Chapter Text
Isak isn’t ready when the door swings open. There’s a cruel moment of dissonance when his somatic memory tricks him, offering up snatches of his younger self, rushing up the stairs to this same door with elation and an incongruous sense of belonging. Isak reminds himself to breathe. He lets his limbs settle into the pose of slovenly boredom that was once his trademark. It was a lie then and it’s a more excruciating lie now. He knows that there is no limit to the time he can sustain it.
“Look at you.” It’s a small shock, but none that is registered on Isak’s carefully bland face: the person in the doorway isn’t Geir. It’s Sara. She’s smiling, narrow-eyed and nervy like one of the lesser carnivores. “The prodigal son returns.”
“Good to see you, Sara.” She is still wearing her signature stud earrings, rose-shaped with a single diamond accent solitaire. Isak leans down to kiss her cheek. “By the way,” he murmurs, “you’ve got lipstick on your teeth.”
He’s barely passed Sara before he walks into William. It’s only when the coppery taste hits his tongue that Isak realizes that his teeth are mauling the inside of his cheek. Geir likes an audience for his private meetings, always has. It was stupid of Isak to forget that.
“Isak,” William drawls. His nose looks a little more crooked than Isak remembers. Never one to shirk a pointless altercation, that’s William. “What’s with this… I don’t even know what to call it…” William’s gaze sweeps over Isak’s dress shirt and chinos. “You look like an accounting clerk. A cheap one.”
Isak has an excellent comeback, but it slips from his mind as he steps into the lounge. Turns out it’s not the lounge anymore – it’s been transformed into the master bedroom. The floor to ceiling windows are framed by lavish curtains in a feverish Jackson Pollock design. The door to the balcony is propped open. Geir has swapped out his old bed against a Japanese futon with a slatted frame. The sheets are white, a stark contrast to the exposed brick walls.
Freyja, Geir’s cat, jumps down from her lookout on the windowsill. She looks like a drunk pirate with her three-legged hobble and the dark patch surrounding her left eye. Isak holds out his hand and Freyja rubs her chin against his knuckles, one stray greeting another.
“Fancy meeting you here.” It’s Geir, leaning against the frame of the door leading to the balcony, cigarette stub still dangling from his fingers. He’s in his uniform of plaid slacks and designer hoodie. His dark reddish hair is cropped short, and his sharp, foxlike features are accentuated by a five-o-clock shadow. There are new lines around his eyes. He must have turned forty-three a couple of weeks ago.
“It’s good to have you back,” Geir says, eyes warm.
Isak wills his muscles to relax. Ignores the swooshing sound of his heartbeat in his ears. “Who says I’m coming back?”
“You know me. Ever the optimist. How’s your mom?”
“Fine. She liked the flowers that you sent for Easter.” Geir has sent Marianne flowers at Easter since the two of them first met, years ago, and discovered an unlikely shared passion for hyacinths. Geir would probably continue to send hyacinths even if he and Isak weren’t speaking, a thought that Isak finds consoling and upsetting in equal measure.
“Do you know”, Isak asks, “what I received in the mail this morning?”
“No idea, Spurv. I hope it made you happy.”
“Don’t call me that.” Isak fishes a crumpled letter from his pocket and pushes it into Geir’s unresisting hand. “It’s the fifty-sixth rejection letter I’ve received in just six weeks. Pretty impressive, don’t you think? At this point, there’s no show left in Norway, no matter how small or shitty, that hasn’t wasted good paper to tell me that their measly paid assistant producer positions are regretfully filled for the foreseeable future.”
Geir’s long mouth twists to the side. “Karmic spite. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not karma that’s being spiteful here.”
“I think,” says Geir, “you’re overestimating my ability to sway an entire nation’s television industry.”
“It’s a tiny nation and humility doesn’t suit you. What do you want?”
Geir’s laughter, boyish and full-bodied, hasn’t changed. He draws Isak into a one-armed hug. “I want you back on the show. You can work off the considerable sum that you still owe the network.”
“That’s very gracious of you. What about the charges? Will the network drop them? I haven’t got the money for a lawyer and you know it.”
“We’ll talk about it later. Come along.” Geir is still clasping his shoulder and Isak is well aware that it would look churlish to pull away, so he doesn’t. Geir smiles: “Let me show you what we’re up to.”
