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  John Schou

  The Tunnel and the Cave

  Selected Short-Stories

  Copyright 2012 by John Schou

  Cover: Borut Jemec

  ISBN 9781476062204

  I went a long way through a narrow tunnel

  before realizing that it was a cave

  Thoughts of an authorship

  Table of Content:

  Preface

  A B-Mans Nightmare (1992)

  How the English Language got its strange Tune (1992)

  The New Earl of Balmore (1993)

  How Are You, Today? (1994)

  A Matter of Concentration (1995)

  Nightly Departure (1995)-

  The Emperor’s New Rules (1995)

  Called to the Boss (1996)

  Nevaljashka (1996)

  My World-Famous Modesty (1996)

  Promotion (1996)

  Is there a Doctor on Board? (1996)

  Tale of the Tie (1996)

  Explosive Departure (1996)

  A Strange Reward (1996)

  Dysthanasia (1997)

  Rudolph Rednose (1998)

  Justice in Lawainia (2000)

  Jack the Ripper’s last notes (2001)

  Hannah’s Sudden Death (2002)

  An Uninvited Visitor (2003)

  The Research Victim (2003)

  Modern Christmas (2003)

  Good Old Days (2004)

  The Wall Behind (2004)

  Visit from Cassandra (2005)

  Axis of the Devil (2005)

  Liberating the Free (2006)

  A Long Way Home (2006)

  The Last Container (2006)

  Sporty events (2006)

  Alert for Copnick (2007)

  Resurrection (2007)

  The Beauty and Me, the Beast (2008)

  The Obituary (2009)

  Projecting 9/11 (2010)

  Schou’s Evolution Theory (2011)

  Epilogue

  Preface

  This collection includes selected short-stories, written over 20 years. There is no particular theme, uniting the stories. The early stories (1992-96) were written in Danish for ‘Etudes’; some stories have later been included in other context: ‘An Uninvited Visitor’, ‘Hannah’s Sudden Death’ and ‘Axis of the Devil’ in ‘Duodecameron’; and ‘A Long Way Home’ in ‘When Civil Servants Fail.’

  The presentation is made in the order of writing, not necessarily the order of reading to be recommended. Some were originally written in English but the bulk of them have been translated from Danish (with some available in only one of these languages).

  A B-Man's Nightmare

  It was difficult to accept not being at the top, but it was at least some comfort to know that I was designed a B-man in the new world order. In fact, as a B-man you are not allowed to admit that you dream about becoming an A-man; anyhow, it is nearly impossible, there are no more than 3% of the classified population in this group against some 12% B- and 85% C-humans. To this is added the unclassified that are not called D-men because they are not worth counting and also possesses no rights. Nobody counts them or could even count on them. Their number is kept lowered by high illness rates, connected to various vices like alcoholism and drug addiction.

  The new society arose from differing demands to its various groups. In group A, one would find an increasing concentration of the economic power within few families. Almost half of the A-men have some relation to UNIHOCO (universal holding company) and the majority of C-men are occupied in this conglomeration of firms, while a larger part of B-men are employed by the state. We are all very satisfied with UNIHOCO, because it is difficult to imagine anybody being dissatisfied and still keeping his or her job. UNIHOCO owns all great industrial, mercantile and transport firms. Previously, it was forbidden to collect so many firms in a single concern, and a number of great firms competed against one another. However, as these had decided the new regulation and the majority of people were related to these firms, one way or another, it was not difficult just to change such a law, now a majority for it had been formed.

  Our government is independent of UNIHOCO. It consists of B-men and even a few C-men and is elected completely democratically. The right to vote is connected to payment of tax, while the classless are characterized by not doing so. However, since the new regulation, UNIHOCO and the government have worked close together to everybody's well-being. UNIHOCO obeys the government’s orders, which is quite easy since the government first examines what can be demanded before doing so, in order not to compromise itself, as it happened once they were not quite in agreement.

  As a B-man, you must work for a long time and are pensioned only with the age of 75. This limit was newly increased from 72 years as it was shown that B-men lived an average of 18 years after being pensioned, a duration which it was impossible to finance with the advantageous health- and pension-insurance. When A-men are pensioned is up to them to decide, there are no strict rules for that. In contrast, C-men stop working already with 54 years, when they lose value for the working market, but then their social status is a different one. As a C-man, you have no demand for any great operation after the age of 50. Through deletion of certain prophylactic therapies, enough means were created to offer the survivors a decent evening of life. In all, the humans of the C-class are not as poor as this story could let one assume, and they possess enough means to buy or utilize the products which UNIHOCO produces and sells.

  Only the classless are living in real poverty. Probably, if it was not renewed continually through people falling off the C-class, this group would die out all by itself. Here, one will find the asocial individuals who abuse anything they can get to get drunk or for other vices. A scientific investigation has confirmed that this group practically does not support society, worse than that, it even hurts the organized society through thefts and associated damages. The classless can sometimes be utilized for certain services and are waged off for that daily, since nobody knows if you will ever see them again. However, it deserved mention that Europe's classless people are much better off than those who merge South and East of its borders. Just a few years ago, great hordes from Africa turned up against Southern Europe and only stopped after the great massacre, which took place for the great wall which protects the desired continent from rioters from the South and East. Nobody knows how many were killed by this massacre, but it must have been quite a few, since it was the last attempt since then to break out from that prison of poverty and overpopulation, and it calls for quite a bit to impress these masses.

  But back to my comforted existence as a B-man in the right part of the world. It was a good position to possess, now that I had turned seriously ill. As a B-man, I had good means for that which was to come. A C-man would not be offered the operation which was now necessary. Where would we end if all parts of humanity should be treated for any thinkable disease till late age? They had tried so in the 20th century until they finally realized that this calculation did not fit.

  But then the shock appeared in the form of an official letter: With the projected strain, society did not recognize their ability to accept me in group B. After all, I had not paid enough to the insurance in the previous years. And with my reclassification to group C, I would lose my occupation, my apartment and my possibilities for cure. This appeared to me quite illogical, incomprehensible how such a thing could happen. I was paralyzed, sweating and unable to defend myself against my destiny. There was only one possibility, and that arose in my distress:

  I woke up from my dream. I looked at my watch, which said half past two a.m., but that did not prove anything. Then I got out of bed and found a calendar — and was finally sure to be back in the 20th century. After all, it was o
nly a nightmare. However, I was troubled by the thought that it was perhaps a bit of a vision. Although I could enjoy good health again without any need for a known operation, I did not sleep much more that night. Only when I was approaching the time to get up must I have slept again.

  Anyhow, I was rather late that morning. The rest of the family was already at the table and had called me in vain a couple of times. My daughter laughed at me and said: “Father always tries to be an A-man, but now he has turned a C-man: early to bed and late out of it!”

  I produced a shy smile. Should I tell them how I perceived this remark exactly today? Better not, visions of the future tends to act phantastic and unrealistic, but later they just turn trivial.

  How the English Language Got Its Strange Tune

  In the course of my medical career, I had many occasions to read English, speak English and even write in English, although I was rather inhibited by recurrent criticism that I was not mastering proper English — until I found out that two of my ancestors were involved in the development of this language.

  It all started in 1034 when Rotherik Njalsøn Schou and his son, Erik Rotheriksøn Schou, at the request of King Knud (Canute) joined his court in Winchester. At that time King Knud governed a huge kingdom, largely consisting of Denmark, England and Norway and exerted influence on neighbouring Ireland and northern France, equally dominated by Norsemen. They had, during the Viking conquest of the British Isles over the preceding centuries, found inhabitants with whom they could speak, since these had left Scandinavia around the 6th century under the pressure of the already then terrible tax authorities. Simultaneously, Norsemen went to other parts of the world; this was the last attempt to make Danish the official language of the world (other nations have made later attempts).

  After some years, Erik followed the call of his uncle, a companion of Vilhelm (William) of Normandy, to go southward to the continent. There he learned Frankish, a Germanic language mixed up with Latin and some remnants of Celtic.

  At first, Rotherik stayed in southern England. There were some dialect problems, but the inhabitants soon learned to speak proper Danish. He was a calm and respected person, difficult to mislead, and having made a decision he kept to it, even when it proved to be wrong. The death of King Knud was, however, a painful experience to Rotherik, who was also displeased by the unstable English climate. Having suffered 8 attacks of a common cold in one year — too common for his nose — he decided to go back to the Danish mainland, an event which took place in 1065.

  Our family has often been twisted in verbal differences but never fought against another with weapons. Thus, only having learned about Rotherik's departure, Erik decided to support Vilhelm's planned raid against England the following year. Erik was quite different in temperament than Rotherik: he could indeed change his mind rather fast but always in accordance with the winning party. He was feared as a strong and cynical fighter. Historicians now agree (two of them, at least) that it was the presence of Erik on the one front and the absence of Rotherik on the other that was responsible for the outcome of the battle of Hastings.

  It then took a couple of hundred years for the Frankish-Norman language to merge with the original Anglo-Saxon, to form the mixture we nowadays call English. Try to imagine how this language would have developed if Rotherik Njalsøn Schou and Erik Rotheriksøn Schou had behaved differently — then probably more in the direction of my daily speech.

  Having proven that my ancestors were crucially involved in the development of the English language, I shall kindly ask the present-day Anglosaxons to abstain from any linguistic criticism of me or members of my family. Anyhow, they have ample occupation in editing their compatriots.

  I made up this story after four friends successively helped me to edit a large and complex medical article (Changing Concepts of Anaesthesia). The first improved my writing, the others that of the former editor – thinking it was me. That weakened henceforth my discipline in linguistic questions.

  The New Earl of Balmore

  Mr. and Mrs. Tycoon-Miller were awakened at 9 a.m. by the telephone in their hotel room on their second morning in London. The receptionist informed them that a lawyer, Sir William Aldersburough, had been waiting since 7.30 a.m. but had insisted that she should not call until now, which she was then doing. They should feel in no hurry but just inform her whether they were ready to receive Sir William the same morning.

  Mrs. Tycoon-Miller answered the phone in a confused but kind way: the lawyer could come to the room in a quarter of an hour. How stupid a response — nothing less than an hour would do to prepare herself to receive a stranger. The explanation for this blunder, for which she could blame no one but herself, was that she knew a lot of persons called William, but they all called themselves Bill and none of them “Sir William”. Anyhow, she did not want to let a betitled person wait on her behalf and, therefore, her husband was turned out of bed and the best was made of the scarce time. She was not exactly ready but something close to it as there was a knock on the door and she felt simultaneously grateful that it had been 27 minutes instead of 15. Instead, her husband had started to get impatient and was about to call the porters to ask if there was still someone waiting, but now he was there.

  Sir William was about half a century old, to tell from his largely grey hair (but black moustache) and wrinkled skin. He was not just well but perfectly dressed, and he spoke a correct, almost affected English, far more elegant than that they tried to live up to in Boston, where they were proud of not speaking broad “American” — this tongue was really different and, though curiously pathetic, nothing to laugh at. Funnier was the hat worn by the intruder, hardly to be found anywhere in the States. She had indeed expected a bowler, but this was a high hat, seemingly fit for the head it was screwed upon.

  The newcomer excused himself for the obvious disturbance and then proceeded directly to the reason for his visit: The old Earl of Balmore had died some time ago and left no direct heir. Intensive research had revealed that Mr. Tycoon-Miller was the closest relative and thus successor to title and estate. He was there to inform him of the heritage and clear the remaining formalities, as well as introduce the couple to their new estate — and unexpected roots.

  Mr. Tycoon-Miller had not made a minor fortune by believing anything he was told without raising a question. He thus sneered rather aggressively at Sir William but was held back by his wife and the surprising fact that their guest appeared neither to have desire for any money in association with their new luck, nor did he appear to have any haste in forwarding the remaining details. In fact, as the lawyer suggested they visit Balmore House by the end of the coming week, it was Mrs. Tycoon-Miller who urged that they should do so the same day, a demand which her husband pressed through with accustomed business ability, as they were only supposed to stay for one week in Great Britain in all. Although he had to make some changes in his schedule, Sir William promised to return at 1 p.m. and carry along the couple in his car directly to Balmore House, about 90 miles from London.

  It was only little more than 3 hours but still appeared unbearably long to the couple. It was not up to their style that they should have to wait for Sir William's car in front of the hotel, but it was in full accordance with their expectations to see Sir William arrive in a large chauffeur-driven car, with plenty of space in the back. During their drive out of London, Sir William mentioned that he had sent a courier to Balmore House to take care of the preparations. One might have asked why he did not simply use the telephone, but that would perhaps have been improper to the importance of the occasion. The driver appeared to be a non-human part of the car and astonishingly fast the point was met where no one behind cared about driving, something that had never happened to the Tycoon-Millers. After nearly two hours' drive, during which the distance between houses became increasingly long, the car suddenly halted in front of a huge iron gate. The driver hooted twice and the heavy gate opened automatically, though slowly. Then the car slowly merged through an
avenue of high trees. Behind them, the hazy contours of a big building complex were dimly visible. It was possible to drive faster, but they probably needed some time in advance of them. With a turn to the left there was suddenly a view of the huge manor, certainly not just a “house”, and not only that: nearly 20 employees in various uniforms waited in front, posed in two ranks with an elderly couple in front of them. This was totally unexpected for the American couple. They had seen such scenes on television but never even dreamed that they themselves might be the focus of such attention.

  Just like in the film version, the man in front was the butler and the woman the housekeeper. Sir William introduced the couple as “the 11th Earl of Balmore and his precious wife”, then the butler, James, the housekeeper, Miss Edith, and the remaining staff with their function and first names. It was impossible to keep any of these in mind. Lord Tycoon-Miller straightened his back and kept unusually silent, but still tried to behave as though this was an everyday occurrence for him. His wife could not avoid meeting the eyes of some of the young female employees, who seemed to express a sort of admiration. It would be a hard job to keep her husband away from these girls in the future.

  The impressive ceremony ended in less than 10 minutes. There was not enough time to show all the “house” before the obligatory five-o'clock tea (the new Earl thought about changing this later to American coffee of similar density and served somewhat earlier), but the living quarters in the south wing were briefly introduced. The winter garden beneath the south wing was the place to ingest the afternoon tea (to be used for nothing but that). It overlooked a garden of peculiarly cut bushes and, farther away, a huge lawn ending somewhere in the forest.

  “No, the golf area is on the other side,” said Sir William, correcting Mr. Tycoon-Miller's assumption. “This is an excellent place to let the horses run. By the way, after tea Your Lordship should have a quick look at the stables while the Lady, if she desires to do so today already, can have a look at the ballroom and the living rooms — no, not saloons. Then it will already be time to change for dinner, but before I leave, I need confirmation that you accept the title and all the inheritance associated with it.”

  “But we have all our belongings in the hotel and even so, we did not bring any evening dress from Boston to here,” argued Mrs. Tycoon-Miller.

  “Wait till you see your dressing-room, you will need nothing else,” answered Sir William.

  Mr. Tycoon-Miller had finally gathered himself from the paralysis which had seized him and delivered a short speech: “Dear Sir William! This morning we talked about going to a party, which I managed to call off after you left our hotel room. It is still hardly possible to understand the situation which we have suddenly been thrust into. Would it be possible for you to stay to dinner, so-to-say as our guest, and then, since it will be late, to stay somewhere in this huge mansion for the night?”

  “I shall gladly accept the invitation,” said the lawyer and snapped his fingers. The butler appeared from nowhere. “James, can I sleep in the room in the east wing where I used to when I stayed here for the night?” Of course, the answer was positive. “I used to be a close friend of the house,” Sir William added, in case someone should not have understood. The driver would then leave around dinner-time in order to bring the signed papers to the office in London, in time to bring the new nobility into their rights the following day.

  The Americans knew that the English nobility spent a considerable part of their lives in dressing rooms, and it would be a bad habit to change that on the first day. Besides, the 11th Earl of Balmore caught a brief view of one of the long-legged servant maids whom he had noticed during the welcome ceremony, but she was gone before he could call her. Apparently, she had placed a dinner jacket of exactly his size on his bed. Now he realized that his bedroom was separate from that of his wife, and he thought again of the long-legged girl. Well, this was just the beginning.

  Just before dinner, the honourable couple met in a salon adjacent to the dining room. They exchanged their experiences with a frequent use of superlatives (except the girl was not mentioned, but that was just a glance and some thoughts), then decided that it was finally time for the 5th cigarette of the day (and the first since leaving the hotel, at a time when other days would have seen the ashes of 30 or more). Sir William arrived with a bunch of papers and laid it in front of Lord Tycoon-Balmore, as his name should later be changed to. Dinner would be served at half past seven, i.e. in five minutes, and there were at least 20 papers to read. The new earl looked desperately at his wife, he never signed anything fast, but she nodded, overwhelmed by the day's impressions. Sir William made it easier: “The first paper is the acceptance of the title, the second an application to the House of Lords, to be effectuated only after the Citizenship of Great Britain has been granted — you may leave that out now if you care, — and the third paper the acceptance of the heritage. All the remaining papers specify the content of the heritage, the manor and all its property, the cars and horses, and so on.”

  The Lady suddenly asked if the former Earl of Balmore, once a real Briton, had appeared on the rank of order to the throne. Learning that the late Earl, when he died, had reached position 137 on that very list, she commanded: “Sign them all, Bob!” He did not do it because she said so, but because he was similarly convinced, and they all went on time to dinner.

  Fortunately, a number of biscuits had disappeared with the afternoon tea, taking the edge from the host couple's appetite, because the dishes being served were rather small and mostly swallowed before James, who brought them the last feet to the table, had reached his starting position. Lady Tycoon-Balmore was somewhat shocked to learn that the kitchen of the manor did not possess a single microwave oven and was furthermore situated 2 floors below the dining room, although connected with the adjacent preparation room by a transport escalator. Sir William was most interested in the wine and cautiously tested the host's oenological knowledge. Apparently, he did not know about deuxieme cru; neither about the municipality of Saint-Julien or the vintage served; not even about Medoc. Sir William stopped talking about wine and drank it a bit faster while Lord Robert Tycoon-Balmore claimed that he evaluated the wine only according to its price, and he was somewhat disturbed that there was no price label on the bottle but instead an ugly abundance of dust — who was responsible for cleaning the wine cellar? But even if the bottles were old and dirty, the wine increased the pleasant mood of the company, and the small dishes continued to arrive and apparently could saturate, if only by their number.

  The only crisis during the dinner was the vain attempt of the hosts to smoke cigarettes in their own dining room. James said there had never been any ashtray here and there was no tradition for it, but if his Lordship would please follow him to the smoking room ... Lord Robert already had the cigarette in his hand while his wife had grasped for her bag. Should this be the first occasion to demonstrate to the old butler who was now the master in this house? He sent a glance to Sir William, who did not meet his eye but studied the first wine bottle which had been empty for some time now. This was presumably a demonstration that he did not want any struggle on this subject; perhaps it also indicated some incompatibility between the wine and cigarettes, as some snobbish people had claimed on earlier occasions. Lord Robert rescued the situation by saying to his wife: “Dear, wouldn't you like to see the smoking room, too?”

  Upon their return, the endless wandering of small dishes through the house had finally ceased. Sir William was engaged in a cheese selection while sipping a straw-yellow French wine, sweet enough to find acknowledgement from the hosts, who saved it for the ice cream. For that, they rejected the offered coffee upon learning that it was not decaffeinated. That, however, should hardly have influenced their sleep, since the walk from the smoking salon had revealed how much wine they had indeed let pass in their glasses.

  It was only half past 10 p.m., but their general condition called for a bed. Suddenly the Lady noticed that in Boston it w
as half past four and thus a good time to call her mother to tell her the unbelievable news. She was nearly exploding from the fact that she so far had told no one about the happy change in their life. “I am sorry, Milady,” answered James, “but it is impossible to use the telephone now.”

  “Why not?” asked Lord Robert, somewhat disturbed.

  “Because the telephone bill has not been paid,” replied the butler. Here was a task to be taken care of right in the morning. But this day had been so beautiful that such a minor obstacle should not be allowed to disturb it. The Earl of Balmore had enough sense to remember the remaining 17 pages of the content of the heritage. Then the hosts were gently escorted to each of their south wing bedrooms which they, even by daylight and before drinking wine, would not have found by themselves.

  Lord Robert lay down on the large, though far too soft bed and dreamt about fox hunting. In his native Arizona, he had been one of the best riders, and this was a sport in which he would certainly make a good figure. This room was as hot as Phoenix in summer, while outside it had started to snow. How did the Britons kill their foxes? Never mind, he was also good with a gun and would use what seemed appropriate. He was nearly asleep and drifting into pleasant dreams when a female hand suddenly touched his neck. Wow, here was really everything included — though, it was not the maid he had at first suspected it would be, but instead his wife who had found a door between their dressing rooms. “Nobility does not oblige sleeping separately,” were her only words and both slept indeed very fast.

  Robert F. Tycoon-Miller, or whatever his name now was, woke up rather uneasily around 5.30 a.m. The room was now cold with condensed water on the inner side of the singular glass windows. Now he remembered that the islanders heat heavily in the evening and let the fire extinguish sometime in the night. Several firms had gone broke while trying to introduce continental principles for heat maintenance instead of respecting the local tradition. However, it was neither the cold, nor his aching back that made him wake up prematurely. It was an uneasy feeling about a small detail that did not fit into the pattern: The telephone bill had not been paid!

  Having fought with himself for a while, one part of his person wanting to continue sleeping, the other wrestling in doubt, the latter part finally won and he went to the papers containing a description of the heritage. The first part was not bad, listing the value of the house, the horses, the collection of cars (so far he had not seen one of them), the size of the agricultural property and so on. Quite a lot of millions of pounds. It was 6 months old and it was stated somewhere that it was made on the occasion of the death of the old Earl Rudolph, who had left no children. It even contained official stamps and seals, as he had noticed already yesterday.

  But then appeared a list of the debts, again in millions, and it ended with the monthly expenses, including the immense staff of the house and the employees he had not seen yesterday while they were occupied on the agricultural part of the establishment — anyhow not a place for an industrial magnate to get rich. And it appeared that since the death of the old Earl, only part of the expenses had been paid, thus raising the debt considerably above the stated value. Lord Robert slowly merged back into the shape of Bob Tycoon-Miller, though not the old self-confident American he had been the previous morning. He sat with a worried face, staring from time to time out of the window and finally, a little after 6 a.m., woke up his wife.

  Let us not go into detail about their discussion in the following hour. How to discuss, when their property and monthly income contributed only a small part of what the heritage showed up in debit? Still, it took some time to reach the inevitable conclusion: get rid of this burden as fast as possible, even at a certain price.

  Mrs. Tycoon-Miller, as she again preferred to be called, went back to her rooms and started dressing, no less urgently than yesterday. Her husband needed less than 10 minutes for this procedure, remembering to shave but ignoring his teeth. Along his door, a long woven strap went up to the ceiling, connected mechanically to something above the bedroom. He pulled it but no peculiar sound was produced, to betray whether it had possibly been heard. Nevertheless, it must have been, since a few minutes later the butler knocked at the door, then entered with the question: Does your Lordship wish to enjoy breakfast in the Morning Room now?

  The word “enjoy” seemed improper, but why start the battle on an empty stomach? The caller decided at least to enjoy breakfast in the old style. Anyhow, he did not expect to meet Sir William that early. Together with his wife, he was led a long way downstairs and again upstairs to the Morning Room in the Eastern Wing, the part of the house where Sir William had slept. And see, he was already there and had nearly finished his breakfast. He asked the newcomers to his table and stood up for the Lady.

  Before opening his heart, Mr. Tycoon-Miller wanted the butler gone. He ordered coffee for himself, but not too strong, and tea for his wife, but James only went to the door and passed the message to a maid and then returned. The American looked nervously up at him but then decided to do what English aristocrats do and ignore the serving staff.

  “We have had a close second look at the papers you gave me yesterday, and it was an unpleasant surprise to see the negative balance of this establishment,” he blurted out. Sir William looked at him shortly, served himself another cup of tea and then seemed to think — without answering with a word. “Now, to come right to the point, I see no possibility to pay it all!” He had said everything in only two sentences, now it was up to the lawyer.

  “As you know, the acceptance of a heritage means acceptance of positives and negatives,” Sir William started. His client nodded. There was no point in denying that. “I must admit that I had no doubt that you, as President and major stockholder of Tycoon, Inc., would be in a position to meet these obligations, and it would only be a fair enrichment to a person of your standings. As you know, it took quite a while to find the right heir to this land, and then by coincidence you were just visiting England as I called your office in Boston”. Now he mentioned it, there had been a strange call referred from his office, from some British aristocrat who refused to tell what it was about, but insisted it was urgent — nevertheless, Mr. Tycoon-Miller currently felt no need of any enrichment to his person.

  “I am sorry for the trouble I may have caused you by my premature decision to take over the heritage yesterday, but after discussing matters with my wife, we have decided not to accept the offered heritage,” he said, and then added, less loud and obviously in distress, “in spite of my signature yesterday”.

  “I nearly forgot,” exclaimed Sir William, “they are on their way for notarial act. My driver will be there at 8 a.m. and return here at noon, according to my instructions.”

  “But it is not quite 8, can't we call ... oh no, the telephone,” realized Mrs. Tycoon-Miller herself. “But then you may send one of the many cars to the village some 10 miles away and make a call from there.”

  “James, can you make a car ready immediately?” Sir William asked.

  “I am sorry, Sir, there is not a single drop of petrol left in any of them!” was the immediate answer.

  Sir William had at least taken what he needed for breakfast before the couple arrived, because there was not much joy left for that morning. As it turned out, it would cost £ 40.000 to get the notarial signature cancelled and another 10.000 for being the Earl of Balmore for a day. While Mr. Tycoon-Miller, with his wife's approval, prepared a cheque for £ 50.000, Sir William drew up a receipt, claiming that he would cancel all obligations on behalf of the heritage.

  Soon thereafter, the couple left Balmore House through a small side gate, with instructions how to reach the village station by foot. Although they could not see anything, they had a feeling of being watched from each of the windows in the big manor. After half an hour's walk and with probably only a quarter of the distance behind them, they were happy to receive a lift from a truck driver, the first time they sat inside such a vehicle. Luckily, they did not need to w
ait long before the train for London arrived.

  “Anyhow, quite an experience, Lord Bob,” said Mrs. Tycoon-Miller with a smile, “I would not want to have missed it, in spite of all the troubles. I only hope that you learned something.”

