The Evenings

by Gerard Reve

  The bell rang. Bep went to open it. They heard someone come up the stairs, leaping loudly from step to step. The living room door flew open with a bang and Louis Spanjaard came in, pushing Bep ahead of him. He was dressed in a dark-blue sailing jumper and grey trousers, the cuffs of which were tucked at the ankles into a pair of white socks. He strode into the room and slapped Jaap and Frits on the shoulder, simultaneously and with such force that each of them gave a little yelp. “There’s a chair in the kitchen,” Bep said. Louis disappeared behind the floral curtain and came back dragging a chair with a wooden seat; he let the back legs rasp across the floor.

  “Have you come here straight from your lodgings?” Frits asked. “No, I was on Tessel, for two days,” Louis said. He sat down between Jaap and Frits and jabbed his fists like a boxer to one side and then the other. “Hey, old Eduard,” he called out to Hoogkamp. “Lean back,” Jaap said, “and try to calm down a bit, my friend. So you were on the island of Tessel. And what did you see there? Come, tell us in your own words.”

  “I went swimming yesterday afternoon,” Louis said. “In the sea?” Frits asked, “that couldn’t have been too warm.” “Let us cease to be amazed at anything,” he said to himself. “It was glorious, oh yes,” said Louis. “But I couldn’t get my clothes on afterwards. You have to sort of slide them up over your body and then run off behind the dunes, where you try to pull them on all the way. But it didn’t work. So I just ran down the road through the dunes until I got to Vester’s. I couldn’t get them on until I was inside.” “What’s it like now, the water?” Bep asked. “Pretty cold,” Louis said, “but within the realm of the possible. It was lovely this time too.”

  “Did you go swimming in the sea?” Joosje asked. “No, not that,” Louis replied, “who in his right mind would do that? What kind of a fool do you think I am? We were at the public pool. You weren’t listening carefully.” Bep poured him a cup of coffee.

  “I would enjoy that, I believe,” Frits said, “but if your heart’s not up to it, you would hit the water and die. I mean: if the cold overpowers you and knocks the wind out of you, or you get a cramp, then you are a goner. Because there’s no one else on the beach, of course.” “Oh yes there were,” Louis said, “those little men who mess about on the jetty. They stood watching quite respectfully. I guess they thought it was rather daring of me.”

  “But if something had gone wrong, not one of them would have come to your rescue,” Bep said. “Then you would have drowned,” Frits said, “how gruesome. That must be a terrible way to die.” “Oh no,” Jaap said, “you hear bells, the ringing of bells. And you wash up on the beach of your own accord, all you have to do is be patient.” “When have I heard him say that before?” Frits thought, “he’s said that before.” “What time are we leaving, exactly, Bep?” he asked. “Around eleven, whenever we feel like it,” Bep said.

  “Where are you people going?” Louis asked. “To the pictures,” Frits said. “Midnight showing at The Lantern.” “What’s on?” Louis asked. “The Green Pastures,” Frits replied, “at eleven thirty. We have tickets.” “Do you think it’s sold out?” Louis asked. “Yes, I think so,” Frits said. “I think so too,” said Bep. “Well,” Jaap said, “you can try, but you don’t stand much of a chance.”

  “Listen,” Frits said, “you can always walk along with us to The Lantern. Without a ticket. And then, when we get to the entrance, you can take leave of us. Then we’ll say: Bye! You remain standing outside. Perhaps it will even be raining. Hideous.” He leaned forward, turned closer to Louis and went on in a muted voice: “I can’t imagine anything more dreadful. Going to visit someone who has a ticket for a film or the theatre. And then walking along with them, and then staying outside, alone. Don’t you think?” “Yes,” Louis said.

  Bep and Joosje began conversing quietly. Jaap scratched his head; Hoogkamp leaned forward and looked at Frits. “You know,” he went on, “when I was little I thought it was an incredible treat, whenever we would take a trip. I pitied the people who stayed behind: the porters on the platform, the cyclists and pedestrians at the level crossings. I was going on a trip; I was going to sleep over. They were not.” “Hmm,” Louis said. “What are we talking about?” Jaap asked. “About childhood,” Louis replied. “The gentleman is telling us about his childhood.” “Didn’t you have that exact same thing, Jaap?” Frits asked, “that you couldn’t rid yourself of the thought that—” “Exactly,” Jaap answered, “I know exactly what you mean. In fact, I can place myself entirely in the situation. It is a wonder, the things that take place in the mind of a child.”