It’s like a school reunion from hell: lounging in sleek designer chairs and sprawled over bean bags are the people that Isak has done everything in his power to avoid for the last six months. It’s not just William and Sara: Sana, Ingrid, and Eskild are in attendance as well – pretty much Lykkelig alle sine dager’s entire assistant producer crew. Plus some guy Isak has never met before, perched on the armrest of Geir’s favorite easy-chair. He looks like he’s barely out of school, smooth-faced and implausibly tan, and he’s wearing a grey fedora of all things. In Grünerløkka. In April. Surely there are laws against this.
Eskild skips over and hugs Isak. It’s a bit awkward because Eskild is also clutching a champagne flute and ends up spilling much of the content on Isak’s sole pair of formal shoes. But his smile is sincere and before he draws back, he presses his cheek against Isak’s and whispers: “Watch out.”
Geir drops to the floor and sits cross-legged in perfectly executed Sukhasana pose. He snaps his fingers. “I want to show Isak the new suitor.”
Sara grabs the remote. The massive flat screen comes to life. Isak’s stomach turns.
It’s a clip from last season’s finale: the wedding ceremony, photogenically styled and studded with more product placement than an entire season of Top Model Norge. Something is off with the audio – you can hear the panicky whispers of the crew and someone cursing with abandon. The priest is whiteknuckling the lantern. The bride has pushed back her veil. She’s tearing off her silk gloves like she’s about to enter a boxing ring while last year’s suitor, buff and brainless, is still working his way to the realization that a staged wedding that’s already a farce is becoming more farcical by the minute. That’s because Isak, looking badly out of place in his snapback and torn jeans, is lurching up and down the altar stairs, cradling a 15-liter bottle of Moët & Chandon Impérial and ranting about the moral bankruptcy of the show and everyone connected to it.
“Oh my god!” New guy stops messing with his fedora for a moment to point at Isak, handsome face flushed with excitement. “I didn’t see it at first because you dress so differently now. But that’s you, right?” He snorts. “That’s really you! You’re the deranged fucker who cost the show a fortune!”
“Do your research, moron. I’m the deranged fucker who scored the season’s finale LASD’s best ratings ever.” Isak lets his gaze sweep from this idiot kid to Geir. “What happened to your standards?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” William cuts in. “Geir didn’t know that Sara was about to pull up the wrong clip!”
“Right,” Isak says. “That’s precisely the kind of thing that passes under Geir’s radar. So?”
“All in good fun, Spurv.” Geir grabs a beer from the cooler and tosses the bottle to Isak. Isak catches it clumsily. “Sara, show him the tape.”
Isak has watched his fair share of audition tapes since he first joined one of Geir’s shows as a runner, aged eighteen or thereabouts: boring, hopeless, half-decent, amateurish, unexpectedly brilliant, so-awful-it’s-funny – he’s seen it all. But the tape that Sara puts on – that’s something else entirely.
This wanna be suitor isn’t filming himself with his cellphone and droning on about his high-powered job, workout routine, and charmingly old-fashioned belief in “true love”. No, the first thing that comes into view is a pair of stylish, brown leather boots, striding down the street. Even before the camera pans up and the Bee Gees’ pronounce in smooth falsetto You can tell by the way I use my walk, I’m a woman’s man it’s clear that this a homage to Saturday Night Fever. The guy looks the part, too: wavy dark-brown hair, bedroom eyes, well-groomed beard. He smiles confidently into the camera and introduces himself as Mutasim Tatouti.
The video cuts to a montage of clips and Isak kind of wishes he’d paid better attention during the lecture course on “Contemporary European Cinema” that he took during his second year at uni. Most of the references go over Isak’s head, but the ones that he catches are strange enough: there’s Mutasim cooking the perfect romance in a pan, twitching his nose like a shy rabbit in perfect imitation of whatever Gael García Bernal’s obnoxious character was called in The Science of Sleep. Mutasim is telling viewers what he looks for in a woman while hanging out with a conservatively dressed sex doll, and something about the whole setup brings to mind Ryan Gosling with a mustache – even if Isak for the life of him can’t recall the title of that weird-ass film. There are quite a few shots featuring a lonely lobster scuttling through a hotel lobby, and Isak, a little impressed despite himself, wonders briefly if whoever made that film is actually taking the piss out of LASD. Finally, there is Mutasim fiddling with flowers in a manner that looks Chaplinesque and weirdly hot. Isak can’t quite slot this scene into its appropriate place in film history because he’s too thrown by the sight of a pale wrist, encircled by the thin, red threads of a bracelet, that briefly enters the frame when someone hands Mutasim another flower.
