They walked and they walked, having arrived where they had to be, not to the right, up the path to the big Bellevue hall, no: they walked on, into Hoofdlaan, which led through the forest, and then, halfway, off to the left into Rode Heklaan. And they wandered and they wandered and the snow was still falling, less thickly now, but still steadily, and the world around them became whiter and more silent and it grew darker and darker and between the trees the forest floor lightened, the ducks in the big pond bobbed with their beaks among their feathers on the dark water, a lonely peacock called mournfully, they turned into the smaller paths, the one where moss always grew on the round back of the path, and the winding little path along the old skating rink, where the oaks grew crookedly above a water-course, and all that time they walked side by side, calmly chatting away nineteen to the dozen, about themselves and about each other and the lives that they had lived until now, until today, until this time, and how empty and meaningless those lives had seemed, as if they had been waiting for that moment to become lives.
Suddenly it started raining and Jacob Noah walked quickly like a man with a mission along the dark forest paths. Wet twigs whipped his trouser legs, drops of water fell on his head. The forest was silent and heavy. Yes: the air, the colours, the smell, the forest weighed down upon him. Shadows fell like dead birds from the treetops. Water thundered onto the leaf canopy, pushing it down, dripped along the tree trunks, coiled in thin, silver streams along the forest path.
When he reached the edge of the forest, he stood among the trees and looked at the grey water of the big pond. The dark air rushed. Clouds tore and frayed above the black wall of the forest on the other side, rain swept the tarmac of the forest path. He squatted down in the dense undergrowth under a tree and made himself–shoes wet, suit drenched, hair glued on to his head–small as a child, rolled up like a hedgehog. It grew darker and darker and above the forest edge on the other side of the pond silent flashes of lightning began to appear and, as he lay there like a wet ball of rags in the undergrowth, at the same time he was in the shop, on the floor, defenceless as an orphan, in the smell of cloth, a vague hint of leather and washing and glue, but also books, dry skin and, very unexpectedly, wet earth, bog…
He opened his eyes and looked into the face of a black dog.
Through the branches of the undergrowth he saw the clouds break and light patches appeared in the bundle of clouds.
When he finally stood up, a drowning man in a mud-smeared suit, his joints hurt and his heart was heavy. Yes, there were lighter patches in the air, but they were merely holes through which the scattered moonlight shone. Beside him the black dog snuffled at his shoes.
His mouth was dry and his head was full of flapping birds of anxiety. The black dog beside him looked up at him as any walking companion might have done, two shining carbuncles for eyes and a gaze that was almost sympathetic.
He splashed back to the spot where he had entered the forest. Beneath the cloudy sky it was pitch-dark. The faint moonlight that fell through the holes was powerless among the tall trees. The dog trudged onwards beside him with the soundless, springing tread of a creature in its element. Somewhere in the forest the cry of a bird rang out. The dog looked at him quizzically. They crossed a forest avenue that had been turned into a muddy river.
When the road was close by, they saw a figure standing between the trees. The dog pricked its ears and stopped. In the distance little lights flickered behind the windows of the houses on Beilerstraat. The figure on the edge of the forest stood slightly bent, trembling like someone with Parkinson’s. The dog walked slowly on. Jacob Noah followed it, almost as quietly.
As they approached the figure Noah saw that his head was raised. He followed the figure’s gaze and saw, behind one of the illuminated windows on the other side of the street, the vague outline of a man at his evening ablutions. The shadow between the trees was audible now. That is: Noah thought he could catch a faint grumbling noise. He turned round and made as if to go when the figure, with a jerk, did the same.
A cry rang out, just as chilling as the sight of him and his dog must have been to the figure among the trees. The man ran up the street, holding his trousers up with one hand, and disappeared into the shadows of a side street.
On the far side, lights came on behind several windows. Jacob Noah stepped back, into the shelter of the trees. In the soft murmur of the still falling rain, other sounds could be heard. Somewhere a door opened, a window clasp tapped against glass.