  “Piss off,” Frits said, “let me finish my sentence. What I meant—don’t be such an idiot—is the thought that I could be left behind at the station, by accident. The others, who don’t know where I am, go rolling off into the distance. To hash over that thought, again and again, from start to finish, each time…” He looked at the others intently, took a deep breath and went on: “What I mean is: to entertain that thought. You are all going camping, for a few weeks. The fear that you will fall ill on the day you leave. Or catch the wrong train. To keeping running that over and over again in your mind. That you might lose your suitcase. Then you start pitying yourself, you almost feel like weeping. Didn’t you ever have that?”

  “Yes, I understand that,” Hoogkamp said, “I believe I know what you mean.” “You’d do better to keep your trap shut,” Frits thought. “Then you go on torturing yourself,” he went on, “at the station. Right before the whistle blew, I would get off the train, to take a quick pee. Then I thought: the train is going to leave, it’s leaving. If I stand here for another twenty seconds, I’ll never get to it on time. And feeling sad, at the same time, because your parents are waiting for you and they’re all in a tizzy. I wanted to go back, but I couldn’t. I had to stay there in that pissoir, even though I was finished. Ten more seconds, then five. And then at the very last moment, as the train was already starting to move, I hopped on board.” “Yes, yes,” Joosje said. “What does anyone else care about this?” Frits thought. “My mother shouting to the conductor,” he continued, “and there I was, completely stunned, beside myself. What’s wrong? they asked me then. I was still trembling, a cold shiver now and then. Yes, I remember it clearly still. Do you understand that, Jaap, have you ever had that?”

  “I have never experienced that personally,” Jaap said, “but I can imagine it.” “That’s the way it is with you now, Louis,” Frits said. “You have to walk along, you do your best at the box office, but there is no seat for you. In the end everyone has gone in and you are still standing outside. Oh, terrible, my God.” He felt his eyes grow moist. “Is this normal?” he thought.

  “Youth is a glorious thing,” said Jaap. “How often have I not”—he looked around triumphantly—“thought to myself: O, to be young once more. Yahoo! To romp and frolic like that again. Where has the time gone? That’s right, and it’s not coming back.” “You’re terrible,” Bep said. “On your backs,” Jaap shouted. “Rub-a-dub, straight up and down! That’s right, long strokes makes for bouncing baby boys and girls!”

  “I need to leave,” Frits thought. “Go outside for a bit, muster my strength.” “Bep,” he asked, “Violenstraat, is it that way?” He pointed west. “I need to drop off a letter there. We won’t be going that way later, will we?” “I’m acting like a moron,” he told himself, “I know that it’s in a completely different direction.” “No,” Bep answered, “it’s the other direction.” “Fine,” Frits said, “I’ll just go and drop it off, otherwise it will only stay in my pocket.” He pulled on his overcoat, which was lying on the sideboard, and said: “You won’t leave until eleven, will you? Fine. I’ll be back by then.”

  Once he was outside, he pounded his chest with his fists, spat on the ground and inhaled deeply through his nose. “My head is seriously ill,” he thought. “The abscess is spreading.” “The soul is covered in countless points of infection,” he mumbled. At the end of the alleyway he stopped and
looked around. “I still have twenty-five minutes,” he thought, “let’s walk calmly now.” He turned to the right and walked to the central train station, wandered through the concourse, went back out and walked around the building, along the quay. The mist had grown a bit less dense, and a faint wind could be felt.

