by Hans Keilson
“So what will happen now?” Nico asked timidly.
“Nothing,” Wim answered.
He was right. Nothing happened. Jop stayed away and Leen came by and did exactly the same things that Jop had done. It went on.
More than anyone, Coba proved herself to be a great help. She watched the house whenever Marie had to be away for a shorter or longer time, like the time when Marie’s mother fell ill and Marie took care of her for ten days. Coba’s nature was just like her walk: not heavy, lightly swinging past every obstacle, but still firm and decisive. She laughed easily. “Excellent!” she said when Marie—during Coba’s very first visit—confided in her. “Excellent. How old? That’ll work. Older and they’re already too fossilized. I had wanted to ask you two for a long time if you’d take someone in.”
“Really? Would you have done it too?”
“One? I’d take two or four! Just not three together, that’s bad in arguments and so on. It’s always two against one. By the way, you don’t have anyone else waiting in the wings, do you? I need to take in another three soon.”
“You?”
“Yes, well, these things just come up . . .”
Coba—who would have thought it. Marie felt dizzy.
“Does he have visitors? . . . No one? But he needs to see someone else’s face now and then.” It turned out she had quite a lot of experience in all sorts of useful things. “Careful,” she said, “be careful, my friends! But within reason, don’t overdo it. That leads to a complex, to anxiety, and that’s how mistakes get made. Don’t isolate him, fresh air every now and then, when it’s possible. Imagine if we . . . !”
Coba and Nico were on a first-name basis right away. She was in her late twenties. The next time, she brought him new books in English and French, detective novels and others.
“When this is all over, Nico, Marie and I get a lifetime supply of perfume from you, agreed?”
“Nuit de Paris. Romance for the lady in the evening . . .”
“Not just in the evening, Nico, I’m a lady all day long—”
He went on: “Violetta, Sans-Gêne for afternoons, and some mornings, for fashion shows . . .”
“I’ve never been to a fashion show myself,” Marie said.
The names that used to waft from his lips, sleek and melodious like magic formulas, now sounded perfectly ordinary, and strangely fresh, unused. They too once were, and maybe one day would be again . . .
“Just a drop behind the ear, Marie. Perfume is the visiting card of the lady!”
They laughed. And Nico laughed along with them!
“And what is the white queen’s favorite?” Coba asked, with a glance at the chess pieces in battle formation.
“It depends whether she is about to win or lose.”
“But Nico? I thought your perfume would help a lady win.”
“Well, then you’d have to be playing, Coba, not me,” Nico sighed. He knocked over the white queen along with her foot soldiers. Crash!
“I know a pianist”—she kept on chatting, undisturbed—“who’s stuck at a table like you. But he’s playing a piano.”
“At a table?”
“He drew a keyboard on the tabletop so that he wouldn’t get totally out of practice. Beethoven was deaf too, after all.”
“How long has he been stuck there so far?” Marie asked timidly.
“We’re trying to find him a third table now—oak, if we can. He’s already played through two others.”
“So you’re better off with your chess then,” Marie said with a friendly nod to him.
“Yes,” he agreed, a bit passively, “it’s true, I have it better . . .”
Such visits helped, or visits like the ones from Leo, the photographer, who also brought along hair clippers. He came regularly, every three weeks.
“I only do one kind of cut,” he said, eagerly rubbing his hands together. “I hope you like it. And if the esteemed client wishes to continue to make use of my services after the war . . .”
He was a teacher of natural science and geography at the lyceum. Nico sat like a patient sheep on the chair and let everything take its course. These visits made him happy. He was cheerful and joined in with everything. Then he couldn’t anymore. Even with clippers, after all, sometimes a clump of hair or dust got in and brought the smooth workings of the blades to a halt. “So here I sit, happy because my hair is getting cut,” he thought to himself, “happy, while . . .”
The others noticed. But Leo kept cutting.
