The Penguin Book of Dutch Short Stories (Penguin Modern Classics)

by Joost Zwagerman

  Too treacherously. I paint mine black these days. With cheap satin sheen from the Hema store: colour C108. Except for the point, beyond where it can’t go any deeper. That’s too sensitive. That must stay pristine. That’s what I earn my crust with. The rest I paint black. First I go over the chrome with abrasive paper. Otherwise the paint won’t stay on. Then I brush it on.

  At the first attempt I didn’t allow for the drying time. I was in too much of a hurry. Back then it was the only pair of scissors of the kind that I possessed. I walked around for two weeks with black rings round my fingers, with black lines in my palm. I felt like I was arousing suspicion. They took a long time to wear off, those strange criss-cross marks that went up into my sleeve. Since then I’ve been more careful. I now rub the scissors down so that the paint takes better. And I let it dry until it can’t get any drier. If they’re new, only the chrome-plated side of the narrow blade occasionally catches some light. A spark of light that leaps up. That bounces over the shiny car for a moment and then leaps up. Across the canal or up the face of the houses. It reminds me of the pocket mirrors we used to have at school, with which you could make the sun dance through the room. If you use them often enough they do wear out. With each lock the smooth point roughens. It becomes covered in scratches. It lets the inside of the lock make grooves in it. It absorbs the combination. Very subtly. By means of burrs. A pair of scissors like that has a good memory. It gets to know and distinguish locks. It recognizes them. It adapts. And fits. It transmits signals to my hands through tiny jolts. It trembles in my hand. My fingers follow it, fractions of millimetres. Left, right. Forward, backwards. A little deeper then back a bit. Crick crack. Open.

  But as the scissors adjust the risk of breaking increases. The notches become too deep. A breaking point is created. The blade breaks all the more easily. You are asking for it. The point is usually left intact. An absurdly thrusting barb. Indicating that the owner can keep his stuff. For as long as it takes, that is. I must make sure I get rid of the remainder of the scissors as soon as possible. I’ve thrown lots in the canal, broken scissors. Funnily enough always in the same place. I’ve dreamed about them too. Teeming over each other like handicapped crabs when a tour boat disturbed the water. Crippled scissors, eyes on stalks. They were snuffling about the body of my melancholy Aunt Stientje, who had once thrown herself off the bridge there. Aunt Stientje who drowned herself because she didn’t like the fiancée of her only son Sjorsje. Gas hadn’t worked and she had survived crying too. Then one night she stole out of the house and stepped off the bridge. In my dream I saw her exactly as she was, Stientje. I could clearly make out the node of nerves on her right temple. That blueish bulge, that purple egg, which made the police suspect a violent attack. Uncle Sjors was able to refute this. It was a knot of nerves. She lay very peacefully on the bottom of the canal. Until that boat came over and my mutilated scissors started snuffling at her. They scuttled around her and over her. They prodded and pricked her. Her breasts, her thighs, everywhere. They snapped at her toes and nipped her ears. Until one of them spotted her nerve bump. At that moment they all snapped shut and headed for it like a shoal of herring. There was a riot of snuffling and pricking and snapping. Aunt Stientje started gabbling as she lay there dead. Saying that I could have Sjorsje’s toys, because it was all over now. And more of that nonsense. A little later my next pair of scissors plunged into the canal. Still unbroken. They fell in a closed state directly downwards and hit Stientje right in her purple egg. Clouds of yellow liquid started rising from it. She got up in a rage and tried to clamber up the quayside. Scissors were hanging from the hem of her dress. As I saw her surfacing, my dream suddenly stopped. She called my name. I woke up.