  “I sure did, Lady Balmore, heir to the British throne, and don't call me Lord anymore,” answered her husband.

  Back at Balmore Manor, his cheque was analyzed and found referring to the account with which the Tycoon Company was registered. Somewhere, petrol was indeed found and a car made ready for the lawyer, scheduled to take another route towards London. “I always prefer to see the money before the client changes his mind,” the lawyer argued. “I also have to check an Australian and a Canadian couple while in town, so I shall be somewhat late for dinner and alone today.”

  “Allow me to express, on behalf of the whole staff, our admiration for the way you, Lord William, in less than half a year after adopting this estate has cleared it of all its debts. But is it really necessary to continue this ... business, say, in case one of the short-time Lords should have regrets and want his money back?” James asked.

  “Thank you for your acknowledgements. I do not see any reason to get worried. All papers concerning the estate are real, though slowly getting somewhat old. And as they rightfully state, we still need a lot of money for running this estate. So far, I have had the impression that all the Lords and Ladies were happy about their newly gained nobility and again happy to get rid of it. I am sure that none of them will ever tell anyone that they for some hours apparently stood on the crowning list of the empire!”

  Lord William Aldersburough, the 11th Earl of Balmore, entered the car. The driver — incidentally the same as yesterday — closed it and headed for London.

  How are You — Today ?

  I regret that it is necessary to inform the reader of the existence of my disease. Actually not a serious disease, it should just be cured and then forgotten. However, the doctor said that it was important not to remember anything about this disease since that was the precondition for complete healing. If not, it could proceed into a chronic stage with serious sequels, and then there was nothing that the medical profession could offer against it. Which disease? Are you also beginning? This is none of your business! What I shall describe is the reaction of my surroundings while more than enough has been said about the disease in itself.

  “He should take care of himself for a couple of weeks,” the doctor said, and then I was reported ill. This made all friends, neighbours and the colleagues at the job aware that something was wrong. So what to do when an acquaintance, perhaps even a friend, gets ill? You ask how this person is doing; and when you have asked a couple of times, the question wins in specificity, e.g.: “How are you — today?” This is what must be expected, it would not look good if a lack of interest was felt, at least that is how the others feel about it.

  In the beginning, this was probably also more reasonable: “You are really not looking good now” (the questioning person confirms that it is justified to stay away from the job today). To this remark I tried to modify the pessimism expressed with the doctors' bulletins expecting rapid improvement. But after the first polite answers to the standardized question, I found myself trying to produce creative variations in my response, e.g.: “The doctor only gave me a few weeks to live, so would you please return the book you borrowed last year?” I did not get the book back and the questioner had now become really curious.

  I approached the end of my sick leave, but the persistent reminders about the disease, provoked by the never-ending questions, caused my condition to deteriorate. Therefore, I started to act as if the matter were trivial, hoping that it would now soon be forgotten with my subsequent cure: “Why shouldn't I be OK today?” or “Which disease?” Hence, the observer felt obliged to remind me that he or she was in possession of reliable information about the existence of my disease and that it was commonly known that I had been away from the job for a longer period of time. The only way I could avoid this interest consisted in my isolation from neighbours and friends. Through this method I did recover and could resume my work as planned.

  Unfortunately, this also brought an end to the isolation. “I dare say are you still alive?” said one in a feigned humorous mood. “Wasn't it a bit early to return, you are not looking quite well,” meant the other. To this were added dozens of the traditional question: “How are you — today?” That caused an inevitable relapse of the disease and again, I was away from the job which, in turn, prompted new interest. I heard the postman ask my wife: “Is your husband's condition better today?”

  Worse, they had begun discussing who should succeed me at the job. The position had not been announced vacant yet, after all, I was only ill, but quite a number of candidates had announced their interest and their addresses had been recorded by my boss — just in case.

  However, the defeat which caused me to abolish any further resistance in this battle was suffered at home: suddenly a couple wanted to see the house because they had heard it would soon be for sale.

  I am now on the way back to my native city, together with my family. By this action, I reject the service offered by the local undertaker: it is cheaper to transport a living being than a dead one. The ill-famed question, which resulted in the adverse course of my disease, is not posed any more. Everybody can see that I am feeling so bad that it is even naughty to ask. I am on my way back home to die.

  A Matter of Concentration

  Once upon a time (no, we are not starting a fairy tale. The sound of crumpled paper).

  Fear of the empty paper has torn many authors, in particular when they feel forced to write something new.

  “How is your new story? Oh, I'm sorry, now I see.” The telephone rings. “The telephone, and the small one is screaming, can't you just look after what he is doing? (The sound of crumpled paper).

  Concentration, oh Goddess, which left Achilles, son of Peles, that brought countless ills upon the Athenians. In those days, they knew what concentration was, the world was simpler, you defined a target and followed it until you reached it or died, whatever came first, e.g. like in Troy.

  “It was the publisher who asked if you could soon deliver that last story, as you had promised. I said that you had almost finished but were presently not at home. I had to promise him that you would call back.” (The sound of crumpled paper).

  “Why are you crumpling all that paper? That way you will never finish. What at all are you writing about?” she asked.

  “I wanted to write about the mental ability of concentration, but I cannot concentrate on it myself. I had a fantastic idea, but now I have almost forgotten what it is,” I answered.

  “Well, in that case you are the right one to write about that problem.”

  “It is not at all a problem! If I were not disturbed all the time, I would have finished it long time ago. Besides, I can't remember that I ever forgot anything, except for this story I was going to write down.”

  “Is that the reason why you eat those tablets each morning, which they claim can help against dementia?”

  “What is that rubbish about dementia? They are offering some intellectual support, something an author is in great need of, but you cannot claim them to be necessary for my sharp memory. I eat them daily because I feel their mentally supporting effect — what is it they are called?”

  “In that case, I shall not disturb anymore,” she said.

  “Oh, before you leave, have you seen my glasses?”

  “Yes, you have them on your nose. By the way, why are you using the typewriter and not the computer as usual?”

  “Because this miserable toy has broken down again. Exactly now that I am in such a hurry, as I always am. And I must admit it is difficult to write a short-story on the typewriter. In fact, it is impossible for an author to work without a computer nowadays. We should finally buy a decent one!”

  “I ask myself how Dostoyevsky and Shakespeare and Homer, whom you quoted befor
e in one of your failed attempts, could ever write anything decent, completely without a computer,” was her answer. “Or a philosophical book of Søren Kirkegaard, did you ever read anything by him?”

  “Philosophy is what I think, not what I read. And books are what I write, not ...”

  “Not what you read, yes, I have heard that before,” she broke into one of my standard replies. “Perhaps it would be easier for you to write if you also read a bit of what other authors had produced earlier — without a computer.”

  “No, that contradicts my honour as an author. I haven't got the least intention to copy anything what others have written!”

  “I did not say you should copy it.”

  “No, but if I am otherwise empty, this will inevitably be the case. By the way, didn't the mail bring me anything today?” I asked.

  “Yes, I put it on your desk.”

  “Oh no, I haven't got a chance to find it there. Was there anything important with it?”

  “Yes, I believe everything was important: there was a 3-pages long letter from the insurance, of which the headline claimed it to be important ...”

  I interrupted her: “That is the usual thing, since they have learned using the computer, they are producing immensely long serial letters which nobody can understand if they read them but fortunately also nobody has the time to read. Please find it again and put it on top of the bunch labelled 'TO BE DEALT WITH IMMEDIATELY', number two from the right.”

  “Then there was a dunning letter from the mechanics for the muffler which was inserted in our car three months ago.”

  “You might as well throw that away instantly, there are already a couple of similar letters in the stable of 'UNPAID BILLS'. It is not that we cannot afford it, but I simply have no time to deal with that sort of matter now.”

  “Then there was the invitation to hold a new lecture in a short time.”

  “In the middle stable, 'EXTREMELY IMPORTANT',” was my simple and precise order.

  “Yes, then I nearly forgot the letter from the publisher, who has just called, but here he was dealing with the preface to your collection of short-stories. He does not like it and gave you another suggestion, which you should respond to as quickly as possible.”

  “That is really important. Put it in the left stable, 'SHOULD HAVE BEEN DONE', then I shall have a look on it tomorrow.”

  “Pardon me,” she added, “but it makes me completely depressed to see all this mail you are piling up here. It looks as if the more people write you, the less are you reading.”

  “But that is exactly the problem with everything I am doing myself. Today, humanity is on its way back to illiteracy. They look at television instead of reading books and newspapers; they are 'informed,' as they claim themselves, by cartoons, videos and computer simulations, provided that all of these things are not too long. Simultaneously, we are drowning in matters that cannot be read and one is almost unable to sort out the things to be skimmed, if not really read, from those which are simply discarded and a third group which is kept at some odd place, just in case you would need it later, because then you would read it.”

  “It is good that you mention it, I have promised to help the children with their computer game. It is incredible how sophisticated they are making those programs nowadays,” she said enthusiastically and then went.

  No, I think that I give up for today. Anyhow, it is impossible for an author to work without a computer today. I hope she has bought a new battery for the remote control, then I shall take my place in front of the television and 'surf the channels'. Unfortunately, they are so sad, most of them: wars, accidents and bad weather, old films in endless repetition and the eternal advertisements, but not for my books. Never mind, I shall have to relax a bit so that I can again recover my concentration.

  Nightly Departure

  Wonderful to be out in the fresh air again, away from the thick cigar smoke. Just a small walk remains till the station in Klampenborg, 10 km north of Copenhagen, and from there just 2 stations to Charlottenlund and then another small walk home and directly to bed. It is perhaps a bit cool when one considers that it is almost the end of June. However, the weather has been sunny the last days and this is just the right temperature for a walk. And then it is so wonderfully bright, the light nights are so beautiful provided they are not also wet. It is half past ten and almost too light to go to bed. Just a few days ago the Midsummer bonfire flamed along the coast and the students drove around in horse-driven carriages and celebrated the end of the school — ignorant of the busy future which is awaiting them. I was myself on the carriage last year and felt it as the most beautiful time in my life, suitably placed at this time of the year; just think what came after that.

  Never mind, now is my summer holiday and after all, I have grown up, with a driving license, permission to elect and an own opinion to be taken serious by the others.

  After all, it is an exceptional time so why enter a train now? Perhaps I should walk to the forest, Dyrehaven? No, not that way, this is where all the drunken people from the amusement park, 'Bakken,' stumbles away in different directions while uttering various primitive sounds. Not that I mind other drunkards, I am myself far from sober and knew that I would be, therefore I took the train here. My inebriation has been caused by the noblest wine and shows a more elegant expression, I should think — only a pity that it all ended shortly after 10 p.m. Some of those are just one year younger than I; you can see it on their caps. By the way, we also went to Bakken after some of the student parties, but these days are now gone forever. Still, I cannot help thinking back at that time, exactly now. Then I did not have the problems I found tonight. I enjoyed my freedom and found that there was not any problem in the world for which I had no personal opinion. And now, a couple of years after the student revolt in 1968 (in which I had absolutely no part), people seem to show improved relations between themselves. There is less authority among the adults; then it is easier to say 'damned fool' when something goes wrong. After all, people do not appreciate being addressed with 'damned fool'. It may even need less than that; I did not say 'damned fool' to the television journalist, but I must have said something they did not like, otherwise they would not have thrown me out.

  An enormous embarrassment, after all. She was known as so liberal, no point of view could ever shake her, she who shook the bourgeoisie herself with direct and unexpected questions in live television screen. And then, in a small evening company, she lost all her control at my question to her. Ursula told me it would be better to leave, everybody was angry at me and she was herself in melancholy: “Let us talk about it tomorrow, but don't call me, I'll call you instead,” she said. I hope she keeps her word, how else should I contact her? No, no use to think about it now, I cannot change what has happened. It is better to distract my thoughts and enjoy the beautiful midsummer night.

  I walk out to the sea, Øresund, look over the small waves to Sweden, although I can hardly see anything else but the lights over there. It is almost 11 p.m., perhaps it is generally a bit darker but here this is counteracted by the reflections from the sea. There are hardly any cars at the beach road. Between this old concrete road and the sea, the big stones absorb the waves. I always enjoyed these stones, which are oversized according to the waves one finds here, but there are not many equally large stones at Zealand. The small waves come up through holes between the stones and give rise to various sounds, peculiar but not very beautiful, unless you connect the whole scope as I see it not to these sounds. Strange, some of these sounds come from the wrong direction — no, it was just some students on their way to the statue of Knud Rasmussen. You are a bit early, friends, sunrise over Øresund is only at half past four, the time where one meets by Knud to celebrate the end of that day or evening or night and then go home and get a couple of hours sleep before the next party; yes, a hard but beautiful time when I ended the school last year and myself walked around with the white cap with the red rim and black shadow. The festivities laste
d ten days and, in particular, ten nights, though only once in a lifetime. Everybody was at large with this behaviour then, as they will be at large with the new students of this year. Only they were not at large with me this evening.

  Ursula's parents were very proud to be visited by this famous journalist and it was expected to be an honour for me, too. It went rather well during the dinner, perhaps because I sat and talked to Ursula. It was a very fine wine her father served, whatever he has a big cellar or a small one and only few occasions to dive down in it. Never mind, if not invited I would hardly have tasted these old classified clarets, a Ch. Leoville Poyferre from 1950 and a Ch. Rausan Segla from 1955. A real velvet soup, although I in the beginning thought if I should just inhale rather than drink it. But then the feelings, not restricted to taste, as the wine slowly passed over the tongue. After all, the wine must have done something other than offering this wonderful smell and taste, now it is obvious that I lost my control over remaining inhibitions, how small they ever were.

  After the mentioned two senses had done their most fine work, we moved to the other room, previously called the gentlemen's salon but now the women had conquered access to this part of the house in accordance with present time's habits. This was where the Havana cigars were lit and old cognac was served in large glasses — that is, only the men preferred these items. I had noticed that and made some untimely remarks that one should call the things by their right name and call it the 'gentlemen's salon' again and let the ladies enjoy their different liquors at the now cleaned dining table. I knew that this old-fashioned remark hit a soft point in the emancipated guest of honour, if I can so call the journalist to avoid mention her name. I should only have left it by this remark and not being persistent on the matter, but it was difficult to stop in this happy inebriation. In the beginning, the others also laughed at the joke but sometime I noticed that I was the only one doing so; by then it was too late.

  Actually a deed many of her victims would have envied me, to let this 'smiling killer', as they called her, lose her mind. Perhaps I can see it more positively this way, the arguments I used were anyhow adopted for the purpose, which she failed to recognize. But it is no victory to be thrown out from a dinner party. That makes me sorry for Ursula, for her parents and, not the least, for myself, but I cannot alter it now.

  The fine small statues, which support the large balcony at Hvidøre, are particularly white when everything else loses colour. Never mind, I shall leave the old beach road alone and prefer the new one, although I shall not approach the statue of Knud Rasmussen, let him stand alone and observe the Swedish nuclear power plant of Barsebäck and the lights from Malmö. Soon after, I enter Skovshoved harbour, the lights from the new beach road disappear and the darkness can be evaluated. On a bench lies a newspaper; I can read the small advertisements without artificial light, although with some good will, and it is half past eleven in the night. Now I have had enough of the sea and cross over to the old beach road, then soon will come the horse racing field, Traverbanen, and the small wood of Charlottenlund.

  It was longer than I thought it would be and then the wood is not particularly inviting to enter at this time of the night. What shall I meet there, a nymph in a transparent dress or a robber with a knife? Neither the nymphs, nor robbers are stupid enough to go into the wood at this time. The only nymphs one may meet carried a student's cap until recently and are accompanied by a male student who also just took his cap off, and they do not want to be disturbed. I should, therefore, better avoid the wood. I proceed to the old inn, Skovriderkroen, and cross the road, go through the Museum of Denmark's Aquarium and proceed by the broader, lighted path to Charlottenlund Castle. I just managed to come here in due time, now it turns twelve and I stand beneath the watch of the castle. The midnight hour starts, anything can happen, and then let it happen. I do not think that Ursula will have anything to do with me after this evening, at least not for some time, and it will be an even bigger problem to make peace with her parents. Come along with your knife, robber, and cut down with it — no, it was not a robber, just a strange fellow who was walking with a strange dog at this strange time. What may he think about me?

  Perhaps the guest of honour will come tomorrow and ask to be excused for letting her be provoked. Perhaps she has realized that it was just meant as a joke and I am not so evil or old-fashioned as one could imagine from my talk yesterday; yes, now it was already yesterday. Perhaps she also considers her liberal image: 'Yes, I am no child anymore and we were all a bit intoxicated by the wonderful wine, and then one makes certain statements that one will later regret. No, let the one who has never committed a sin throw the first stone'.

  No, she will certainly not ask for any excuse. She is famous and proud and if she gets insulted, this can never be a fault of hers. And if she does not get that idea by herself, nobody will get it for her. In contrast, such a young guy like I, with adopted opinions about anything in life, he has certainly not deserved any support.

  Was it not a fox there, passing the path and going left? I would like to follow you to the small lake and the old house there but here it is really dark, even a robber would have to give up now. I am not getting off with my problems so easily, they are really bothering me. Never mind how beautiful a midsummer night, I cannot get my thoughts away from my sorrows.

  It was good to get out of the wood again; after all, here, on the railway bridge in Charlottenlund, it is light and somehow this influences my way of thinking. There is only one way out of it, and if I am serious with Ursula, I must first seek the peace with her parents. I have only promised not to call on the telephone, we did not discuss the possibility to return in the penance clothes from Canossa, with naked feet and ashes in the hair. No, not too literally taken, I just mean a virtual Canossa, expressing regret and bidding their pardon just for a beginning. Emperor Henry the 4th also wanted just to be heard at first, only when heard can you explain and perhaps even be forgiven. Then it is not so important who were in right and who were not.

  But now I finally reach my home. Perhaps a whisky will help to remove the many thoughts before it gets completely bright. The best I can do now is to get some sleep, then tomorrow I must go back to Klampenborg and pray for forgiveness.

  The Emperor's New Rules

  Afterwards, I could always claim to have been seated at the same table as the Emperor, a suitable translation of Professor Kaiser's name. In reality, I had been sitting almost as far away as possible at a very large table, but was it necessary to explain that small detail to people with whom I was later talking? Only one elderly man was sitting further away, and then, the other the tableside was reserved for a certain Prof. Rosenstand; however, this man had not arrived when dinner began. Only two persons at the table knew anything about me and, therefore, the question from the elderly man to my left was absolutely justified:

  “Excuse me, but how does it come that you are participating in this dinner? Please excuse my question, but I do not recall having seen you at the meetings in the Society of Cryptology here in Copenhagen.

  “My sister is married to Mr. Jørgensen, one of Prytz's, I mean Dr. Prytz's best friends. I am visiting them currently and since they did not know what to do with me this evening, Dr. Prytz allowed them to take me here.” A precise answer which I had already exercised a couple of times before we sat down at the table.

  “But you are studying cryptology, I presume,” continued the elderly gentleman.

  “No, on the contrary, I believe, I am studying medicine,” was my answer.

  “How fortunate, then there is at least one real human being at this table!” was his reaction, quite unexpected for me.

  I thought of my brother-in-law and was uncertain what to say. However, our position at the table, where everybody else were talking together, justified showing interest for a continued dialogue.

  “I am sorry, I did not quite get your name. Mine is Frederik Blok-Jensen.”

  “Considering all the people you have been in
troduced to this evening, it is even strange that you recalled your own name — or that is perhaps just the practice you gained. I am Thorsten Lövetand, and I am in charge of Scandinavia's smallest institute of cryptology, situated in the northern part of Sweden. For that reason, I am seated at the 'lower part' of the table. It is an ancient medieval tradition which is maintained here.” His last sentence was more quiet and bitter than the rest of his talking.

  “In such a case, I am utterly sad that you even have to share my company,” I remarked.

  “No, there is not the least reason to excuse that, on the contrary. I know all the brothers here, though most of them not for anything good — oh, by the way, Dr. Jørgensen, whom you mentioned before, is largely unknown to me. Believe me, they did not invite me here because they like me, they more or less has to do so. And I came down here merely because I know that my presence here is bothering the others beyond saying. They even obliged Prof. Rosenstand with guarding me. Fortunately, he is always late so we can talk freely for a little while.

  “I dare say, “ I busted out, “I was not aware that there were such strong emotions drawn through this party. On the contrary, my sister had told me that everybody in the Society of Cryptology stands behind Prof. Kaiser.” As soon as I had said so, my companion shot me a grim expression and I realized my mistake. Obviously, here was one who did not 'stand up behind Prof. Kaiser', perhaps was even in competition, judging from what he had already said. He confirmed that impression at once:

  “Your analysis is largely correct and, from my point of view, this is exactly the problem. Everybody in the Society stands behind Prof. Kaiser. Kaiser is not just representing cryptology, Kaiser has become cryptology itself. Without Kaiser, there are no new cryptologists. If you, after all, consider studying cryptology, the best thing to do would be to throw this glass filled with red wine upon me and my fine dress, but first you ought to shout a bit so that they all notice it. I am ready to carry this sacrifice on behalf of the youth. Go ahead, throw it!” He had spoken more loudly so that those sitting nearest to us interrupted their discussion and looked curiously upon us.

  “No, no,” I whispered with a defensive gesture, “on the contrary, it sounds as if you could provide me with some interesting background information on scientific work now-a-days.”

  He calmed down immediately. People around us resumed their conversation and soon forgot us again. “Oh, you bet I can, but then we must hurry because Prof. Rosenstand turns up every minute to watch my behaviour. I am the last who wrote something negative about Prof. Kaiser and that was almost 10 years ago. Then, I published a small letter to the editor of a journal, entitled 'The Emperor's new Rules', a small epistle which compared Kaiser's axioms with H. C. Andersen's 'The Emperor's New Clothes'. As you probably know, 'Kaiser' is the German word for emperor. In fact, it caused a lot of disturbance then but ever since, nobody has written anything negative about Kaiser's axioms in the cryptological journals; probably because Kaiser himself is in the editorial board of them all, on an international basis. My own results can only be published in other, less suitable journals. From which you may deduct,” here he altered his talk as if he was repeating a mathematical formula, “that either my scientific results are without any value, or the cryptological science's magazines have limited themselves to the distribution of 'the true belief' and suppress anything else, which they consider heretical.

  “Cheers,” I said. That was a strong exclamation in need of dilution and a small intermission. I searched for the right words and chose a pseudo-scientific expression, using the concept of 'hypothesis': “Let us hypothetically assume that your scientific production really is of some value — please excuse that I am not able to pass judgement upon that assumption — then this is the most unscientific way to terrorize common opinion one can imagine. Let us call this Hypothesis 1 ...”

  My companion interrupted me: “I understand that Hypothesis 2 consists of a justified avoidance of publication of my studies, and I agree that it is beyond your capability to judge that. As all authors obviously are, I am not neutral in estimating the eventual importance of my own contributions. In this discussion, it will therefore make a better impression if we restrict our talk to Hypothesis 1, even though it is flattering me, but then you can consider the truth at a later time. If I can only manage to deliver some information in advance, you will probably be able to see them confirmed in Dr. Prytz's speech later on, although it is not his intention to confirm anything I said. However, when Prof. Rosenstand comes I must be more cautious.”

  “Pardon me, but it sounds almost as if Prof. Kaiser is a member of the Sicilian mafia,” I busted in.

  “It is not necessary to be with the Sicilians, he has got his own,” my table-companion replied dryly. “Already as a young man he was he a member of the lodge 'Brothers Help Brothers' and the political party 'The Best', and it is generally acknowledged that these memberships helped him to his prominent position. I am older than he, and in my early years in this science, in the times before Kaiser, cryptology was most interesting. It was interesting because of its complexity. However, Kaiser tried to simplify matters so that everybody could understand it, and he united these simplifications in “Kaiser's five axioms', as he called them in all modesty. That alone was perhaps not so bad; science is steadily experiencing attempts to express topics as simply as possible, perhaps in order to make them more easily accessible at an early stage in the reader's career, and to a certain degree, such illustrations must be permitted. However, a number of factors facilitated a fatal development: firstly, cryptology had now to follow certain guidelines for its performance. The Americans had started that development but ii suited Kaiser very well. Then, all the cryptological institutes were so busy distributing these guidelines that they had no time left to think about whether agreement alone was enough. You can say that 'education' won over 'science'. As a parallel, the ever-more famous Prof. Kaiser gained influence over all societies and magazines. With the present uniform opinion, there is really no need for more of them, by the way. Now, have another look at this Prytz, who is today celebrating the acknowledgement of his thesis; he can travel back to Germany and no doors will be closed to him. His scientific career was formed in Prof. Kaiser's institute, the well-esteemed in cryptology, and soon, he will receive a Prof.ate somewhere, Kaiser will take care of that. Thus, Kaiser will have placed another of his people in a key position, thereby having further extended his personal power.”

  “Excuse me, but if Dr. Prytz suddenly decides not to stand by Prof. Kaiser, what could make him refrain from a denunciation?” I asked.

  “Oh, that is very simple. As all other employees at the institute in the last decade, Dr. Prytz has formed his thesis as a proof on the validity of Kaiser's axioms — 'proved' through the same. It is practically impossible for him to turn up against Kaiser without ridiculizing himself. In addition, he shall get a Prof.ial chair but has not got the backbone that was previously demanded in such a position. Oh, à propos, there is my second table companion.”

  “Good evening, Prof. Lövetand, I hope that you will excuse me for being late,” the newcomer started. I stared upon him with considerable curiosity: fifty years ago, it had probably been normal to look that way, but now it had long been out of fashion with creamy black thin hair, which tightly marked the cranial contours. At least, his thin, golden, oval glasses were slowly getting back into fashion again.

  “Prof. Rosenstand, what a pleasure, I was just going to tell this young man about your adventures. May I introduce to you: Mr. Blok-Jensen, Prof. Rosenstand?”

  We shook hands and nodded warmly to one another.

  “And in the meantime, you have explained your cryptological theses to our young friend, I presume,” the new guest continued.

  “Prof. Lövetand had no chance to explain them to me due to my deep ignorance in this area. I am studying medicine.”

  The newcomer looked unsatisfied and asked how I had possibly been invited to this party. I gave him my
standard reply, to which he sighed and said: “Poor Prof. Lövetand, completely alone in the world and even at this table caught between one who understands too little and one who understands too much about cryptology to enable any real discussion.”