Isak is busy telling himself that this is just a bizarre coincidence, nothing more, when there’s another cut and now Mutasim is sitting on an ancient-looking sofa, framed by about a million books and vinyls that clutter the shelves in the background. He’s not alone: as he’s telling the camera, he’s brought back-up, a close friend who knows him better than most and who’s going to help him go through the questionnaire provided on LASD’s website. Mutasim’s friend has a deep, raspy laugh, and Isak schools his face to dullness right before the other man appears in the frame.
He's a study in contrasts: tall and broad-shouldered but very slender; the pallor of his beautiful, fine-boned face offset by the severe hues of his clothes – distressed black biker jeans and dark, piled-on layers underneath a silver-buttoned, high-collared jacket that looks military by way of steampunk. He cards a hand through his styled hair, nearly dislodging the cigarette behind his ear, and squints at the crumpled sheet of paper that Mutasim holds out for him. “Come on,” Mutasim coaxes. “Read out the questions. This is an interview situation.”
“Alright. Where do you live? Do you have roommates? Yes, me. Do you have allergies? Do you have pets? Jeez, who comes up with these questions?” He turns to the camera and waggles his eyebrows. “Do you discriminate against lactose-intolerant reptile owners? In that case we’re not introducing you to Mutta’s baby alligator. Even though he’s adorable and very nearly house-trained. His name is…”
Mutasim elbows him in the ribs and smiles at the camera: “Living with Even means that I’ve built enormous tolerance for eccentric roommates – a quality that will surely come in handy once I move into the LASD mansion. What’s the next question?”
“Tell us your funniest first date stories.”
“Right…” Mutasim picks at a loose thread in the pillow fabric. “I’m trying to remember. I guess there were a couple that turned out to be kind of funny. Uh… Even?”
“And here I thought you’d never ask.” What follows is a firework of stories that are hilarious, not always entirely coherent, and focused on Mutasim as the universally appealing romantic lead. But for all that Mutasim is at the center of these stories, Isak doubts that anyone watching this tape spares Mutasim a thought while Even talks. Face bright, blue gaze playful and private, he meanders through his stories with undisciplined charm, delivering twists that are offbeat and cheerfully inappropriate. He’s using his own dating misfortunes as a foil for Mutasim’s successes, ending with a story about Mutasim waltzing into the tense morning after an unexpectedly acrimonious threesome with a guy and girl who turned out to be supporters, respectively, of Lyn and Vålerenga. “Mutta is fluent in soccer and even precaffeinated a master diplomat, so he smoothed the guy’s ruffled feathers while romancing the girl – all the while speaking grids and passing patterns and chipping the goalkeeper. It was very impressive.”
“Nah.” Mutasim waves him off. “By the way, what did you do in the meantime?”
“Made pancakes. Stretched. Added soccer fanatics to my no-hookup list.” Even looks at the camera and shrugs. “You’ll be pleased to learn that the guy is now on Mutta’s soccer team and that Mutta ended up dating the girl for about six months. Collectively, they’ve forced me to memorize the names of a sickening number of soccer maneuvers and half a dozen goalkeepers. I chipped the one on Mutta’s team.”
Mutasim shakes his head. “You still have no idea what chipping means, right?”
“Nope, but we had fun.”
“Stop the tape there, Sara”, Geir says. His gaze locks with Isak’s. “What do you think?”
Isak is thinking many things, but what he says, voice carefully neutral, is: “Of your new suitor? I think you’re going to tell me that you want the other one.”
“Exactly!” Geir laughs, unambiguously delighted. “That boy is TV gold. You know who he is?”
“Sure I do.”
New guy cranes his neck. “What do you mean? Who’s that guy?”
“Do you live in a cave?” Sana stares at him. “Oh, right. I forgot that you were a zygote six years ago…”
“What the hell?” New guy throws down his fedora. Like a fucking gauntlet. “I’m not that much younger and I think I deserve-- ”
“Lay off, Christoffer.” Geir doesn’t raise his voice, but Isak notices that the kid flushes like he’s been slapped. “You too, Sana. No one’s interested in your little spat.”