  “The thinking is coming to a standstill,” he thought. “All our hope is fixed on the film. Should it be a failure, then the gravity of the situation is incalculable.” He followed the same route back, slowing his pace halfway, and entered the alley again. The door to Bep’s house was ajar. “For the life of me,” he said softly, “I left it open.” He closed it quietly behind him and sneaked, treading on only the steps’ edges to avoid all sound, to the landing, where he stood at the door and listened. “I am lurking at the door,” he thought, “that is how far I’ve sunk already.” He heard nothing. “I could give them a start,” he thought, “I could roar and howl here at the door.” He rubbed his chin, ran his hand over his forehead and went down the stairs as carefully as he had come. “I won’t do it,” he said to himself, “I am a grown person.” Downstairs he closed the door carefully until it clicked in the lock, then rang the bell. Bep opened it; she was wearing a blue duffel coat. “I’m back,” he called out, climbing the stairs loudly. Everyone was sitting in the room with their coats on. “We’re off,” Hoogkamp said.

  “Bep,” Frits asked, once they were on the landing, “when you’re here alone, you hear sounds, don’t you? But do you also hear them when there are others around?” “Not tonight,” Bep answered. “The weather is not right for that,” Jaap said. “You need a sort of whistling wind.” He puckered his lips and made a howling sound. “For the love of God, open up,” he whimpered in a high voice and knocked against the banister. “Tune in for part two, next Friday at the same time.”

  They went outside. “Are you walking along with us, Louis?” Frits asked. “So you can see how we go into the cinema?” “I’m headed in the same direction for a while anyway,” Louis replied. When they turned right, he came and walked beside Frits. “If my eyes don’t deceive me,” Frits said, “the threat of baldness is manifesting itself in your person as well.” “I can see exactly,” he thought, “how the drops of mist settle on the front of the skull, where the hair is both short and scanty.”

  Louis said nothing. “This weather,” Frits continued, “is not particularly beneficial to your health, I should think. The moisture causes pressure in the head and a ringing in the ears.” “I mustn’t pester him too much,” he thought. Jaap and Hoogkamp caught up and walked beside them. Bep and Joosje followed at a slight distance. Frits looked back. “Very good,” he said, “no reason why the women shouldn’t walk behind us. It is appropriate that they be unassuming, for they are incapable of logical thought.” “If no one else says anything,” he thought, “I have no choice but to keep talking.”

  “Do you suppose so?” Hoogkamp asked. They had already walked a way along a canal and now they crossed a narrow bridge for pedestrians. The iron railings were thick with droplets. “Yes, definitely,” Frits replied. “I would like to think differently, if only I could. But it is the way things are. Hold up a road map for a woman to see. Whether you hold it the right way, or upside down, she won’t notice. Have you ever come across a woman who could repeat the contents of a radio report? Or quote anything accurately, no matter what the source? They are defective, deplorable creatures.” Louis grinned. “I cannot agree with you,” Hoogkamp said. “Baa, baaa,” Frits said to himself, “Mr Twit, bow tie by birth.” “How dismal everything is,” he thought. “The streets are aglimmer.” They fell silent.

  At the corner just before the cinema, Louis kneed all three of them in the backside, in rapid succession, said farewell and turned right. “There are three things,” Frits said to Jaap, “that make a person angry. First of all: slapping the back of a newspaper while someone is reading it. Secondly: seizing someone suddenly while they are standing at the edge of a roof or precipice and saying: look out! And the third is, while someone is standing still, to nudge them at the backs of their knees so that their legs buckle forward. There is no one alive who does not become enraged by that. Why that is the case, the jury is still out. But research continues.” “But this was not any of those cases, was it?” Jaap said. “This was simply a kick to our buttocks,” Frits went on, “but it is related to the third case. I do not know why, but it never fails to displease me.” They said nothing more until they arrived at the cinema.

