The party was doing us a great honour with the Leader’s visit. More than two hundred people had gathered in the pine-panelled Peace Hall, they came from far and wide to hear him speak. Mussert was a round man, actually kind of short. I guess maybe we felt a little disappointed at first when we saw this man whose dark hair had receded to the back of his head, leaving only a tuft at the forehead that he combed to a jaunty quiff. But we were so mistaken! A voice shouted, ‘The Leader!’ Then Mussert marched to the front out of a dark cloud of storm troopers and looked us over with his strikingly pale eyes. His body had moulded itself to the task history had laid on him: his chin jutting, his shoulders thrown back, like the first runner to cross the finish. When he raised his right arm, as though driven by a powerful spring, he kindled awe and pride in us, and we rose as one to return his salute. That is how we stood, facing each other. Then his arm dropped, pushing us as it were back into our seats, and he administered the following jolt of electricity.
‘Brothers of our nation!’
We shivered with an obedient kind of pleasure, with warmth and reverence. His right eye spit fire, but the rational left eye weighed each word that crossed his thin lips. In unbending earnest he spoke to us about the degeneration of the modern age. About the Red Menace. About the farcical regime of the anti-revolutionary Colijn.
‘We see the continuing decline of trade and industry, terrorization by an army of presumptuous civil servants, and impoverishment. We shall free the people from the yoke of the political parties! The farmers will pursue their calling again as of old; workers from high to low, from director to errand boy, will once again come to realize that they have a task to fulfil in harmony on behalf of their people! A new prosperity shall be established; strict, powerful, but loving . . . Our able-bodied folk will defend our soil, our fatherland, our empire with all of the strength at our command, against all those who would mar the lustre of our independence or our territory!’
This was no political will-o’-the-wisp, not the way his opponents said, here stood a statesman. He was the one we would follow, he was the right man to lead us out of the Crisis to better days. Even the hearts of the doubters went out to him. His voice soared, the volume was raised.
‘The Netherlands shall be independent of all foreign powers, a bulwark of peace, prepared to defend itself against all attackers, prepared to help build a federation of European states between whom confidence has been restored, who will prove a worthy instrument for the preservation of European peace and European culture!’
Our applause rained down on him. He was visibly pleased to be the object of our cheers. He spoke for an hour, then someone else came up to instruct us in how we ourselves could contribute to the restoration of our nation. After that we sang ‘A Mighty Fortress Is Our God’ and the national anthem, and then it was over. Buzzing with new hope we left the Peace Hall. Many of us bought copies of Volk en Vaderland. Far away, on the dyke, the red tail lights of Mussert’s convoy disappeared into the night.
For Papa Africa, all the world’s rivers were the same. They may have had different names, but all fed one and the same current. The Nile was the only river on earth, and at some point all the earth’s waters flowed past his father’s shipyard in Kom Ombo.
‘He doesn’t really think this is the Nile, does he?’ Engel asked.
‘Rhine, Nile, same-same,’ Joe imitated his stepfather.
‘If you look at it philosophically, I guess,’ Engel said.
‘Didn’t he ever have geography at school?’ Christof asked.
‘He can’t point to Cairo in the atlas. He doesn’t know exactly where he is right now. And I don’t think he cares much, really.’
Silent with incomprehension, we looked at the phenomenon that was Papa Africa, pencil tucked behind his ear, plucking at his moustache as he walked the yard. The boat’s hull had now been painted red right up to the waterline, the rest was white. The mast still had to be raised and he was waiting for the sail, which Regina was sewing from stretches of canvas. The maiden voyage would be held in late August, and Regina wanted to throw a party at the wharf that day. She had big plans; she wasn’t going to let this chance for attention and admiration go to waste.
The day itself was coming up fast, but I had a bad feeling about the whole thing. After that weekend Joe, Engel and Christof would be leaving, classes started in September and I would remain behind in the realm of the dead. With a briquette press. I had truly been giving that thing hell, pressing far more briquettes than the drying racks could hold.
‘With so many of them the price will go down,’ Pa said.
Ma heard him say that. She pursed her lips, her arms folded across her chest.
‘Twenty-five is what I’ll give him from now on,’ Pa said, apologetic but determined. ‘Twenty-five is still a good price. When you’ve got overproduction, the price goes down, that’s the way it is everywhere.’
‘You have to keep your word,’ Ma said.
‘Well then he shouldn’t make so many of them. If you don’t have a lot of something you pay more for it, and if you’ve got a lot you pay less. Ask anyone.’
‘He’s your son.’
‘He just spends it all at Waanders’ anyway.’
Whatever the case, from that day on I got twenty-five for fifty briquettes and Ma made up the difference from her housekeeping money. And indeed, most of it I brought to Waanders’. Waanders’ roadhouse had the advantage of being along the national highway, outside the village, which made a difference in both clientele and atmosphere. It was better than the Sun, where the mood was often, how shall I put it, testy, the sleeping dogs there sometimes woke up and busted right out of the kennel. The Little Red Rooster, on the other hand, was more like a bingo parlour for old people, you only went there for wedding parties or to get in out of the rain. Waanders’ was the best. Trucks and cars stopped there with people I’d never seen before, which gave me hope, the way a certain kind of woman derives hope from an influx of enemy soldiers.
An example.
‘What will it be for the gentlemen?’ the barwoman asks a truck driver who comes in spreading the smell of warm asphalt.
