Also by W. F. Hermans
Beyond Sleep
Copyright
This edition first published in the United States in 2008 by
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Copyright © 1958 by Willem Frederik Hermans
English translation copyright © 2007 by Ina Rilke
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ISBN 978-1-46830-399-5
Contents
Also by W. F. Hermans
Copyright
The Darkroom of Damocles
Postscript (1971)
About The Darkroom of Damocles
‘… He drifted around on his raft for days, without a drop to drink. He was dying of thirst, because the water of the ocean is salty. He hated the water that he couldn’t drink. But when his raft was struck by lightning and caught fire, he scooped up the hateful water with both hands to try and put out the flames!’
The teacher was the first to laugh, and finally the whole class joined in.
Then the bell rang. The children got up from their desks. Henri Osewoudt was half a head shorter than all the other boys. They trooped down the corridor in single file, breaking into a run as they reached the exit.
Mulling over the teacher’s story, Osewoudt became separated from the others by the arrival of a blue tram. He didn’t bother to catch up with them once the tram had passed. His eyes lit on the NO OVERTAKING sign which he read every day as he came out of school. The sign stands at the entrance to the narrow high street. The street is so narrow that the tramlines sidle towards each other until they overlap in a single track. Trams coming from opposite directions have to wait for their turn to cross the centre of Voorschoten.
The tobacco shop kept by Osewoudt’s father was at the other end of the high street, not far from the point where the tramlines diverge again. Drawing level with the School with the Bible, he saw a crowd gathering by the entrance to his father’s shop: neighbours jostling and chattering and craning their necks to peer inside. Two policemen were standing by.
Turlings the chemist caught sight of Osewoudt, left the crowd and came hurrying towards him.
‘Quick, take my hand, Henri! You must come with me. You can’t go home now! There’s been an accident, a dreadful accident!’
Osewoudt said nothing, took the extended hand and allowed himself to be led away. The street was choked with people. Turlings pulled him along so quickly that he couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he was sure it was about him.
‘Has something happened to Mother?’
‘Poor lad! It’s too awful for words! You’ll hear about it later. A dreadful accident!’
‘Is Father dead?’
‘How could you say such a thing? It’s awful! Awful!’
Turlings’ shop was close to the tram stop, diagonally across from the tobacco shop belonging to Osewoudt’s father. Osewoudt looked back, but all he could see were the people and the other NO OVERTAKING sign, identical to the one at the far end of the high street.
They went inside, and the chemist took him through to the room at the back of the shop. The chemist’s wife wore a white lab coat. She ran to him.
‘Oh you poor boy! What a terrible accident!’
She kissed him on the top of his head, fetched him a roll of liquorice sweets from the shop and sat him down on a chair by the stove, which was not burning.
There was a smell of cough drops and chamois leather, even in the living room.
‘How dreadful! How could anyone do a thing like that? Poor boy! Poor, poor boy!’
Osewoudt took a sweet from the roll he’d been given.
‘Did Mother do it?’
‘What on earth …? How does he know?’ the wife said to her husband. ‘And he’s not even crying!’
Turlings bent down and told Osewoudt: ‘Your uncle will be coming to fetch you in a while. He’ll be taking you to Amsterdam.’
He went back into the shop and made a telephone call.
‘Mama! There’s blood on the street! I saw it!’
Their son Evert was twelve years old, the same age as Osewoudt, but he attended the School with the Bible.
‘Did you see my mother?’
‘Hush, the pair of you! Evert, go and wash your hands before you have your supper.’
It was beginning to smell of potatoes and cabbage in the room.
The chemist, his wife and their son took their seats at the table, leaving Osewoudt by the stove. He had stopped asking questions, just put one liquorice after another into his mouth.
The chemist and his wife said grace out loud before beginning; Evert read a passage from the Bible when they got to the pudding. Finally, thanks were given, also aloud.
It was past closing time when Uncle Bart rang the doorbell. The chemist’s wife let him in. He was clutching his hat in one hand and a white handkerchief in the other.
‘How did it happen, Uncle? Tell me. I’m a big boy now, Uncle!’
‘Your father’s not well,’ Uncle Bart said, ‘and they’ve taken your mother to the institution, like five years ago, remember?’
Outside, darkness had already fallen. They boarded the tram to Leiden. Osewoudt looked out of the window, and when they passed his father’s shop he saw that all the lights were out.
He tugged at Uncle Bart’s sleeve.
‘I don’t believe Father’s ill, how could he have got ill at the same time as Mother?’
‘That’s enough, Henri. I’m not prejudiced. I’ll tell you everything, all in good time.’
‘Mother often said she’d kill Father with the crowbar.’
‘The crowbar?’
‘The crowbar that’s kept under the counter, Uncle. It’s a crowbar at one end and a hammer at the other.’
