If the Union of European Pig Producers was going to fall apart, what point was there in taking on the responsibility? How absurd it was to want none of this but to take on the responsibility anyway. For what? Just to act as a puppet for people with common interests who formed a community, only to wage relentless conflicts of interest within that community until the common interest was no more.
He saw people up ahead on the motorway. Pedestrians! Ghostly figures were marching towards him. Men, women and children bowed beneath the hoods of raincoats or with plastic bags over their heads, some with blankets around their shoulders, some carrying bags, others wheeling cases, the windscreen wipers moved back and forth, like hands trying to rub this image out, wipe it away, then he heard his satnav say, “Please turn around at the first available opportunity!” That was insane! He was on a motorway, the satnav was telling him to turn around and pedestrians were heading towards him. He put on his hazard lights, slowed to a walking pace, then saw more blue lights, police cars on the hard shoulder, police officers waving glow sticks. He stopped. More and more people emerged from the grey wall of rain into the beam of his headlights. There were so many of them. Dozens. Hundreds.
David de Vriend had never found that being especially friendly had helped him in life – or rather, in his afterlife – let alone bailed him out. Nor did he expect friendliness. Politeness, yes. Politeness was civilisation. Propriety. This he would, in fact he wanted to stick with. But why, if he said “Pleased to meet you,” should he behave as if he really were pleased?
He had been able to show feelings, but only if they were genuine. Love, that selflessness which brings out the best in one, and gratitude, such an inner and existential gratitude that it even replaces one’s lost faith in God. And he had learned to conceal feelings, fear, or the feeling of emptiness, feelings he could never be rid of, but was able to hide away. Meanwhile he had learned to be mistrustful so subtly that his wariness functioned in a discreet, illuminating way, like a night-vision device. But friendliness, especially an instantaneous friendliness towards strangers, was for him mere hamming it up by character actors, as grotesque as a glass eye striving to look friendly.
As he left his room he said Goedemiddag, nodding politely to the man unlocking the door to the neighbouring room. Bonjour, the man said, immediately taking two steps towards him. The beam from the ceiling light caught his snow-white hair, illuminating it like a halo. Bonjour, Monsieur.
David de Vriend nodded again and was about to hurry on his way, but instead looked – just for a second, yet this was still too long – in wonder at the man lit up by the ceiling spot. He wore a raincoat with a moiré pattern, which switched between light green and beige at the slightest movement. His face shone as if he had just applied a cream.
Bonjour, Monsieur, permettez-moi de me présenter, the man said and gave his name: Romain Boulanger. He offered de Vriend his hand, beaming as if this were the happiest moment of his life.
De Vriend shook his hand formally, told the man his name and then said Aangenaam, before correcting himself: Enchanté! All perfectly polite, but it threatened to develop into an irritatingly friendly conversation.
Oh, he spoke French.
He ought to have said, Not very well, I’m afraid, then apologised and left, but instead he said, Oui, Monsieur. Many Flemings spoke passable French and David de Vriend spoke it perfectly. After escaping from the train on which he was being deported he had been hidden for two years, between the ages of fourteen and sixteen, by a Walloon family in Villers-la-Ville, until someone informed on him just before the end of the war. At the time, French had been his second mother tongue, the language of his surro-gate parents, and the language of love in an existential sense. He was immediately nauseated by the exaggerated way in which this stranger – what was his name again? – said, Quel bonheur and then again, Quel bonheur, what luck, then babbled away that he was the new resident, he’d moved in that day, how nice to meet his neighbour straight away, he hoped they would have good neighbourly relations, at any rate this was a splendid start, and what luck that Monsieur de Vriend spoke French, he’d already noted that some residents only spoke Flemish, including some of the staff, that had unsettled him at first, that there were staff in the Maison Hanssens who weren’t French speakers, not competent ones at any rate, like the carer who had run through the house rules with him, a Madame Godelieve, that was an unpronounceable name, Godelieve.