Wim and Marie sat in the room during the haircut. They themselves barely escaped the clutches of the hardworking clippers.
At the end, Leo gave an extra show and cut his own hair. But only the right side.
“He hasn’t learned the left side yet,” Nico teased, and he looked at his own haircut in the mirror for the third time. After the procedure he always felt a bit sad, and lonelier.
“The left side is for the next customer!” Leo said, brushing off his shirt.
V.
There were problems too. Obviously, whenever people live together there are problems, like little bombs with long fuses planted in the gray hours and mostly exploding at moments when you think everything is going perfectly. Boom! There’s a bang, you’re surprised, startled, and a little annoyed; the problems are a burden because they come as a surprise and because you have to make an extra effort. People who say that they can see a problem “coming” are like people who say they have a sixth sense.
One problem was the cleaning lady. She came every Tuesday and Friday, the same as she had for the past two years, to clean and scrub the rooms downstairs and the rooms upstairs, alternating, and the kitchen and the stairs, and to darn stockings and mend clothes when she had any time left over. She knew every nook and cranny of the house and was used to moving freely through it, working without any special instructions from Marie. And now, all of a sudden, the upstairs rooms, especially Nico’s, were supposed to be “taboo” for her . . .
“To fire her suddenly,” Marie said to Wim one evening when they were alone, “would really stand out. I’ll cut back slowly.”
“I’ll just stay in my room,” Nico decided. That’s what he always did anyway, except for the days when he was so thoroughly bored that just for a change of scene he went faithfully, every hour and a half, like clockwork, to the bathroom on the upstairs floor. “This afternoon too will pass.”
“Stay in your room as much as you can,” Wim had said at the beginning. “During the day someone or another still comes by to visit. Marie will call you when the coast is clear.”
When the doorbell rang, he held his breath for a second upstairs and strained to listen. The milkman? No, he didn’t come until around noon. A woman’s voice! It must be—he heard laughter and bright voices—it must be—and suddenly the cry of a child’s voice between the others, so it must be little Jaap with his mother. Good people, Marie had said, during a friendly hour with him when she had let him in on something about her circle of acquaintances. Good people, but a little simple. Be careful, very careful. Luckily they never stayed long.
Later, hidden behind his curtain, he saw little bowlegged Jaap across the front garden, his mother following behind him while still turned around to talk to Marie, who stayed in the door to the house. The garden gate was open. Look at that! A horse-drawn wagon! But little Jaapje stayed standing on the threshold and waited.
“Mama, Mama!” he yelled. “Tum!” And he could talk too! He’d really come a long way in the last six months.
“He’s calling me to come, I have to go,” said Mama, proudly. “Bye, Marie!”
When they were gone, Marie called him downstairs. “Would you like to dry the dishes with me for a change?”
“I’d like that, Marie.”
He stood downstairs in the kitchen, carefully took the plates and cups in his left hand, and wiped them all around with his right, which held a cloth all crumpled up.
“You don’t need to press so hard, Nico. Like this
. . . softer . . .”
The next time it went better. Marie could wash so fast that Nico fell behind with the drying. Plates, cups, and pots piled up on the green rubber mat.
“Slower, slower, Marie, I can’t keep up.”
Marie laughed. She just did it automatically; it was as if the plates and bowls flew from the boiling sink water onto the table. “Wim is totally at his wit’s end when he helps me,” she said. “He says he gets dizzy just watching.” She held the big aluminum pot for boiling potatoes in the water, turned it all around so that little sprays of water fell on the stone counter and into the basin, while working on the inside of the pot with a wire mesh scrubber. “You can’t buy what you need to clean pots with anymore. It takes twice as long. You can feel the war even in the kitchen, whether the pot is full or empty. Always the same old story.”
She poured the dishwater out and grabbed a cloth to wipe off the basin and clean out the drain. Then she helped him dry the rest of the dishes. “And then I’ll make us a cup of coffee.”
A sojourn downstairs like this was like a trip to another country.
