The Evenings

by Gerard Reve

  “Mother,” he asked, laying a hand on her shoulder from behind, “are you sad? Shall we cry together? Shall we be nice and pitiable together?” He laid his face against her shoulder for a moment. “Shall we pause and feel sorry for ourselves?” he asked. At the last two words, his voice became hoarse. “That man said…” she said. “Now be gone, flee,” he thought. “Before it is too late.”

  He hurried out of the kitchen, closing the door quickly but soundlessly, and went to his bedroom. After turning on the light, he went and stood at his desk. “You who holds the stars in the palm of his hand,” he said quietly, “I know these things are seen by you.” A tear ran from the corner of his right eye; almost immediately, another one followed from the left. He bowed his head, took a sheet of paper from the corner of the desk and held his face right above it. The liquid gathered at the bridge of his nose and flowed down to the tip. A drop fell onto the paper. He sat down, stuck out his tongue and tasted it, then dried his face with his handkerchief.

  “All the world’s suffering, swept together in a shoebox,” he said quietly. With a sound like a sob, he sniffed up the mucus in his nose and leaned back. “You good woman,” he mumbled. “Wine. It was wine, that man said.” “Of all the things that happen, this is the most hideous,” he said to himself. “It is like when I was little. I still remember that. She bought two doggy heads for the two of us, they resembled bicycle horns. Little metal dog heads, with a rubber ball on them. When you squeezed it, it made a sound like barking. One was gilded, the other one was red. One for each of us. But the red one didn’t work. She found that out only after she got home, unpacked them and showed them to us. Why don’t people die at such moments? She had us draw straws for them. Joop got the broken one, without any sound. But I couldn’t be happy with the other one, not after that.” He shook his head and frowned. “Buying something expensive,” he whispered, “that turns out, once you get home, to be broken or worthless. No greater suffering can there be. It is worse than everything else added up. It is too bad to even talk about. I am trembling. I am all nerves.”

  “Or flowers,” he thought. “Buying expensive flowers that are already overblown. When the person you give them to waves the bunch slightly, all the petals fall off. You would be better off dead. It is eight thirty.”

  He went to the living room. His father was lying on the divan, reading. He went to the radio and turned it on. An organ was playing a melody, legato.

  His mother came in with a plate of oliebollen. “You two can get started,” she said, “I’ll be right back with tea.” “Aha,” his father said, rising to his feet. He sat down at the table. Frits took a seat across from him.

  “Maybe I didn’t put enough sugar in them,” she said, “that could be. I only mixed a little through the batter.” She put the sugar bowl on the table, along with three dessert plates. Then she went to the kitchen.

  “Eating with a knife and fork would be overdoing it,” Frits thought. “Normally, one puts sugar on one’s own plate, picks up the oliebol and dips it into that. Wait and see what happens now.” He peered through his lashes at his father. The man took an oliebol from the pile, bit a piece out of it, chewed, swallowed and looked at the part that was left.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Frits said to himself, “what must be, must be. It is not so horrible. It is to be expected. One is better off simply taking it in one’s stride, as part of the scheme of things.” He smiled. “Aren’t you hungry?” his father asked. Frits reached out quickly and took a pastry. His father removed the lid from the sugar bowl, pulled out the spoon and pressed the gnawed-off half of his oliebol into the sugar. Then he dropped the spoon back into it.

  Frits picked up the bowl, shook some sugar onto his plate and dipped his pastry into that. “You’re better off putting the sugar on your own plate first, Father,” he said, “otherwise the bowl gets so full of crumbs.” “What?” his father asked slowly. He smiled. “You’re better off putting the sugar on your own plate,” Frits said loudly, “it’s more convenient. Otherwise you get crumbs in the sugar bowl. That’s not very handy when you’re having tea.”

  “Yes,” his father said. He put sugar on his plate and ate the remaining piece of pastry, after having rolled it back and forth on his plate with the palm of his hand, in two bites. “So that’s one,” Frits thought.

