The Discovery of Heaven

by Harry Mulisch

  "We're also prepared to help you," said Hadewych.

  The second bid was on the table.

  "Not all at once!" laughed Margo, dipping her gingersnap in her tea. She immediately put her hand to her mouth and looked around in alarm. "I'm sorry," she said.

  Perhaps Hadewych had been supernaturally predetermined by her name, perhaps she had modeled herself on it, because in any case she did indeed look like a medieval mystic. Her face had the dark complexion that the Spanish troops had left behind in Brabant four hundred years ago, with two large brown eyes, which seem to shine with ecstatic illumination.

  "We haven't got a villa in Kralingen," said Hans, "nor have we got a garden with a swimming pool, but we do have a comfortable flat in Copenhagen. That is, for as long as it lasts. Of course, I don't know what our next post will be. I can imagine that being a problem for you. It will always be farther away from Amsterdam than Groningen."

  He was the opposite of Jan-Kees in everything. He had satin-soft blond hair combed to the side and light blue eyes, was twenty-six or twenty-seven and already fitted out from top to toe in the uniform of the foreign service: in a suit of the correct shade of gray, not too dark but most of all not too light, a blue striped shirt, a dark blue tie with modest white polka dots, and black brogues. But he made a pleasant, intelligent, albeit rather wan impression— and he had immediately indicated the fundamental problem: his nomadic existence.

  Lost in thought, Onno looked around the circle. Trees turned and looked at Coen, who was moving his left wrist very slowly out from under his shirt and looking down without moving his head to see what time it was. His mother sighed deeply and with a slight shaking of the head looked at Sophia, who, impassive as ever, was moving her forefinger back and forth through a loop of her coral necklace. The two couples, who had made their offers, seem to be avoiding each other's eyes, like people applying for the same job.

  Suddenly Onno gave a start. "I don't have to decide now, I hope?"

  Immediately everyone started talking at once.

  "No question of that."

  "Just imagine."

  "Of course not."

  "The very idea!"

  "Just think about it calmly," said Dol. "You've got at least two months."

  "Basically, yes." Karel nodded.

  Finding himself suddenly dependent on the good offices of his family, Onno had difficulty in finding words of gratitude. He felt particularly weighed down by the awkward position of rivalry in which the families of Hans and Jan-Kees had placed themselves willingly for his sake. Just imagine if he had had no family, like Max—what would he have done then?

  "I've often behaved badly to you all," he forced himself to say. "I apologize for that."

  He meant it, and at the same it disgusted him to hear himself talking like that. Heads were shaken and dismissive gestures made; but his mother's face began glowing, and to set the seal on Onno's genuflection his father said:

  "Right. Let us pray."

  There was silence, cigars were put away, heads were bent, hands folded. Even Onno caught himself inclining his upper body somewhat. Only Sophia did not change her attitude; but she stopped playing with her necklace. In the silence Coba opened the door to come in and pour some more tea; she paled, and quickly closed it again.

  With eyes closed, Quist said:

  "Lord God, Heavenly Father, Thou seest us gathered here together in Thy sight in our wretchedness. This life—which is nothing more than a constant death—has become even darker to us because of Thy unfathomable decision on Ada's fate. But we know that Thou can do all things and that none of Thy thoughts can be cut off. Give us Thy blessing and lighten our hearts. Pleading for Thy fathomless mercy, we pray Thee, Almighty and Eternal God, to give strength and wisdom to our prodigal son, who has been found again. Amen."

  30

  The Scaffold

  Max knew about the meeting and waited restlessly for the report. He would have preferred to contact Onno or Sophia immediately, but it didn't seem wise to show too much curiosity. The following day Onno phoned him in Leiden and announced that he would be coming that evening.

  Whereas Onno usually sank immediately into the green armchair, he paced constantly to and fro in Max's room, telling him how things had gone, and that he had finally abased himself, humiliated himself, for which he had been immediately rewarded by being commended to God.

