The Exception

by Christian Jungersen

  Once the worst of the mess has been cleared up and Anne-Lise has returned from the bathroom, Paul takes charge. ‘We need to have a meeting about this. Anne-Lise, is there anything we can do for you? It must’ve been appalling. I mean the Centre will put up the money to pay for new clothes. But, well, I don’t know. Would you like to see a psychologist?’

  Anne-Lise looks better – in one piece again. She doesn’t want any counselling, she says, but she would like to go home. Now. She is not in the mood for a meeting.

  Paul orders a taxi for her. Everyone tries to be supportive and comforting until the taxi takes her away. Then they go into Paul’s office to talk.

  Paul is calm.

  ‘I know this has been a terrible shock for everyone, especially for Anne-Lise. But looking at it from a broader perspective … you know, I think we should allow ourselves to feel slightly relieved. It’s clearly not Mirko Zigic or some other experienced killer who’s threatening the Centre. They wouldn’t waste their energy on this kind of prank. It’s quite a relief, don’t you agree? This looks more like the handiwork of one of those neo-Nazi teenagers. They keep sending me letters, but they’ve never done anything worse than break three windowpanes back home. And they shoved a decaying fish through our letter box. This has been nasty but – when all is said and done – it has also clarified the situation: we’re not being chased by Zigic, or any of his kind.’

  Paul has clearly prepared this little lecture for them, and they listen in silence, unwilling to interrupt him.

  ‘Now, many of us will have come to the conclusion that whoever is bothering us must have a link to the Centre. We can’t be certain, of course. Our front door isn’t locked during working hours, so anybody could slip inside.

  ‘I’ll take action immediately. Naturally, the board must be told and I’ll explain that we need a secure front door and a CCTV camera on the stairs. If the camera is wired up to our computers, we will all have access to an on-screen window showing us who is approaching our landing. And we’ll be able to lock both our front door and the street door with one keystroke, without moving from our desks. The board has to accept that it’s worth spending money on getting our security systems up to speed.

  ‘They will ask me how I can be sure that this isn’t an inside job. Now, I cannot imagine that any of you would want to do this kind of thing to Anne-Lise – it’s simply unbelievable. But, again, I have to say that we can’t be certain at this stage – just that we can choose either to trust each other, or not.’

  Paul looks pleased with himself. ‘My experience tells me that trust always brings out the best in people. Much more effective than trying to control everyone, which is what I’ll tell the board. Unless there’s a strong reason for changing my mind, I choose to trust the people I work with.’

  He pauses, but nobody speaks up.

  ‘Do you agree? Or does anyone want to comment?’

  Nobody does.

  They all stay on to chat, mostly about the reasons for a private war against DCGI and when the person might have sneaked in. Iben notices that Paul, for all his declared faith in his colleagues, is alert and watching them closely. Will someone give herself away? His casual questions and intent way of listening are quite transparent.

  But then, he’s not the only one. They all make a point of insisting on their good intentions, each declaring, with slight variations, ‘The person who did this must be caught!’, meaning: ‘It wasn’t me!’

  ‘If we all agree that none of us has done this,’ Malene asks, ‘shouldn’t we call the police?’

  Paul smiles. ‘Yes, of course. You’re right. I’ll do it at once.’

  In the evening Iben visits her mother in Roskilde. It is the ninth anniversary of her father’s death and they have met on that day ever since he died. It has become a tradition for them to have a special meal together, with the fine wines and good food that Iben’s father liked so much. At the dining table, halfway through the first course, the appetising smell of sautéed lamb chops is wafting through from the kitchen. As usual, it is very quiet.

  Iben’s mother wants to talk about the Centre and Iben’s safety. Iben would prefer to change the topic, but explains patiently: ‘Mum, it can’t have been any of the men you read about in our newsletter. The police checked the locks and said there was no sign of a break-in.’

  ‘But someone did get in all the same.’