‘What a thing to say! Your mother isn’t well. Try to think about something else. You’ll be staying with us for a while. You can go to school in Amsterdam. You’ll like that, won’t you?’
They took the tram all the way to Leiden station, where they caught the train to Amsterdam.
‘Teacher told us a story this afternoon,’ Osewoudt said. ‘It was about a shipwreck and a sailor on a raft. He had nothing to drink, and he hated the ocean because the water was salty. But then his raft was struck by lightning and he scooped up the water even though he hated it, to put out the fire.’
‘And did he put out the fire?’
‘He may have done, but he died anyway, of thirst. We had a right laugh.’
‘Does your teacher often tell you stories like that?’
‘Hello Aunt Fie!’
‘Hello Henri! Poor lamb.’
She kissed him at length, but she didn’t smell nice.
‘Hello Ria!’
‘Hello Henri.’
Ria hugged him just as long as her mother had, but she smelled much nicer.
Uncle Bart said: ‘He’s looking forward to going to sc
hool in Amsterdam. Off to bed with you now, Henri! Ria will show you the way.’
Ria was nineteen years old. She led Osewoudt up two narrow flights of stairs to a small room with a made-up bed. She showed him where to put his clothes and where to wash. He got undressed and had a wash, but when he lay in bed he couldn’t sleep. He heard his uncle and aunt go to bed, then the door opened a little and Ria looked in.
‘What’s this? Light still on? Not asleep yet?’
‘I’m scared.’
She pushed the door wide open and pointed behind her to the landing below.
‘That’s my bedroom, down there. You can come to me if you like, if you have trouble sleeping.’
When he went to her she was in bed.
‘Here, get under the covers or you’ll get cold.’
As soon as he was in bed with her she switched off the light.
‘My mother always lets me get into bed with her, too.’
He began to sob.
She slipped her arm beneath his head.
‘I’ve always wanted a little brother. You can stay with me tonight. Nobody will notice. Anyway, Papa won’t mind.’
‘He wouldn’t tell me how it happened. Won’t you tell me?’
‘I don’t know either, Henri. You shouldn’t think about things like that.’
‘I’d like to know.’
‘Don’t you think my hair smells nice?’
‘Yes, it smells nice, but I’m scared.’
‘Try and get some sleep.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You’re just a little boy.’
‘No I’m not. I’m a big boy, I’m just small for my age, and that’s not my fault.’
‘Oh? You’re a big boy, are you? Are you quite sure? If you’re such a big boy, then why don’t you give me a kiss?’
He went outside with Ria and looked back at the house. ‘It’s such a long time since I was here last,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten what it looked like.’
It was a tall, narrow canal house. Beside the door was a black marble plaque with gilt lettering: BELLINCOFF LTD., HABERDASHERS.
‘Why doesn’t it say Nauta?’
‘Bellincoff’s just the name of the firm.’
‘Why does it say haberdashers? Is that the same as birds’ feathers?’
‘No, it says haberdashers, but practically the only things Papa sells is birds’ feathers.’
‘Can it make you rich?’
‘Papa does quite well out of it. A hat with feathers costs an awful lot of money, and not many people wear hats with feathers these days. So Papa’s the only one in Amsterdam still selling feathers.’
‘Why is the street along this canal called Oudezijds Achterburgwal? What does it mean?’
‘It means that this was a rampart in the old days.’
‘Why are those ladies sitting in the windows wearing pink petticoats?’
‘They’re ladies who do it for money.’
‘What do they do for money?’
‘They’re nice to men.’
‘Like you’re nice to me?’
‘Shut up, will you? Or I won’t let you near me again, do you hear?’
Uncle Bart thought Osewoudt should go on to university when he was old enough, so he sent him to secondary school.
Osewoudt proved to be an amenable but quiet pupil.
Every night he slept in Ria’s bed. When he turned fifteen he realised he found her ugly. And then he also realised why the other boys’ furtive gossip didn’t interest him. Why listen to ill-informed whisperings about things he had been doing for ages, night after night, without any qualms? This wasn’t what worried him, what did worry him was that he was apparently the only one doing these things, and also that Ria was the only girl who would let him do them. He thought of ways of getting rid of her, but getting rid of her was not the main thing, the main thing was how to replace her.
Somewhere near Landsmeer, not far from Amsterdam, he found a spot quiet enough for his purpose.
They got off their bikes and lay down in the lee of the dyke. The girl’s name was Clelia Bieland.
‘You’re revolting!’
‘Revolting? But my uncle says it’s a matter of natural selection!’
She jumped up, grabbed her bike and rode off as fast as she could.
The next day he was summoned by the principal. For a secondary-school principal the man was remarkably young.
‘Look here, Osewoudt, Clelia Bieland’s father complains you’ve been telling his daughter smutty stories.’