  "What kind of dishonorable, slavish religion is that? How was that seedy character from Nazareth ever able to defeat proud Jupiter?"

  "But those dishonorable Christians have offered to take your child."

  "Do you mean that wouldn't have happened among the heathen Romans? That has nothing to do with religion—it's tribal. You know nothing about it, because you have no family, but it even happens in the animal kingdom. It's blood ties."

  "No, I have no family," said Max, looking at him. "I know about it to the extent that I was once also taken in by Christians, though I did not belong to their tribe."

  As he said this, he realized that this would also perhaps apply to Ada's child in turn, if it were not of Onno's tribe. When Onno returned his glance, he realized that he had made a blunder.

  "Right," he said with a generous gesture. "Unselfish love of one's fellow men exists, let's leave it at that. It's just that when I woke up this morning, I still didn't know what to do. How in heaven's name do I choose? Each option is as bad as the other. One option is worse than the other, and the other is worse than the first. According to narrow-minded spirits, that's logically impossible, but that impossibility is true in this case."

  "So why don't you say that one is better than the other and the other better than the first?"

  "No, because neither of them are good. At least not good enough. Take Jan-Kees and his Paula. They live in Rotterdam, in a huge house, where I can go every Wednesday afternoon to pick my child up and take it to the zoo. In a way I like them, but they're not my type, or Ada's; I don't want our child brought up there. Hans and Hadewych are better in that respect, but they can be transferred from Denmark to Zambia at any moment, and then from Zambia to Brazil, and then from Brazil to the Philippines, with our child being dragged from one international school to the other and having to say goodbye to its friends every four years. On the other hand, of course, it would see a bit of the world and learn lots of languages, but I would be bound to become a stranger to it: a kind of uncle in faraway Holland. It would only be here for a few weeks in the summer vacation—I don't care for that, either. Now, if Jan-Kees had been in the foreign service and Hans and Hadewych lived in Kralingen, I'd know what to do; but life doesn't seem to be as benevolent as that. So what am I to do now? There's no other option. What would you do if you were me?"

  He sat down and Max got up. With his hands in his pockets, he went over to the window and looked out into the dark evening without seeing anything. He knew that the back of his head and his back were transmitting the message that he was thinking calmly, but his heart was pounding and he felt torn. What would he do if he were Onno? Perhaps he was Onno—that is, Onno himself did not know who he might be. How long must it go on like this? Wasn't it time to cut through this knot of lies and deceit once and for all? Shouldn't he turn around, now at this moment, and finally say, "Onno, the child that Ada is expecting may be mine . . ."—the words that he had once wanted to write to him, had written but not sent. The thought that he could not do it without Ada's knowledge no longer applied. Nothing happened without Ada's knowledge anymore, since everything happened without her knowledge. It was just that he couldn't bring himself to do it anymore; he had let things go too far. And yet he couldn't simply wait and see and trust that everything would come right. Something had to happen!

  Suddenly he made out his reflection in the dark glass. He straightened his tie and ran his hands through his hair, and was reminded of an evening when he had gone to the theater with Onno, to see Oedipus the King; during the intermission, as they were drinking a cup of watery coffee in the foyer, O
nno had asked, "Are you always looking in the mirror, you vain sod?"—to which he had replied, "Yes, I always look in all mirrors: in order to calibrate them."

  He turned around, put his hands back in his pockets, and sat down on the windowsill.

  "You could employ a housekeeper, a full-time help."

  "Me have my child brought up by a housekeeper? And then find myself probably lumbered for twenty years with an unfortunate woman who sits in the kitchen crying every evening? I wouldn't dream of it. Anyway, how much do you think that would cost? As you know, as a result of my noble character I devote myself solely to scholarship and the public good, so I earn virtually nothing; I live on a small allowance from my inheritance. But anyway, I could do something about that. For example, I could go out to work, although it goes against the grain. Teaching third-year students the alphabet. I could get a job at some university right away, maybe even in Holland."

  "But it needn't be longer than the first five or six years, need it? After that it could go to a good boarding school."

