Tired?
Could be worse, says Danny.
What do you want to eat?
Just a sandwich or something.
Danny looks at the shop entrance and the harsh fluorescent light. There are no cars by the pumps, just an old lorry and three cars in the car park.
Could you go in and get it? Robert says, tapping his leg. Need some money?
Danny takes the banknote and gets out. He walks to the shop. The doors slide open. He goes inside and sees a rack of French newspapers with a few international newspapers on the bottom row. German, English. Two Dutch papers. He glances back at the car. Then he picks up one of the papers and looks at the date. It’s today’s. He reads the headline, runs his eyes down the news columns. There it is. He reads the report slowly, every word. The name of the café. The address. The man escaped with minor injuries. The twenty-four-year-old woman was taken to hospital. She was twelve weeks pregnant. It is unclear whether…
He puts the newspaper back on the rack, with the headline upside down. He walks over to the chiller cabinet, picks up the two nearest sandwiches, cheese rolls, walks to the till and gives the man the money. The man hands back some change.
Bon appétit, says the man.
Thanks, Danny replies.
Back at the car, he hands Robert one of the sandwiches and the change. They unwrap the rolls and eat them.
All he can think about is the newspaper report. He rests his hands on the steering wheel. It seems to vibrate slightly. He looks across the car park, at the lorry and cars standing still, the motionless trees sticking up into the sky around the edge of the car park, the bird of prey hovering in the sky above the trees. Everything has stopped. His thoughts slow to a standstill, become snarled up in the conversation with Pavel at the boxing school. He swears.
What’s wrong? Robert asks.
Nothing.
Once the doors are shut, the isolation of the car is restored. Back on the motorway, only the droning of the engine breaks the silence. Danny puts his foot down.
Bring it on.
*
He walked around the outside of the boxing school, down a short road, before turning left onto a long, narrow street with a few spindly trees along it and scaffolding on some of the houses. He started walking faster. When he got to the square, he looked at the signs outside the cafés. Three men were standing around a couple of upturned wine barrels at the café on the corner. A van from a drinks company stood in the middle of the road and a fat man was pushing a trolley of crates through the door. On the other side of the square was another pavement café, with wicker chairs and tables and a few people outside. Café Kage was on its right. A row of chrome chairs stood outside, with small tables in front. Two women were sitting in the corner beside the windbreak, with a small dog between them. Danny skirted around a tree, got closer. Then he saw them, through the big pane of glass. Gerard Varon was in his wheelchair with his back towards him. He moved his hand in the air, clearly explaining something to her, and put it back on the armrest. Ragna was sitting beside him on the window seat, her back against the window, her hand in his lap. For a moment, he stood there and looked, as though he wanted to commit the scene to memory. On the table in front of them was a shot glass, a teacup, two forks and two plates, with crumbs on. He was aware of the smallest of details.
Then he’d seen enough. He stormed inside. The door flew open and he screamed something and it must have been a hurricane of sound, because everyone looked up and the music stopped, as if by some kind of agreement. He grabbed the arm of the wheelchair and swung it around. Gerard fell sideways against the table, slumped onto the floor, onto the yellow and orange tiles with the name of the café written on them. People screamed. He heard a woman shrieking. Not Ragna. She slid back to the middle of the window seat and stared at him with huge eyes. He couldn’t quite tell what emotion he could see in her eyes, fear, guilt or shame, but he knew that those dark eyes could not temper his fury, only increase it. He strode over to her. Gerard dragged himself across the tiles to the table, to the chair behind it, and tried to pull himself up. He groaned. Danny knelt down and thumped his cheekbone with his left fist. Gerard’s head banged on the floor and he hid his face in his hands. Danny turned back to Ragna.
Danny, she said. Her voice was shaking.
He didn’t react. He walked up to her and pulled her to her feet. He hissed something and pushed her into another table. She fell over and crawled away between two chairs, making for the shelter of the wall. A couple with a child had been sitting at the table, but they had fled to the back of the café. Danny hadn’t noticed though. He only had eyes for her and for the wall and for the abandoned table she was hiding behind. He kicked it aside. The glasses fell onto the tiled floor and a teacup splintered into hundreds of tiny pieces. He grabbed her by the shoulders and hoisted her up against the wall. She wasn’t looking at him now. She was holding one arm in front of her face, her other arm hugging her stomach.
