Will

by Jeroen Olyslaegers

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘Away from the city,’ I say and it sounds like ‘away from the dirt and filth’.

  We ride past sailors’ bars where swaying, hang-head drunks are already leaning on the front walls for support, even though it’s still morning. The fishmongers have put their wares out in wooden trays, but there are hardly any sober people around at all. The city hasn’t woken up yet.

  After London Bridge, where the larger boats are moored, we see the beckoning green of the riverbank, which we follow north.

  ‘Ha,’ she laughs. ‘Is that where we’re going? It’s not the season for it yet.’

  Although it has already got significantly warmer, summer is still far away. And that’s why I want to go to North Castle with its woods, beach and swimming ponds. There won’t be a soul there, that’s what I’m guessing. I want to be alone with her.

  It’s quiet.

  She stares at the water licking at the abandoned beach. On the poplar-lined opposite bank, not too far away, three fishermen are sitting on their baskets. I take her by the hand and lead her to the bushes and trees.

  ‘What are you up to?’

  The look in her eyes suggests she already knows the answer to that question and is now curious about how I intend to go about it. It’s a test, that’s what she’s telling me: do this properly and we have a future; fail and it’s over for good.

  I spread my raincoat out on an out-of-the-way patch of lawn behind some thick bushes. She sits down elegantly, as if at a picnic with sandwiches and tea, surrounded by gloved butlers.

  ‘Do you have a cigarette for me?’

  I ignore her question and kiss her on the throat. I sense her smile. The tip of my tongue traces a path from her collarbone to the back of her ear. The smile grows wider. I run my hands over her breasts until my thumbs find her nipples through her bra and the cream-coloured fabric of her blouse. I undo two buttons. At the third, her hand seizes my left wrist. My other hand shoots up to her throat and I force her backwards, to the ground. She lets go of my wrist. Her blouse is now open. I slide up her satin camisole while making sure she doesn’t slip away. She averts her eyes. When I lick her neck again while holding her down, she can’t repress a slight groan. I work her tube skirt up to reveal her suspenders. I nip one of her thighs. And then I bite her everywhere I feel her flesh. That surprises her, but I push her head back down. ‘Beast…’ she says, but it sounds like a question. And that question only provokes me. I answer with, ‘No, it’s me.’ Me, the bastard, just me. And I push her skirt up until it’s under her bum and bite and lick some more. ‘I want…’ she whispers a few times in a row, ‘I want…’ Whereupon I answer that it’s not up to her to want anything, that she should keep quiet. And miraculously she doesn’t smile. I raise her buttocks and pull her lacy knickers down past her stockings. She claps both hands over her crotch. I grab her wrists, push her hands to the ground, stare at her bush and keep staring. ‘What are you doing?’ she giggles, suddenly nervous. ‘I’m going to eat you up whole,’ I say, looking her straight in the eyes. She nods very briefly, that’s all.

  ‘You filthy swine. Leave that girl alone!’

  I turn. A fisherman with a red face and a drooping moustache is staring at me in total fury.

  ‘Shove off,’ I say calmly, ‘shove off right this minute or you’ll be fish feed.’

  ‘Listen to the gob on it.’

  I stand up. ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘I’m not joking. Go home. Your mama’s got to fry those fish.’

  The fisherman looks past my shoulder at Yvette, nods meekly and goes back to the path to the river. I’m still standing with my back to her when she finally whispers, ‘Come here.’

  ‘There’s something you have to do first,’ I say.

  I push down my zip. She half rises.

  For the first time I feel no hesitation. For the first time I feel greedy. I push my underpants down and am now standing just in front of her. She looks.

  ‘Open your mouth,’ I say.

  Our love-making lasts until dusk. Now and then a voice comes closer, then moves on again. We pay them almost no attention. I bite her. She rakes me with her nails. From virgin straight to animal.

  Afterwards she says, ‘What got into you? It was like you’d gone mad…’

  And again she’s not smiling. This time she’s serious.

  She wants to wheel the bikes home, even though it really is getting dark by now.

