27 May 1979
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Radmanovic,
Please excuse the presumptuous gesture of writing to you directly. You don’t know me but I have been following the case of your son since his birth, though from some considerable distance. Several aspects of the case intrigued me as a scientist, writer, and teacher, but until now I have thought it best not to intervene. After giving it some thought, I have had a recent change of heart and deemed it my duty to inform you of an opportunity that may interest you.
In the very north of Norway, there is a community of physicists and artists called Kirkenesferda that have been experimenting with certain electrical shock treatments. This is not their primary business, but among other things, they have discovered a way to profoundly alter the colour of someone’s skin using a precise, one-time treatment. The results have been quite extraordinary.
I cannot guarantee success nor can I absolutely guarantee the safety of the procedure, for it has been sanctioned by no health or governmental organization, but I assure you, these people are exact in their studies and have looked into this matter with great detail. Should you be interested in making a trip to visit this camp, please let me know and I can put you directly in touch. I have a relationship with Leif Christian-Holtsmark, the founder, as I used to be a member myself.
Most Kindest Regards,
Brusa Tofte-Jebsen
Charlene put down the letter and stared out the window.
“What dat man say?” Radar said. “Hello? How are you?”
They had just done a unit on letter writing in day care, in which they had written to Santa Claus to let him know he could park his reindeer outside their school, next to the turtles, when he was not using them.
“He said. . I’m not sure what he said. It’s from Norway.”
“What’s Norway?”
“It’s by the North Pole.”
“Santa write that letter?”
“Not Santa. Someone else who’s not Santa.”
“Who not Santa?”
“Brusa,” she said. And then: “Kirkenesferda.” Trying out the name to see if it sounded real. A community of physicists and artists who have been experimenting with electrical shock treatments? In the Arctic? It couldn’t be real. But then why would someone invent all of this? As a joke? Was this some kind of weird racist joke? No — it was just too preposterous to make up.
She folded the letter and placed it in a drawer in the kitchen, next to the glue and the spare lightbulbs, as if its proximity to the accessories of domesticity might calm its contents.
When Kermin came home that evening, they sat down to an unsuccessful rendition of zucchini-cumin ragout. Charlene’s acute sense of smell had not translated to prowess in the kitchen; her untuned olfactive sensitivity had encouraged a kind of wild and hopeless inventiveness that Kermin and even little Radar usually accepted in resigned silence. This evening, however, Radar, high-chaired, seemed unwilling to play his part. He carefully and deliberately expelled his ragout back onto his plate, giving the eerie impression that he had just ejected something internal and potentially vital.
“Radar!” said Charlene. “Be polite. Chew with your mouth closed.”
Radar shook his head and pushed a hand into his regurgitations.
“Do you want to go to bed without any food? Eat like a big boy, please.”
“We got a letter from Santa,” Radar announced.
“You did?” said Kermin. “What did Santa say? Is he still take suntan in Miami?”
“Noooo,” Radar said, shaking his head. He turned to Charlene. “What dat he say?”
“Nothing. Santa didn’t write to us,” she said.
“He did!”
“Eat your food, please.”
“I don’t want it!” he said and pushed his plate off the table. It shattered on the floor, releasing a puddle of ragout viscera.
“Radar!”
She grabbed his arm, hard — too hard. He began to cry.
“You’ve lost your chance to sit at the big persons’ table because you’re acting like a baby,” she said. “Are you a baby?”
“No!” he wailed.
“Then why are you acting like one?”
“You’re a baby, stupid shitty!” he yelled.
She slapped him. It was the first time she had hit her own child. Afterwards, the palm of her hand — the place where her skin had come into contact — felt as if it were bleeding. Radar’s eyes went wide with fright, there was silence, and then he began to wail with everything he had.
Kermin looked at her in surprise. She was having trouble breathing. She was overtaken again by the feeling that she had stepped into the life of another. Kermin picked up Radar and took him upstairs to his room.
“You shouldn’t have hit him,” Kermin said when he returned.
“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“You are okay?”
She noticed her hands were shaking. She wiped them on a napkin. “He had a tough day at day care. They were calling him names.”
“Okay.”
When he said nothing more, she said, “They called him a monkey, Kerm.”
“He doesn’t look like the monkey.”
“Of course he doesn’t look like a monkey!”
“They are children. They don’t know what they are saying.”
“No, they know exactly what they’re saying,” she said. “I can’t stand that place. Every time I go there, I want to burn it down.”
“Don’t do that.”
“We’re paying a small fortune—”
“We are not paying.”
“—to have our child tortured by snobby little white kids. I can’t go back. I cannot go back. I’ll quit my job if I have to. I can take him.”
“You can’t quit. We need money.”
“We’ll make money, Kerm. I’ll ask for more from my parents if I have to.”
He picked up his knife from both ends, as if it were a fragile specimen. “I think soon I will close my shop,” he said.
“Close? Why?”
“They are raising the rents.” He shook his head. “No one likes these small television anymore.”
“To be honest, I’m not sure they ever did.” She reached for his hand. “We’ll make it work. We can try something new.”
“What new? What can I do? I cannot do anything.”
“That’s not true. You know that’s not true. You’re brilliant, Kerm.”
“In this place, brilliant does not matter. It is lucky asshole who wins. Like Edison. He electrocutes the elephant and says, ‘Screw you, Tesla.’ And he wins. Tesla is brilliant, but he lose. He talks to pigeons and dies like the poor man.”
“But with all the things you know? You could do so many things. .”
“I am not electrocuting the elephant.”
She looked at her husband and then she got up, opening the drawer and retrieving the letter.
“Promise me you won’t be mad,” she said.
“About what?”
“Maybe we’re the lucky ones,” she said and handed him the letter.
Kermin read in silence. Charlene watched him. His faced betrayed no hint of expression.
“What is this?” he said finally.
“I thought maybe it was worth looking into.”
“Looking into what?”
“If there’s something that maybe can be done, then I think it’s our duty. . to see what we can do.”
He got up suddenly and went to the trash can. He had already opened the lid before Charlene leaped up and grabbed him.
“Don’t!” she pleaded.
“It’s done. I told you. I don’t want any more of this.”