  I always have a spare pair of scissors in my pocket. They are in a calf-leather case, intended for an aluminium pocket comb. I carry it in my wallet, in which I also keep a series of cut-out profiles. Black and white. I bought them from one of those quick-fingered clip artists in Montmartre. In the Place du Tertre. Failed and rejected profiles. For almost nothing. The price of a drink. A transaction with a shrug of the shoulders. He didn’t understand what I wanted them for. I didn’t need my own profile cut. Non, merci. He couldn’t for the life of him understand what I saw in them. Anyway, the owners of those profiles had all long since gone back to America. And Japan. I told him I was going to deliver them to all those people. That I would search until I had found the matching profile. He thought I was an oddball, but was happy to let me have the worthless things. Clipped profiles. Black and white. To have an artistic alibi to hand. To justify my carrying so many pairs of scissors in my inside pocket. A forged hairdresser’s diploma was impossible to come by. No one need notice that my scissors were rather large for that delicate, nimble-fingered work. And if at the station they wanted a cut-out of the superintendent’s head, I can always refuse. ‘Uniforms make me nervous.’ (Come to that, I left Paris again straightaway. The cars there were just as easy to break into as in Amsterdam. The haul was often even richer. But I didn’t know where I was supposed to get rid of the stuff. I had no addresses. And I was too impatient to wait and see for any length of time. In the last car I opened, I chucked all the stuff I had collected meanwhile on the back seat. Just like that. The world turned upside down.)

  I tried to build up a stock, of that special type. As has been said, they are inclined to break. On average I lose one a week. I hoard them. There is really only one particular type that I can use for my work. They’re quite expensive. Something about the length, the width, the thickness, the sharpness, the strength – something about the damn things makes them ideal for my purposes. I was given the tip through a contact. Nothing distinguishes them from run-of-the-mill kitchen scissors. Except for the price. And a slightly more luxurious appearance. But that may be me. I pick them out automatically. They are used a lot. Worryingly often. Almost everyone uses them. Of course there are other methods, but give me the scissors any time. I ask you, I can see myself standing there with a great bunch of car keys. And trying them out one after the other. The more delicate finger work. There are people who do that (I know them) but it’s not for me. You need nerves of steel for that. And I haven’t got them. At least my scissors know the way. By themselves.

  No one knows who started it. Who exactly discovered and used that type. You’d expect him to keep it to himself, lucky dog. Each to his trade. Or at least to apply for a kind of unwritten patent on it. But perhaps he was very altruistic. Or perhaps it was the actual dealer himself who had the idea. And he passed on the tip to his customers. To put them under an obligation, the swine. Perhaps he insisted that they pay him in kind … These are just speculations. What is certain is that those steel blades sell like hot cakes. When I went to get some recently, they were out of stock. Sold out. And at my regular supplier at that. I had just been through my supply. The last one broke off in the lock of a Mercedes. I shan’t let it get to this point again. Ever again. I took preventative measures, and not cheap ones either. I dragged round half the city. I did not rest until I had collected a dozen. They turned out to be available in more places than I thought. The best thing is to direct your buying mania at department stores. There it is less noticeable if you buy five or six of a particular product at a time. In a bag, receipt, and off you go. Still, it is better to buy just one, for example every other day. But in the Bijenkorf the other day, the penny started dropping. They have bright girls. At the till that serves the scissors department and others, there is one with shrewd eyes.

  ‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘You do wear out a lot.’

  I just smiled a bit, I think. I’m very good at smiling. The next time I tried to pay at a different till. But I was referred to her. I considered putting the thing back, but that struck me as really suspicious. I felt cameras directed at me from every direction. It was busy at the till I needed. She won’t notice at all this time, I thought. There are so many people. When it was my turn, the young madam said cheerfully and loudly: ‘Another pair o
f Lothar-Sciss? What on earth do you do with them?’ I replied quickly that all she had to do was come out with me one evening. Then I’d tell her.

  And at that she looked at me as if something began to dawn on her. As if she wanted to say: Oh, there’s no way I’m doing that. Do you think I’m letting myself be skewered on a pair of scissors costing forty-nine guilders fifty?

