Borderliners (42 page)

wooden
pointers provided in the classrooms, someone said he
had
used the fiberglass pointer on
Sutton.

That day, against Sutton's initials, "C.S.,"
and "2nd Sec." for the
class he was in, there was a circle.

When I
came to the school there was talk about the fact that a
recommendation had been received from the Ministry of Education,
saying that sex education ought to be taught at the
school. Biehl
had come right out and
said that the teachers had been unanimous
in deciding not to comply with this recommendation. Instead it
would be up to the individual teacher to bring up
the subject when
ever it was judged to
fit naturally into a lesson.

Which meant that it was never
brought up directly.
Although
hints
were given—in Biehl's Greek mythology classes, when he told
us about Zeus and those he had
raped, and especially in Fredhøj's
classes, when he read, for example, about the wife killer.
And it
was Fredhøj who told us about the
masturbation marks in Hans
Christian
Andersen's diaries.

Secret symbols. Every time Hans
Christian Andersen had jacked
off, he had put a mark in his diary.

A bit like the
marks Madvig had made.

Stuus, the school's Latin teacher, was a university man, like Biehl,
and therefore almost
overqualified. It was a measure of the school's
caliber that it had a teacher like him. He only
took the school-
leaving
certificate classes—for French, too—but now and again you
had him as a substitute teacher.
He never remembered a single pupil's name, or what sort of class he was in.
Even so, you sensed that
if you left him alone he would do you no harm.

He had told us about Madvig.
Madvig was a nineteenth-century
Danish
philologist and educational reformer. His works on Greek
and Latin had sent the name of Denmark flying out
across the
world. Stuus said that
Madvig had never been to Greece and only
once to Italy, it was as though it was not so much the country or

its
people that had interested him as the extinct
language. He had
had a big Greek dictionary,
it was still around, in it he had set a
blue dot alongside a word the
first time he looked it
up,
and a red
dot if he had to look it up a second time. In the
whole dictionary
there were only a
very few red dots.

Hans Christian Andersen and
Madvig,
both had
kept a discreet
account.
You understand them immediately, but still it is hard to
say exactly what they were
recording. It must have been something
to
do with shame and love and time and control and memory.
And
perhaps a certain pleasure in being able to
document your weak
ness, your illness.
A secret
delight over the solitary craving, the solitary forgetfulness and recall.

Biehl’s list was a secret account of which pupils he had punished.
Specifying date and punishment.
There were three
possibilities,
the
paper
had recorded three forms: The verbal reprimand.
The standard
blow.
And something exceptional.
Beating.
A circle.

When an explanation had been demanded of Biehl—because Jes
Jessen's right ear had hurt and
his doctor had said that it looked as though it was a result of the outer ear
having been molested, and
why had they waited six weeks before taking him to the emergency
room—then he had explained that it had been a
spontaneous act.
Boxing a pupil's ears was
something that happened suddenly, it was
uncalculated. Granted, he had
said, this was perhaps not the best solution, but afterward the air was
cleared, and if you asked the children they would tell you that they preferred
this to more long-
term measures.

Even so, he had kept an account. In his heart of
hearts he had
felt
a need to create an overall picture for
himself
, to
have visible
proof
of how time and punishment were bound up with his own
life. Perhaps to prevent himself
from hitting out too often, or per-

haps
to have a better idea of which pupils had repeatedly
merited it, or perhaps just out of a need to keep track of time, or perhaps
out of a certain pleasure—or
perhaps for all of these reasons at
once.

Hans
Christian Andersen's marks, Madvig's dots, Biehl's symbols.
Something to do with time, improvement, control,
memory.
And
pleasure.

As though one part of their
nature was attempting to repress
another.
To keep it under some sort of
surveillance.

They have run a sort of risk with their signs,
especially Biehl.
As
though
one part of him has longed for exposure.

As
though this exposure has been part of the plan.

In Danish primary and lower-secondary schools there is a ban on
striking pupils, there was a ban
on it back then, there had been a
ban on it since the Ministry of Education circular on
disciplinary measures in schools of June 14, 1967, which replaced the physical
contact circular of 1929 (augmented 1945). This had affirmed that
teachers should have as little physical contact with
pupils as pos
sible, so as not to be
misunderstood, preferably only with respect to administering a good cuff around
the ear.

Danish private schools were subject to standard
Danish educational legislation, government grants covered more than 80 percent
of their running costs. By
nevertheless regularly meting out physical
punishment to pupils, the school, and Biehl in
particular, had been
running
a risk. He must have known this. The pupils were not
aware of it,
nor
the parents, the school was shut off from the outside
world. We who attended it were the
only ones who really knew
what went on within its walls. And even we hovered in
a
certain
ignorance.
What happened in Biehl's office and in Fredhøj's office
and in Karin
Ærø
's
classes was not something you
spoke about,
that
was between teacher and pupil.

