The Exception

by Christian Jungersen

  ‘Oh, good, there you are. I was worried. Thought I might have to blow some smoke under the door to tempt you to come out.’

  Malene has listened to other arthritic people speaking about the advantages of smoking hash. Drinking wine often causes stiffening and pain, and can react unpredictably with medicines. She sits back in the soft armchair and starts to munch on a little chocolate-dipped cake. Might be just as well to leap into the world of the disabled here and now, she thinks.

  Charlotte hands her the joint. ‘The longer you hold the smoke in your lungs, the more you get out of it. Don’t even think of coughing!’

  ‘Thanks. Lots of my friends used to smoke. I’ve tried it too. Trouble was, it had no effect on me.’

  Malene inhales heartily. That should be enough to get me stoned, she thinks. But, as before, smoking pot seems to do nothing for her. They light another joint a little later and she tries again. Still nothing, except for the sweating, and that’s mostly due to the overheated room.

  It isn’t until she stands up to leave that she finally notices her head feels distinctly strange.

  They embrace.

  ‘Lovely to meet you at last!’

  ‘Yes, it really was. I’ll email you from the office tomorrow.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll mail you sooner. While you’re on the train back home.’

  One more hug.

  There isn’t much waiting for her in Copenhagen: when a friend has been as supportive as Iben you can’t reasonably expect more, like her remembering to email you from Nairobi. Not even if you’ve written to tell her that you are worried about your relationship with the man in your life.

  Malene’s hands and feet are tingling. Any moment now she might tip over into the unknown. Collapse in unstoppable laughter, perhaps.

  If I hadn’t gone out of my way to fix Iben up in that job it would’ve been me who went to Africa. And then I would have had all the exciting new experiences and made all those international contacts.

  Malene is crying in the toilet on the train. The cannabis has hit home and the air is bubbling up against her face. The dingy white plastic surfaces seem to float upwards, the filthy grey floor too, followed by metal handles, and then signs, smells, sounds. Everything is rushing up, up, even faster, past the electrical cables. Or perhaps it’s the other way round. Inside the rumbling of the train, Malene is falling.

  5

  On the Monday after Sophie’s party, Malene is at her desk in the office, working on the text for three posters that will feature stories about Danish people helping Jews to escape during the Second World War. The subtext is that people should have the courage to confront any persecution of a minority, but the fact that thousands of Danes risked their lives and saved over 90 per cent of Denmark’s Jews gives yet another dimension to Malene’s project.

  Gunnar once expounded on the subject while he and Malene nibbled olives, waiting for a menu.

  ‘The mass rescue of Jews strengthened the sense of national self-satisfaction. All nation states hang on to beliefs like “This country of ours is special” and “We’re the decent ones.” The Danes simply indulge in this kind of thing more than most and they feel justified. History tells us that we’re without evil, and so without guilt.’

  Malene doesn’t want her exhibition to bolster this national lack of insight. And, as usual, Iben is full of suggestions. Malene considers countering with Gunnar’s quote, but decides against it.

  She leans forward in her ergonomic chair, bought to alleviate the pain from her arthritis, and tries to concentrate on what she is writing. ‘Bispebjerg Hospital had registered two hundred Jews as patients under false, non-Jewish names when the Germans surrounded the hospital …’ She knows perfectly well that she mustn’t allow herself to fret about Iben and Gunnar.

  Iben is actually on top form today. Normally Malene is glad to have her back in the office – the atmosphere was much duller while she was away in Kenya. At first Malene had worried about her brainy friend coming to work at the Centre. For one thing, with only five colleagues, it could have been slightly claustrophobic. Also, supporting Iben’s job application could have ruined the friendship Malene had come to depend on so much.

  The first things she had noticed about Iben when they met were her clear blue eyes and the sharp little crease between her eyebrows. In those days Iben’s skin was paler and her manner more earnest. Still, it was easy to make her laugh, dissolving into the bubbling loud giggle that made her look so charming. Afterwards she would compose herself quickly, ready to debate any issue seriously.

