collection. Tomorrow… ? Or is Monday better? Will you still be here on Monday?”
He stared at her.
“Being Professor Helland and Dr. Tybjerg’s postgraduate student is your problem,” he sneered as he picked up his jacket and his briefcase. “What’s there to talk about? Helland is dead, and I’m sorry about that. Tybjerg…” He glanced at her. “Tybjerg didn’t even have the decency to attend my lecture today. I’ve nothing to say to their protégée. Good-bye.” He climbed the broad steps between the seat rows. The young woman followed him.
“I’ve got something for you from Dr. Tybjerg,” she said. Clive stopped and gave her a sharp look.
“What is it?”
“I can’t tell you here.” She glanced over her shoulder as if the walls had ears.
“Why doesn’t he deliver it to me in person?” Clive persisted.
“I’ll explain later. It’s a bone… it’s complicated.” The young woman straightened up and said softly: “Imagine how you would feel if you finally had to accept that you had been wrong. Your entire scientific career.”
“Ha!” Clive snorted. “Hell will freeze over before Tybjerg admits he’s wrong.”
He continued walking, reached a corridor, and increased his pace. The young woman called out after him.
“Professor Freeman! Monday, eleven o’clock. In the Vertebrate Collection. Do we have a deal?”
“I guarantee you we don’t!” he said, shaking his head as he left.
Michael was waiting for him in a taxi in front of the Bella Centre. He was sitting in the back with the door open, the meter was already running. What was he thinking? That Clive would act as if nothing had happened and drop the subject? Michael was on his cell, reporting back, most likely, oh yes, everything had gone fine, he had finally managed to say it, the old fool was history. Who was he even talking to? Someone from the department? The Head of the Institute? Michael moved to make room for Clive.
“Don’t you ever wait for me in a taxi again,” Clive screamed into Michael’s astonished face. Michael lowered his phone.
“Relax, Clive,” he said quietly. “Get in the taxi.”
Was he not listening to him? Not anymore. That was the message. Clive stomped across the parking lot to the subway station. He didn’t look back.
He got off at Nørreport and walked down a random street. He had trusted Michael. He had taught Michael everything he knew. Without Clive, Michael was a mediocre researcher with a—to all intents and purposes—superfluous knowledge of bird evolution. It struck him he wasn’t any better than Jack. One of a scientist’s most important qualities was the ability to stand firm. Through stormy weather, starvation, and torture. Otherwise you were nothing but an amateur. Jack and Michael were amateurs. Cut from a different cloth to him. He would remain firm even if it was the last thing he did. To be honest, he had respected Helland and Tybjerg for that very characteristic. You could say what you liked about them, but they stood firm and defended their position, just like him. It was the only valid stance. U-turns were for politicians. He would pay no heed to that silly girl. Tybjerg would never admit to being wrong. If he could, it never would have come this far! Tybjerg would stick to his guns just as stubbornly as Clive’s father had done. A bone. Ha! What a joke.
He entered a round tower that appeared on his left. The ascent was almost without steps, a smooth spiral, and he tripped and fell on his knees. Thinking he was alone, he swore out loud, but a younger man, on his way down, stopped and looked shocked. Clive exploded and screamed at the young man, who retreated, said something, but left in the end.
Clive was alone. What was happening? In the old days, when he was younger, the sun had shone and when he leaned across his desk to look out into the garden, he would see Kay sitting there, wearing a broad-brimmed hat, and the boys dipping their toes in an inflatable pool, squealing and drinking lemonade through curly straws. Once, a respectful silence had accompanied his arrival at work; Michael had been twenty-two years old, bright green like a newly hatched grasshopper, delirious with happiness because he had been promised a postgraduate place in two years’ time and grateful for being allowed to type out Clive’s lecture notes and laminate the covers of all Clive’s reference books in the meantime. Once his sons had looked at him with admiration in their eyes, once Jack had loved him.
Clive felt the cold and he stood up. He needed Kay. It was no good without her.
He called her from a telephone booth. Around him, people fought their way through darkness and it snowed lightly. Clive’s heart nearly exploded when Kay answered the telephone. Not Franz, not Franz’s wife. Kay.
“Kay, I love you,” he whispered. “I don’t want to live without you. I can’t live without you. I’ll change. I’ll never hit you again. I’ll make it right with the children. Take me back, please. I’ll try harder. I promise.” Clive struggled to hold on to the handset; the wind seemed to change direction, it started blowing directly at his back and the hand that held the telephone. His telephone card counted down. There was silence down the other end.