  "A good boarding school! Is my child really to be thrust from security into insecurity at the age of six so that for the rest of its life the whole world will be insecure? The English method? Is that really what you'd do in my place?"

  Max rubbed his face with both hands.

  "No," he said.

  "Of course," said Sophia, when Max phoned the following afternoon and asked if it would be okay if he dropped in for coffee after dinner. "You can have dinner here if you like."

  That was new.

  "Are you sure I'm not disturbing you?" As he heard himself saying that last word, he had the feeling that he was taking things too far, but that turned out not to be the case.

  "You know how it is yourself. If there's food for one, there's food for two, and if there's food for two, there's food for three."

  "That's true. If there's food for a hundred, there's also food for a hundred and ten. It's hard to understand why there's still hunger in the world."

  He took a bottle of Chianti with him and, seated opposite each other at the kitchen table, they tucked into their steaks. While he listened to her view of The Hague family council, he was again seized by the excitement that the situation always aroused in him: an audience with the unattainable Mother Superior, the bride of Christ, soon about to change in the darkness into voluptuous, vociferous Circe.

  He had repeatedly asked himself how the transition took place. He tried to imagine what was going on inside her: she hung her clothes over a chair, washed, got into bed, and turned out the light. Was that the moment? Was it the falling darkness that changed her from the one into the other? Or was there no moment of transition at all—was it simply a malicious game, the effect of which she had once discovered with a certain kind of man, like Brons and himself? But what did he have in common with Brons? Well, perhaps susceptibility to this game, but there ought to be a few other shared characteristics—and there were not. With Brons, of course, it had not happened like this at all; it only happened like this with him, and it wasn't a game.

  He was convinced that in some way her nocturnal existence really didn't exist for her during the day, just as one couldn't remember one's dreams in the daytime. He was her dream and so he must remain. If he were to say to her during the day that they had had another exciting night, then perhaps she might really not know what he was talking about and throw him out with his weird talk. Her go to bed with him, her daughter's ex-boyfriend— where did he get that idea from? He should act out that kind of male fantasy with the whores!

  He listened to her and nodded, wiped his mouth, took a sip of wine, and looked from her moving mouth to her eyes and from her eyes to her moving mouth. He was listening more to the timbre of her voice than to what she was saying—because he already knew that from Onno; for the first time he heard something of a sob in it, a despairing undertone, which might have nothing to do with emotion but only with the structure of her vocal chords. She told him that after the meeting was over she had taken the train with Onno. Between The Hague and Leiden she had said to him that of course she could also take care of the child.

  "I said that's the traditional role of the grandmother, after all. If the parents have to go out, a grandmother is called to come and baby-sit."

  Onno had said nothing to him about that conversation. He thought of his own mother for a moment, who might have been the other grandmother of Ada's child—the union of life and death.

  "And how did Onno react?"

  "He was noncommittal, but I could see that he didn't think it was an ideal solution, and it isn't. I'm nearly forty-five, so you can work it out: by the time the child is fifteen, I'll be sixty. It might be possible, but despite all his progressive ideas, Onno suddenly becomes very old-fashioned about that: he believes that there should be a man in the family. Apart from that, I get the feeling he doesn't like me very much. Nevertheless, he'll have to decide quickly."

  She had gotten up and was clearing the table. Although Max knew exactly that following a conception on October 8, 1967, nine months meant a birth at the beginning of July 1968, he asked casually: "Yes, in about two months, isn't that right?"

  "No," said Sophia. "Probably much sooner."

  "Much sooner?" he repeated in surprise.

  As she was putting the plates on the draining board, she said without turning around: "Haven't you talked to Onno yet today?"

  "Yesterday was the last time. Has something happened?"

  "He phoned shortly after your call. I don't know exactly what's happening, but there seems to be a risk attached to Ada's condition. According to the neurologist, her E.E.G. gives scarcely any reading. In any case the doctors are considering delivering the baby by cesarean section very soon. They would have had to do that anyway, because of course she can't give birth anymore. I'm going straight there tomorrow; they're making a decision."