  In the fanatical zeal with which I hunt for my type of tool, I’ve become completely obsessed by them, scissors. Not just that one type, no, other types also awaken my desire. Larger ones, smaller ones, slimmer ones. The other day in a department store I came across a tray full of scissors for toddlers. They were plastic, hard plastic, but they were such sweet colours that I couldn’t resist them. The melancholy air of lemonade straws. Milkily translucent. I bought one of each colour. Not even expensive. They are unusable, but great to look at. I’ve got them here on a white plastic plate. And I have big ones too, bigger than I’d ever be able to use. They are monsters. They are scattered casually around. Like malevolent pets. But I’ve got silver ones too. Operating scissors. The slim instruments of the surgeon. Mostly stolen. They are in matching beakers. Sometimes they are straight, sometimes curved. Bent inwards, bent outwards, bent sideways. I have all sorts. They are nice to take out of their beaker and run through your fingers. Unusable for me, but with a divine grace. I like them almost as much as my small Perspex scissors. They are my absolute favourite. So finely polished that they are a joy to hold. The blades are kept apart by a small double-headed screw in black plastic. On the wide blade there is something written in fine white lettering. Japanese. I can’t read it, but imagine that it must be an infinitely tender word. It is like a caress.

  But anyway, occasionally a broken-off tip gets left behind in a car lock. So there are scissor fragments in their possession. It must be child’s play to check what type they come from. And what if today or tomorrow they get it into their crazy heads to take that special type off the market. To see whether car break-ins can be reduced a little? It doesn’t bear thinking about. We would be dealing with yet another extra black market: Lothar-Sciss. Dealers lending them out to their regular customers. And of course illegal manufacture. Anyone who can duplicate keys can do the same with scissors. They would change hands for a lot of money. The damn things would be unaffordable. And they would stay just as breakable. You can scarcely insure yourself. You would have to break in to twice as many cars to be able to finance your tools. Little would change, thieving would just get a lot more inventive. But would the manufacturer take his products off the market when he sees that they are doing so well? Come, come – he’s not stupid. He could even manufacture them, those dream scissors of his, in such a way that they break a little sooner. The principle of built-in wear and tear. He would immediately see the difference in his turnover. Then he really would be rubbing his hands with glee. I even considered contacting him. Via the suggestions box. His name is etched by the hinge of the scissors, next to the screw. I would put the plan to him of supplying pre-formed scissors. With notches in the right place. Various sizes of burr mixed together. For different locks. ‘Tested on all current makes of car.’ And still usable as household scissors. They should be sprayed black. Silk sheen. I can already see them hanging by their rings on steel hooks, ready to be wheeled on racks hundreds at a time into the oven. No maker’s name must be stamped into them. This is true under-the-counter work. It takes place after working hours. The workers do well out of it. Delivery is directly to me. I sell them on. Yes, I’d know what to do. I wouldn’t have to lift another pair of scissors for myself.

  But by the time tools cease to be a problem, you’ll see that the minerals you’re after will become exhausted. You’ll always see that. That’s how it is in this country. Anyway, there are already enough signs pointing in that direction. You need to have an eye for them. I ask you. Someone may allow his car to be emptied twice, but definitely not three times. He’s not as stupid as that. Not even in the Netherlands. After the first time he may buy a new radio. Second hand. Nicked, of course. But when that disappears, no more. When everything has been stripped out that can be stripped, except for the seats, the motorist will park on the canal without qualms. Right, there you go. There it is. Nothing more to finish off. Unless we make off with the whole vehicle. But that’s another story. That’s not our territory. Those Amsterdammers are a crafty lot. They start catching on. They are irritatingly sharp. But stubborn as they come. You’ve got to strip the fur from the driver’s seat two or three times before they think of putting back the old plastic cover. But sooner or later the penny does drop. When that happens the car is reduced to its old familiar proportions: a thing to drive in. That’s our virtue, albeit unintentional. We rely increasingly on tourists. They don’t suspect a thing, until it happens. Then it ends in tears. Tourism is becoming our main source of income. In that respect we are true Italians.