Yes, Monsieur, do you know her? Well, he hadn’t understood what she was saying, but thankfully he had arranged it so that he was now looked after by Madame Joséphine . . .
What luck!
Monsieur Boulanger’s coat kept changing colour.
Yes, Monsieur, very nice, very helpful, but – he pulled a mischievous face and raised his index finger – you mustn’t ever call her “nurse”, it was true that they weren’t in a hospital here, even if she went around wearing a cap, did he know her?
David de Vriend nodded.
At any rate, he was delighted to have such a nice neighbour. Had he been here long? He must, he absolutely must tell him all about it here and give him some tips, maybe at dinner or later over a glass of wine.
David de Vriend could not bring himself willingly to agree to this suggestion, to say yes, of course, I’d love to, he was hunting for a polite answer that didn’t commit him to anything, at the same time he was distracted by the fact that this man’s face reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t say who. Monsieur Boulanger took a small step forwards, thereby moving out of the direct beam of the spotlight, his hair and face at once stopped shining and turned grey, and he said, Oh, but I’m detaining you! Had he really said “arrêter”? Please excuse me! I shan’t detain you any longer! See you later!
When De Vriend walked into the dining room he noted there was no table where he could sit alone. He was about to turn around and go to Le Rustique – in the meantime he had sorted out his discount there – but he was immobilised by Madame Joséphine. There we are, she said, so loudly that he flinched, then she pushed him energetically to a table at which the professor was sitting, who “we”, as Madame Joséphine said, had already met, haven’t we, Monsieur de Vriend, when we had that little mishap with the fish bone, didn’t we, but there’s no danger of that today, because we’ve got a delicious waterzooi, alright? Professor, may I sit your acquaintance, Monsieur de Vriend, beside you?
How was he, did he feel happy in the home, did he have any family who came to visit? Politely but curtly, David de Vriend answered the questions with which the professor – what was his name again? – was trying to make conversation. Then came a moment of silence while they ate their starter – a fennel and orange salad – and de Vriend wondered whether it would be impolite to ask the professor his name yet again, i.e. admit that he’d already forgotten it, whereas the professor had addressed him directly. He thought it would be more proper to ask rather than attempt to cover up his inattentiveness, which would be tedious and ultimately embarrassing.
The professor did not appear in the least annoyed, in fact he was happy to venture the information. His name was Gerrit Rensenbrink, he said, fumbling in his wallet and taking out a business card. He pushed away his plate and placed the card in front of him. Professor at the University of Leuven, he said, now with a biro in his hand with which he crossed out “Katholieke Universiteit”. He was retired. Head of the research centre for political history, he said, crossing out the corresponding line on the card. His main field of research had been the history of nationalism, in particular the history of collaboration in Belgium and the Netherlands during the Second World War. What was he crossing out now? His e-mail address and telephone number. These didn’t exist anymore, he said.
There you are, he said, pushing the card towards David de Vriend. At that moment there was a crash: Monsieur Boulanger slamming the door too energetically behind him. David de Vriend looked up, Romain Boulanger raised his hands apologetically and said, Pardon, Messieurdames, looked around, noticed de
Vriend and hurried smiling over to his table.
Puis-je me joindre à vous? he said, How marvellous that we can continue our conversation so soon.
He sat down, nodded to Professor Rensenbrink – it was more of a seated bow than a nod – and said, I’m the new boy, so to speak. May I introduce myself? My name is . . .
As he chattered on, de Vriend felt terribly tired. The starter plates were cleared away and dishes of waterzooi arrived. There was a rattling and clattering followed by a sudden silence – Professor Rensenbrink apologised that he didn’t speak French.
Oh! And Monsieur Boulanger didn’t speak Flemish.
