The Evenings

by Gerard Reve

  When the film had been going for forty-five minutes, he felt his eyes grow moist. He glanced over at Jaap and Hoogkamp, but their eyes were fixed on the screen. “People who are quickly moved to tears are generally shallow and cruel by nature,” he thought. “It is despicable.” He blew his nose, gulped and tilted his head to the right. “Let me make sure that no one can tell by looking at me,” he thought. He dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief, without rubbing. “There’s nothing to be done about it,” he said to himself, “it doesn’t matter. I’ll just surrender to it.”

  When the film ended with a loud, deep chorus, he quickly wiped his face on his coat sleeve, slid out to the aisle and worked his way out of the door quickly. “I don’t want to talk to anyone,” he thought. “Peace. Tonight there is peace.” Turning up his collar he hurried around the corner, then walked on at a normal pace. “Hallelujah,” he said softly.

  At home he entered the hall cautiously, keeping his coat on, and went into his bedroom without visiting the kitchen first. “No need to brush my teeth,” he murmured, “it is an evening of conciliation.” He took the rabbit from the bookcase, placed it on the desk, then opened the left drawer and removed the little white marble rabbit that lay in the left front corner. “The Sunday before yesterday I held it in my hand as well,” he thought. “Why am I cursed with a memory full of torments? But it doesn’t matter. This evening is delightful. The Green Pastures.” He repeated the American name of the film, smiled, placed the marble rabbit atop the head of the bigger one and said quietly: “Despise not thy brother. Know that God seeth you and looks upon you with favour.” He moved both animals so that their snouts touched and then moved apart. “A kiss,” he said quietly, “and now make up.” “It is ten past two,” he thought.

  He took off his overcoat, tossed it on the floor, removed his shoes and walked across the coat. “No matter,” he said to himself, “atonement has come.” Picking up the coat, he hung it over the arm of the chair, along with the rest of his clothes, and climbed into bed. “Tonight I shall not dream,” he said aloud, “it will be a peaceful night.” He fell asleep quickly. At four thirty he awoke, went to the toilet, climbed back into bed and remained awake for thirty seconds. “I am not having any dreams at all,” he thought.

  The doorbell rang. He sat up and heard footsteps on the stairs. “Quick,” he thought. “I’ll go and talk to whoever it is. Otherwise they’ll wake my parents.” He walked into the hall noiselessly, switched on the light carefully without making it rattle, and opened the door. Two men in dark clothing were waiting on the landing. The man in front held a lantern with a candle in it. “Is this the Egters residence?” he asked. The man behind him was carrying a long, light-brown package. “We have brought it to you,” the man said, “he has been found.”

  Frits took from him the long object, which was wrapped in brown packing paper. It was almost as long as he was, it felt warmish and seemed to move almost imperceptibly. After saying goodbye, the men turned and left. He closed the door and bolted it, then listened, but did not hear them go down the stairs. He began to be afraid. There was a knock at the door and a voice Frits recognized as that of the lantern-bearer said slowly: “Do not forget: what we bring to this house may never leave it again. Consider yourself warned.” Then he heard rapid footsteps descending the stairs.

  “I know what it is,” he thought, “it is the dead man.” He tried to put down the package, but could not bend his back. “Now all the horrors are coming at once,” he thought, “it is a dreadful punishment.” The package grew limp and began sagging at both ends. Using all the strength he possessed, he was able to unclench his hands. The package fell, but the paper remained stuck to his fingers. As it fell, the contents rolled out. He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “No,” he said, “don’t look.” Slowly, though, he could not help but bow his head. On the floor lay the intact body of a young, very slender man in green uniform. The head was a skull, with earth and a dripping, slimy substance in the open cavity that was its mouth.

  He awoke with a congested feeling in nose and throat. His watch showed it to be a few minutes past six thirty. “It will come back,” he murmured. Each time he seemed about to doze off, he kept himself awake by shaking his shoulders jerkily and knocking together his knees.