One time he went downstairs himself, without thinking about it, when he smelled burned milk in his room and throughout the house. Marie must have gone out to get something; she must have been planning to come right back and had put the milk on the stove in the meantime. The smell was getting stronger every second.
When he walked into the kitchen he ran into Marie at the stove. Nico was startled. “Oh, I thought . . .”
“What’s wrong, Nico?” It sounded a little surprised, but still perfectly friendly.
“The milk smelled so strong.”
Then the doorbell rang and Marie went to answer the door. Nico stayed behind in the kitchen. The burned milk had boiled away into a dark brown crust on the black stovetop.
The fishmonger stood outside with a big woven basket full of his fresh catch on the stoop in front of him. A rare opportunity! She always let him into the kitchen, where he cleaned the fish. Marie couldn’t send him away, he would never come back again. And they all liked to eat fish. But now Nico was in the kitchen.
Marie was confused and left the fishmonger standing there, ran back into the kitchen, disappeared behind the closed door, and said in a whisper, a little indignant, “The fisherman, Nico—but where can you go? Shhh, keep quiet. Your voice—” Nico stood pressed against the kitchen table and looked at Marie, full of distress. What should he do? Go out to the back garden? He couldn’t do that either. God, that stupid milk! Did the fisherman really have to come right then?
Finally she had a saving inspiration. Right next to the kitchen was a toilet, with a door opening onto the hall just to the right of the kitchen door. The hall itself was a good fifteen feet long and the fishmonger stood at the other end, with the big woven basket under his arm, getting ready to leave. Marie decisively opened the bathroom door and directed Nico with a hand gesture out of the kitchen and into the bathroom, whose wide-open door blocked almost the whole width of the hall, covering Nico’s escape. The half-moon on the door turned to “Occupied.” “Come on in!” Marie called to the fishmonger. Let him think whatever he wanted.
It took half an hour for him to scale and clean all the fish, get his money, and, after a little chat, disappear from the house. Nico stayed locked in the bathroom the whole time.
“You could have quietly gone upstairs,” Wim said that evening when they were sitting at the table together and discussing the incident. Nico felt that he was on some kind of trial, even though both the others took the event in good spirits and didn’t give it any overexaggerated significance.
“But then he would have known for sure that someone was there.”
“He knew that anyway.”
“But someone who lives upstairs, Wim . . .”
“Why not?”
“?”
“Why shouldn’t we have a lodger?”
“Hmm.”
“You know, Nico, we all have to make an effort to act as natural and unaffected as we can.”
Nico looked down at the table, and his fingers drummed a muffled melody on the tablecloth. Finally he said, in a clipped voice and with pauses between the words, “Of course, Wim—you’re right—it was only because of that stupid milk—”
“Nico thought I had left—and he wanted to save the milk.” Up until then she had been careful not to intrude into the conversation between the men. After all, it was uncomfortable enough for Wim already, him being a young man and the other a good deal older. When she said this, she looked directly at Nico and was amazed to notice how agitated he was getting.
“I thought, it’s so hard to get milk nowadays, Marie.”
“Well yes, it is. But still, it’s better . . .”
“Next time I’ll just let it be,” he blurted out all at once, and he stopped his drumming on the table with a light blow of his fist. “I’ll just stay upstairs and let the milk do whatever the milk is going to do.”
“And I’ll make sure,” Marie replied pointedly, looking with great interest at the picture above the stove as though she were seeing it for the first time, “to turn the gas off in time.”
No more conversation. Painful silence. Nico already felt bad about his light blow to the table. But he sat as if nailed to his chair and looked pleadingly from one to the other.
“Yes,” Wim said with his unshakable calm, and he pulled strongly on his cigarette, “maybe it’s best if we keep everything the way it was before. Everything worked out fine, after all. Marie will call you when she thinks you can come downstairs. When you’re managing a household there are always surprises.”
