by Peter Høeg
There was no question of giving up, I was responsible for August. At one point, when I changed the candle, I almost lost him in the dark, then he took my good hand. And I let him, though I tried to watch out for my fingers.
Eventually we came up through the landing pit.
* * *
Klastersen taught PE and woodwork. He had been appointed the year before. He had been trainer of the junior national handball team, and was highly qualified. He had said that his training program would concentrate on building up the front. In six months’ time we would all have a strong front. Work on the gym apparatus was particularly well suited to this, he said, and most especially the mastering of high flights and deep landings. So he had prohibited the use of the thick mats. By going barefoot and using the hard mats or coming down straight onto the floor you could build up a very hard front. But it was not long before several accidents occurred. When a boy called Kåre Frymand ripped both of his Achilles’ tendons at one time, the school had been directed to use thick mats and install a landing pit.
The pit consisted of a box twelve feet by twelve, and ten feet deep, set into the floor. It had been installed right after the accident and was supposed to have been filled with wood shavings. This, however, had never been done, and so, day in and day out, it just sat there, covered up.
And now we came up through it. It had been built down into the engineering tunnels. In the bottom, on one side, there was a hatch. We came out of the gym onto the south staircase, which we then ascended.
It was very quiet. We had sort of sneaked up on the school, so it was not doing its job properly, it seemed to be paralyzed.
And yet it had its eye on us, you sensed it. For the first time it struck me that the very building belonged to Biehl. The walls were watching us.
With the walls it was like this: they were not to be touched. Leaning against walls and door posts was prohibited because of the wear and tear, Biehl himself had announced this at assembly. He had always protected them, now they were staring at us.
But we ascended the stairs. I did it for August. I sensed that the law of reciprocation could not be a law of nature after all. When people were weak and helpless, like August, for example, then it might be necessary to do something for them without getting anything in return. To do anything, no matter what.
And yet you did get something in return. I had descended and then ascended to help and protect him. Now it was as though he was helping me. As though you could set yourself free by helping others.
I cannot put it any better.
* * *
We got in through Hessen’s clinic, it took some time to open the door into the next room.
I had never been in there before. It was pretty much as I had known it would be. Small, with shelves where she kept the balls and jigsaw puzzles used when examining the smaller pupils. And a gray filing cabinet.
I left it alone. We would not find what we were looking for here. Still I stood there for a moment, running a hand over it. You had known it was there, but never seen it.
August was standing behind me, absolutely still. I turned around to whisper something, or to motion to him that we had to keep going.
And looked straight into the previous room, Hessen’s clinic, which we had just left.
We had closed the door, August had done that. And yet we were both now looking through the wall and into the clinic. As though the wall had not been there.
It was August who stretched a hand out toward it. It was brought up short by something.
“It’s glass,” he said.
It was like a big window, but there was no reflection from the candle. The glass could not be seen, only felt.
“It’s the back of the mirror,” I said, “it’s see-through.”
There had been a few times when I had turned up at the clinic at the appointed time and it was, not Hessen, but one of her assistants who had been there. On those occasions the proceedings had been a little different. You had talked off the record about how things had been since last time.
Now I realized that, on these occasions, while you had just been relaxing and talking to the assistants, who were much younger than Hessen, she had been in this room, behind the mirror. She could sit in peace, observing the whole thing. It was brilliant.
* * *
Off the corridor on the fifth floor ran Biehl’s office and the staff room and the library and the assembly hall and the district medical officer’s clinic. A door led directly from the corridor into Biehl’s office. Those who had been sent up for punishment had to wait outside this door. This saved them from causing any inconvenience in the school office, where the secretary sat. Then, too, it made the punishment worse if they had to stand in the corridor, where they could be seen by passing teachers.
The door came under the general key system, but only Biehl’s key fitted it, so the lock took a bit of time, especially since I could only use one hand. There was just a little bit of candle left. I blew it out, we would need the last of it for finding the papers.
When it went dark he huddled up against me.
“There’s nothing for us here,” he said.
His voice was unrecognizable.
I could not think of an answer for him.
“I’m going home,” he said.
He started to walk out into the darkness and then to run. He must have forgotten where he was, he was running blind, but very fast. He hit a doorjamb, but got up and ran on. At the end of the corridor he ran into the washbasin, I heard him hit it with his teeth.
I walked over to him. He was lying on his back, I could tell by touch that his mouth was bleeding. I could not carry him because of my hand, so I dragged him back. I took off my shirt and propped him up against the wall and got him to hold the shirt up to his mouth. Then I switched on the light.
It was risky, but there was nothing else for it.
