Naïve. Super

by Erlend Loe

Kent works at the Central Statistics Bureau. He knows how many litres of milk Norwegians drink per annum and how often people have sex. On average, that is. And he is a member of Mensa, the club for the two percent (or whatever it is) of the population who have an IQ higher than some number or other around 140. He loves exercises that are meant to define the intelligence quotient. Patterns that are meant to fit together. Association tests. How many litres of water run through such and such cylinders, and when the trains will meet if the southbound one starts in Bodø and travels at 80 km/h, and the northbound one starts in Lillehammer and travels at 84 km/h, but stops for 27 minutes in Trondheim. Sometimes he brings those kinds of tests to parties. He keeps trying to convince me to take the Mensa test. He says I am probably not dumber than he is and that I’ll pass with flying colours, but I know he hopes that I’ll fail. I am never going to try. Kent is a really bad friend to have. Useless. I have indicated several times that I don’t think he’s anything much, but he doesn’t seem to take it seriously. I’ve known him since primary school and we have done fun things together, a long time ago. He’s not so easy to get rid of. I also feel a bit sorry for him. Kent’s world is full of what I don’t want my world to be full of. When he opens his mouth, there are almost invariably stupid or unpleasant things coming out of it. He is a human being living in disharmony with almost everyth...