Christian Jungersen - The Exception

Paul hesitates too. ‘Malene, let me think about this.’

They are back at their desks, except for Anne-Lise. Paul has asked her to stay behind. Perhaps he wants to discuss the emails and who the sender might be? The others work away, trying to seem indifferent to what is going on behind Paul’s door.

One of the windows on Malene’s screen shows the arrival time for Rasmus’s flight. She has already been to the airport site to check for delays, but it’s still too early.

Paul’s door opens and Anne-Lise comes out first. Both she and Paul seem fine, which must mean that she hasn’t admitted to sending the emails. Or could it be that she confessed, in return for him not letting on to the others?

Paul is on his way out. ‘Have a good lunch, everyone! And Malene, I’ve decided that you keep all user contacts except for book queries. Anything about books goes straight to Anne-Lise.’

Malene reaches the lift just in time to get in with him. Paul has to raise his voice above the whining of the lift. ‘Anne-Lise feels there have been quite a few issues: airing out the copier room; lack of recognition for her work. It’s time we accommodated some of her requests. Hopefully things will pan out better in the future.’

When Malene comes back, Iben and Camilla look up enquiringly. Malene’s impulse is to slam the desk top hard with her fist, but she can’t because of her sore fingers. What is she to say to the people who are used to calling her all day long? By now they expect her to field all their questions. Should she tell them something like: ‘So sorry, but I’m not allowed to help you with books any more because Paul has forbidden it’? Or maybe a brisk ‘I’m not allowed to deal with these questions any more’?

Malene is the only one in the office who is familiar with every current research project; she knows the personalities involved and their requirements. Her wealth of knowledge has been built up carefully over three years. Now that Anne-Lise has got her hooks into Paul, he has ruined everything in less time than it has taken the lift to reach the ground floor.

Malene forces herself to smile at Iben and Camilla, knowing that they can easily see how upset she is. Then she smiles again, more genuinely, because there is something funny about her inability to hide what she feels.

She knows she must look through her article for Genocide News , but she can’t concentrate. If only she could speak with Iben right now, without having Camilla around and without Anne-Lise lurking behind the door that, ironically, is still closed.

She has a new email, a brief message: ‘Meet you in the kitchen?’

Malene nods. She puts down the article about ‘Europe’s Forgotten Genocide’, grabs her mug and walks over to the coffee Thermos, gives it a little shake and pretends it’s empty. She heads towards the kitchen, ostensibly to refill it. In a while Iben joins her.

It’s a tiny, rather shabby kitchen, but there is one quality item: a gleaming coffee-maker. Malene fills the Thermos to the top — might as well, now that she’s here.

‘It wouldn’t bother me so much if it weren’t Anne-Lise who’s taking over. I’ve put lots of energy and time into looking after the users.’

‘I know, I know. It doesn’t make any sense.’

‘She’ll ruin everything in just a couple of weeks. I can’t bear it.’

‘I understand, I really do …’

‘The whole place will become so dull and dead! Humourless, just like Anne-Lise herself. I mean, just look at her. She’ll be the one representing the Centre to the outside world — is that what we need? I don’t think so!’

‘I’m sure Paul hasn’t thought it through properly.’

‘If Paul himself took over, the knowledge I’ve built up would still be lost, but at least he’d do it with style. But Anne-Lise! I ask you! It’s pointless.’

‘And did you notice the way no one wanted to talk about how we go about providing the best possible service?’

‘Oh, I did. Obviously, they just don’t care! There is one reason and one reason alone for what happened: Paul is a man. What does he do when he finds out that Anne-Lise has blubbered her way through an entire lunch break? He makes an instant decision in her favour. I’d better start weeping crocodile tears as well. Christ! Just imagine the changes we could make.’

So far Malene has had only one operation to treat one of her hands, but it is impossible to predict what the future might bring. The condition of arthritic joints can deteriorate suddenly, and irreversibly, or it can remain stable for long periods. The illness can move to new parts of the body and begin its crippling process there. Malene’s arthritis has remained at its present level, which is relatively mild, for several years now. Her hands and feet have caused her the most agony, but one of her knees has been troublesome too. Her sore feet make running and many sports impossible.

Besides having to face an unpredictable future, Malene’s worst problem is the sudden attacks when her illness becomes acute. There are days when she cannot work and no painkillers are powerful enough to enable her to walk. Every two or three months — so far — Rasmus has had to carry her to a taxi that then takes her to the Rheumatology Clinic at the National Hospital, where she gets injections straight into the affected joints. After a day or so the worst pain has passed.

She knows that some arthritic patients define their identity in terms of their illness. Arthritis dictates the books they read, the friends they want to be with, and the meetings they attend. Malene resists this. She tries to avoid drawing attention to the differences between herself and healthy people. One way is to turn up to work, even when the pain is severe, and to rely on office aids like her ergonomic computer mouse and chair. She speaks about her illness as little as possible and never complains to anyone except Rasmus and Iben.

It is hard for Malene to get up from a chair unless she can roll it away from the table, shift her weight to her feet and then push herself upright. In the office everyone has a chair with wheels, but in her flat the wheeled chair at the dining table looks a little out of place. Usually no one remarks on it, though.

Malene’s kitchen knives have upright handles that she can grip like a saw, so she won’t have to bend her wrist when using them, and she owns a selection of kitchen implements with thick, soft handles to make them easier to hold. With a little good will the chubby, colourful shapes could be taken for smart designer ware. Some guests have actually asked where she bought them, because they’d like to get them too. But deep down there is always the persistent underlying fear that another attack could strike at any time; the dreadful possibility that tomorrow she might fall ill again.

You are always hoping, trying to persuade yourself. ‘I’m doing really well. I’ve hardly felt a twinge for the last five weeks. Maybe it’s gone away.’

During the good days Malene remembers what it was like to be free and physically independent of others. Sometimes, perhaps most often in the spring, she even indulges in an expensive whim, like buying shoes that are not made by an orthopaedic shoemaker. And then, always, your hopes are crushed. It seems so arbitrary that you can’t help yourself and you start looking for explanations. Should I stop eating chocolate? Or bread made with yeast? Am I sleeping enough? Or maybe too much? Are the attacks stress-related? Am I being punished? What have I done?

And so it goes, year after year. Malene cannot see any discernible order. The only pattern is that what happens always seems random.

When the attack begins it brings not only the crippling pain, but also psychological malaise and such disappointment. So, three weeks on a no-sugar diet had no effect, nor did avoiding stress. It didn’t help to meditate or attend sessions with a healer. The disappointment mingles with the pain, the helplessness and the humiliation of having to be carried down the stairs once again.