by Gerard Reve
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Viktor. “Far from it,” Frits went on. “But there is nothing worse than shirking the truth. Listen closely. You will understand. If anything is unclear, you are at liberty to ask me. Debate is permitted. Tickets on sale at the usual outlets and at the door.” He put his arm around Viktor’s waist, leaned back against the wall and gestured with his right arm.
“Perhaps it is of no importance to you,” he said, “perhaps you say: what difference is it to me? Perhaps my fate leaves you cold. But remember that God sees us all. He holds the firmament in the palm of his hand.” “Yes, go on,” said Viktor.
“It doesn’t matter to me if you are not listening,” said Frits, “although it would cause me great sorrow to know that. I arrived in the first class at Berends Gymnasium. That whole year, on all my reports, I received a ten for Latin. That is a fact. One can consult the primary sources.” He raised his head and exhaled loudly. “Subsequently, Dr Poort,” he said, “I went to the second class. Things went well. Not badly at all. A few days before the end-of-year report, I took to my bed. Sick with fear that I might not move up. Everyone thought I was mad. Perhaps that was true. I moved up, but with one failed subject, algebra. If this is boring you, do say so, I wouldn’t like to be a burden.” “Oh no,” said Viktor, “go on, I find it quite interesting to hear.” “So it does interest you?” Frits asked. “That is marvellous. Sympathetic interest is one of the best qualities of man, this weird and wonderful inhabitant of the earth.” He shook his head pensively.
Jaap, leaning against Joosje, sat watching the dancers with eyes half-open. “So then it was three,” Frits said. “Just like in the nursery rhyme. Simple, and yet, or perhaps precisely for that very reason, touching. I’m not keeping you, am I?” “Not at all, please continue,” said Viktor.
“Then it was three, as mentioned,” Frits went on. “Then I failed French and mathematics, both subjects. And I did not move up.” He looked at Viktor. His interlocutor said nothing. “I had to resit the exam. During the summer holidays, an acquaintance helped me. But the exam never took place. Remarkable—fickle is the hand of fate. Do you believe in God?” “No,” Viktor said, “I’ve told you that before.” “All right, then,” said Frits with a dismissive wave of his hand, “that need not prove an obstacle to mutual understanding.” A dancer stepped on his toes. “Clumsiness, but perhaps without malice after all,” he said. “The exam didn’t happen?” Viktor asked.
“No examination,” said Frits. “A few days beforehand, the headmaster announced that the grim situation, with the onset of war, formed an obstruction to an atmosphere of peaceful study. Not badly formulated. You are able to follow me thus far, I take it?” “Superbly,” said Viktor, “your account is so clear and succinct.”
“In other words,” Frits supplied, “all those called upon to resit an exam would move up without having to complete it. That, of course, included me. And so I arrived in the fourth.” “We are making progress,” Viktor said. “Jaap is almost asleep.” “Let him sleep,” said Frits. “In the fourth. At the end of the year I had failed English, mathematics and chemistry.” He counted it off on his fingers. “Chemistry was a five, that was not too bad.”
“Listen, brother,” he said emphatically, “for here it comes. I had to repeat the exams, in both mathematics and English. And I resat them both. You know, Viktor, that I have a high opinion of you; that I have a great fondness for you. That is why I am telling you this, so that you might understand. During that summer holiday, I did nothing.” “Nothing?” Viktor asked, “what do you mean?” “Nothing, absolutely nothing,” Frits said. “Note well: it is not difficult for a man to talk about that which is evil or despicable, only about that which is ridiculous. I read that somewhere.” He burped, leaned forward slightly and went on: “I did show up for the resit. Do you understand? Can you picture it?” “Not very easily,” said Viktor.
“Can you imagine,” Frits said with emphasis, “the heart of one who goes to an exam in the simple, sober certainty of failure?” He opened his mouth, bit down slowly on his lower lip and closed his eyes. “What am I waffling about?” he said. “I am detaining you. I am boring you. I am annoying you. That is the truth of the matter. But you have listened to me. I appreciate that.” He seized Viktor’s hand. “What an evening,” he said. “A memorable evening.”
