The Evenings

by Gerard Reve

  “You’re not alone here, you know,” she said. “You should think about other people sometimes. It’s about time you started taking others into account.” The radio set had warmed up and started making sounds. “I am so alone and keep thinking of you,” a tenor sang. His father turned the volume down, but not completely off. One could hear singing, but that was all one could make out. “This way, the music is stifled,” Frits thought. He approached and ran through the frequencies. At last he turned the radio off.

  “So,” his mother said, “did the young man have a good time last night?” Frits did not answer. “I suppose you were out with Jaap?” she asked. “Was he drunk as well?” “Drunk,” he replied. “Stop nattering, would you? Drunk. Backward provincials is what the two of you are. What do you know of drunk, for God’s sake?”

  “Oh no,” she said, “don’t try to tell me you weren’t drunk. Your father and I had to carry you to bed.” Frits closed his eyes for a moment. “What difference does it make?” he said. “It makes all the difference,” said his father with emphasis. “It means that you can’t control yourself.”

  “I’m a bit cold,” said Frits, coughing. “What stinks so terribly?” he thought, and sniffed at his hands, his pullover, his coat sleeves and tie. It all seemed to give off the same sour, disgusting odour. “Am I imagining things?” he thought, then stood up and sniffed at the curtains.

  “Watch out!” his mother shouted. “Don’t go wiping your nose on the curtains! Have you gone completely mad? That’s what hankies are for!”

  “It still seems a good deal easier to me,” he said, “to blow my nose in my handkerchief. As long as I have a handkerchief, there is no need to fear for your curtains.” “Oh yes,” she said, “I can tell that from the chairs.”

  “That is another matter,” said Frits. “That which is solid must be removed by hand. It can’t be done with a handkerchief. And the bottom of a chair is the best place for it. Besides, wherever you go, if you feel around under the chair the pieces of dried snot fall to the floor.” “Stop it, would you?” she asked.

  He breathed in through his nose, in short, sniffling bursts. “It is vomit that has remained in the sinus cavity,” he thought. “A portable stench.” Despite the fire’s heat, he shivered without pause. Behind his eyes he felt a feeble, pressing pain. He took the big armchair, turned it with the seat towards the window and slouched down in it. “All in all, it is dreary,” he thought, “most dreary.”

  Gradually he sank into a regularly broken slumber that brought him no relief. One o’clock came. “What frequency are the news reports on?” his mother asked. “There are none,” he answered. She searched, but found no Dutch-language station, and turned off the set. Silence fell. His mother was at the table adding up little piles of change, and his father, who had spread himself out on the divan, had stopped moving.

  Frits relaxed his muscles to the full, let his head fall to one side and held his eyes half-closed to the bright light. Finally, he fell asleep. He did not dream, but heard monotone voices going up and down. After awakening he remained sitting motionless for five minutes. Then, turning his head, he saw by the clock that it was almost two. He got up and began walking slowly back and forth.

  “Why don’t you go out for a bit?” his mother asked. “Is Father asleep?” he asked. He saw the man lying on his back with his eyes closed. The book on his stomach moved up and down with his breathing. “I would rather go to see someone,” Frits said. “Aimless walking, I don’t feel much like that.” “So go to Joop and Ina’s,” said his mother. “But don’t forget, they’re not at the house on Overwater now. They’ve gone to Ina’s mother.” “Have they run through all their coal already, then?” he asked. “No,” she answered, “but they go there so often on Sunday that now they spend Saturday night there too. It saves them stoking the fire again.”

  “That is what we’ll do,” he said, pulled on his coat and left. Turning right he followed the river, passed the southern train station, then headed east along a dike. On his right the city ended. Close to the horizon he could see mist hanging over the fields. “Good eye,” he said to himself. “Local mist, later in the form of drifting banks of cloud. No precipitation to speak of. Temperatures ranging from freezing to slight thaw. A westerly wind. How do they do it?”