  In spite of the insult, my companion kept his nerve. This was obviously a normal way of communication in the higher scientific circles. He had probably also served a suitable answer to this remark, had he not been interrupted by the sound of a knife tapping a wineglass. Dr. Prytz wanted to get rid of his speech so that he could enjoy the rest of this dinner; after all it was he who paid the bill. He had only awaited the arrival of the last guest. He was dressed in a dress coat as all the professors at the table (the other men were in black dinner jackets while the ladies utilized the liberties which they were granted from these conventions). He talked with a distinct German dialect, but I am not able to reproduce that, nor the complete contents of his speech, only the parts which raised my particular attention:

  “Deeply honoured Prof. Kaiser, Ladies and Gentlemen! It is a great pleasure to see you all here this evening. It is a day of joy to me, in this respect super ceding all other great events in my life. Today I am celebrating the conclusion of 6 years work in Prof. Kaiser's institute. Many people have helped me with this study. However, there is one who more than anybody else participated in what was achieved here. Therefore, my heartfelt thanks go to you, honoured Prof. Kaiser, for your continued support of my scientific cryptological activity. Previously, you have redefined our science with your axioms, the values of which are confirmed day by day. I am most honoured to be able to cite you, Prof. Kaiser, as co-author, or better, the main author of all the 32 articles, most of which have already been published, which I have finished during the fruitful time spent in your institute. Without your permanent stimulation, your ever-critical analysis and high scientific norms, this thesis could never have become what it is now. And since this comprehensive work delivers further proof for Kaiser's axioms, this thesis, as I dare to hope, will serve to your further honour. I am proud to have seen you as one of the opponents during the defence of my thesis today. And now, it is a particular honour to stand to the right side not only the cryptologist Kaiser, but cryptology's Kaiser.”

  The last comparison between name and function of Prof. Kaiser released a wild applause at the table, although it surely was anything but original, having been repeated several times earlier by different mouths. I myself was taken away by the high mood, which decreased somewhat when I mentioned that my companion was moving his hands provocatively slowly. This was, however, not noticed at the other end of the table. Prytz used the applause to wet his lips, then continued:

  “I also want to thank the second of my opponents, Prof. Gregory from Chicago. I am particularly glad to be able to do so in Danish; I know Prof. Gregory personally since he was studying here at the institute some years ago, and I know that he understands the language from that time.”

  Prof. Gregory smiled and nodded; at least he had recognized his own name in the speech.

  “Finally also thanks to Prof. Lövetand for his questions from the audience during the defence of my thesis. Of course, we do have certain differences on the basic concepts of cryptology, but science requires discussion, and it is very important that we can meet here and discuss in festivity.”

  It was neither necessary, nor wise to mention or — worse — even to defend my companion. The party reacted with frozen silence. Prytz hurried up thanking everybody for big and small or just imaginary support. It is not expensive to thank everybody; those who are thanked are happy and grateful while those forgotten would be bitter and hateful, even if their support is restricted to a verbal advice or emptying an ashtray some time ago.

  “And the next thesis from Prof. Kaiser's institute will be defended shortly by my good friend, Andreas Jørgensen, who is about to finish what can be understood as the continuation of my study. Thanks to the great support of his charming wife, we are looking forward to gather again around Andreas for the same purpose in about half a year. The question then arises about his future whereabouts, but I am certain that our mentor will find the answer to that, too.”

  Was it possible that, at this part of the speech, several looked sourly down to Prof. Lövetand? Perhaps his paranoia had just infected me, too. I do not know, but I was happy to be the only one in the party who had not been mentioned. It was indeed possible to understand the speech as confirmation of Lövetand's remarks. Prytz finished with a toast to Cryptology, Kaiser and Kaiser's Institute of Cryptology. Then, for a short time, at least, we could return to the pleasures of the table.

  “I think that I am beginning to understand how things are put together,” I whispered to my companion while Prof. Rosenstand seemed to be occupied talking with the lady opposite of the table. But he had heard my remark and immediately reacted: “how what is put together?”

  My emergency lie came half-a-second too late to be convincing: “I mean how my sister is also involved in Prof. Kaiser's work. I am very proud to hear about that.”

  “You certainly have reason to be,” he barked and turned away to continue his interrupted conversation. It was obviously impossible to speak confidentially with Prof. Lövetand at that moment. Fortunately, soon Prof. Kaiser pointed at Prof. Rosenstand who jumped towards him immediately like a schoolboy would have done. Lövetand used the opportunity for a warning:

  “I hope that you have heard enough to understand that it is directly dangerous for your sister and her husband if it is understood that I am supplying you with certain information. Let us talk about anything else than the cryptological science and its dogmas, or else you soon could find yourself forced to splash the contents of this wineglass in my face.”

  “I won't do so, of course, but I shall be grateful if you permit me to visit you later, this is really an interesting topic!” He gave me his business card under the table and we changed the subject. Slowly, the appetite awoke again — until Prof. Kaiser slowly raised, everybody seemed to notice it immediately without any announcement — no knife was knocked at the glass — and everybody happily and silently looked at the orator of the speech to come:

  “Dear Dr. Prytz, many thanks for your kind words. In the 18 years I have been in charge of Institute of Cryptology here in Copenhagen, 33 young researchers have defended their thesis, and it is a particular honour to all of us that 29 of them have immediately received a Prof.ate in their native country, including Prof. Gregory here.” The latter heard his name mentioned again and nodded in a friendly way.

  “It is a particular pleasure to inform all here present, including you, dr. Prytz, that the 30th Professorship originated in my institute is now also in sight. It is a novel position which is being created at the University of Plötzburg, where your application is at hand. In fact, this job is only becoming officially known next month but the international committee dealing with the cryptologist’s qualification has already recommended you for this position in your native country. And you can celebrate a further victory tonight: I am very pleased to inform you that we have decided to elect you for the co-editorship of The Journal of Cryptology, the position which has become vacant since Prof. Lövetand has decided to retire. On this occasion I believe we should all thank Prof. Lövetand for his long work on behalf of Cryptology”.

  Led by the orator himself, everybody clapped their hands while my companion raised and bowed. I pondered about the relation of hate and politeness, controversies and correctness — in general but also in the case of highly dedicated Professors. It seemed that Lövetand for years, in spite of being part of the editorial board, had no influence on the policy of publication in this journal. If that were the case, time would come where he would not want to take any further responsibility for its content. Perhaps he did, after all, plan a counterattack of this intimate conspiracy in this scientific branch. It was hard to think that his present position was about to be sacrificed on behalf of my brother-in-law. Should I talk with my sister about
that or would it be better not mention it? Anyhow, would she believe me or would it rather be harmful to Prof. Lövetand? It was probably better to let Jørgensen walk the apparently predestined way without disturbing him further and in the meantime get more details from Prof. Lövetand, the only part of the company from the time before Kaiser and perhaps also the last cryptologist with an independent opinion about his subject. I did not hear how Prof. Kaiser shared his further favour with right and left but turned to my own left and whispered:

  “It is really interesting to hear all this about cryptology. Obviously, it is all built on nepotism, dogmatism and the autocracy of a secret organization, concentrated around the leader. I am really happy that I am studying medicine and not cryptology!”

  “I am sorry,” he answered, “but are you certain that it is better there?”

  Called to the Boss

  Brian knocked on the boss' door. “Come in,” was the standard response. Brian went in and was asked to sit down. This polite gesture was the only positive aspect in being called to the boss. The negative character of this meeting was confirmed by the boss right from the beginning:

  “Mr. Larsen, you know that this is a small firm where everybody talks to everyone. Thereby, I have heard your recent statements to which I ask you to give an explanation,”

  Brian felt as if ice was melting down his back. Obviously, one of the other friends at the job had talked too loud about these funny comparisons he had made with the boss, although he had simultaneously forbidden that anybody else should hear about it. There was no way arguing long with this failure but at least the extent of the damage should be clear. He therefore asked defensively: “Which statements?”

  “You probably mean, 'which of the many statements' I have heard about. Certainly not all, but enough to make it necessary to talk about these matters between the two of us.” The boss hesitated continuing and sighed instead, but this was enough for Brian to understand that the battle was lost. Then the boss continued: “It is, of course, the fate of any chief to be defamed and I can live with that. However, what makes me sad in this case is that I had hoped that you would develop to a leading co-worker in this firm, but that demands a different attitude as an absolute precondition.”

  “You are completely right,” commented Brian in order to avoid going into details, “and I can only find two explanations for my stupid remarks to the colleagues. One is my inexperience in cooperation, for which I must accept a justified defeat and, if you so prefer, send in my resignation [or: ask for my dismissal/discharge]. But the other explanation, also worth mentioning, is a considerable frustration of not being used, not being able to develop ideas and getting the proposals so far that they are at least being considered before they are rejected. Anyhow, please accept my apology for what has been said. It was meant to be a youthful joke which unfortunately carried you as the victim.”

  The boss seemed satisfied, with a certain precondition: “If your excuse is followed by a different attitude in your speech, I am perfectly satisfied, and we can consider the next item. You mentioned a certain frustration in not being used, being unable to channel the initiatives in the right direction, if I understood you right. Of course, we shall do something about it, provided this is in the interest of our company. So why don't we start right now? Would you please mention some of the topics where you believe an improvement would be necessary?”

  Brian stuttered in the beginning: “Well, eh, in general I believe that the employees should get an opportunity to express their suggestions. We are all depending on that our firm is prospering well, and from time to time you hear some good ideas from the 'bottom', an idea which could deserve consideration and answer if it was known a bit higher in the hierarchy.” He was about to warm himself up and now spoke more fluently: “I haven't prepared any catalogue of suggestions for this meeting, but let us just consider one item, our new product, the 'Clax'. I am convinced that this is a good thing, but its marketing is hopelessly carried out. This begins with the impossible name, 'Clax' links associations to 'Cloak' and 'Laxatives', both negative thoughts though functionally completely unrelated to our product. And then, in the advertisement, there is not enough mention of the particular advantages of the Clax in comparison to the competing products.” Brian stopped abruptly as he saw the boss' face had turned red. Why this was so was he told immediately:

  “That was really a very good example you had chosen. I have myself had a key position both in the selection of the product's name and the principles for marketing, and I am not used to be corrected in this way by younger employees ...” He interrupted himself and thought a bit about the problem. Obviously, he was calming down a bit. Then he continued: “Perhaps this is really the problem. The sale of the Clax is much beyond our expectations, although there has hardly been any criticism met within the firm. The company will have its general assembly next month and it would certainly be good to have something new to bring along, for instance a new sales strategy — although the effect of such cannot be active at that time. This is your chance, Mr. Larsen. We have not yet posted any independent production chief on the 'Clax'. If you can change anything here, you can expect a better position and whatever belongs to that.”

  Brian was startled of the unexpected development in their meeting. He stuttered: “I certainly didn't expect that!”

  The boss found it necessary to cool the expectations a bit: “Well, I expect your suggestions concerning the 'Clax' tomorrow at 10 a.m. In the beginning, you must work during your free time — I hope you have no important appointments tonight?”

  Brian answered by a shaking his head. In fact, he did have an appointment but this occasion was much more important. The boss continued immediately: “And then there is something else which should be clear right from the beginning. You are not discussing this project with anybody else. In the first instance, this must remain a matter between you and me and, of course, it is up to me whether I shall follow your recommendations or not.” Brian nodded eagerly and the boss continued: “We shall have to discuss the other problems you mentioned another time. However, I want to make one thing clear: in a company like this, everyone has an opinion about what we are doing but only few are ready to invest time and energy to elaborate their opinions in a constructive way; and among those who really have an independent opinion, only a few are worth listening to.”

  Brian did not quite agree and preferred to remain silent but even this silence disturbed the boss who continued: “I was also young once and started just in a similar kind of job as yours. Probably I shared your opinion then. In a lower position there is a demand for democracy in order to gain more of the profit, while a higher position stimulates an autocratic position in order to maintain what you already have, perhaps also because you do not believe in democracy in its ultimate consequence. The more people who want to participate in a discussion, the more opinions must be analysed. Then the time passes with a lot of meetings, filled out with plenty of talk and little doing, until you can finally convince the people to follow your own original idea. This tendency is today more extreme than it was before when a simple order was more respected. In those days, one would hardly know the name of the one in charge, he was just always called 'the boss',” he finished in order to breathe.

  “Well, certain progress have been made, Mr. Fabricius,” Brian mentioned to make aware of his knowledge of the boss' name.

  The boss ignored that only one part of his name had been expressed and continued: “That is right, or you would not have been sitting here. However, not all new developments can be understood as real progress, as for instance this tendency for keeping meetings can be understood. I have also other obligations, so to end your case, please remember that it is important not to talk to anyone about this project. Should I experience the contrary, you can forget it all and cancel the presentation tomorrow. Consider this as an exercise in a new way of working, Mr. Larsen.”

  The boss raised, the meeting had come to an end. Brian rose qui
ckly. On the way to the door, the boss found time for another remark: “Let us not quite forget that this meeting had a sombre background; however, since that problem was rapidly solved, I can now say that I was pleased to talk to you, Mr. Larsen, and I am looking forward to hear your suggestions tomorrow.” They shook hands, and then Brian was out of the door.

  In fact, it was the boss who had spoken most of the time. Brian had learned this on his last course: let the others do the talking, then they will finally thank for a conversation which you know was their monologue. But this had not been Brian's strategy; there had been no previously defined strategy at all. He had not much to add and was dizzy from all what had been said. The meeting had lasted only six minutes but according to Brian's mental fatigue it could have been six hours. The contrast he had experienced during this time from almost losing the job to getting the notion of an important promotion, called for consideration. Silently and thoughtfully he went back to his working place.

  “According to the expression in your face, it must have been a serious rebuke,” Frederic, his neighbouring working fellow, said.

  “After all, it wasn't that bad, there were also some positive aspects,” answered Brian and lifted his head. It was tempting to explain the details to Frederic. And then he thought upon the boss' words about a new way of working and not to talk with the others about the new task. It should be an exercise and it really was one; Brian was normally not the one to keep a secret for a long time. Okay, make it an exercise and pass the test, he said to himself. When Frederic asked what positive could be at a rebuke, Brian answered that he had completely deserved it, the boss had known too much about their talking, still he had accepted Brian's excuse. And then Brian mentioned that he did not even want to know who had leaked the information. His fellows were not very understanding about these remarks but they saw that Brian was completely changed in his behaviour. For some time they left him alone, he anyhow did not comment on their remarks. They had never experienced him this way. Obviously, he had received a very strong reprimand, much beyond what is funny, therefore, he had better absorb it quite alone.

  The rest of the working day went extremely slowly but finally came to an end and Brian hurried out of the gate. On the way home, he tried to order the thoughts he had given the 'Clax' — in vain. Repeatedly these were pushed away by daydreams about a certain B. Larsen, Product manager, as his new business card would say, mixed up with modern electronic symbols of proper status. Each time, but only after having enjoyed these pictures a bit, he pushed them away with the boss' mention not to discuss his new activity with anyone. At least, a certain modelling was possible in awake condition and it was a pity not to let the pleasant thoughts come up to the surface, he was anyhow not able to put any of his thoughts down to paper on the way home.

  Once at home, this turned totally differently. He created a big project about a new presentation of the 'Clax' which, by the way, was not called 'Clax' anymore. Around 11 p.m. he had 20 pages ready, thought he had finished and knew he was hungry. He made something to eat but then, while eating, realized that he was unable to show this work to anybody. Modern man has only time for abbreviated abstracts, in particular the boss who would never read a second page of anything if it was written with normal type. He could show the thickness of the 20 pages without discussing their contents, as a sort of proof of his big work, but nobody would ever read them. He therefore needed a shortened form, not more than one page plus two large-type sketches, the maximum he would ever be able to demonstrate. This process of shortening was much more laborious than he could imagine and he only finished around 3 a.m. Half past six he arose again, pour strong coffee down so that he would not resume sleeping.

  The working fellows immediately registered Brian's fatigue which they interpreted wrongly: Brian was more depressed than would be expected after being called to the boss yesterday. For that reason, nobody made any jokes about it and discussed the matter only once while Brian went to the toilet. As Brian then shortly before 10 a.m. collected a document case and disappeared in direction of the boss' office, rumours exploded: without asking his friendly colleagues, Brian was about to quit his job. Of course, he carried certain errors in his personality type but this reaction was unnecessarily hard. They would like to help him but, please, if he did not want any help ...

  In the meantime, Brian had reached the boss' office, only there was no boss there. His secretary knew nothing about any appointment with Brian at 10 a.m. and the boss had probably forgotten another appointment what he had at the same time outside the factory and which had been planned for more than a week. She promised to tell about Brian's visit if the boss did return again that day, but she strongly assumed that he began his weekend immediately after that appointment, since it was Friday.

  Only five minutes later, Brian was back on his usual place. The curiosity of the colleagues had reached a maximum and continued to stay there since Brian kept mute, in itself an unusual phenomenon. Having waited in vain for a quarter of an hour, Frederic could not keep his nerve any longer and asked: “Brian, old pal, what was up with the boss today?”

  The answer came immediately but was unpleasantly brief: “He was not there”. What could you deduce from that? Brian, who always used to be a pleasant and talkative company, was today absolutely altered. He had always had a good word for those who were present and a bad one, though very funny, for the others. Today, he remained silent and the more the others tried to get the truth out of him, the more he tightened up.

  From Brian's point of view, he had never seen his friends in this light before. After all, it was a good advice the boss had given not to talk with anybody about the new activity; in the future he would behave otherwise. Besides, the boss' knowledge about his talking probably derived from one of these so-called friends, only he did not know which one.

  During the lunch break he met the secretary again. She told him that she had talked to the boss on the phone and mentioned Brian's intention to see him. He would only be back at 10 a.m. on Monday. After this message, Brian simply left. It was not very popular to report ill on Friday afternoon but everybody could see that he was feeling bad and nobody made any jokes on this occasion — previously, Brian would not have kept any strain on himself in that direction.

  He went directly home and went to bed. Some hours he slept quietly, then the telephone rang: Frederic wanted to know if there was something he could do, if Brian would not tell what all the trouble was about and so on. And then Brian found a good way of saying 'no' without offending the colleagues: “No, thanks for calling, Frederic, but this is something I must pass through alone.” He was, in fact, grateful for being woken up at that time, leaving some sleep for the night.

  A new load of coffee, then a shower and a small walk in the fresh air. It was, perhaps, not so bad that the boss had forgotten that appointment, he was anyhow in a bad shape that morning and the proposals he had made could be served in a much better way, in particularly now when he had the time for it.

  And so it is explained that Brian worked all the weekend. What he carried in his document case on Monday morning was well elaborated and thorough; after all, it had been a pleasure working with it. On this morning, he was more open to the colleagues but took care not to allow any questions coming too near. Already since half past nine, he had expected to be called to the boss. At 11 a.m. he went there on his own with his document case, knocked the door and was asked to step in.

  Unfortunately, the boss was not alone. Somewhat unfriendly he said, “I cannot remember having called for you, Mr. Larsen.”

  “But we had agreed that I should bring you the project Friday morning,” Brian answered and looked at the stranger whom he had never seen before.

  “Oh, yes, now I remember. By the way, it is perhaps not so bad after all that you present it now. May I throw a glance to what you have made?” This was no exaggeration; it lasted exactly 23 seconds to look through the first page for which Brian had worked a night and a whole weekend.
“Yes, it really looks good, there is only the problem that we have now sold this product to the firm which is represented by Mr. Goldkorn here.”

  Brian turned pale and trembled. “You did not know that last Thursday?”

  “I understand your disappointment,” answered the boss who could not avoid feeling Brian's reaction and immediately understood its background. “In fact, we have only turned the product over in a meeting on Friday and I am sorry that I forgot my appointment with you then. Mr. Goldkorn, may I present my co-worker, Mr. Larsen, who has worked with an alternative marketing of the 'Clax' without knowing anything of our future plans, I am afraid. Since our agreement involves turning everything over what this product is concerned, also Mr. Larsen's proposal is at your disposal. How many pages are there altogether, Mr. Larsen?”

  “With all my preliminary sketches, it is 45 pages,” Brian stuttered a bit in perplexity. The boss delivered them all to Mr. Goldkorn who transferred them to his case without looking at them. “In fact, they need some verbal explanation ...” Brian started.

  “Thank you, Mr. Larsen, we shall talk about that later,” the chief interrupted, making visible without the shadow of a doubt that the meeting had come to an end. Brian took his now empty document case and went out. He should turn left to get back to his working place. Instead, he turned right and did not stop before he had reached fresh air. It was sad that he had worked completely in vain but what really concerned him now was how to behave to his colleagues. The dream of any rise in this firm had collapsed and his present fellows were his future ones as well.

  Brian went back to work. Everybody looked at him and expected a statement. “You have again had a meeting with the boss?” Frederic asked. Brian only nodded. “And what came out of that?” another continued.

  “Nothing particular. We cleaned the air through talking about mutual problems. I also made the proposal to involve the opinion of the employees of our firm in future projects at an early stage. By the way, he asked my opinion of the 'Clax' and I said that it was perhaps a good product but carried a hopeless name. That was probably a mistake, since it was the boss himself who had found that name. Anyhow, my arguments seem to carry some promise, our company will try to get rid of it to someone else.”

  Brian was back at the centre of the colleague's circle. He would probably never advance beyond that.

  Nevaljashka

  The name of this doll, Nevaljashka, is Russian and means that it cannot remain lying down. You push it, a bell tunes and it rises again. In fact, it is doing what we dream of for ourselves: to rise again after the blow. The question is, however, if we carry the same wish for others, the ones who we may ourselves try to bend down.

  The owners of this plastic doll, my children, have more in common with Nevaljashka than anybody would admit. As children in general are, they constantly try to define the limits of permitted behaviour; there they receive at least a moral blow indicating that the border was reached or even traversed, but then they rise again. Perhaps they are stubborn and claim to be right (and perhaps they are, for a childish imagination) but some time later, they will pray for an excuse and then continue to play as if nothing had happened. This is probably also necessary; if they reacted as I do in my present age (also giving no guarantee against the blows, although they happen more seldom), then a couple of reprimands received on a single day had caused them to sit down quietly in a corner and waiting for the rest of the sky to drop down over their heads. Only children have this ability as Nevaljashka since only children receive so many demotivations within such a brief period of time. Or is this really correct?

  Exactly childhood is the reason to deal with this topic because here the 'tools are formed' with which problems are dealt with, abilities which are looking different from one individual to another. But leave my children now in peace, their future shall not be abused as stuff for a story. The best is to consider the possibilities of one person in general to advance in this period of life. This human could as well be called Nevaljashka, and according to the name it is a female.

  We first met the young Miss Nevaljashka as she started at school. In the nursery school, but first of all at home, she had a rich possibility to honour her name. Innumerable were the times where she had done something that earned a reprimand from adults and even beats or other blows from children. Many tears were shed but only for a brief period, then Nevaljashka was back at the arena making new experiences. If she had not possessed this ability, to rise again quietly after being turned down again, she would never have come so far; she would simply have been afraid to try something new again.

  But in school, she was exposed to a new variation of equality: “Do not believe that you are anything special!” This exclaims shall follow the rest of her life. It is the law of the small men but actually also a kind of communism: If we cannot do it equally good for everybody, then we can at least do it equally bad, so that it is the same for everybody. Officially, everybody is fighting this wisdom: we shall stimulate your individual development, Nevaljashka, so that your particular abilities are developed the best possible way — this seems to be what they are claiming, but then there is just the other instinctive drive, the fear that somebody else could turn just as good or even better.

  You can grow up as you want, Nevaljashka, as long as you are not dangerous for anybody else. But watch your skills, if they become too good, your 'friends', without admitting it to themselves, will show resistance. In the school, the teachers should reward originality but who are they to judge about such qualities? Comfortable, less original pupils are rewarded instead, and that is good example for later life.

  Do not become embarrassed from that, Nevaljashka; it is a good exercise in modesty and there is no need always to be the first. Rise again and pray that the person giving grades will not spend too long time in purgatory for this act.

  And then came the day to which we all looked forward. Because you possessed the ability, always to rise from defeat, you end the school with a good exam. You turned 18-years-old almost simultaneously, learned to drive a car and was now of age. You reached the top, at least that is what you all believed in your old class. In reality, you just reached the bottom of the next ladder, the one you forgot to notice on earlier occasion. It will happen this way again sometimes later but you will manage it, Nevaljashka.

  I do not know which blows you received before finishing, but it would not be normal to be unable to mention some (and then there are others which you would prefer to hide). You rise again after each blow, Nevaljashka, but not quite as fast as before, although the blows are now rarer, there will be more hanging on after each of them. Some of these blows were so unpleasant, and your own part in the game so unlucky that you prefer to repress them, which will succeed only to a certain degree. It does not help that other people have done stupid things which they, too, deeply regret. Anyhow this would not hinder the very people to abuse any knowledge of yours similar 'scandals', if we can even talk about such.

  But now you finally graduated. You belong to the selected few who have obtained an academic degree which can be developed even further. Perhaps you may obtain a scientific degree, that just demands an original type of work — that is, not too original, because then there are nobody to understand it. You must adapt to your surroundings again, Nevaljashka, play the game of the others or select another direction. It is getting more and more difficult to rise after each defeat, so it is better to avoid such now. Fortunately, there have been others who have risen again and again, but history does not need so many as is could have been, and among those who were able to influence history, many received their upraising only posthumously. That is not your goal, Nevaljashka, not your stimulation to choose that long way.

  But then, sometime, the creation of a family entered your life. I shall not talk too much about it; it is, after all, your private matter. But now it is getting really tough to manage both as a mother and keep a certain relation to the once chosen career, for which you spent so many
years, Nevaljashka. Perhaps there is some way to combine these conflicting interests — perhaps you can start educating younger candidates. Unfortunately, they are not all really original types and some are exerting their ambitions openly (watch out that you are not doing to them what others did to you, Nevaljashka!) Simultaneously, your children must be reared in a similar way, so that they will also rise after each blow. Somehow, you will manage, even if you are not permitted to demonstrate your originality, because it may be understood as an at least slight push to others.

  There is still a long way back until even a Nevaljashka cannot rise again because the parts of the coffin have been screwed together. I only hope for you that you are not holding grudge against those who stopped your progress. Perhaps, instead, you will surprise everybody in rising at a time when nobody was prepared to give you another blow. Do not take the criticism of others too serious — raise again, Nevaljashka!