  The organ music stopped. “Piet Karwiel concluded this organ concert with a few variations by Franck,” the announcer said. “From now until nine you will hear a non-stop programme of Hawaiian melodies.” “That is a bit too awful, that whining,” said his father when the music started, “why don’t we just turn it off?” “I’m particularly fond of it myself,” Frits said, “I love the way the strings howl.” “We can at least turn it down a little,” his father said, standing up and lowering the volume. “That’s such a mistake,” Frits said, “and one that a lot of people make. Something is playing on the radio, but they need to do something else, or they’re carrying on a conversation. So they turn it down. If you ask me, you should either listen to music or not listen to it at all. If you’re going to listen, play it loudly enough. The way you would hear it at a concert.” “I am expressing myself very stupidly and sloppily,” he thought. “Don’t you agree, Father?”

  “What did you say?” his father asked. “I consider the radio to be one of the miracles of this modern age,” said Frits. His father did not reply.

  His mother came in with tea. “Frits, do you have any idea what is on this evening?” she asked. “Where is last night’s newspaper?” he asked. “On the table, right in front of your nose,” she said, “so don’t you go turning the place upside down again.” She put cups on the table and poured them tea.

  “How do they taste?” she asked, pointing at the oliebollen. “The ones here, on top, are very well fried,” said Frits, “seeing as the chunks of apple have gone soft. Did you make any with rings?” “No,” she said, “the batter was finished. Isn’t there anything else on the radio?” She sat down.

  “This is wonderful, I think,” Frits said, “let’s wait a bit until this is over.” They lapsed into silence. Frits opened the paper to the second page and perused the radio guide in the lower left-hand corner. “No,” he said, “there’s nothing on this evening.” “Let me look at that,” she said. He handed her the newspaper. “Why they have to use such small print, I’ll never understand,” she said, putting it back down. “I’ll look later, with my other reading glasses.” They fell silent once more. All three helped themselves to the pastries and continued eating.

  The music stopped. “This is Hilversum One, brought to you by the VARA,” the announcer said. “That was the conclusion of today’s programme. We are going off the air now and will return tomorrow evening at seven o’clock, on the Hilversum Two frequency. Until tomorrow, dear listeners; we wish you a pleasant evening and—at twelve o’clock you will not be hearing my voice, so let me say it now—a very happy New Year.” A crisp click sounded from the speaker, then a quiet zoom. “This is Hilversum, the NCRV,” another voice said. “Good evening, esteemed listeners. We are switching now to the Church of the Reconstituted Congregation in The Hague. The service is led by the Reverend K.W. Twigsong.”

  The radio crackled. For a moment, there was no sound at all. Then there was a popping sound and suddenly the psalmody of a full church blasted into the room. “I almost jumped out of my skin,” his mother said. “Let’s put an end to that,” his father said. “I think it’s glorious,” Frits said, “it puts you in just the right mood, if you ask me.” His father, who had already risen to his feet with his hands on the armrests, sat down again.

  “That was a terrible story, there in Papendrecht,” Frits said, “with those poison batter balls.” “Yes, where did I read that?” his mother said, “two people killed. Horrible.” “One of them was only an old woman,” Frits said, “a woman close to sixty.” His father took two books from the shelf, returned to the table and opened and leafed through them in turn.

  “How d
id that happen, actually?” his mother asked. “Nothing too complicated,” Frits replied. “There was something wrong with the baking powder. They mixed a faulty batch at the factory. You’re supposed to add only little of that substance that makes the batter rise. But one of the workers did it the other way around: a bag full of that rubbish and a tiny bit of flour.” “Is that really so poisonous?” she asked. “Well, not actually poisonous,” he said, “but some people die of it. That woman, who had eaten too much of it, dropped dead as she was leaving the church.”

  “How long has that custom been around, Father,” he asked, “the custom of making oliebollen on New Year’s Eve?” “What?” his father asked. “For how many years have people been making oliebollen, do you think?” asked Frits. “Um-hum,” his father said.

  The singing stopped. The sound of coughing and the shuffling of feet came from the radio. “Let us pray,” a cavernous voice called out suddenly. “Quick,” Frits said. He jumped at the set and turned it off. Then he sat down again. “The whole trick is to start a conversation and keep it going,” he said to himself. When the pastries were finished, his mother took the plate and carried it into the kitchen.