  We carry on in silence until she finally says, ‘You and that fisherman. He got very scared all of a sudden.’

  ‘Look at this…’

  Meanbeard slides two identity cards over to me. One is for a man I don’t know, merchant by trade and so on and so forth. The other makes my heart pound. I keep my quivering hands under the table. The photo shows Chaim Lizke. It’s fairly recent. Suspicious and proud, he stares up at me. Surname: Goetschalckx. Christian names: Florimond Jozef. Profession: insurer. Below the photo is his height: 1.60 metres. In the box for ‘Successive addresses’ it says 22 Lange Leem Straat. Signed by ‘the Registrar (or his representative)’. In the top right-hand corner a splash of something brown, not yet fully dried.

  ‘Forged, of course,’ Meanbeard sneers.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’d bet my right arm they’re Yids. What do you reckon? Look at those eyes and those thick lower lips.’

  We’re sitting in a small office on the ground floor of a fancy house on Elisabeth Laan, the new headquarters of the Sicherheitsdienst. The tall windows look out on a somewhat overgrown garden. Blackbirds are singing. One lands on the wrought-iron railing of the terrace, turns its head to look in, turns away again and flies over to one of the chestnuts along the side of the building. To our right is a small bower with arches and columns, ready for a trip back in time, afternoon tea on a scorching day in the nineteenth century, with staff to bring out the cake and pour the tea from a silver pot.

  ‘Still here, Wilfried?’

  ‘Forged, but well made,’ I say a little too nervously. ‘Or else they just nicked blank cards and filled them in themselves. That’s possible too.’

  ‘It does happen. We’ve known that for quite a while now. It does happen and, most importantly, it happens at your station in Vesting Straat. Do you follow my drift?’

  ‘How did you get these?’

  ‘The same way we get everything, jeune homme. A city that is sick, a city that, how shall I put it, tolerated far too many foreign germs for years because the ruling plutocracy of yesteryear constantly protected those alien elements… A city like that takes vengeance. That’s unavoidable. It’s a law of nature. As soon as the people see an opportunity to really have a say, there’s no stopping them. That’s how a city purges itself.’

  ‘Snitching, you mean?’

  ‘Come now, what a word. You disappoint me. With your degree of intellectual development I thought you would have at least outgrown the playground.’

  ‘We get those letters too. Half of them seem to have been written by someone who’s escaped from the loony bin or wants revenge because the next-door neighbour can’t keep his hands off his wife.’

  ‘And the other half are people who want to help their city recover by getting rid of Jews and terrorists who haven’t realized their ancien régime is over. One of them gave us an address in Lange Leem Straat. “Strange men holding regular meetings at a late hour…” We kept watch for a while. And what did we discover?…’

  Keep breathing. My hands are clawing my trouser legs. Here it comes. Here comes the accusation, the spit in my face, the hand on my shoulder, the cell, the end. My mind shoots around this new circuit like a racing car. Will I have to accelerate in a second, denying everything and laughing it off? Or will I need to judge the corner that’s coming up and apply the brakes, admitting half of it and twisting the rest?

  ‘Mainly it all came down to one man. We finally picked him up in a building near België Lei. That’s where we found these documents, together with the usual fly
ers and ammunition. Not much, but enough. Concentrating on him was a gamble, but it paid off. Or better put, it’s paying off, because the investigation is far from complete.’

  ‘What’s it got to do with me?’

  Meanbeard looks out of the window at the garden. It has started drizzling. ‘Did you know the Germans are so disciplined that not only does a volunteer like me have to put in an official application for a special interrogation, but that almost every employee has to too, regardless of rank or position?’

  ‘No, I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Gregor is not fond of all this bureaucracy. And I admit, it’s tedious, even ridiculous, but on the other hand you can only admire their having so much self-control in times of war. We’re not animals. But sometimes it’s a beast you need. And yet that self-control, the paperwork… Strange. Anyway, our request was approved fairly quickly. We have good news. Our suspect has confessed that someone from the police is involved in his group. Someone from your station.’

  ‘Who?’