  My World-Famous Modesty

  I had not expected to see the noble elderly gentleman at this dinner party, and then even sit so close to him, but when I realized that this was the case, I obviously hoped he would also make a speech. I willingly admit to carry the highest admiration for him. Obviously, my expectations had a negative impact on the appetite, but there were also many others who neglected to enjoy the numerous delicate dishes. For respect of the big rhetorical master, the more dutiful speeches were kept remarkably short. They all contained a respectful reference to this eminence, although his presence here was largely coincidental. On the background of the culinary quality, it was almost sad how many plates had been carried half-full back when our hopes were finally fulfilled just before the dessert.

  At least, this was not the case at the big man's place at the table, everything was eaten up, no offer of additional serving rejected and no slop left in the glasses. And as if he wanted to make the servants aware that his red wine glass had become empty again, he hit it once with the knife, without making any movements in direction of standing up. Still, everybody had heard it, all discussion muted and everybody looked expectantly at him. Perhaps it was an accident with the knife, but the grand master took bravely the consequence and rose a bit delayed. He nearly stumbled over something but one of the servants was anyhow on his way to him with a new bottle and helped him regain his balance. Perhaps it was an expression of his originality that he did not just stand up on his place but instead went behind the chair as if he wanted to support himself on it. And then our hope was fulfilled at last:

  “Ladies and Gentlemen! Please allow also me to address your attention for a moment, although it is not justified for me do it here.”

  As expected, everybody signalized with their mimics of low tuned remarks that he should please continue. He righted his characteristically silver gray moustache and continued:

  “This event today has touched my old heart deeply, so that I desire to mention a characteristic which is desirable for all of us. As we all know, this world is driven forward in a maddening speed by ambitious people who all want to be better than the others and do not spare anything or anybody to achieve it. What could have been seen as a healthy and fair competition is reduced to a merciless fight in which it is almost better to destroy the competitors than to offer any positive abilities oneself. When I look back at my own career — and at my age there is more looking back at than forward to — I must emphasize that it is not necessary to utilize such means in order to create a certain position. On the contrary, one should notice that the ambitious people not only destroy their competitors, they also destroy their own integrity. The few of them who finally reach the top must inevitably ask themselves why they were so busy obtaining that position. Their immediate peers often regard them as hollow shells that have lost almost all human qualities in order to be admired in a certain position — can you follow me?”

  Everybody at the table nodded or made other means of confirmation that they completely agreed with the speaker so far. These few seconds sufficed to humidify his lips with the glass which had been filled again in the meantime.

  “Fortunately, my own career cannot be claimed to derive from these mechanisms. The biggest experience to confirm the value of the ability to be described comes from my student time. We had been to a party and there was the possibility to drive the biggest part of the way home in a small car with room for four persons, with some good will even five but we were six of us. The other five hurried to the car and squeezed themselves in while I stood there and bade them goodbye. It was a departure we remembered forever, all of us. The car ended in an accident, as cars after parties have some special ability to do” (the sound of numerous rattling car keys was heard from several pockets) “and all five seriously wounded. Fortunately, nobody was killed but they spent weeks till months in the hospital. After all, I was the one to come home first which was mentioned to me on several occasions. To me, this experience was a favour of fate: modesty pays off! Since then, I have lived after this rule and, as you know, my modesty has reached certain fame.”

  But two of the party could not keep silent any more. As with one mouth they claimed: “It is world-famous,” actually an absolutely unnecessary interruption because exactly this is the case. The speaker continued without commenting the event:

  “Only shortly after, this principle did not seem to be the right. I was called to the draft and there were more young men there than would be needed to that year’s military service. This was unknown to us in advance. At the session, a number of questions were posed, which were eagerly answered by the young men, at least the other young men. Personally, I was occupied by some philosophical problems and could not react quite appropriately at the time. It is a fact that I was discharged because they claimed I was unsuitable for military service. Of course, I protested immediately against this injustice but in vain. Until this day, I am sad that I have been prohibited in performing my national duty. My only comfort was that I utilized the two years, which military service then lasted, to evoke my skills for the country's benefit in other ways.”

  His dignified appearance seemed to be a bit softer; he sniffed upon the injustice which had been committed on him and sought escape in the red wine. After a short interruption, during which nobody had dared to talk, he continued:

  “I shall not embarrass the company here with further simplicities of my career, anyhow they should be known to everybody. It is important, however, to emphasize that I came forward by means of reservation. I was always offered bigger posts, first nationally, later also internationally, because the ones who offered them were certain that I, as a consequence of my well known and appreciated modesty, would decline them. And I certainly did decline the offers, but formulated so that it proved to be an honour to those, offering the posts, to have considered me for them. Evil tongues have claimed that I always received something else, after having withdrawn my candidacy, but that is a scandalous interpretation without any relation to my motives.”

  Also this injustice needed comfort in the red wine but then the glass was empty, so the speech neared its end.

  “It is a fact that you can proceed forward by modesty, but it is important not to hide this quality so that nobody will notice it. And therefore, I wish the wedded couple, for whom this party is given, that modesty will flow to them and secure their successful progress in our society. Cheers for modesty and cheers for the wedded couple!”

  The servant with the wine bottle had seen it come and given new supplies to any who needed it, including the speaker. Everybody arose with enthusiasm and made cheers to modesty, notably the old genius' world-famous modesty. We also made cheers for the wedded couple, whom I forgot to mention before, but they had been mentioned so many times already. To all of us present at this party, it was the mere companionship with such an unusual person, who had even rewarded us with a speech, which made this evening absolutely unforgettable. I am certain of the married couple’s pride that this event took place just in connection with their party.

  Promotion
r />   This was a big day in my life. I had just finished my engineering study at the Technical University in Copenhagen and awarded the title 'master of science' (Danish: civilingeniør). It was actually quite unbelievable that all this was finally finished. Having returned from the departing team's ceremony, I looked into the mirror to see if there was any difference to be noticed. Not that I could see it, the student of yesterday rather resembled the academician of today — except perhaps for the tie, but even that I now removed since I was alone. Not quite alone, by the way, our faithful dog was here and wanted some fresh air, so why not celebrate it with a walk?

  Which I then did. In fact, this was a reaction against my previous life-style. Previously, I always had something in need of being finished, so when I finally went away with the dog for a walk, it was not in order to create rest in the brain but with the purpose of considering the problems in a new light, something which always succeeded better while walking than at the writing table. It was light in the dark, since I usually walked during the late evenings when others were asleep.

  Now it was quite different: no project to elaborate, not even uncertainty about the job since I was going to start in my first permanent job in 10 days. It was just the dog and me who should enjoy the fresh air and nature around the lake. The question was only: how to do it? In this case, only the dog seemed to know it, so I returned to the learning process.

  Anyhow, some new thoughts are probably going to intrude, various aspects in our society which never got my attention because I was too occupied of the looming final examination. While walking, I told myself again and again that I was now finally free, perhaps a preposterous attitude in itself. I had just passed by a bench where an old man was sitting when I forgot the effects of gravity on people pretending to sweep on the sky. I fell and hit my left foot rather badly. It really hurt me so I had to hobble back and take place on the same bench. The old man had noticed it all and utilized his observations to start the conversation I had previously avoided.

  “That must have hurt you badly, young fellow.”

  I confirmed that this was the case as anyone, except my own dog, could see it.

  “One is probably off duty today,” the old man continued.

  “We are obviously both off duty today,” was my brief reply, as if there was something strange in seeing an old man on the bench rather than behind a machine. Unfortunately, that gave him the occasion to answer my remark.

  “In my case, it is rather natural, since I am living at the old-people's asylum up there and whenever I want to, I go down to the lake and sit some hours at this bench, observing and thinking. In your case, it is not quite as natural to see a young lad like you walking around at noon but, of course, it is no shame to be unemployed.” If only his mother had heard that last remark — probably he knew that it was too late to alter his difficult behaviour.

  His provocation was successful, although I tried to attenuate the effects by admitting his suggestion: “I am, in fact, unemployed for the next 10 days.” Perhaps a bit hard, after all, the old man did not mean anything bad in his attempt to talk a bit with a fellow human, so after a small intermission I continued: “I have just finished my education and shall begin a new job in the coming month.”

  “And what kind of education?” was his immediate return. I think he was a bit too curious.

  “First I want to know what you have done before.” If this was a conversation, I had to remove its character of an interview.

  “I am an engineer,” he readily admitted. “I retired from the job 13 years ago. Two years ago, my wife died and with my varying diseases not properly cared for, I preferred to move to the small room there and wait for my ascension to the higher circles.”

  “What a strange coincidence, I have just graduated from the engineering academy, out here in the 'technical desert' in Lundtofte,” I replied.

  “My study took place in the city, on Sølvgade, but, of course, much has happened in later years.” He started to think about all what had happened lately, for which he was best informed, though without any influence. My foot still hurt so I had to remain seated on the bench. Suddenly he started to laugh at himself, as only an old man can do it. As to fill the time, he made the superfluous remark: “So now you have really finished?”

  “I hope that the learning process will never quite stop but it certainly looks differently now,” I answered.

  “Now, try to think about very old times,” he continued. “Just as you started in this kindergarten. After some years, you belonged to the senior children and the big day came where you were to start in the lower school — just to find out that you were then among the youngest. Then some years passed at various levels of the school and each time when you belonged to the oldest pupils, then you would soon find yourself at the next level, again as one of the youngest. Isn't it true?”

  “It is not only true, it is also quite appropriate to think about such things now. Please do continue.”

  “Well, then a big event arose: You graduated from high school, perhaps you were just 18 years old and had shortly before received your 'killing license' — excuse me, driving license, along with your permission to participate in the public vote. Perhaps they had utilized some stereotypical remarks about 'entering the ranks of the adults' on occasion of your Christian confirmation some years before; however, it was only now, ending the school, that this really was the case — at least in the following summer holiday.”

  “That is right, it was a fantastic time, a powerful feeling of independence, only it was sad that none of the summer holidays ever were like that,” I answered.

  “No, of course not, suddenly a new education was there and your surroundings may not quite have accepted the way you preferred to behave like an adult. May I ask, have you studied anything different at the university in the meantime?”

  “No, I came immediately out here in the 'desert'.”

  “Well, I imagine now how you suddenly again discovered that you belonged to the greenhorns. Again starting from the bottom, just like then in school. Wasn't it how you felt?”

  I had to admit that.

  “But then you are crowning this development today. I am, of course, happy on your behalf, you young and anonymous colleague and I really congratulate you for it. So far, we must have had a rather identical career. Now, I can only think back of what happened to me after I left the Polytechnic Institute in Sølvgade.”

  I had become curious and awaited his continuation, only this time I had to ask him to proceed.

  “I also had some days off after my graduation; not a whole summer but enough for me to feel like a new and better human,” he started. “Then I started in a big firm, where they immediately called me 'the greenhorn', perhaps also because they had noticed how that description bothered me. Only one year later, as a new beginner came to us, did I manage slowly to shake off this nickname. Even that was short-lived, because like any big firm, this also had different layers to climb and each time you started there as the youngest, the one you could not be expected to work independently. It went on like that till I reached the position as the youngest manager, and even then I had a president above me — who was, by the way, actually much younger than me but his job alone made him 'senior'. Only during my last year, when we all waited for my retirement, was I considered an old fellow — too old to ask for any advice.”

  He stopped for a while and we sat silently on the bench, thinking of a monotonous career. Then he finally continued: “And now, up there on the old-people's asylum, they again started to mention that I was 'the young newcomer'. It is really hard for me to accept. Imagine that you die and come to heaven as the newcomer who also needs to get everything explained first.”

  He would probably have said something else, but I decided to continue my walk. My foot was still hurting, by no chance could I end my planned walk around the lake, but I wanted to get away as soon as possible from that old pessimist. After a brief formal departure, some hypocritical words abo
ut “it was nice to hear about these experiences,” I went directly home again. I never learned about his name and, in fact, I did not want to. I still had 10 days to celebrate the end of my big education, finally having finished this part of life, and I did not want this to be spoiled by an old man's remarks.

  Is there a Doctor Onboard ?

  The announcement came about 3 hours after takeoff, and the flight was now over the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. The doctor turned his nose even deeper into the book he was reading. Nobody else seemed to move. The second appeal followed inevitably a little later: “If there is a doctor on board, please report to the cabin staff.” Nothing happened. Then, a little later, the doctor felt a touch on his shoulders. It was the stewardess he had previously tried to ask for something, in vain, by the way.

  “Excuse me, Sir, according to our cabin list you are a doctor.”

  “Well, there are doctors and then there are doctors,” he tried to argue.

  “I have a strong feeling that you are a medical doctor, isn't that so?” No point in lying about it, and so she continued: “Then, why didn't you respond to our call?”

  “Because this is not the first time, I have been in that situation, and I always found it dreadful to try helping without having anything to help with. You know, in a real emergency, a doctor cannot help with his pen alone.” His explanation did not seem to satisfy her, so he continued, “Well, with your help, we shall try to perform a miracle. Show me the patient.”

  She showed him the patient and, once having him in the trap, quickly disappeared with “I am sorry, I have a lot of things to do, but I shall bring you our emergency kit.”

  The patient was an elderly woman, perhaps 70 years old, complaining of difficult breathing and pain in the chest. She was pale and sweaty. There had been someone sitting beside her, but he had been advised to take another seat, so the doctor sat down next to her and introduced himself. He then asked her some questions. The stewardess turned up with the “Emergency Kit”. When opened, he found what he expected: some aspirins, lots of bandage and nothing useful, not even a parachute. Before the stewardess managed to disappear again, he asked her to lead him to the captain, which she was reluctant to do. After much quarrel she then did so.

  “Excuse me, captain”, the doctor said, “I just want to inform you that one of your passengers is about to die, and there is virtually nothing I can do about it.”

  “What do you want me to do, make an emergency landing here in the middle of the ocean?”

  “No, of course not, I know that the show must go on, but perhaps you make an announcement that if any of the passengers have some drugs for heart pain, that is required in the sixth row. And then, if we can find some oxygen, that would help the old lady, too, perhaps even enough to get her away from here alive after your planned landing in 4 hours.”

  “No, doc, the only way to give oxygen is to give it to the whole row, and that is too much of a disturbance.” He did not want to discuss anything further and talked to himself in a low, bitter tone: “Why do such old and ill people insist on flying ...”

  The doctor turned around and went back to the lady. The drug request was made by the captain. In the meantime, he decided to use the aspirin, it could hardly hurt, even if it did not help much. The couple behind also had to leave, so that the seat could be turned down. Her pulse was fast and shallow, and if she had a blood pressure, it could not be high. Someone arrived with a nitro-glycerine nebulizer, “please give back to row 22”. Without a blood pressure known, this is not a harmless drug but given in a cautious fashion, it might still help. He gave her only one spray dosage under her tongue. Fortunately, she improved somewhat afterwards, the pain was not so terrible as before and breathing became easier. Only generally, she was not behaving well.

  The doctor stayed with her. After two hours, the patient deteriorated again. He gave her another dosage from the nebulizer but it did not help. She died one hour before landing.

  When the crew was informed about what had happened, they were obviously terrified. The pursor asked: “Shouldn't we start resuscitation with cardiac massage and ventilation?”

  “There is no point in doing so here, so long before landing and without any sort of equipment. There was not anything valuable in your cookie box. So, I have determined that this Lady has died at 14:05, Greenwich Mean Time, over the Atlantic Ocean. Perhaps you will ask the captain for a precise geographical description as to where the old lady died.” The pursor went forwards and the doctor went back to his seat. Immediately, another stewardess appeared. She opened her mouth, but the doctor was faster: “A large cognac, but fast!”

  “I am sorry, Sir, there are no alcoholic drinks freely served in the economy class. But I need some information about you, concerning the registration of the deceased passenger. Are you really a doctor?”

  He picked up his book again, not that he could read anything, but this was a demonstration that he was ignoring her. She got the message, went and shortly after came back: “Would you please follow me, Sir, we have found a vacant place in the first class.”

  “Not beside the corpse, I hope.” She shook her head and the doctor then followed her. Not that it would help much for the last 40 minutes flight, but the purser in the first class seemed to understand the situation better and the need for cognac after a terrible flight. The doctor thought about to inform that he was the medicine man for a tribe in Central Africa, but the humour had left him so he just gave them the information they wanted.

  “You were not very satisfied with our emergency kit. Could you suggest of something else to include in our collection?” the purser asked.

  “Yes, indeed I could. There is, for example, no useful pain medicine. Then there are quite a few other drugs and remedies which could be included, without making the package too large or heavy. Yes, I could certainly make some precise recommendations,” he answered.

  In reality, the purser was not there to pass along recommendations. After all, an airline is a huge company and it is virtually impossible to penetrate it with good ideas. The purser chose the for him easier possibility: “Why, then, don't you just carry these things along?”

  The doctor answered with another question: “Why should I? Could you imagine me standing there with security and discussing the contents of the various drugs and the need of transferring syringes and needles between the continents? They will never let me onboard with that!”

  The doctor had to sign some documents after arriving in America. The authorities were not certain if that was valid, so they called for an American doctor to verify that the patient was really dead, also after American criteria. The doctor’s request for an upgrading of his return flight was not answered and, he thought, better so. On his next flight would he stick his nose even deeper into the book when the call would appear again: “Is there a doctor on board?”

  The Tale of the Tie

  “No, it is true that the tie originates from my family. It is undoubtedly the biggest success in the history of textiles, only the Stone Age can refer to clothes which have been used largely unchanged for a longer period than the tie. They say that it was distributed on a large scale in 1848, but its origination is more than 300 years older, when my ancestor Jens Nielsen Schou took part in its invention, though I am afraid to say that this rather was an undeliberate action. I am sorry, I just have to loosen my own tie a bit, it is somewhat difficult to breathe in the heat.” I made a small intermission while my friend, Jesper, looked at me, not trying to hide his astonishment. We were sitting one afternoon in a street restaurant, being backed by the hot sun in the middle of the summer, and Jesper was wearing a shirt with short sleeves and the upper two buttons open. He found it necessary to explain the reason for his disbelief:

  “Although I could perhaps understand a certain family tradition, it is absolutely incredible to me why you are sitting here in the heat, in the middle of the day and on this side-walk cafeteria with a tie. Do you feel like a better person because you have
a tie on?”

  “Of course not, Jesper, but this is what people expect from me. In my position, it is simply necessary to carry a tie. Conversely, the ones carrying a tie, at least where the men are concerned, have a position in our community. It is simultaneously a symbol of humility and power — humility to the big system in which we are but small bricks and power over those who are under us in this system or even standing out in it.”

  “Funny that you consider it this way. I always thought it was a kind of sexual symbol, similar to the bell's tongue or the prolongation of the Guinea men’s potency.”

  “Well, then it is a pity that it is hanging so flabbily; if that is the purpose, they are doing better on Guinea. Jesper, I anyhow know that you see the symbols of sex everywhere. It does not imply a normal sexual life when you are so interested in the symbols. I wish I could help you — by the way, I believe I can: I have a particular tie I could lend you. It is also waterproof, but don't keep it too long, it is the one I normally utilize when I am bathing.”

  Jesper looked incredulously at me: “Does that mean that you are not naked even while bathing?”

  “Of course I am, it is the only time where I can assume that nobody will disturb me.”

  “Perhaps you carry the telephone with you in the bathroom and therefore need to brush up your worthy position in case someone should call you there?” He tried to find an explanation but I answered proudly:

  “Since the early medieval age, our family has kept the tradition of never answering the telephone while in the bath!”

  He pondered this answer a bit but gave up asking when the telephone and the bath up were invented. Instead, he asked desperately: “Why, then, do you carry a tie while in bath if you are otherwise completely naked?”

  “You see, Jesper, just in case still somebody comes.”

  His reaction was not quite honourable as compared to my logical deductions. It ended in coughing and we decided to cure the attack with Pernod. When the waiter had left with my order, I began telling how it came that an ancestor of mine invented the tie more than 450 years ago.

  Jens Nielsen Schou was a peace-loving proprietor at the Island of Fyn in the first part of the 16th century. Completely in contrast to the spirit of his time, he had renamed his farm 'Schoushvile' (Schou's resting place) because he now, on his older days, expected to be able to end his days in a beautiful Danish idyllic place. He was most loyal to the king, whoever pleased to be a king in those days, and at first, it seemed that all hostilities made a big move away from 'Schoushvile'. But then, new fights erupted in 1534. Earl Christopher of Oldenburg had gained support from the Hanse in Lübeck for a rebellion against King Christian III. The king's soldiers were beaten and the remaining troops passed by 'Schoushvile', where Jens Nielsen Schou let them rest and supplied them with a good meal. In order to avoid being encircled, the king's men left the next morning and the same evening, the earl's troop came to 'Schoushvile'. Also these were met with friendliness and supplied with food and resting places, since this appeared a precondition for survival. Anyhow, Jens Nielsen Schou kept a certain respectful distance to the rebellion troops. Only in February 1535, when almost all Denmark, including the cities København (Copenhagen) and Malmø, had been conquered by Earl Christopher, did my ancestor recognize what seemed to be the new order. That proved to be a mistake. One year later, when everything was turned around again, King Christian III sieged København and was the master in the rest of the country and even Lübeck recognized the advantage of the King. 'Schoushvile' again received the King's troops with great hospitality. Unfortunately, a delegation turned up from the other proprietors, who without exception had supported the earl. In order to save their lives, they had agreed to pretend that Jens Schou had been the master behind the earl's earlier triumph at Fyn. In consequence, he was taken away as a prisoner. When København finally had been conquered, an example was to be made; not that so many people were going to lose their lives but my ancestor was to take part in this 'example'.

  It must have been terrible for him to observe how one after the other was executed before him, while he as the eldest was kept for the last. Their heads were cut off with a big axe. Probably, he wanted to get it done as soon as possible since he could not run away. Also among the spectators, a certain saturation was felt. Whatever the reason was, Jens Schou was going to be hanged, for which there was no tradition, good rope was expensive and a rarity while the axe could be used again and again. Perhaps, the hangman had not taken the necessary precautions for the last victim's corpulency. The drums were heard for the last time, the last one should just be executed and Jens Nielsen Schou bade life goodbye as he was thrown into the air ...

  And then the rope broke apart half a meter above the prisoner's neck. He fell down in the castle's yard and immediately loosened the knot to breathe. Apparently, nothing had happened to his neck. Silence followed, perhaps just a delay of 10 seconds, but then His Majesty laughed roaring and with him the remaining spectators. He called upon Herr Jens who, still with the rope around his neck, was making a confused impression below the King's tribune. Then the King spoke:

  “You were sentenced to be hanged and this has taken place. We are not used to hanging people twice in Denmark, so you can thank fate for your life and the hangman for the bad rope. However, until the end of your days shall you carry this rope around your neck.” People cheered this mild sentence but it is quite possible that my ancestor in this moment would have preferred to be hanged.

  Later, the king commanded Jens Schou to stay with the court in Copenhagen — 'Schoushvile' was anyhow lost to our family and renamed by its new owner. Jens Schou was now utilized as a kind of cupbearer and thereby took part in all big dinners which the King was giving. This new job did not make him any slimmer. The King loved to show him to his guests and each time he tore a bit in the rope and everybody seemed amused to be told the story (probably withstanding that they had heard it already before). This went on without any variation until the Prince of France suddenly disclosed a similar rope, until then hid by a collar around the neck, with the remark to the king: “His masters most humble servant”. Anybody else would probably have been hanged in the same rope but Denmark needed good relations with France at the time and everybody enjoyed the joke. The next day, no less than 87 of such neck collars were counted beside the original which Jens Schou was still wearing. As the royal guest had gone home, however, the King noted that so far only one man had deserved this kind of clothing but the patency of the others could well be tested; then this decoration suddenly disappeared.

  The close contact with the King actually let my ancestor advance to a kind of adviser to the King and thereby he earned the jealousy of others. One day, the King suggested to him finally to take off this peculiar surrounding of the neck but Herr Jens did not want to: “Without this, I had earned my living on agriculture at the island of Fyn, but now I am in a constant proximity of your Highness”.

  This statement was heard by others, written down and contributed to make this particular necklace a desired object.

  Jens Nielsen Schou died a natural death at the best way he could have dreamt of, by the very end of a big meal. But now, some people started experimenting with similarities which should not absolutely resemble the hangman's rope and still had my ancestor's necklace as their prototype.

  In the meantime, Jesper had finished his Pernod and I had just kept talking. I could have told him of the further development but he appeared to be saturated with all this history, so instead I tried to catch up with him on the wet front. Finally, he broke his silence:

  “I can imagine that you have a larger collection of ties at home.”

  “Oh, you bet I have, separated after their width and length, just hanging there and becoming interchangeable in and out of fashion, after all there is not much you can alter with a tie. Of course, I also keep my ancestor's tie in a glass box; after all, it is a bit frayed, it has been inherited all the time from father to his eldest son. Just tell
me if you want to borrow any of the others. Perhaps I can help you not to think any more of the symbols, just tell me what kind of a girl you want, then I shall give you a suitable tie. In a way, it is just as when you go fishing.”

  “No, thanks,” the ungrateful person said, “I only utilize a tie for official or suicidal purposes. The girl I am looking for will hate ties — like me, by the way. But I can probably borrow a necklace from my dog, in order to make my position quite clear.”

  Jesper was obviously not eager to conquer any special position in society. Slowly I realized that an enormous distance had developed between my old pal and me. Why had I wasted my time and energy in telling him about my family's importance in the development of this the oldest clothing in modern times? I looked at him again: yes, it was my old school pal, all right but ... I looked to the sides within the cafe and on the street, hopefully no one had recognized me there. Finally, I looked at the watch and told that I had to hurry up. Each paid his part of the bill and then we parted in each direction, me after having righted my tie.

  Perhaps he will get wiser, find his place in society and demonstrate his satisfaction by carrying a tie, the eternal symbol on men's power and simultaneously on their adaptability.

  Explosive Departure

  There are mines and mines. Since ages past, there are mines in which one descends, mostly to find various metals or other good substances and from which most people come back in free air. But then, in more modern times, there are the mines which are expected to explode when something — or someone — happens to touch them. These mines are getting smaller and smaller, cheaper and are increasingly used against individuals. They may even target primarily children while being disguised as toys.

