Introduction

Eight lives are about to change in Copenhagen. The executives of the Tank, a financial firm downtown, have just heard that a financial crisis is looming. Which employees will make the cut? Harold Jaeger isn’t too worried; he is the protégé of Frederick Breathwaite, an American who has worked for the Tank for twenty-five years. Jaeger’s life has been on a downward slide lately; he is divorced, alienated from his ex-wife, and growing tired of his womanizing ways. He is falling for Birgitte Sommer, a coworker whose own marriage is in trouble.

Despite his years of loyalty, Frederick Breathwaite is the first to lose his job. He can’t bring himself to tell his wife the bad news, but he takes comfort in one thing: He has made his boss, Martin Kampman, guarantee a place at the firm for Breathwaite’s son, Jes. But Jes isn’t interested in corporate life; he is content working with a Muslim key and shoemaker, Jâlal al-Din, who dispenses wisdom from the Koran to his beloved employee. Martin Kampman’s carefully controlled family life is also unraveling. His teenage son, Adam, refuses to follow in his father’s footsteps. Jes inspires Adam to start his privileged life over from scratch. As Martin reacts violently to his son’s rebellion, he seems to be on the verge of taking the Tank, and all its employees, down with him.

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Excerpt

I. Frederick Breathwaite

Breathwaite woke to a screaming from the courtyard. He knew who it was. Still groggy, he amused himself in the dark behind his eyelids, assembling the Winchester underlever locked away at the bottom of the antique chest in the hall, screwed on the telescopic sight, braced his elbow on the ledge of the back terrace, and targeted the screamer, a bawling redfaced four- year- old. Pick her off and her coddling self- loving yuppie parents, too. Bing bing bing. One, two, three. Thank you, Charlton Heston.

Assassinations complete, he slipped back down for another half hour of blessed nothing.

He had fallen asleep reading the night before and woke this time in a beam of rare October sunlight through the bedroom window of his Østerbro, East Bridge, apartment, book splayed open on his chest. Beside him in the antique four-poster bed, slight and blond as a Renaissance angel, Kirsten lay curled against his shoulder, delicate fists tucked up beneath her chin. Conscious of his own bulk, he studied the calm repose of her face, still mysterious to him after half a lifetime together. Who knows the mind of a woman? He imagined the silken feel of her skin to his fingertips. But he did not touch her.

Kirsten was a morning lover, even now, in her sixties, but despite the fact that he was younger, he had alas nothing left to off er in that department, morning, noon, or night. When he was a boy, hostage to desire, he used to pray to be free of it; now, it seemed, he was, and he would never have guessed how utterly it changed everything, how quintessential was appetite. Kis was five years older, but her appetite still flamed briskly on.

He slid from beneath the eiderdown and slippered softly across the broad-planked bedroom floor to the bath. Sitting to pee, he looked into the novel he’d been reading, at two lines he had underscored: Choose carefully who you pretend to be, for that is who you will become. Shoving the paperback into the wall rack beside the bowl, he spied an advertisement on the back of a magazine there— men in suits seated around a table— and remembered the meeting today. He had a premonition something might be coming.

He rose and washed his hands, crossed twenty meters of gleaming hardwood floor, an archipelago of antique carpets-from Iran, Afghanistan,Tibet—through the library with its ceiling-high shelves and gliding ladder, to the long, dark kitchen. He thrived in large rooms. These rooms. Broad floors, high ceilings, tall windows. Space. Without them he would smother. He brewed coffee and took it on the chilly, sunny fifth-floor balcony in his dark blue robe, a CD playing softly from the player inside: Cannonball Adderley, Miles Davis, “Autumn Leaves.” Moody variations of dead men celebrating death’s prelude.

He tugged the lapels of his robe closer to his throat. He was proud of the robe, an elegant one from Magasin du Nord, a gift from his colleagues at the Tank two years before, on the occasion of his twenty- fi fth anniversary on the job. His secretary told him it had cost two thousand crowns, money contributed voluntarily, out of pocket, from the headquarters staff . They had lined the long hallway when he’d come in that day, unsuspecting, and when he’d stepped off the elevator he had proceeded through a gauntlet of them, waving paper Danish flags and cheering him. At the end of the gauntlet stood the new CEO, Martin Kampman, holding aloft between thumb and finger a minuscule paper flag on a toothpick, which he’d flicked back and forth at a twitch of his wrist, smiling— a small, horizontal smile bracketed between tiny verticals.

Coffee cheer lifted his brain. The day was immaculate. Vast, flawless, blue autumn sky above his head, yellow and red sunlit leaves on the treetops below, and golden sunlight warming the green- copper towers of Copenhagen, the adopted city that had become his home, where his sons were born, his grandchildren. Th is sunlight he recognized as the gift it was, the most beautiful autumn he had seen in his de cades here, where sunlight and warmth could never be relied on. Th e days were already being chewed short to feed the lengthening nights as winter prepared to pipe in the darkness. Even that he had grown to love about the country that was now his home, the yearly share of death, later repaid to those who survived by the white nights of summer.

