'It's all ready,' somebody cried from downstairs and simultaneously the scent of toast and coffee curled its way upstairs. Cups chinked sharply, a giggle struck him painfully, a laugh cracked hard and hoarse. He knew what awaited him downstairs, he already knew the jostling, the punches and jokes, and he knew he did not want to enter this day, but wished to stay alone to preserve himself carefully.
Breakfast was in full spate downstairs, but he had always been a tardy riser and he knew they would not yet make things difficult for him. First, he shaved himself until his jaws gleamed like a dog's dick, then he slowly brought out his newly acquired things and settled down in front of the mirror again. With slow movements he began smearing a cleansing morning cream on to his coarse face; still sleepy, his fingers circled and pushed the white stuff across his skin, a service of love with feeling tips to a face that was becoming ever dearer to him. As elegantly as possible, he cleaned himself up with tissues and threw the crunched up balls in the wash basin with coquettish gestures not observed before. Then he applied the moisturising cream which smoothed and tightened the skin, bleached it just a touch and created a splendid foundation for the eye shadow. Most attentively he brushed on his Kleine Nachtmusik, spleen looming up around the little eyes, shadows of nocturnal tossing about and refined suffering. He highlighted the cheekbones a little with blusher but all the while he hugged himself over his coarse mouth with those lips like ones from a joke shop: out of these he would make a pink-glossed and moistly sucking openness to the entire world, a warm and flesh-pink flirting from heart to heart. Finished with this, to his regret, he listened sharply to the house and then on tiptoe fetched the wig from the permanently locked little cabinet. Back in front of the mirror, with shoulders high and angular from tension, he slowly domed the elegant mass over his stubbly pate, relishing the metamorphosis. That moment could not really be executed slowly enough and he regretted that the coiffure was in place. Holding his breath, he leant forward deeply and regarded in a misty gaze his image in which his great, pink lips still languidly massaged one another a little. Now, a touch of perfume, little-fingered wispily, in the dimple at the base of the throat, and away he crept, largest size high-heeled shoes in hand, down the stairs and on to the street.
At a safe distance from the house, he put his shoes on and walked in the morning sun in the direction of the park. He was outside like this for the first time, bursting with promise and safe from humiliating recognition and it was as if he hurled himself on to the entire world. With great intensity he tried to find the right walk for that feeling; he built one up, one with a nice, long hipline, a slight sway of the buttocks, a well-placed syncopation of the heels and a deep, wide swing of the right arm. His first whistles of praise he harvested near the tennis courts, from the morning-fresh youngsters of good taste, yet people did not recognise him there.
He sought a bench in the shade because of the make-up and, light-headed and absentminded, he awaited the moment when the tolling of bells would roll across the park and the city, and would call away the faithful from behind their coffee tables. The way to church ran through the park; whenever it was at all possible, the entire neighbourhood would take the stroll in order to get in the mood for God's word so clearly present in the raked paths, pruned shrubs, flower beds and mown grass. That was where one greeted one another, with one's hat or just a hand, with that slight but not unpleasant worry the tolling of a church bell evokes.
The youth got many looks; he saw men and women looking round furtively, peering, turning away quickly in shame or sinking into a frown, but he knew himself to be unrecognisable in his confusing conspicuousness. His ear, sharp and having a fine instinct, noticed how much irritation had crept into the previously so cheerful, unforced cries of the children who always stayed behind near the ducks and the swans.
In church he looked for a seat as far to the front as possible, at the heart of all the whisperings, and regarding the statues and frescos with great piety, he showed the churchgoers his elevated profile, the white-powdered nose now in keeping with the weight of hair, the little black eyes wide-wafted in Egyptian mascara, the muscular yet well-filled neck and the pendulous earlobes. Women's mouths carved their way in, men stared sombrely between their knees at the ground in front of them; the youth knew all too well what seething fabric of love, anger and hate bound him to the churchgoers, and a deep feeling of happiness tingled through him from his toupee to the soles of his feet.
The gaze from the little eyes of the preacher rested on him a moment and his voice began, high and strong: 'It so happens, dear friends, that I must catch the train this morning early, but this enforced haste in fact gives me precisely the opportunity to seek your attention for a fundamental matter that just occurred to me. Why, I wondered just now, did the Lord Jesus, who after all is love, tempt mankind to commit the greatest possible sin, the killing of Him - and how! Well, my good people, because He is the Truth, too, and for no other reason. Therefore: have faith in moderation, continue to hope, and love thy neighbour as you please. Furthermore, learn three prayers off by heart, one for breakfast, one the Lord's Prayer, and one for the traveller, for there are a lot of evil folk on the road and I have to travel rather a lot. A blessed morning to you all.'
Thoughtfully, the youth sniffed whiffs of incense and wax candle, slow-moving feastday-scents in which bright white tennis players made broad swings against a claret-red background. Deep inside himself, he studied them while listening to the high, lamenting boys'-voices. Some day, this! ... One full of pure mouths down to the last fibre, serious tennis faces, solemn, thin necks protruding from white lace, and pink throats swaying with godswoe.
