The Evenings

by Gerard Reve

  A young woman with a rosy complexion and black hair came out of a back room. “Hello, Ina,” Frits said, “I almost forgot that it was this evening.” She walked over to a large mirror and began brushing lint from her dress. “Please, do have a seat, Mr van Egters,” Joop said. He took a box of cigarettes from a drawer and presented them.

  “Oh, but you are becoming quite bald,” Frits said. Joop did not reply. “Listen, Joop,” he started in again, “without meaning to be nasty, your scalp is really almost bare. It will not be long before you can count your hairs on the fingers of one hand.” Joop smiled, keeping his lips pursed. “I’m not going bald all that quickly,” he said. “But it seems as though you can barely wait.” With index and middle finger he felt at the deep indentations along the hairline. “I’m afraid you are,” Frits said. “Do you count the hairs in your comb each morning? If you did you would see that there are more of them each day. Slowly but surely. I would be horrified to know that I was going bald. I would lose all desire to live. But please don’t misunderstand me, I don’t mean to discourage you.”

  “Is he at it again?” Ina asked, arranging her petticoat.

  “I believe,” Frits said, “that your particular lack of interest in the malady is due to your not fearing it. Women, indeed, tend not to go bald. But still”—he turned to Joop, who had started leafing through a book—“are you listening? But still, I once knew an old woman who had perhaps twenty hairs on her head. They called her Old Scurfyscalp, because of the way her scalp flaked off in sheets. Like cheap primer.”

  “The only reason this comes up is because I never know what to say around here,” he thought. “I will go on. There’s no stopping it now.”

  “How are things with you otherwise?” Joop asked. Frits was silent. “Anything new to report?” “No,” Frits said. “Except that someone at the office told me they had set a man’s newspaper alight in the train.” “What?” Ina asked. “Look,” Frits said, “a man is sitting in a train compartment, reading his newspaper. Fully unfolded. The man across from him holds a match to the bottom of it. They told me so, and I could see it before me quite clearly. First a bit of smoke, then a huge flame. Try to imagine: suddenly, with a smack, the reader crumples his newspaper into a wad. Startled within an inch of his life.” “Well, well,” Joop said.

  “But speaking of baldness,” Frits went on, “it is a nasty business. One sees it quite often. It seems to be all the rage.” Ina poured them tea. “Do we still have time for that?” Joop asked. They lapsed into silence. “There are countless antidotes for baldness,” Frits went on, “but few are effective. There are, however, many known methods for disguising the vacuity.” “My, my,” Ina said, “aren’t we in a talkative mood this evening?”

  “What do you think?” Joop asked. “Why don’t we just take a taxi? Listen, Frits, if you weren’t such a bounder you would treat us to a taxi.” “The hell I would,” Frits said, “what a waste of money.” “But it’s true, isn’t it?” Joop continued. “You earn so much money anyway, right?” “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Frits said.

  “Go on, then, tell us something more about baldness,” Joop said. “No, I’ve forgotten everything now,” said Frits. “Listen, Ina,” he asked then, “does it truly bother women so much when their husbands have a bald head?” “I wouldn’t know,” she replied, “you would have to ask those women.”

  Frits looked at his brother, who was holding his cigarette in such a way that the glowing tip pointed straight up. “You and I, we get along swimmingly,” he said. Joop said nothing, only looked at his cigarette as a wan smile drifted across his face.

  “Interesting, that,” his brother said at last. “I’m starting to believe that it was all very terrible.” “No, not that,” Frits said. “Do you remember that jam jar?” “No,” Joop answered.

  “Don’t you remember,” Frits asked, “how I kept marine animals in a jar full of methylated spirits? That must have been, I think, fourteen years ago.” “So now I get to find out a bit about you, from the sound of it,” Ina said to Joop. “Well, go on,” Joop said.

  “We were still living in Cementwijk,” Frits said. “That jar of mine with the sea creatures in it, you threw it from the second floor, it shattered on the street. We lived across from a greengrocer’s then. The jar broke into little shards and it left a spot on the street.” “Sea creatures in spirits?” Joop asked. “I don’t remember that.”