  When I was much younger than now, I did a lot of hitch-hiking. I hated it, but I had to. I often couldn’t afford a train ticket. Cars that wouldn’t stop – I’ve seen more drive right past me than anyone. Perhaps it was at the side of the road that I acquired my addiction to swearing. I learned to swear marvellously under my breath. I dreamed up the loveliest curses. And once I was sitting down, when someone had finally stopped, it simply continued. Behind my front teeth. Inaudibly, but certainly not unnoticeably. I couldn’t stop. I liked it, swearing. And I still do. I just go on. There will never be an end to it. In the grave I shall still be gross. A requiem of curses. ‘May the pox be with you.’ But in the very beginning, when I was a lad, at the very beginning I called them ‘islands of domestic bliss’, those cars that refused to stop. Particularly at night. And when it was cold. ‘Islands of domestic bliss gliding past.’ Gradually I learned to despise them, those disappearing islands. It happened faster than I thought. Finally I didn’t want to hitch-hike at all any more. Even if they offered. I couldn’t any more. I’d had enough. The people with their simple-minded questions about your studies. Their endless drivel about the capacity of the engine ‘which is not at the front but behind’. It was made all too easy for me in my contempt. I found all their pettiness and small-mindedness combined in their cars. From small service to glove compartment, the whole works. And the irony is that what I have always considered the most contemptible thing in a world where it was so hard for me to find my place is what I break into by stealth to hustle a crust. That’s no longer irony, that’s pure cynicism.

  Yes, those shabby Fords have become my main source of income. I keep body and soul together with them. I’ve got a special key for them – one that is wrong in every way. I carry them clenched in my fist over my heart. I open them before I leave home and grip them in my fingers. Then I place my hand holding the scissors over my heart and button up my coat like a one-armed man. That gives you something to hold on to. For the next few hours that key is the axis around which my world rotates. There, inside my hand, is the turning point of the world. My grip never relaxes. The whole time I am out, my fingers are clenched tightly around the scissors. I can see that from the indentations I find afterwards. And with that cruciform key I penetrate the affluent world of cars big and small (Volkswagen versus Mercedes: the level to which the discussion on the fairer distribution of incomes has moved in the Netherlands.)

  Point thrust forward, I wend my way. Blankets are usually on the back seat. For some reason they always evoke in me the image of an old man in an invalid carriage. It has to be a very bad day for me to take them. They fetch scarcely anything. I just hate walking with them over my shoulder like a gaucho. They are often full of hairs from some dog on heat, which is now at home in its basket.

  When I break into a car at night, I sometimes take it easy. I prefer to sit in the front passenger seat. Inside the sun visor with the hinged flap there is often an extra mirror for the ladies. For checking their make-up. I leave it where it is but can never resist having a look in it. The way I look when I break into a car. (Always differ
ent.) The glove compartment. I take lighters. Often very expensive ones. The other day one from Australia. On one side there was a coloured map of the continent and on the other the depiction of a platypus. Definitely an expensive item, but it didn’t fetch much. Michelin Guide, Shell Guide, motoring guides, reading matter for passengers or concubines – often whole libraries. I save Michelin guides. For trips I shall never take. Sponge and chamois leather. Rubbish, of course. Peppermints, paper handkerchiefs, condoms, cosmetics, pocket combs, sunglasses, driving glasses. All rubbish. I only take the lipstick. For girlfriends who never actually use it. Sometimes I’m able to get one to put on lipstick just before we go to bed. I’m so crazy about the flavour.

  I know at once when I’m in a woman’s car. I smell it. Often it turns me on. I’m not a fetishist anywhere but there. But when I find one of those openwork imitation-leather driving gloves in the glove compartment, it makes me kinky. I can’t help pulling them to pieces. A purse or wallet left behind can make my day. At least if there’s something in it. Passports are welcome too. Doesn’t happen much. Car radios and tape recorders are of course the most interesting items. They fetch the most. So I pick my way through the creepy-crawly world of imitation-fur covers, neck rests for the driver, and dolls dangling from rear-view mirrors, official adjustable safety belts, adjustable child seats, removable mats, ashtrays, umbrellas, magazines, the chaos of the cat tray, removable steering-wheel covers, wrist bags. With my razor-sharp cruciform key I penetrate it infallibly. With a flick of the wrist.

  Translated by Paul Vincent

  28

  Margriet de Moor