  But Iben is also a perfectionist. Everything has to be well thought out, executed to perfection, one hundred per cent. Anything less seems worthless to her. Apparently Iben needed therapy for panic attacks after her father’s death. Malene didn’t know her then, but it’s always been obvious to her that Iben is fragile.

  Probably no one but Malene knows that Iben can’t stand having her head and body under water at the same time. Iben keeps her head dry when washing her body and remains fully dressed when she washes her hair. That has to be a symptom of something or other.

  They were all astonished to learn how Iben behaved during the hostage business. She would have wanted to do ‘the right thing’ of course, but to act so dramatically – well, that was unexpected. She said herself that she had been ‘someone else’ in Kenya. That’s why Fredrik called her ‘Batgirl’. He must have thought it was flattering to suggest that she had a secret identity. But he had enough sensitivity to see how much Iben detested the idea and stopped his joking at once.

  Two years ago, for all her doubts, Malene had felt she had to support Iben for the DCGI post. All the students of literature had hoped to land jobs as editors or book reviewers or journalists writing on the arts. Instead, and regardless of how brilliant they were, they received at best low-paid freelance commissions, supporting themselves with unemployment benefits. Decent public jobs were few and far between. As Iben scouted around, her lack of office experience turned out to be a major drawback. She would come back from the employment offices with gruesome tales of graduates who had been in the system for years. They were game for anything, but would-be employers labelled them as ‘overqualified’.

  ‘You can spot them at once. Ten seconds is enough. These guys are broken and no sensible boss would dream of employing them. And they know it too.’

  When the post as DCGI information officer was advertised, Iben didn’t go for it. She didn’t even mention it. Instead she applied for every other job with a whiff of desperation.

  Malene knew the risks when she phoned Iben and urged her to apply. ‘When we receive your application, I’ll tell everyone how talented you are and what a hard worker you are. And I’ll tell them how much I look forward to the pleasure of working with you.’

  ‘Come on, they won’t go for your best friend.’

  ‘I won’t tell them that. I’ll say that we were students together and that I got to know you when we lived in the same dorm. And that I remember you were fantastically efficient and reliable. That’s only the truth.’

  ‘We’re not letting on that we’re close friends, then?’

  ‘Well, no – not close friends. But “friendly”.’

  ‘I still won’t get the job. Thousands of more experienced people will go for it.’

  ‘I’ll brief you on exactly what you should say to the different board members in the final interview. That’ll help.’

  Silence.

  ‘Iben! It’s a job. It’s the job of your dreams!’

  By lunchtime Paul still hasn’t come back. Iben, Malene, Camilla and Anne-Lise lunch together on a fresh rye loaf from the baker, two different cheeses and low-fat liver paté – Camilla’s special. No different from so many other days.

  Camilla is slightly overweight, but not so plump that she needs to wear the long, floppy tops she likes to hide beneath. She and Anne-Lise are both in their early forties. It makes them older than Iben and Malene by only ten years or so, but there is
a marked generation gap. Camilla and Anne-Lise seldom go out in the town. They live quietly in the suburbs with their respective husbands and children. Things like new films or music hardly matter to them.

  Camilla is talking about how much she’s saving by going to the dentist in Sweden. ‘And if you take into account that Finn is going there too, we saved more than three thousand kroner last year.’ Camilla has developed her telephone voice over many years of secretarial work and everyone comments on its cheerfulness, unexpected in an office dedicated to human tragedy. Still, optimism is important if the routine work of the Centre is to be endured.

  They talk for a while about a particular journalist from an evening paper who interviewed Iben about her time as a hostage.

  Then Camilla is off again about the family trips to Sweden. ‘You see, once we’ve had our teeth fixed in Malmö we go for a drive. Sometimes we simply pack a picnic and pile the kids into the car. Last time, we went to the Dinosaur Park. It’s such fun …’ She glances at Malene and hesitates. ‘At least, anyway … if you’re there with children.’

  Malene gets up. ‘Now we’d better be good.’