  “I brought them home for Zandvoort,” Frits went on. “With that German fellow. The one who stayed with us, the one who had peptic ulcers. He toasted his bread on one of those electric things.” “Yes, yes, I remember that,” said Joop.

  “He had never,” Frits continued, “seen the open sea. Mother suggested that he go to the beach, and I was allowed to go with him. It was in early autumn, a Wednesday, because I had no school that afternoon and it was not a Saturday. He looked at the sun, which was going down, and his mouth fell open a little, so that it glistened on his gold teeth. We’d had a few days of stormy weather just before that, so there were all kinds of things on the beach. He just stood there staring, so I went looking for starfish and crabs and put them in my beret. He examined them, as I recall, with a great deal of interest.”

  “How is it that you are able to remember things like that?” Ina asked. “It is a gift,” Frits replied. “I kept all that junk in my hat. On our way home we went into one of those fancy shops close to the tram stop. Chocolate bars cost four cents back then, in all different flavours, but you also had those huge bars, too big to even stick in your pocket. Those cost fifty cents. I was terrified that he was going to buy a fifty-cent one, but I didn’t dare tell him that.”

  “And which one did he buy?” Joop asked. “The big ones,” Frits said. “Two of them, fifty cents apiece. He handed me one and removed the wrapper, pulled back the silver paper. I bit off a piece of it, but I didn’t like it. Strange, isn’t it?”

  “But you were talking about that jar,” said Joop. “Well,” Frits said, “at home I put them in a jam jar, covered in methylated spirits, because Father said that was every bit as good as alcohol. A few days later the spirits had already turned red. I thought it was from the animals’ blood. I held it up to the light each day.”

  Ina poured them more tea. “And why did I toss that jar out onto the street?” Joop asked. “That is the question,” answered Frits. “We’re off to a good start, I must admit,” he thought.

  “I’m afraid you’re putting a twist on things here, though,” said Joop. “I remember something about a jam jar. Thrown against the wall. But you were the one who did that.”

  “At your service,” Frits replied, “that was me, indeed. But that was a different jam jar. It was around the same time. I was keeping freshwater mussels in a jar, on a bed of cotton wool and dried burdock. On a water lily stem. That jar I threw at the head of Eli Hogeweg. When you had visitors in the evening, you would torment me in my bed. Because I was already in bed by eight thirty. You would make the bed rock back and forth. You and Eli did that and I took the jar of mussels and threw it past Eli’s head, against the wall. It was thrown past his head on purpose, it was meant to go past, but still, he was startled beyond measure. He thought I had been aiming for him. But that was absolutely not the case.”

  “A child’s petty tribulations,” Joop said. “Isn’t it time yet?” “No,” said Ina, “not yet.” “It depends on what one calls petty,” Frits went on. “Do you recall shooting my books to pieces? You and Jozef Pijp? With the air gun? All the bindings shot to tatters. That wasn’t even so long ago.” “Yes,” Joop said with a smile. “Let’s get going.”

  “The weather is no problem,” Frits said once they were outside. Ina walked between them and offered them each an arm. “How about if you run on out ahead,” Joop said as they passed the public garden, “and see if there is a taxi.”

  “Indeed,” Frits thought. “It was only a matter of time. What must be, must be.” He hurried ahead at a trot and hailed a taxi, which had just
pulled up to the stand. “Now he’s shifting to second,” he said as they drove away, “eases up, accelerates, eases off the gas, uses the clutch, shifts to third; Ina, you do know that I’m going to start driving lessons in two weeks, don’t you?” “You don’t say,” she said.

  Traffic was light and the car hummed calmly over the asphalt. Within a quarter of an hour they found themselves before the entrance of a tall building with two large wings. “There is no going back,” Frits thought. “Let us adopt an impassive or, if need be, even cheerful expression.”

