I never heard from Riks again.
END OF STORY
Spring in Prague
May 9, 1974. It's spring in Prague. Party leader Husak has just officially opened the first part of the new subway line.
Prague is busy, at least in the center, in Wenceslas Square where troops put an end to the spring of 1968. Just like troops had put an end to another spring in 1849 in Budapest.
I'm sitting here in the cafe of the Jalta Hotel and looking out over the Square, decorated with flags; all traffic has been stopped because of the new subway line.
At two-thirty I have an appointment with someone; it is now one-thirty.
As always, while I'm waiting I read. I read everywhere, in the tram, in the train, in waiting rooms, at airports, in court, during lunch and while I shave. I always have a paperback in my pocket, and any time I have to wait I open it to the page marked by the piece of scrap paper I use as a bookmark and read with complete concentration. When I look up from a good passage to savor what I've just read, I don't see what I'm looking at. That concentration, bordering on unconsciousness, was the basis of our game.
I don't know if it's a good idea to dredge all that up, but when I came to, he was sitting in front of me. I hadn't seen him in 25 years.
He had put on weight, who hasn't, and here and there his hair was gray. He sat the same way he used to on the terrace of the American or the Lido.
He would arrive without making a sound. He would sit very still and wait until I looked up from my book and noticed him. He always had a serious look about him. That was his type of inner fun, of which you could not even catch a glimpse in his eyes. He never greeted me, but he would utter a sentence that sounded like the continuation of a conversation, a sentence that could only be an answer or a reaction to something that had already been said.
A sentence beginning with words like 'But' or 'Anyway'. For instance, once he said: 'On the contrary, Christendom will be annihilated within 50 years.' He said, 'Annihilated', not because it came easily to him, he even had to syncopate his speech rhythm to pronounce the word properly.
Sometimes I thought he used such words to express a bit of contempt for the English language, as if he wanted to say that there were no useful native English words for what he wanted to say.
My role in this game was to give an immediate response, which for the unsuspecting listener had to seem like a natural sequel to the foregoing, and without hesitation, without a break, we continued the discussion on the strangest subjects, always profound, often heated.
At first it was a kind of improvisation. Later, I admit, preparation and planning were involved. I at least made sure that I had four or five answers ready that I could use if he spoke to me, and I'm convinced he also prepared his opening sentences carefully, although we never talked about that. It was easiest for him, since he had the opening sentence. I always had to respond. He could even have four or five usable alternatives on hand for his reply.
When, after 25 years, on May 9, 1974, I looked up from my book, I found him sitting there, very straight, very still, very serious. He lifted his arm and stuck out his hand. For a moment I was afraid he was going to greet me, but luckily he bent his pinky, his ring finger and middle finger, folded his thumb over the middle finger, so that his pointing finger was aimed at me.
I have always considered Shyam a symbol of everything that constitutes Arabian dignity. That was not logical in itself, since he had Persian nationality, was born in Pakistan and usually lived in Indonesia. The fact that he was a Moslem probably explains my view.
I got to know him through a girlfriend during the time he was studying in Amsterdam. He edited, practically all by himself, the journal Modern Islam, which he managed in one way or another to spread all over the world. I was then occupied with one of my mistakes and was studying political and social science, called the 'seventh faculty'. He convinced me to revise a paper into an article for Modern Islam on Christian European Parties. He spoke Dutch poorly, in fact hardly at all.
Once he had discovered my pathological concentration, he began our game. I went along with it immediately and now, 25 years later, completely unexpectedly, he was sitting across from me, on a busy spring day in Prague, and he said: 'Elucidate'.
That seems simple, perhaps it even seems as if he was making it easy for me, but I think his intention was more subtle. He hoped that just one simple word would cause me to fall out of character.
I must say that it was extraordinarily difficult. Such a moment is a strong emotional experience. If I had given in to that emotion, I would have jumped up for joy, or cried, and shouted that everything was not in vain, that life is worth living, that wars and disasters have not been fought and suffered for nothing.
So I looked at him calmly and said: ...no, let me tell you something else first.
It would be dishonest not to do so, as if I had thought of an answer on the spot. I was indeed prepared for his sudden appearance. When he went back to Indonesia in 1950, I prepared myself for the time I would see him again and that's why I had four or five sentences ready. I never considered any of the sentences perfect, so I kept thinking up new ones in the course of the years.