  ‘I don’t think Serbian mass murderers can be bothered with sending emails or tricks like pouring blood into a magazine box.’

  Iben could have admitted that, ever since receiving the threatening email, she has taken a combat knife with her everywhere she goes. In fact, she has taped the sheath upside down to her leg, the handle level with the top of her sock, and has practised drawing the knife in case of a violent attack. Her fastest time so far is three seconds. But she hasn’t told anyone about the knife, not even Grith or Malene. Her own nervousness has started to annoy her, but it doesn’t abate.

  Her mother seems to be concentrating on the remains of her portion of salmon terrine, but looks up quickly when Iben draws in her breath. She doesn’t say anything.

  ‘I know it must seem far-fetched to you, but what Grith said about split identities is the only thing that makes sense to me. It’s somehow reasonable that one personality needn’t know what the other one is up to. And, if all that is true, then Anne-Lise might have poured the blood into the box file herself. Maybe some part of her hates her everyday self. I know it sounds odd but … can you think of a better explanation?’

  All this is somehow unbearably grim. Iben blinks a few times before starting up again. ‘Grith says that it’s not that unusual. And Anne-Lise seems different … I mean, I think she has psychological problems.’

  Iben’s mother chews carefully on her last forkful of terrine before coming out with what’s on her mind: ‘By now you’ve been there long enough, haven’t you? It would look all right if you applied for other jobs, I mean.’

  ‘I don’t want to apply for other jobs.’

  ‘There you are … well, all I thought was …’

  Iben interrupts. ‘What we do matters. Someone has to do it. And anyway, Malene works there too.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  They take the plates through to the kitchen. Iben’s mother returns with the meat dish, and Iben follows with the red wine and salad.

  Iben’s mother is a nurse and her father was a doctor. When Iben reflects on her childhood, she often thinks that she and her father were less than kind to her mother. From the age of six onwards, Iben devoured books and loved discussing them with her father. Iben’s mother was never a member of their smart little mutual admiration society. Grith has argued more than once that Iben collaborated with her father because she was terrified that he would despise her as he did her mother. Later Iben became a medical student, just like her father. Within a year of his death, one of the outcomes of Iben’s breakdown was that she left medicine and took up literature instead.

  They drink a toast to the dead man, speak a little about him and recall some of the things they did together. Then Iben asks her mother how her week has been.

  Still, Iben can’t help feeling irritated at her mother’s remark about how she should get a new job. Her mother won’t leave it alone, hanging on even though she tries to change the subject.

  ‘But, it seems such a ghastly place. You wouldn’t want to stay on for ever, would you?’

  ‘It isn’t ghastly at all!’

  ‘Blood pouring from the shelves and …’

  ‘Mum, that’s an exception! I’ve been there for two years now, for Christ’s sake! Other things have happened. Please stop harping on about this.’

  ‘But of course … I didn’t mean …’

  Iben really wants to be nice, to behave like the sympathetic person she finds it so easy to be when she is with other people. It’s strange, but the minute she sets foot in this house, she feels resentful, hemmed in, fighting to break free. Whenever she comes
here it doesn’t take long before she starts slouching and dragging her feet across the pretty parquet floors. She waves her arms about more than usual when she holds forth at the dining table. This time, in the middle of their conversation, she hears herself allude to her sex life in Copenhagen (she doesn’t have one). Besides, true or not, she would never say anything like that even to her friends.

  It’s a fact: ‘back home in Roskilde’ Iben becomes somebody else. She understands perfectly well why her mother finds it hard to get along with her.

  Over the beautifully cooked lamb chops, Iben tries to explain. ‘Isak Dinesen wrote something to the effect that we take on the identity of the masks we wear. In books about the psychology of social interaction, people are always discussing role-playing and how we pick roles for each other. But that’s not what really happens. It’s the other way round …’

  Speaking of ‘roles’ reminds Iben’s mother about a previous neighbour, who once joined an amateur dramatic society attached to the open-air stage in the Dyrehaven Park. But Iben won’t be distracted by anecdotes.

