Chapters (61)
- Cover
- Dedication
- Imagine a girl
- Prologue
- The Foreigner
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- The Skeptic
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- The Spectator
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- The Assassin
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- The Hunter
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Imagine a girl
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Also by Ben McPherson
- About the Publisher
“All very chaste. Though I imagine that’s not easy for a pubescent boy either, and I can see that a part of you wishes to satirize me for it. But a young man must know how to behave in the presence of women. You’re a father to two daughters. I know that at heart we agree.” He looked at me, smiled a wise smile. “What we teach is really not so old-fashioned. Me-too, and all that. Think of our girls as a new template for womanhood, and Arno as a new template for manhood. The modern world wants to use women and cast them aside. We do not, and Arno will not.”
“So Arno is your little knight . . .”
At this he became very serious. He put a hand on my arm, looked me in the eye. “Cal, friend, even a good man knows how a bad man thinks. Surely it’s better that he respect women?”
“All right,” I said. “Yes. And I do see the change in him.”
“Now . . .” He gestured to the rabbits in my hands, which I passed to him. “Let us talk instead about this change in you, Cal . . . I’m tempted to say it’s an acceptance of calling.”
“I have no calling.”
“Oh, but you do. You spoke truth to power, and with such angry clarity. This is what the fightback looks like, my friend. And you know now for whom you are fighting.”
“Do I?”
“Your tribe, of course. You must not deprecate yourself. This is a huge achievement. And now that you have identified your enemy—with startling clarity, may I say—you are declaring war upon him with the truth as your shield and the pen as your sword.”
“Thank you,” I said. “For helping us get this far.”
“Oh, but you mustn’t thank me. Not yet. You must go home to your wife and your children and prepare for something utterly wonderful.”
Thirty-Two
Elsa was outlining her eyes with kohl, naked from the shower. In the bathroom mirror I saw how her eyes flicked to the crystal glass as I set it beside her, then flicked back to me. There was an openness to her, an expectancy that I hadn’t seen in months. She had left the doors open between the bedroom and the bathroom, remembering, perhaps—reminding me of a time, perhaps—when I would watch her as she prepared to go out.
I walked past her and into the bedroom, lay on the neatly made bed, glass in hand. I looked up to find her watching me, her own glass half-raised. She loosed her hair with her left hand. It hung heavy around her shoulders, glinting dully, the ends curling inward, trailing against her breasts.
She turned the glass in her hand. “Alchemy, Cal.” Sunbeams cut the heavy viscous liquid. Tiny golden shards of ice, disappearing fast.
We held each other’s gaze in the Norwegian way.
“Skål.”
“Skål.”
My phone rang.