Will

by Jeroen Olyslaegers

  ‘Downstairs everyone’s howling.’

  He turns slowly to face me. His right eye has been punched shut.

  ‘I saw everything,’ I say.

  ‘What, you?’

  ‘I was in one of the queues.’

  ‘They dragged us off and beat the shit out of us.’

  ‘You should have stayed out of it…’

  ‘You going to start now too? If someone comes up to you with a story about some lunatic waving a pistol around in the festival hall, do you have a choice? We’re cops, aren’t we? Or have you forgotten?’

  He opens the door of his bedside cabinet, gets out a bottle of jenever, takes a pull and passes it to me. I knock back a hefty slug and suddenly I’m in the Hulstkamp again, swaying on the spot. Stay off the jenever.

  ‘Sorry. I don’t have any glasses.’

  I laugh. So does he.

  ‘We didn’t even get a chance to see who the bastard with the pistol was. If I ever find out—’

  ‘My old French tutor…’ I hear myself saying.

  Lode looks at me, rubs his chin. ‘I should have known your pal would be there.’

  ‘There was another bloke with him. A lawyer. Omer Verschueren.’

  Now Lode is visibly shocked.

  ‘What?’

  He takes another swig from the bottle. ‘You know what they say about him?’

  ‘Who? And what?’

  ‘That he plays both sides. That shit will do anything if there’s money in it. Plus he knows me and my father all too well. Three years or so before the war he was our lawyer.’

  ‘A complete bastard…’

  ‘Not wrong there.’

  ‘Should be put down.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  I rummage for the bottle and take a decent glug of jenever. Everything spins. I shouldn’t have done it. Stronger than I am.

  ‘Lode…’

  ‘Don’t. Be careful what you say. Better still, don’t say anything.’

  We sit in silence for a while. I light two cigarettes and pass one to Lode.

  ‘I saw Chaim Lizke there too.’

  Lode almost lets the cigarette slip through his fingers. ‘Impossible. That’s mad. It can’t be true.’

  There he stands in the semi-darkness of his hiding place, with the kitchen table between us with an open book on it. We stare at him.

  ‘Where did you go?’ Lode shouts.

  Lizke looks at Lode, then me. His expression doesn’t change. Incomprehension.

  ‘You mustn’t go out, Herr Lizke. Nicht nach aus!’

  A frown appears on Lizke’s face. ‘Nach Hause? No home no more.’

  Suddenly there are tears in his eyes, even though he still has an accommodating smile on his face, ready to assist us with whatever variety of folly we might have in mind.

  Lode and I sigh simultaneously. Lode throws his arms in the air. I keep staring at Lizke like a child trying to see through a conjuror’s tricks.

  Lizke sits down without looking at us again.

  Tears fall on the table.

  ‘Alles ist zu einem Alptraum geworden,’ he says to no one in particular.

  Lode looks at me questioningly.

  ‘Alptraum means nightmare,’ I say quietly. ‘Everything’s turned into a nightmare.’

  Lizke blows his nose on a dirty rag.

  I see a shudder pass through him before he picks up his book again to carry on reading as if we’re the ghosts.

  Lode and I are outside a house in Lange Leem Straat. Next to one of the doorbells is a copper plate with ‘Flor Goetschalckx Insurance’ engraved on it. The name makes me smirk. Lode presses one of the buttons above the insurance agent’s. I don’t know the young fellow who opens the door. He addresses Lode with a whispered ‘Vincent’ and I’m introduced as ‘Robert’.

  There is a smell of wet dog in the hall, an old dog. We climb the creaking stairs as quietly as possible. A gramophone is playing quiet piano music behind one of the doors on the first floor. We are led into a room that looks out over the street, the furthest one from the stairs. It’s smoky. A portly, beetle-browed man in his forties is sitting at a kitchen table covered by a crocheted tablecloth. There is a teapot ready, surrounded by empty cups. The man with the questioning eyebrows nods at Lode.

  ‘Who have you brought with you, Vincent?’ he asks in a grating voice.

  ‘A colleague of mine, Professor, from the sixth division. He’s called Robert. He’s been helping me with the Jew I—’

  The man admonishes Lode to silence. ‘That’s fine, my friend. We don’t need to know everything.’

