The Exception (22 page)

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!

Iben leans back and stops trying to penetrate the blackness outside. Inside the carriage there isn’t much to see. She is almost alone. The only other passenger is a man sitting several seats
away. Only the back of his round, bald head is visible.

She thinks about the others at DCGI. What characters can they turn into?

When Iben comes into work the next morning, Camilla isn’t there. Iben presses Play on the blinking answering machine, and hears Camilla’s voice saying that she isn’t well and won’t be in today.

Camilla doesn’t answer her landline phone, but there’s a recorded message giving her mobile number; so Iben rings it.

Camilla is reticent. ‘It’s personal. I’d rather not get any of you mixed up in this.’ Her voice is as melodious and warm as usual, but a little cagey.

Iben tries to find out what the problem is, but Camilla avoids straight answers. She is scared – that much is obvious; but Iben is curious.

‘Where are you?’

‘Oh, nowhere special.’

‘But you don’t want to be at home?’

‘No, not right now. Better not.’

‘Look, Camilla, if you have any idea at all about who might be behind the stunt with the blood, then I think you ought to tell the rest of us.’

‘You’re right, I know that. But I’m absolutely certain that the person I’m worrying about isn’t after any of you.’

‘Camilla, listen. We were the ones who received those emails. And the blood was on Anne-Lise’s shelf.’

Camilla doesn’t reply. They chat for a while and then she bursts into tears. ‘There was a man once … it was so silly of me, but I went out with him. A long time ago. I didn’t want to tell you. The whole thing is so … I just didn’t want anyone to know.’

‘Oh, Camilla, you mustn’t worry.’ Iben feels herself soften. She holds the receiver with both hands, the way Malene sometimes
does. ‘You can trust us! Honestly, all of us – and I mean all – know what it’s like to fall for somebody who’s not the right one. Don’t feel bad. We’ve all been there!’

Iben gives Camilla time to reply, but the line remains silent. Iben reassures her again. ‘Nobody will judge you, it doesn’t matter who you’ve been in love with. But are you sure we have nothing to fear from this man – that he isn’t after any of us?’

‘No! You mustn’t think that. Please don’t worry.’

It’s hard to think of what to say next.

‘Is Finn there to support you?’

‘Oh, yes. Well, no – but he will be, when he comes back from work. He can leave early today.’

‘It would be nice to know where you are.’

‘I’d rather not say.’

‘I’m only asking because there might be something one of us can do for you?’

‘No, thank you. But the fewer people who know, the better, I think.’

Paul turns up in the middle of their conversation and wants to speak to Camilla too. She promises him that she’ll be back in a few days when the new security measures are in place.

Malene arrives next. Iben notes the taxi-borne neatness of her hair and skin since she isn’t windswept and red with cold from cycling. Malene’s arthritis has probably acted up this morning, but Iben makes no mention of it. They chat about Camilla and who the man she’s scared of might be.

According to Malene, Camilla is imagining things. ‘The emails couldn’t possibly have come from one of her old boyfriends. Never mind who he is, it doesn’t make any sense.’

Anne-Lise comes along to talk to them. After what she went through yesterday, she might well have called in sick herself. Paul urged her to take time off, but she must have more steel in her than anyone thought.

Malene holds the fingers of one hand with her other hand. She waits until Anne-Lise has left.

‘Iben, did Camilla ever tell you who she went out with before she got together with Finn?’

Later that afternoon Iben is on the phone, talking to yet another unemployed graduate. Practically every week, a few of these forlorn young ex-academics contact the Centre and want to know if there might be a position available, or at least a freelance job, or a project assistantship – or a chance to make the coffee, anything. Iben tries to turn them down as gently as possible, but many won’t take no for an answer.

While Iben listens to the job-seeker’s long list of qualifications, Anne-Lise emerges from the library. She looks deeply serious.

‘Malene, may I have a word?’

‘Of course.’

Malene makes no sign of getting up, so Anne-Lise asks again: ‘Could you join me in the library for a moment?’

Malene’s calm seems almost a pose. ‘Why? Can’t you tell me whatever it is in front of Iben?’

‘I thought maybe you’d prefer …’

‘There’s nothing you can say to me that Iben isn’t allowed to hear.’ Malene turns to look at the door to Paul’s office. Today, just for once, it’s been left wide open and she smiles faintly, as if he can see her. ‘And the same goes for Paul. Now that we’ve got an open-door policy …’

Anne-Lise still waits.

Finally Malene gets up. With a quick wink to Iben, she follows Anne-Lise into the library.

Neither of them closes the door, but Anne-Lise leads the way in among the shelving so that Iben can hear only a distant murmur of their voices.

Iben’s anxious caller gives up and she returns to her work on a new article for
Genocide News
on the mass killings in the Sudan. Two million people murdered over the last twenty years. She has never written anything lengthy on Sudan before and her desk is awash with books and papers.

The voices in the library are raised now. Paul probably can’t
hear what is being said, but Iben can. Anne-Lise is speaking loudly, but sounds unsure of herself.

‘… say they have never heard of any library search facility here, except what’s available on-line.’

Malene crisply enunciates every word – a sign of anger that Iben recognises. ‘And who would have liked to know about other search options?’

‘That’s not important.’

‘Anne-Lise, I normally tell people what is available. If I have failed to do so, I would like to know who has been given the wrong information. Obviously. How else can I make up for my mistake?’

The answer is inaudible, but Malene’s voice cuts through the mumble. ‘Anne-Lise, please get on with it. I have other things to do.’

A short pause. Now Anne-Lise speaks very quickly. ‘What I’ve heard, in so many words, is that you’ve tried to keep customers away from the library.’