The moody, cozy notes of Miles Davis’s trumpet lulled him into an agreeable melancholy.

Curious, he thought, that there is no religious festival to celebrate autumn, no sacred autumnal ceremony. Harvest, of course, but that was end of summer, that was the feast of plenty, not the first smell of death. Not that the Danes had so very much religion to start with, though they were a Christian nation, their whole society built on its secular equivalent. And they had their ritual seasonal touchstones— Easter, Christmas, even Pentecost, Whitsunday, which they celebrated by drinking all night until the sun danced at dawn and them with it. But nothing for autumn. St. Morten’s Eve was a ritual- less feast of roast duck or goose. No. Th ere were only the falling leaves to mark the secret reverence of accepted sorrow, reverent natural meta phor of inevitable death. Rake the leaves and strike a match, witness beauty consumed in flame, rising to the sky in smoke.

From the breast pocket of his robe he lifted a Don Tomás, smelled and wet it before striking a match to roast its nose in a cedar flame and filling his mouth with the fine Honduras smoke. His cheeks hollowed deeply as he drew on the cigar, then puffed out as he released the white smoke through pursed lips. He smiled at the Chinese archer on one knee in the corner of the stone balcony. He had purchased the sculpture for a song at a Bruun Rasmussen auction on the other side of Langelinie Bridge. Why

an archer? he wondered. Why an antique kneeling Chinese archer on their balcony? He could find no other reason than that the bid had been so low and easy, the only piece of art they owned that he’d bought because it was cheap. All the other pieces— paintings, masks, sculptures— he had acquired because they would not give him peace until he did. Didn’t matter what they were worth in money. Fortunately, he and Kirsten—Kis—shared the same taste. They liked pieces that unsettled them or made them smile or, in the best case, both: an ironically ferocious Inuit mask; an enormous Gunleif oil of an angel sitting like a hen on a woman’s head; a cast- iron blue- and- red amphibian that looked like a cross between a snail and a pterodactyl, by the Finnish sculptor Heikki Virolainen; a three-foot ebony Senafu bird with a meter-long bill in profile; a ram’s head, tongue jutting downward while a rainbow bird pecked into its brain . . .

And an antique kneeling Chinese archer for a song? He chuckled at his own evident corruption, even of his taste for art.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Kis asked softly from behind him, standing between the white- lacquered frames of the double glass doors.

He turned his smile to her. “Because I wanted you to miss me, skat.” Trea sure. Th e word was not ironic.

“Don’t you come back to bed?” A tender question, tentative. She knew he had a problem but would not let him think she was not willing to help and reminded him discreetly from time to time that such problems passed, but also that problems should be addressed. Diff erence between men and women: Women wanted to talk about everything, even if doing so caused pain and confusion.

“Wouldn’t blame you if you took a lover,” he said.

“Such rubbish!” she growled, the way Danish women growl to indicate no-nonsense honesty. “Have you one of those meetings today? They always put you in a sour mood.”

“What a blessing this sun is,” he said, and warmed his eyes on her sweet aging blond face.

. Harald Jaeger

Forty- seven, forty- eight, forty- nine . . . Due north from Breathwaite’s

east- side windows, Harald Jaeger did push- ups on the dusty wall- to- wall

of his Nørrebro, North Bridge, two- room. He entertained the fact that he

was halfway to Friday to avoid thinking about the Wednesday morning

management meeting he would soon have to suff er at the Tank. Th e

Mumble Club.

Plea sure burned through his blood with the tensing and fl exing of his

biceps and triceps as he pressed up from and dipped down again to the dirty

beige carpet, enjoying the gathering sweat on his brow, beneath his arms

and T-shirt.

Demons lurked around the dim little room. He held them at bay with

the steamy images assembling in his brain as he worked his blood and

muscle, sculpting his arms, his abs, his pecs, feeling the radiation down to

the cherished clockwork at the center of his universe.

Ninety- six, ninety- seven, ninety- eight . . . Finally, midway on the hundred

and fi rst, his arms gave out and he dropped to his belly, panting. He

sneezed, nostrils tickled by the dust particles dancing in a beam of smeary

light. Th en he leapt to his feet, shoved a CD into the stereo, and threw

himself into the rhythm of Manu Chao, dancing himself into a lather,

stepping, dipping, leaping, twisting, until he collapsed into his armchair,

gasping, halfway through “Welcome to Tijuana.”

Calm then, he wiped the corners of his eyes, demon free, guzzled half a

liter of cold grapefruit juice, belched with openmouthed plea sure, scratched

his butt, and stepped under a steaming shower. Beneath the scalding water,

behind his pink- black eyelids, images of Amalie and Elisabeth drifted

across his consciousness.

No. Not today. Please.