  This signals that the lunch break is over. They pour themselves fresh mugs of coffee and go back to their desks.

  Later that afternoon Camilla finds some new Internet clips from Chris and the Chocolate Factory. They laugh so hard that Anne-Lise comes out from the library to join them.

  Malene has sensed tension between herself and Iben all day. Iben probably thinks that she will try to prevent her from seeing more of Gunnar. Malene decides to amuse them with a few impersonations.

  ‘You know, I think having fun together now and then is really important. It unites people.’ She turns to Camilla, her voice still full of laughter. ‘Imagine if someone sponsored a kind of reconciliation project where stand-up comics went to entertain mixed groups of Serbs and Bosnians, just so they could experience laughing together.’

  Anne-Lise stands over by the library door and turns to Malene. ‘There are twelve million Serbs and four million Bosnians.’

  Malene wants to be nice to her and smiles. ‘Oh, it was just a thought. A bit of fun. I didn’t mean it literally.’

  That evening Malene finds an email waiting for her on her home computer:

  YOU, MALENE JENSEN, HAVE SWORN TO YOUR SECRET EVIL,

  AS LEADER AND CHANCELLOR OF YOUR REICH, LOYALTY

  AND BRAVERY.

  YOU HAVE PLEDGED TO EVIL AND THE SUPERIORS

  APPOINTED BY EVIL, OBEDIENCE UNTO DEATH *

  SO HELP YOU GOD.

  * DEATH, WHICH I WILL BRING YOU VERY SOON.

  Nothing happens when she double-clicks on the sender’s address, which is revenge_is_near@imhidden.com.

  She recognises many of the words from the oath of allegiance sworn by SS officers to Hitler, but changed so that ‘Hitler’ is replaced by ‘your secret evil’ and so on. She walks over to a window facing the street, looks out and then closes the curtains.

  After getting a piece of chocolate, she phones Rasmus in Cologne, but he must be in a meeting or something because his mobile is switched off.

  Instead she calls Iben. It turns out that Iben has had a threatening email too and has completely freaked out. She ran out without a jacket and is somewhere on Nørrebro Street.

  Malene thinks Iben’s reaction is over the top, even given their place of work. It was just an email after all. She tries to empathise and calm down Iben at the same time. However, she finds herself listening for sounds in her own flat, though she can’t take herself seriously.

  Going out into the cold night doesn’t make her happy. She has just started the washing machine and the flat is a mess. Still, she agrees to meet Iben at Props. Afterwards she intends to sleep in her own bed; Iben can stay where she likes.

  Before leaving, Malene phones Paul. He is giving a lecture out of town, but luckily she gets hold of him during a coffee break.

  He seems untroubled by her news. ‘It’s the kind of thing you expect if you’re involved in anything political. You just have to learn to put up with it. Of course, we’ll look into these threats, but on the other hand, don’t let them scare you.’

  Malene doesn’t feel scared. ‘So you’ve had emails like this too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘People threatening to kill you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Are they sent by war criminals, do you think?’

  ‘No, I don’t. It’s mostly right-wing idiots who write to me – neo-Nazis and what have you. Everyone in our kind of job gets threatened sooner or later. All you can do is ignore it.’

  Malene is breaking off small pieces of her chocolate bar, but isn’t eating any of them. ‘I’ve just talked to Iben about it. You know, about how seriously we should take the threats.’

  ‘It’s unpleasant, I know. Is Rasmus at home now?’

  ‘No, he’s in Cologne. At a trade fair.’

  ‘That’s not so good.’

  Malene doesn’t answer. She can hear the voices of Paul’s audience in the background.

  Props is nearly empty. It’s too early in the evening. A couple of years ago, Malene and Iben started going to Props where most of the regulars are men, often creative types with slightly haggard faces. Many have made a pass at Malene across the café tables that look like relics from a 1960s summer house.

  Iben waves Malene over.

  Even before Malene has a chance to sit down, Iben starts speaking urgently, as quickly and matter-of-factly as if she were at work. Her voice cuts through the low Steely Dan number that’s playing in the background.

