by Gerard Reve
When the piece was over, he turned off the radio. After sitting still for ten minutes, he got up. “If I don’t want to be drowsy this evening,” he thought, “I should take a little nap right now.” He went to his room and lay down on the bed, sat back up halfway to remove his jacket, and listened to the blood pounding in his head. “I should get up,” he thought, “and fetch a blanket from the cupboard. But I cannot force myself to sit up straight. I don’t have the strength.” From outside, the sound of children at play reached his ears. “When I was seven,” he thought, “I cut grass on the lawn with a normal pair of scissors and saved it in a paper cornet. I’m lying here like a sick man.” Gradually he dozed off.
He heard a class of schoolchildren singing the song “This old man, he played one, he played knick-knack on my thumb”. Then he was walking across a vacant site where children had built forts and dug holes. The weather was sunny and warm.
He came to a canal where a sand barge lay at anchor. Workmen were lashing it behind a tug. He stood on the bank and saw that, in the sand that filled the hold to the very rim, a grave had been fashioned, like a raised bed for garden cress or radishes. It was marked by a cross of sticks with some of the bark still on them, but bore no name.
Slowly the tug, which had built up a head of steam, began to move and the barge slid away. He started shouting, but no one heard him. The ship with the funeral cross slipped further into the distance. He began to weep.
When he awoke at five thirty, the pillow was wet with tears. He got up, went into the kitchen and prepared his dinner.
Using a fork, he ate the cold, clotted pea soup from the pan, waiting until the onions in the frying pan were hot, then spread a few spoonfuls of onion on four slices of bread and ate them, blowing away the heat. With half a bottle of milk and a packet of powder he made custard, but added too much sugar, so that the taste of it made his cheeks pucker. “I forgot the meat,” he thought, and looked in the pan. “Breaking up the layer of lard is too time-consuming,” he said to himself, “and I don’t have the patience to let it melt. I can’t stand here and wait for that.”
When he had turned off the gas, his father came home. Frits heard him hang up his coat, panting loudly, enter the living room and then return through the hallway to the kitchen.
“Is Mother home?” he asked, standing in the doorway. “She has gone to Haarlem, I believe,” Frits said. “Is there anything to eat?” “We can set the table,” Frits replied. He set the table in the living room on two sides, placed all that was left over in dishes and heated the gravy.
“Help yourself first,” his father said, once they were seated. Frits took some of the onions and fried potatoes. His father helped himself to the rest, began to eat, but then saw Frits’s portion and, using his fork and knife, ladled half his helping onto his son’s plate. Frits did not speak. When they were finished, they remained seated without a word. They had not touched the meat. “Away, away from here,” Frits thought.
“I’m in a bit of a hurry,” he said, “I have to go. Would you put the pans and plates in to soak? Otherwise the food will cake to them.”
He put on his dark-blue suit and dabbed his face with cold water. Peeking cautiously through the living room door he saw his father sitting, bent over, his head resting on one hand. He crossed the hallway, threw on his coat and, his hand already on the knob, shouted: “I’m leaving! See you later!” From the room he heard a mumbled reply. He descended the stairs quickly and hurried around the corner.
Within fifteen minutes he had reached Jaap Elderer’s house. Jaap was still at table. “Would you like some pudding?” Joosje asked. “A nice fresh bowl of pudding, Frits my boy,” said Jaap. “No, thank you,” Frits said, “I have just eaten. Have I perhaps arrived a bit too early? It feels rather cold to me in here.”
“We let the fire go out,” Jaap said. “As an economy measure. But then that door needs to remain closed.” He rose and kicked the door to the stairs, which was open, shut with a loud bang. “Darling,” he said to Joosje, “when you come in with this, that or the other thing, do be sure to close the door behind you. A draught is wind inside the home.” “A draught is wind inside the home,” he repeated, turning to Frits, “am I right?”
“Yes,” he replied, “a draught is wind inside the home. You are right. But the definition is not reversible. That is a foul omen. I mean: wind inside the home is not of necessity a draught.”