“Is this a bad moment”, Ingrid asks, “to confess that I’m about as ignorant as Christoffer? I mean, not generally speaking.” She pulls a face and lets her slim shoulders shudder for added effect. “But in this case… I don’t have a frigging idea who that guy is. He’s hot though. Like… smoking hot. Like so hot I kind of want to…”
“Spare us the visuals, Ingrid.” Sana carefully puts her fingers together and sighs. “Okay, children. Let me enlighten you. Jan Næsheim, anyone? Enfant terrible of avant garde theatre. Remember that big production of Enemy of the People at Nationaltheatret? With the disemboweled horses and chorus of amputees? That’s Næsheim. The kid on the tape is his son, Even Bech Næsheim. Landed a huge hit with a graphic novel about a family member’s suicide when he was just out of school. Won a couple of prizes for it and was feted for about a year as god’s gift to Norway’s wilting literary scene.”
“I think,” Sara interrupts her, “there were rumors right from the start that his dad had written or co-written that book… And his second book was shit. I haven’t read it but from what people wrote about it, it must have been pretty awful. I don’t think he’s done much of anything since.”
Sana shrugs. “Well, the paps and gossip sites remember him, even if the literati don’t. He’s a bit of a wild child, got arrested a couple of times for stupid stuff, like climbing various UiO buildings and breaking into public places that really aren’t worth getting a criminal record for. He’s also openly pan, which makes things more interesting. He’s always with someone or other, never for long. Has a habit of dating ribbons through his father’s ensemble.”
Eskild puts his flute down with a clink. “A pan suitor, with male and female contestants. I’d watch that in a heartbeat!”
“You’re also watching Adam søker Eva,” Ingrid points out, “so that’s not saying much.”
“I don’t know…” William says slowly. Isak has always been fascinated by the fact that William seems physiologically incapable of thinking hard without drawing air noisily through his big nose. It’s like the overheating gears in his brain are directly ventilated by his frontonasal duct. “I don’t see”, William continues, “that this guy is all that attractive. But the Næsheim family is loaded. My dad’s hedge fund manager plays golf with Næsheim’s financial advisor. I guess Næsheim’s son would make a good suitor because people want his lifestyle.”
“Not so sure about how much access he has to that money.” Sana nods towards the frozen image on the flatscreen. “He must be in his mid-twenties now, and he’s sharing an apartment. That sofa does not look fancy.”
Like a strategizing buddha, Geir, legs still folded in his ridiculous yoga pose, has been following the conversation from the floor. Now he’s smiling at Christoffer. “What’s your take on all of this?”
Christoffer drops the can of Red Bull he’s been balancing on two fingers. “Me? You’re asking me?”
“Starting to regret it, actually.”
“No! I mean, I have opinions! Thoughts too! I…. I think that we’re selling a fantasy, right? And the suitor… he’s like the embankm… I mean the embodiment of this. Of that fantasy.” He’s blushing, stumbling over his words. Isak is vaguely disappointed when he unexpectedly pulls himself together to follow up this debacle with a decent point: “This guy has the looks and William says that he’s rich – but I don’t think that’s enough if he’s just fooling around and leeching off his family. I mean, the last suitor wasn’t the brightest candle on the cake but he’s a self-made millionaire who gets up at 4 every morning to work out. And the one before that was a goddamn pediatric surgeon. We want someone who’s like… a doer… so…yeah…”
“So yeah.” Geir doesn’t spare Christoffer another glance. He’s giving Isak his full attention and that’s just as thrilling and unsettling as it’s always been. “Your turn.”
Isak knows that he’s being expertly reeled in – thrown a bloody hook he’ll bite no matter what – and still he can’t resist proving to Geir, proving to himself, that he plays this game better than anyone else in this room.
For the briefest moment, the memory, viciously repressed since Sara put on that tape, invades Isak’s thoughts. His thumb sliding between the thin red threads of that bracelet to touch the delicate skin underneath. The surprise of the wild stammer of pulse against his fingertip. Quiet laughter in his ear, a whispered plea. Strong, slender fingers twisting against cold tiles, reaching and reaching for Isak’s hand.