  I understand why they call him ‘professor’. It’s easy to picture him at the front of a lecture theatre, the benches packed with fresh young students, smiling while they dedicate themselves to soaking up his wisdom. The fellow who showed us in is clearly a student and the little ginger-headed chap picking his nose across the table from us is obviously another. One of them pours the steaming tea and we sit down.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ the professor pronounces, ‘the enemy is suffering setback after setback. They can forget about North Africa, they’re taking a beating in Russia, and here in our own city not a single Jerry or collaborator feels safe any more. Whatever anyone says, it’s clear that after the greatest darkness, the most beautiful light is becoming visible. We mustn’t give up now. Every act of sabotage, every spoke in the fascists’ wheels is a step forward.’

  People gently tap the table in appreciation. The nose-picker lights a cigarette and blows triumphant smoke at the ceiling like a bit player in a gangster film.

  The professor looks at me. ‘Robert, like your friend Vincent, you can be of great—’

  Lode, or ‘Vincent’, interrupts immediately. ‘That’s not what he’s here for, Professor.’

  ‘Why, then?’

  ‘Because of certain developments. My Jew has to go.’

  The professor looks at the fellow who opened the door to us. ‘Guillaume?’

  The one who goes by the name of Guillaume tugs one of his earlobes for a second, then starts talking in a thin, almost comical voice. ‘The address in Brussels has been arranged. The people there have been informed. The only thing we still need to tell them is when he will be arriving. His papers—’

  ‘I’m working on that,’ the professor nods. ‘Matter of days. Virtually indistinguishable from real documents. It really is unimaginable, my friends, what people can achieve when they are united. Soon it will be our turn, you’ll see. You can feel that people are ready for it. The cruelty of the occupation is helping us win the heart of the nation.’

  His eyes are shining. He hits the table, but immediately smiles. ‘Sorry. I know we mustn’t disturb the peace of mind of Mr Goetschalckx here below.’

  Those around him respond with sheepish smiles, Lode too. I’m standing by the curtains and hear a tram passing, slow and squeaking like scrap metal on wheels. The sound of footsteps. Someone calls, ‘Stop!’ It’s like the tram has to sigh before braking. Outside it’s ordinary life; in this room the conspiracy of a small band that believes the time is ripe, a revolution with tea and oat biscuits, putting their faith in the professor’s beliefs about being in the right and on the winning side, like a little boy striking matches in a storeroom full of gunpowder and seeing every little flame as a sign of shining hope.

  ‘Reassured?’ Lode asks cheerfully as we walk towards Van Eyck Lei with our collars turned up.

  I don’t answer and we keep striding ahead.

  ‘Tell me,’ I ask finally with a deadpan expression, ‘is this Flor Goetschalckx one of the plotters too?’

  Lode frowns.

  ‘He could come in handy, you see. A crew like this could use an insurance agent. For all possible accidents in and around the home.’

  Lode sighs. ‘What are you, the court jester?’

  ‘Out of the mouths of fools, mate. What are you doing with those amateurs?’

  ‘Shall we not mention some of the places you frequent, mate?’<
br />
  ‘Such as?’

  ‘All that scum in the Hulstkamp where you dragged our Yvette to? Yeah, I know, you told her not to tell anyone. Are you completely mad?’

  ‘It’s safer like that, being in with bastards.’

  ‘Safer for who? My sister? I don’t think so. Everyone sees everything in this city. But you think you’re invisible. You think it’s all a game.’

  ‘Come off it, your professor thinks so too. And so do you. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.’

  ‘So we’re all fools.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there.’

  ‘Shall we go for a beer?’

  ‘Ah, sure, why not? Maybe the Hulstkamp’s still open…’

  ‘Up yours, “Robert”.’

  Same to you, “Vincent”.’

  A quarter of an hour later we’re saying ‘cheers’ to each other in the Alma.

  My uniform has become a comfort. It delineates my days. Going on patrol is a calming ritual amid the daily madness, and in the meantime I’ve got to know Gaston so well I can complete his sentences as a matter of routine. At the end of our shift we run through the bullshit that’s happened to us that day with the deputy superintendent and he writes whatever suits him in the incident log. Generally I hope he’ll bless us afterwards. That’s what it feels like, an absolution of sins.