  He entered a new area of low houses. Close to the bottom of a dead-end street that emptied out on the fields, he rang the bell of a second-floor flat. “Hello, Frits here,” he shouted up the stairs when the door was opened. “It’s the old man,” he thought. A grey-haired man was standing at the top of the stairs. “Oh, Frits,” the man said. “You and I are the only ones here, I’m afraid.” “To turn and go away would be awfully rude,” Frits thought. “In other words,” he said, climbing the stairs, “I have disturbed your afternoon nap.” He shook the man’s hand. “How are you, Mr Adelaar?” he asked. “Fine, fine,” said the man in a deep voice. “Do come in.”

  He let Frits go first. They came into a light, modernly furnished living room. The windows looked out upon a stretch of allotment gardens. “Shall I sit here?” Frits asked, pulling a chair away from the table. “Yes, yes, do sit down,” the man said. He himself took a seat in an armchair across from the fire, next to the piano. On the mantelpiece Frits saw a loudspeaker, the front covered in dark-red fabric. It was emitting a soft murmur. In one hand the man held a knob attached to the top of a little Bakelite box. Two wires ran to it, one connected to the loudspeaker and the other to the wall socket beside the radio set. “That is how he turns the sound up or down,” Frits thought, “without having to get up.”

  “Is the family not at home?” he asked. “No,” said the man, laying a book face-down on the table. “The three of them have gone to see The Abduction from the Seraglio.” “And you had no desire to go along?” Frits asked. “Well,” said the man, “that’s for those who like that sort of thing. No, I didn’t.” “It’s really very lovely,” said Frits. He looked at the man’s head. It was angular, but with a thick chin. The grey hair, which grew only at the front and sides of the skull, lay in lank strips across the bare scalp. “He’s growing quite bald,” he thought. “That won’t take more than a couple of years.” He removed his tobacco box from his pocket and asked: “Would you like me to roll one for you, Mr Adelaar?” “No, no,” the man answered, “smoke one of mine.” He tossed an opened packet of cigarettes on the table. “English,” Frits thought. He lit one.

  “Last Sunday they went out too,” said Adelaar, “to that Shakespeare performance, that—” “Twelfth Night,” Frits said. “By the New Company. That is truly fantastic.” “Have you seen it?” Adelaar asked. “No,” Frits answered, “I haven’t had much time the last few days.” “Oh,” the other replied. “But I’ve spoken to quite a few people,” Frits said, “of very good taste. No, it must be an extraordinary performance. They change scenes with the curtains open. Stagehands in period dress come on, while a different backdrop is slid into place. Meanwhile a female dancer performs to the tune of Renaissance music at the front of the stage, near the footlights, to divert attention. It is cleverly done. It is worth one’s while.”

  “Yes, oh yes,” Adelaar said, “there are marvels to be seen in this world.” “Going bald is not necessarily a scourge,” Frits thought, “but when you have such blue skin on your scalp, it can only be a horrible sight.”

  “If you permit me, how is your health?” Frits asked. “Are you feeling better?” “Easy, I still take it very easy,” said the man in a voice so low that Frits could make out only the last three words. “What is it like outside?” “The weather?” Frits asked. “Oh, it’s not very cold. I wouldn’t say that. The air is rather humid, but there is not much wind. You should go out for a walk, the weather is perfect for it. Don’t you go out on your days off?” “No,” Adelaar said, “no. No, we don’t do much of that.” He craned his neck, listening closely for any special announcement from the loudspeaker, and said: “This morning there was a hare in the back gardens here.” “A
hare?” Frits asked. “Yes,” said Adelaar, “I saw it twice this morning. Twice, when I went to the window.”

  “Where could it have come from?” Frits asked. “Are you sure it was a hare? Couldn’t it have been a rabbit that had escaped from its cage?” “No, Frits,” the man said, “I know a hare when I see one. A rabbit hops around a bit, but it’s actually more like walking. A hare leaps in great bounds. A hare is also much longer and thinner.” “That’s delightful,” Frits said. “It doesn’t take much to amuse some,” he thought. They fell silent. He looked around the room. Atop a tall antique cupboard lay a big old bible with gleaming copper locks. On the wall above the piano was a colour print of a woodland path in autumn. “I’ve been here eight minutes already,” he thought. “That is courteous enough.”

  Suddenly Adelaar leaned forward, listened intently and adjusted the knob that was lying in his lap. “You are listening to film news and topics by W.J. den Tuin,” the announcer said. Adelaar quickly straightened something in his chair, arranged a few books on the table and crossed his arms when the speaker began.