Isak puts his hands in his pockets. Raises his chin. “You’ve got it all wrong,” he tells Christoffer. “Beautiful disaster trumps perfection every time. This guy looks like someone dreamed him up, but he’s clearly got something that’s way more useful to us than looks alone: he’s flawed.”
“I don’t get it”, Sara says.
“Think about the story arc for the season,” Isak continues. “It’s the ultimate fantasy, the kernel of every epic love story, right? The trite old idea that meeting the right person puts you on a path to redemption and self-acceptance. You can play that up.” Isak avoids looking at the image, still frozen on the flatscreen, but he gestures to it. “Let people see all his faults and demons, whatever they are, and then show them the transformative power of televised true love – how that makes him complete or whole or whatever shit cliché you want to go for.”
“See,” a small, confidential smile lifts the corner of Geir’s mouth, “that’s why I want you back.”
Isak returns his gaze until Eskild clears his throat and asks: “But what if this guy doesn’t have any demons? I mean, what if he’s just… I don’t know … sunny and phlegmatic?”
“If he doesn’t have demons now,” Ingrid says, “he’ll have them once your lot are finished with him.”
That’s the cue for Sara: “There was a rumor some years ago that he has mental health issues. Bipolar or schizophrenic or something. Never confirmed or denied by the family.”
“God.” William shakes his head. “It’s like bipolar is the new nipple piercing.”
“Pretty sure he’s got that too…” Sara mutters.
“What do you mean?” Isak asks.
“The piercing. He’s –”
“Not that.” Isak digs his thumb into the inner corner of his eye, willing his beginning migraine away. “What the fuck do you mean, William? Bipolar is like the new nipple piercing?”
“Oh, you know… everyone’s got it now. Russell Brand and Demi Lovato, Princess Leia, Kanye, Selena Gomez, Stephen Fry…. It’s like… it’s cool to be crazy now, you know?”
“Right. That’s an awesome insight, William.” Isak turns to Geir. Unclenches his hand. “So. You’ve found your new suitor. Has he signed yet?”
“No. Sana and I went to talk to him a couple of days ago.”
“And?”
“He laughed. Said that he’d love to be a kept man, but that he’s got no intention of whoring himself out on national TV.”
“Fair enough.”
“I want him,” Geir says.
“Yeah, I’ve gathered as much.”
“And I want you back on the show. Junior producer, alongside Sana and William. Let’s run this thing together. There’ll be fat bonuses. You’ll be able to clear your debt in just a couple of short months. Unless you decide to crash another Porsche, but that’s up to you, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“Come on, Spurv. You love this game and what’s more important, you’re good at it.” Geir is holding out his hands, palms up, like he’s expecting Isak to take them. “Join us.”
This… is not what Isak expected when he came here. But there’s an angle here, something that he can work – that he has to work if he wants to get a job in this godawful business ever again. “If I come back for this one season,” Isak says, “whatever fucking thing you’ve put out there to ensure that my applications go straight to the bin goes away.”
“Oh, certainly.” Geir is all solicitousness. “It’ll disappear in a plume of smoke.”
Isak nods. “I get first dibs when it comes to the candidates I’m working with. Girls and boys. Sana and William can take my leftovers.”
“Hell, no—"
“What the fuck! How can he—"
“Fine.” Geir speaks over Sana’s and William’s protest: “I think you deserve as much. If you get Næsheim’s son to sign.”
“That’s now part of the junior producer’s job description?”
“What can I say? You’re good. People like you. They trust you.”
Isak narrows his eyes. “Say I deliver your suitor…”, he says, heart pounding. “If I do this, then you get the network to drop the charges. No fucking around. The charges disappear.”
Geir, at ease from his loosely clasped hands to his naked toes, says: “Now that’s… asking a lot.”
Isak swallows. “And so?”
“You know what, Spurv? Let’s make things interesting at least.” Geir rises smoothly to his feet and walks over to where Isak stands. “I want to see you work for this. Break a sweat, get all hot and flustered. Because to be perfectly honest, this ultra-composed little act you’re putting on for us is boring.”
He extends his hand and Isak, taking a step back, asks, “What is it that you want?”
Geir smiles. “Get the kid to sign by the end of the day and we’re talking.”