Saviour's Face

I first saw the man as I entered the lobby of my apartment building. It was just a glance as we passed, but it caused me to stop and look around. He was already opening the glass door to the street and I didn’t get another clear look at his face, but I was sure of having seen it before. The concierge asked if I was OK. I told him yes, thought of asking if he knew the man but decided not to, sensing a thought best kept to myself. I took the elevator, entered my apartment and opened the briefcase. The documents had been printed because I felt more confident reading important information on paper than a screen, and I knew I should give them my immediate attention. But the man’s face stayed in my mind, I went to the bookshelf, scanned the collection of art books and found the catalogue from an exhibition of twenty years before. A flick through the pages and I found him staring at me. Saviour’s Face. It wasn’t a realistic portrait, but an arrangement of lines and colours that created the impression of a long face seeming more than human. But it was him, with large, staring eyes, a small mouth and strands of hair falling behind each ear. The image had stuck in my mind since I had seen the painting and often drawn me to open the catalogue. Maybe the man in the lobby had not really looked like that, but my mind had created the impression.

It had to be stress. I returned the catalogue to the shelf, looked at the documents on the table and decided I should rest for a while before reading them. Even though they threatened to destroy my life.

That night I barely slept. I had read the documents, reminding myself of details I had previously pushed aside and realising I was in deep trouble. The state investigator now had copies and would know exactly what I had known, and the actions I authorised, that ultimately led to the spillage, a toxic mess that had left dozens dead, hundreds on their sickbeds and a swathe of land poisoned for decades. She would have evidence of how the decisions prioritised corporate profit and pretended the risks were minimal and easily managed. My lawyers had assessed it all and, although they told me there was a credible defence, their voices were laced with professional despair and private disdain. They felt obliged to defend me but didn’t want to.

I was awake at dawn, drinking strong coffee and eating eggs despite a lack of appetite. My stomach was tight as I showered, shaved and dressed, feeling shabby despite the tailored suit and handmade shoes that had always boosted my self-esteem. I wanted to be in my office early to face up to the immensity of the crisis, and to avoid people as they arrived. As usual I walked, twenty-five minutes through city streets, and tormented by the thought that soon the story would be made public and people would know my face. I would probably need protection. Then halfway to the office I saw him again, on a corner across the street, standing still and staring at me. I looked away and kept walking but within seconds looked back. He turned and walked away. The I felt an urge to follow but had to wait for a truck, two cars and a bus to pass before I could cross the road, then couldn’t see him. I walked quickly in the direction he had taken, looked through the windows of three office buildings and two coffee bars but saw nothing. I paused, felt pathetic and wondered if I had imagined the man. It took ten minutes sitting on a nearby bench before I was able to resume my walk.

The day went as badly as I had feared. There were calls from the investigator, insistence on a meeting, more calls with my lawyers, and conversations with colleagues. Those who had known or suspected what had happened were clearly scared; those who hadn’t were shocked and angry. Then I was told of the first call from a journalist, immediately contacted our communications chief and agreed on a blanket response of no comment while the state investigation continued. But by afternoon the story was on TV and radio news and half an hour later it was swamping social media. Around me the building seemed quiet, and fearful.

I stayed late, thought of calling for a car, maybe even a security escort, but fought off the anxiety and walked home. I kept a steady pace with my eyes set on the pavement twenty yards ahead, not wanting to catch anyone’s glance or to look fearful. I had almost reached home when a bus stopped just in front of me and a dozen teenagers spilled onto the pavement. I halted, allowed them to bundle past me, then caught a glance from a woman who followed. She said nothing but her eyes showed recognition, and disgust. I walked on quickly, eager to get behind a locked door, and entered the apartment block lobby. The concierge spoke my name.

“I ought to warn you,” he said. “A couple of people have come by asking if you live here. I told them we can’t give out that information.”

“Who were they?”

“One said he was a journalist.”

There was a note of surprise in his voice. He couldn’t have known what was happening, but no doubt he would soon.

“He was persistent,” he added. “I had to order him out of the building.”

That prompted me to look towards the glass door. The man was there again. I stood numb for a moment. Then the concierge said something. I didn’t take it in, looked back to him and mumbled words even I didn’t understand.

“Are you OK?” he asked.

