The Exception (53 page)

They chat for a while and suddenly Ole and Frederik turn up. Ole has a Coke in his hand. He turns to Malene, who notices there’s a minute crumb of chocolate stuck in his beard.

‘Where’s Paul?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘He’s avoiding me. I couldn’t get hold of him on his mobile either.’

‘That’s odd. He usually keeps his mobile on all the time.’

Malene doesn’t care for the way Ole and Frederik seem to be in cahoots.

‘Maybe his battery has run down.’

Ole and Frederik exchange a strange glance.

‘Oh, I hope he hasn’t had an accident,’ she adds.

Frederik smiles at her. ‘No, that’s not it.’

‘What do you mean?’

Frederik makes a face and Malene senses that she mustn’t ask him any more. She can usually make him tell her everything. Maybe it’s Ole’s presence that’s stopping him.

The talking outside the room has grown to a roar.

Malene manages to slip through the crowd and follows the corridor to the end. No luck. She returns through the crowd and goes to the opposite end. No one here either. Then she turns a corner and hears voices from behind the closed door of a seminar room.

Iben is shouting. ‘How do you explain this?’

Malene opens the door just as Iben starts to read from the screen of her laptop: ‘It is a well-known fact that the life-long trauma affecting people who have survived severe torture will include vivid, intensely painful flashbacks in which they re-experience all their past suffering. Such recall phenomena are triggered every time they see something that reminds them of the torture. The militiamen entering the Omarska camps manipulated the flashback phenomenon with endless inventiveness. Mirko Zigic, now wanted by the war crimes tribunal in The Hague, and one of his soldiers, Dragan Jelisic …!’

Iben stops dramatically and stares at Camilla, who can’t seem to stop crying. She continues to read: ‘And one of his soldiers, Dragan Jelisic, thought up the trick of placing bottles of Coca-Cola within sight of prisoners being tortured. For decades to come, survivors of their torture will relive the full terror of the destructive pain they were once subjected to every time they see a bottle of Coke. And, where in the world can they hide from the occasional sight of a bottle of Coca-Cola?’

Anne-Lise, who has been perched on the edge of a table, gets up. ‘This man was your lover!’

Camilla somehow looks like a scolded schoolgirl. ‘But I didn’t know it back then.’ She looks up at them. ‘It was dreadful when I found out. That’s why I went for the job in the Centre. You know me. I think things like that are terrible and surely you know me better than that!’

‘How long were you and Dragan together?’ Iben asks.

‘Four months.’

Camilla is weeping even louder now, her head in her hands. Iben makes a move to put her arms round her, but Camilla angrily waves her away.

Now they can only stand and look. They’re at a loss. No one has switched on the lights despite the grey day. The dull daylight turns the walls the colour of damp cardboard and makes the table tops look like pools of stagnant water. Iben and Anne-Lise are drained of colour too.

Iben puts down her computer on a table and Malene walks over to it. Iben was reading from an emailed selection of scanned book pages from
Days of Blood and Singing
and the source is someone working for the UN Commission for Human Rights in Geneva. The email arrived during Anita’s lecture.

Camilla wraps her arms around herself. Her eyes have a distant look and she speaks in a soft, low voice: ‘He wasn’t at all like the way they describe him in that book. I was with him before I got together with Finn. Dragan cared about me even though I’m so fat. He didn’t mind my body.’

Malene looks from the computer screen to Camilla’s body, which doesn’t appear to be overweight at all.

Anne-Lise takes up the questioning. ‘Where did you meet?’

‘At a party. He was such a little guy, almost weedy. He looked like he’d never hurt a flea. I felt sorry for him. He was a refugee, chased out of his own country. He said that his three sisters had been raped by Bosnians. They killed the girls afterwards. He told me all that, and he seemed so unhappy that I … I don’t know. Anyway we met afterwards and then again.’

Camilla wipes her face on her sleeve. ‘And he says everything about him in that book isn’t true.’

Iben is still clearly agitated, but her voice is quieter. ‘Did it ever occur to you that a man like Jelisic, who has killed hundreds of human beings, might lie to you?’

Camilla doesn’t answer. They are all silent.

After a while Camilla speaks again. ‘He admitted that he had done bad things. Countless people did, that’s true. But he wasn’t at all like that when I met him. And he didn’t want to talk about it. He was so torn up inside.’