Still, even though so few were aware of what was going
on, they
must have
known that they were very close to the limit.

I called him up
over the intercom.

It
was a gray box, you had seen it before without really paying much attention,
it
was not much bigger than a telephone. It had
grooves through which to speak and listen, and
numbered buttons
—sixty-three of
them, quite small. On the desk there was a type
written list assigning
each number to a room, it looked as though
there
were buttons for every room in the school.

Three wires led from the
instrument. One went into the plug, for
the power, the second went into a box on the wall and
must have
been the
link with the loudspeakers in all the school classrooms.
The third ran across the floor and along the paneling
and up along the door and through the wall. Out in the corridor it must have
run
up through the ceiling, diagonally
across, through the wall, and into Bürk's pendulum clock, from which impulses
would be emitted
whenever classes
were to be let out or called in.

When the loudspeakers had been installed, Biehl had said
just one thing—this was at assembly—he had said that the electronic bell had a more
pleasant sound.

Next to number 23 the label read "Private
apartment." I pressed
it, the button
stayed down, but nothing happened. At the top there
were two switches, one dark and one lighter. When I pressed the
light one I got through to Biehl's apartment.

At first there was almost nothing, just a hiss, but I knew
that I
was there.

It was impossible to imagine how
it must
look,
no one had ever
been up there. What I sensed was all the space and the
light. The
feeling that it was a home—even
now when his children were all
grown
up, the feeling was still there. He had three children, all three
of
them teachers, they had held posts here at the school. Pale and
quiet as though they had not had enough light.
But still his children.
I listened and I was with a family.

Then china was placed on china,
a cup on a saucer, his tea, quite
close to my ear. Then he cleared his throat. He was alone,
this I
could hear.
He had no idea that I was listening. That was how the
intercom was
designed,
you could listen without being heard your
self. That was how he himself must have sat, listening in
to the
classes.

I
pressed the dark button, and a little green light came on below
the grooves.

"Excuse
me," I said.

At first there was no sound. Then I could sense that he
had come
right up
close to the microphone.

"Peter,"
he said.

He
was brilliant. There was hardly any reaction. Ever so calmly
he had bowed his head and taken the problem upon
himself.

"I hope I'm
not disturbing you," I said.

"Are you
alone?"

I did not answer
this question.

"I have a
document I would like permission to present."

He appeared a moment later, he was alone, he was wearing
sus
penders.
The same
type of gray pants as always and a white shirt,
but no jacket.
He had
moved his watch from the jacket down to
his pants, you could see the chain.

He remained standing in the center of the room. I
suppose it was
the
first time ever that he had been the one to come through the door, and someone
else had been waiting for him.

He
switched on the light, his eyes found the paper
immediately,
he had always known it would be this.

"Give me
that," he said.

I handed him the list. He folded it and tore it in half,
and folded
it and
tore it, and folded it and tore it, and put the pieces in his
pocket.

"Did you slit open my bag?" I said. He did not
answer, that was
answer
enough.

I gave him the list again.
"These are copies," I said, "photocopies,
I've just tucked the original
back into my shoe,
back
at home I have
more copies."

He waited, very
aware.

"If the Children's Panel
see
this," I said, "and the accompanying
explanation, they'll have a word with the Ministry
of Education.
And they'll have a word
with you, and with the school board, and the parents' association. And then
they'll start to question all the
pupils on
that list, and they'll find out about Carsten Sutton and go back in time to Jes
Jessen, and I'll be questioned, too, there'll be a long, long line of
confrontations, it will be disastrous, what can be
done to avoid this?"

It was almost overwhelming. All his life he had worked
and
fought for this
school—you knew this, of course, from his
memoirs—and considered
himself
in tune with time and eternal val
ues. At
heart he had known that his intentions were good. And yet
he had wound up here.

It was hard to say whose fault it was, even today I do
not know,
even for
the department it would have been almost impossible to
unravel the threads and allocate
the blame.

He looked careworn. He had often talked about God. But I
do
not believe that
he had ever, until this moment, sensed so acutely the way that a purpose and a
plan greater than himself had taken hold of him.

He was confronted with what he
had always said was the most
detestable
thing of all, concealment and doubt. To look at him was
overwhelming. All his life he had believed that he was fighting for
good. And still.

"I want to be adopted," I said. "The National Council
for the Unmarried Mother and Her Child will ask the school for a state
ment. I would be grateful if it could be no worse
than is necessary."

He said not one word in reply. He turned and walked out, leaving
me alone. I stayed there only for a moment, and sat
and looked out
at the heavens. Then I left,
it was his office after all. You had no
right to be there.