  Frits looked outside. “Those are the gardens,” he thought, “and those are the fields. That is the mist, the haze. And this is a house, in which people live.” The voice babbled on. “Today the sunlight seems like it is coming through frosted glass,” he thought. The whole time the radio commentator was speaking, neither of them said a word. Frits adopted an expression like one listening, his ear directed towards the loudspeaker, but did not allow the words to sink in. When it was over, Adelaar said: “Well, now we know that much.” “I do have the impression,” Frits said, “that the man is talking through his hat.” “No,” Adelaar said, “he has a good eye for things.” “Do you go to the pictures often?” Frits asked. “No,” Adelaar replied, “no.” He had turned down the loudspeaker again. Of the piano music playing at that moment, only the powerful chords were audible.

  “Wouldn’t you like another cigarette?” he asked. “I never smoke that rubbish.” “I have never understood,” said Frits, taking a cigarette from the packet and lighting it, “how anyone can smoke a pipe. It always singes my lips.” Again, a silence descended. “How do you happen to know so much about that,” he asked, “about rabbits and hares? Have you spent a lot of time in the woods?” “You don’t see hares in the woods,” Adelaar replied. “Oh, well I…” Frits said. “We often went to that patch of wild land, out by the fen,” the man said in a growl that was hard to understand. “Yes,” he said, “catching salamanders. But they can crawl out of anything. At home I had a whole terrarium, with a little pond in it. Oh, I tell you, it was a fine arrangement. And angry, when you couldn’t find them any more.”

  “I’ll be off now,” Frits said. “I’m taking my afternoon constitutional.” He stood up and shook hands with Adelaar, who remained seated. “Don’t bother, I can find my way out.” He glanced at the title of the book lying on the table: The House by the Side of the Road.

  Passing through the front room, from where he had entered, he stopped before the barometer that was hanging beside a large grandfather clock. When he tapped against the glass, Adelaar shouted: “It’s busted!” The needle of the barometer showed a storm on its way. “Lost its marbles, more like,” Frits said, and went down the stairs.

  “If it wasn’t so tiring for the feet, we could take a long walk,” he thought, pulling the door closed behind him. He followed the same route back. “He holds loud and soft on his lap,” he said to himself. “Nothing is so horrible but that there is something even more hideous.”

  When a few drops of rain began to fall he quickened his step, but the squall blew over. Arriving home, he found his mother dozing in the armchair. He looked at her and said to himself, moving his lips silently: “I feel miserable today. But let us pause and look around. Some people are punished severely from the very start: they are born as women. Frits van Egters, sage. Page eighty-two.” “I’ll be damned if I’m not growing awfully weary of that stench in my nose,” he thought. He shivered.

  The bell rang. After he had opened the front door, Joop and Ina came up the stairs. “Did you two come here straight from the theatre?” he asked. “Yes indeed,” said Joop. “How was it?” “Mediocre,” Joop replied, “very mediocre.” “I stopped by this afternoon and saw old man Adelaar,” Frits said. “I thought I would find you there, but oh no. The family was out. The only one home was the old duck himself. A good man. A soul that has had its wings clipped. He holds loud and soft on his lap.” “What?” Joop asked. “You know what I mean,” said Frits, “he holds that radio control in his lap. He turns it up and down with that. All wisdom, all readings, everything our ether brings forth is delivered to his door. Such convenience.” “Ina, doesn’t your father ever go out on Sunday?” his mother asked. “No, no,” Ina replied. “He is up to date on all the films,” Joop said. “He knows them all, but he hasn’t seen one in years.” “Where is Father?” he asked.

  “Oh, he’s gone out for a little walk,” his mother said. “Joop,” Frits asked, “what has happened to your hair? I’ve never seen it so thin. One now sees clear as a bell that you are going bald.” “I washed it,” Joop answered. “A mistake,” Frits said. “Washing destroys the roots. It’s a pity, but now the hair loss will run its course even faster.” He heard the hall door open. “There you have him,” said his mother. “Do you have anything to smoke?” Joop asked. Frits began to roll a cigarette.

