a big mirror on the wall, between the door to
the next room and the loudspeaker panel.
Hessen had told me that she had been an
instructor in Mensendieck gymnastics. Now and again we had rounded off my
visits to her by my having to take off my shirt and my undershirt. Then
we would stand side by side facing the mirror
and I had to move my arms and shoulders and head in different ways. She had explained that this
could, in the long run, correct my bad posture. Now the mirror seemed like a
hole, or like some thing, watching
you. It had curtains. I drew them.
I took off my shoes and socks, removed the panel over the
loud speaker, and laid
the socks over the membrane. It was not 100 percent safe, but it would muffle the sound.
It would not have done to sit at
the table where one had so often sat with Hessen. I took the chair over to the window and
set August on it. I
remained standing.
He sat there, looking out the
window. It did not seem possible that she
would ever get through to him. I had had three weeks, but no more than a few
minutes of contact. The rest of the time he had
been cooped up inside
himself. Besides which, it was the first time they
had met.
"There is a plan behind the school," she said,
"so many things happen, you're never given any explanation. We are going to
study it scientifically, like in a
laboratory."
She did not look straight at him. She must have sensed
that he could not
bear that. Nor did she look at me, who, in fact, was not all that keen on it either. She
looked at a point between us, she had spoken pretty softly. She unfolded two pieces of paper.
"This is the teachers' timetable," she said,
"and Hessen's. I copied them down."
She spoke to August
without looking straight at him.
"I was late five times. For that you get sent to
Biehl. I came early on
purpose and waited in the secretary's office. The timetable is stuck up on the wall. When the
secretary went out I copied it down—as much as I could manage. The rest I worked out by asking around the other classes. Once I
had it I could draw up a plan of when the rooms were in use. These
two timetables, together with the pupils'
one that I had already made up—they give the complete schedule for the
entire school. That's all I wanted to say. You can go now if you don't want to be in
on this."
At first he was quiet. Then he pulled up his shirt. He
had some papers tucked in against his stomach, he unfolded them. It was the two drawings—the one that was rewarded and the first
one, where the background had not been filled in. He did not throw his drawings
away like other people.
"You draw something," he said, "and you
get nothing. Then you do
the same thing again, but this time you get a star and are praised, how come?"
He said it casually, without looking at her. He was
testing her. If she
got it wrong she would have lost him.
She looked at the drawings. It
was as though she were listening to them, in the same way that she had listened to
me—then I knew that
she would reach him.
"It's something to do with time," she
said. "You got a star be cause you had spent more time on the second drawing. And spent
the time in a particular way. We think they have a plan, and
that it has to do with time."
"So the
second one wasn't any better?"
Now he was looking straight into her face, she was
careful not to meet his gaze.
"There's no such thing as 'better,' " she said . " The second one just fitted in better with their
plan."
How could she know that? She was only sixteen, how could she know that and say it?
When is one thing better than another? It is a crucial
question.
Although, usually, what one has in mind is that
something is not good
enough. Oscar Humlum, for example, was just not good enough. Axel Fredhøj did not think he was either. Nor I. It said in the
record: "of average intelligence," but right from the start they had acknowledged that that was probably stretching
things a bit.
That, even so, it is I who am left, and able to
the next room and the loudspeaker panel.
Hessen had told me that she had been an
instructor in Mensendieck gymnastics. Now and again we had rounded off my
visits to her by my having to take off my shirt and my undershirt. Then
we would stand side by side facing the mirror
and I had to move my arms and shoulders and head in different ways. She had explained that this
could, in the long run, correct my bad posture. Now the mirror seemed like a
hole, or like some thing, watching
you. It had curtains. I drew them.
I took off my shoes and socks, removed the panel over the
loud speaker, and laid
the socks over the membrane. It was not 100 percent safe, but it would muffle the sound.
It would not have done to sit at
the table where one had so often sat with Hessen. I took the chair over to the window and
set August on it. I
remained standing.
He sat there, looking out the
window. It did not seem possible that she
would ever get through to him. I had had three weeks, but no more than a few
minutes of contact. The rest of the time he had
been cooped up inside
himself. Besides which, it was the first time they
had met.
"There is a plan behind the school," she said,
"so many things happen, you're never given any explanation. We are going to
study it scientifically, like in a
laboratory."
She did not look straight at him. She must have sensed
that he could not
bear that. Nor did she look at me, who, in fact, was not all that keen on it either. She
looked at a point between us, she had spoken pretty softly. She unfolded two pieces of paper.
"This is the teachers' timetable," she said,
"and Hessen's. I copied them down."
She spoke to August
without looking straight at him.
"I was late five times. For that you get sent to
Biehl. I came early on
purpose and waited in the secretary's office. The timetable is stuck up on the wall. When the
secretary went out I copied it down—as much as I could manage. The rest I worked out by asking around the other classes. Once I
had it I could draw up a plan of when the rooms were in use. These
two timetables, together with the pupils'
one that I had already made up—they give the complete schedule for the
entire school. That's all I wanted to say. You can go now if you don't want to be in
on this."
At first he was quiet. Then he pulled up his shirt. He
had some papers tucked in against his stomach, he unfolded them. It was the two drawings—the one that was rewarded and the first
one, where the background had not been filled in. He did not throw his drawings
away like other people.
"You draw something," he said, "and you
get nothing. Then you do
the same thing again, but this time you get a star and are praised, how come?"
He said it casually, without looking at her. He was
testing her. If she
got it wrong she would have lost him.
She looked at the drawings. It
was as though she were listening to them, in the same way that she had listened to
me—then I knew that
she would reach him.
"It's something to do with time," she
said. "You got a star be cause you had spent more time on the second drawing. And spent
the time in a particular way. We think they have a plan, and
that it has to do with time."
"So the
second one wasn't any better?"
Now he was looking straight into her face, she was
careful not to meet his gaze.
"There's no such thing as 'better,' " she said . " The second one just fitted in better with their
plan."
How could she know that? She was only sixteen, how could she know that and say it?
When is one thing better than another? It is a crucial
question.
Although, usually, what one has in mind is that
something is not good
enough. Oscar Humlum, for example, was just not good enough. Axel Fredhøj did not think he was either. Nor I. It said in the
record: "of average intelligence," but right from the start they had acknowledged that that was probably stretching
things a bit.
That, even so, it is I who am left, and able to
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