  X

  AT TWO O’CLOCK on Tuesday afternoon, he left the office. A fine drizzle had just ceased. “Until I am very much mistaken, some real fog is on its way,” he said to himself as he stepped out of the door. “The wind will keep up for a bit first, but as soon as it dies down, we are in for it.” He walked towards the bicycle shed, but stopped suddenly when he came close to the entrance. “The bicycle is still at the house,” he thought. “Man’s frailty.” He turned and began walking home. Head bowed, hands in his pockets, he moved at a modest pace. “We’re early today,” he thought, “the hours are like those on a Saturday. In reality, though, it is Tuesday. Tomorrow is a Sunday, but it is Wednesday. When we go back to work again it will therefore be a Monday, but at the same time it will be Thursday. So therefore we can rightly say: the day after tomorrow is Saturday. This illustrates how, with only limited means, one can render simple things complicated. It is not a bad week.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “Is it raining, or isn’t it?” he said to himself. “There is a situation in which it is raining and one in which it is dry. Between the two there is nothing. Still, minutes go by when you don’t know, when you hold out your hand and are not sure. In the face of uncertainty let us say: it is still raining, but imperceptibly so. Yes, that is a good way to put it.”

  In passing he looked at the display window of a bookshop, at the large model of a fountain pen suspended on two thin wires above the books there, its nib pointing down. “If we were to simply ignore the trifles,” he thought, “we would see that things are not so bad after all. Imagine New Year’s Eve were to fall on a Saturday? God preserve us. Still, it can happen. Or can’t it? Yes, it must work out that way, once every few years.”

  He cut across a busy square and followed a canal intersected again and again by other canals. At each crossing he made his way across a steep little bridge. “When I am on foot, this is the route I prefer,” he thought. “Magnificent,” he said quietly, looking out over the water of the canals, “it looks as though the mist is steaming up out of the water. Appearance and reality. Aren’t we extraordinarily profound this afternoon.”

  As he was passing the third canal, someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Well, if it isn’t Maurits,” he said, after turning around. “What difference does it make?” he thought. “It is New Year’s Eve.” He lifted his arm. The other grasped his hand immediately and grinned. He had on a long, dark-blue overcoat that fit him well, and new, light-brown shoes. His hair was cut short. “You’re wearing your poker face again, van Egters,” he said, “even though you have such phenomenal expressions at your disposal. Nice to run into me again, isn’t it?” “Well,” Frits said, “I can’t avoid you completely. So when I run into you, I at least abide by the terms of common courtesy.”

  “What do you think, exactly, when you run into me?” Maurits asked. “I’m going that way,” Frits said, pointing straight ahead, “I have no intention of retracing my steps. If you want to talk, you’ll have to walk with me.” They stepped off the bridge. “What do you say to yourself, when you see me?” Maurits asked. “I always find it thought-provoking,” Frits replied. “You know that I condemn your deeds, but your style of living commands my interest. You are a man of sinful and criminal character, but I feel that I must continue to upbraid you.” “Yes,” Maurits said, “but do you feel loathing when you see me? What I mean is: what do you say to yourself then? There is that vile face again?”

  “Your hand was a bit clammy,” Frits said. “Do you know the one about the two farmers?” “No,” Maurits said. “Two farmers meet each other on the road,” Frits said, “and shake hands. The one says: Have you got a headache, man? Your hand is so clammy. No, the other one says, I just took a piss.” Mau
rits grinned. “Very good,” he said, “but I just wish you would tell me for once: do you feel loathing when you see me?”

  “I hope you realize,” Frits said, “that I in no way underestimate your criminal inclinations. In my politeness there is also an element of fear. I know a great deal about you. I must always take into account the possibility that, in a foul mood, you will stab me to death in some back alley.” He examined Maurits’s expression. “Let’s see how he takes that,” he said to himself. “Wait a minute,” he thought, “he’s not wearing his black patch any more. This one is pink.” “By the way, Maurits,” he said, “did you throw away that other patch? I suppose you thought that this one matched your skin better, didn’t you? You must have thought: from a distance they will think that I do have an eye on that side, but that the eyelid is closed. There can be no doubt about it, however; you can still tell from a mile away: you are a Cyclops, and a Cyclops you will always be.” Maurits’s expression stiffened. “Does this cause you pain?” Frits went on, “does it wound your soul, when I say this?”