No use. He remembered when last he had phoned, and six- year- old

Amalie told him she thought about him every single night when she lay

down in bed, kept seeing his face in the dark. Th e demons moved closer

again. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

From the publisher:

1. Falling Sideways opens with descriptions of characters’ homes: Breathwaite’s apartment, Jaeger’s bachelor pad, Birgitte’s bungalow, and Martin’s mansion. What do we learn about these characters from their domestic spaces?

2. Why does Jaeger call the Tank’s weekly executive meeting “the Mumble Club?” Why does he dread this meeting? How do Jaeger’s thoughts and behaviors during the meeting reveal his job insecurities?

3. After he is fired from the Tank, Breathwaite formulates the philosophy by which he has lived and worked as, “If you work hard, you will prosper; no need to try to bring the other man down” (42). What strategies do Breathwaite, Jaeger, and Kampman use to accomplish their goals? Would either Jaeger or Kampman agree with Breathwaite’s philosophy of prosperity? Why or why not?

4. Consider Martin Kampman’s morning routine, from his 4:59 waking time to his 7:03 arrival at the Tank. What does Martin’s lifestyle reveal about his character? Why does Karen, Martin’s wife, say to him at the end of the novel, “Who are you?” (271). Does the reader know Kampman any better than Karen does? Explain.

5. Consider the setting of Falling Sideways. How does Copenhagen look, sound, and feel to each of these characters? Who feels constricted by the city, and who seems inspired by it? How does life in Denmark, “this little kingdom of islands,” seem to compare to life in the United States (29)? How does the “Danish dream” compare to the “American dream” (112)?

6. Discuss the role of women in the novel. How are female characters like Birgitte, Jytte, and Karen portrayed? Do women fare any better than the struggling fathers and sons of the novel? Explain.

7. While crossing Queen Louise’s Bridge, Breathwaite has a vision of three couples who seem to perform an orchestrated dance. Why does this vision disturb Breathwaite? What might these couples symbolize for him?

8. Describe the relationship between Jes and Adam, sons of the Tank who strike up a friendship. What do these young men have in common? What differences and rivalries complicate their new friendship?

9. On two occasions, Adam decides to start his life over. At the bank he thinks, “Now that he had started his future, it seemed appropriate to make a withdrawal” (166). And at the end of the novel he realizes, “Life now was like a blank picture, an empty box, and what he had to do now was slowly, carefully, to fill that emptiness” (276). Compare these two scenes of Adam’s renewal. What has Adam learned over the course of these few days, and how will he make a new start?

10. The conflict between fathers and children is a main theme of Falling Sideways. Describe the relationships that Breathwaite, Jaeger, Kampman, and Jâlal have with their children and with their own parents. Which of these fathers is able to connect with their sons and daughters, and which fail?

11. Jaeger attempts to recite William Butler Yeats’s poem “A Drinking Song” to the Tank’s Irish clients (256). Yeats’s poem reads, “Wine comes in at the mouth / And love comes in at the eye; / That’s all we shall know for truth / Before we grow old and die. / I lift the glass to my mouth, / I look at you, and I sigh.” How does Jaeger get the poem wrong, and how do his mistakes change the meaning of his speech?

12. Discuss the character of Jâlal al-Din, Jes Breathwaite’s boss at the Dome of the Rock Key & Heel Bar. How does Jâlal’s family life reflect his struggles as an immigrant in Denmark? How does Jâlal’s “other ‘son,’ young Jes,” betray Jâlal in the end, and how does Jâlal react (282)?

13. Discuss the structure of Falling Sideways. What is the effect of its division of chapters, with each section covering a single day? Which day feels the longest, and which the shortest? Why do you think the novel skips Sunday?

14. The novel closes with an intimate moment between Breathwaite and his wife, Kis. How has the Breathwaites’ marriage improved over the course of these few days? Which other couples also end happily, and which relationships seem in jeopardy at the end of Falling Sideways?

15. Several characters narrate Falling Sideways. Which narrators do you sympathize with most and least? Which character’s innermost thoughts are the funniest, and which are the saddest?


Suggested reading
Thomas E. Kennedy, In the Company of Angels; Joshua Ferris, Then We Came to the End; Tom Rachman, The Imperfectionists; Adam Haslett, Union Atlantic; Jess Walter, The Financial Lives of the Poets; Jonathan Dee, The Privileges; Howard Jacobson, The Finkler Question; Jonathan Franzen, Freedom; Helen Simonson, Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand; Sam Lipsyte, The Ask; Brady Udall, The Lonely Polygamist; Gary Shteyngart, Super Sad True Love Story; Nicholson Baker, The Anthologist.


Thomas E. Kennedy’s books include novels, story and essay collections, literary criticism, translations, and anthologies. His writing has been awarded several prizes, including the National Magazine Award in 2008. He teaches in the MFA program at Fairleigh Dickinson University. Born and raised in New York, Kennedy currently lives in Copenhagen with his two children. His Web site is www.thomasekennedy.com.

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