De Vriend had always liked waterzooi, or at least he’d never had a problem with it, occasionally you were served waterzooi, in the school canteen there had been waterzooi from time to time and he had always eaten what he was given. Of course, he would go for coq au vin if ordering chicken in a restaurant, but he would never dream of making a fuss, if it was waterzooi then waterzooi it was and he was grateful. He glanced at the chunks of meat, looked up, Professor Rensenbrink and Monsieur Boulanger were staring at him. In desperation? Helplessly? But it had nothing to do with the waterzooi, which smelled funny, de Vriend thought. Was that a spice he wasn’t familiar with, or was it the smell of decay, already?
Vous devez m’aider! You have to help me, Monsieur de Vriend! The monsieur doesn’t speak French, would you be so kind as to translate? Nodding again to Rensenbrink, Boulanger said, Mon nom est Romain Boulanger . . .
His name is Romain Boulanger . . .
Ik begrip dat . . .
J’étais journaliste jusqu’à récemment chez Le Soir . . . He’d been retired for ten years, but still wrote articles now and again, you couldn’t just give it all up, the gentlemen knew how it was, surely, you couldn’t wave goodbye to your life from one day to the next, obviously they weren’t letting him write anything important these days, but he was grateful they let him write at all, and it was fun, for example, the story of the phantom pig, maybe you heard about it, the pig that . . . well anyway . . . He paused and jerked his head to signal that de Vriend should kindly translate for Professor Rensenbrink.
Alors, de Vriend said, il a dit qu’il était un journaliste. Retraité.
But he’s still writing. About a pig.
Boulanger looked at him in astonishment, hesitated, de Vriend said, c’est tout, and Boulanger continued, Yes, if he had a vineyard he’d look after it with passion, or at least a house with a garden, perhaps he’d just prune roses and read. All he’d had, however, was an apartment, a nice, large apartment in Ixelles, but what was there to do there, then his wife died and he felt constricted by every- thing, the apartment, it was a big apartment, but he’d felt cramped, after his wife’s death he couldn’t possibly have a daily routine there, a continuation of his daily routine, all he could do was shuffle from one wall to another, and he wasn’t able to manage it any more . . .
What did he say?
Manage it, it all got too much for him, and at the same time not enough, could the gentlemen understand this, at any rate it wasn’t his life any longer —
Wat heeft hij gezegd?
Taking a deep breath, David de Vriend repeated what Boulanger had said and when he noted Professor Rensenbrink’s surprise he added that it was understandable. That after the death of his wife, Monsieur Boulanger —
Oui, Monsieur, Boulanger said, but you . . . I thought . . .
At that moment de Vriend felt an anxiety in his chest that made him breathless. He felt hot too, it was burning shame, he realised that . . .
He hadn’t translated what Monsieur Boulanger had said in French, he had just repeated it.
He lowered his head, stared at the chunks of meat on his plate, got to his feet and walked away, out of the dining room. The door closed with a bang.
Seven
How can you not believe in the future if you are aware of mortality?
THE DAYS GOT warmer, unusually warm for the time of year. When people met in the corridors, canteen or lift they now made witty remarks about global warming.
We in Brussels are the clear winners in this development!
Something else for them to get at us for: another privilege for the Brussels bureaucrats!
You’ve got me to thank for the warm weather. I’ve only ever used aerosol deodorants!
We’re shooting ourselves in the feet with these climate regulations!
Everyone ignores them anyway – we’ll soon be growing palm trees here in Brussels, you’ll see!
But this was the Ark, not the Directorate-General for Climate Policy, and in truth nobody was laughing at these banal jokes; it was just that the sun had been shining for several days in this rainy city, and at a chilly time of year. The sun was reflected on people’s radiant faces, it shone from their eyes, it glinted in windows and gleamed on the metal of the street traffic.
Following his meeting with Xeno, Martin Susman had fleshed out his paper for the Jubilee Project. She had added a few written comments and now he had to revise the document and develop it further, so it could form the basis of an Inter-Service Consultation. That was the next step. He had promised to deliver the paper by the end of the week, but there were still some unanswered questions, or one major unanswered question, at least. He needed to resolve the issue as rapidly as possible with Bohumil, who had been tasked with addressing it. He went to his office and asked him whether he fancied a spot of lunch.