“I’m not sure about that,” said Jaap, pushing away his empty bowl. “Once again, you are splitting hairs. What else could wind in the home be, if not a draught?” “Just imagine,” Frits said, “a room with doors and windows that are closed tightly. But there is a vent open. Through it a gust of wind enters now and again, blowing the papers off the table. Gusts. But not a draught. Or beside an open window. The wind breezes through it, yet it is not a draught. But very much wind in the home.” “You are right,” Jaap said, “I’ll give you that. Do you know what a draught is? A draught is wind that passes through the home. Have a cigarette.” “That’s more like it,” said Frits. “What time are we leaving?” “In half an hour,” Jaap replied.
“Is it slippery out?” Joosje asked. “Slippery?” said Frits, “why would it be slippery? It would have to rain first, and it is not like that at all.” “First rain, then frost,” Jaap said, “that makes it nice and slippery. Sprinkle generously with sand and powdered ash. We count on the public’s cooperation.” He began to hiccup with laughter and tilted his head to one side. “People need to give each other a leg up, don’t you think, sir?” he asked, rubbing his hands together. “I have an acquaintance who is an Esperantist.”
The bell rang; a few moments later Viktor came up the stairs. He was wearing a skating cap. “Welcome, baron,” Frits said. The four of them went out of the door. “Are you leaving little Hans all alone?” Frits asked as they were going down the stairs. “Yes, of course,” said Jaap. “That’s the best thing for a child: as much love and as little care as possible.” “And what if there is a fire?” Frits asked. “Then that is force majeure,” said Jaap. “The child will suffocate before the fire reaches him. It is not such a big deal. People make far too much fuss about it. As long as there’s plenty of smoke. That thick, greenish kind.”
“The four confederates,” Frits said as they walked outside. “Shouldn’t we actually be making plans to go to Kastrikum again this summer? But not in one of those cottages: we need to go camping.”
“Then you die of cold,” said Viktor. “Camping, that is a grand thing,” Frits said, “I’ve gone camping often. Jaap, don’t you think so?”
“It is pleasant enough,” said Jaap, “but nothing to get excited about.”
They walked along the river to the centre of town, passing a number of busy junctions, and arrived at a large square, where they climbed a set of stone steps beside a café. Jaap pressed a white doorbell, then pressed it again. The broad glass doors opened. “Are we the first?” he shouted up the stairs. “No, not the first,” a fat little man shouted down to them. With the light at his back, they could make out only his silhouette.
“Here,” Frits said to Jaap as they climbed the stairs, “I have twelve guilders on me. I’m not spending a penny more. You are handling the cash tonight, aren’t you?” Jaap folded the banknotes and placed them in his pocket.
They came to a broad, empty foyer, where they wrote their names in a book on a little table. “Who is this gentleman?” asked the man who had opened the door for them, pointing at Frits. “That is Mr van Egters,” Jaap said, “he is my guest this evening.”
Then they entered a wide room, the largest part of which was taken up by a dance floor. Its bare white walls were painted with whimsical drawings. There was no one there; in the corner was a cloakroom where, under glass, in a case, sandwiches were on sale. A girl took their coats. They returned to the foyer and turned left into a bar area, where three men were seated around a table. A grey-haired lady was writing in the corner.
After greeting the
others, they looked for a table. “Good evening, Arnold,” said Jaap. “Mr Elde,” replied the man at the tap, who was holding a bottle up to the light. He had a fat, shiny face and wavy grey hair. Jaap ordered four sherries.
“Still, I tell you, there’s a system to it,” said one of the three men, who wore his spectacles on the tip of his nose. He ran a hand over his bald head. “They sit around with lists, whole pages full of numbers. They spend all day calculating. And it works, that’s the crazy thing about it.” The two others laughed. Frits listened closely. “No, in all seriousness,” the speaker continued. “When it has landed on red six times in a row, there’s a much greater chance that the next time it will be black. You need to realize: they spend all morning making notes. Not playing, just taking notes. That requires quite some discipline, not to start playing. Then they see—let us say—then they see that number eighteen has almost never been touched. That afternoon they put their money on eighteen. And they win.”