The dog looked up and began to trot gently in the direction of the avenue that they had left a few minutes before. When it was about ten metres away from him, it stopped and looked round.
So they went back into the forest, through the rain and the mud, through the darkness and the confusion of paths chosen by the black dog. From time to time Noah lost his companion. Then he waited patiently for the dog to come and get him. They plunged deeper and deeper into the forest until they reached the very edge of the town, where a little brook split the edge of the trees. There, just under the overhanging branches, they stopped.
The water in the brook was barely audible over the rain. Noah was wetter than he had ever been before. He tugged the drenched lapel of his drenched jacket tight, but let go of it again when he realised what he was doing. One way or another the rain no longer bothered him. He looked down at the black animal standing beside him.
‘What are we doing here, boy?’ He bent down to scratch the creature behind the ears. The dog raised its head and seemed to frown for a moment. Just as Noah’s hand touched its fur, the animal leapt up, its front paws touched Noah’s shoulders and its head was almost level with his. ‘Don’t lick,’ said Noah, turning his face away. ‘In God’s name…’
‘Nothing could be further from my mind, Mr Noah,’ said the pedlar. The incessant rain hammered hard upon the dirty bowler hat that he doffed for a moment by way of apology. He came to stand next to Noah and looked with him at the podium in the big Bellevue hall, which lay before them in a bright white mist. Confetti swirled from the edge of the stage, where a bright magnesium light had just exploded. In the first row, beaming like a newly discovered star, eyes sparkling like crystal, teeth of pure snow and agitated red lips, in the first row sat the young woman with whom the magician had walked through the snow. On stage, wrapped in a cape of shining black silk, his head almost buried in an enormous purple turban on which confetti was still raining down and leaving a confused pattern of polka dots, head slightly bowed, the conjuror stood receiving his applause.
‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, honoured audience,’ he exclaimed as the clattering sound ebbed away, ‘I should like one of you to come and stand next to me.’ He raised his hand. ‘What you are about to see is something I learned from an old master in the Levant. It is not without its dangers. I should like to ask someone with courage, courage and complete trust.’ He folded his arms and stared out from beneath a deep frown into the black hole of the hall. ‘Don’t do it, Jan!’ cried a woman. A few young men stood up amidst cheering and shouting, but then sat back down. Only when the hall had calmed again did she rise from her chair like a Venus from a shell. Silence fell.
‘I thought he didn’t appear,’ hissed Noah.
The Jew of Assen gave a crumpled smile. ‘Yes indeed. Just not the first day when it was snowing so hard and he met her. Cancelled due to illness.’ He grinned with the indulgence of an old man looking at young love.
‘His assistant?’
The pedlar looked at Noah intensely, as though about to ask if he was keeping up with the lesson. ‘No, the daughter of the newspaper proprietor. Mr Noah, are you following this?’
Noah was about to say something, something about rain turning into snow and snow turning back into rain, a black dog, a man on the edge of the forest and Kloosterstraat, where he hadn’t stood for so long, until his travelling companion had stirred his hat with a feather, but he kept his mouth shut until the pedlar, softening, said, ‘Look how radiant she is.’
An attendant helped her onto the stage. She was wearing a deep black coat and skirt, nylons with clearly visible seams, and black suede shoes. Her dark hair, normally so unruly, was done up in an ingeniously sculpted bun. There was something about her that made her look different, a confident sensuality that no one recognised and that made people nudge their neighbours and ask who she was.
She walked cautiously, back straight and head held high, across the stage, until she was standing just in front of the magician. For a moment it looked as if she was whispering something to him. Some people later claimed to have seen her lips moving and continuing to move when the magician bound her with a finger-thick white rope, arms behind her back, wrapped up like a cocoon, feet close together, legs tightly trussed, back still straight and head still held high, even when he gently drew a black cap over her head, took a step back, unbuttoned his coat and threw it over them both, turning them into a shiny black pillar that stood still for a moment and then with a sigh collapsed, leaving nothing behind but a glistening puddle of silk on the dusty stage floor.