  When his father came into the room, his mother said: “It really is cold out, just like I said, isn’t it? I knew as much. Your face is all flushed. I’m glad I didn’t go along. I’m sure it would have made my head ache.” His father shook hands first with Joop, then with Ina. He placed a chair by the fire, sat down, pulled his pipe from his jacket pocket and stood up. “He is looking for his tobacco,” Frits thought, and peered with his eyes almost closed at the man patting down his pockets. Then his father stepped over to the table and reached for Frits’s tobacco box. “Hey!” Frits cried, pulling the box towards him. “What is it?” his father asked. “Oh, help yourself,” Frits said quickly, pushing the box away again. “Fine, then I won’t,” his father said. “What is wrong with you? How petty can you be?” He sat down again without touching the box. “Pitiful,” he said with an angry grimace, “not even able to share something like a normal person.” “It’s not that,” Frits said. “Everyone is free to roll cigarettes from my tobacco. But when they pull out a pipe, I kick up a fuss. They only have to fill a pipe once or twice and it is all gone.” “And what would that matter?” his father asked. His face was still twisted in a grimace. “It doesn’t matter,” Frits said, “but I don’t want that. Rolling tobacco does not belong in a pipe. I roll cigarettes for everyone, as many as they might want, but when someone comes along with a pipe, I feel that it is being wasted. It is the same at the office. They can always roll one from my tobacco, but when they show up with a pipe, I say: no.” “I think that’s abnormal,” his father said. “I have many bad traits,” said Frits. “One of them being niggardliness. Reconcile yourself to it. Some people are virtuous, others are not. One is better off having nothing to do with most of them.” His father left the room, his face still twisted in anger.

  “Why don’t you let your father fill his pipe with your tobacco?” his mother asked. “What difference would it make?” Frits did not reply. He went to his bedroom, stood at the window and looked out through a crack in the curtains. “From outside, no one can see me,” he thought, “I’m standing here like a spy.” He remained standing like that until his mother called him to dinner. They started with soup. “It’s horrid,” he thought, “my parents slurp when they eat. I must have heard that a thousand times before; why do I notice it only today? It is the worst kind of slurping.” “Mother, don’t slurp,” he said. “Why, does it bother you?” she asked.

  “Anything new and interesting?” his father asked Joop. “No, no,” he replied. “No, no,” Frits said to himself, “no, no, nothing new or interesting.” They lapsed into sil
ence.

  When the soup was finished his mother put potatoes, gravy, meat and a raw endive salad on the table. Frits helped himself twice and ate quickly. “The crisis is abated,” he thought, “the poisons are leaving the system.” He and his father were ready for their dessert at the same time. “I know for a fact,” he thought, “that he is going to use his fork to dish up more. Look, look.” Gritting his teeth, he watched as the man speared three potatoes from the platter with his own fork. “That is unclean,” he thought, “a violation of every precept. But we stand powerless.”

  His mother came in with five little chocolate puddings in teacups. She emptied them onto a dish, one by one. “It worked,” she said. His father began eating his pudding before the others had been served. “Let me flee,” Frits thought, “I’m sure I can come up with some excuse.”

  When his mother had cleared the table, he put his box of tobacco on the table and asked: “Father, would you like to fill your pipe?” The man did not reply. “You are most welcome to it, Father,” he said. “A pity that I have to leave.” “But where are you going?” his mother asked. “Well,” he said, “we shall see.” “So you don’t know where you’re going yet?” she asked, “but you say that you have to leave.” “The one does not necessarily rule out the other,” Frits said. “One may need to leave, without having to go anywhere. Those are the cases in which one must go away from somewhere.” “Stay and have a nice cup of tea,” she said.

  His father had taken a chair by the fire and was warming his hands. Joop and Ina were sitting beside each other on the divan.

  “Joop,” Frits said, “there’s no need to tell you, of course, that you will be bald in no time. But have you ever stopped to think about what you will do once things get to that point? There is a very real chance that it will start falling out in the middle too. That you will develop an actual bald spot. That is a true defacement. Then you look just like an old man. As long as it only grows thinner at the front, it is not such a problem. But when the real baldness comes, have you thought about what you will do then?”