  ‘We don’t just put on a different mask or choose to act out a role. The change isn’t external, just as it isn’t voluntary. Instead, we are transformed into shifting but fully realised people, or “identities”. Each of us contains a variety of identities.’

  Iben’s mother has to get up to see to the apple tart in the kitchen. Afterwards, Iben can’t find a way to return to the subject.

  Iben travels back to Copenhagen by train. She sits very still, looking out into the darkness. The lights in Høje Taastrup slip by. It’s good that Mum is worried about me, she thinks. I would’ve been much more upset if she hadn’t cared.

  Time passes, but she still mulls over the evening with her mother. Did I really give her a chance to understand what I was talking about? That bit about Isak Dinesen and identities – perhaps I was being too cryptic?

  The inside of the carriage is reflected in the dark windowpane. She has to press her face against the glass and shelter her eyes with her hands in order to see what is outside.

  Did I even bother trying to make myself understood? I meant to sound as if I was sharing my thoughts with her but, in reality, I was being ruthless. I didn’t even give her a chance to understand. It was almost as if I wanted to punish her. Isak Dinesen? Christ, how stupid can you get? There I was, trying to make a detached analysis of identity and all the time I was caught up in one myself, trapped inside the head of a rebellious teenage girl!

  Iben leans back and stops trying to penetrate the blackness outside. Inside the carriage there isn’t much to see. She is almost alone. The only other passenger is a man sitting several seats away. Only the back of his round, bald head is visible.

  She thinks about the others at DCGI. What characters can they turn into?

  18

  When Iben comes into work the next morning, Camilla isn’t there. Iben presses Play on the blinking answering machine, and hears Camilla’s voice saying that she isn’t well and won’t be in today.

  Camilla doesn’t answer her landline phone, but there’s a recorded message giving her mobile number; so Iben rings it.

  Camilla is reticent. ‘It’s personal. I’d rather not get any of you mixed up in this.’ Her voice is as melodious and warm as usual, but a little cagey.

  Iben tries to find out what the problem is, but Camilla avoids straight answers. She is scared – that much is obvious; but Iben is curious.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Oh, nowhere special.’

  ‘But you don’t want to be at home?’

  ‘No, not right now. Better not.’

  ‘Look, Camilla, if you have any idea at all about who might be behind the stunt with the blood, then I think you ought to tell the rest of us.’

  ‘You’re right, I know that. But I’m absolutely certain that the person I’m worrying about isn’t after any of you.’

  ‘Camilla, listen. We were the ones who received those emails. And the blood was on Anne-Lise’s shelf.’

  Camilla doesn’t reply. They chat for a while and then she bursts into tears. ‘There was a man once … it was so silly of me, but I went out with him. A long time ago. I didn’t want to tell you. The whole thing is so … I just didn’t want anyone to know.’

  ‘Oh, Camilla, you mustn’t worry.’ Iben feels herself soften. She holds the receiver with both hands, the way Malene sometimes does. ‘You can trust us! Honestly, all of us – and I mean all – know what it’s like to fall for somebody who’s not the right one. Don’t feel bad. We’ve all been there!’

  Iben gives Camilla time to reply, but the line remains silent. Iben reassures her again. ‘Nobody will judge you, it doesn’t matter who you’ve been in love with. But are you sure we have nothing to fear from this man – that he isn’t after any of us?’

  ‘No! You mustn’t think that. Please don’t worry.’

  It’s hard to think of what to say next.

  ‘Is Finn there to support you?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Well, no – but he will be, when he comes back from work. He can leave early today.’

  ‘It would be nice to know where you are.’

  ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘I’m only asking because there might be something one of us can do for you?’

  ‘No, thank you. But the fewer people who know, the better, I think.’

  Paul turns up in the middle of their conversation and wants to speak to Camilla too. She promises him that she’ll be back in a few days when the new security measures are in place.