On his way to the café, words had come flooding into his head. Words he wanted to say to her. You must think I’m stupid. Stupid fucking cow. You and that lame cripple. Did you really think it was going to work?
But now that he was standing there in front of her, he didn’t say anything. His silence lasted a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity, because it was such a terrifying, threatening silence, as though every sound had ceased. As though a prophecy hung in the air.
Then he hit her. He hit her in the stomach, a hard left jab. Her head fell forward. He pushed her back against the wall and hit her, a right, then a left. It was like hitting a punch bag and having to hold it upright at the same time.
Ragna screamed. He hit.
A man from the café shouted something at him. Stop. Stop that! He put a hand on Danny’s shoulder and pulled, but Danny elbowed him away and punched him on the side of the head. He went down.
He heard another shout, a different voice. Danny didn’t react and no one dared to come closer. Danny hit again and nobody did anything. The only sound that got through to him was the sound of his fists on her stomach. People came over from the tables outside and stood looking in the window, crowding around to see. In a flash, between two series of jabs, he saw the fat man from the drinks company. His mouth was hanging open. Danny pushed her against the wall again. She made a quiet groaning sound. He swore. He looked at the window, saw a man with a mobile to his ear. He swore again, squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his jaw and hit for the last time. Then he stopped. He let her go. Ragna collapsed, slid onto the coloured tiles and lay crumpled on her side. No one said a word, everything was silent. Danny glanced down at her and turned to the door. He didn’t even hurry. The people in the doorway stepped aside as though he’d asked them to. He stood there and took one last look around, saw her leg and her tangled hair, the bruise forming above her swollen eye. She clasped her hands over her stomach, lay there so still, her fingers limp and weak.
And he left.
He heard a siren in the distance. When he looked down the road, all he saw was the dark clouds approaching over the roofs of the houses.
*
They take two more short breaks during the night, to get something to drink and fill up with petrol. Otherwise they keep driving. Robert falls asleep. When the sun comes up, they’re at the border between France and Belgium. About an hour later, they’re getting close to home. Robert wakes up. He rubs his eyes and takes a swig of water from the bottle that Danny’s just drunk from. Danny’s following the motorway they took on the way down south. They pass the petrol station where he stood hitchhiking two days ago. It’s dry now, but there’s a veil of mist in the air. The motorway becomes busier and they end up in a traffic jam. They inch forward until Robert signals that they should take the next exit. Danny follows the signs to the village where Robert lives. Past that church tower, Robert says. Take a left. Robert taps his foot on the plastic mat beneath the dashboard. They go over a roundabout. Robert points at a side street. Danny drives down the
street, over a couple of sleeping policemen.
Number twenty-seven, says Robert.
Danny looks at the house numbers on the left side of the street.
Behind that Land Rover.
Danny parks in the drive behind the Land Rover. He sees a tile with the number twenty-seven on the front of the semi-detached house. A path leads from the drive to the front door. There’s a green fence around the garden. They sit together in the car for a moment, without saying a word. Then he hears a voice. A boy is running out of the front door. He’s bigger than in the photo and his face looks older. He runs to Danny’s side of the car, stops in his tracks, looks past Danny to his dad, and then dashes around to the passenger side. Robert opens the door, holds out his arms and gives the boy a hug.
Daddy, says the boy.
Robert’s little girl comes out too, in less of a hurry. His wife appears behind her. She stays inside the doorway. The girl stops at the open car door. Hi, Dad, she says.
Danny sits there motionless at the steering wheel until the boy looks over at him and Robert says: This is Danny.
The boy nods. Danny holds out his hand. The boy shakes it.
My name’s Eddie.
Hi, Eddie, says Danny, letting go of his hand.
And that’s Sara and that’s Manuela, Robert says.
Do you want me to help you? Danny asks Robert.
If you like.
Danny gets out, walks around the back of the car and helps Robert out. As Robert balances on one leg beside the car, holding on to the door, Danny turns around, opens the glove compartment, takes out the Alfa 1300 and slips it into his pocket. He puts his arm around Robert’s shoulders and they walk slowly to the front door. Manuela steps aside. They go into the house, down a hallway and into the living room.
Danny pulls back a chair and Robert sits down. The boy and girl have followed them. They look at Danny standing there, so big and wide in the small room.