Now and then he also cast a benevolent glance upwards for a moment, at the darkness of the arches and the yellowy-white body above the altar. Nasty business that, very nasty.-. . sure.
And yet, a peerless tennis gesture, too, stretched out broadly as if for cosmic applause. He saw himself hanging there, shatteringly coiffed, in a heavenly trance and with pitiable hands large as breakfast plates. His heart swelled with yearning for suffering, sacrifice, doom and bloom; and suddenly bunching everything together - choirboys, church and heaven - he muttered: 'And now for some coffee, a good strong cup of it.'
And in the evening, after a day to which there seemed to be no end, he walked towards his house in the gathering dusk, roamed around outside it a while, took cover among the shrubs and watched. The lawn was lit by a few standard lamps and by the big windows, a barbecue placed the summer scent of a roast on the wind, on a table decorated with flowers stood snacks, canapes and many bottles of wine. Elegantly dressed, the guests walked to and fro, the women to show off their expensive outfits, the men not to trouble others with their cigars.
In the middle of the lawn, so that everyone could see her clearly, stood the hostess, elegantly wringing her hands, who cried: 'Oh, where might he be, what could he be up to.'
'His stubble's prickling him,' said the host, looking up from a conversation a moment, 'he'll turn up again,' and he continued his discourse.
More guests arrived; they drove up, got out immaculately, exchanged words of greeting and spread out heartily across the lawn. From time to time, however, the hostess would wander to the edge of the circle of light, there where the darkness began, and she would call out worriedly: A few half-full glasses stood round her in the grass; above, heaven domed its balmy curve.
The youth in the shrubs turned round and went off into the summer night, but not for long. Not far from the house he was already being addressed by a gentleman who apparently was out on an evening stroll still and who stood out because of his screamingly expensive hat which he had placed elegantly on his turnip pate.
His clothes were immaculate for that time of day: a dresshandkerchief caught the fading light and spread the pleasant scent of soigne hotels in distant lands, atop his stick a golden knob gleamed mattly but implacably. Judged by the cut and quality of the suit, the man was successful in business relations and, judgin
g by the whiff of cologne, seasoned in financial transactions too. Yet he was nervous, and indeed, having introduced himself elaborately, he told how the frightful incident of yesteryear made him unhappy still and often robbed him of his nightly rest.
The youth regarded the man before him with great intensity, for he experienced much sympathy for all people who were in difficulty, and he searched for an apt and cheering word.
'You must know,' the man said, while far beyond his head some clouds floated past the moon that had suddenly appeared there, 'that, though my influence is large, I was not able to prevent it at the time. Truly, I put in a good deal of my time, conducted bouts of telephoning right down to far beyond the borders, but it was unpreventable. I can prevent many things, maybe all things even, but this happened as if it had happened already.'
The youth's attitude expressed both great interest as well as concern. 'Best tell the lot, ' he said, 'it eases it all.'
'I built roads and bridges,' the man said, 'deposits everywhere, liquidations of associations, stock meetings, speculations, frauds. I knew my way around everywhere and like a master. But everything suddenly collapsed, people began to ask me convoluted questions, worse, I myself began to ask myself convoluted questions. My business wilted, I left the safe wide open, no longer bolted anything, left briefcases and portfolios behind everywhere, tipped off my enemies by mistake. There seemed to be no end to the collapse; I was taken to one of the most respected asylums where in vain I tried to explain that the fate of the world was connected with mine.
'I once was able to prevent the doom of the world, for instance, by guarding heaven for a whole night; I also saved a harvest by making flocks of migrant birds change direction. That's why I beseech you to.' As the man was saying this, he carefully raised a trouserleg a little by the knee, laid his dress-handkerchief down on the stones, knelt on it and raised the great knobbly hands in the moonlight.
With mounting interest, the youth looked down on the man, on the coarse-featured, excited face, the neat starched collar, the tremendous manicured nails, and he felt great respect for this man of the world.
'Speak,' he said, 'and whatever it may be, my good man, it shall be forgiven thee - bear this in mind.'
The man jumped up, a spring in his movement, dusted down his trousers, and he said, relieved: 'Thank heaven I am still permitted to experience this.'
'What then exactly?' the youth asked, patient and curious.
'That crucifixion business, way back,' the man cried, voice breaking. 'No matter what I did, I couldn't manage. The sacrifices I made: transferring money abroad, talking the hind leg off a donkey; but come hell or high water, they wanted that cross. A right royal mess ... not short on the writhing and groaning, that was of well, we know all about it.'
The youth stepped back with shock and his mouth hung open slightly, but the man was just as quick: with both fists he grabbed the hand of the Saviour, pumped it vigorously and cried: 'I'm so sorry I wasn't able to turn things back again; oh please, I do beg your pardon.' Meanwhile, he glanced fleetingly at his watch and said: 'Up early tomorrow, must still try to get a few hours sleep.'
'So must I,' said the Redeemer, suddenly a little weak in the bladder. Where am Ito go?'