  “Goddammit,” Maurits said with a grimace, “I had just stopped thinking about it.” Coming to the end of the canal they turned left, down a broad street. “Is this the route you usually take home?” Maurits asked. “Your fate is hideous,” Frits said, “but that is nobody’s business but your own. Each day I feel thankful when I think of what you have been through, and what you must still face. At the moment, that eye is merely an unpleasant detail, but by the time you get to thirty, madness will come pounding at your door. Well put, actually. A lovely mist coming up now, isn’t it? Don’t you just love this kind of weather?” “Are you serious about that?” Maurits asked. “What do mean, by the time I’m thirty?”

  “Oh,” said Frits, “I’ll explain it to you. And I shall do so for free, no charge. When you are in your twenties and you can’t get a girl, you can always tell yourself: I have no desire for that, or: let them keep their distance, or: I lead a simple life. But when you turn thirty, you arrive at the realization that it cannot be anything but that eye. It is not a disorder that can be cured, or a bad habit one can quit. It is that eye, that you can never get back, not even if you saved every penny for ten years. That is the fate that awaits you. Bear it with valour. If one is a bit dull, it need not be such a problem. But if you are a man of keen intelligence, who can penetrate to the cause of things, then it becomes a living hell.”

  “I just wish I could figure out when you’re being serious,” Maurits said. “Listen,” Frits went on, “go home and think about it. Whether I am serious is not the main question. You must first try to determine whether or not what I say is true. And I’m afraid, very afraid, that then you will have to say: yes.” “That is very different from what you told me last time,” Maurits said. “You have a memory like a steel trap,” said Frits, “but last time I was in a hopeful mood. I was inclined to point out a bright side to all things, even the most disastrous. Today I feel obliged to advance the truth.” “But you told me all kinds of things then,” Maurits said, “what I should look like, how I should dress—”

  “And you took that to heart, I see,” said Frits, “you are dressed to the nines. It helps a little at the moment, but by the time you get to thirty it won’t, not any more. Did you pinch that coat from a shop window? It’s so new. And those shoes?” “From the public pool,” Maurits said with a grin. “I thought that everyone there turned in their clothes for safekeeping,” Frits said, “but don’t make me ask so many questions, just tell it to me straight.” They crossed a busy junction.

  “Well,” Maurits said, “I simply go to the pool. It costs a fair bit to get in, so it’s not all that crowded. Most people practise at home in a tub.” “A crowd would seem to me an advantage in your line of work,” Frits said. “No, no,” said Maurits, “that’s not at all the case. That’s such a stupid idea.” “Do you actually go swimming?” Frits asked. “No,” Maurits said, “I’m afraid of water. I look around a little. I was there the day before yesterday, at this time of year lots of people come in from out of town, places where there are no indoor pools—” “Jesus,” Frits said, “if you want me to listen and give you advice, you’ll have to get to the point.”

  “No, there’s a reason for all this,” Maurits went on. “I mean, those people from out of town are usually dressed quite nicely.” “Farmers in the guise of humans,” Frits said. “Right,” Maurits said with a grin. “There are many among them who are too stupid to put their clothes on hangers and turn them in for safekeeping: they simply leave them behind in the dressing room. The whole trick is to make sure you get lucky in the first cubicle.” “How do you do that?” Frits asked. “Man, that’s not so hard,” Maurits replied. “You hang around by the side of the pool and look around a little. Act as though you think that diving off the board is mighty interesting. They never fall off the board anyway, not even if you stood there for an hour. You keep a good eye on what comes in. If it’s someone with decent clobber, you watch carefully to see where he goes.” “Aha,” Frits said, “so you do have a system. That’s wonderful. Without a system, you won’t get anywhere. But you have to watch out that the system doesn’t get the better of you. That you don’t go to work without thinking about it, because then things can go awry. Listen to the counsel of the old and the wise.”

  “So you watch where he goes in,” Maurits continued, “follow him, see which cubicle it is. Then you step into the cubicle beside that. You wait for him to go into the water. Once he’s in there splashing around, you slip into his cubicle.” “Without being frightened or hesitant, I suppose,” Frits said. “It is growing darker,” he thought, “there’s a downpour coming.”