Manuela walks over and stands on the other side of the table. Thanks, she says quietly.
Don’t mention it.
Would you like something to drink? Robert asks. Something to eat?
No, thanks. There’s no need.
Robert shows his plaster cast to his son. I’ll let you draw something on it later, he says. He looks up at Manuela and says: I think I’d like a sandwich.
We’re out of bread.
Danny goes over to the window. The girl’s hiding behind Robert and staring out at Danny.
Danny’s a boxer, says Robert.
A boxer? The little boy grins. I’ve got a boxing game for my computer.
Why don’t you go and get it? says Robert.
The boy goes to the computer desk in the corner, looks through the shelf of games and comes back with one. The picture on the front shows two boxers. One’s taking a swipe at the other, whacking him on the cheek.
He’s the best one, says the boy, pointing at the blond boxer.
Do you want to be that one? asks Danny.
Yes.
Is his name Eddie too?
Yes.
Danny takes the blue Alfa out of his pocket.
Is this yours? Danny gives him the car. The boy looks at the toy car, turns it over and spins the wheels.
The door broke, says Danny.
That doesn’t matter, does it? says Robert.
The boy looks at his father, then back at the toy car. He shakes his head.
I should go.
Do you want us to drop you off somewhere? asks Robert.
There’s no need, says Danny. I can walk.
It’s not far to the station, says Robert.
Danny takes a step towards him.
Thanks, says Robert.
No. I should be thanking you.
They shake hands.
Robert tentatively slides forward, takes a twenty-euro note from his pocket and holds it out to Danny.
For the train.
Thanks.
Take care.
I will.
Do you know what you’re going to do now?
No, says Danny. He turns and walks to the door. He waves at the children, nods at Robert one last time and goes out into the hallway. When he reaches the front door, he hears Robert say: Let him out, will you?
It’s a while before Manuela follows him. He’s already opened the front door, but he stops on the doorstep. Manuela holds on to the edge of the door.
The station’s that way, she says.
Thanks for bringing him back, she adds. Her voice is deep. Deeper than before.
He looks into her eyes and sees that their colour is warm, but her gaze is ice cold. Most of her body is hidden behind the heavy door.
Don’t mention it.
Danny wants to ask her something, but she beats him to it.
It was in the paper, she says.
He nods.
Your photo was too.
She opens the door a little wider and Danny expects her to come outside, to say something else. But she stays there, half-hidden behind the front door, and doesn’t say a word. She just looks at him.
I have to go.
Bye then, she says.
He nods. When he reaches the gate, he hears the door close.
He shuts the gate behind him and walks down the road, on his way to the station. He buys two waffles at the station kiosk and, with the change in his hand, he heads for the waiting room and sits down on a bench. The platform’s empty. Before long, an elderly couple appear and soon other people are walking up and down the platform. He watches an express train go by. Then a commuter train stops. Some people get off. New passengers slide onto the vacated seats and the train slowly pulls out of the station. Through the dirty windows of the waiting room, he looks out at the platform and the nearby park and houses. His stomach rumbles. He tears open the plastic wrappers, eats the waffles and waits.
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About the Author and Translator
AUTHOR
Jan van Mersbergen, born 1971, stands at the forefront of new Dutch writing. He has completed five novels. His concise and tense style has earned him critical acclaim and a wide readership. Jan has been nominated for numerous prizes, among them the BNG New Literature Prize 2007 and 2009, and the European Book Prize 2010. Tomorrow Pamplona was first published in Dutch in 2007 and has already been tr
anslated into German and French.
TRANSLATOR
Laura Watkinson studied languages at St Anne’s College, Oxford, and now lives in Amsterdam. She translates literary fiction from Dutch, German and Italian.
Copyright
First published in English in 2011
by Peirene Press, 17 Cheverton Road, London, N19 3BB
www.peirenepress.com
This ebook edition first published in 2011.
Originally published in Dutch as MORGEN ZIJN WE IN PAMPLONA
Copyright © 2007 by Jan Van Mersbergen and Cossee Publishers, Amsterdam
This translation © Laura Watkinson, 2011
This publication has been made possible with the financial support from the Dutch Foundation of Literature.
The right of Jan Van Mersbergen to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–1–9086700–3–8
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Tomorrow Pamplona Page 14