Until I was in London in 1958.
At that time I was a trainee solicitor. One day a printer came to see the partner I was working for. His story was as follows: He had been approached by a man from Indonesia who requested him on behalf of Sjafruddin, premier of the rebel government in Padang and (former) governor of the Central Bank of Indonesia, to print banknotes, using their own design, for the rebels who wanted to circulate their own currency in the conquered territories.
Question: If the rebellion fails, can the Republic of Indonesia hold me liable for the losses to the economy as a result of circulating this money?
Now it sounds ridiculous, like an operetta. We've completely forgotten that rebellion. It's not even mentioned in the history books any more. Who still knows that Mohammed Hatta, embittered, resigned from the government in December 1956 because he could no longer bear Javanese domination? Who still remembers the name Ventje Sumual, rebel leader on Celebes, who still remembers the rebellion on Sumatra? Who still knows that then, too, in the spring of 1958, troops put an end to an illusion?
But on February 16, 1958, one day after Sjafruddin had inaugurated the 'Revolutionary Government of Indonesia', the English printer was left with a problem: What could happen to me if I print banknotes for those people?
We then came up with a judgment of the Court of Chancery in the case The Emperor of Austria v Day and Kossuth, a judgment from the spring of 1861.
What were the circumstances? Kossuth, the Hungarian rebel leader, driven from his Hungarian spring by Russian troops, was preparing to reconquer his country and depose and expel Franz Joseph, King of Hungary, Emperor of Austria, Hapsburg Monarch.
Kossuth had been living in London since 1851. He had self-designed banknotes printed by Day & Sons, well-known lithographers, for an amount of 100,000,000 'florins'. Don't ask me what a florin was worth. On the bills it was stated that a florin was three 'zwanzigers'.
The Emperor of Austria, by profession King of Hungary, demanded that the bills and the plates with which they were made be turned over to him.
It's interesting to follow the battle, but it ended in defeat for Kossuth.
I do believe that the Lords' sympathy was with Kossuth. I have not been able to find one good word about the King, but the Lord Chancellor, Lord Campbell, had this to say about Kossuth: 'But Mr. Kossuth, whom I consider as a man of honour as well as a man of extraordinary talents and accomplishments...'
The printers met a very sad fate, for the Lord Chancellor said to them: 'But they must have been aware that there was some considerable risk in the gigantic speculation in which they embarked; and as they no doubt would have derived much profit as well as fame if Hungary had been revolutionized by their means, they must console themselves with the reflection that they have failed in a great enterprise, and
that their fate holds out a lesson to other tradesmen to be contented with the gains and reputation to be earned in the ordinary occupations of their calling, however sober and commonplace these may be.'
I gather from this consideration that the printers' bill was supposed to have been paid with the rebels' money.
Let's return to our printer, to whom we explained the history of Kossuth and, in particular, Day & Sons.
I believe that our client was more impressed by the reprimand of the Lord Chancellor to his 19th century colleague than by our legal considerations.
Later we gave the man advice in writing with, at his request, a copy of the judgment in the Kossuth case, because he wanted to discuss several matters with the rebels' representative.
What does all this have to do with Shyam? At the bottom of the banknotes, the design of which the printer had brought with him, there was, I could almost say loud and clear, the name and signature of my old friend Shyam.
And when I asked what the rebel spokesman looked like, I got a description of my old friend Shyam.
At once I understood that this was my chance. I decided not to seek any more contact with him and not to let him know that I knew about this history. I had stayed pretty much in the background during the discussions with our printer, and the man couldn't remember my Dutch-sounding name anyway.
I got rid of all the old sentences and made up a new one which I carefully stored in my memory, with the thought: I'll have my chance.
Well, you can have lengthy discussions as to whether the sentence I made up was ideal. But that was not the point. The sentence contained two elements, namely a reference to the political situation and a reference to the case of the banknotes. Shyam had no idea that I knew about either of those subjects. The sole purpose was to surprise him quick as lightning with that knowledge.
Furthermore, a discussion on that issue was no longer of any importance, because when I looked up from my book on May 9, 1974 in the cafe of the Jalta Hotel in Prague, he was sitting across from me, reaching out his hand, pointing his finger at me and saying: 'Elucidate'.