  Max stiffened. Suddenly it was there: the moment of truth. Of course he had known for all these months that the moment was drawing irrevocably closer; but without being clearly aware of it, he'd constantly had the feeling that it would never be reached—just as in Zeno's paradox there was always a portion of the way still to travel: first half, then half of the second half, then the first half of the remaining quarter ... so that there would always be some time left. But now the leap had suddenly been made.

  "Do you want coffee, too?" asked Sophia, holding the whistling kettle under the tap.

  He stood up in confusion. He had the feeling that nothing was what it had been anymore, that he'd already made a decision but he was not letting it sink in yet.

  "No," he said. "Thank you . .." He searched for words. "I have to go." She turned around. "What's the matter all of a sudden?" "I don't know ... I have to think. I'm sorry, it's rude of me but ..." he put out his hand. "Thank you for the meal. I'll call you tomorrow. I need to be alone for a while now." "Of course. As you like."

  Sophia saw him to the door and he got into the Volkswagen, which he had finally bought. He drove off aimlessly. He wanted to think, but he only wanted to think when there was no one else around. No one can force themselves to have thoughts, but if they do have them it's possible to hold them back. The same applies to mental processes as to the metabolism. A line of Rilke's kept running through his head, like a dam holding back his thoughts:

  You must change your life.

  Night had already fallen, and on his way to Amsterdam, he took the turn-off to Noordwijk on impulse. He drove down the dark road through the dunes to the lighthouse, where he parked the car.

  He turned off the engine and got out: the clunk with which he shut the door was like the period at the end of a sentence. The rush of the surf rose up like the first letter of the next sentence—audible silence, through which the beam of the lighthouse swept like something more silent than silence. There was a chilly sea breeze blowing; stars appeared and disappeared between black, scudding clouds. He breathed the salt air in deeply and went down the path to the deserted beach.
>
  When he reached the sand, conditioned by countless summer days, he felt like taking his shoes off, but he turned up his collar, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and walked straight toward the water. Reaching the harder, damp sand left behind by high tide, he stopped for a moment and looked at the dark horizon, indicated by the cone of light that swept over it every few seconds at once slowly and quickly. Head bent, he began walking southward over the shells.

  Cesarean section! It was obvious: he must sacrifice himself. He must bring up Ada's child—together with Sophia. Only by doing that could he really do something to atone for his previous act. Should it emerge, God forbid, in some way that the child was not Onno's but his, it would cause endless suffering and Onno would disappear from the picture, but at the same time he would understand what he, Max, had done—namely, that he had taken responsibility for the child at a time when he was not yet sure who the father was, and had taken the risk of organizing his life around a child that was not his. If it really did turn out not to be his, Onno would never know what had gone on. It would still not mean that nothing was wrong, because betrayal of the friendship could never be undone: the lie would be between them for all eternity—although only he would know that—but he would at least have done what he could. He suppressed the thought that the surgical delivery might perhaps go wrong, which would mean that everything was solved—but he suddenly found himself feeling that it might be a disappointment.

  The cross-shaped beams of the lighthouse moved constantly across his face, like helicopter rotor blades that kept the earth airborne in the universe. He must put his proposal to Sophia tonight, he thought, or at the latest tomorrow; if she agreed, then he would immediately tell Onno. If Onno agreed too, then he must leave Amsterdam and his life there as quickly as possible, give up the tenancy of his flat and go to Drenthe, look for a house around Dwingeloo and Westerbork for himself and his strange family: with a wife who is not the mother but the grandmother of his child, who might not be his child. Or had he gone mad perhaps? Would he be able to stick to it? Yes, he would be able to stick to it, because of course he wasn't sacrificing himself completely—calling it "sacrifice" was just another lie, and Sophia would know that, but this was an opportunity of giving his clandestine relationship with her a lasting form; the way things had been up to now could of course not continue without becoming ridiculous.