  Meanbeard rubs his hands. ‘That’s why I had you come here, Wilfried. This is a moment you don’t want to miss. Omer’s working on him. If you ask me, we’ll know everything there is to know in less than an hour.’

  The door swings open and we hear a man screaming as we go down the stairs. The cellar is divided into cells where shadows sit behind bars in total silence. I only hear one woman mumbling the Our Father. Meanbeard opens a metal door. Fear and filth waft out to meet me. The professor is hanging by the wrists, manacled and chained to an iron bar, naked and bleeding. Someone in glasses is leaning against a table to roll a cigarette. It looks like that little arsehole from the Hulstkamp who came over to tell me he’s a translator for the SD. Now he looks at me contemptuously, licks the paper and lights his cigarette.

  ‘Perhaps you know Joris…’

  ‘We’ve met,’ I nod.

  Omer turns towards me. He’s rolled up his sleeves and wipes his bloody hands clean. He’s wearing a butcher’s apron over his clothes. There are rods and sticks on the table next to him, along with glasses and a bottle of cognac.

  ‘And?’ Meanbeard asks while he too removes his coat and rolls up his sleeves.

  ‘It’s taking too long for my taste,’ Omer whispers.

  The professor starts sobbing and swears quietly, ‘Bastards, dirty bastards…’ The words come bubbling out. Snot is running from his nose. His face is completely swollen. One of his arms looks broken. His hands are curled like talons. Some of his fingers no longer have nails. The rest of his body is a patchwork quilt of bruises, deep wounds, clotted blood and splashes of brown.

  Omer pours himself another and looks at us questioningly. No, I don’t feel like a cognac. Neither does Meanbeard. Omer shrugs and knocks his back in one go. Four-eyed Joris takes a sip of his too.

  The professor’s sobbing grows louder. ‘It’s enough!’ he shouts suddenly. ‘It’s enough, you fucking bastards!’

  ‘Now he’s getting a big mouth,’ Omer grins. ‘Listen to him bleat…’

  Meanbeard goes up close to the professor. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, you piece of shit, I wasn’t able to persevere with my studies like you. So I’m a bit slow on the uptake when an intellectual like yourself chooses to communicate that he’s sick to death of something. I don’t get what he’s saying, you see. Then I try to work out what exactly “it’s enough” might mean.’

  Omer goes over to Meanbeard’s side, though not without giving Joris and me a wink first, as if we’re in for a treat, the biggest joke ever. ‘We’re actually the ones who get to decide what’s enough and what’s not. I know this is difficult for an elite chap like you, one who’s spent his entire life looking down on people like us. Yes, spit it out, feel free. Aren’t we traitors in your eyes, you Jew-lover? People you’re allowed to shoot in the back and leave to bleed to death on their own doorstep? Am I lying, maybe? But now, unfortunately, you with all your so-called intellectual disdain are a complete nothing.’ Omer gives the professor a tremendous punch in the stomach. The sobbing stops for a moment. Everything stops for a moment. For a moment I think, when will it be him? When will the lawyer get his?

  ‘Joris! Water!’

  Four-eyes reaches for a bucket.

  ‘Out of the way…’ he mutters. Omer and Meanbeard both take a step to one side. Joris throws the water over the professor as hard as he can. He comes to with a start, raises his head and looks at me; I’m standing back a little but still in plain view. The professor keeps staring at me, opens his mouth, vomits blood and suddenly seems to smile. It’s a mad sight that makes my heart beat so loud I’m afraid everyone will hear it.

  ‘Robert,’ the professor exclaims. ‘Robert and Vincent, those two together, those two from the p— from the p— from the police…’ He shakes his head and vomits up more blood.

  I try to stand straight, but the sound of the stupid false names Lode gave almost makes me faint. Immediately the professor’s head droops again.

  ‘Robert who?! Vincent who?!’ Omer and Meanbeard shout at the same time, pounding him with their fists. The professor has stopped groaning and sobbing, and is nothing but a lifeless punching bag.

  ‘Joris!’