In this weather we could wander down to place Jourdan. How about Brasserie L’Esprit? I think you can even sit outside there.
Great idea! Shall I call and reserve a table?
Please do. I’ll go and fetch my jacket.
Tractors were coming down rue Joseph II.
Is this a farmers’ demo?
What?
Farmers’ demo! Martin yelled.
Bohumil shrugged.
A long convoy of tractors. People stood on the trailers of some of them, shouting something that was drowned out by the noise of the engines, horns and whistles.
The side streets were blocked off by police cars parked sideways.
Martin and Bohumil made for rond-point Schuman. It was impossible to talk. They could see more tractors chugging down rue Archimède and avenue de Cortenbergh, tractors carrying loads of manure, between them groups of people marching with pitchforks and scythes. It looked menacing and yet from a completely different era, fury in traditional costume. At rond-point Schuman, between the Commission and Council buildings, and all the way down rue de la Loi stood tractors, manure was unloaded, banners unfurled, it stank of diesel, black clouds of exhaust fumes hung in the sunlight, a young woman stood on a trailer, topless, brandishing a tricolore, Martin stopped to watch, police waved him on – Continuez s’il vous plaît, ga verder alsjeblieft – guiding pedestrians through the barriers, they came to rue Froissart, where it was quieter, and they walked on in silence to place Jourdan.
In the brasserie, or rather, outside the brasserie, because you could sit outside, Martin and Bohumil lit cigarettes, glanced at the menu and ordered the dish of the day – waterzooi de la mer – and some white wine and water. Bohumil blew smoke rings into the air and said, It’s like being on holiday, don’t you think? I’m already worried about going home.
Going home? What do you mean?
I have to go home on Friday. My sister’s getting married on Saturday.
The waitress brought the wine, Bohumil took a sip and said, And it’s going to be horrendous. She’s marrying Květoslav Hanke. The name will mean nothing to you, but he’s quite well known in Prague. In fact he’s notorious. He is . . . how do you say it in English? We call it křikloun. Yes, a thug. A fairly radical Úsvit member of parliament – they’re our nationalist party, die-hard opponents of the E.U., of course. It’s completely mad, isn’t it? Here I am, working for the European Commission, and my brother-in-law is working to destroy the E.U.
Seriously? Don’t tell me you’re their witness?
No, of course not. My sister still has some sensitivity. For the time being, at least. It was obvious that she wouldn’t even think of asking me. I gave her a pretty hard time when she told me about her sweetheart. I first found out about their relationship from the television. I look at the Czech news on the internet from time to time. And there he was, in a report about a charity event. Charity! These murderers organise charity events for poor criminals! When he came on the screen, this member of parliament, a voice said, Accompanied by his charming new girlfriend – and what do I see? My sister! I called her at once and confronted her. All she said was, Men!
Men!
Yes, she thinks political differences are just a male quirk. Women are responsible for love, and men for idiotic conflicts.
That’s your sister?
Lunch was served, Bohumil put his spoon into the dish and shovelled around as if trying to turn everything upside down. Shaking his head, he said, Can you picture the wedding? The reception? Prague’s entire fascist scene will be there, and Květoslav has sold the photo rights to Blesk . . .
To who?
Blesk. It’s a newspaper. The name means lightning. A tabloid.
Lightning? Clearly the opposite of enlightenment.
Bohumil made an agonised expression.
I wouldn’t go, Martin said.
It’s my sister. And our mother said that if I don’t go she’ll kill herself.
I wouldn’t go, Martin repeated. He was shocked. He liked Bohumil and thought he knew him. He would never have imagined that his happy-go-lucky colleague, who had just been blinking blissfully into the sun, could have such an existential problem. He thought that he . . .
Bohumil said something, all Martin understood was “pre-war era”, had he really said “pre-war era”? At that point Martin’s mobile rang and he answered, said, I’m in a meeting, I’ll call you back, and asked Bohumil, I’m sorry, what did you say?
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