  ‘Exactly,’ growls Gaston. ‘And as long as none of us lot…’

  ‘…makes a fuss…’

  ‘…it will all turn out fine. Blast if you’re not making progress, Wilfried. It’s a beautiful thing to see a young foal, after wobbling and waggling on its four legs, finally—’

  ‘I get it.’

  Gaston laughs his hearty laugh. We’re sitting in the canteen and eating our sandwiches before our shift starts.

  ‘Listen to this!’ Gaston chortles as he smooths the creases out of his newspaper. ‘A pastoral letter from our cardinal. “The inner state of the country grows worse by the day. Acts of violence are being carried out incessantly almost everywhere. It is no longer even possible to keep track of these assaults on life. Where is this river of blood leading us?”’

  ‘Goodness,’ I say.

  ‘Things are getting serious when the mitre mob starts squeaking. This line’s priceless too. Listen to this: “We ask for an end to bloodshed and a return to patience and calm in the unshakable hope of a just peace.” There you have it, all solved. Everyone in the resistance will have read the paper, surely? Now we can go home.’

  ‘And terrorism will be consigned to hell forever…’

  ‘Rest assured.’

  Gaston goes to stand up, but starts groaning instead and lowers himself back down again extremely cautiously.

  ‘What’s wrong now?’

  ‘Piles, also known as a bloody pain in the arse. Don’t laugh. It’s caused by drink and that’s a weakness we all share. Learn from me before you give yourself over to disgrace and debauchery.’

  Gus Skew comes in and says that a bomb has just gone off in Potgieter Straat.

  ‘You should be on your way then,’ says Gaston, without batting an eyelid. He winks at me while reopening his lunch bag.

  ‘Don’t be daft—it’s not on our beat and you know that perfectly well.’

  I chime in with, ‘It’s not our speciality either, to be honest.’

  In our neighbourhood full of bars, hotels and jewellers, no bombs get detonated and nobody throws explosives in through windows. Too many Germans out whoring and boozing, I suspect, and bombs aren’t exactly subtle, with a good chance of more than one dead body. Here we very occasionally get a dusk shooting in someone’s home or on their doorstep, now and then preceded by a warning note along the lines of ‘Nazi lackey, you have been sentenced by the people’s court.’ Sometimes the recipient of one of these threats registers a complaint against person or persons unknown, sometimes not. It doesn’t make much difference. Yesterday we happened to have one carted off to hospital, where he soon died. ‘I came in to report they were after me,’ he muttered before the ambulance arrived, ‘and you didn’t lift a finger.’

  We nod, we establish the facts, we take notes, we draw up a record, we ask for details. When exactly did you find that letter, ma’am? Could you tell us the exact time this took place, sir? Which of the neighbours have been behaving suspiciously, in your opinion? There is a soothing undertone to all our actions; they are designed to induce calm. We are watching over you. That thought, however, calms us more than anyone else.

  ‘That’s important too,’ Gaston says. ‘Nobody has any use for a jittery cop letting on that nothing gets followed up any more and everything’s out of our control.’

  ‘It has been for ages.’

  ‘Absolutely. But that’s not the point. Your calm and dignity are weapons in times of insanity. Be grateful for your uniform, son—it gives you peace of mind.’

  Someone downstairs calls our names at the top of his voice.

  The deputy superintendent informs us that we have to go to the Golding in Anneessens Straat.

  ‘A couple of Germans are making trouble.’

  ‘Forget it. Give it to two other idiots.’

  ‘I’m giving it to you two, Gaston. What are you standing here for?’

  ‘I don’t want—’

  ‘Gaston,’ the deputy super roars, ‘if you don’t want to make a fuss, don’t! Go and do your bloody job for once!’

  A couple of our fellow officers can’t restrain their laughter, relieved that they’re not the ones who have to go to the Golding. We stride out to loud applause. ‘Give ’em what for, lads!’ they shout after us.