  Malene arrives next. Iben notes the taxi-borne neatness of her hair and skin since she isn’t windswept and red with cold from cycling. Malene’s arthritis has probably acted up this morning, but Iben makes no mention of it. They chat about Camilla and who the man she’s scared of might be.

  According to Malene, Camilla is imagining things. ‘The emails couldn’t possibly have come from one of her old boyfriends. Never mind who he is, it doesn’t make any sense.’

  Anne-Lise comes along to talk to them. After what she went through yesterday, she might well have called in sick herself. Paul urged her to take time off, but she must have more steel in her than anyone thought.

  Malene holds the fingers of one hand with her other hand. She waits until Anne-Lise has left.

  ‘Iben, did Camilla ever tell you who she went out with before she got together with Finn?’

  Later that afternoon Iben is on the phone, talking to yet another unemployed graduate. Practically every week, a few of these forlorn young ex-academics contact the Centre and want to know if there might be a position available, or at least a freelance job, or a project assistantship – or a chance to make the coffee, anything. Iben tries to turn them down as gently as possible, but many won’t take no for an answer.

  While Iben listens to the job-seeker’s long list of qualifications, Anne-Lise emerges from the library. She looks deeply serious.

  ‘Malene, may I have a word?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Malene makes no sign of getting up, so Anne-Lise asks again: ‘Could you join me in the library for a moment?’

  Malene’s calm seems almost a pose. ‘Why? Can’t you tell me whatever it is in front of Iben?’

  ‘I thought maybe you’d prefer …’

  ‘There’s nothing you can say to me that Iben isn’t allowed to hear.’ Malene turns to look at the door to Paul’s office. Today, just for once, it’s been left wide open and she smiles faintly, as if he can see her. ‘And the same goes for Paul. Now that we’ve got an open-door policy …’

  Anne-Lise still waits.

  Finally Malene gets up. With a quick wink to Iben, she follows Anne-Lise into the library.

  Neither of them closes the door, but Anne-Lise leads the way in among the shelving so that Iben can hear only a distant murmur of their voices.

  Iben’s anxious caller gives up and she returns to her work on a new article for Genocide News on the mass killings in the
Sudan. Two million people murdered over the last twenty years. She has never written anything lengthy on Sudan before and her desk is awash with books and papers.

  The voices in the library are raised now. Paul probably can’t hear what is being said, but Iben can. Anne-Lise is speaking loudly, but sounds unsure of herself.

  ‘… say they have never heard of any library search facility here, except what’s available on-line.’

  Malene crisply enunciates every word – a sign of anger that Iben recognises. ‘And who would have liked to know about other search options?’

  ‘That’s not important.’

  ‘Anne-Lise, I normally tell people what is available. If I have failed to do so, I would like to know who has been given the wrong information. Obviously. How else can I make up for my mistake?’

  The answer is inaudible, but Malene’s voice cuts through the mumble. ‘Anne-Lise, please get on with it. I have other things to do.’

  A short pause. Now Anne-Lise speaks very quickly. ‘What I’ve heard, in so many words, is that you’ve tried to keep customers away from the library.’

  ‘So tell me who you’re referring to!’

  ‘Surely that doesn’t matter.’

  Malene sounds even more authoritative now. ‘I’m sorry but I disagree. You and I are in this together. Anything you hear about one of your colleagues should be passed on – it’s part of being a team. We’re meant to work together here – you too! The Centre is what matters. And because of that, everyone must be given the chance to make up for their mistakes, so that we can improve our service.’

  Anne-Lise turns the volume down again, but now her tone is plaintive.

  A moment later Malene returns and whispers to Iben: ‘Anne-Lise has talked with Erik Prins about me.’

  ‘About you?’

  ‘That woman is bloody unbelievable.’

  ‘I overheard some of your conversation.’

  ‘Thought you might.’

  Erik Prins is a small man with a pot belly and oddly shiny skin. His clothes look as if he’s had them for decades. He is probably in his late thirties, but people think of him as much older.