  Waiting in the foyer, they examined the photos and posters on the walls. Frits went to the lavatory and, when he returned, began pacing back and forth. “I know already that it will all be a failure,” he thought, “but there is no going back. Home at two, consumed with disappointment, broken with misery, dull with fatigue. Sleep tight.” He went to stand beside Hoogkamp and said: “I have as yet received no accurate impression of you.” “Come on,” he thought, “no foolish qualms.” “You seem to me to be a bit of a dolt,” he said. Hoogkamp did not reply. The five of them were standing before a large display of photos behind glass. “I am not saying this to be hateful, don’t misunderstand me,” Frits went on. “It is a matter of sincerity. You just happen to have, as I have noticed, limited intellectual faculties. Must one keep silent about that?” He suddenly felt himself tiring. “What venom, what misery,” he thought. “I wish you a great deal of success,” he went on. “There are people without personality who go through life with surprising ease.” No one spoke a word. He turned to Jaap and asked quietly: “Now that we’re on the subject; is one allowed to perform a funeral on one’s own? I mean: if you don’t have much money to spend, or if you consider it a waste of resources, are you allowed to transport a corpse yourself, on a handcart for example, to the cemetery? And dig the grave yourself?” “I believe so,” Jaap replied. “I believe that if the interment itself is in accordance with the law, you may transport the dead person yourself. Acquaintances of ours took their child to the cemetery on the back of the bicycle. The coffin on the carrier. And they dug the hole themselves.” “Excellent,” Frits said. “Look, the doors are open.”

  Their seats were in the middle of the cinema. Frits ended up between Jaap and Hoogkamp. When the newsreel began, he closed his eyes. “I am resting my eyes,” he thought. “I need to be refreshed when the main feature starts.” But after a minute he opened them again and watched the international news: ski races in Switzerland, a big fire in Toulouse, an air crash in the Italian Alps, the launching of a ship at Southampton and a train accident in North America, in the state of Texas. “This shot was taken from a gyroplane,” he said to Jaap, “it doesn’t shimmy.” “A fine piece of work, sir,” Jaap replied.

  The Dutch news showed skating contests at Franeker, the opening of a bridge across the IJssel, a parade in Tilburg and the unveiling of a war monument in Apeldoorn. The lights came up, and coloured advertisements appeared on the screen. “In fact, I’m sitting here alone,” Frits thought. He studied the movement of the dust particles in the beam of light. “How can it be,” he thought, “that a person inside a house can see out through the curtains, but not the other way around? There must be a scientific explanation for that.” From the corner of his eye, he examined Jaap’s face. “Who is he?” he asked himself. “Stupid of him, in any case, to admit a jackass like Hoogkamp into his house.”

  The lights dimmed again for the main feature. A choir began a slow song; the names of the cast and crew appeared on the screen. “This is the loveliest bit,” he thought, “the names and lists. It has started, even though it actually still has to start.” “Negro spirituals,” he read beside the names of the choir members. The voices, which had launched into a fast hymn now, grew louder. Frits could not understand the lyrics of the American hymns, but at the end of each line he could pick out the words: “Yes, Lord.” “Yes, Lord,” he repeated to himself. The credits faded and the film began in a Sunday school class for Negro children. The teacher opened the bible and read aloud from the Book of Gen
esis.

  The camera wandered around the room; the children listened, some of them open-mouthed. The teacher, the thick lips in his black face framing each word, said: “Methuselah was the oldest man that ever was. And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred and sixty and nine years. And he died.” “Did everybody get so old back then?” a girl at the front asked. “They were very strong men,” the teacher answered. “Did they go down to New Orleans all the time with their mamas?” the child asked. “There wasn’t any New Orleans then,” the teacher replied, raising his finger. “There wasn’t even an Earth. It’s a long story. Let’s begin at the beginning.”

  The camera showed the faces of the children from very close up; then the picture retreated, grew vague and vanished. A bank of clouds arose and came closer. “Hallelujah,” the choir sang. Slowly the clouds parted and a huge pasture became visible, floating in the air. Hundreds of Negroes in long, white robes and with cardboard wings on their shoulders walked around, talking, eating and smoking. A little boy floated by, seated on a cloud, as if on a bale of cotton. Flapping his hand back and forth in front of his mouth he shouted: “Woo!” and added: “I’m an Indian.”

  “Yes,” Frits thought, “the man who made this had the gift of vision. Praised be his name.” He felt his arms and legs trembling, leaned forward, opened his mouth and breathed deeply but silently, his eyes fixed on the screen. “The people are laughing without there being the slightest reason for laughter,” he thought, and bit down on his fingertips.