“There is one more thing,” he continued. “When the new school year began, we received a letter at home from the headmaster, asking whether it was true that Frits van Egters—your son, Frits van Egters—had quit school. And whether he could have written confirmation of that. I had already dropped out, but the school had received no formal notification. That is all. I thank you for your kind attention.” He took a deep breath and pursed his lips. “Lovely, isn’t it, the English waltz?” he asked, watching the dancers. “Calm, civilized, stately.”
“Come now, Jaap, you’re not in your own bed yet,” said Viktor, reaching behind Frits and poking Jaap. He sat up straight, snapped his fingers and said: “Last round. One more for the road.” The four of them went to the bar and all four of them drank. The music from the gramophone seemed louder to Frits than it had been all evening. In front of the counter, a few guests were swaying to the music.
“Do you know what it is?” said Frits, who found himself unable to stand in one spot, “when I’ve had a drink I start fluttering, but I never leave the ground. On the ground I remain.”
“I’m not well,” Jaap said, “I need to sit down.” They returned to the ballroom, where their seats on the bench were still vacant. Jaap sank down onto it, almost recumbent. “That is not a good thing,” Frits said to Viktor, pointing at Jaap. “The boy’s feeling poorly. But he has only himself to blame. One consumes too much and suffers the consequences. But think for a moment of all the suffering for which none are to blame. God alone sees it.” He grabbed Viktor by the arm and said: “When you have only one eye, then night falls every time you wink. Have you ever considered that?” Jaap stood up and walked toward the lavatories. “We’ll go together,” Frits shouted. He followed him and passed water. Standing at the sink, Jaap gagged several times, then vomited. “Out with the bad, in with the good,” Frits said. “You go on,” said Jaap. “It is time to leave,” Viktor said when Frits returned. “Jaap is regurgitating,” he replied.
“Who has the money?” Joosje asked. “Jaap does, in his pocket,” said Frits. “I’ll be right back.” He saw, when he entered the lavatory, Jaap standing at a dusty little window that was open a crack, breathing in the cool air from outside. “We’re leaving,” he said, “will you pay?” “Here’s money,” Jaap said hoarsely, pulling a little bundle of banknotes from his pocket. Frits went to the cash desk and said: “I have come to pay for Mr Elderer.” “Twenty-eight guilders,” the man at the tap shouted to the waiter, who was examining his notebook. The banknotes added up to only twenty-five guilders and fifty cents. “Hold on to this,” said Frits, laying the money on the table. “Twenty-eight guilders, you say.” “Excluding the tip, that is,” the waiter said. “Yes, I realize that,” said Frits, “I’ll go and get it. You hold on to this.”
He walked back into the dance hall. Viktor was standing with the coats over one arm. “We’ll have to drag him,” he said, pointing at Jaap, who, supported by Joosje, was emerging from the lavatory. They helped him into his coat. When they had put on theirs, Viktor and Joosje held him up on either side. Like that, they descended the stairs. Frits remained close behind.
“To the trams,” said Viktor, once they were outside. “We can still catch one, easily.” “Could you keep me informed of the numbers?” Frits asked. They crossed the square and stood waiting on a corner.
“A lovely evening,” said Frits. “Do you too go in search of the world’s misery? Do you also enjoy strolling through graveyards of a Sunday afternoon? Most people never think about a thing.”
“Here’s the eight,” Viktor said. “That’s yours.” “May you all be permitted a safe journey home. My best wis
hes accompany you,” Frits shouted, climbing aboard the tram. Smiling, he staggered to the front. With every lurch of the tram he had the sensation of being lifted from the floor and slowly settling back again. He stepped onto the front platform. “Calm down, everyone,” he said, “there is no need to crowd.” He pulled out his wallet, examined the contents slowly, removed a one-guilder note and held it up to the driver. “What is this?” he asked. “A guilder,” the man said. “I couldn’t tell,” Frits said, “but it’s yours.” The man took the banknote and put it in his pouch. “At least that is taken care of,” Frits said, bumping into the closed door. “I have an urgent request. One would do well to warn me when our vehicle reaches Danis Square.” He tried to whistle, but no sound came out.