  ‘Listen, I’ve rung Camilla and Anne-Lise. Camilla hasn’t received one of the emails but Anne-Lise wasn’t in. And I phoned Lotta and Henk from the Swedish and Dutch genocide centres. Neither of them has had emails like the ones we received and they don’t know of anyone who has.’ She smiles a little, holding a warm cup of coffee with both hands. ‘Then I contacted Anders and Karen at Human Rights and Svend at International Studies. And Paul …’

  ‘I called Paul too.’

  ‘I know. He told me. After you called, he phoned his wife and asked her to check. He hasn’t got emails like ours. It looks like you and I are the only ones.’

  Malene had wanted to hug Iben because she’d been so scared, but the stream of words gets in the way. Instead she hands over a sweater she has brought and goes to order another coffee for Iben and a glass of white wine for herself. The two of them agree that Paul would be the likeliest target for a war criminal’s threats. Paul is constantly in the media spotlight and signs most of the Centre’s public statements regardless of who drafted them. So why hasn’t he, or someone else prominent in the human-rights sector, received the menacing messages?

  They try to think of a war criminal they have exposed on the web, one Paul hasn’t mentioned publicly, but no one seems to fit the description.

  At a corner table two men in football jerseys start arguing loudly. Iben holds her line of thought, and blinks, turning to scan the darkness outside the large window that looks onto Blågård Street. Malene can’t help following Iben’s gaze, but there is nothing to see. Iben is definitely not herself.

  Wearing Malene’s coffee-coloured sweater, Iben leans forward. What she says gives little away about how she feels. You must watch her eyes and mouth instead.

  ‘Here we are, good people with university degrees. Day after day, we’re off to our jobs at the Centre or the Institute for Human Rights or Amnesty International or Doctors Without Borders. We discuss the news during our lunch breaks and water plants and put up posters for UN special days. And we don’t realise that at any moment we might have to fight torturers or executioners or militia bosses. Because, although we never think about it, we’re soldiers at war.’

  Small muscles twitch around Iben’s mouth, indicating, as Malene knows, that what she is saying is paramount.

  Malene feels a surge of warmth towards her friend and proposes a toast: ‘To us. Women at War.’<
br />
  Iben responds eagerly, as if Malene has just uttered the phrase she had been searching for. ‘Yes, that’s who we are! – Women at War. We’ve never realised it until now. None of us ever thought about ourselves that way …’

  Iben has said it so loud that the two men in football jerseys turn around to look.

  ‘We’re not much good at warfare, though. We’re so easy to find on the Internet. If notorious war criminals want to know what’s been written about them in the media they can find us, no problem.’

  It sounds to Malene as if Iben truly believes that her life is in danger. She seems to be going through many of the same feelings Malene has endured for years, ever since learning about her illness. Malene feels more connected to her old friend than ever before. She smiles and says she’s going to get another glass of wine. This time Iben wants one too.

  Back at the table, Malene quickly checks the dark street outside once again. ‘Why now, do you think?’

  ‘Because we’ve challenged somebody.’

  She sits up straight. ‘That’s it. Someone thinks we’re making a difference. Enough for him to feel uneasy.’

  Malene wants to call Rasmus and goes outside to escape the music. Blågård is a quiet pedestrian street. She looks around for Iben’s men with swarthy faces and a military bearing. There are dozens of them. At this time of evening the street is full of immigrants gathered in small groups, almost all of them male.

  Rasmus replies this time. He’s in a taxi, taking a few clients to a bar.

  Malene tells him about the emails and Paul’s advice. She adds that Iben is taking the threats much more seriously than she might have expected. ‘I’ve never seen Iben like this before. At least now she seems ready to admit that there was no one in her flat.’

  Two years younger than Malene, Rasmus’s laid-back, boyish style makes their age difference more pronounced. Nevertheless he is sensitive to her moods and able to shift instantly from being narcissistic to being supportive. ‘If only I were at home with you. We could find out more about this together.’