I simultaneously said yes and shook my head. He looked more worried. Then I looked back to the door and the man was gone. I went up to my apartment in a mild daze.

I read more documents and my despair deepened. The lawyers had changed their line to saying there might be a way to save us from the worst, keep the company alive and us senior directors out of prison; but I knew there would be widespread outrage and that I would face a lifetime of vilification. The best I could hope for was a slim chance of remote obscurity. My phone had been set to silent but, wanting a flicker of hope, I checked the messages and calls and saw that my daughter had tried to contact me twice in the past hour. It took a minute of deep breathing to call her back.

“Is it all true?” she asked.

I paused. There were things I hadn’t told her, but I had never lied.

“I’ve done things that I can now see were wrong,” I replied.

“It caused those people to die?”

“I hadn’t foreseen that.”

“But how? I mean, you’ve always told me that it’s part of what makes you so important, that you should know everything important, what’s happening and what might happen.”

It was true that my mind had never acknowledged the possibility of a disaster, but also that I had deliberately shut it off.

“This time I failed.”

“You failed?”

A painful silence followed, then minutes of difficult questions and faltering answers. I tried to explain how the demands of my position, and those on my colleagues, led us into a way of thinking that the needs of the organisation came first; unpleasant consequences could be rationalised and minimised as long they only affected others. My daughter listened, but she had a strong sense of morality and the capacity to think for herself. Her questions continued and it was clear she wasn’t convinced. I was reduced to pleading for understanding.

“I understand enough.” Her voice cracked. I realised that now she was in tears. “I can’t …. I can’t defend you.”

“Then can you forgive me?”

There was another brief but painful pause before she replied.

“Please don’t call me.”

The line was cut and I collapsed into myself. I had lost what I loved beyond all else.

Somehow I slept, but it was drenched in a dark foreboding of torments to come. I woke up tired, wanting to stay in bed but knowing I had to face a world that was beginning to view me with disgust. I hoped I would find some self-esteem, even sympathy from others, in stepping outside to face the inevitable accusations, so I showered, shaved, dressed and ate a large breakfast before stuffing the documents and my laptop into the briefcase. I had closed it but not set the code for the lock when the phone rang. It was the morning concierge.

“There are a lot of people outside, waiting for you. You might want to take the elevator to the cellar then up the service stairs.”

I agreed, wanting to save him the problem of a mob and reckoning it was better to face a more formal inquisition. Ten minutes later I climbed the steps from the storage cellar to a fire exit door and into the service lane at the back of the building. I guessed there would be another crowd outside the company’s headquarters, but I could walk to the main street, take a diversion of a couple of blocks and then to a point where I could call for somebody to let me in through a service entrance. I had reached the end of the back street, walking too quickly to stop myself as a body came from around the corner and clattered into me. I saw his face, the man from the painting, looking at me with apologetic surprise. We stared at each other and I was struck by a feeling that this should be a revelation, but without a clue what it would be. Then he glanced down and I realised my briefcase had sprung open, papers were sliding out and the laptop protruding. I fumbled and managed to close it up but saw that a few papers were on the pavement.  The man said sorry and knelt to help me gather them, and I felt a moment of relief in thinking he was just a good natured stranger. Then I heard someone call my name and saw two men, one with a camera, running along the pavement towards us. I didn’t want to face them, blurted a thank you to the man then crossed the road, noticing an approaching taxi. I was able to hail it and about to open the door when I heard a call and saw the man holding up two sheets of paper that I had missed. I gestured at the taxi driver to wait then stepped back into the road – and was hit by a force that carried me for twenty yards and left me lying on the tarmac.

I stared upwards, aware of a large vehicle to my side and unable to move, blood trickling from mouth and a sense of everything draining from my body and mind. There were voices around me and faces appeared, a balding man with stubble and another with a moustache, both in shock. Then he appeared, the man with large eyes, a small mouth and strands of hair falling from behind his ears. He touched my hand and looked at me with a calm but powerful compassion. Then I felt my revelation. I wouldn’t have to face my accusers, struggle for excuses or make a confession, or go through the public humiliation that I deserved. He had given me a means of escape. I stared up at my saviour’s face and welcomed the end.

Image: Savior's Face by Alexej von Jawlensky, public domain

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