seriously.
Going out into the cold night doesn’t make her happy. She has just started the washing machine and the flat is a mess. Still, she agrees to meet Iben at Props. Afterwards she intends to sleep in her own bed; Iben can stay where she likes.
Before leaving, Malene phones Paul. He is giving a lecture out of town, but luckily she gets hold of him during a coffee break.
He seems untroubled by her news. ‘It’s the kind of thing you expect if you’re involved in anything political. You just have to learn to put up with it. Of course, we’ll look into these threats, but on the other hand, don’t let them scare you.’
Malene doesn’t feel scared. ‘So you’ve had emails like this too?’
‘Yes.’
‘People threatening to kill you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Are they sent by war criminals, do you think?’
‘No, I don’t. It’s mostly right-wing idiots who write to me – neo-Nazis and what have you. Everyone in our kind of job gets threatened sooner or later. All you can do is ignore it.’
Malene is breaking off small pieces of her chocolate bar, but isn’t eating any of them. ‘I’ve just talked to Iben about it. You know, about how seriously we should take the threats.’
‘It’s unpleasant, I know. Is Rasmus at home now?’
‘No, he’s in Cologne. At a trade fair.’
‘That’s not so good.’
Malene doesn’t answer. She can hear the voices of Paul’s audience in the background.
Props is nearly empty. It’s too early in the evening. A coupleof years ago, Malene and Iben started going to Props where most of the regulars are men, often creative types with slightly haggard faces. Many have made a pass at Malene across the café tables that look like relics from a 1960s summer house.
Iben waves Malene over.
Even before Malene has a chance to sit down, Iben starts speaking urgently, as quickly and matter-of-factly as if she were at work. Her voice cuts through the low Steely Dan number that’s playing in the background.
‘Listen, I’ve rung Camilla and Anne-Lise. Camilla hasn’t received one of the emails but Anne-Lise wasn’t in. And I phoned Lotta and Henk from the Swedish and Dutch genocide centres. Neither of them has had emails like the ones we received and they don’t know of anyone who has.’ She smiles a little, holding a warm cup of coffee with both hands. ‘Then I contacted Anders and Karen at Human Rights and Svend at International Studies. And Paul …’
‘I called Paul too.’
‘I know. He told me. After you called, he phoned his wife and asked her to check. He hasn’t got emails like ours. It looks like you and I are the only ones.’
Malene had wanted to hug Iben because she’d been so scared, but the stream of words gets in the way. Instead she hands over a sweater she has brought and goes to order another coffee for Iben and a glass of white wine for herself. The two of them agree that Paul would be the likeliest target for a war criminal’s threats. Paul is constantly in the media spotlight and signs most of the Centre’s public statements regardless of who drafted them. So why hasn’t he, or someone else prominent in the human-rights sector, received the menacing messages?
They try to think of a war criminal they have exposed on the web, one Paul hasn’t mentioned publicly, but no one seems to fit the description.
At a corner table two men in football jerseys start arguing loudly. Iben holds her line of thought, and blinks, turning to scanthe darkness outside the large window that looks onto Blågård Street. Malene can’t help following Iben’s gaze, but there is nothing to see. Iben is definitely not herself.
Wearing Malene’s coffee-coloured sweater, Iben leans forward. What she says gives little away about how she feels. You must watch her eyes and mouth instead.
‘Here we are, good people with university degrees. Day after day, we’re off to our jobs at the Centre or the Institute for Human Rights or Amnesty International or
Going out into the cold night doesn’t make her happy. She has just started the washing machine and the flat is a mess. Still, she agrees to meet Iben at Props. Afterwards she intends to sleep in her own bed; Iben can stay where she likes.
Before leaving, Malene phones Paul. He is giving a lecture out of town, but luckily she gets hold of him during a coffee break.
He seems untroubled by her news. ‘It’s the kind of thing you expect if you’re involved in anything political. You just have to learn to put up with it. Of course, we’ll look into these threats, but on the other hand, don’t let them scare you.’
Malene doesn’t feel scared. ‘So you’ve had emails like this too?’
‘Yes.’
‘People threatening to kill you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Are they sent by war criminals, do you think?’
‘No, I don’t. It’s mostly right-wing idiots who write to me – neo-Nazis and what have you. Everyone in our kind of job gets threatened sooner or later. All you can do is ignore it.’
Malene is breaking off small pieces of her chocolate bar, but isn’t eating any of them. ‘I’ve just talked to Iben about it. You know, about how seriously we should take the threats.’
‘It’s unpleasant, I know. Is Rasmus at home now?’
‘No, he’s in Cologne. At a trade fair.’
‘That’s not so good.’
Malene doesn’t answer. She can hear the voices of Paul’s audience in the background.
Props is nearly empty. It’s too early in the evening. A coupleof years ago, Malene and Iben started going to Props where most of the regulars are men, often creative types with slightly haggard faces. Many have made a pass at Malene across the café tables that look like relics from a 1960s summer house.
Iben waves Malene over.
Even before Malene has a chance to sit down, Iben starts speaking urgently, as quickly and matter-of-factly as if she were at work. Her voice cuts through the low Steely Dan number that’s playing in the background.
‘Listen, I’ve rung Camilla and Anne-Lise. Camilla hasn’t received one of the emails but Anne-Lise wasn’t in. And I phoned Lotta and Henk from the Swedish and Dutch genocide centres. Neither of them has had emails like the ones we received and they don’t know of anyone who has.’ She smiles a little, holding a warm cup of coffee with both hands. ‘Then I contacted Anders and Karen at Human Rights and Svend at International Studies. And Paul …’
‘I called Paul too.’
‘I know. He told me. After you called, he phoned his wife and asked her to check. He hasn’t got emails like ours. It looks like you and I are the only ones.’
Malene had wanted to hug Iben because she’d been so scared, but the stream of words gets in the way. Instead she hands over a sweater she has brought and goes to order another coffee for Iben and a glass of white wine for herself. The two of them agree that Paul would be the likeliest target for a war criminal’s threats. Paul is constantly in the media spotlight and signs most of the Centre’s public statements regardless of who drafted them. So why hasn’t he, or someone else prominent in the human-rights sector, received the menacing messages?
They try to think of a war criminal they have exposed on the web, one Paul hasn’t mentioned publicly, but no one seems to fit the description.
At a corner table two men in football jerseys start arguing loudly. Iben holds her line of thought, and blinks, turning to scanthe darkness outside the large window that looks onto Blågård Street. Malene can’t help following Iben’s gaze, but there is nothing to see. Iben is definitely not herself.
Wearing Malene’s coffee-coloured sweater, Iben leans forward. What she says gives little away about how she feels. You must watch her eyes and mouth instead.
‘Here we are, good people with university degrees. Day after day, we’re off to our jobs at the Centre or the Institute for Human Rights or Amnesty International or
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