  There have always been weapons, and even if you are not in favour of using any yourself, you should better not be against weapons on a general scale if you want to be taken seriously. It is, however, difficult to be taken seriously when working against the spread of antipersonnel mines, because military circles may fear that you are then against all of their activity on a general scale — if you start touching this kind of weapon, where will it end?

  If there is anything you want to know about mines, there is nobody better to ask than Edvard Olsen. He has been occupied with them all his life and has created a big industry around this product. Unfortunately for him, his existence is being threatened from various sides. On one hand, they are just about to forbid the small mines which are sold in abundance to many countries in the Third World — for some time, this export had even been declared as 'developmental aid' — on the other hand, the tax authorities have started to get interested in Olsen's occupational matters in a very uncomfortable way. It is a long time ago that Olsen stopped producing mines in Europe and moved it to new factories in Asia. There, they are grateful for any production, even when international initiatives are clearly moving against a ban of exactly those small mines which Olsen's firm are producing; such initiatives are not connected to any sanctions, and even if they were, this production was difficult to control. Add to this that the words 'international' and 'initiative' are almost contradictory.

  Anyhow, Edvard Olsen has predicted that things are to get worse. He has removed the production on his factory in England to the opposite target, mine-cleaning devices. There seems to be great prospects for the future, considering all the mines which have been distributed in various countries, and here you also need the knowhow of a man like Edvard Olsen, who more than any knows about mines. In this factory is it difficult for an outsider to discern who owns what. Officially, Mrs. Olsen is now in charge of the British part of the firm. The Danish part of it has been nearly dissolved, so the bit which has been left can be given to the tax authorities. The only remaining problem for Olsen is to get discreetly out of the country and far enough away.

  Actually, that is not a big problem for a man like Olsen. The sad thing about it that when he runs away, he will be wanted until the end of his days and this end should not come too soon. Mrs. Olsen is safe in England, but Edvard must go further away. Perhaps the authorities will not wait long with their persecution. He looks out of the window: it is slowly getting dark, the sky is still clear and light blue but the falling leaves of the autumn have lost their colour and are forming silhouettes against the sky. Olsen is completely alone in the big house. Friends of the family would recognize that something is wrong, simply judging upon this fact — therefore, no friends have been invited.

  The doorbell rings. An icy feeling grips Olsen: since he is not expecting any visitors, might it perhaps be the police already now? Only now he realizes that he has made no plans for the way to freedom if he should suddenly disappear through the backdoor. Cautiously, he walks to the front door and looks through the peephole. No, the police are not disguised so brilliantly, this is simply a tramp. Just to be on the safe side, Olsen uses the security chain for the first time, although it was installed when the house was build. He opens the door ajar, as far as the chain permits.

  Outside, there is a man, about 35-years of age, obviously an alcoholic but they are usually peaceful since they are too drunk to be anything worse. He begs some money to buy something to eat, he claims, although his nutrition is probably completely liquid. His clothes are nearly destroyed and stink in addition.

  Upstairs, in the cupboard of the sleeping room, there are lots of clothes which Olsen cannot take with him, but Olsen is not the one to give anything to anyone without getting something back, usually to his advantage. He looks at the visitor who is, for a superficial consideration, of similar length and breath, but Olsen wants to know it exactly: yes, 182 cm, just as Olsen himself, only 20 years younger and about to drink himself to death.

  If there are any plans formed by know, they are subconscious. At least, Olsen is surprised of himself as he wants to offer something to this tramp: “One moment, I may have something you can use.”

  The tramp stands there with knitted brows; he did not ask for clothes. He has got accustomed to what he is wearing a long time ago. But who knows, perhaps there is a small bank note forgotten in the new dress and, to be honest, he could use some replacements, in particular some new shoes without any holes.

  Olsen removes the safety chain and opens the door completely. He nearly regrets to have done so because of the ugly smell which enters the house in advance to the tramp. It seems to be a larger project here. It is good that the fine house is retracted from the road and nobody can observe whom Olsen is letting into it. He closes the front door after the visitor.

  He cannot have any near friends, since it is impossible to stand this dirty person for a longer time on the distance of several feet. But just in case he does have a friend with a similar odour, waiting outside; it is probably better to make the test: “If you have a colleague, I may find another set of clothes,” Olsen says with a jovial voice. He is himself trying to adapt to the new position as a beneficiate.

  “No, I am completely alone,” the tramp responses. He does not know the word 'thanks' and is also unfamiliar with being respectfully addressed. Anyhow, it is the first time he has entered such fine surroundings in company with the owner.

  “I know that you want something to eat and drink and perhaps also some money, and I am sure you can get it all. Unfortunately, I have one precondition: I cannot just give you new clothes the way you look and, pardon the expression, stink now. I must insist that you take a bath first.

  Upon hearing the word 'bath', the tramp, probably by reflex, tries to escape but Olsen misunderstands that he want to go somewhere else to bath and stop him: “No, no, don't go away, of course you may utilize our guest's bathroom.”

  The tramp is not convinced and remains close to the front door, in the worst case he can run away again, but the man also talked about money. Perhaps that could be so much money that it would even be worth a bath — and then in these surroundings. He searches the hall for values: nothing useful; however, if he advances further into the house while Olsen is away, getting the c
lothes, there may be someone else discovering him and everything is then destroyed. He decides to wait.

  Only while ascending the stairs does Olsen recognize that here is no use for any jacket suit. Anyhow, it must be complete from the socks and underwear to the coat, for now Olsen's plans are being formed with his intellectual understanding. A few minutes later he returns to his guest with all items.

  “We can hang this coat here and there is a complete suit of clothes. Add to that a 20£ note and a warm meal, if you are thorough with the bath. In the meantime, I shall look for some shoes. Which size do you use?

  The tramp has size 10 but it need not be exactly that, he is as flexible as his shoes usually will have to be. But this flexibility shall not be utilized: also their shoe size is identical.

  “And here is a plastic bag for the old clothes which we discard afterwards. If you have anything valuable, you should place it here on the shelf,” Olsen continues. The tramp carries everything he has along, since he has no home where he can hide it. Never mind, 'everything' consists of a pocket knife, some coins and various documents which he places on the shelf. He is just about to take the clothes as Olsen stops him: “You are not even allowed to touch it with those dirty hands, not before you are absolutely clean!” Perhaps logical, but if Olsen had not mentioned the money again, the tramp would have probably run away by now.

  The guest toilet is adjacent to the hall and contains a shower cabin, which has probably never been used before. Only the architect of this house had dreamed of a bath adjacent to the hall, and architects dreams sometimes come through. Still, the bathroom is kept ready with an unopened shampoo and towels. Both of them enter the small room and the tramp starts to undress. Olsen is forced to stay a little while; the tramp needs some explanation on how to use soap and shower. At least, he is not too shy to undress in Olsen's presence.

  Washing his hair seems to be a particular problem, but slowly the newcomer stars to enjoy the bath, the water temperature is perfect and nobody shouts at him there that he must hurry up. In the meantime, Olsen removes all the stinky old clothes from the floor and places them cautiously in the plastic bag, together with what was left of the shoes. Then a knot on the bag. It is as if it stinks through the bag, but that is probably just a reminiscent of the odour from before which has been left in Olsen's nose. He leaves the bathroom with his guest. In the hall, he looks at the passport which was left at the shelve. The passport is almost 9 years old when the guest, if it is still the same, was 24-years-old and looked quite decently, had no beard and much shorter, combed hair. He is called Henrik Hansen and the times have obviously been hard to him. Other papers confirm that this name is still being used. He seems not to receive any unemployment money; that support is probably gone long time ago. However, it is strange that there is not even any indication of social security, granting him a small additional income, but perhaps he is begs everything, just as he was doing this evening.

  Edvard Olsen elaborates further details in his sombre plan. After all, there is a lot to do and still, it seems surveyable. If the tramp had walked to this house any other day he would either have been refused or found the house empty. Now, Edvard Olsen's suitcases are packed for a fast departure and then fate sends Henrik Hansen around. There is almost a kind of duty to utilize this opportunity.

  The door to the guest toilet opens and a third person comes out, therefore the tramp has disappeared — except for his long hair and beard, which can be dealt with later. “You have really turned into a gentleman,” says Olsen admiring, “do you think you can look like the man at the photo there?” He points at the passport and thereby admits that he has looked into it.

  Hansen has shown his passport to a lot of people, but mostly in uniform. “I have not come here to get my beard cut,” he answers sourly.

  “And if I give you another 10£ for it, perhaps a bit more for making your hair shorter?”

  I shall let it all fall for 40£,” says the former tramp briefly and hope for another good deal. But Olsen is not upset in making any deals and gives Hansen 50£ right away. “O.K.!” the latter expresses surprised and follows Olsen up the stairs.

  “Let us just get it done while the meal is getting ready,” Olsen says and hopes his guest has never heard anything about microwaves. They now enter the big, private bathroom where Olsen takes a pair of scissors and his own shaver. As it is not to be employed by him anymore, Hansen can use it.

  It is not the beard that forms the problem but Olsen has never done anything like that before; he feels it while trying to use the scissors. Suddenly, Henrik Hansen starts laughing: “I don't think they get much for a kilo when they cut the sheep. I am afraid you make a bad deal here, Edvard.”

  “I may perhaps be a bit old-fashioned to you,” says Olsen without laughing, “But I shall appreciate if you are not turning too personal when addressing me.”

  Hansen ponders about this remark. He just wants to be natural and, according to the friendliness he had found here quite unexpectedly, used the first name he had seen on the door; however, for 70£ it was no problem also to keep formalities.

  Suddenly Olsen remembered that someone had presented him a beard-cutter; it was then meant as a joke, considering that Mr. Olsen never had been seen anywhere with even a trace of a beard and demanded that his subordinates should look the same. He did not laugh about this joke then but now, after all, he is happy for it and the final result is quite acceptable. He is now himself so amused that he states: “Finished. This will just be 15£,” but he hurries up to add that this was really just a joke when he sees his customer's startled face. This is how to create a gentleman from a tramp, for a superficial look, but it is no use to start any discussion with him: in his mind, Hansen remains the same as before.

  Hansen is fresh after the bath and completely euphoric after the surprising 'civilization-cure'. This mood is just what Olsen can use. The guest must stay and he must sleep; the first of these demands seems to create no problem.

  To the food, beer and vodka is served, but a normal person cannot make an alcoholic drunk. Realizing this in advance, Olsen has mixed a sleeping drug in the vodka. It does taste a bit different but for one who occasionally drinks anything liquid, provided there is some alcohol in, it will probably be swallowed down — which it indeed is. But although there is five times the dose that Edvard Olsen needs for a sleep, it takes nearly an hour before the first effect can be seen. Now, Hansen shall walk into the garden room upon his own feet with the argument of resting a bit after all the trouble. With Olsen's help, he reaches the sofa there but remains awake. The house owner considers if he shall turn on the television as absolute and safe sleep producing vehicle but then he notices that his guest is in an apathy stage, though with open eyes. This is the time where Olsen can elaborate a handwritten letter. When he has finished, Hansen is firmly asleep.

  You must have some confidence in your means; to a certain degree you simply have to hope that they are working effectively. So far, no serious crime has been committed and you do not need to excuse a beneficial act, if anything should go wrong at this stage. Olsen lets his guest sleep peacefully, grasps his two filled suitcases, a document case and the plastic bag with the stinking clothes, to which the tramps hairs and beard have been added. With this, he goes to his car and drive away, some 10 km, where he drops the plastic bag in a container filled with garbage. From there he drives to the Central Station where he puts the suitcases and the small case in an automatic wardrobe. After half an hour, he is back and Hansen does not appear to have moved during this time. There is even time to colour Olsen's white hair to the same blond tint as the tramp has.

  Is there anything you want to know about land mines, then ask Edvard Olsen, who is an expert on this field. He is even in possession of quite a selection of different land mines at home, what you will never find in any other Danish home. As long you are not rattling the detonator, nothing will happen with the mine. Now he is getting a new use for his precise knowledge of their po
wer and direction of action. He finds a suitable one, strong enough for its purpose and not too strong, enabling another person to stand a few meters away. If a person falls on it with his face or upper part of the body, there will be nothing left for identification.

  Now he is dragging Hansen out into the garden and putting him under the apple tree. This rough manoeuvre does indeed provoke some grunts from the sleeping man, but he does not wake up. Olsen puts a rope over a thick branch of the apple tree and then binds it under Hansen's arms. Hansen is hoisted up in a standing position and the rope is fixed. Olsen brings the mine from the house and puts it one and a half meter from Hansen's feet. If Hansen collapses by the tree, thus failing to reach the mine, Olsen can still make another attempt. In there is the departing letter expressing grief over all the damage to the civilians. One person has eaten, drunken vodka and eaten sleeping tablets before taking his life in an appropriate way, according to all his knowledge. Olsen has taken on his coat and looks at the watch which is now 2 a.m.; there will hardly be anyone awake now, although that will soon be changed with the explosion. Olsen decides to take back the two bank notes from the tramp that shall soon not need them anymore. That was perhaps a mistake, the tramp does not like to be a victim of a theft himself, not even when asleep. He grunts and makes some movements, but now it is too late to protest. Olsen releases the rope.

  Hansen falls, not straight out but partly collapsing; his hands hit the ground close to where the head should land but his face prevents it by releasing the mine. There are no hands left and, accordingly, no fingerprints, let alone a face. Following the detonation during Olsen remained protected by the apple tree, he is accompanied by a the dead body of a man who was once 182 cm tall and uses size 10 in shoes, dressed in Edvard Olsen's clothes — the passport is kept in the drawer under the parting letter. Olsen is now a murderer and more perfect than most of these, although he had no vision of becoming one just a few hours ago. There are people who find that he was a murderer before, indirectly, through his production of the lethal weapons, but now he has killed another man with his own hands.

  The murderer draws the remaining part of the rope to himself and hides it in his coat with the words: “Thereby, Edvard Olsen died while Henrik Hansen is hurrying away. From the back garden, there is a separate gate to a smaller street than the one where the house is addressed. The adjacent houses are lit as their inhabitants are aroused, woken up by the explosion. As the murderer has already passed some streets, a police car drives the opposite direction with siren and blue lights, followed by an ambulance, whatever that is expected to do.

  It is, however, more difficult for an aging patrician without sportily ambitions to walk the 10 km to the Central Station of Copenhagen. Taking a taxi would be unwise, as it would be to enter a hotel in the middle of the night. In the beginning, the newly formed Henrik Hansen, hence to be called so according to his wishes, intends to walk all the way, but soon he gets tired and loses this ambition. It is rather cold and has started to rain. What is worse, to walk and get wet or stand and freeze when you are so tired? Fortunately, the entire luggage is secured at the Central Station, at least he needs not carry that. But where can one go till trains and busses start driving again? What would the earlier owner of this passport have done?

  It was not just easy to become such an expert about the mines, but it is also not an easy education to become a tramp in such a brief time, particularly not in this age. Hansen finds some cover in a bus stop, at least he is out of the rain and can sit down, but it is not less cold. While sitting and waiting he starts to think about it all again. Why did he not tell his wife, Marion Olsen, what was going to happen? After all, perhaps not that bad, then she will react more naturally when she receives the news.

  Are there really night buses on this route? So much the better. At four o'clock, Hansen is already standing on the Central Station. He goes directly to the wardrobes and opens his cupboard. It is empty. Was it perhaps the wrong cupboard? He looks around and controls the number. The drug addicts on the Central Station had ambient time to copy all keys and are seldom far behind the technical evolution. The thief has made a brilliant coup. He might have left the big suitcases but there is a real fortune in cash plus many important documents in the case. Of course, the thief had no opportunity to look after that at once, from old habit he has taken everything with him and analyzed it later at a different place.

  Hansen has got some two thousands £ in his wallet beside his new passport, which shows him a bit too young. He can manage with that for the first time, but immense sums have been lost with no chance to get it back again from his personal abilities. Enthusiasm for the thorough crime is now replaced by consciousness of the new identity and a feeling of lost freedom to get away as he had planned. There is nothing else to do than to await Marion's arrival to the funeral of what everybody believes is her husband.

  Henrik Hansen decides to move to the Olsen family's summerhouse on the northern coast of Zeeland. A spare key was hidden there in the garage long ago. He takes the train to Hillerød and changes for a smaller one there. The house has been closed for the winter and that secures some piece for a certain time. There he can also do what he had previously detested: let the beard grow, then colour it dark blond and the rejuvenate is complete.

  On his way to the summerhouse he buys some canned meat and a bag to carry it in. Again, he will have to walk rather far and this time with heavy luggage, otherwise the local people would suspect that a stranger has moved into a house which is presumed to be empty.

  The pathologist has never seen a victim of an exploding mine before. He is used to working on complete bodies, perhaps surgically closed a short time ago, but here a start in the opening process has been done already. It is possible to estimate the length of the person but most of the upper parts of the body have been spread out in the garden and were not delivered to the Pathology. The only particular discovery is that the company president had a severely damaged liver in an advanced stage of cirrhosis; after all he must have drunk more than one would have believed but this is not what has killed him. In accordance with the empty bottles and packages, there is a considerable amount of alcohol and sleeping drugs determined in blood, perhaps even more than what would be expected from somebody able to commit quite a different kind of suicide; again, people have variable sensitivity to abusive substances.

  The pathologist tries to get help of a surgeon who is known to have been in Africa for amputating legs on children and other landmine victims. In fact, the surgeon comes instantly but not for help, only for delivering a brusque comment: “Is this really Edvard Olsen, the one with the mines? Well, until now I have only known his victims. For that reason, I am very happy for the possibility to see him this way. I must really thank you very much for this occasion.” And then he walks away again.

  After this visit, also the pathologist has lost interest. He confirms the toxic ingestions, cirrhosis of the liver and that Edvard Olsen has been killed through an explosion. The police have no questions to add and the dead body is released for the funeral much earlier than known from any other forensic pathological cases.

  Marion Olsen has not returned instantly. Various preparations call for her presence in London. Anyhow, the house in northern Copenhagen has been confiscated for some time by the police. The tax authorities have removed all papers, except the rolls on the toilet. But then, Mrs. Olsen finally arrives and arranges the funeral with an undertaker.

  Henrik Hansen stays during this time in the summerhouse. He listens to the news in the radio, how Edvard Olsen has committed suicide in this very special and un-Danish way. One of the policemen states that if it had not been him as the victim, they would have asked Edvard Olsen for advice, because there were nobody in this country who knew more about mines; perhaps that was why he had decided to end his life with one of them. Nothing is made public about the contents of the parting letter.

  Hansen makes no light when it turns dark. Therefore, he enjoys the centr
al heating of the house, which cannot be traced from outside. But he is now in doubt whether or not he should try to contact Marion Olsen — and if, then how? More than once does his hand fall upon the telephone but he takes it away again. It is most probable that the police listens to all communications from the house in Copenhagen, perhaps even from the summerhouse. Still, it is difficult to wait if you do not know when somebody will come and if then it is the right one.

  He also cannot just go home. His beard is only a few days old, the worst time for a man to walk around in public places, just apart from the risk of being recognized. How, at all, shall he talk to Marion, when he has not prepared her for what is going to happen? This question troubles him every day without offering him the final solution. Still, he has to see her before the funeral, there is a considerable risk that she may go back to London without visiting the summerhouse.

  Suddenly, on the fourth day, a car drives up in front of the summerhouse. Hansen disappears out of the kitchen door behind the house, but then he recognizes their own car and Marion who is about to take out some bags.

  “Marion!” he exclaims. She looks at him and in her astonishment loses the bags. Then, however, she takes them up again and put them back to the car.

  “Pardon me, who are you?” she asks. If she really did not know, she would have added: “and what are you doing here?”

  “But Marion, I am your Edvard! In spite of my disguise, I cannot be completely strange to you.”

  “My Edvard has died by an explosion, obviously a suicide; at least I have not been informed about any plans in advance.” She jumps into the car, closes the central lock and from this safe position opens the window a bit, adding: “And now I have inherited it all, at least the English part of the firm which is still intact. I do not know who you are and I do not want to know it. However, I recommend that you disappear within 2 days. After that time, this house will be sold and people are coming to take care of it.” Then she drives away without making any attempts to enter the house.

  There can be no doubt that she has recognized him. Logically, she had deduced that he was living in the summerhouse and gave him some time to get away from there; accordingly, she had also realized that the dead body was not from her husband who had, therefore, turned to be a murderer. If she betrayed him to the police, both would lose a lot. What she did now was not to have seen or recognized him and that was not forbidden. If he got away with his life, she would get away with a lot of money and property without risking anything. She must have had a good time alone lately that she was able to make the important decision so fast: rather a rich widow than a murderer's wife, even though that could be modified differently. By the way, she will even be able to take over the industry in Asia when she receives the paper confirming her husband's death. She is not the one who would turn him over to the police, but she is also not the one who would help him.

  The day after, while still remaining in the summerhouse in the hope that Marion may change her mind, he listens to the great funeral procession with the large summon of business connections, the press and curious people. The much younger widow expresses deep grief, most touching for the reporters to describe. It is not normal to mention much about funerals in the radio, but what in Olsen's life has been normal?

  Another two days later, Henrik Hansen is on his way with the train to Switzerland where he will get some money from an account to which Marion has still no access. The journey ends, however, on the Danish-German frontier: “Mr. Hansen, you are under arrest!” says the policeman while controlling his passport.

  “Why?” Hansen asks.

  “You will probably know better yourself, the only thing I know for certain is that you are wanted by the police in Copenhagen,” was his simple answer.

  The same day, Hansen is brought back to Copenhagen. In the meantime, he has realized why the former owner of this identity was not receiving social security; he was wanted by the police for quite a number of thefts.

  In Copenhagen, a policeman in his forties, Mr. Schwarz, opens the inquiry by informing him about his various rights. Hansen did not want to call any lawyer.

  “I have a small problem,” continues Schwarz, “I can confiscate your passport and the majority of the money you are carrying along, but the accusations do not justify that you are kept in jail until the process. However, there might be another crime which does. I have also been involved in the case about Edvard Olsen's presumed suicide and possible tax offenses, and I have a certain feeling that you could yourself be Mr. Edvard Olsen.”

  Hansen is already tired of being Hansen and close to a confession, but Schwarz interrupts him:

  “Before you say anything, I just want to tell you about my time, working for the United Nations. It was no funny work, we saw the worst crimes and had practically no competence except collecting the information from different countries. But nothing was as terrible as the view of the many landmine victims. Why were children so badly hurt and often killed? Families mostly lost their social background when their father lost his leg, and young mothers were unable to rear their own children or help feeding them. And many of these mines had been produced — directly or indirectly — by a fellow Dane, Mr. Edvard Olsen. Of course, Mr. Olsen was always far away from the sale and distribution, even from the manufacturing which usually took place in countries where no persecution would be possible. Of course, it was also the local leaders who bought the mines. I have no idea what they were thinking while doing so; anyhow, their mentality is different from ours. Once, I heard one say that he hated these mines and, therefore, hoped that enemy soldiers would step upon them, because he hated them even more.”

  Schwarz makes a small intermission for a deep breath without looking on the prisoner. Then he continues: “Often I thought that if I would ever come near to this Edvard Olsen, he should receive the worst fate one could imagine. I am usually not revengeful, but witnessing this terror of the mines, far more indiscriminate than any known weapon in its selection of victims and active long after the original conflict has ceased, this terror awoke in me the hope that I would sometime be in the position to take a small, personal revenge upon one of its sources.”

  The prisoner keeps his silence and looks away. Obviously, the end is near, it is only the question if Schwarz will kill him here or just beat him and then expose him as a murderer. But the policeman has advanced further in his thoughts:

  “If Edvard Olsen is now sitting here in front of me, Mr. Olsen who apparently was buried some days ago to the great sorrow of industrials in many countries, then this Olsen is a murderer while the one who was buried probably was a certain Henrik Hansen, an alcoholic tramp and thief. Then Mr. Olsen will probably receive a hard punishment and his wife is not the rich widow she pretends to be. However, after some years or with his great influence maybe even earlier, Mr. Olsen will be released and can enjoy the fruits of his earlier crimes against humanity, crimes which strangely enough are still considered legal.”

  The policeman continues in a more soft voice: “If, on the contrary, Henrik Hansen is sitting on this table, the world has come back to order again. Olsen is dead while park benches in the winter call for Hansen. Perhaps, this Hansen will try to escape abroad to get hold of some hidden accounts if, after all, we are dealing with Olsen, and therefore we shall keep a wakeful eye on him. Besides, he has no money, the clothes he wears are getting shabby very fast, he has no friends and it will probably not create confidence when he turns up in a foreign bank in that dress. Of course, he can just try it.”

  Schwarz rights himself up and continues again in a hard voice:

  “Who is sitting with me at this desk, Edvard Olsen or Henrik Hansen? Think about it, much is depending on your answer!”

  The prisoner considers the alternatives only for a few seconds; after all, there is some hope connected to the new identity, although Schwarz' analysis has largely been correct. He then answers: “My name is Henrik Hansen.”

  “Mr. Hansen, you are released from the
detainment until your process starts, sometime this summer. You shall report your presence daily to some police station here in Copenhagen. According to the regulation, I leave you 40 DKr for your immediate expenses, the rest is confiscated. Goodbye”

  On a very cold morning in February, they found an alcoholic dead on a bench in a churchyard in Copenhagen. He had frozen to death, probably asleep from a tremendous dose of some bad liquor. According to the papers found on his body, the dead man was a certain Henrik Hansen. The white hair, only coloured blond in the periphery, let assume that the man could be elder, but the aging process is rapid among alcoholics and nobody is there to mourn their deaths.

  A Strange Reward

  Frede Jensen was almost 70-years-old when he noticed that he was not remembering things so well. Actually this is a phenomenon not only known to old people, but Frede Jensen considered it highly abnormal himself to start forgetting things. He had used to be rather healthy all his life, being very rude to his subordinates when they allowed themselves any diseases. Therefore, he could not expect any mercy on the job if he turned ill but when that rarely was the case, his absence was always explained by other circumstances so that nobody knew about it. It was not easy to realize what was going on in the head of Mr. Jensen but he, as a man of outstanding precision, wanted to know it exactly.