Andersen—Lemmy, that is—lived in a little house on the other side of the south playground. In his hallway he had a panel of lamps that indicated where lights were burning in the school. It had been installed just after I came, most likely to save electricity. You could see it through his windows.
So I knew that now, when I pressed the switch, a light would come on in his house. But it had to be done.
The cleaning ladies at the school were specially selected and highly qualified. They had been appointed when Biehl started the school in humble premises on Jacoby Avenue in Frederiksberg, and had accompanied it on its rise. They were on familiar terms with the management of the school. They had always reported all traces of smoking, burned celluloid, or any other signs of vandalism. They saw things that other people did not see, it was very hard to hide anything from them, they would have spotted August’s blood right away, I had to mop it up. I worked my way back along the corridor using my socks, it was all I had. Then I put them back on.
When I came back, August was sitting looking at the door opposite, which led up to Biehl’s apartment. He had his private quarters on the top floor—this you knew, even though you had never been up there. The door to the stairs was opposite his office, with his name on it. It was the only door in the school with a name on it. To show that the ordinary part of the school stopped here. August sat there, looking at the nameplate and holding the shirt up to his mouth. He said not a word. I switched off the light and let us into the office.
I had been there twice before. The one time had been when they introduced me to August. The other time, which had been earlier on, had been for punishment. That had been the first time I had been hit at Biehl’s. I had been late five times in a month, it was at the time that my illness was getting worse.
It had been me and Jes Jessen and someone else. It was normal for Biehl to take two or three at once—to save time. There was a rug in the middle of the floor. “Stay off the rug,” he had said, “let’s have no more wear and tear than we can help.”
You had to stand with your hands behind your back, so you would not try to protect yo
ur face. He walked back and forth while getting into his stride—on the rug, too. You had not heard the words, it was more as though I had noticed the color of his skin, I had known when the blow was coming. Still it had taken you by surprise. Jes had fallen down, but I had stayed upright.
So now you automatically walked around the rug, and over to the desk. August went off into a corner. After he hurt himself he had calmed down, you could see he was very tired, which was because he had not eaten.
It was a fairly simple matter to open the chest—it might never have been locked. Never, ever had they expected anyone to attempt such an offense. There were so many things they had thought of, they had safeguarded themselves against almost everything, but not against this.
Nor, under normal circumstances, should this have been done. By opening this chest you were abusing your schoolmates’ trust; you were acting in an underhand manner. The ravens on the lid reminded you of this. That there was a justice from which nothing could be hidden.
But at the moment the object was to protect August.
I did not switch on the light, the moon was bright. I could see the letters on the folders containing the documents. They were arranged alphabetically, like a telephone book but not packed so close together.
“The bell doesn’t ring at night,” said August.
Until he said it, it had never occurred to me.
“It’s like she says,” he said. “When it doesn’t ring there’s another time in this place. It’s as if there is no time.”
I pointed to the moon.
“Time’s built into the world,” I said. “The moon rises and sets, there’s a system, like a clock.”
“But it doesn’t ring a bell every fifty minutes,” he said.
* * *
The folder was thick, I lit the candle. He did not come any closer.
“Whose business is it anyway,” he said, “right?”
One folder held his school record. He had gone to a normal school on Slotsherrens Road in Rødovre. I flicked past them. Then came the test results from the examinations by the school psychologist, and the case sheet from the school doctor. Then came something from the Social Services Department and two folders from the child psychiatry clinic at the University Hospital—they had examined him twice. I did not look at any of this. Last but one came the papers from Biehl’s—a number of letters. First time around I let them pass. Last of all came some typewritten sheets and some photographs. Of his parents.
In a way I was already familiar with the pictures—from his drawings. Time and again he had drawn the whole thing, very precisely, so I must have known. It had been buckshot, you could not help but see it, you had seen it before, albeit never like this. They lay close together, dressed in evening clothes. They had probably been out and had then come home and had then gone over to him on the cot. And he had been lying there, waiting for them.
“Now they’ll remember,” he said.
He had not looked at the pictures, nor at me. He had looked out the window, at the moon.
“How come?” I said.
“Now they know I don’t put up with anything.”
We were running out of time, you had to be clear and forthright.
“They look pretty dead,” I said.
“They’re perfectly okay,” he said, “it was just a reminder.”
The typewritten sheets contained the police report, along with the statement from the legal representative from the Department of Health and Welfare, who had to be present whenever you were questioned, if you were under fifteen. I had had that, too. There was no time to read those now. That left the papers from Biehl’s.
There were a number of letters, from different authorities. I tried to read them, it was no good. We were running late, the cleaners would be here soon, and the business with my hand did not make it any easier. Besides, it was a difficult language to read against the clock. It left you with the same feeling as the standardized reading tests; made you aware of how slow you were. But mostly it was difficult because of August.