The man pointed upwards with his stick where the dark silhouette of the monastery could be seen on top of the hill. 'To the Chabotins,' he said, 'a decent order that says of itself that they're proud of their virtues and have let go of all vices.' Following this, he adjusted the angle of his hat, little finger raised elegantly, said: 'Good night, and good luck,' and walked off, unmistakably and immaculately a gentleman from the rear as well.
Remo Campert
Bertje S. had been missing for weeks. His parents, close acquaintances of mine, had, deep in their hearts, without daring to admit it to one another, given up hope of being able to lock him in their arms ever again. The police had dragged all possible rivers, canals and waterways in the area for a body, with no results whatsoever. His description had appeared in the newspapers and had been broadcast on the radio. Clairvoyants had offered their services but had not succeeded in finding a trace of the blond, six-year-old little boy.
Anton, Bertje's father, who was in the service of one of our biggest weekly magazines as an academic correspondent, sat for most of the day, as if paralysed, in an armchair by the radio which was switched on from morning till night, washing waves of sound over the head of the unhappy man. At times, however, he would jump up and telephone police inspectors whom by turn he would bawl out or, weeping, plead with to continue the search with all available force. Or he would take his car and drive around, with a pale face in which his eyes glinted feverishly, at wild speeds along little back roads, stopping, tyres screeching, at whatever farmers child he happened to spot.
Sonja, his wife, was in bed in her room, refused to take any food and had surrounded herself with photos of Bertje, toys he enjoyed playing with and drawings he had made. A smile played around her lips which I could only behold with a shudder, for sorrow that induces a smile has assumed dimensions that an outsider can no longer understand. When entering her room, she would always receive me very politely, would offer me a chair and would talk to me about this and that as if she were in bed only to rest for an hour or so from the ordinary fatigue of the day.
Then came the morning that I stepped into my car in order to drive to one of the spots in our country where there are still woods which are seldom marked by human footsteps. Day in, day out, almost, I had spent the past weeks with Anton and Sonja, and witnessing their suffering, combined with my impotence to assuage that suffering, had exhausted me. I wished to be away from all of this for a single day, in surroundings which in no way would remind me of the terrible event which had befallen my friends. At about midday I arrived in the vicinity of the woods. I parked my car in a quiet, leafy avenue. The sun was shining, the sky was cloudless and in the woods where I was walking now, setting down my feet with a sensation of physical well-being in the soft moss growing beneath the trees, it was cool and the air was scented. I felt as if reborn. All the misery I had experienced lately had slid from my shoulders like a drab cloak.
For hours I roamed without stopping until, in the end, I was so tired that I decided to rest a moment. I settled down on the moss, leaned with my back against the mighty trunk of a beech tree and lit a cigarette. I closed my eyes and relished my tiredness which, for the first time in a long while, was a healthy, physical tiredness again. It would not be long before I would return to the inhabited world once more, but this I tried to forget right now and I succeeded remarkably well.
When I had finished my cigarette, I carefully extinguished the stub, mindful of the ordinances which tell us to be careful with fire in forests and heathland. With an expansive swing I tossed the stub away, which ended up in some shrubbery that had managed to nestle here. Barely had I done this when I began to doubt whether the stub had indeed been out when I threw it away. Having been in two minds for a while, I got up with a sigh in order to go and convince myself, one way or another.
I moved the shrubs aside, bent down, and what I then saw made my blood curdle with fright.
In the shrubs was a pile of clothes. Children's clothes. Two little brown shoes, a pair of socks, underpants, a pair of khaki shorts and a vest. On top of the underwear there was a wrist watch which I picked up with trembling fingers in order to take a better look at it, though this was really me necessary as I was already sure that it was Bertje's watch. Not a real watch, but a cheap toy thing with a plastic strap, one that would not run.
Bertje had been given it by his father and he was as proud as a peacock of it. I reversed the little timepiece and saw how Bertje's.initials had been scratched into the cheap metal. Sonja had done that, and I myself had been there at the time. Not a shadow of a doubt. This was Bertje's watch and these were Bertje's clothes.
It seemed indisputable to me that his little corpse would have to be here, somewhere in the neighbourhood, who knows how grue
somely abused, for I would not find the child alive again, of this I was convinced. It was my duty to warn the police at once, but it could do no harm, I thought, to hunt around a little myself, first. But where? Unable to decide, I looked around me, the watch still in my hand. I regarded the woods in an entirely different light now. The beauties of nature had just then been a source of joy and new vigour to me; now these same beauties had become a backdrop before which a scene, the gruesomeness of which could only be guessed at, had been enacted which had cost the life of an innocent child.
I looked, but nowhere did I see a trace of Bertje. Then (perhaps by chance, but since that day I do not believe in chance any more) I cast my eyes upward and high in the tree under which I had been sitting (it was not possible, it could not be, but I knew that it was the truth), in a fork formed by two branches, gleaming grey-white in the sunlight trickling down the leaves, I saw a huge cocoon gently being rocked, to and fro, by the wind.
The Dedalus Book of Dutch Fantasy Page 11