‘But sir, I only told her what my uncle says about natural selection …’
‘I know your uncle very well, as it happens. Bart Nauta. Good man; used to be a Communist. He feels bad about having turned his back on a revolution which, in its pure form, has long ceased to exist. He realises that, but he’s sorry all the same. Puts out the flag on the queen’s birthday, votes and pays his taxes like everybody else, but tries to ease his conscience by clinging desperately to ideals that don’t stand much of a chance in society at large: abstinence from spirits, no smoking, and discussions about sexual liberation. Hard ideals to live up to, at least for anyone who’s addicted to drink and tobacco and lives a monogamous life. What good would they do anyway? Your uncle talks about natural selection, but the books he reads are all out of date.’
‘What about anti-militarism, then?’
‘Anti-militarism? Germany and the Soviet Union are busy building the mightiest armies the world has ever seen! Hitler wants to conquer the whole world, ditto Russia. Are we to be anti-militarists and let ourselves be killed off as saints? Don’t get me wrong, your uncle’s a fine man, but don’t believe everything he says. Promise?’
The principal held out his hand.
After school he saw Clelia Bieland cycling off with another boy, the same age as him but a head and a half taller.
That same week he joined a judo club. He stopped taking down books from his uncle’s shelves. He did his homework with listless diligence, got reasonably good marks, but he was only really interested in judo. Sometimes he thought of paying a visit to one of the whores along Oudezijds Achterburgwal, but although he knew several by their first names – they were neighbours, after all – none of them ever came on to him. And why put himself out? At night, after his uncle and aunt had gone to bed, he would rumple his sheets and creep down to Ria’s room.
Exactly how his mother had killed his father he still did not know.
One Ascension Day he went on his own to his childhood home in Voorschoten. First he took the blue tram to Haarlem. There he changed to another blue tram, which took him to Leiden. In Leiden he caught yet another blue tram in the direction of The Hague.
He got off in Voorschoten, at the north end of the high street. He took in the surroundings as if he were a stranger. There stood the house with the municipal coat of arms on the front: three chewed fingernails. In the same building, or in an annexe, were the school he had attended and the police station. Slightly closer to the centre was the Reformed Protestant church, with its steeple like an upright Zeppelin. Further along rose the medieval tower of the St Willibrord church. He headed towards the narrow high street, his eyes fixed on the NO OVERTAKING sign.
The tram he had travelled on came past, darkening the street. Each house smelled of crime and murder. He looked in all the windows, but there weren’t any whores. He felt as if something awful would befall him. At the tobacco shop he slowed down, but didn’t dare stop. Blinds covered the door and the display window. EUREKA CIGARS AND CIGARETTES, it said in silver letters on the glass; had the E and K been just as tarnished in the old days?
* * *
Sluimer’s garage, next door to the tobacco shop, was closed. Across the way was a new sweet shop belonging to the C. Jamin chain. The small white building opposite the other tram stop still had a sign saying CENTRAL SHOE REPAIRS. Central, they called it … yet it was at the far end of the high street, by the stop where the tramlines diverged again.
S
hould he step into the chemist’s and see how Evert Turlings was doing? But just then a tram from The Hague arrived, and Osewoudt got on, feeling as if he’d shaken off a pursuer. He took a window seat and stared outside. Again he went past the tobacco shop. He now saw, along the top of the display, a yellow sign: NORTH STATE CIGARETTES.
His Aunt Fie did not like him.
She often received women friends, and he began to notice that they stopped talking the moment he entered the living room.
He therefore often gave in to the temptation to linger in the passage and put his ear to the door when his aunt had visitors.
‘Don’t you ever worry about him?’
‘Well, what can I say, with a mother like that? It’s a wonder he’s alive at all.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Didn’t I tell you? He was a seven-months baby. Yes, and do you know, he wasn’t even born properly. His mother just dropped him into the po one day, along with her stools.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, he looks it, too.’
‘He won’t make old bones, I shouldn’t think.’
‘That pale girlish face of his, and the wispy fair hair.’
‘Is he really getting on for seventeen?’
‘Yes, and still not shaving.’
‘What? My boy was shaving at fourteen!’
‘Well, it isn’t normal, is it? He got off to a bad start. We’ll have to wait and see whether he grows into a proper man.’
‘Does he step out with girls at all?’
‘Girls? He’s just not interested!’
Osewoudt looked in the mirror and touched his cheeks, which were still soft, fleshy and smooth. At school he would glance about in case anyone was laughing at him, prick up his ears when his classmates huddled together, but they left him alone because they all knew he could wrestle any boy to the ground with ease, including the biggest. He was still a regular at the judo club. Doing judo was altering the shape of his feet, which were growing wide and very muscular in the arches so they resembled suction pads, on which he stood fast, unshiftable. Normal shoes no longer fitted him; he had to have special ones made to measure.
The Darkroom of Damocles Page 1