  “It only feels strange when you first go in,” Maurits went on, “but once you are in there, bent over—the doors are shoulder-height, so you don’t have to duck down all that much—you’ve got all the time you need. You can pick and choose, at your leisure. There’s really nothing to be afraid of. That thicko just got into the water, he won’t be coming out for a while. No one can see you. To be sure, though, you stay at the back of the cubicle so they can’t see your feet, but the doors are close to the floor anyway. You’d think they were designed for it.” He laughed and coughed.

  “How do you feel at such moments?” Frits asked. “Does your head pound? Don’t you have a feeling like: wonderful, he’s swimming around there, I can do whatever I like with his clothes? Do you smell them, do you sniff at those clothes?” “Now watch this,” he thought.

  “How did you know that?” Maurits asked furiously. “How did you know? That’s right. Yes, damn it.” He lowered his eyes for a moment, then eyed Frits closely and was silent. “Do you drape the clothes over your arm, or carry them in your hand, or do you put them on right away?” Frits asked. “If you do that, you have to leave your own things behind, don’t you? Isn’t that risky?” “No, not at all,” Maurits said, “as long as you don’t leave anything behind in your pockets. But I wasn’t wearing an overcoat. I had warm clothes on under my suit. So I just put on that coat, and the shoes too—nice shoes, aren’t they?—and left my own, simple footwear behind.” He grinned. “And there was a wallet with forty-six guilders in it.”

  “That is a decent haul,” Frits said, touching the mist-wet surface of Maurits’s coat, “but the only thing to do is sell it. Fancy clothes don’t look good on you.” “It’s not far to home now,” he thought, “I have to come up with a few more decent things to say.”

  “What do you really think about the way I look?” Maurits asked. “You’ve had your hair cut short,” Frits said. “It’s much easier to see now that you are growing quite bald at the corners.”

  “Oh, come on,” Maurits said, running a hand over his head, “it’s actually started growing again.”

  “You are mistaken about that,” Frits said. “That is mere appearance. You treat your hair with some kind of tonic. That makes it coarser and thicker. Then it looks like there’s more of it. But that has nothing to do with growth.
In actual fact, that makes the hair loss even worse. When you comb it, whole clumps remain stuck in the teeth of the comb: they are pulled out. For you, total baldness is a matter of four or five years, six at the most. But next year, I mean, yes, next year, you will already have a bare spot in the middle of your scalp. There is only one means to apply in your case, but it is a bit out of the ordinary; you may think I’m pulling your leg.” “What will he ask me now?” he thought, “which words will he choose? Will he ask: what do you mean? Or: do you really mean that? Or: come again?”

  “Which means is that?” Maurits asked. “I’m prepared to tell you,” Frits said, “but not if you think I’m pulling your leg. We must speak in all earnest.” “Yes, of course,” Maurits said, “tell me.”

  “You must,” Frits said with emphasis, raising his index finger, “as soon as the weather improves—it’s too cold for that now—have your head shaved, or do it yourself. That rejuvenates everything on your head.” “Goddammit, do I really have to do that?” Maurits asked, running his palm over the back of his head.

  “Didn’t you know that?” Frits went on. “When the hair has been removed all the way down to the scalp, air can get to the roots. Shaving it thoroughly—shaving is the only way, of course—stimulates them: the skin cools, and in that way the circulation around the roots is resumed. A great many people, whose hair was not growing so readily any more, have tried it. And the results have been astounding.” He stopped in his tracks and said: “I have to turn left here, I’m almost home.”

  “How do you know all that, about hair?” Maurits asked. “Are you messing with me now too? I bet you’d laugh yourself silly if I went walking around with a shaved head. How do you know that?” “It’s common knowledge,” Frits replied, “but you have to know about it, otherwise your hands are tied. To my disappointment I note that, despite your acuity, you do not ask yourself often enough, in everything you see and do: How? Why? Still, those seemingly minor issues are the most important, the most fascinating. Do you know, for example, why women are afraid of mice?”