  It should be emphasized that Mr. Jensen was not only wealthy, he was excessively rich. Since steady progress was the rule of his life, he had brought many branches together in his own business empire. Even when he invested fortunes in other firms it, this only contributed even more to his prosperity. The tax authorities were very satisfied with Mr. Jensen. This satisfaction was not mutual; Jensen always quarrelled over the economical pressure and would probably have done the same had the pressure been just a tenth of its present level but he preferred keeping a clean record with the tax authorities — anyhow, he could afford it.

  There were, however, other shadows on his heaven. His wife had died long ago and there had not been any children to the marriage to take over the inheritance. A nephew and some nieces were hopefully waiting for their turn to come but Frede Jensen, lacking sympathy for the lazy family, had never had any close relationship to them. Whatever the size of his inheritance, he was certain that all his wealth would disappear shortly after his death. Since Frede Jensen made schedules about everything, he had planned to stay alive for the coming ten years; in fact, this time span had not changed for more than a generation. And then, in this unprepared stage (it is always unprepared), the new symptoms of a failing brain intruded themselves.

  Mr. Jensen consulted a neurologist in London. He might, of course, have done so in Copenhagen, too, but he preferred going abroad and somehow felt that this would provide a more precise diagnosis; moreover, nobody in his hometown would know anything about his problem. Paying the doctor his abundant bill, Jensen also wanted to know exactly what he had found and, if he had found anything, the expected progress of his disease without any mildness or other camouflage. The physician respected his wish fully; a malignant disease or anything else had been easier to accept than:

  “Unfortunately, you are suffering a progressive dementia, Alzheimer's disease. As you can see from these computortomographic recordings, the volume of your brain has diminished in certain areas. Currently, there is nothing which can stop this process, although there are indeed various drugs which can offer some help at the earlier stages. In the worst case, an asylum must be found for you within a year, at best it may last another five years until that stage has arrived.”

  “But ..., but can't you just die of such a disease?” Jensen asked, but to his great surprise, the answer was a negative one. Jensen had expected that a serious disease would inevitably be associated with premature death. Had he only suffered some kind of cancer, it would be quite acceptable that it was connected to pain and even certain breathlessness was considered tolerable. However, he had just been told that only his brain was about to die away while the empty body remained a heavy burden to everyone else. At a later time, Jensen would himself not notice his helplessness but at the moment, with some time left to pass, that was a bad comfort.

  He thought about his friend from Hannover in Germany, Mr. Langedorf. Strange that he was a friend since he had always, in contrast to Jensen, been a lusty person with an affinity to old wines and young ladies. At least, he could afford these affections, although his fortune was inherited, not earned from the bottom as Jensen had worked for. Now, Langedorf had developed a serious liver disease and he knew very well from where this had come. Not a long time ago, he had written a very personal letter to his Danish friend in which he had informed him that he had retired to a solemn place in which there was no medical intervention to be expected (in this case: to be feared) when his oesophageal veins would burst for the second time and let out most of his blood at once. He had previously rejected the offer of an operation to reduce this pressure at the cost of a deteriorated liver perfusion with the German words of “lieber verbluten als verblöten” (rather lose your blood than your intellect), and in this decision, Frede Jensen would rather agree.

  But obviously, Jensen was not in a position to have such a choice. The chances of dying in a traffic accident or of a sudden heart attack could be considered absolutely minimal. That was confirmed through his return to Copenhagen when his aeroplane landed as planned, as it usually had done on his many travels. Throughout his way home, Jensen did not sense the impact of any external influences; he was completely occupied in dull thoughts about the future. He soon would be unable to take care of his own destiny while it was perhaps still too early to make an end of it. Besides, how could he, who had often argued against suicide, commit one himself even when there seemed to be a good reason for it?

  Frede Jensen went on holiday, something he had never done. He had anyhow travelled so much on business that there appeared to be no reason to travel any further but now, at the age of 69 years, he did so. It was the first time taking a holiday since his wife had died and anyhow the first longer private vacation for three decades. Jensen went to Venice and Florens, then to Rome and Jerusalem. In fact, there was so much he should have seen there but he could not really enjoy his stay at any of these places. Partly, this was explained through him lacking experience as a tourist but partly also because he kept grumbling about his disease and his rapidly minimizing brain. Which deteriorations had the disease caused today? All the ridiculous forgotten things and lack of organization, which a very young person would have accepted with a smile, were now seen as symptoms and confirmation of the progressive disorder. Certainly, there was no pleasure in travelling that way. Soon, all his thoughts, impressions, abilities and so on, would anyhow be erased, so what was the point in adding to them now? Jensen did not fear death in itself, but he found it a terrible waste that all his painfully won brain functions would soon be lost in all simplicity, as when a computer breaks down and the hard disc is erased, only here much worse since no programs could be reloaded. In all the mentioned cities, the stay was shortened down ('effectivized', Jensen would previously have called it) and each departure looked like an escape. Finally, he just went home.

  And then, while returning, he got another idea. He had always claimed that almost everything can be bought for money, of which he had plenty. In that case, it would also be possible to buy yourself a sudden death for money. Of course, there were many considerations if a bought death would not after all be a suicide but then, what if he was going to be killed and the murderer had no idea that this was in accordance with Jensen's desire? Of course, that was a very difficult arrangement and demanded much consideration until finally a plan evolved.

  The day after Jensen's return, he called upon his lawyer, Mr. Bruun. Normally, you might see Mr. Bruun at his office or in court but not in the private homes of his clients — with one exception, Frede Jensen, his biggest costumer who, in turn, had never seen the office of Mr. Bruun.

  The lawyer was informed about the desire of Mr.
Jensen to restructure his last will. Jensen never mentioned any medical details but simply stated that he wanted to part from life in a way, not to be considered a suicide. Frede Jensen patiently listened to his protest for a while, then silenced it with reference to his determination and that he had not called Bruun in order to discuss that item. Then he continued with a remark which showed, how detailed he had already planned the events:

  “A reward of 1 million US-$ to my death shall be pronounced by some odd organization, provided the killing can be performed within 6 months. This amount of money shall be kept ready and be paid without interference of the authorities. Should the culprit in fact be taken into custody of the police shortly after my death, the amount can still be kept administered and given to him after his release from prison.” In a few words, Jensen explained further aspects of his plan.

  The lawyer asked for some time to consider this plan and rose from the deep chair in the big, though still rather simple living room. Mr. Jensen stayed seated with closed eyes, pretempting not to notice the long silence. This was not an easy position for Mr. Bruun. Frede Jensen was not a client he could simply turn down and simultaneously, the whole intention was inacceptable for a righteous barrister. He would have to find a formula which covered the whole range of these excessive viewpoints. After all, Jensen had also foreseen that; several minutes later, he interrupted the silence with a new statement:

  “I know that my intentions do not make life easier for you, Mr. Bruun, but I am not going to accept any long and complex declaration from you now. This is simply a matter of, whether your cooperation with my firm, which shall persist after my death, shall be continued or not. If not, we shall simply part and I shall look for another support of my intentions while I simply thrust your obligation to secrecy.” Jensen did not overestimate the value of this obligation but was, after all, quite certain of Mr. Bruun's continued assistance. That seemed confirmed through the reply of the latter:

  “Please try also to understand my problems,” Mr. Bruun stuttered, visibly nervous at the prospects of losing his most important costumer, “What you demand can be understood as assistance to perform a crime, which is completely unacceptable to me. I understand now what you want — without, of course, to sympathize with your intentions — and I need some time to propose a solution to the problem.”

  “Well, if you have found the solution, we shall meet here again tomorrow at the same time,” Jensen answered. “If not, there is no reason why you should spend your precious time here.” With these words, their meeting was finished. Bruun did not waste any time in a remark that one day was too short a time span to produce anything useful. He had, in fact, a lot of less important terms but if you want to work with Frede Jensen, you must be able to work fast and still produce something useful, an ability he could not trust to be present in his subordinates. He simply said 'goodbye' to Frede Jensen without mentioning, whether or not he would come back the following day — which he did not know for sure himself at the time.

  Mrs. and Mr. Olsen were not much younger than Jensen and used all their time in taking care of the big house and surrounding park; simultaneously, Mr. Olsen was occasionally used as the driver of a big Bentley in one of the garages, although this was seldom used since Mr. Jensen preferred driving a somewhat smaller car himself. The house was, in fact, too big to be taken care of by this old married couple alone but many of their tasks were simply given in licence to various craftsmen and Jensen himself was seldom inviting anyone to share his domicile. He did not mix up with the household. Mr. Olsen had enough time to take care of the park but he was also the only one who really enjoyed it.

  Exactly at four p.m. the following afternoon, Mr. Bruun rang the doorbell to the left of at the broad entrance and was let into the house by Mrs. Olsen. They had known each other for decades and had still never traversed the stage of brief though polite greetings.

  The relation between the lawyer and his most important client was hardly warmer. This carried the advantage that the matters to be discussed were reached much faster, whatever uncomfortable they might be.

  “I can present a solution to the problem,” Mr. Bruun began and took a bunch of papers out of his bag, “but not before I have expressed my most sincere disapproval of your intentions. Of course, it is my job to make everything legally possible but I would prefer to offer my help to any other solution. Should you indeed prefer to part from life, it would also be an easier and a more human solution to discuss a suicide.”

  “I confirm to have heard all your remarks and am looking forward to hear the continuation,” Jensen replied dryly.

  “Well, of course, you realize that we cannot offer the big sum quite officially. You might even do so as a private person but then it is impossible to pay a murderer for his deed on a lawful basis. Therefore, my suggestion is to create an international found, which purpose it is to pay a certain sum to a certain person, though so far anonymous. As you well know, it is not necessary to go abroad when you need to escape certain paragraphs, it is much easier to go international — after all, there are no international laws, in consequence of the global understanding. Here is a draft for the foundation treaty. The payment will be decided by three persons in conjunction. However, it is impossible to formulate on paper when these criteria are fulfilled, even in an international foundation, this can be read if an interest arises. This is why you must appoint three persons and leave that important aspect to your confidence in these persons. The amount of one million US-$ cannot be received by any relatives or employees of you for whom 2 suppliants should be appointed. When a distribution of the money has taken place after criteria that are orally defined, only then shall the responsible foundation members and possible other substitutes in the board share the remaining contents of the foundation which will then be closed down, as it had never existed. For that reason, I recommend the foundation to be opened with 1.5 million $. The members of this tribunal, as it could suitably be called, will be appointed by you yourself. Should the foundation not prove active within a certain time-span, or perhaps better, should your death have not occurred until then, the foundation will be dissolved through transferral of its means for other purposes and the tribunal shall not receive anything. However, in order to avoid this event in taking place, different initiatives will be taken.” Bruun made a short intermission and then continued explaining these, as he called them, 'initiatives'. Finally he finished.

  Frede Jensen was perhaps a bit behind and, at least, needed another minute of consideration. Then he interrupted the silence: “Mr. Bruun, I have always appreciated our cooperation but never before have I valued the importance of your work so highly. By the way, I do not think there is any reason for involving substitutes just for a couple of months. I agree in the creation of the found as you suggest, only with four million $ instead. This will make it even more suitable to take care that this foundation is utilized for its purpose. Would you accept to be a member of the foundation board, or tribunal, as you call it, on these conditions?”

  Already before his arrival, the lawyer had hoped this question would occur. Never had he earned money more easily than that, and now the amount had even been manifold increased. The only problem was to agree without looking too eager in doing so, anyhow, a lawyer must be an artist in expressing different moods without necessarily feeling them. After his reluctant confirmation to participate, Mr. Jensen pressed a bottom in the writing table and thus rang a bell. Mrs. Olsen arrived and was requested to show the other visitors in. Two men entered the room.

  “Mr. Bruun, you already know our firm's managing director, Mr. Helvig-Madsen. The young man to the right is Torsten, my late brother's only son. I did not want to involve his sisters in this matter. I have told both of these gentlemen about my health problem and of my decision how to deal with it. May I ask you to explain your excellent suggestion, Mr. Bruun?”

  “If you are so tired of life, uncle, why can't you just commit suicide as so many other people do?” Torsten inte
rrupted. “At least then you don't drag anyone else into it.”

  “Please, Mr. Jensen,” Helvig-Madsen cried, “don't drive your uncle to such extremes. Perhaps we can find a better solution, after all.”

  “No, my dear friend, my decision is not a matter of discussion,” Jensen senior started. He sometimes behaved as if his leading subordinates were his friends although Jensen was not known to have any true friends at all, except perhaps the before-mentioned Langedorf who was also approaching the end. “I have not called upon you to discuss such alternatives. I have particular reasons which forbid me the suicide but I want to stimulate certain people who are anyhow lost to criminal action to exert their killing abilities upon me. These are the premises upon which you too may earn a lot of money without really working much for it. But, of course, you can turn this offer down and back out, if you so prefer. In any instance, I would recommend you to hear what our attorney at the Supreme Court, Mr. Bruun, is going to suggest.”

  The time had not come to forward arguments against Jensen's preformed opinion. Nonetheless, old men have a tendency to become more stubborn with increasing age, in particular when dementia starts lowering the curtain over previously clear thoughts, if this were really the problem here. Perhaps it was just the argument that there was much money to earn on a minimal investment of energy which had caught the other men. Mr. Bruun explained the details about the rewarding foundation to the newcomers. Then he continued:

  “It is important that the thread to murder Frede Jensen is attributed to a foreign group and indeed is presented indirectly by Mr. Jensen himself. A suitable indiscretion in the yellow press will lead to publication of the thread and the reward. According to common experience, quite a lot of separate killers and terrorist groups will answer to this challenge so our problem will simply be to identify the killer among the many claimed to have been active, but this problem will then not burden Mr. Jensen anymore.”

  There was indeed quite a discussion concerning practical matters within this plan. Torsten and the managing director did not want to leave the impression that they were just nominally part of the board without adding some characteristics to it. Finally, Mr. Bruun found the papers he had prepared of the treaty, in order to avoid another meeting. They all signed it immediately. Then the three newly appointed foundation members went away, each in their direction.

  There are newspapers in all countries which live from the daily distribution of 'sensational' or 'scandalous' news. Since they are present in all countries, you have to live with them, which is perhaps the logic why their victims have virtually no means to preserve their own rights, once these papers, 'the yellow press', have published their verdict. However, with some intelligence, it is also possible to play on their special hunger for sensational news. This was what Jensen was now doing: two days later, the front pages said: 'Threat of murder against industrial magnate — a new phenomenon in Denmark?' and 'Terrorist group pronounces a reward of 1 mill. $ on F. Jensen's death'. It had been attempted to get an interview with the victim of this threat but he had left for an unknown destination just before, thereby apparently confirming the headlines, as someone added. Two days later, the other part of the press placed this threat in doubt. Since no further news appeared and it turned impossible to entertain the readers in repeating the 'old' story (once printed, it is already old), the phenomenon was given little further attention, except that the whereabouts of Mr. Jensen where still unknown.

  Five days after his disappearance, Jensen was on his way back on a plane from Rome. In order to be certain that his return would be noticed, the police and all parts of the press where informed about it from his office, once Jensen was in the air. They also told that a statement would be given upon his landing in Copenhagen. That was enough to get a warm welcome; there had been no earthquake recently, no wars where fought which could interest the Danes and enough had been said about the development in the price on potatoes. With Jensen's arrival in the early afternoon, this event would be honoured in TV and radio the same day and in the various parts of the press on the following. To gather so many people on such a short notice was an art of its own. They would have to exercise in improvisation in Copenhagen Airport that day.

  There were, of course, many people who thought that they would hurry out of the plane in a hurry. Nothing could help it, they were delayed until Mr. Jensen, who had kept his seat when everybody else were standing up, had been escorted to the exit and even some minutes more after his disappearance from there, accompanied by a beautiful stewardess and handsome co-pilot — Al Italia had sensed the possibility of an indirect advertising occasion. Jensen was led to the room used for press conferences. All journalists, previously present, had been searched for weapons which is quite unusual in Denmark. Since everybody were stuffed up with electronics, this measure took some time, still there was an impatient audience awaiting the return of the prodigal son.

  Accordingly, when he finally arrived, the flashes from many photographic cameras created a nervous lightening which should be capable of bringing some of their human motives down into a convulsive attack. Probably, quite a lot of pictures must have been overexposed in this firework but there were still enough to choose between.

  Jensen had prepared a short comment but was, before he had any chance to deliver it, met by many questions posed simultaneously and thus impossible to understand. “I know why you are all gathered here but I hope it is unnecessary; it must be the result of a misunderstanding,” he started.

  “Was your presence in Rome in connection to the thread on your life?” somebody wanted to know.

  “I have undertaken the travel in order to clarify this problem, which is completely incomprehensible to me. I believe to have succeeded and there is no reason to take any further action. Thank you all for this massive reception and all sympathy you have expressed,” he said and started moving in order to walk away. Strange, this talk about sympathy, nobody had talked or written anything about it.

  “So you were not just in Rome, then where have you else been?” someone, who did not pretend to be one of the sympathetic people, wanted to know. The answer assumed a deeper secret: “No comment!”.

  Indeed, not very much, considering how many journalists had gathered here. As Jensen attempted to walk away, some journalists tried to hinder it and raised more provocative questions in reaction to his silence. Finally, the police managed to get the focus of the afternoon’s attention away through a small stair, back to the airplane’s docking area where he was taken to a police car. This took him only to the domestic airport where he was moved to another car in the visual shelter of a truck. The police car was sent ahead with someone behind wearing a hat similar to Jensen’s and it enjoyed leading a crowd of journalists on a sightseeing tour through Copenhagen while the other car just drove Jensen home.

  It was agreed that the chief of police should visit Jensen in his home the next day at 10 a.m. and he promised not to leave his house before then. He claimed that further surveillance would be unnecessary but he had nothing against it, after all, the police also had its pride.

  As agreed upon, Viktor Andersen, chief of police in Copenhagen, came the next morning at 10 a.m. All night long, two police cars had been parked at both side of the ground and a couple of times, there had been officers with dogs patrolling the large park surrounding the house.

  “Mr. Andersen, may I thank you for your great help in the time which has passed,” Mr. Jensen started. “I would like to inform you about certain measures I have taken abroad in the last few days, provided that I can rely on the police’s discretion.”

  “Of course, we are happy to be of any help to you when it is possible,” Mr. Andersen answered, “but I certainly hope to receive a precise description of what is actually going on here — and, of course, at our absolute discretion.”

  “I am afraid that I shall not be able to tell you everything, as far as certain business secrecies makes it impossible.” Jensen assumed that the chief of police was
well aware of the threat which had been written about in the press: “I have localized the threat to a group in Lebanon, a political organization which had misunderstood some of my earlier precautions. I have had a meeting with representatives of this group in Nicosia and transferred a considerable monetary amount to them through the creation of a foundation with a large volume.” Indeed, Jensen had created the foundation as suggested by his lawyer and was so, at least partly, speaking the truth. “Following this measure, the organization has confirmed that the threat will be withdrawn immediately. As a result, I have slept like a baby tonight, for the first time in a long time, and it would not have been different if there had been no extra guard outside.”

  “Does that mean that you demand the police surveillance to be taken away immediately?” Andersen asked.

  “No, no, on the contrary, for a short period, this surveillance cannot harm; it will underline the importance of the police and when it is withdrawn, it will create the impression that the threat has been banned and the police has protected me successfully within this time. Please understand, I am not an ungrateful person.”

  The chief of police was amazed of this attitude and agreed that a positive promotion of the police would not do any harm, either. However, it was expensive to prolong the surveillance for the weekend so they agreed that it would end on Friday morning, three days later, upon which they would deliver a mutual statement in a press conference.

  Throughout this time, Mr. Jensen avoided any public relation while the publicity was searching it. There were new motives found with tele-objectives in his park in a suburb to Copenhagen; indeed, Jensen failed to recognize part of the photos but perhaps they had been taken from the archive and been mixed there. The less Jensen wanted to speak with the press, the more they confirmed that here a real threat was imminent and there would soon be more interesting news to report. Also, the continued presence of the police in front of the house was understood as a confirmation. Moreover, strange foreign sources (though possibly circular citations in the press abroad) repeated this thread and always with the same round amount of money, not a cent more or less. Any dementia was published with the remark that such refusals were normal for the situation and anyhow not to believe. That was no different from the mutual press conference where Jensen expressed his gratitude for the help of the police and Andersen confirmed that the threat had now been banned.

  The reporters did not want to believe it and were increasingly irritated that no further details were revealed. One of them provocatively claimed that this was just a mercantile advertisement. Jensen was on his way out as he heard it. Somewhat shocked, he stopped and said sourly to the reporter, “Please, just consider it an advertisement and distribute it accordingly. May you never yourself come in the focus of such an advertisement!”

  While they were pondering this reply, Jensen had left and the press conference accordingly ended. Still, a bad feeling remained with the reporters: how could something have ended which had never officially started? However, it was better not to be too concise with the report; perhaps something would appear afterwards and then it was good to be able later to claim to have foreseen it, whatever it was.

  To Jensen, the change of events appeared the same evening. He was at home and very satisfied how he had managed to play out the press according to his own wishes, when the opposite seemed to have occurred all the time before. From London, an important telephone connection was transferred to him by Mr. Olsen. It was from Dr. Thornton whom he had consulted about his particular problem.

  “Mr. Jensen, I have a very important message, so important that I must give it to you right away on telephone although it is strictly not suitable for that. However, I must be absolutely certain that I am talking with the correct person ...”

  “So must I, Dr. Thornton,” Jensen interrupted. “I have been persecuted by reporters for several days and I must be certain that you are not one of them. In the beginning of our meeting I mentioned that I had made a visit to a city three weeks earlier where you had just been to a medical congress. Which city was it?”

  “It was Ottawa in Canada. Thanks, then I am also satisfied with your identity, apart from recognizing your voice. I must admit that I am not at all satisfied for mentioning what I am going to say, but the sudden appearance of your name and photo in the international press awaked in me the desire to look into your records again. Thereby I discovered that you had been the victim of an important mistake in our X-ray department. Due to your old cranial fracture and the existence here of previous recordings, it was possible to trace the computerized tomograms which have been confused with another patient, one with actual symptoms of Alzheimer's disease. I am happy to say that your new tomogram is perfectly normal, except for the old fracture but, of course, I am very sad for the underlying mistake .... Hello, are you still there?”

  “I don't know what to say,” Jensen silently replied. “I have already drawn the widest possible consequences of this diagnosis.”

  “Please let me excuse the mistake again,” Dr. Thornton continued, “I have called you back as soon as the error was discovered. We have already received the £ 2,070 for the bill but this amount shall, of course, be transferred back to you immediately.”

  “Dr. Thornton, just forget about the money, that is the least important part of it. I believe that I must even be grateful for your confession of an error, although it is difficult for me at the moment to express such gratitude. Give me the new diagnosis in writing and excuse me that I have no time to speak any further with you now in the phone. Have a good day, Sir,” he said and ended the conversation without waiting for a reply.

  Everything had been in vain. You could just laugh at this magnificent plot he had planned for the occasion, finally letting the press march in his desired direction. Well, perhaps it was also funny that the computer in London itself showed the signs of Alzheimer's disease. After all, it was certainly good that he was not approaching the fog of mental density. Perhaps this case could even be used for promoting Jensen's business in some way or another in order to justify his unusual expenses. He asked Mrs. Olsen prepare him a cup of cappuccino, drank it fast and went out of the house, into the large garden.

  He thought he knew the garden but now he saw many details he had not mentioned earlier. At least, the gardener had a good time for himself since nobody else were allowed to enjoy the incredible colours he had combined at various places. Some time ago, Olsen had talked about leading a small creek to the garden but Jensen had not realized that it was already there. Perhaps there were also some positive aspects of this shock, life started anew and with a larger content than he would previously have admitted — besides, for once he had cheated the press to play his game.

  And then the birds. He had never cared for them before, but now he noticed their voices. From all the trees, except one of the nearest. Reluctantly, he looked up in it and saw just into a monocular glass. No, it was part of a precision weapon, to be used on much greater distances than this. Suddenly, Jensen realized what this would mean.

  “No,” he screamed, “it was just a mistake!” These were his last words. One shot pierced his heart, another his brain.

  Also when Mr. Jensen made a mistake, he made it solidly and with a certain amount of success. No traces could be found of the murderer but 6 organizations and 17 individuals claimed responsibility. However, none of them could prove it and the reward was never paid. Mr. Bruun found another solution, to share the foundation sum between the three participants of its board, to the satisfaction of all and under preservation of full discretion.

  Dysthanasia

  “Finally they come,” Birgit exclaimed when the doorbell rang. She hurried to the main entrance and opened the door. Now I expected the sound of familiar voices in a friendly dispute: Birgit would ask them why they came so late, that the steak almost had dried out; some odd explanation would be given and my wife would, as usually, express understanding for the reason, whatever it was. Instead, however, onl
y a low-tuned, strange murmur was heard until Birgit suddenly cried: “Troels, would you please come here?”

  I went to the main entrance and saw two policemen in uniform. At first, my thoughts went in the wrong direction: what had I done and could they prove it? The first question they raised, “Are you Troels Kragh?” seemed to confirm it.

  I admitted to being the person. Birgit was rather aware of what it was about; she came close to me and held my left hand. One of the officers proceeded: “I am sorry that we have bad news for you. Your parents have been involved in a serious traffic accident only a few miles from here. Your mother, Mrs. Dorit Kragh, died immediately while your father, Mr. Frederik Kragh, was taken to the hospital in Newtown with serious injuries.” Newtown, in a suburb to Copenhagen, was not far away from our home.

  The officer was relieved by having transferred the unpleasant information, briefly and concisely. Now, afterwards, I am not sure if it would have made any difference if had he told me less directly. He could have let me guess what had happened rather than throwing it all out at once, but what would the difference have been? The shock would have come a few seconds later, whereas he had now gotten rid of an awkward obligation with a singular remark. Then, however, I found it almost cynical. In the beginning, I tried to understand what quite unexpectedly had happened but this was mixed up with considerations about how my family would expect that me to react upon such news. Birgit pressed my hand even more firmly, almost hurting me. I asked if my father would survive the accident.

  “I am not quite sure,” the officer answered, “but you will be informed about that at the hospital. Strictly speaking, we are not permitted to give any further information. Were your parents on their way to see you?”

  Birgit answered this question: “They were expected here for dinner at 7.30 p.m. but it is not unusual for them to be late.” Indeed, this was correct, only they had never arrived more than half an hour late and now it was nearly nine.