‘Come,’ said the pedlar, gently nudging Jacob Noah.
Noah didn’t stir. He stared with burning eyes at the stage and felt strangely moved by the curious ballet of symbols: the invitation to surrender and the trust that followed it, the upward climb, the confident stride towards the man in his severe black cape, the soft cotton rope that swaddled her like a newborn child and her expression, her constantly moving lips (it was as if he had heard her whispering in the depths of his ear, as if he was aware that his hammer, anvil and eardrum were shaking under the words that she said softly even though he couldn’t make out what they were) and finally the black cloth that covered them.
‘We’re going?’ he said absently. ‘It isn’t over yet.’
‘Yes, it is,’ said the pedlar. He stood up and stared at the exit. ‘Over. They aren’t coming back. End. Fin. Finito. That’s it.’
‘Listen to me, Jew of Assen…’
A searchlight passed through the auditorium, a white circle above all the white faces. Noah shut his eyes tight against the bright light, he felt a hand on his arm, shook his head and found himself back in Nassaulaan, not far from the Bellevue. Motorbikes roared down the normally quiet avenue on their way to the centre. On both sides of the road crowds of leather-clad men and women were heading in the same direction.
‘Listen to me,’ Noah resumed the sentence he had begun before, ‘I wish to complain about these idiotic displacements.’ He stared at the hazy light in the distance above Torenlaan and then said, aware how ridiculous his remark sounded: ‘It isn’t good for my heart.’
As he sensed the pedlar smiling he noticed how dark it had become, as if it was suddenly much later than he felt it was. The sky above the houses of Torenlaan, in front of them, was already deep blue and artificial light glowed beneath the rapidly darkening firmament, making it look as if they were in an enormous tent.
‘And the time, Jew of Assen. What time is it, actually? When we were in Kloosterstraat, before it started snowing, it was barely dusk and now…’
The din from the motorcycle party suddenly seemed to swell, like a great beast taking another deep breath before it rears up and begins its hunt.
From Gymnasiumstraat, a side street that seemed to connect the Catholic church with Nassaulaan and the theatre with the Vaart, a black figure appeared, heading at speed in the direction of the town.
‘I’ll be damned…Isn’t that…Mr Kolpa! Mr Kolpa, formerly known as Polak?’
The figure turned round. Two men walked up to him. They talked for a moment and after a while the three of them walked on.
‘Someone you know?’ said the Jew of Assen.
Noah nodded.
‘Marcus,’ he said. ‘Marcus Kolpa.’
‘Formerly known as Polak…’
‘A joke,’ sighed Noah.
In the distance, high above the rooftops, the big wheel turned, lit with coloured lights, in the evening sky.
‘Ten,’ said the pedlar.
Noah looked at him, puzzled.
‘You asked what time it was. It’s ten o’clock. Ten of the clock.’
Noah shook his head and despondently set off.
As many as one hundred and fifty-eight years ago the local newspaper, the Provinciale Drentsche en Asser Courant, was founded on the very spot where Bernard Lutra, the town editor on duty, now hunches over his typewriter, cranks the chrome handle of the roller five times and types between the blue staves of the copy paper:
MUSIC, BEER AND HOT SAUSAGES
From one of our reporters
ASSEN–Saturday, 28 June 1980–
One hundred and fifty-eight years. It stands almost carelessly on the little line below the title on the front page, but its nonchalance is a sham. The newspaper has suffered many setbacks, from proprietors who could never get used to the difference between the editorial and advertising departments, to the invasion of a competitor from a richer and bigger province, and finally the occupying forces who attempted in the war years to gain a hold over what was printed in it, in which effort they succeeded with the newcomer from the other province, but barely at all with the old Provinciale. The newspaper has been published for one hundred and fifty-eight years, and a large part of that time has been spent in this building on Torenlaan, a building now in only partial use by the editorial and advertising departments. Where once the printing works was housed and big rolls of paper were hoisted from heavy lorries, a camping shop now stands. Where once presses stood printing until the floor shook, empty tents wait on evergreen artificial grass for adventurous outdoorsy customers.
