It was a long way from Holder’s office down to his own, on the twelfth floor. He was waiting, wondering if he should try to look as though he was in the middle of something, or as though he had actually been waiting. He supposed it didn’t matter, under the circumstances. He arranged the things on his desk. The inbox was full. The outbox was empty and conspicuous. The secretary he shared with two other men on this floor had been around, while he was at lunch, and taken away what was there. He straightened his name plate and pen set, and looked at the family portrait he kept on his desk. He was wearing the same suit as he had for the photo. He had known this when he put the suit on, in the morning. It was something he always registered in mind. The suit was navy and prone to wrinkles. It was nearly two o’clock and the suit was rather wrinkled, as the wrinkles gained depth and complexity in the course of time.
His allergies had been bothering him the way they did at this time of year. He had an allergy pill at lunch, with his salad. It made him groggy, despite its claims, but at least he could breathe. He breathed in and out slowly and deeply. The deep breathing was partly because he had been clogged since he woke and partly because he had come to hate these meetings with Holder. There was the tension between them.
He looked at his watch. He looked at the photo. In it his hand was on his wife’s shoulder, their child was on her lap. His suit was shabbier in real life. The suit had been new in the picture. He looked happy. His wife had her hand on the child’s knee and you could see her wedding ring. He took pride in seeing the ring on his wife’s finger. It was the thing he always looked at when he looked at the picture.
This was the third time that Holder had come to meet with him in his office. In the previous four years he had always been summoned to Holder’s office when he was wanted. It was not unusual that they should need to meet; otherwise they both might avoid the awkwardness. The work was fine. It was natural that he should be called upon to explain some aspect of a report, or to answer as to why an expense had been necessary. He wondered if he might have a chance at a promotion.
Holder arrived with precision timing. He was bronze and gleaming. His suit was new and expensive. His tan was conspicuous among the pallid middle managers of the twelfth floor. There was a nearly audible chime when he smiled. He was pressed.
“Martingale,” he said, “I have just been in with Nash and Wales. They’ve read the report and according to them we’ve completely missed the point. Have you seen their report on ‘Marginalization for Increased Margins’? Very insightful, but completely at odds with ours. We’ve got to get on board here. Have we got anything with a little pizzazz?”
“I don’t know about you, but I haven’t. Pizzazz isn’t really my thing.” he said, with more than a dash of wither.
He had eaten a particularly bad walnut in the salad he’d had for lunch. He hadn’t really tasted it because of his allergies. His taste buds caught it like a glimpse. It combined with the allergy pill to dry his mouth. His words passed out desiccated and wrinkled. Since then his speech had been tainted with rotten walnut.
“No, I haven’t seen that report, why should I have?”
“Whoa, slow down, old boy,” said Holder. “I just thought it might have added some insight to the thing. This is business.”
He caught the allusion. “Yes, this is business,” thought Martingale, and smiled.
“My report has plenty of insight,” he said. “Perhaps they should read my report.”
“Quite right,” Holder acquiesced, “I’ve always said: Martingale writes an insightful report, that’s why we pay him the big money.”
Martingale looked down, from Holder to the photo on his desk. He knew he had been slighted, but in an off-hand way, for which there was no defence. He looked at his wife, between them, on the desk, smiling. It was a fake smile.
He remembered the day the picture was taken. The child had been wilful and refused to sit still. His wife’s patience was worn through. She was embarrassed at the child’s behaviour in front of the photographer. In the end, she spanked the child, and he sat while she gripped him tightly around the knee and whispered further threats against bad behaviour. When the photographer snapped the shot they all said cheese.
He looked at her now, smiling from her place on his desk. The muscles stood out on her arm, tense where she clutched the child. Her jaw was a geometry of sinew. Her eyes had barely softened from the fury that lived just outside the picture.
“Martingale, are you alright?” asked Holder.
The allergy pill which had carried him away for a moment was wearing off and his eyes were starting to water.
“Allergies,” he said.
“That time of year,” said Holder.
“It’s in the air,” Martingale was fading.
“What is?”
“Spring,” Martingale implied.
“Oh yes,” said Holder following cautiously, “Spring is in the air. Yes, I guess it is.”