“That’s nonsense,” said one of the other two, a man with thin, curly hair. “When it has landed on black ten times in a row, then there’s just as great a chance that it will be black again next time. That wheel doesn’t know what it has been landing on, now does it?”
“Damn,” said the first man now, “that is what I thought too. But you should sit and watch them. They’re calculating the whole time. It’s enough to make you dizzy.” The lady stopped writing, removed her spectacles and looked at the speaker.
“That woman,” Jaap whispered to Frits, “earns a living from gambling alone.” “That is no minor achievement,” Frits said.
“I was in Monaco,” said the third man of the three. He had a puffed face and beady little eyes; he was still wearing his thick, green greatcoat. “There was a fellow there who put his money on the number of his cloakroom ticket, as soon as he walked in. He kept at it for a while, never anything but that number.” “And?” the lady asked. “He won.”
“Jesus,” said the man at the tap, who had been leaning over the bar, listening. “I know what I’d do. I’d keep turning in my coat, taking a number every time, and winning every time. And go out for a spin around the block every tenth time, to put it all in the bank.” Everyone laughed.
“Can just anyone get into the casino there?” asked the man with the thin, curly hair. “Yes, if one looks fairly respectable,” the man in the green coat replied. “It would have been tough for you, but I could have introduced you as my guest.” He fell silent for a moment, then went on: “One time I was wearing my pullover back to front, you know what I mean, without a tie. But they wouldn’t allow it, a fellow came up to me right away. I went to the Gents and took it off, put it back on the other way around. But of course I didn’t have a tie. They didn’t say anything about that, though, that didn’t matter. It looked much more ridiculous than before, of course, but they didn’t care about that.”
“Three shots and a sherry,” Jaap shouted. When their drinks came, he had Frits and Viktor raise their glasses in a toast and said: “Ad fundum.” Jaap and Frits emptied their glasses at one go, but Viktor started coughing. Joosje took little nips of her sherry and was silent. “You’re not saying much,” Frits said. He looked around the bar. The barman was filling a large pot-belly stove. “Actually,” Frits said to Jaap, “this place is awfully bare. They could at least have put up some wallpaper.” “That yellows too quickly, from the smoke,” said Viktor. “Come now, is that such a problem?” Frits asked. “Then you just paper it again.” Jaap held out his cigarettes. “My father,” he said, “lived for fourteen years in a room with two different kinds of wallpaper.” “What?” Viktor asked. “Yes,” said Jaap; “his father, my grandfather in other words, had said: Let’s paper the room a bit more nicely. He wanted to do it himself, on the cheap. He bought paper, mixed the glue, and started in on a Sunday afternoon. But when he had finished half the room, he was so exhausted that he put it all away again. We’ll go on next week, he said. But he never did. It stayed that way until they moved, fourteen years later.” “Shall we have another?” he asked. “Not me,” Viktor said. Frits and Jaap rose and ordered shots at the bar, which they dispatched at a toss. Then they returned to their chairs. From the foyer came the sound of voices. A moment later a sturdy-looking man with a huge head of hair came in, accompanied by a thin woman in a green velvet dress. “Look, look, Dirk,” Jaap called out, “over here.” The two sat down at the table. “It’s awfully dead in here,” the man said. “If I’d known, I would have come an hour later. I need something to drink.” “Two coffees,” he shouted, then laughed shrilly. “Do knock it off,” said the woman, “I don’t like it at all.” “Marie,” he said, “now don’t cross me.” The coffee was put down before them. “Someone just told me,” he said, “about a fellow once who was sentenced to die. He’s going to be decapitated, he has to lay his head on the block. So he leans over”—he demonstrated by lowering his head to the tabletop, his hands on both sides—“and do you know what the headsman says? Get your mitts out of the way, that could cost you your fingers!” He slapped the table repeatedly. “The gospel truth,” the man at the tap called out. “Oh,” Dirk said, “they really are on the ball around here.” “You just wait and see,” the man shouted back.
They heard a rumbling on the stairs. A dozen guests entered, one after the other. From the dance floor they heard the sound of a gramophone starting up.
