The Hansens' summer outing

By Petri Tamminen

In the Copenhagen telephone directory, there are over five hundred Eric Hansens. In all, there are almost seven hundred in the city. At the end of August 1992, sixty of them went on a summer outing to the small town of Jyderup, which is just over an hour from Copenhagen.

I had come to Copenhagen to study the theory of photography. I was living as a sub-tenant in Østerbro, in a desolate neighbourhood near the Pingvin liquorice works. My landlord, Eric Hansen, demanded absolute cleanliness and tidiness. He was an active member of the EU movement and chairman of the housing association's committee. Once I sneaked a look into his room, and discovered that he had papered his wardrobe with pictures of himself. My present, a bottle of liqueur, stood in the row of untouched bottles on the top shelf.

It was still a week till the start of term, so my landlord suggested that I should go along on the Eric Hansens' summer outing. I hesitated, because I knew from experience that I didn't fit well into the company of strangers. On the other hand, I thought that some new friends could make the coming autumn easier for me.

We gathered at the Town Hall in the centre of the city. The Hansens stood in groups, comparing their equipment for the outing. My landlord introduced me briefly, then hurried off with hand outstretched to greet his friends. Two coaches soon arrived and we climbed aboard. I was sitting next to Eric Hansen, a young, long-haired policeman, who wondered why I had come to Denmark even though I couldn't speak the language. We got on well even so, and laughed at the same things. He spoke impeccable English, but so quietly that I didn't understand everything on account of the air-conditioning and was forced to nod uncertainly. When Hansen occasionally looked around, I imagined it was because he was disappointed with our conversation.

The outing HQ was in a wing of the manor house. The quickest commandeered the small rooms. The rest unrolled their sleeping-bags in the large room on the upper floor with boyish excitement. I stood my things against the wall and went outside. On the lawn, the acorns crunched beneath my feet and here, and there they were falling from the trees. The Hansens turned up in groups of three or four and came towards me. I veered off towards the edge of the courtyard and made sure that I ended up beyond their flank. They forced their way through the osier bushes and went down to the beach.

Silence had fallen on the room on the upper floor. On top of the sleeping-bags lay opened carrier-bags, with address labels tied to them; someone had written his name in marker-pen on an orange camping mattress.

I stretched out on the sleeping-bag and turned over so that I was lying with my face towards the wall. I was running my finger along a crack in the wall when someone called me from the top half of the stairs. One of the organisers needed some help. The fridge had to be brought in from the outside store. I'd get some help with the lifting if I could just transport the fridge round the house on a milk-cart first.

The Hansens had started a match outside in the courtyard. The volleyball net had been suspended over the lawn; further away, people were throwing a frisbee. The oldest men were sitting on the steps. I pushed the cart along the yard. It was slow going, and the cart rattled under the weight of the fridge; the tyres cut deep into the gravel. The Hansens broke off from their game to watch my progress, someone shouted something that I took to be encouragement, and the others laughed. I could feel them watching me, but I stared fixedly at the fridge until I disappeared in the shadow behind the corner of the building.

It had been crowded on the volleyball court, but gradually the Hansens tired and lay down to rest beside the court. Those that remained tried to tempt other players to join in. When one of the enthusiasts pointed to me, I plucked up courage and went over. The Hansens weren't particularly good at the game; the ball bounced all over the place and had to be retrieved from the shrubbery at regular intervals. After one messy exchange, I received a pass at the net, jumped apparently effortlessly high in the air and smashed the ball straight down in the opponents' half of the court. I made a satisfied little jump, but the Hansens looked at the ground, embarrassed, and three of them left the court complaining that they felt tired.

It was still an hour until the meal. I sneaked out of the back door onto the road, walked a couple of hundred meters and came to the centre. There were two supermarkets and a small clothes shop in the town. Everything was clustered round a little square. I bought some yoghourt, ate it straight from the pot and went back to the outing HQ. When the courtyard came into view, I stopped in the middle of the road. I didn't want the Hansens to see that I had been eating before the meal. I took a few careful steps towards the edge of the road. I was now standing amongst some low bushes but was still visible. Some Hansens standing in the courtyard started watching me. I froze. I carefully lowered my gaze, trying to work out if my hands were hidden by the bushes. Slowly I released my hold on the yoghourt pot. It fell noisily into the long grass and lay there, white and shining.

In the evening, the Hansens had divided themselves up into six groups for a quiz in the lounge. I was late and the arrangers were forced to negotiate a place for me while the others were already waiting at their tables. The questions were based on local events, and I couldn't help my team in the slightest. We still managed pretty well and when it turned out that we were leading after the fifth round, I cockily put my arms up in the air just like my team-mates. I was met with embarrassed looks and dropped my arms in shame.

Drunken noises and tobacco-smoke forced their way into the bedroom from the staircase, even after midnight. I lay in my sleeping-bag and looked up at the ceiling. A 30-ish Hansen was pumping up his air bed at the other end of the room. When he had filled it he came striding over in my direction. I raised myself up onto one elbow and looked enquiringly at him. He wanted to talk about communism. It was the only social model worth considering, he thought. The revolution was coming, if anything more quickly since the death of the harsh Soviet form of communism. The moment that Marx had predicted was here, and what was needed now was visionaries. He himself was not a born revolutionary leader, though - not at all. Hansen stood leaning over me, his head bobbing high above me while his white trainers tapped the floor right next to my face. I looked at the scruffy outside of the shoes and tried to formulate an answer, but eventually just muttered something general and supportive. Hansen didn't seem to be listening, he just nodded distractedly and said that he thought he'd go and get a beer. He went off towards the stairs with a thoughtful look on his face.

By eight o'clock, I'd already woken up, tired and worn in my hot sleeping-bag. All around me lay sleeping Hansens, young and middle-aged, with faces full of childlike surprise or the drunkard's flaccid expression. I wriggled out of the sleeping-bag, wrapped a towel round myself and crept down to the lower floor. I was on the bottom step before I realised that there was a queue of about ten Hansens at the bathroom door. They looked at me expressionlessly.

At the breakfast table, I caught sight of my landlord, who came in with his tray and said good morning to me. As he was stirring his tea, he showered praise on the previous evening's entertainment. The presence of a Hansen I knew made me sensitive: I told him how badly I'd slept and that I wanted to go back to Copenhagen. My landlord said that everybody probably felt like I did, but that we had to work for the common good and that I too was needed. I got embarrassed by the encouragement, and didn't like to say anything else. I ate my bread quickly and went upstairs to pack my things.

The Hansens started to come back from breakfast. They lay groaning on their mattresses and asked where I was off to. I explained that I was going back to the city and pushed my sleeping-bag into its sack.

As I stood outside in the courtyard, I looked in through the open kitchen window. Five Hansens were cleaning up after breakfast. One of them waved happily to me.

I walked to the station and boarded the local train. Through the window I could see fields. Occasionally I closed my eyes and leaned back against the seat in the cosy warmth. My carriage was empty at first, but as we approached Copenhagen the train filled up completely. When the doors opened with a sighing noise, the platform was immediately filled with people, and I allowed myself to be carried out by the throng onto the streets of the city.

Translated by Roy Hodson