I looked at him calmly, put the scrap of paper back in my book, closed the book, put it in my inside pocket, and said: 'Because Sjafruddin made the mistake of thinking that Hatta would support them. Besides, you should have known the story of Kossuth.'
His finger was still pointing at me, his mouth was already half open for the reply, but he remained in that position for four, five, six seconds, completely rigid.
Then he slowly began to collapse, like an inflatable toy animal with a small leak. The game was over.
In Prague there's a street where they say Kafka used to live.
In Naarden there's a statue of Kominski, who lived in Prague but died in the Netherlands.
Wenceslas Square is bustling. The party officials are being driven away in their ugly, black Tatras.
Wenceslas was murdered on September 25, 935 by his brother Boleslav, because he did not agree with his politics of peace. But there's no way you can still call that spring.
END OF STORY
DUTCH
BOSON BOOKS 15
Riks
De eerste keer dat ik hem verdedigde, verscheen hij ter zitting in pyjama. Dat was ook de eerste keer dat ik hem zag, want ik was veel te laat aan hem toegevoegd.
Het is niet helemaal eerlijk om te zeggen dat hij in pyjama ter zitting verscheen, misschien kan ik het beter precies uitleggen. Hij was mijn eerste strafzaak. Pro deo vanzelf. Want daar leer je het mee. Toen was het nog echt pro deo, want je kreeg er niets voor.
Uit zijn dossier bleek, dat hij verschillende veroordelingen had wegens geweldpleging, verduistering, diefstal en heling. De opgelegde straffen beliepen samen, als ik het me goed herinner, een jaar of vier, met de gebruikelijke aanloop van voorwaardelijke straffen en gecombineerde straffen, eerst van de kinderrechter later van de politierechter en de rechtbank, verder een paar strafbare feiten die geseponeerd waren wegens gebrek aan bewijs, een enkele vrijspraak in dezelfde sfeer, kortom een man, die niet in de pas liep. Ik heb later gemerkt hoe karakteristiek die combinatie van geweldpleging, diefstal, verduistering en heling was. Toen ik aan hem werd toegevoegd, zat hij in Veenhuizen een of andere straf uit voor een vorig vergrijp.
Het feit waarvoor ik hem moest verdedigen was heling. Hij was vrijgesproken door de rechtbank. De officier van justitie was in beroep gegaan. Riks was intussen gearresteerd voor dat ouwe feit, dus had hij recht op een toevoeging, en zo kwam ik in die zaak.
Uit het psychiatrisch rapport of reclasseringsrapport, dat weet ik niet meer, bleek dat hij beschouwd werd als verminderd toerekeningsvatbaar. Dat kwam eigenlijk hierop neer, dat hij geen verweer had tegen slecht gezelschap en altijd te vinden was voor een geintje. Dat is op zichzelf niet zo erg maar als je in de verkeerde sociale laag zit loop je daarmee stuk.
Hem werd telaste gelegd schuldheling, een van de meest ongrijpbare delicten uit ons strafrecht. Het komt ongeveer hierop neer, dat een vriend van je's avonds bij je aanbelt en zegt: Kun jij die buitenboordmotoren zolang voor mij bewaren, en dan moet je aan zijn gezicht of aan de voorwerpen of aan de tijd waarop hij aanbelt of aan je eigen straflijst de conclusie ontlenen, dat die motoren gegapt zijn. Zo ook hier. Het bewijs was inderdaad uiterst summier, typisch een geval waarin de verdachte duidelijk schuldig is maar waarin veroordeling onrecht zou zijn.
Ik had toen nog geen ervaring, ik zei al: mijn eerste strafzaak, en ik verdedigde te vuur en te zwaard de opvatting dat Riks onschuldig was.
Op de dag van de zitting had hij een of andere maagaandoening en lag hij in Veenhuizen in de ziekenboeg of hoe ze zo iets in gevangenissen noemen. Door een administratieve vergissing hadden ze daar pas op het laatste moment gemerkt, dat hij in Amsterdam bij het Hof moest zijn en toen de arrestantenwagen uit Assen voor de deur stond hadden ze gauw twee of drie stempels gezet, hem zijn pak over zijn pyjama laten aantrekken en in de auto gestopt. Zo erg was die maagaandoening nou ook weer niet.