  “Did they make oliebollen when you were a boy, Father?” Frits asked. “Are they finished already?” his father asked. “What I was asking,” Frits said, “was whether, when you were a boy, back then, whether they also made oliebollen on New Year’s Eve.”

  “Yes, absolutely,” the man replied, “in a big, deep pan. Oh yes.” He held out his right hand, the palm facing down, and pointed to a pale spot the size of a one-guilder coin, halfway between index finger and wrist. “Here comes the burnt spot,” Frits said to himself. “I’ve never heard it before, of course.” “My mother was frying them,” his father said. “Something flew out of the pan, with this huge hissing noise.” He kept his gaze fixed on the spot and went on: “It was the oil spattering; it landed on the back of my hand.”

  His mother came in with another stack of pastries. She carried the platter with both hands: the bottle of fruit juice she held clutched under her left arm.

  “Aha,” his father said, looking at the bottle, “and what have we here? Wine?” “It’s so-called wine,” his mother said. “Is that wine?” his father asked. “That is fruit juice, made from berries and apples,” Frits replied loudly, “a fresh, slightly tart beverage. Very tasty after one has eaten greasy things.” “What sort of glasses should I use?” his mother asked. “Those little wineglasses?” “Just use the mustard jars,” Frits said, “they’re the right size.”

  Moving the platter of pastries, which she had set down on one corner, to the middle of the table, she fetched three mustard jars from the sideboard and tore the capsule from the bottle. “Here’s the corkscrew, Frits,” she said. Frits held the bottle between his legs, twisted the screw into the cork and pulled. His father leaned over and watched him. “It’s in there fairly deep,” he said. “Goddammit,” Frits thought after two hard pulls, “it’s got to come out.” He pulled again as hard as he could, working the cork back and forth at the same time. Suddenly it shot loose. “Upsy-daisy,” his mother said. His chair rocked back and a dash of juice splashed onto his trousers. “On my trousers,” he said. His father stood up, leaning his elbows on the table and said: “You have to clean that off quickly. Wine spots are very hard to get out, if you don’t act right away.” “Upsy-daisy,” Frits thought, “upsy-daisy.” “It isn’t wine,” he said loudly. “Not wine?” his father asked. “Not wine? Then what is it?”

  “I was in the shop,” his mother said, “and I asked the—” “It’s fruit juice,” Frits said, turning to face his father. “Juice made from berries and apples. A fresh, tart beverage.” He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the spot on his trousers. “Upsy-daisy,” he said to himself, “upsy-daisy.” “Goodness,” his father said.

  His mother filled the glasses and took a sip. “Sour,” she said, pursing her lips, “horribly sour.” “What?” his father asked. “It’s a bit too cold for Mother,” Frits replied, “but I actually find that nice.” He took a sip as well. “Very good,” he said. “There is sugar in it. But not enough to ruin the fresh, sour taste. Just right.” His father emptied his glass and was silent. He took another oliebol, stuffed it in his mouth and lay down on the divan. His mother picked up her knitting from the side table and went to sit by the fire. None of them spoke a word.

  “We have almost made it to ten o’clock,” Frits said to himself. “Soon we will have passed it. Then it is a matter of keeping one’s chin up till eleven. After that, in fact, it is finished.” He placed his right fist atop his left on the table and lowered his forehead onto it. After five minutes, he sat up straight again. “A conversation that stagnates is a dangerous thing,” he thought. “Even if a question is entirely pointless, it is better than no question at all.” “Father,” he said loudly, “Father.” The man looked up. “It is no disaster, to be unhappy,” Frits thought, “but how discouraging must it be to know that there is nothing to pin the blame on, outside oneself? The grave yawns, time zooms, and salvation is nowhere to be found. Poor man. The shiver of pathos. Scrumptious pity.”

  “Yes,” his father said. “Father,” Frits asked, “were those normal oliebollen, the ones your mother made at home, or was there a special recipe for them there in Twente?” “Pay close attention now,” he said to himself, “he’s going to give a serious reply to a question that is entirely moronic. I can ask him anything. And I will, too.” “No, just normal pastries,” his father replied. He frowned, his lips slightly parted. “He was planning to say something else,” Frits thought, “but he can’t remember what. A thought has almost gelled, but now it’s gone and he has to start thinking anew. Quite a feat. No sinecure.” His father closed his mouth and lay back down.

