Christian Jungersen - The Exception

Iben hates playing the part of the weak female, especially with Malene, but suggests that there are lots of people’s places where they could crash until they have a better idea of the danger they’re in.

‘Oh, Iben. OK, I’ll come.’ They agree to meet at Props Café.

Iben feels she has been leaning too heavily on her friend, and can’t quite bring herself to ask Malene to make sure that she isn’t being followed.

Iben sets out towards the café, along the road by the Assistens Cemetery. Suddenly, for no reason, she starts running. She never cared for sports of any kind, despite her friends’ attempts to persuade her, but now running feels right. She overtakes pedestrians on the broad pavement, where deep shadows are pierced by shafts of light from shops and passing cars.

A white car skids to a halt not far ahead, and two men jump out so quickly that a cyclist almost collides with one of them. He calls out angrily. The men shout back in reply, and Iben slips through the slow-flowing stream of cars to reach the other side of the street.

It is time to calm down and take stock. She turns to get a look at the two men. They’re standing in the street talking to a third man, whom they must have spotted from the car. All three have dark sideburns and one of them wears metal-framed glasses with small round lenses.

She starts off again, jogging now. The pavement is narrower here and cluttered with a greengrocer’s stall, bicycle racks and advertising boards.

It occurs to her that the emailer might not have had far to travel. There are thousands of political refugees in Copenhagen, all of whom have had terrible experiences and whose family members or friends have been victimised in armed conflicts, persecution, torture and murder. Some may have carried out acts of violence themselves. If Iben has exposed someone, this might be their response.

She feels breathless and slows down. Ahead of her is a tall, sickly-looking man with messy, pale-blond hair, wearing a torn camouflage jacket.

Over the last ten years almost five hundred journalists have been killed worldwide, mostly in undemocratic states. Did any of them receive emails from revenge_is_near@imhidden.com? Iben hasn’t heard of them being tracked down in Western Europe. Who would be well informed about this?

Gunnar would, of course.

When the traffic lights change, an old BMW accelerates, its tyres screaming, and races to the next intersection. The lights turn against it and the driver has to brake again. A passer-by laughs.

Iben wants to phone Gunnar straight away.

She’s had a strange feeling about him all weekend, speculating about what his flat might be like and his lifestyle. The fantasy of moving in with him gives her an odd but comforting sensation. She would fit right in, she felt. But how could she know? — a man whom she has met just once and spoken with for an hour at most? But then, she explains to herself, over the years his writings must have taught her so much about the way his mind works, what his favourite words are, and the nature of his thoughts.

She swerves to avoid a group of noisy teenage boys.

Then she thinks about the word ‘self-righteous’ in the email. It seems they used different words in Malene’s email.

Iben begins to run again.

Malene is in the train, on the way back from a lecture tour in Jutland on behalf of the DCGI. Her lectures have gone well, but she’s used to that.

Rasmus is away on one of his sales trips, so back home their flat stands empty. Iben is in Nairobi. She has been away for a month and so much is happening to her that for days on end she hasn’t answered Malene’s emails or phone calls. Three of Malene’s best friends have had babies during the last year; all of them have moved out of the centre of town and are completely absorbed in their new families.

Nothing else for it: Malene must expand her circle of friends. There’s no way she can just hang on for two more months, waiting for Iben to write or phone. Which is why Malene is getting off in Odense before going on to Copenhagen. She has arranged to see Charlotte, a contact she made through the Association for Young Arthritic People, which offers volunteer ‘buddies’ as a means of support. They have never met, but they have exchanged lots of emails and spoken on the phone. Charlotte’s fighting spirit is tremendous. At last they have a chance to meet.

Malene steps from the taxi in front of a small terraced house of bright-yellow brick. She rings the doorbell. Sheltering under the roof of the porch stands a well-cared-for plant in an old blue-enamelled pan. Behind the glass in the door hangs a little wreath made of straw, suspended by a silver ribbon.

Charlotte’s face is pale under her mass of blonde curls. In her baby-blue blouse she looks pretty but bland, like a catalogue model, and completely unlike any of Malene’s friends.

They smile and hug.

‘Oh, how smart you are. So chic! You can tell you’re from the city.’

Strange to meet someone you’ve written to so often. Charlotte keeps smiling. Her lips are glossy with rose lipstick.

‘Let’s make ourselves more comfy.’

Malene leaves her coat in the hall. Charlotte leads the way, moving slowly and hesitantly. The sitting room is too warm.

‘Please sit anywhere you like. The coffee is ready.’

Malene settles down on a cream-upholstered armchair opposite a matching sofa. A large framed poster is hanging on the wall behind the sofa. Just as in her emails and on the phone, Charlotte is bursting with energy and optimism and there is something basically open and friendly about her. But Malene notices she is finding it difficult to get over to the sofa.

‘I’m sorry … what a shame that today is one of your bad days.’

‘Not at all. You mustn’t worry about me. I’m fine. Let’s just enjoy this.’ Charlotte smiles again, drawing back her small, prettily shaped lips over perfect teeth.

‘But it must be …’ Something makes Malene stop.

Her eyes travel quickly round the room. Each piece of furniture is more spread out than normal. She sips her coffee, thinking about what she sees. The gaps are the same everywhere, between chair and table, chair and chair, chair and wall. The simple answer is that this room is furnished to suit someone who often has to use a wheelchair to get about, even at home. There is no wheelchair to be seen, but it could be elsewhere. Maybe in the bedroom.

She notes that the light switches are operated by string-pulls. She has seen that kind of thing in shops selling gadgets for the disabled. People with severe joint problems find pulling a string easier than turning a switch. And what about the cushions on the sofa? There are lots, not in absurd quantities, but too many to fit in with the plain furnishings and very discreet colours of the room. The cushions, piled up, would allow Charlotte to half-sit, half-lie on the sofa.

It baffles Malene to find Charlotte so much more badly afflicted than herself. How can Charlotte carry out her job at Odense City Council? Why did Malene believe that they were more or less in the same shape? Discreet questioning about the job reveals the fact that it is a specially designed post of only twenty hours per week, personally devised for Charlotte. As Charlotte speaks, Malene feels that she has heard this before, probably in one of their phone calls. As likely as not she has simply forgotten about it, the bad news being outdone by all the good, cheerful stories from Charlotte’s life.

The conversation moves on. They talk about a series of documentary programmes on the radio and the best way of chopping almonds when your hands hurt and how good it would be to have wellington boots designed for arthritic feet.