The Exception by Christian Jungersen Read Free Book Online Page B

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.

5
    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