He stood beside me looking out the window. He had seized up. Looking at the papers was like seeing inside him.
But there was something I could not help but notice. Two of the letters were from Baunsbak-Kold, director of education for Copenhagen. That was one of the things I saw. The other was what we had come for. It was about August’s trial period. I read it several times so as to memorize it.
“You’re here for an indefinite period,” I said, “you’re in preventive detention.”
I read it out to him: “‘… after consultation with the Department of Health and Welfare, the Ministry of Education, the Danish Institute of Education, the Copenhagen Board of Education, and the Danish Teacher Training College, the department hereby assents to August Joon being boarded at the school, under preventive detention, for an indefinite period.’”
“Why did they ask so many people,” he said, “what was the point of that?”
I did not answer that, there was no time to wonder about it.
“Your trial period won’t ever end,” I said, “you’ve got to stick it out. We’ll make it, you’ll see. We’ll think of something.”
Then I noticed something else. It looked like an extract from a police record, in August’s name. This was not possible, there was no way you could have a record if you were under fifteen. I knew all about that, it was a rule. Then I saw where it was from. It was a transcript from the court records, giving a brief account of August’s case.
That should not have been possible. The only people who had access to the court records were the observer from Child Welfare Services and the police, who used them in conjunction with police records. Where no notes could be made against a record—for example, with those of us not turned fifteen—we were entered in the court records. Like, for example, with all those times you had been brought into a police station for questioning, even though you had never been charged. It was supposed to be strictly confidential. But still, there was a transcript about August.
I put the file back. I switched on the light, just for a second, to make sure that he had not dripped on the floor or the rug. Then I saw that one of the desk drawers was fitted with a mortise lock.
This was absolutely normal. Biehl was the head of the school, there had to be a locked drawer in his desk for stamps and maybe small sums of money. There was no good reason for taking a look, and besides, we were in a hurry.
But I did it anyway. I took a paper clip from the desk and used the sheet-metal key as a wrench. I do not know why I did it, I suppose it was out of habit.
And yet maybe it had not been habit. Maybe it was an attempt to see inside Biehl.
All the papers in the school had been about everything but him. Always. No exceptions. And he had never said a word about himself.
Which was why you read his memoirs. There were four copies in the library, they could be borrowed for a week at a time. They had been out on loan constantly for nine months, even to people who usually did not read anything except what they were given as homework. And yet not even in those had there been one word about him personally.
It was not a deep drawer. In it lay a pile of blank school notepaper. Under the pile were two sheets of the same notepaper, but written on.
I looked over at August. He had sat down, he was very close to falling asleep on the chair. He had already started to twist and turn the way he did when his nightmare was on the way. When I was sure that he could not see anything, I took the two bottom sheets. Then I closed the drawer.
I picked him up, but because of my hand I could do no more than support him. His legs moved, the rest of him was asleep.
FIVE
“Where’s tomorrow?”
This is what she has asked me.
* * *
When children cry you talk to them about tomorrow. If they hurt themselves and are inconsolable, even though you pick them up, then you tell them where they are going tomorrow, who they are going to visit. You mo
ve their awareness on a day, away from their tears. You introduce time into their lives.
The woman has the knack of doing it gently, somehow. Without promising anything specific, without trying to deny the pain, tenderly she draws the child with her into the future. As if to say, we all have to learn about time. That even so, it is possible to grow up without being damaged.
For my part, I never talk to the child about time. We talk about other things—though not about anything much—and never about tomorrow. For me that is impossible. Tomorrow we could all be wiped out. You think back upon all the promises you did not manage to keep. Talk about time and you will always end up making promises. Then it is better to say nothing at all, no matter what.
And yet, quite often, she comes to me. Seldom to have anything explained, but often to tell me something.
When she comes over to me I sit down on the floor. It does not seem right to tower over her when she is talking to me. Instead I sit down, then our heads are on a level.
“Where’s tomorrow?”
I knew what she meant. She had grasped the concept of changes in space, that places are different from one another. Now time had been introduced into her life, but she could not grasp it. So she tried to explain it in terms of space, which she had grasped.
* * *
Katarina said the same thing, over the telephone, after the total separation. She did most of the talking, because for her there was less risk.
She said she had been thinking about the way you remembered your past. What you remembered, she said, was a string of events and years stretching back from the point where you now found yourself. In other words, a line of time. This might be colored differently, depending upon what had happened to you. For example, if you had lost someone, then it would be black. Other spots might be lighter. On some sections of the line time would have passed quickly, on other sections more slowly. But, for a long way back, it would still be a line.
Though not all the way back—at any rate not in her case—and what about me, she asked me to think about it.