  After he had paid the driver, they crossed a darkened courtyard to the entrance. Along the way Frits paused for a moment and, his gaze travelling upwards, examined a low, squarish tower where the southernmost wing merged with the body of the building proper. “We’re a bit on the early side,” Ina said. Passing through a little corridor, they entered a large hall. “We’re there,” Frits said to himself. He took a deep breath. There were two tables where tickets were being sold. He allowed the crush to lead him to the table where Joop and Ina were not standing, and bought one for himself. At the foot of the stairs, where the ticket-takers stood, they met up again and climbed past a banner reading “Berends Gymnasium, 1926–1946” and then, in a hall even smaller than the one below, found themselves before the entrance to an auditorium. “Here it comes now,” Frits thought. They hung their coats in the foyer. Frits lingered, paid a visit to a water closet and saw, when he came out, Ina and Joop disappearing into the crowd. “One down,” he said, peering cautiously around him.

  Suddenly he heard someone cry “Frits!” and, when he looked towards the sound, the same crow-like voice called out again: “Van Egters!” A short, thickset young man with dark, pomaded hair parted slightly off-centre came up to him. “By Jove,” he said, “so you’ve shown up too!” He slapped Frits on the shoulder and shook his hand, almost forcing him to reach down. “Were he any shorter, I should have to bow,” Frits thought. “Of course,” he said, “and I see that you have not left this earthly vale either; it has been a very long time.” They lapsed into silence. The boy squinted his little eyes and rubbed his hands together. He was wearing a black formal suit, a bow tie and shoes with a sharply tapered toe. “He’s going to ask questions,” Frits thought. “Let me bring myself into readiness.” He kept a close eye on the other.

  The moment the boy’s mouth began to move again, Frits said right away: “Henk, how have you been lately?” He said it with such haste and urgency that drops of saliva flew from his lips. “You speak in all humidity,” the young man said with a grin, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I was just about to ask you the same thing. It’s not something you can tell in short so quickly. You would say: strange, inadmissible practices. You would have found some weird word for it, van Egters; god-oh-god, I’ll never forget how we laughed about that seal. It’s an elderly seal.”

  “You’re not up to much, I take it?” Frits asked hurriedly, when the other paused for a moment. “Student emeritus, I suppose. Dropping in on a class now and then for the sake of form, and otherwise waiting till every day’s a Sunday and the fair has come to town?” “A feeble attempt,” he thought, “awfully feeble.” “Am I not right?” he asked.

  The other burst out laughing. “All right, Egters,” he said, “but I am registered. Officially, I’m studying medicine. Christ, what a tough subject that is.”

  “That is one of the few faculties for which I feel respect,” said Frits. “As if there were anything for which you actually feel respect,” the boy said, tapping him forcefully on the chest with his fist. “I’m not in any hurry,” he said. “You are not overextending yourself,” Frits said, “I was not worried about that.”

  Swept up in the crowd, they approached the entrance to the auditorium. “I also do a bit of business on the side,” the young man said. “Last week I went to Brussels. God-oh-god, did I ever have a good time. It would have been right down your alley too.” “Does it pay reasonably well?” Frits asked. “At times,” the other replied, “but the market fluctuates. The life of a businessman is no bed of roses, Mr Egters.” As he spoke these words he raised his hand, waggled it, and winked. “And what are you up to these days?” he asked. “Do you have any idea why these people are being so pushy?” Frits asked. “Maybe I’ll get away with it,” he thought.

  “Hey, Frits,” the other insisted, “what are you doing at the moment?”

  “I’m keeping my eyes open for something good,” Frits replied. “At the moment I’m working in an office.” He held his ground against the throng, shifted to the left and saw how the young man drifted further and further away from him. “See you later,” the other shouted. “So far everything is, indeed, going the way I’d expected,” Frits mumbled. “We shall see.”

  He was pushed into the auditorium. It was a long, high room with bare walls, the ceiling of which rose to a point like a dome. Each of the big chandeliers bore three glass globes. The walls above the podium were decorated with stylized murals with Greek lettering. Everywhere was the din of yellow wooden chairs scraping across the parquet floor.

  The auditorium was not yet full. The crush at the entrance ebbed rapidly. He remained standing at the back of the room, looked around for a moment and then walked slowly down the centre aisle. He saw a man with thin white hair approaching and slid, as though with purpose, into an empty row. “It’s Vogel,” he thought. “Why am I hiding?” When the man had passed, he walked back slowly towards the exit.