Like all newspapers, the Provinciale has been a battleground between free-thinkers and the orthodox, left and right, young and old and, over the past few years, also men and women. And like all regional newspapers, the Provinciale is known to the small town elite as the ‘local rag’, because they read a national newspaper that looks further afield than Drenthe’s forests and bogs, a paper that tackles weighty subjects like ‘the situation in China’ or risks an acute analysis of ‘the aftermath of the Eastern bloc’. For the ordinary reader, on the other hand, who comes home after a hard day’s work and finds The Paper on the doormat, the Provinciale is more a sort of gentleman. A gentleman, admittedly, who speaks embarrassingly often in clichés (BUILDING WORK PROCEEDS APACE. FIREMEN RUSH TO QUELL EAST ASSEN BLAZE. CONSTABLES CATCH YOUNG HOOLIGAN RED-HANDED. ACCOUNTANT IN MOONLIGHT FLIT), but that doesn’t put the reader off. On the contrary, for the ordinary reader the clichés of the Provinciale Drentsche en Asser Courant are a sign that the journalists are doing their best.
Bernard Lutra, who sits here staring so short-sightedly at his white sheet of copy paper, is an old hand in spite of his youth. He came as an apprentice, brought along by his father, a typographer until a ripe old age, and began his career with pieces about the general meeting of the Anthonie van Leeuwenhoek Aquarium Association and short interviews with couples celebrating their golden wedding anniversaries. Now he has been town editor for about four years, and therefore burdened with the council meetings, the municipal budget and the odd visits that bring Important People From The West to the town. Lutra has seen it all before, several times, in fact, because he has been walking around here since he was eighteen and knows the place inside out, backwards, back of his hand. There isn’t much that surprises him after sixteen years of loyal service, and if there is no news on a particular day, Trusty Bernard can always come up with a Town headline, a photograph with caption or a small dispute that only turns into a full-scale row when the paper takes an interest. In his head, his newspaper colleagues suspect, there slumber thousands of facts large and small, data and memories that have only to be kissed awake to change into an article. Bernard Lutra is, without exaggeration, the ideal town reporter: serious, dedicated, with a work ethic that exceeds anything you could think of in terms of that word and a simply inexhaustible fund of knowledge of the town, a knowledge that is not only detaile
d, but also extends over many centuries. And he has never been a pedant. Quite the contrary. With all his modest hard work, Lutra is probably the most undervalued force on the paper. He is a person who never draws attention to himself, a quiet worker who forms all on his own the backbone of the Assen edition of the Provinciale, a man who never writes under a byline (the distinction that every rookie journalist craves more than anything) because he can’t imagine the reader caring for a second that it was he who typed the article.
So he hammers out ‘From one of our reporters’ onto the bright white copy paper, and as he tries to think what else needs to be done (because this is one of the special days in the year when the news is written before it happens), the truth of that little sentence gets through to him fully for the first time in sixteen years. One of our reporters, that is his life! And as his index fingers hammer on the Rheinmetall keys and the letters strike the paper, he takes a phone call (the photographer in the darkroom giving him ‘Bikers at the Disco’ and ‘Kart Races in Weierstraat’, both in landscape format) and between the blue staves on the thin paper the first lines rain down of what the editor-in-chief so likes to call ‘a chatty little piece’, his body fills with the fullness of his emptiness, the sudden understanding that he is that and nothing more and probably still will be for another thirty years: one of our reporters.
MUSIC, BEER AND HOT SAUSAGES
From one of our reporters
ASSEN–Saturday, 28 June 1980–Tents with music, beer and hot sausages. Beer cans clattering across the pavement. High-spirited youths laughing as they push each other in a shopping trolley through the strolling crowd. A gambling den and a pancake stand against the silhouette of an abandoned bank building. Assen was a metropolis again.
In a Dark Wood Page 18