At least someone had said something. Nico exhaled with relief. This calm, this good-natured calm he had! Marie also felt her annoyance slowly fade away.
“And then,” Wim continued, leaning far back in his chair like a father holding forth before his big family, “then I won’t think that you were—shall we say—trying to criticize Marie.”
“Not at all, Wim,” Nico agreed. He positively hissed out the words so as not to let a second go by in which the others might possibly believe the contrary. “Not at all.” He looked over at Marie, his eyes open wide, his face tense and nervous. His hands were shaking too.
She felt sorry for him; in fact she saw his whole state of mind clearly and saw how much more he had to lose than she with her vanity about being a good housewife. But it was only with difficulty that she found the words to lighten his burden.
“It happens sometimes,” she whispered, and tried to smile.
Even though it was not clear what exactly she meant—her mishap with the milk or Nico’s—it was enough for him to hear that her voice had changed. It was over.
She stood up to serve the tea.
•
“Good,” said the cleaning lady. “It’s a good time for me too, to go to once a week. No, I won’t look for anything else. All that bending over. The likes of us have bladders too. And livers.” And hers were not in good shape. She was a working woman, stuck alone at home with six children, four girls between twelve and eighteen years old and two boys, seven and ten.
“So you’ll only need to clean our bedroom every three or four weeks. Then you won’t have to climb so many stairs.”
“Good,” the woman answered.
Nico stayed motionless in his room on those days. He heard the woman’s footsteps stomping heavily through the house, heard how she carried the laundry into the bedroom, how she moved around with the vacuum cleaner and carried out her other duties. The nearness of another human being, even one who he knew harbored no suspicions, stirred up the tense quiet and solitude of his room.
Then, at around four o’clock, Marie came upstairs with a cup of tea. She had been able to arrange it so that she poured the cup in the kitchen while the woman was taking a break in the living room, sitting tiredly on a chair and drinking her own tea. Marie only had to come to the door and give the signal by knocking, and Nico opened the door a sliver, took t
he teacup, and immediately shut the door again. On the other days, Marie brought her own cup along and they sat together and chatted. So the weeks went by without the woman noticing that Nico was sitting in his room.
Once, in mid-October, on another Tuesday when the cleaning woman was in the house, Nico heard someone slowly coming up the stairs at around four o’clock. Marie with the tea, he thought, and stood up. Why is she taking such deliberate steps? Maybe she’s carrying her tea, or some laundry? . . . He crept to the door and waited. The steps came closer; now they were on the last landing of the staircase . . . right up to his door. There was something tense inside him. It’s Marie, I’ll take the tray from her. He carefully opened the door.
Before him stood the cleaning woman. She was carrying a laundry bag and breathing heavily. Her gray hair was disheveled from working and it hung down to one side and over her forehead into her yellowish gray, slightly puffy face. Her pains were back, and while she was climbing the stairs with the load of laundry, bending forward to put pressure on the stabbing pains in her body, her thoughts had drifted to the wrong door. She held the laundry bag pressed tight against her chest and looked, with astonished eyes, at the man who suddenly stood there in the doorframe turning dead white.
It’s all over, Nico thought. He understood that he had done something stupid that could never be made right again. He staggered and shut his eyes. His body fell lightly against the side of the half-open door. When he opened his eyes again, the woman still stood two steps away from him in the hallway. Her suffering face now wore an understanding smile, which also made it possible to see the gaps in her teeth. Nico put the index finger of his right hand to his mouth, nodded slowly and sadly at her with his contorted face, and gently shut the door.
The woman went to the next door and put the laundry bag down in the bedroom. When she climbed back down the stairs, Nico lay wet with sweat on his bed, as though paralyzed, his face covered with both hands. He no longer knew if the encounter had been real or just a dream. His head ached.
A little later, Marie came and brought tea. There was a knock on the door; he opened it, but he stayed hidden behind the door and only held out his hand to her. Then he quickly shut the door again. Marie went away without suspecting a thing.