In the U.S. it’s the opposite. Millions of people who lack the necessary qualifications have the right to vote — which means that politicians have to allocate so much to tax relief and spending that in fact, because of the national debt, the country’s already doomed to fail. If it had been ruled by a council of experts instead, things would never have gotten to this pass. And again, there’s no question that that would’ve been in everyone’s interest — from the poorest to the richest.
It’s distressing to watch the U.S. being run into the ground by the majority — people who in point of fact have no more free will than Frederik when he was sick — when the country could be governed by a small committee of people who are as free in their thinking as Frederik when he was well.
I had the sense that what really set you off was when I said it was theoretically possible that free will might be less developed among certain races or in one gender. I did NOT say that that’s the way it is — I only said that it’s a possibility.
Remember, Mia, I’m not saying this to be a bad person. I want the best for us all, just as much as you. You should know that when you use a word like “fascist” in connection with my positions, which are carefully thought out and scientifically based, it can be very upsetting to a woman of my age, who is old enough to have experienced the all-out war on fascism in Europe.
I still think that, in time, your way of looking at the world will inevitably bring you around to my position. Then perhaps you’ll want to take part in some of the meetings we hold with the most intelligent of the retired department heads from Torben’s ministry.
With hope for a good, long friendship — and a more positive conversation next time,
Solveig
32
Now I have no one.
• • •
Of course, I had seen that photo in their hallway. Bernard’s hair has gone white since the accident — also due to the hormones. And he’s gotten thin, losing his appetite like so many other brain-damaged men. Lærke looks like herself, but Bernard’s unrecognizable.
Finally I found a good person, I thought. A person who deserved to be trusted. And then it turns out it wasn’t Bernard who was self-sacrificing — it was his sickness. I was head over heels with a brain injury instead of a man.
I start running the entire distance home from the argument. I receive the first text before I get very far: Mia, I know I was being unreasonable. You haven’t deserved this.
And as I run through Vaserne, the bird sanctuary that lies about half the way home, I get more. I’m sorry I yelled at you. I do understand that you had to come see me. I swear I haven’t lied to you about the man I am now.
But I suppose it’s the brain injury talking. I don’t know that much about vasopressin, but I seem to recall that besides making a man more faithful, having lots of vasopressin receptors would also make him less aggressive.
It’s obvious that Bernard’s sick. I only need to think about my father, about Frederik, about Hanne’s boyfriend and the whole fetid herd of men, with their long ugly feet and bony bodies, their pricks the color of entrails and their backs covered in long black hairs. Bernard’s a freak.
I gasp for breath, shoving my legs forward harder and harder. As if with each step, I’m kneeing someone’s belly. Sweat pours down my brow and temples, it runs into my ears and I can’t get it out, even when I shake my head — and even after I stop, leaning forward with hands on thighs till my head’s horizontal and I’m shaking it like a lunatic.
I resume running, but the sweat stopping up my ears makes my pulse sound much too loud. As it booms, I see before me Frederik in prison and can almost smell the sour reek from beneath the foreskins of the other male inmates — the stabbers and child-murderers, the rapists and school swindlers.
Up the stairs to our floor and then down the hall; I can already hear Niklas playing techno inside the apartment. Our front door buzzes in time to the bass; I unlock it and noise fills the corridor.
I hammer away at his door, on the offbeat so he can hear me banging over the bass. As soon as he opens it a crack I say, “I cannot deal with that today.”
“Oh, it’s you,” he says, shutting the door.
I hammer away again and shout, but he doesn’t open up. “Hey! Don’t you talk to me that way!”
As a rule, when I ask him to do something, he lets a few minutes go by before finally doing it. That way, he can act as if it’s something he’s decided to do of his own accord. I figure that today as well he’s sure to turn it down after a little while, and I go out to the bathroom, thinking about Bernard whom I’ve lost, Bernard who was never anything more than a hormonally modified dick.
I wonder what’s wrong with Niklas. He usually uses his oversize headphones when he plays that kind of music. The times when he decides to use his speakers instead, he’s angry about something, and he finds comfort in annoying us.
More likely than not, his anger has nothing to do with Frederik or me and it’s something with Emilie, or maybe Mathias or another friend. And regardless of what it is, his day can’t possibly be as wretched as mine — I’m sure he hasn’t just found out that Emilie’s brain-damaged like his dad.
When I turn on the water, he still hasn’t turned the music down. His music feels more unbearable than ever, pounding an alien beat into my body. I twist the handle, test the water temperature, and gaze at the halogen spot in the ceiling, all the while a foreign beat thudding inside me. As if his music has taken my heart out and installed another in its place. The rhythm pounds and pounds, the heart no longer mine, the blood no longer mine.
Back out of the shower stall. I throw on my bathrobe and return to the hall.
Again I bang on his door, hard. He doesn’t open up. I pull on the knob but the door is locked.
“Open up! Come out here! Turn it down and open up! Come out!”
At length he opens the door a crack. “What!”
“Niklas, please turn it down!”
“And what’ll you do if I don’t?”
He’s never spoken to me like this before. He wants to take the fight to a new level. And today of all days. He’s challenging me, and I just don’t have the energy. Then I ask myself: what right do I have to order him around? I, who have cheated on his father?
Does he know? I have a sudden strong hunch that I’ve been found out. Something’s clearly changed, and I have no idea what it is. I don’t dare make a stand against him just now, and instead I hurry back toward the bathroom, yelling, “I said I’ve had a hard day! You’re so self-centered!”
“I am?” he shouts. “Am I the one who’s self-centered?”
The techno pulse continues as the shower’s hot hard stream strikes my forehead, my throat, my breasts. Is he turning it down yet? I stand still and wait.
No.
Something’s very wrong.
• • •
It’s impossible to hear myself think in the apartment, so I go outside to one of the common areas and find a distant bench where I can be alone.
Will Niklas tell Frederik about Bernard and me? Does he realize how fragile his father is? Thorkild, Vibeke, and I have agreed that Niklas shouldn’t hear about his father’s suicidal thoughts, but maybe I need to start telling him.