  Four-eyes holds the bucket under the tap, fills it with water and says again, as calmly as last time, ‘Out of the way.’

  Again the bucket of water splashes over the professor. Again he comes to with a start. Again his gaze seeks me out where I’m standing nailed to the spot.

  He splutters out bubbles of blood first, then nods, half in my direction, ‘He’s jus—’

  I see myself charging towards him in a complete panic, shoving Omer and Meanbeard out of the way. ‘Who is Robert?! Who is Vincent?!’ I hear myself bellow while kneeing him in the balls. The professor blacks out, deflating like a balloon.

  ‘Idiot…’ Meanbeard sneers.

  ‘Joris!’

  Another bucket of water in that battered face.

  Nothing.

  He hangs there without a peep.

  Omer sighs. ‘I think we need to fetch the doctor. Joris?’

  ‘I’m on my way…’ Joris sighs, and snaps at me that I’m an ‘amateur’.

  It’s now 2 p.m. and pouring with rain.

  ‘Fuck…’ says Lode for the third time. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You know how I know.’

  ‘Is that swine with the goatee involved?’

  I nod.

  ‘So we’re in deep shit.’

  ‘If I’m not mistaken that bungler you call a professor doesn’t know our names, or does he?’

  Lode shakes his head vacantly. Meanwhile I see him thinking about a dozen other things. ‘He doesn’t know any names, but… we did once have a meeting where we’ve stashed Lizke. God that was stupid of me. That’s where we took the photo for his identity card.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘The Jew has to go. Today.’

  Lizke is shocked and flinches away from us while raising his arms protectively in front of his face. The chair he’s sitting on falls back; the lamp over the table starts to swing. Immediately he grabs a hammer that he probably found lying around here and has kept close as his only weapon ever since. We can no longer help him and he’s sensed it at once. The hammer in his hand states clearly that we’re now like all the rest.

  ‘Keine panic!’ Lode says with all the calm he can muster.

  Lizke wavers before sitting down again and apologizing while he wipes the sweat from his forehead. He puts the hammer down and listens to what we expect of him.

  ‘Nein. Nein!’

  I look at Lode and sigh. After all, what are we asking of him? We’re proposing that he set out without any papers to make his way to an address in a city he hardly knows. We’re trying to fob him off with a lottery ticket instead of a feasible escape plan. And he knows it.

  ‘Ich gehe nicht. I stay here.’

  ‘Hier bleiben, kaputt. We kaputt too. Alles fucked, Herr Lizke! Keine chance.’

  I hav
e to look away from Lode, otherwise I’m likely to burst out in nervous giggles.

  ‘Say something, Will! Tell him it’s the only way.’

  ‘Alles oder nichts, Herr Lizke. Es gibt keine andere Möglichkeit. Verstehen Sie? Wir sind verraten.’

  During Lode’s explanation, Lizke didn’t look at him once. Me, he stares at, as if a mystery is hidden in my eyes. Then he meekly takes his coat off the rack.

  Lode raises his eyebrows. ‘Blimey, he’s scared of you.’

  ‘A good thing too,’ I say.

  It was Lode’s idea to escort the Jew to the railway station in uniform, but now we’re walking past the Geuzen Gardens on our way to Keyser Lei, my discomfort with the plan increases, as if we’re about to be unmasked at a costume ball. It’s Saturday and the sun is shining. There’s a serious amount of people out on the streets. Trams jingle past and there are masses of people sitting at the café tables and staring out at passers-by, and therefore at us. In Van Maerlant Straat the crowd isn’t too bad, but now we’re getting closer to the station, Lizke has started mumbling anxiously, and when he sees two German officers on the other side of the zebra crossing he stops abruptly.

  ‘Nicht stehen, walk…’ Lode snaps, but Lizke is transfixed. Without a word to each other and almost synchronized, we grab him by the elbows and cross the road with him between us. The officers are satisfied with nods and vague salutes in their direction.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I sigh. ‘What we going to do at the station?’

  ‘Just buy a ticket and put him on the train to Brussels,’ Lode whispers back, as if talking about a reluctant child.