Christian Jungersen - The Exception

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!