  The policemen wanted to know if there were other relatives. I confirmed this and promised to contact my two sisters myself. Afterwards, they recommended that I go to the hospital directly; they would probably not give any useful information over the telephone. I do not know if I said “thanks” or “goodbye,” only that I went straight to the living room in order to call Susanne and Ulrike and tell them the bad news. Birgit was smarter; after I went, she asked the policemen for further details of the accident and where my mother had been taken. Indeed, I hope that she also thanked the officers, it must be a dreadful task to transfer such messages.

  First, I called Susanne, my elder sister who lived an hour drive from our home. Unlike the policemen, I had no experience in delivering such sad information and it was not very clear and cohesive. Never mind, there are messages which simply cannot be delivered in a pleasant way. Susanne wanted to leave for the hospital right away and it was of no use that I told her to wait until I had been there.

  Ulrike, my younger sister, lived in Sweden, 6 hours from here with a car and ferry. For her, there could not be any talking about coming immediately and her freedom to move was further hampered by her child of six months. Having stuttered through the bad and preliminary news, I promised to call back again as soon as I knew what was actually up with our father. Then I left, while Birgit stayed in our house, putting our two children of 8 and 10 years to bed. We agreed that she should simply tell them that my parents were not coming, after all. They had been watching the television and did not see that our house was honoured by the visit of uniformed policemen.

  It was just a few minutes past nine when I arrived at Newtown Hospital. I went to the emergency room and made the mistake to try asking a nurse about my father. She refused to make any statement; that was entirely restricted to the doctors and they were all occupied at the moment. By mistake, she committed the indiscretion to admit that they were occupied at the moment with operating on my father. “Would you please take a seat in the waiting room, then I shall call as soon as further information can be given,” she said, not explaining what she meant with 'further'.

  I waited for an hour, I felt, although my watch told me that I had only waited for ten minutes. The only possible deduction was: yes, Frederik was alive and no, he is not well off. There was a telephone in the hall, from where I called Birgit to tell her ... well, to tell her virtually nothing she did not already know. It was the contact rather than the message which counted here.

  I went back to the waiting room. More and more silently suffering patients filled the room but none of them were taken to any of the rooms as there was no doctor available. From time to time I did make others aware of my existence, without having obtained any information when Susanne finally arrived around ten p.m. She must have left shortly after my call and broken all records for driving here; she drove so fast just in order to take place on a chair and wait. People were not very communicative here; the acoustics were lousy and appeared to amplify our voices even when we tried to talk silently. I told her again what I knew which did not differ much from what I told her in the telephone before. Fortunately, we did not have to wait for much longer; fifteen minutes later, the door opened and a man in his early fifties came in. He was dressed in clothes from the operation room, with a facemask now in front of this neck and a paper cap. “Dr. Madsen, head of the department of anaesthesia and intensive care,” he started. Then he wanted to be sure, who we were, although the nurse had definitely already told him.

  “This is my sister, Susanne Beck; I am Troels Kragh. We want to know what has happened to our father, Frederik Kragh.”

  The doctor took us away from the waiting room. We were now standing with him in the corridor but it was certainly much better than in there where even a whisper was heard loudly by many ears.

  “Your father has been operated for some hours already and it will probably take longer until they finish. Dr. Bodelsen is taking care of the anaesthesia further on. I have only been here until his condition has stabilized.”

  “Heavens, then he'll survive,” Susanne exclaimed.

  “I haven't said exactly that,” Dr. Madsen answered. “At the moment his condition has stabilized but your father has suffered serious injuries and a considerable blood loss. Moreover, at 72 years old, he is not among the youngest. We do not know how his brain will function after this trauma and prolonged shock and we shall only much later be able to evaluate that. I can, however, promise you that we are doing all that we can.”

  Now, looking back, I recognize this maintenance of uncertainty even from this first message and I doubt that anyone will ever get a useful statement out of Dr. Madsen. With a positive development, the precaution was given that the condition could, after all, turn to the worse; conversely, it was never worse than it could also turn to the better at any time. And always, this 'trust in me' was added, 'we keep on doing the best' or 'all we can.'

  The doctor proceeded to explain that my father would be transferred to the intensive care unit after the operation. There, he would be connected to a mechanical respirator and ventilated, presumably for several days, that is, if he would at all live so long. Dr. Madsen recommended that we return only at 11 a.m., the official visiting time, but Susanne insisted that we see our father as soon as possible. We then agreed to return in three hours and accepted the possibility of waiting in front of the intensive care unit. I asked the doctor if he knew anything about my mother but he only confirmed that she had died on site of the accident and never was brought to the hospital. Finally, I told him that my second sister would arrive from Sweden the following day. Dr. Madsen promised to report it to the intensive care unit. Then Susanne and I drove home, each in our own car.

  In the meantime, Birgit had called the police and received the telephone number of the undertaker who was taking care of my mother. Moreover, she had called the firm and agreed to meet in the small chapel — at least, this is what they called it — where my mother would be brought the following morning at 10. Finally, Ulrike had called back and said th
at she would come the following day with her husband and their child.

  Birgit had also prepared a bed in our guestroom for Susanne. This was our storage room and I could not understand how it had been turned to a bedroom so fast — until I tried to find something in my office two days later and discovered where Birgit had relocated everything. Upon our return, we started to eat some of the steak which was prepared for quite another purpose. Of course, the festive mood had totally disappeared but our hunger was real, and now there was this excess steak. Besides, we had to spend the time doing something before we were going back to the hospital to see my father and perhaps be encouraged by additional news. Birgit preferred to stay at home with regards to our two boys. How good that Susanne did not have any children before her divorce but I was polite enough not to mention it.

  Birgit went to bed at midnight, before Susanne and I left for the hospital. I could not quite understand how she could sleep under these circumstances; she used to have perfect relations with both of my parents. Only later did I realize, how much she had worked this evening while I had spent the time in distressing (but physically inert) waiting. Nevertheless, it was good that she got some rest since it was already evident that the coming days would be extremely laborious, in particular for her.

  We were only allowed to enter the hospital after the ICU, the intensive care unit, confirmed that we were expected. A quarter to one, Susanne and I rang the bell outside the ICU. Strangely enough, the answer, coming through the communication device without any visual contact, sounded ill-prepared: would we please come back the following day? When not, then we should please take a place, they had just received a patient who should be 'installed;' then they would come and get us later when they had some time for that. It was unclear what they meant by 'taking a place' as there were no chairs or other furniture here in the corridor. Only later did I learn of the existence of an adjacent room for relatives, though this was anyhow closed for the night. Although we only waited for half an hour, the standing position did not help our mood any further. A male nurse told us how to proceed now and with all future visits to the ICU, something about a deposit of handbags, washing hands and dressing in a symbolic piece of clothing. It was not quite convincing but please, if it made them happy, we would do our best to adapt to the local traditions. Then he gave us a note in which the ideal visiting time and telephone number of the ICU was written, among other restrictions in the visitors' behaviour. I folded my paper and transferred it to a pocket for later reading. Finally, I could see my father again.

  For that process, a certain amount of imagination was required. We entered a two-bed room where we first saw another person with a tube through his mouth, in turn connected to thicker tubes which led to a device making a rhythmic though not very loud noise — obviously the ventilator. I later learned that this was Mr. Andresen. Then we were led to the next bed in which my father was doing exactly the same. I thought about how it would be to chew on a sausage without being able to swallow it but, obviously, they had become accustomed to this vision in the hospital. Frederic was not chewing his sausage: “He is paralyzed,” the nurse told me. I recalled the terror of being paralyzed and slowly developing the feeling of suffocation by full consciousness after being hit by the Amazon Indians' poisonous arrows. The male nurse comforted me that my father had received plenty of sleeping drugs and pain killers. He would probably have retired from the room and left it to his colleagues to inform us about the remaining devices in this intensive care room but I did not let him go that easy, although I could not help feeling stupid with all the matters I had so far been absolutely uninterested in and, therefore, completely ignorant about.

  What made the recognition of my father particularly difficult was that his eyes were closed with small paper towels, in addition to scattered bandages. I looked more keenly on Frederik and began to understand what they meant with 'install:' a large amount of cables and tubes of different calibres were connecting his body to different devices. The nurse explained patiently (and perhaps also with some pride) the importance of it all. Here were the perfusors, six in number, on which big syringes full of drugs were emptied slowly; other devices, four of a kind, pumped the infusion liquids into one of the tubes. Completely independently, Frederic received blood in a cannula on the arm, “the 12th package,” as the nurse said. A number of cables were then connected to a colourful monitor. Frederik's heart action was heard and mixed with the tunes of the neighbour. These monotonous but interchanging sounds contributed much to the uncomfortable mood created in this room. I hope that Frederic did not hear it.

  “I shall leave it to the doctor to explain to you which injuries were found and treated,” the nurse said in response to our question in this direction.

  Perhaps while the patient hardly had any similarity with my father, I had curiously listened to the nurse's explanations. Only now did I look at my sister. Susanne had big tears in her eyes. She asked for a chair so that she could sit down. The nurse replied: “But how long do you intend to stay here?”

  “I have got only one father,” Susanne said, “and I intend to stay here all the time.”

  “There is no need to do it for his sake,” the nurse responded dryly. “He is certainly unable to register anything; he has no pain and his condition it at the moment stable. Whatever may happen, it is unlikely that any change will occur for the next many hours. But as for where you are concerned, it is definitely better to get some sleep. You will need your strength later.” Susanne was about to protest as Dr. Bodelsen arrived. He took us away from the room and showed us some X-rays, as if we understood anything from them — anyhow, we did not want to show any lack of understanding and thus behaved appropriately. “I believe you want to know what sort of injuries your father suffered as a result of the accident. If we start from the top, we see a cranial fracture but no signs of intracranial bleeding. Worse, the chest X-ray shows fractures of the 6th to 11th rib but usually there are more than you can see. On the right side, we can recognize fractures of the 7th and 8th ribs. There was blood and air in the left pleural cavity — I mean, around the left lung, therefore we have inserted a drainage here. The biggest danger for your father was bleeding to death from a ruptured spleen, which we have removed in an emergency operation. An additional source of bleeding derived from a pelvic fracture, which you see on this ... no, better, on this picture.” We did not see anything but admired the energy expressed by the doctor on call for explaining us these details. He continued: “Finally, we see a fracture of the hip and the tibial bone, both on the left side, indicating that the car your mother was driving was hit by the truck from the left.” This was the first time we heard anything about a truck.

  “Do you know what my mother died from?” I asked, now also knowing that she had driven the car.

  “No, but considering the injuries of your father, it is not difficult to imagine an even more serious trauma at the driver's side. Anyhow, the autopsy will reveal it.”

  “We do not want any autopsy of our mother,” Susanne mentioned.

  “You must talk with the police about that,” Dr. Bodelsen replied, knowing well what would come out of that but not wanting additional problems.

  “What about the truck driver?” I asked.

  “Strictly speaking, I am not allowed to give you any information about him, but there has never been any vital danger in his case. Moreover, I have no interest in who caused the accident; we are dealing with the injured patients, not with legal aspects. I emphasize this because in the beginning of my career, I wanted to care better for the victim of an accident and only later discovered that he was the one who had caused it. Since then, I have chosen to close my eyes at these aspects.”

  I was grateful for the detailed information. Of course, Dr. Bodelsen could make no guess about the outcome of my father presently, he simply stated that there was no longer any acute danger for his life but still uncertain how he would do later on. I then mentioned that we would return at 9 a.m. This provok
ed no enthusiasm from him.

  “Our visiting time is between 3 and 4 p.m., but only 15 minutes for the closest relatives above the age of 16 years. Of course, we may meet special precautions in acute cases but not at 9 a.m. where we have a lot to do with the patients. Dr. Madsen permitted you to come at 11 a.m. tomorrow, but such dispensation from our rules cannot be granted generally.”

  “I understand and appreciate that you must do your work,” Susanne said, “but I do not understand that we cannot be present when our father is fighting with death. We shall certainly not bother you.”

  “I am sorry, this is how it is in all ICU's nowadays,” the doctor answered. “Of course, you can discuss the matter with the Chief of Department, Dr. Madsen, whom you already met. I understand that you have a sister coming from abroad tomorrow. She may come when she arrives. Now, would you please excuse me, I have other things to do now.”

  We thanked him for his information. Obviously, Dr. Madsen had already informed him about us, how, else, could he know about Ulrike? It was evident that Susanne was highly dissatisfied with the restricted visiting time. I almost had to pull her out of the department and tell her that this was not the time and not the person to discuss the problem with. “The accident has happened, and nobody can change that now. I certainly have confidence in this hospital,” I stated on the way home in the car.

  “Yes, I could see how you adored the technical desert in which our father has landed,” Susanne answered. “I am not comfortable leaving Frederik in these surroundings. And those limitations in the visits — it is simply a disregard at humanity; misanthropy! Perhaps they want to conceal something there?”

  “Please, try to understand that they have work to be done there. After all, this is done for the benefit of the patients, not the relatives,” I tried to argue.

  “Yes, they have work to do. A working place as anyone else, with machines to be taken care of, unconscious and thereby not dissatisfied patients, regulated coffee breaks and no laymen to disturb them, except for 15 minutes a day where the 'Visitor's Show' is exercised, in order to awake your confidence. Have forgotten how we waited outside the department? With only an electronic voice beside the closed door and not a chair to sit and wait. If this does not express disregard for the relatives, I do not know what you want else. And how can I know that the disregard for the relatives is not equalized in a similar behaviour for the patients?” She took a breath so that I got a chance to answer.

  “Susanne, our mother died quite unexpectedly a few hours ago. We should not allow this shock make us unreasonable. Our father's course will not be improved by expressing distrust in the hospital but our chances to visit him will be influenced by that. Frederik is alive and we have a good reason to hope that he will survive this accident.”

  “Perhaps you are right in not expressing distrust to the ICU, which is not the same as blind trust,” she answered. We remained silent and thoughtful for the rest of the way back home.

  The following day, a Thursday, Birgit woke me up at 9 a.m. She had already called my work and the school to report that I and the children would be absent for the rest of the week.

  We gathered one hour later outside the small chapel. Only now did I realize that this chapel was situated was within the hospital. How practical to be near to the biggest supplier of the dead people of our times. The undertaker was also suitably close, perhaps that was his reason for being a few minutes late — the nearer you are, the later you come. He led us to the last encounter with my mother. I shall desist from describing my feelings on that occasion. Afterwards we walked to his office just outside the hospital. There, we should deal with the practical matters.

  “We have talked about having the funeral on Sunday,” I started.

  “You better quit that idea immediately,” he answered rudely. “The police has confiscated the dead body which, in my experience, means that an autopsy will be made in the Forensic Institute sometime next week. Unfortunately, they are never in a hurry.”

  “But we do not intend to permit any autopsy,” Susanne argued.

  “Where that is concerned, we are completely powerless. I have witnessed this problem often before but never that anyone managed to let the police refrain from an autopsy. They perform it on all accident victims.”

  This remark convinced Susanne and Birgit that the undertaker should have a new experience. He, in turn, readily provided addresses and telephone numbers of those responsible for the decision of making and performing a medico legal autopsy. The women now just wanted to get started, which made the remaining selection of standards for the funeral a fast procedure.

  We did, however, also possess an 'invitation,' that is, outside the common, visiting hours, to the ICU. The children had to stay outside while we three adults went in — also one in excess for the rules clearly mentioning two visitors during 15 minutes, but perhaps they mistook Birgit for my sister. Frederik looked almost as he did during the night, except that his eyes were now visible. He was lying totally passively there, the sausage in his mouth and the ventilator working silently. Dr. Madsen should have talked with us but a difficult anaesthesia prevented that. Instead, a registrar told us the story we would soon consider the usual one, that the condition largely was unchanged and that, in turn, could be better or worse later on, with the reservation that none of this might happen, and so on.

  Birgit drove me and the children home, then continued with Susanne to the police station. After having eaten something with the boys, I utilized the occasion to take a small nap at the sofa. This was, however, interrupted by the arrival of Ulrike and her family. Shortly after, Birgit and Susanne returned home and reported, somewhat incoherent, of their visit to the police.

  They had been correctly received and did not waste time in running from one office to the other. They were told that all people who died by an accident received a post-mortem examination, including an autopsy, and no protest would alter that practice. They should have limited themselves to this explanation but after sometime, a police officer tried to explain: “Imagine if some serious mistake has been done during the rescue, resulting in the preventable death of your mother, then this would be clear as a consequence of the autopsy.”

  Susanne had then asked if he had ever experienced that any actions had been taken against rescue forces or the hospital, and he was honest enough to deny it. Then Birgit concluded that my mother had died as a result of the accident and the autopsy could not alter that. The policeman tried to argue that, e.g. a heart disease could have caused the accident, although he admitted that my mother was innocent in this one, an innocence which did not help her. Anyhow, he resumed, he was not in a position to alter an established practice, but if there was anything else he could do to help ...

  “Yes, indeed there is,” Susanne responded. “If the autopsy cannot be avoided, please let it take place at latest tomorrow, so that the funeral can take place on Sunday.”

  The policeman had bit his lip, obviously another matter upon which he had no influence. But he tried his best, called here and there by telephone and finally informed that there was a chance, although he could make no promises.

  In this world of no promises, Birgit called the undertaker who also remained uncommitted on the matter.

  Susanne and I wanted to go back during the visiting hour. She wanted also to introduce Ulrike and Harald who, by coincidence, came during this time. The advantage was that the doctors took care not to be near the ICU, which was probably the only reason why Susanne did not offend any doctors on that occasion.

  Now, they insisted on having only two visitors at the time. We let the sisters go in first. In the meantime, I told Håkon about my experiences in the past 20 hours. We were shown the small room reserved for waiting relatives outside the ICU, in which also relatives of Mr. Andresen, the man ventilated in the same room as my father, were waiting on their turn. His wife told me that they were both 78 years of age and that her husband had long been seriously ill. It was interesting to meet s
ome relatives of a man who had already spent 3 weeks in the ICU. To me, it was particularly strange that Mrs. Andresen shared a considerable hope for her husband's recovery after she told me how ill he had been for such a long time. She told me spontaneously that her husband had been operated for a malignant tumour in the large intestine. In the beginning, it looked as if the operation had been unproblematic, and Mr. Andresen left the ICU convinced of being healed. However, only after 3 days in the general surgical ward he returned here with a serious pneumonia, possibly a consequence of his chronical heart failure. Then, surgical complications turned up and made more operations necessary. They had really not given him much chance for survival and, although Mrs. Andresen knew about it, she was still grateful that nobody had simply given up here. Once, there had been a patient whom almost everybody considered a hopeless case and still, due to Dr. Madsen's keen support, this patient had survived to be discharged. Since then, the department was known for its slogan: 'As long as there is life, there is a hope.'

  My sisters returned with tears in their eyes; it was now up to Harald and me to visit my father. I could not really see any differences but I started to smell one, coming out of his mouth where the tube went down. Frederik had bad teeth and the inability to clean his mouth was abundant ground for infection.

  I looked at the monitor and noticed his very high temperature, which was recorded in yellow signs. I asked the nurse who came into the room about it and she told me that this was not unusual the day after a big operation. Besides, they planned to create a different airway access the following day, similar to what I could see on the other patient.

  Now I noticed that this change had indeed happened to Mr. Andresen since my last visit. The airway from the ventilator was now inserted directly into his trachea on the neck; thus, the mouth was liberated from the sausage and in this way, his face looked more natural but, on the other hand, this did not look like a simple 'airway access,' as the nurse regarded it. “Isn't this a real operation?” I asked.

  Perhaps the nurse felt that it was a bit unfortunate that she had told me about these plans. She insisted that it was a minor operation and quite normal to perform this airway access on the neck after a couple of days. Earlier, they had introduced the tube through the nose and left it there for several weeks, but this had caused infections and was now totally out of fashion. I looked back at the temperature display on the monitor and thought that was exactly what had happened here, but I did not discuss it further.

  As expected, my family reacted explosively by not having been told about the planned new operation. Susanne saw in this decision a proof of how meddlesome and unimportant we were considered by the ICU.

  I began to realize what a heavy burden was put on Birgit's shoulders. She had not yet prepared any room for Ulrike's family and then we suddenly understood that this was also not necessary. After all, my parent's house was now empty and situated not far away from ours. So we all went there.

  The visit there reminded us that there still was an enormous amount of formalities waiting to be taken care of. Perhaps there were even particular desires from my mother concerning her funeral but a first search did not reveal any — it was also problematic enough without such.

  To all of us, Friday was less laborious than the previous day had been. Still, many of the preparations for the funeral could not simply be transferred to the undertaker. A lot of people were invited by telephone — all under the precondition that the funeral could indeed be carried out on Sunday. I talked about saving money by keeping the following dinner at home and received Birgit's vigorous protest against the possibilities of further strain, she was certainly bothered enough. I rejected the idea immediately. Instead, we agreed to meet after the funeral at a small restaurant adjacent to the churchyard. Then, on Friday afternoon, the undertaker called and told me that the funeral could indeed take place on Sunday. Obviously, Susanne and Birgit had obtained something through their visit to the police station

  We had now agreed that I or Birgit would call the ICU morning and evening and then ourselves informing the others. Recognizing now that Frederik's healing would be a matter of weeks rather than days, I was not unsatisfied with this agreement, which included one daily visit at the regulated hours. The new airway had been 'installed' and his temperature was lower on the monitor which I now began to understand more and more. My father was certainly looking better without the sausage in the mouth and the nurses told me that the paralyzing drugs, and the following day also much of the remaining load of sleeping drugs and painkillers, would now be stopped, so that we could expect Frederik slowly to wake up.

  Things were different with the neighbour. They had called Mrs. Andresen some hours before and permitted her to stay there constantly, in itself a positive sign in the behaviour of the ICU towards relatives but also an indication that the last minute was near. The acoustic alarms were certainly more frequent at the neighbour's monitor than at my father's and some of those really indicated a low heart rate or low pressure. Each time, Mrs. Andresen nervously rose until one of the nurses came in and silenced the alarm. Regarding that most of these alarms were 'technical' (that is, not expressing a real danger) this acoustic terror could be quite a burden for Frederik when he awoke — but so far, this was not the case. The nurses were obviously relieved as we went deliberately and there was then no need to send us away.

  The following day, on Saturday, Frederik was alone at the room. We were, of course, looking forward to greet him again. One of the nurses at the ICU had promised to call us if he woke up before our planned visit but no call was received on that account. This afternoon, Håkon was taking care of the children while Birgit insisted on coming to the hospital. We discussed whether or not we should tell Fredrik that his wife had been killed in the same accident which had caused his presence here and agreed to keep silent about the matter for the first time. Even though they were formally not guilty of having caused the accident, a younger person might have reacted differently.

  Unfortunately, no reason was found to tell anything; Frederik did not wake up, on the contrary, his general condition deteriorated. The doctor on-call arrived, in spite of the visiting hours, in order to tell us that the lungs were functioning less well and that the ventilation in itself had become a problem in spite of increased oxygen content. Still, this condition was not absolutely hopeless. These doctors would have been perfect meteorologists in explaining how the weather would be and thereby keeping all possibilities open.

  This doctor, whose name I have forgotten, seemed to have some experience with accidents. He told us that we should raise a claim for suffered pain on behalf of my father immediately. I did not care for such matters, I told, this was something related to police and insurance companies and we had other problems to think of. No, the doctor said, if my father later died, it was simply another fatality whereas his estate could demand money for his sufferings if this claim was raised before.

  Perhaps this was an interesting aspect and I asked him if I could talk with him about these matters in the coming days, after my mother's funeral. What this discussion awoke in me was not the aspect to earn money on my father's suffering but a serious warning that he would not, after all, survive the accident. In the presentation of all possible outcomes, I had let my own desires prevail, that Frederik would survive and remain mentally intact. Now I again started to doubt it. When I told my sisters about it, Susanne again raised the doubt that all these measures were expected to help an old man who had also lost his wife. This made us discuss the difference between 'old' and 'elderly', a limit which has certainly moved in later decades but without enabling any clear distinction.

  Without acute danger, we decided that Susanne and I would return to work on Monday; Håkon would return to Sweden while Ulrike and her daughter stayed here. This was quite a decision to make in the absence of useful prognoses or, rather, as a consequence of this problem.

  Sunday, one week later, was dominated by my mother's funeral, with which I s
hall deal no further here. For that reason, however, we only arrived at the ICU at 5.30 p.m. Frederic’s condition had deteriorated further, characterized by oedemas all over and additionally increased oxygen content on the ventilator — which I had now also learned to evaluate. Assuming that 100% is the maximum, he would soon have reached that value. The temperature had gone up again and active cooling had been introduced. Still, the staff did not see any imminent danger in his condition.

  I tried to ameliorate the criticism of the uncertain prognosis by getting a big glass ball from a cupboard and asking if any of the company were able to read the future in a crystal ball. Apparently, nobody was ready for that.

  While discussing our future behaviour, Susanne forwarded another question: was it really in the interest of Frederik Kragh that he should survive this serious trauma? So far, we had only considered the question whether or not it was possible, acknowledging that many odds were up against him. What Susanne suggested was that it might be desirable for Frederik that no further measures were taken even when there was a possibility that he could otherwise survive, while acknowledging that the chances for it were small. And if he survived, which kind of sufferings were then awaiting the old man who still did not know that he had lost his wife? This was perhaps true but the rest of us were not prepared to support this view, even if it were revised in case of any tendency of recovery, as Susanne promised should be the case. And then, what would be the consequence of our support of this view if the department would not accept it?

  That was probably the most difficult part; I believe that I see this problem more clearly now. Dr. Madsen's confession, as he had previously told me, was that 'as long as there is life, there is a hope.' When they finally abandoned hope in Andresen's case it was so late in his clinical course that they had any reason to do so. This meant that when they finally made the verdict, 'patient is going to die,' they were not prepared to alter it by spontaneous recovery because such a recovery was considered a serious rebuff to their prognosis. For that reason, they kept him on maximum therapy with even the smallest chances of survival, disregarding the patient's quality of life. It is not a shame if a patient dies in spite of the most intensive efforts but it can be regarded an error if he survives once a limit is set, even if it is only a limit to further therapeutic measures and maintains the present intensity of therapy. This is, I believe, the horror found in present intensive care.

  Birgit made another statement during our discussion: “In a way, the fate of Dorit and Frederik mirrors our own frustrated relationship to death: personally, we prefer a fast and unexpected death but are unprepared and thus not accepting it when it meets a close, loved relative like Dorit. When we finally accept it, death comes as a relief after a prolonged fight, as it will probably be the case with Frederic.”