‘Do you still see him?’ Iben asks.

‘No, I don’t … of course I don’t.’

‘Have you seen him since you read this book?’

‘No.’

‘But you did ask him if what the book said was true – isn’t that what you’ve just said?’

It’s strange to see Camilla like this. She always seemed so sensible. Now it’s as if she were someone else. Her crying and transparent lies remind Malene of what Grith had told them about women with DID, especially the part about them being subjected to abuse as children. Often one of their identities tends to be a distressed child.

Iben takes a deep breath. ‘Are our views of this man really so far apart? When you believed he had sent you that hate email, you seemed terrified. More frightened than we were – and you still are. Why?’

Camilla doesn’t answer.

Anne-Lise asks, ‘Is he still in Denmark?’

Camilla’s head is lowered. She pinches her arm in several places. ‘I don’t know.’

‘But you believe that he sent these emails?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you thought he had sent the one to you?’

Camilla doesn’t reply.

Iben takes over. ‘Do you think that he was responsible for the blood and for exchanging the medicine?’

Camilla looks down again. ‘I get confused when you’re like this, Iben. I just can’t … It’s just that …’

‘Do you think that he pushed Rasmus?’

‘Stop it! Stop attacking me!’

Anne-Lise looks undecided whether to try and comfort Camilla or keep her distance.

Camilla is still shouting. ‘I want to go home!’

‘Of course you do. I know this is tough for you, I can see that. We’ll help you find a taxi … but first, just tell us this. Do we need to be careful? Will this man try something else? Would he really try to kill us?’

Although Iben is speaking calmly, Malene detects a genuine underlying fear.

When Camilla repeats that she wants to go home, Iben gently replies: ‘We’ll stop after a couple more questions. Can’t you see
that we are all in this together? We need to work out as a group how we can best protect ourselves. Don’t you agree?’

‘Yes.’ Camilla peers at them. ‘Yes, you’re right. I agree. But I do need to go to the toilet.’

‘Of course.’

After the door closes behind Camilla, Malene turns on the light.

The break was over long ago. Malene glances at Anne-Lise, taking in her broad, square-jawed face, her dark shoulder-length hair, and her dull, expensive clothes.

No one speaks.

Finally, Iben breaks the silence. ‘When she comes back we must try to be kinder to her. Perhaps we were a little too hard on her.’

The minutes pass and after a while it becomes obvious that Camilla is not coming back.

Iben stands at the window, carefully scanning the grey buildings and bare trees, as if a Serb militiaman might be lying in wait for her. Malene knows this is exactly what is on her mind.

Anne-Lise goes and looks out of the window as well. With the lights on, the faces of the two women, standing close together, are reflected in the large panes against the wintry background outside.

Malene also wants to do what Camilla did: simply slip away.

He hums the bass-line of an old Barry White number first: ‘Daaaum – daum daum – da da.’ Then he starts the message.

‘You have reached Rasmus and Malene’s answering machine. Where are we now? We don’t know either. So, please leave a message after the tone.’

It’s evening now and Malene has lit only a few small lamps, scattered around her living room. She listens tearfully to Rasmus’s message. When she’s heard the message a couple of times, she goes to the kitchen and takes a bottle of white wine out of the fridge. Drinking will ruin her night, but she doesn’t care. Settling onto the large, pale sofa, she plays the message again.

‘Daaaum – daum daum – da da. You have reached Rasmus and Malene’s answering machine. Where are we now? We don’t know either. So, please leave a message after the tone.’

She finishes the glass, drinks another one and then goes to get his pale-blue T-shirt. He forgot to pack it because it was in the laundry basket. She hasn’t washed it. She lies on her back on the sofa and holds the T-shirt to her chest.

Iben would find this beyond comprehension, she thinks, even though she wouldn’t actually ask Malene why she’s tormenting herself like that.

‘Daaaum – daum daum – da da. You have reached Rasmus and Malene’s answering machine. Where are we now? …’

Her fingers are tingling. It’s from all the crying. She wants some ice cream. Malene pulls herself together and walks in a reasonably straight line to the kitchen. She takes out a pack of vanilla ice cream with cherry swirls. The scoop has the right kind of broad, soft handle, but even so she should leave the ice cream to soften a little. Never mind. She stabs at it, hurting her
hand in the process. She wipes a few tears away with her sleeve and returns to the sitting room.