  Brasserie Golding is two doors up from the Metro Cinema in a narrow street full of nightspots. There are a lot of people around, but it’s only just gone eight and the night hasn’t really kicked off yet. For one member of the SS it’s already too much. He’s leaning on a tree outside the Golding and roaring at the full moon, delirious. Everyone acts like he doesn’t exist. Even before we’ve made it that far a table flies out through the Golding’s front window. The drunk soldier ducks, but still gets covered with shards of glass. He looks in, shrugs stupidly as the glass falls off him, waves to his chums and laughs out loud as customers scuttle out of the building like terrified rats. One of them, a fairly sloshed man with a Hitler moustache and an outsized raincoat, stops us on the street. ‘They’re mad as hatters. It’s good you’re here because it’s really getting out of hand…’ Then he pauses, looks us over one after the other and sighs. ‘I don’t think there’s enough of you.’

  The interior of the brasserie looks like a battlefield. Chairs and tables scattered left and right. One of the SS men is frothing at the mouth as he smashes a stool to pieces on the bar. Splinters of wood fly everywhere. I see a head pop up and then take shelter again behind the taps. Five other men in SS uniforms are standing in a circle to toast each other, paying no attention to the havoc. A few more are sitting a little further back in the restaurant, surrounded by guffawing women and champagne bottles in buckets. One soldier is sitting by himself at a small table weeping, ignored by all. The frothing soldier is reaching for another bar stool with his bleeding hands when he catches sight of us standing there. With a beaming smile, he calls out to his comrades, ‘Hurra, Jungs! Die Feuerwehr ist da!’

  ‘What’s the dick saying?’ Gaston asks through clenched teeth.

  ‘He says we’re firemen.’

  Gaston pulls out his truncheon and hits the blonde Aryan drunk, who has his arms wide and is smiling in welcome, straight in the throat. Coughing and grabbing his neck, he drops to his knees. Everyone is now looking at us. Besides the rattling of the felled SS man, who is having great difficulty breathing, silence now reigns. Everyone has sobered up; everyone is suddenly determined. At the back soldiers are calmly disentangling themselves from their tarts’ arms. A champagne glass falls to the floor. Even the one who was just sobbing cracks his knuckles, ready for battle.

  ‘That wasn’t the best idea you’ve ever had, Gas
ton.’

  He ignores me and roars, louder than I’ve ever heard him before, ‘Everyone zu house, God damn it! Get out of here now, or you’re in for it. Sie gehen here raus or else. Understood?’

  Someone knocks Gaston’s helmet off his head. Swearing, he turns and hits the SS man in the stomach. The rest take another step closer, calm and controlled, a killing machine that’s ready to devour us, their clown-like prey. One of them picks the white helmet up off the ground, undoes his fly and pisses into it. It takes a few seconds before the soldiers start bellowing with laughter.

  ‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ I say, as calmly as I can.

  ‘My bloody helmet!’

  Gaston’s sparse black hair is sticking up in sweaty wisps. The SS man shakes off his cock and tosses the helmet back to Gaston. The piss runs down our faces.

  Sirens start their loud howling.

  Thunder in the distance.

  The British. An air raid.

  The AA guns start immediately.

  Behind the bar we hear a trapdoor slamming shut. The landlord has taken shelter in his beer cellar.

  Then we hear a dull bang that makes the walls shake and has everyone running for their lives and suddenly Gaston and I are not comical firemen any more.

  ‘Saved by the Brits,’ I shout.

  ‘Get used to it,’ Gaston shouts back.

  It’s a nice day and she wants to go for a ride. Her mother will lend me her bicycle.

  ‘Where shall we go?’ she asks.

  The things she says, the way she looks at me—they all raise the suspicion that I’m still in limbo as far as her heart is concerned. That feeling makes me shrink, just as I am now, on her mother’s rickety bike, a head smaller than her too. We turn into Van Maerlant Straat, past the house where Chaim Lizke is still hidden, which suddenly makes me long to work on my poems, my ‘Confessions of a Comedian’, which only come to me there, at the table where the Jew reads his books, and don’t grow until it’s my turn to take him his supplies again. The moment that thought occurs, the poems start swirling around my head. But Yvette is keeping such a close eye on me I can’t afford to get carried away. I have to be with her now, nowhere else. We turn left, cross Italië Lei and ride a good distance along Paarden Markt. She follows me without a word, without asking where we’re going. Close to the red-light district, I turn right and we cross Anker Rui. There are the boats bobbing on the greenish-black water of Willem Dock, where the seagulls screech louder than anywhere else in the city. We clatter over the lock bridge.