  “If I say nothing,” Frits thought, “perhaps nothing special will happen. I’ll keep my mouth shut. See how that goes.” In the silence he could tear the ticking of the clock. His mother’s knitting needles rattled. “In books and nursery rhymes they always tell you that a clock says tick-tock,” he thought, “but that’s not true. Not tick-tock, in any case, because those are two distinct sounds.” He listened closely. “Tocka tocka tocka is more like it,” he said to himself, “but I can’t hear it very well right now. I must be patient, wait until she has finished another row, until the rattling stops.”

  The moment his mother switched needles, he opened his mouth, lowered his eyelids and listened breathlessly. “It’s not really a word at all,” he said to himself. “Heard correctly, it’s teppa teppa teppa, but very quiet. That’s not quite it, not exactly, but it’s close.” “Ten o’clock is the first milestone,” he thought, “then it’s on to eleven. Once we’re past that, the worst is over.”

  He got up, moved noiselessly to his bedroom, took the mirror from the wall and placed it on the desk, against the wall. Then he took the toy rabbit, laid it beside the mirror and sat down at the desk. “Listen, rabbit,” he said quietly. “This evening I want you to pay careful attention. I’m in no mood for jokes or smart talk, not tonight. So don’t go thinking you can just listen with half an ear and decide: oh, drop dead.” He rattled the desk, causing the animal to move as though nodding. “You show signs of agreement,” he said, “but you are not to be trusted.” He picked up the animal, tossed it in the air, almost to the ceiling, and caught it again. Then he loosened his belt and zip, placed the animal against his abdomen, fastened his trousers again and tightened the belt. Only the animal’s head stuck out.

  He inhaled deeply, held his breath, then pressed his belly hard against the waistband. “Now you’re feeling the crunch, aren’t you, sweet beastie?” he asked. “Well, there’s nothing to be done about it.”

  He slid the mirror over in front of him, leaned forward, twisted the shade on the desk lamp back and forth until the light fell directly on his face, and looked at what he saw. “A complexion full of coarse, unclean pores,” he mumbled, “a tired, stale face. A mouth chafed at the corne
rs, where the skin is flaking. Dark bags beneath the eyes. Over forehead and cheeks, a layer of greasy, glistening sweat.” “Yes, you just hold your horses,” he said, swatting the rabbit on the head a few times. “You can’t get out of there anyway. Don’t even bother trying. For you I have a very special punishment in store. You will be given twenty-three lashes. If you scream, ten more. Then I’ll stick a pin in your rear end and another one in the back of your neck.” With his right hand he seized the rabbit’s ears and went on: “Then I’ll twist your ears. I’ll wring them like wet laundry, until a bit of blood drips from them.” He let go. “Then I’ll make you dance on a glowing iron plate. That is a very harsh punishment indeed, but what you did is so disgraceful, there is no other punishment for it.” He clamped his teeth in one of its ears. “There is no escape,” he whispered, “because around your neck is a chain, which is riveted to the ceiling. I will heat that plate hotter and hotter, till it glows.” He released the ear, petted the rabbit’s head and said a little louder: “Now don’t cry. Nothing has happened yet. And it won’t, not until ten thirty. You still have half an hour.”

  He looked in the mirror again. “And my hair, rabbit,” he murmured, “I haven’t looked at that yet.” He pressed his shock of hair back flat on his head and examined the hairline from close by. “No, rabbit,” he said, “the hairs are still growing well. The hairs grow well. They’re still quite firmly anchored, nothing wrong there. If the Almighty is merciful towards me, he will safeguard my follicles for many a long day.”

  “Teedee tadeedee. Teedee tadee,” he sang in something like a hum. “When you don’t use anything at all,” he said to himself, “when you use no grease, no starch, no colouring, no bleach, no hair powder and no scent in your hair, then you have a major head start. The ignorant are an easy prey for baldness. God grant that it continue growing.” He pushed the hairs apart and examined the skin beneath. “A healthy scalp,” he mumbled, “but I must start massaging it in the coming years, otherwise it may grow hard and tight. A supple scalp is the sustenance of hair growth.”