  Håkon mentioned that Frederick had failed to wake up after the reduction in drugs and there was thus at least some cerebral damage to be expected. His wife was, however, not prepared to declare the battle lost and we then agreed that the last optimist should make the decision, provided, as Susanne mentioned, it was the optimist in the family, not in the hospital because there were optimist who could be found until death had already occurred.

  It looked as if the coming week would be fatal for my father. Indeed, I wondered how anybody could survive for so long time if all organs deteriorated daily. Susanne returned Friday evening and went directly to the ICU, disregarding all official regulation about visiting hours. She even stayed there for an hour, a matter which could only be explained by a more liberal attitude from the nurses on call then as we had experienced it on previous occasions.

  The following day, although it was a Saturday, we were able to talk to Dr. Madsen. Håkon had decided to stay at home in Sweden but we had arranged that all Frederik's three children plus my wife were present. Unfortunately, the Chief Physician was late and the staff on call this morning refused to let us in with reference to the official visiting hours. That caused more hate and distrust of the department.

  Finally, Dr. Madsen arrived. He started to explain how serious everything was, to which we icily confirmed that this was very well known to us. What we did not know, however, was that an artificial kidney, so-called dialysis, had now been connected. Worse, Dr. Madsen only now told us that Frederic had suffered cardiac arrest this morning and had been resuscitated — 'successfully,' as he called it.

  My problem is that I try to avoid conflicts, even where such may seem appropriate. This was now the case. I readily left it to Susanne, who is not hampered by such inhibitions, to make certain matters clear to the physician: “We were not informed that you supported the failing kidney function; worse, we were not informed immediately when my father suffered a cardiac arrest; and worst of all, you started resuscitation even in this case, disregarding all odds which are up against him and certainly also the wishes of the family. Please tell me, Dr. Madsen, do you still expect us to have any confidence to your department?”

  The physician was visibly surprised by this attack and he felt that all their work and art invested for the sake of my father had been unrightfully discarded. He did apologize for the lack of information in the morning but simultaneously maintained that his responsibility to the patient could not be altered by any attitude within the family.

  “On behalf of the family, I kindly request you to stop any further intensive care to my father,” Susanne said, as if we had agreed about this — anyhow, none of us protested against it after what we had learned.

  “I am not treating the family and when Mr. Kragh is concerned, you should not forget that as long as there is life, there is a hope,” the doctor said.

  “I am sure that this opinion would be shared by my father if he were able to take part in this discussion,” Susanne tried. In vain, it seemed.

  “But he is not able to express himself and that leaves the responsibility with me. I am not God; I cannot decide above life and death, therefore, I can only give my utmost medical support and leave it to destiny to decide if it is sufficient,” he answered.

  “I am sorry, in this case, it seems as if you are disregarding destiny by unnatural behaviour,” Susanne finished.

  Dr. Madsen emphasized that he was not the one to carry out any kind of aided death, so-called euthanasia.

  Now Ulrike joined her sister: “But when my father went into cardiac arrest he would have been dead without resuscitation; as it is, you have taken an unnatural action rather than letting life have a natural end.”

  “To my point of view, there is no principal difference between withdrawing therapy and not offering the utmost possible. You may have another opinion but please accept that you are not the ones to decide about it. That also relieves you of a terrible responsibility. Now you are here, you can visit Mr. Kragh,” he ended and let all four of us simultaneously into the ICU and then left us in the room.

  “I wonder if this attitude is shared by the staff here,” I remarked.

  “It probably is,” Birgit mentioned. “They have worked so long at an intensive department to be able to understand how normal people think. Their attitude to the closest relatives of mortally ill persons seems to express the worst arrogance that one can imagine.”

  “I know of a nurse who said she wanted never to end up at an ICU,” Susanne mentioned.

  “That is completely odd,” Ursula responded. “To work at a department for humans and not wanting to receive the same help as one is offering ...”

  “Could we perhaps get Frederic transferred to another hospital so that he could die there?” Birgit asked.

  Susanne answered with another question: “How can you know that it is different at another hospital? Besides, Dr. Madsen promised not to care the least for our opinion — and his colleagues at another hospital would not openly contradict him.”

  We ended our visit rather fast and drove home in pressing silence.

  Another week passed and Frederik's condition appeared to stabilize, although it was stabilization at
a very low level. Dr. Madsen saw himself confirmed that they were able to keep their patients alive for long when they utilized all possibilities. Or, as Susanne expressed it, prolong the process of dying. Standing in front the door to the ICU with the relatives of other patients, we learned that Frederik's case was not a singular one. To be honest, however, I should mention that they also did many good things at the ICU. In spite of regulated intermissions and protection against relatives, I do not believe that anybody could work at an ICU without being able to demonstrate a real success from time to time.

  We had more or less accepted our role as passive observers. It was hard to learn that the doctor, who had recommended to us to claim for suffering on behalf of Frederik, had made another version of the story at the department: that we simply were interested to inherit as much as possible. Fortunately for my self confidence, I had taken no such action but it was bitter to learn about being betrayed in this way. Anyhow, my story was not so interesting as the doctors', so the nurses of the ICU preferred to believe him.

  Susanne was with us for the third weekend in line. Together with Ulrike, we visited Frederik on Saturday afternoon. Somehow, they tolerated now that we all three went in simultaneously. The skin colour told us that our father's condition was critical and the values at the monitor seemed to confirm it. Dr. Madsen was out of town for the weekend. An elderly registrar came to talk with us. Before addressing us, he pulled us out in the corridor.

  “Why can't we talk in the room, as our father is unconscious and will thus not hear anything?” Susanne asked.

  “Strictly speaking, we do not know what he hears. There is a huge difference between hearing something and then being able to report it. Somewhere in-between lies the understanding, or even active misunderstanding of received information,” the physician, Dr. Bodelsen, told us. “Hearing ability is extremely difficult to decrease, even in anaesthesia. Many patients could have told a gruesome story about what they have heard as presumably unconscious, had they not died later or simply forgotten it. And then, there are a few who reports such horrible stories. Anyhow, there is no harm in behaving as if they hear what we say. It corresponds to the desirable behaviour not to express any negative talk in the presence of your father. Even if it is perhaps superfluous in most cases, I feel this is the right way to behave towards the apparently unconscious patient.”

  After a small break, he continued: “It looks as if your father is approaching his last hour.”

  “Thanks heaven,” Susanne exclaimed, “Then this nightmare will finally come to an end.”

  Dr. Bodelsen looked at Ulrike and me and asked: “Do you share this attitude?”

  “Absolutely!” I said.

  “We had an unpleasant discussion with Dr. Madsen a week ago, in which we tried to ask him to withdraw further therapy but, unfortunately, received no support,” Ulrike confirmed.

  “The general attitude here at the ward is not to withdraw any kind of therapy,” Dr. Bodelsen responded. “Anyhow, it looks as if your father may not survive the coming evening or night. For that reason, if you want to stay here, you are of course welcome to do so.”

  Fortunately, there was one humanist at this department. Susanne responded quickly: “I recommend that Ulrike stays here; I shall replace her at 9 p.m. and Troels can then come towards 4 a.m. Do you all accept this suggestion?” We did and the doctor did, and then the two of us drove home.

  After dinner, Birgit drove Susanne to the ICU, visited her father-in-law and came back again with Ulrike who stayed with us this night. I went early to bed to be fit for my nightly replacement.

  This task was never carried out. They called at half past ten in the evening and reported that my father had died. The boys were now left alone with Ulrike's daughter while the three of us went to the hospital to join Susanne. There, we could say goodbye to Frederik who had finally been liberated for all his 'installations.'

  Back in the car, I wanted to touch Susanne's hands but got hold of a very wet towel instead. “I did not see you weep so much by Frederic,” said I astonished.

  “These are not my tears; it is mainly drugs,” she responded.

  “How come?” Ulrike asked.

  “This was the only chance to shorten this maltreatment,” she answered. “If you stop the perfusors, they make a terrible alarm. Instead, I let the whole stream of drugs for a while down to this towel.”

  “I don't blame you for doing so,” I mentioned, “but it was probably superfluous. Fate would have taken Frederik home shortly after without having you exposing yourself.”

  “Possibly, but not certainly after all we have seen here. The doctor here also confirmed it. By the way, it was he who recommended the action with the perfusors. When Frederik heart finally failed, I turned everything back to normal before the nurses came. At that time, the drugs did not change anything.”

  “Do you remember my father, Frederik Kragh, who died here at your department?” I asked.

  “Of course, an elderly man with serious injury whom we kept alive for more than three weeks, unfortunately in vain for the ultimate course,” Dr. Madsen replied.

  “Exactly. I have found the name for a new concept which you may, perhaps, want to utilize. You mentioned that you do not practice euthanasia and I do not blame you for that. On the contrary, I also feel that any active euthanasia resembles a sort of killing. However, it was a terrible time for us to witness my father's struggle for death and see it postponed by all your interventions. So what I feel you practiced towards my father is not only some therapy, it was excessive, and I think 'dysthanasia' is a proper word for that. How do you like this word?”

  “I am disappointed of your attitude but I expressed that already. The same intensive therapy has also saved quite a number of people who are grateful for the commitment we have showed.”

  “If you generally are afraid to refrain from some kind of intensive care, you are leaving it to people themselves, as far as they are in a position to chose, to reject treatment of their disorders, simply because they are afraid of dysthanasia. These people are much less qualified to judge about the possibilities for help as well as they are incompetent for deciding when to draw the line; but they are afraid to end up as my father, who did not have any choice by his accident.”

  “I am happy to be granted any qualities at all from you,” Dr. Madsen ironically responded. “However, please tell me how this concept of dysthanasia can influence our decisions.”

  “Dysthanasia is the limitless use, and thus abuse, of intensive care beyond what seems reasonable towards patients who are probably, though not definitely going to die, since this is hardly ever absolutely certain,” I responded. “In this way, it can be understood as the opposing concept to euthanasia. Only when the phenomenon is given a name may it be possible to avoid it. A superior aim of intensive care can then be to avoid both euthanasia and dysthanasia. Doing so does, however, demand another precondition: that you are ready to stop your therapies at different level, say 'no more of this or that above a certain amount' and that you accept to revise also such a decision in case of a favourable development.”

  Dr. Madsen would have shaken his head if he had got the chance to do so. He did not because he would not have understood my remarks; therefore, this last discussion did not at all take place. If it did, this is what I would have said.

  Rudolph Rednose

  Rudolph could have told this story much more impressively, had he only been given occasion to do so. Since you have to accept my incomplete description, I am obliged first to tell you how I came to know Rudolph Rednose. I was in the beginning of my medical career and had collected a lot of data in my previous job. Before I could enter my next educational position, there were some vacant months where I could elaborate my thesis for further academical qualification. During this period, I thought that I might as well earn some money and even qualify further in a completely different occupation, which was offered me at St. John's Hospital. In fact, the word 'hospital' was quite inapp
ropriate, 'medieval asylum' would be better in which the term 'medieval' referred to the standard of the buildings and 'asylum' to the chronical and hopeless condition of the inhabitants — to call them 'patients' would again let one assume that something was done for them there; in reality, this asylum was a deposit for some unlucky people who could never be taken care of otherwise in a society.

  As one of the hospital's four physicians, I was responsible for 60 of these people — all right, call them patients since everybody else does so — one third of them. None of us three subordinate physicians had any particular knowledge of this speciality, which was restricted to the head of our department, Dr. Harewell, who was responsible for all. Should we have any questions, we could ask him, he said at each doctor’s employment. We soon learned better not to disturb him, both the quality of his answers as his general reaction to the disturbance did not invite for bothering him further. His clinical knowledge must have been gained at a much earlier time since it was generally known in St. John’s that he never let any patient into his luxurious office, nor did he leave this during his working hours, except for training for the local golf championship, in which he was considered the favourite.

  Each morning, Dr. Harewell was at his office, where his day started with the conference. Actually, this was rarely dealing with medical topics but I learned a lot about golf, except how to play it myself. The office was the only place in the whole institution which was not medieval and the chief spent some hours occupied with his considerable private library. Another devoted occupation was related to his unique collection of Etruscan sculptures but due to that, the presence of patients there was prohibited. In memory of earlier ages, a door led to an adjoining examination room but nobody could remember ever having seen a patient there. Therefore, the examination table was covered by boxes filled up with patient files which had not been given back to the archive.

  This description of Dr. Harewell’s little world may appear hypocritical since my own presence here was dictated from the desire to work with my own matters without disturbance. Besides, the patients never complained about this condition. They were not able to do so. Most of them had inherited their disabled condition, some were victims of a tragedy at birth or shortly before and only a few had been born normal and then stopped their mental development within the first years of life in response to a serious illness. Even that distinction was not always known, all patients had been transferred to St. John's at adult age from another institution and it was of no consequence what had actually caused their condition. They almost never received any visits and usually any interest in their relatives only began with the patient's death.

  Of course, there was a need for considerable drug therapy among these unhappy inhabitants, in particular due to frequent convulsions. The nurses knew what was needed and how it should be given and usually they tested the drug out before a doctor was asked formally to prescribe it. This practice was not strictly legal but it reduced our working load almost to the prescription of successes only. We were not expected (and also not qualified) to mix up with any feeding problems; in fact, I admire how it was possible to keep these cursed people alive for such a long time. Then, of course, from time to time, one of them did die and their death was pronounced by a physician and, intriguingly, always during the first part of the day. The bad thing about this act was that the empty place would soon be taken up by a newcomer who on that occasion, if perhaps never again, received some kind of medical examination together with a summary of all pre-existent journals and letters. Fortunately, such disturbances only took place about once a month. The rest of the time we were there in case anybody should need us, which was not expected to take place. We were the responsible ones and everybody were happy, the less we would care for the patients, so it was an ideal occasion for me to work intensively on my thesis and still get paid for it.

  The nurses had a completely other attitude, to which I must pay my deepest respect. It was no admirable occupation to deal with patients who would never recover and simply restrict the options to giving them a somewhat human existence. The nurses were assisted by a larger non-graduated staff and enjoyed considerable therapeutical freedom which nobody wanted to take away from them – what could have replaced their task? Our main job was to fill out the death certificates and perform some kind of initial status for their replacement recruits. For the rest of the time, we were formally available, should any of the nurses need our assistance (provided they were able to tell us what then was to do). To be a doctor at St. John’s Hospital was associated with the best preconditions for completing scientific theses or training for golf tournaments.

  I am sorry if I have concentrated too much upon my position in the hospital; I was going to introduce you to Rudolph Rednose. In fact, I was not expected to see him personally but I was new at the job and had a newcomer's bad feeling with this total lack of interest in what was going on at my department. Since the chief expressed a similar lack of interest in new doctors, nobody had told me how little I was presumed to care for the job in the department. I feared that someday, an inspection may turn up at the different wards and on that occasion it would be shown to the world that I had never been there. Moreover, I was going to visit the nurses and see what kind of people had dedicated their life (though not without a salary) to care for those who were unable to care for themselves. I regarded it a legitimate curiosity: it was quite normal that a new doctor introduce himself to the staff before disappearing in his office.

  The first patient I saw on this occasion happened to be Rudolph Rednose. He was the only one I got a close view of for the first week, as others were sitting in beds and chairs, generally in an odd position, mostly totally mute but some were indeed able to express some sounds. If these noises were excessively loud, there were drugs for that problem, too. In each room, originally scheduled for six patients, there were now nine of them; there had been enough space to squeeze a fourth bed on each side of the room and a ninth between the two rows. The patients seemed not unsatisfied with this solution, at least none of them had ever complained about it and it increased the efficacy of St. John's Hospital.

  Rudolph had a rather narrow, edged face. His nickname was no coincidence, he had indeed a big, crooked and very red nose which seemed capable of lighting in the dark. He had a dark, almost black hair and thick eyebrows adding to a serene appearance, but on a second glance you would notice that the eyelids were half closed over his blue eyes. He was dressed in a red vest which could be closed around his stiff arms. There were more of such vests but they were looking all the same so only the nursing staff would know when it was changed.

  All the patients were called by nicknames which in some way reminded certain characteristic appearances. Next to Rudolph, the most prominent were Quasimodo, the epileptic hunchback, and Frankenstein, who was characterized both by a square face and a violent behaviour. Both were kept tied up in a rolling chair. Rudolph himself was unable to walk and therefore not additionally restricted.

  Rudolph was not able to produce any clear sound, he sat and grunted persistently, in contrast to his colleagues who occasionally gave rise to childish single-syllable words. When the grunting rose in aptitude, it was time for Rudolph's tranquillizer which then also had an indirect effect upon his neighbours.

  In the ward where Rudolph was kept, one room was open to the nurses' section. On a second look, it was not supposed to be a place for beds, probably it had originally been constructed as a sitting room but already many years ago, this area had been transformed to house further patients. There were only eight inmates here.

  A television occupied the place where the ninth bed could have been. Only the three before-mentioned patients seemed to be interested in what was dancing at the screen, which was active all day long. Of course, the television was used by the staff, but nobody would mind that also some patients watched it, after all it was bought for them. The other five patients of the room did not care about the TV.

  A pe
culiar thing about Rudolph was that he was sitting near an old newspaper and a book. I asked Ms. Nightingale on duty (her first name actually was Florence) if he was also reading these items. She laughed and shook her head: “You better ask himself about it, Doc!”

  So I did, to which Rudolph grunted some sounds as a kind of response. While doing so, he faced me and one of his eyes seemed directed towards me but the other was turned in another direction and I had no idea if either of them was actually seeing me. Of course, the nurse found it utterly funny that I asked Rudolph to show me the book. How could I know that Rudolph hardly could move independently? His legs were folded under him like pocket knives and remained stiff forever. Also his elbows and hands showed some contraction but slight movement was possible there and even more in his shoulders. As I mentioned the book, Rudolph did make some movement in that direction and even succeeded in opening it at a random place, although upside down. I took it up to read the title. It was an ancient book on psychotherapy, too old to be of any value, I should think, but Rudolph did not share this evaluation. He grunted loudly and showed great anxiety, so that Nurse Florence hurried to us, took the book out of my hands and gave it back to its owner.

  “Whatever you think about this book, Rudolph appreciates it. He is also happy to receive old newspapers so I used to bring a stack with me here instead of throwing them out at home.” As if to make me jealous, she stroked his hair and then added, “Rudolph and I, we understand one another. We have been together here for many years.”

  I realized that I would be of greatest use in the department by refraining from any further disturbance. I introduced myself at the other wards which were a totally uneventful act, except that I greeted so many new people that I forgot my own name in the end. Still, I was back in my office, just beside Rudolph’s ward, before 10 o’clock on this first day. I installed my computer and the somewhat elder cassette recorder to break the silence.

  Nothing really forced me to leave my office the next day. I was working at the computer with my private thesis and nobody seemed to need my presence. In the beginning, I was happy for these luxurious circumstances but slowly other feelings prevailed: a mixture of bad consciousness and offence of being of no use. Once I phoned to the hospital’s central with some odd excuse, just to make sure that the phone was working. I was not used to concentrate on the screen and half past ten was a good time to get up and search for a cup of coffee. I started, as I had done the day before, at the adjacent ward where Ms. Florence had just been driven by the same instinct. She and the two nurse-assistants had just finished the traditional and completely undramatic work of the morning, there was fresh coffee in abundance and they seemed not to mind my presence — perhaps they were expecting my contribution, too.

  Indeed, they were quite openly inviting me to become a member of the coffee union and after I agreed, they told me the price. A ‘sur-price’, by the way, three times as expensive as I had experienced at normal hospitals where patients and their relatives yield excessive contributions. In this institution, there were hardly any visits and the staff had to pay their coffee all by themselves.

  I sat down at the desk where the other three had prepared their coffee. We were chatting about various unimportant things as Rudolph suddenly made some loud sounds. I wondered what the reason was but Florence told me that he always behaved nervously when new people came.

  “But then, when they come to him, it shows that he has his outer appearance against him,” said the younger nurse assistant, for whom this description did not fit.

  I thanked for the warning, tried to ignore the sound and drank another cup of coffee. Then I decided to stretch my legs and fearless have a closer look at Rudolph, in spite of the warning. His sounds changed, now less loud and faster than before. He was sitting almost as yesterday, only was the book open about in the middle, where a new chapter was beginning at the right page. It started with:

  Right in the middle of the last century, ...

  The reason why I read this at all was that Rudolph kept his right elbow just below that place. I started to read it loud:

  “Right ...”

  Rudolph interrupted with a long tune.

  “... in the middle ...”

  Now Rudolph gave fast, louder and higher tunes. Strange. Was this some sort of a message? I tried again with this solemn word: “Right.” Rudolph reacted similar to the first time I pronounced this word. I stopped and gave it a thought. The strange thing was that Rudolph was now absolutely quiet. Perhaps after a minute, I turned my face to the coffee table and said loudly: “Florence, would you please bring me some papers here?”

  “What kind of papers?” she asked, perhaps a natural question for one who lives in a world of formulas and questionnaires.

  “Just some clean papers, 4 or 5 pieces,” I answered. She brought them immediately but her face betrayed that she expected now to approach a madman talking to a fool. One she had even been nice towards. I probably also behaved accordingly, to her expectations at least, since I took four of these beautiful white papers, each of which could have carried the complex text of a long letter, and disturbed them with each one big letter: O, L, R and H. I put them in front of Rudolph, hoping that he could see them with one eye, and then slowly and loudly asked: “Rudolph, now we shall see if you recognize the first letter with which your name is written, which is the same as the one with which the word 'right' is written. Is it this one? ...” (fast interrupted sounds by O), “this one?” (the same in response to L), “this one?” (continued sound by R) “or this one?” (again fast interrupted sounds by H).

  Florence was shocked by this experience. She had taken care of this poor idiot for years and suddenly he seemed to recognize letters. It could not be. It should not, therefore it could not, this must be a coincidence, just prove it and this stupid doctor will disappear to his office forever. “I'll get some more papers,” she said. Upon her return, she continued, “Now let us repeat the exercise with some other letters.”

  “No,” I replied, “let us just go one step further, perhaps he understands much more than you and I can conceive.” I painted now the letters D, U, F and P. Then I laid them up in this order before Rudolph and asked him, “Can you now identify the next letter in your name?” There could be no doubt about that he had identified U, as he later did it with D, O and L. I painted some other letters and tried to catch him ending his name with an F, which at least was the sound, but even here he identified P and H. After the last letter, he made again another sound to mark the end and tears became visible in his eyes. Now, much later, I recognize this feeling by myself when I have long tried to give a message to the colleagues in vain and then suddenly they understand part of it. Still, my feelings on such an occasion must be considered a mild reaction in contrast to this. How many years may Rudolph have waited for that moment to come, how many wasted attempts may he have started and doubted if ever anyone will understand him?

  It must have been overwhelming for him, but so it was to me and, in particular, to Florence and her two assistants, who had also joined the company, at first ridiculing us but later becoming serious and even shameful. “This is a fantastic event, Rudolph,” I told him, “but now you should rest a bit while we think about how to proceed.”

  In fact, Rudolph had worked very hard for showing a small part of the world — or a larger part of his own — that he was capable of much more than one would have expected for many years. Even if he could have continued, we were not able to do so. We were not only unprepared but also shocked from our discovery. To Rudolph, it was the first contact created to surroundings which he had passively observed for years while all his attempts for attention were made in vain. I believe he must have been tired, perhaps suddenly feeling fatigued from the efforts taken in the past, efforts which to him were particularly laborious. Our feeling was a different one: we had not worked very hard for it but suddenly understood that an apparent idiot had been observing us all the time. I say 'us' in a spirit of loya
lty since I was just the second day on the ward. I am certain that both Florence and her assistants were now pondering about, how they had behaved to Rudolph on earlier occasions. In general, this reconciliation was probably not accompanied with pride. What would then others say when they suddenly heard about Rudolph?

  We went back to the coffee table. “I think it is better not to tell it to the rest of the staff for the first couple of days,” I mentioned without realizing how fast rumours spread in the absence of other means of communication.

  “By the way, it's time to distribute the meal,” said the elder nurse-assistants, she who would soon distribute the rumours.

  Florence was still under the impression of the shock. After a long silence, she whispered: “If Rudolph is much more intelligent than we previously believed, how many of the others whom we consider mentally retarded are simply for some mechanical reasons prevailed from expressing themselves to their surroundings?”

  Everybody who was dealing with the 'Case Rudolph' came to this question, sooner or later. For a psychologist, it would have been interesting to see how long it took before the knowledge of the singular case to various people resulted in their consideration for the possibility of many other cases. For the moment, I myself had enough to do with Rudolph and I believe that my answer to Florence is an acceptable, general answer to the problem: “It is only possible to behave towards all your patients in the way that they might get more out of your attitudes than you would actually expect them to do. If that makes others laugh at you, let them laugh for the moment, then tell them about the background and they shall be ashamed. In a way, the situation is not much different in the Intensive Care Unit where people are considered 'unconscious' when they for some medical reason are prevailed from replying.”

  It was obvious that Florence was ashamed of herself. What to Rudolph was an event anticipated for a long time and only brought to reality by coincidence was for Florence a shock leading to a severe depression. I was really becoming afraid to leave her alone and even more afraid what would occur after she ended her service. Something was bound to happen before she left. I got an idea and realized that it was a rather risky project but decided that her mood could not be much worse than it was already. I sent her therefore to my office with the instructions to get more paper and a special speed marker with a thick writing point.

  When she had gone, I went back to Rudolph and told him: “Miss Florence is very ashamed of how she behaved to you previously. Can you cheer her up a bit before she leaves? I will ask you a question and you can state that she is nice.” Rudolph answered with a long grunt, what I had now learned to mean 'yes'. I hurried back to the coffee table and had ample time to make some preparations until the nurse returned.

  “I am sorry, it took some time to find this stupid speed marker but here it is,” she said.

  “And I have in the meantime gotten an idea how to let Rudolph 'speak' to us. He obviously knows his alphabet and he can say [yes] and [no] by the way he grunts. I have now rearranged the letters in a way which we should simply try on Rudolph.” I wrote it on a large piece of paper and we went to him. “Rudolph, this is an alphabet. Can you read it as it lies down here on the floor beside you?”

  ABCD / EFGH

  IJKL / MNOPQ

  RSTU / VWYXZ