“This is it,” said a lady in a green hat. “Thank you very much,” Frits said, “your kindness is exemplary.” A man gave him a hand as he climbed down.
He crossed the tracks and walked towards a group of three policemen. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, “I hope you are doing well. The fact of the matter is that I have had a few beverages, but not quite too much, which means you have no reason to detain me. I have had a few, but not quite too much. How delightful.” “Go on with you,” one of the policemen said, “move along, and get some sleep.” “Wise counsel,” said Frits, “I thank you sincerely.” He walked up to a telephone kiosk and made moves to pass water against it. “You can’t do that,” the same policeman said, “there is a urinal over yonder.” He pushed him away. “Of course,” said Frits, “you’re quite right. Highly incorrect, what I was doing. I hope you will accept my heartfelt apologies.” He turned the corner down a broad street, leaned for a few moments against a shop window and addressed a man who was passing by with a lady on one arm and holding a bicycle by the handlebars.
“Excuse me for bothering you,” he said, “but do you happen to know the way to Schilderskade? As long as I’m headed in that direction. It is a matter of finding the right way. Once I know that, it will all go automatically. I have had just a bit too much. It is wrong, but there is nothing to do about it now.”
“Walk with us,” the man said. Supporting him on either side, they walked on. Frits looked at both their faces. “Could I be mistaken?” he asked, “or are the two of you our esteemed neighbours?” “Yes, we are,” said the man. “Then you are the curtains halfway up,” Frits said. “That’s right,” said the lady. “And what was the name again?” Frits asked. “Visser,” the man said. “A name without guile,” Frits said with emphasis, “an honest name. We see each other every day, but pass each other by, while we should actually be brothers. You are rather devout, am I right? I have had too much, that is sinful. It is bad. I am a bad person. But God sees it.”
“Then you should not do it,” the neighbour said. They arrived at Frits’s house. The man took out a pass key and opened the street door. “I thank you with all my heart. You are good, virtuous people,” Frits said. “Go to bed straight away,” the woman called out after him.
He climbed the stairs slowly, paused to rest before the door on the landing, then staggered inside. When he felt the heat, he grew dizzy. He tried to open the living room door slowly but, without meaning to, struck it loudly with the flat of his hand.
“Good evening, good evening,” he said. His parents were seated at the table, reading. He went in, tossed his coat on the divan, then held himself upright on the edge of the table. “Good evening, dear father,” he said. “Good evening, dear mother. Good evening, dear parents.” Letting go of the table, he plumped down into a chair. “So…” he said, tapping his forehead with his index finger.
His father looked at him with a smile of amazement. “How much did you drink, for God’s sake?” his mother asked, “where have you been?” She stood up. “Look and make sure he hasn’t lost his money,” she said.
“I know,” Frits said. “I have had too much. God sees everything. His eye is not only on me, his eye is on each and every one of us. The end of days is near. I couldn’t have had more than seven or eight.” His father came over to him, withdrew his wallet from his inside pocket and looked in it. “No,” he said, “there’s still thirty-two guilders in it.” He placed it on the bookshelf.
“Would you like some bread and cheese?” his mother asked. “No,” he said, “I shall partake of nothing more. Purify the body. Christ, behold thy soldiers. And so it happened. It is bad. I have done you, my parents, a great injustice. Great sorrow and injustice. It is loathsome. But God sees us all. I am going to bed. To sleep.” But he remained seated. His voice descended to a murmur and his chin fell to his breast.
His mother began removing his shoes. With the help of his father, she undressed him and led him to bed. There he remained sitting upright. “Few there be who appreciate your goodness. I see it. Should I behave as though I do not, that is mere appearance. But should you think, Mother…” “Yes, mouse,” she said. “Should you think that I do not see it,” he continued, “realize then, that God’s eye rests upon the two of you. He sees you. He sees your righteousness.” “Hold your arms back for a moment,” she said. “Why should I do that?” he asked. “You need to put on your pyjama top,” she replied. “Of course, you know what’s best, what is right,” he said, sticking his arms in the sleeves.