‘So tell me who you’re referring to!’

‘Surely that doesn’t matter.’

Malene sounds even more authoritative now. ‘I’m sorry but I disagree. You and I are in this together. Anything you hear about one of your colleagues should be passed on – it’s part of being a team. We’re meant to work together here – you too! The Centre is what matters. And because of that, everyone must be given the chance to make up for their mistakes, so that we can improve our service.’

Anne-Lise turns the volume down again, but now her tone is plaintive.

A moment later Malene returns and whispers to Iben: ‘Anne-Lise has talked with Erik Prins about me.’

‘About you?’

‘That woman is bloody unbelievable.’

‘I overheard some of your conversation.’

‘Thought you might.’

Erik Prins is a small man with a pot belly and oddly shiny skin. His clothes look as if he’s had them for decades. He is probably in his late thirties, but people think of him as much older.

For years Erik has been working on a huge tome about Scandinavian foreign policy after the Second World War. Nobody knows how his years of writing have been financed – possibly a grant or, more likely, some kind of state benefit. No one has wanted to know enough to ask.

Erik often comes to the Centre to read or look for new books. When he has been sitting in the Large Meeting Room they usually need to air it afterwards. He likes to eat while he reads and his dull food parcels always carry a powerful smell of liver sausage and damp rye bread. Even so, Malene has always singled Erik out among the users of the Centre and gives him the best possible support. She often finds time for a chat as well. They talk about this and that, including Erik’s old classmate from his time as a history student, Frederik Thorsteinsson.

Paul has told them that, on several occasions, the DCGI board has noted Erik’s praise of the Centre’s excellent service. Without fail, Frederik passes Erik’s opinions on to the board and his pronouncements have come to be regarded as practically infallible. The members are highly educated researchers, experts in their fields, who feel that the shabby little man speaks for Everyman, and is a perfect representative of the Centre’s typical user.

Iben smiles, but she is concerned. ‘I must say, I’ve never heard of anyone who hasn’t been happy with your work. And Erik, of all people! That spoilt little man!’

She doesn’t give a damn if Anne-Lise can hear what she’s saying, but she lowers her voice slightly to keep Paul out of it.

‘Maybe he complimented Anne-Lise. You know, like you do when you first collaborate with somebody new – oiling the wheels, kind of thing. He’ll have told her something like she’s very good at her job and he wishes he had known about her before.’

Iben’s eyes shift away uneasily, just for a second. Then she continues: ‘That’s the kind of thing a person would say. He could’ve said it to you. Or to me, or anybody.’

Malene leans back in her chair with a weary sigh. ‘True. Everyone says things like that, just to be friendly. It’s too bad that Anne-Lise takes it all so seriously.’

But later on, when Malene and Iben get together in the copier room, Malene brings up the subject again. Iben realises this will take some time and sits down on the table. The copier thumps on and on, copying, sorting and stapling a large selection of newspaper cuttings that Camilla should have got ready for circulation to the board today. Now Iben has taken on the job.

Malene paces restlessly up and down. ‘I’ve been thinking about what Anne-Lise said. How come she says that I’ve tried to exclude her? She obviously believes it. Maybe she has cross-examined Erik about it.’

Iben tucks her hands under her thighs. ‘Or it could be a bit of everything? He thought that he’d better be kind and she responded by questioning him.’

‘Yes, and he felt pressured to say something about me and they’ve ended up discussing me in detail. We mustn’t forget that now he depends on her, more than on anyone else here. Being on good terms with her is more important for Erik than getting on with me now. It’s Anne-Lise who can give him special treats.’

‘Yep. Now what?’

‘Iben, this is important. If she goes on gossiping behind my back, she might turn lots of people against me. Like Frederik. And Ole. Anyone.’

‘She could.’

‘Yes. So I must find out.’

Today Paul joins them for lunch. The atmosphere is tense, although nobody mentions Erik Prins or the conversation in the library. Earlier, Malene went down to the supermarket to get fresh rolls. She asked if she could get anything for anyone else. Anne-Lise handed her the money to buy a portion of carpaccio,
the kind that comes with olive oil and grated Parmesan. Now she says that everyone must have some, but apart from Paul no one does.

After a while Iben cannot bear the silence, which is broken only by terse exchanges; she decides to tell them about the book she has been reading into the small hours of the morning. Grith lent it to her the other day.

‘It’s about split personalities. It’s a fact that nine out of ten patients are women. And almost all of them have been subjected to violence or other abuse in childhood. The author puts it quite plainly: “A split personality is a little girl imagining that the abuse is directed towards another person.” Which is why at least one of the personalities is often still a little girl.’

Grith’s book is called
Dissociative Identity Disorder: Diagnosis, Clinical Features and Treatment of Multiple Personality
. Maybe this isn’t an ideal subject for discussion right now, but Iben tries to speak without hinting at any of the office subtexts.

‘It’s very hard for anyone to know if she has DID – a split identity, that is. As your “normal self”, you can’t recall having had a bad childhood. Many patients forget altogether and might even remember the man who abused them as a good person.’

The others stay focused on their food and don’t respond to what she is telling them. They do seem interested, though, so Iben carries on.

‘The best indication is that you can’t remember what you’ve done for a period of time, or you feel you’ve been behaving out of character. But it’s not cut and dried. A survey of people with no psychological problems showed that about 75 per cent of the subjects have had moments when they easily did something that they used to think was difficult. More than 50 per cent said that after driving a car for a long time, there where whole stretches of the journey they couldn’t remember. And one out of every ten said they’d found themselves wearing clothes they couldn’t remember putting on.’