“What time is it?” Viktor asked. “Mine says going on eight thirty,” said Frits. Those who had just entered moved to tables of their own. “Marie, look, there’s Owl,” the sturdy-looking man said, got up and went to the foyer. The woman followed him.
“Let us have one more,” Jaap said. He and Frits drank a quick shot at the bar. “And one for Viktor,” he said; he placed a third shot glass gingerly on the table. Viktor drank with a grimace. “Now don’t go spoiling things,” Frits said. “We have no need of nasty faces like that around here. Watch out, otherwise we won’t take you camping.” “Frits wastes no time making plans,” Viktor said. “Can’t we simply go abroad this summer?” “I’ve never been across the border,” replied Frits, “except when I was about seven, across the German border, to pick blackberries.”
“You remember those two cousins of mine, don’t you, Dolf and Ab?” Jaap asked. “The ones who drove you around on that carrier bike?” Frits said. “One of them threw that rubbish into the classroom that time, are those the ones?”
“Yes, exactly,” Jaap said. “They used to go camping too, every year; they called it ‘trekking’. They had office jobs and they lived in Haarlem. They still do, actually. They would leave on Saturday afternoon, and arrive at our place around dinnertime. Then it was always: come now, stay and eat with us. Fine, they would stay and eat. By then it was dark out: well, I think we’d be better off leaving in the morning. Fine, so they spent the night. On Sunday morning they packed all the things they had unpacked the night before: bananas, eggs, the primus stove, whatever else it may have been. Then everything was ready, but it always turned out that one of them had a flat tyre. So they would carry the bike back upstairs and fix the flat on the balcony. My mother, she just let them muddle about. Around noontime they were finished: well then, stay and have a sandwich. The bananas, bread, eggs and primus stove—they always packed that on top, of course—were all unpacked again. And around one thirty they finally cycled off. First they would go to Blaricum. They had a grandmother living there, a sweet woman. They would arrive late in the afternoon—because they’d stopped for a rest somewhere—and stay for dinner. You know what, they would say then, it’s too late to go on now. Grandma, they said then, we’re going to put up the tent back there. Behind the house was a little stand of trees, I should have said that before. The grandmother—she died a few years back—couldn’t stand the thought, of course: sleeping in a tent! She would say: no, don’t sleep in one of those things, you’ll catch your death of cold. She made beds for them on the floor and they slept there in the house. The next morning, they got up non
e too early. Then they would go into conclave. With big maps. They could go here, they could go there. A whole itinerary. To the Ardennes.” “To the Ardennes!” he repeated, barking with laughter. “But they had unpacked everything the night before, of course; the tent too. And Grandmother would say: I believe the weather is taking a turn for the worse. So they spent the rest of the day there, looking at the maps a bit, peering at the sky: we’ll wait and see. The next morning it was raining. A fine drizzle, but enough to keep them from leaving. They stayed inside. Their grandmother was pleased as punch, of course, simply to have the grandchildren, and they sat around all day, just talking. When the weather was bad they couldn’t leave, and when the weather was good they couldn’t either, because it could always take a turn for the worse.”
He paused for a moment and lit a cigarette. “Help yourselves,” he said, laying the packet on the table. “So then what?” Frits asked. “Well,” Jaap continued, “those six days—they had six days’ holiday—were over soon enough. It went the same way each year. But you mustn’t think that those fellows got bored or that their holiday was ruined. On the contrary. Come along, it’s time for a refill.”
“Four shots,” he said at the bar. “Both ad fundum,” he said to Frits. They emptied both glasses immediately and in succession. “It seems to me,” said Frits, “that Viktor is hardly in the right mood. And Joosje is rather quiet.” “Joosje,” said Jaap, “just takes it all in. She sees more than you might think. Viktor, he is a serious fellow. Extremely serious. But I am very fond of him.”
“I have to piss,” Frits said. “Then in tandem,” Jaap replied. They crossed the foyer and the dance floor to the urinals. “The crowd is starting to pour in,” said Jaap as they walked back to their table. Dozens of visitors were waiting before the cloakroom. People were already dancing in the hall. “It tastes God-awful going down,” he said, “but once it’s inside it is frightfully delicious.”