She is back on the floor in the darkened room, listening to the message again and again. The bottle is empty. She knows she should stop, but instead fills a glass with rum, orange juice and ice, and recalls what she said to Rasmus the last time they met.

They stood together in the hall. He was on his way to his new girlfriend’s place with three jackets slung over his arm. The twisted brass hooks point at the back of Malene’s head. Her own coats and jackets hang from the other hooks, without shape or life, like carcasses in a slaughterhouse. The fur collar on her green coat is unpleasantly close to her cheek.

She shouted at him, like she is doing now. ‘So why don’t you just leave! Leave! I don’t fucking want you here any more! You’re a liar! A fucking liar! Don’t think for a second that I’ll take you back when she throws you out!’ She hits out with her arms, as if he were there.

He tried to calm her.

‘Malene, Malene, please. I’m so sorry …’

‘Don’t! You lost the right to say “Malene” like that! Just go. Liar!’

He tried again. ‘Can’t we just … This is so difficult.’

She stamps the floor and strikes the green coat beside her. ‘You’re a total shit! I’ll never have you back! Whatever happens to you!’

‘Oh, Malene. I’m so sorry.’

That’s what he said. He’d said, ‘Oh, Malene. I’m so sorry.’

Because he was carrying his jackets, he wasn’t able to defend himself when she slapped him. Her hand hurt like hell, but he didn’t seem to feel a thing.

All the while she was certain that he would come back to her. He would have come back.

She was also certain that he would have turned around and never come back.

When she drinks some more, the words begin to change.

She stands in the hall. He is there. The empty hooks stick out, shiny and eye-catching.

‘Don’t leave! Don’t fucking leave! I want you here, I do! You liar. I want you!’

‘Oh, Malene. I’m so sorry.’

That’s what he says. He has said, ‘Oh, Malene. I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s a mistake. A misunderstanding. You do want to stay with me!’

‘Yes. I do.’

They kiss. She reaches out. With one hand, she grabs hold of one of the short, black legs of the coffee table, and with the other, the thick legs of the sofa.

She is still, her eyes closed.

Now that she is quiet, Malene can hear her neighbour in the flat below making a racket. He’s banging on the pipes and howling, ‘Shut up!’

It’s simply too much. He knows that Rasmus has died. Without moving, she screams, ‘Shut up yourself!’

She watches the pattern of light on the white ceiling. Her hands and feet are starting to hurt. She should take one of her strong painkillers.

She gets up slowly, holding on to the coffee table.

Standing doesn’t feel too bad; she’s not completely drunk. Her body feels odd, though, like a piece of meat that’s been cooked for hours and hours until the flesh falls off the bones.

She moves slowly towards the bathroom; every step causes a burning sensation in one of her feet.

She swallows a pill.

Back in the sitting room she checks the time. It’s only quarter to eleven. Maybe she’ll even escape a hangover.

Her phone rings and displays Gunnar’s number.

She decides to answer.

‘Hi, Malene. It’s Gunnar. Is this too late to call?’

‘No. Not at all.’

‘Are you sure I’m not disturbing you? You sound slightly out of it.’

‘No, I’m fine. I fell asleep on the sofa and just woke up. I’m pleased it’s you.’

‘I’m back from Afghanistan. I saw you’d phoned me.’

‘Well, I guess so.’

‘I thought maybe we could get together?’

‘I’d like that very much.’

‘Should we figure out a date now?’

Malene thinks for a second. ‘Do you want to come over? Tonight?’

A pause.

‘Do you really think that’s a good idea?’

‘It’d be so nice to see you. You can tell me about Afghanistan. While everything is still fresh in your mind.’

‘OK. That sounds good. It should take me about twenty minutes.’

Malene picks up the cushions and the wet paper towels, wipes spilt juice off the coffee table and puts back the candlestick and the books that have fallen to the ground. She opens the windows wide to air the room and changes into a rather revealing dress. She knows she should behave properly, although just thinking about Gunnar makes her excited. Maybe it’s the combination of the alcohol and the painkillers.