Authors: Christian Jungersen
Charlotte sniggers when she admits that she can take time off work without any questions being asked. Like today. Meanwhile Malene has taken in other little things about this room that looks as if it is shared by a young woman and her grandmother. Woollen joint bandages lie neatly rolled up within reach, as does a collection of pop CDs. Charlotte is a couple of years younger than Malene, but has suffered from arthritis for eight years compared with Malene’s six.
Still speaking vivaciously as ever, Charlotte is describing AYAP’s social calendar – the parties and seminars. The membership has such a great time together on their weekend jaunts, when they make their aching bodies play about in hotel gardens during light summer nights. Then she asks about Rasmus and Malene wonders how much she should tell.
At this point Charlotte speaks more flatly in tone, clearly self-conscious about not having a lover. They have talked about it on the phone, but Malene has always assumed that it’s just a matter
of time before Charlotte finds someone. Surely it’s no more serious than that? Now, watching her, Malene can see how ill she is. Maybe Charlotte will never find anyone.
Malene realises that she has just come out with some tired old cliché to the effect that there is a Mr or Miss Right for everyone.
Charlotte puts on a happy face and straightens up. ‘That’s true, I know. And while I’m on the look-out, I won’t waste my time moaning.’ She dunks a cake delicately in her coffee.
Thoughts fly into Malene’s head. How do they manage, the ones who are seriously disabled? How do they endure it all without jumping off a bridge? Charlotte will never get a man and she knows it. She’ll never escape this social housing hell-hole. And how would I cope? I could never be so happy with so little.
Charlotte in the flesh is no different from the person who wrote the emails. It’s just that finding her here, among her cushions and special aids, changes Malene’s perception of her. For Malene, this realisation is all the harder to take because of the worsening situation between her and Rasmus. As they put it in
Seinfeld
: ‘Breaking up is like knocking over a Coke machine. You can’t do it in one push, you’ve got to rock it back and forth a few times.’ Malene has noticed that Rasmus is definitely rocking. Soon it will be my turn, she thinks. I will smile mechanically as I tell people that Rasmus and I aren’t together any more. Never mind, I’ll say, there are so many fun things to do when you’re single.
She gets up, excuses herself, and goes to the toilet. Inside, she weeps noiselessly among all the special bath-aids and handles that Charlotte requires in order to be able to wash on her own. Or does someone come in to help her? Will Malene’s own bathroom look like this in a few years?
Malene takes her time. She pinches some of Charlotte’s foundation to pat into the skin under her eyes. Better that than have to explain to Charlotte that just being with her makes Malene want to cry.
She takes a few deep breaths and opens the door. Baffled,
she recognises the smell even before she sees Charlotte. This sweetish, resinous scent is just about the last thing she expected. Charlotte is sitting in her big armchair puffing vigorously on a large joint.
‘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.
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
[email protected]
.
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.