  “Egters, why are you wandering around here like a little lost lamb?” a voice beside him asked. A slim young man reached out once he had turned around, and shook his hand. Frits smiled and looked closely at the handsome, bronzed face with its deep-set, dark blue eyes. “Look for the brand when you buy toothpaste,” he thought. “Wandering?” he replied, “I’m not wandering. It’s bound to be a nasty business this evening, don’t you think, Wim?” The young man looked at him for a few moments before replying casually: “Why’s that? It could be quite nice.” “It has been so long since we’ve seen each other,” he went on. “How are things with you?” “I’m doing well enough,” Frits said. They fell silent. Frits stared at the floor in front of him. “I’ll see you later,” the boy said, and walked on.

  “I should have known what I was getting into,” Frits thought. The door was closed and everyone took a seat. He quickly found a place in one of the back rows, which was empty.

  The crowd grew quiet and a piano started in on a few robust bars. “The alma mater,” he thought, “here it comes.” All stood and began to sing. “‘Sumus’,” he thought, “I still know that much. But how does the rest go? I can’t understand a word they’re saying. Sloppy articulation.”

  A boy with thick spectacles stepped up to the lectern. Around his neck, on a black and red ribbon, he wore a medallion. “I wish all of you a warm welcome,” he said in a feeble voice. “Now I would like to hand over the floor to our principal, who will open this commemorative evening.” A man with a fat, fleshy face approached the lectern. “The mouth is droopier than ever,” Frits thought. “He could survive quite well without a comb.” He listened and looked at the big, bald head that swayed to the left and then to the right at the end of every sentence. The words were loud and easily understood, but they did not get through to him. He looked at the windows, the ceiling, the doors and the seat of his chair, then stuck his thumb in his mouth.

  When the principal was finished, a man with thick, grey hair took the floor. He wore a pair of dark, heavy spectacles and spoke in a muffled, nasal voice. “Shh, shh,” the audience demanded. By the time the second speaker was done, fifteen minutes had passed. The evening’s programme started with an old Dutch play featuring bright costumes.

  After that the boy with the medallion moved up to the lectern again and said: “The following is a Greek one-act play. It was found written on a roll of papyrus during an Egyptian excavation. I would like to draw your attention to the following passages.” He began reading aloud from a sheet of pa
per. “I’ll be damned if I understand a bit of it,” Frits thought. “I forgot to buy a programme, at least that’s a penny saved.” The performance began. Frits leaned forward and looked at the floor. “There is not a single word of it that means a thing to me,” he thought. “Still, I applaud.” When it was over he clapped his hands long and loudly, like the others. It was intermission. Everyone hurried to the hall, where lemonade was sold. Frits was one of the first ones there. Taking his bottle, he withdrew from the crowd and leaned against the banister. The hall filled quickly, and little groups of people chatting formed everywhere.

  He strolled through the upstairs corridors, gazing at the classroom doors and sucking lemonade through his straw, then walked back. In the hall, Joop and Ina were talking to a fat man in a brown, neatly pressed suit. Frits bit the insides of his cheeks, came closer, held out his hand and said: “Good evening, Mr Wening.” The one so addressed looked surprised, then quickly seized the hand held out to him and adopted a pensive expression.

  “Frits van Egters, younger brother of Joop van Egters,” Frits said. “The failure.” “Oh,” the man replied, his fat, red face holding on to a smile. “Well,” he said to Ina and Joop, “it’s like I was saying: whether they left two years ago or ten years ago, there is no difference; funny, that. Once you know someone, that never changes. Ina remains Ina, but I have no idea exactly when it was. When did you two graduate, when was that?” “In thirty-eight,” Joop said. “Both of you?” the man asked.

  “We were in the same class,” Joop replied. “An idyll, pure and true,” the man said. Rocking his corpulent frame forward, he raised his eyebrows, producing a crease in his shiny forehead and a quiver in his smooth, pasty blond hair. “Well, well,” he said with half-bated breath. He moved his right hand without raising it all the way.

  “We heard that you were leaving—leaving the school,” Ina said. “Oh really?” the man asked, “who told you that?” “We just heard,” said Ina. “I must admit, my child, that it is news to me,” he said in an amused tone. “No,” he went on slowly, “those are the little disappointments of life: I’m sure I will never leave here again.”