Het Hof nam de zaak nog weer eens door in het kalme tempo hoven eigen en men keek enigszins verschrikt op toen ik in mijn pleidooi er tegen aan ging alsof Dreyfus zelf terecht stond. Ook Riks zelf keek verrast toen hij hoorde hoe ontzettend onschuldig hij was. Achteraf denk ik dat dit laatste meer heeft bijgedragen tot zijn veroordeling dan mijn pleidooi. Tenminste dat hoop ik.
Een vriend van mij vertelde over zijn eerste strafzaak, dat hij iemand moest verdedigen, die aanleiding gaf tot de volgende openingszin: "Meneer de President, edelachtbare heren, dit is voor mijn client de 25e strafzaak en voor mij de eerste. We wilden allebei dat het andersom was." Maar ik denk dat ook dat gelogen was.
Een paar maanden later werd ik door Riks opgebeld. "Met Riks," zei hij. "Met wie?" zei ik, want zo werkt het menselijk geheugen. Hij wou eens langs komen. Toen hij voor mij zat bleek dat hij door een combinatie van voorwaardelijke invrijheidsstelling, gratie en aftrek van voorarrest toch eigenlijk die straf niet had uitgezeten, tenminste zo berekende hij dat
Het wordt misschien tijd, dat ik vertel hoe hij eruit zag, tenminste Mies vindt dat dat moet.
Hij leek sprekend op Danny Kaye, maar dan met achterover gekamd haar zonder scheiding, zijn neus was iets groter, en verder had hij het kenmerkende van die lieden die niet in de sociale verzekering vallen en ook niet rijk zijn. Zijn getrokken tanden en kiezen waren niet vervangen. Als hij lachte, wat hij graag deed, dan zag je een gebit zo onderbroken als zijn leven in vrijheid.
Waar hij voor kwam was dit: Terwijl hij zat had zijn vrouw het aangelegd met een ander, een melkboer, zoals hij het noemde, uit latere ondervraging bleek het een werknemer van een melkhandelaar te zijn wiens werk bestond uit het slijten van melk en zo.
Toen Riks—onaangekondigd—na zijn invrijheidsstelling thuis kwam had hij die melkboer aangetroffen en had hem "in elkaar geslagen." Ik kom daar nog op terug. Bovendien had hij de volgende dag de melkkar van die man omgekeerd. Voor een en ander zou hij wel weer moeten voorkomen maar daar zou hij zich zonder rechtshulp ook wel uitlullen, zei hij.
Hij was alvast ing
etrokken bij de vrouw van die melkboer en zij had hem verteld dat ik voor haar de echtscheiding behandelde—ook pro deo—die zij tegen haar man had aangespannen omdat die het hield met de vrouw van Riks. Puur toeval.
Kortom of ik ook zijn echtscheiding wou behandelen. Nou dat was goed. Ik liet mij aan hem toevoegen zoals dat heet en begon die echtscheidingsprocedure.
Zoals ieder begrijpt legde deze voorgeschiedenis de basis voor een hechte vriendschap.
Riks had grote fantasie en levensdurf. Hij was veel te optimistisch en blijmoedig, daarom liep hij altijd tegen de lamp. Hij kon geweldig vertellen, in zeer plat Amsterdams, en als je liet merken dat je zijn verhalen mooi vond, inspireerde hem dat tot steeds mooiere beschrijvingen. Zijn eerste gevecht met die melkboer, later ook in feite nog eens herhaald, werd bij het hervertellen steeds gewelddadiger en bloediger. Het aantal vernielde meubels nam toe, de verwondingen van de melkboer namen toe, het gevecht duurde langer, ook de tegenstand van de melkboer nam toe, omdat hij zag dat de overwinning op een sterke tegenstander meer waarde had dan de afstraffing van de lafaard uit vroegere versies. Toch waren die vroegere versies zuiverder omdat hij toen echt verontwaardigd was over de ontrouw van zijn vrouw en over de verraderlijke rover, die lafhartig de vrouw inpikt van een ander die in de bak zit. Het was ook een echte afstraffing geweest en niet een gevecht. Maar goed. Hij werd absoluut niet gehinderd door de behoefte om waarheidsgetrouw te zijn.
Two Stories in English and Dutch Page 2