“I am going to throw up,” he said suddenly. His father, who had been watching from the doorway, ran and came back with a bucket. “Leave me,” said Frits. “It is revolting.” He vomited four times, spat mucus and then dropped onto his back, panting. His parents’ faces slid back and forth and now and then rose to the ceiling. He coughed, pulled the bedclothes over his head and felt himself spinning in a dark space with walls that were, wherever he touched them, wet. The movement slowed and he was able to stretch out. Then he sank into the deep.
VIII
SUNDAY MORNING at eight thirty he awoke with a mouth dry as cork. The first thing he remembered was lying on his bed the day before, to rest, then realized that this was Sunday. It was not until then that the course of the previous evening came back to him. He raised himself onto one elbow. Only after making chewing motions did moisture return to his mouth. The inside of his head felt as though a fluid were under pressure there: the tension extended all the way to the back of his neck. He was thirsty.
“The best thing,” he thought, “is to get up immediately, wash my face, brush my teeth and rinse my mouth thoroughly. Then go out for a breath of fresh air. Don’t eat a thing, and drink water a little at a time.” Then he fell asleep again. A few minutes past nine thirty he awoke once more. “How very attentive, to hang the watch up like that,” he thought. He raised only his head, but had to let it fall back from the pain, which arose in the throat and behind his eyes. “Those clothes have been tossed down sloppily,” he thought. From the intensity of the light and the colour of the sky he tried to determine what the weather was like, but reached no conclusion. Lying on his back, he raised his knees and, in the dim light he admitted by holding the bedclothes aloft, examined his chest and belly, which he had bared.
Then he climbed out of bed, went to the toilet and from there to the kitchen, where he drank water from the tap. “Incredible, what a stench,” he said as he entered the bedroom again. “You only notice it when you’ve left for a moment.” He opened the window a crack and crawled back into bed. “It all depends on the will,” he thought. “Where that is lacking, everything comes to a halt.”
He remained supine, his eyes fixed on the wall, until eleven. “It’s not so easy, getting up with the window open,” he said aloud. Squeezing his eyes half-shut he tossed off the blankets and went quickly to the kitchen. He hawked loudly into the sink and began washing himself. “The body is gravely damaged,” he mumbled, peering into the round shaving mirror.
His mother came in, put two plates and two cups on the counter and asked: “So, has the young gentleman woken up a bit?” “Yes,” Frits said. She went back to the living room. After washing his face, he felt unrefreshed. While shaving, he cut himself i
n two places: beneath the nose and on the left side of the chin. “It’s not actually cutting,” he thought, “more like shaving off the top layer of skin. It has been scraped off.” After rinsing and drying his face, he dabbed at the abrasions with a styptic pencil. As he waited to see whether the bleeding would return, he looked out over the gardens at the rooftops.
“No two roofing tiles are exactly the same colour,” he thought. “My vision is sharp. What would it be like if it had rained?”
He dressed, but could not find his shoes and socks. He walked slowly into the living room, sat down by the fire and asked: “Mother, have you seen my shoes? I can’t find my socks either.” “In your room,” she answered. “I don’t think so,” he mumbled, going to his bedroom and looking around. “They’re not there,” he said as he came back into the living room. His father entered from the side room. “Good morning,” Frits said. “Good morning, my boy,” the man answered, sitting down on the divan and opening a book from the pile he had brought with him. “They are there,” his mother said. “Well, I don’t see them anyway,” said Frits. “Then I’ll look,” she said, hurrying to his bedroom. He heard her rummaging about for a moment. “Who knows?” he mumbled to himself.
“Here you go,” she said, coming back and tossing him first the socks then the shoes, one of which landed on his left foot. “Goddam it,” he said, “throw things at someone else’s foot.” “What is it now?” his father asked. “No, nothing,” Frits said. “A trifle.” He smiled.
“There’s bread for you in the cupboard,” his mother said. “Thank you,” he said. She turned on the radio. “No farm report, no horticultural news, no bad music, no shooting off at the mouth,” Frits said. “No waltzes by Strausz, no illustrative music. Let only the very best shine through. Display taste, faulty taste if need be, but progressive.” “This is giving me a headache,” he thought.
