Christian Jungersen - The Exception

It is cringingly awful. Why, Malene asks herself, do I know so little about this woman? — especially since I imagined that we share so much. I must’ve been chatting away on the phone without asking the right questions, without listening properly.

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.