Christian Jungersen - The Exception

They negotiate a maze of corridors lined with doors, almost all of them closed. The walls have a fresh coat of white paint and a great many doors are closed. They walk up another metal staircase and into a large, plain room that looks like some kind of conference hall. Three of its walls are painted white and the fourth is made of glass. Behind the glass you can see the reception area. The whole place seems designed with space in mind: there is plenty of standing room and just a few pieces of colourful designer furniture. Near the door, about twenty women of all ages are talking and laughing. The air smells of damp coats.

A handful of mature-looking men have settled down with their cans of beer in a group of scarlet egg-shaped chairs. There is an electric keyboard by the glass wall and a young woman seems to be testing it. She must be the conductor. Anne-Lise feels almost queasy watching her, because she looks like Malene, only not as pretty.

Anne-Lise checked the home page of the Copenhagen Postal Choir and one of the things she found out was that the conductor recently completed a university degree in music. Before last year Anne-Lise used to enjoy being in the company of artistic young women, but now they just annoy her.

The conductor welcomes her. ‘It’s great to see a new face. How did you find out about us?’

‘I found you on the Internet.’

‘Oh, good, our website must be doing its job.’ She turns to the rest of the group and speaks to them in the beautifully controlled voice of a singer, not unlike Camilla’s. ‘Listen, everybody. This is Brigitte; she’s going to sing with us tonight. Try not to scare her away! Hopefully she’ll come back next Wednesday.’

The women laugh and begin to introduce themselves. Talking across each other, they tell Anne-Lise about the choir, its performances in churches and elsewhere, and the various excursions they go on.

‘We sing every year at the Summer Festival here in Copenhagen.’

‘But the main thing is, we always have such a good time together. Great parties, don’t you think, ladies?’

Several exclaim at the same time.

The home page had informed Anne-Lise that, although most of the singers worked within the post office, the choir has been open to outsiders for a long time.

‘Have you sung in a choir before?’ one woman asks.

‘You’ll get the hang of it quickly, don’t worry.’

The conductor addresses Anne-Lise. ‘Brigitte, do you know what part you sing?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘You sound like an alto. Why don’t you join the altos for now.’

A woman in her early sixties with very black hair holds up her case of sheet music. ‘Brigitte, my name is Tess. Come and stand next to me. You can sing from my music until you have your own set.’

So far, so good. The knot in Anne-Lise’s stomach is loosening. When people round you are as kind as this, it is impossible to stay scared for long. She had been so worried that someone would recognise her and instantly see she’s lying. Or, almost as bad, that she’d have one of her sudden fits of weeping.

The conductor claps her hands. The men drag themselves away from their chairs at the far end of the room and join the women.

Suddenly Camilla’s name is mentioned. ‘Camilla Batz called me from work this afternoon. She can’t come tonight — it’s the parent — teacher evening at her daughter’s school.’ The woman has mahogany-coloured hair that is pulled back in a knot and she’s wearing a navy scarf.

Anne-Lise whispers to Tess, trying to sound surprised: ‘Camilla Batz! Does she have curly blonde hair?’

‘That’s right. Do you know her?’

‘Yes. How extraordinary. We were childhood friends. How is she? What is she doing now?’

Tess has no time to answer, because the warm-up has begun. Anne-Lise is new to the exercises, but follows them as well as she can and keeps her voice low. All the singers practise breathing with their diaphragm and are told to stand with their feet planted evenly on the floor. Shoulders and neck must be relaxed. They launch into ‘Tears in Heaven’ by Eric Clapton.

During the first break Anne-Lise returns to her questioning. ‘What about Camilla — what does she do now?’

‘She works in an office that gives out information about … oh, about something — I’m not sure. But she’ll be here next Wednesday, so you can see her then. Some of us get together for a beer afterwards, so if you join us the two of you will have a chance to catch up.’

It surprises Anne-Lise to realise how easy it is to lie.

Tess has a lovely voice but it’s weak. One of the tenor’s voices rises above the rest as they sing.

Anne-Lise feels exhilarated, almost intoxicated by the combination of her own adrenaline and the sheer warmth of these people who have welcomed her so readily.

Tess leans over to whisper to her: ‘I think it’s a great song too!’

They must be able to see something of what she feels in her face. The women who are standing near Anne-Lise believe that it is the music that has moved her so much. When the conductor stops to explain a few changes in the rhythm to the male singers, Pernille, an alto in the front row, turns to whisper to Anne-Lise: ‘Brigitte, does that mean you’ll come back?’

Anne-Lise realises these complete strangers are more sensitive to what she’s feeling than the people she has worked with for a whole year.

The singing starts up again. Anne-Lise thinks of Yngve’s bleak view of human nature. She refuses to believe him. People aren’t like that. She promises herself to find out more about research into the human capacity for evil.

It’s a paradox, she thinks, that — in Danish at least — the best brief introduction to the subject is probably two articles written by Iben and published a year ago in two consecutive issues of Genocide News under the title ‘The Psychology of Evil’. Anne-Lise makes up her mind to read the articles again when she is back home.

They stop for a break. There are cans of beer and fizzy drinks with a box to collect the money. Anne-Lise pays for a can of fizzy orange. A large woman called Ruth, another alto, expounds on the need to hold notes for different lengths of time in their rendering of ‘When I’m Sixty-Four’.

‘The basses have long ones and the tenors short ones. Imagine that!’

Everyone laughs. Normally Anne-Lise wouldn’t find this kind of innuendo amusing, but she has been on edge all day and now she shakes with laughter, and the fizzy orange drink goes up her nose. She can’t swallow, but tries to keep her mouth closed. It doesn’t work. The drink sprays all over Ruth’s blouse and the table, dribbling down Anne-Lise’s chin and onto her own blouse.

‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry, Ruth. I’m such an idiot …’ If only she could run away from the whole scene. But she stays, words tumbling out of her mouth. ‘I’ll clean it up. Is there a rag anywhere? Let me buy you a new blouse …’ One of the singers has already found a sponge.

The woman with the navy scarf smiles, deepening the laughter lines at the corners of her eyes. ‘Ruth is too funny for her own good. I can see you agree!’

Ruth is kind as well. ‘Brigitte, don’t apologise. And don’t even think of buying me a new blouse. This one can be dry-cleaned just fine.’

Anne-Lise stares at the floor. One thought keeps running through her head: It never ends. It never, never ends! Where can I be the old Anne-Lise?

After a short silence Tess turns to a woman in a black skirt. ‘Do you remember when I managed to spray you with a mouthful of Coke?’

The woman looks at her, mystified.

‘You must remember — I was laughing so hard I couldn’t help it.’

Anne-Lise raises her head in time to see the woman realise what she is supposed to say.