He has his little boy with him, his son who’s allowed to ride along in the cab today.
‘What do you want?’ the man asks the boy in a voice you wouldn’t expect from him. He’s wearing mules with white socks.
‘A Coke,’ the boy says.
‘And something to eat?’
‘French fries. With mayo.’
‘French fries for the boy and I’ll have . . . a gravy-roll sandwich. Heavy on the mustard.’
‘I’ll give him a little salad along with his fries,’ the barwoman says. ‘For the vitamins. You want anything to drink?’
‘Yeah, a Coke for me too.’
OK, maybe it’s not the greatest example, but things sometimes really do happen at Waanders’. At the weekend they have live music and Ella Booij, the barwoman, is your girlfriend as long as you pay your bill. She has the professional gung-ho of a go-go dancer, but as soon as she gets to the kitchen you know that smile falls from her face like an old scab. She’s not from around here. She comes to work from somewhere else around noon, driving a white Mazda automatic, and she goes back there when her shift is over. No one knows whether she has a family, she doesn’t look like she loves anyone in this world. I appreciate it that she doesn’t act nicer to me than she is.
She brings the truck driver with the white socks and the little boy two glasses of Coke, one in each hand. They’re sitting over by the window. Out on the highway a truck goes screaming past.
‘Good thing they’re putting in that E981,’ the driver says.
Ella looks outside, where the sun is making everything shiver.
‘Yeah, good thing,’ she says.
‘The way it is now, it’s getting out of hand. The question, of course, is how it will affect you folks.’
The truck driver looks at Ella, hoping to hear her opinion on the E981 that will connect th
is neck of the woods with Germany.
‘You never know how it will go with those sound barriers,’ the man continues. ‘Whether you’ll end up on the front of it or the back, that makes all the difference, right?’
‘We don’t have much to say about it.’
‘No, I guess not, no.’
‘Wouldn’t mind, though . . .’
‘But that’s not how it works.’
Fifteen minutes later the gravy rolls and fries arrive. Contented, father and son leave Waanders’ and continue their circle around the sun.
For the time being at least, Lomark’s future added up to little more than the code name ‘E981’. I’d read about it in the paper; it was a plan that deserved our attention. My impression was that some people were enthusiastic about it because they thought a four-lane would bring the village economic prosperity, but the general reaction was a shrug. In any case, the old road to Germany wasn’t enough anymore, it was choked with a rising tide of vehicles. No one was thinking about reducing the number of cars, of course, only about widening the road. MY SPORT IS TRANSPORT I read on the bumper of one truck, and WITHOUT TRANSPORT EVERYTHING PILES UP.
My favourite was the sticker saying I ♥ ASPHALT, which had been pretty much the motto of every government since World War II, and so the asphalt came pouring in. In stupefying quantities. Joe was right, the world ran on kinetic energy. ‘The greatest minds in the world are working on that,’ he said, ‘and don’t ever forget it. Basically, the combustion engine hasn’t changed in the last hundred years; what they’re working on now is how to refine it, how to make a car run as economically as possible with the lowest possible emissions.
‘The automobile is being perfected all the time, but in a way that keeps it affordable for everyone. That’s the miracle of our times: that we can rocket down the road for next to nothing. But don’t believe in anyone who calls that progress. There’s no such thing as progress. Only motion. That’s the great claim of the twentieth century, that we can move. We’d rather surrender our right to vote than give up our cars. So if those environmentalists really want to change something, they’ll have to come up with something better. And there isn’t anything better.’
The route the E981 would follow hadn’t been staked out yet; every once in a while the subject came up at Lomark Town Council meetings, but the questions posed were as insipid as the answers. People just don’t deal very well with threats that lie too far in the future.
The day Papa Africa’s felucca was launched, Regina Ratzinger’s party gown got more attention than the whole damned ship. Someone called it an ‘Arab wedding dress’. It was a sort of intense blue, with mysterious patterns embroidered on it in gold and silver thread. A pair of shiny slippers poked out from beneath the hem. She was wearing a goodly amount of makeup, and the sequins on her headscarf shimmied as she welcomed the guests.
‘I didn’t know it was a costume party,’ Joe mumbled.
India made the rounds carrying a tray with glasses of beer and cava. She was wearing an olive-green T-shirt and a pair of faded jeans. Her skin was brown and shiny, on sunny days she rubbed lemon juice in her hair and it had turned blond. It was like we were seeing her for the first time. We couldn’t take our eyes off her.
Little clumps of people were coming along the Lange Nek, on their way to the inauguration of Papa Africa’s boat. It was a mild August day, not too hot, with a whispering in the poplars. The party got off to a slow start, the guests didn’t mingle, they clotted. Some people felt uncomfortable with Regina’s extravagant presentation and Papa Africa’s somewhat tense aloofness. But of course he was tense, who wouldn’t be? His ship’s design was based on old memories and not some detailed plan, and that suddenly caused him to doubt. Had he remembered correctly, were the proportions right? He had put on his linen suit at Regina’s insistence, but he would much rather have worn overalls, for this was a workday, not a holiday.
There was a bit of laughter among the guests now and then, but mostly they just waited. The things-aren’t-what-they-used-to-be men were there as well. They stood close together, fluted glasses of sugared gin in hand, looking all around. Nothing escaped their attention; later on, back on their bench, all of this would be reviewed in minute detail.
Here and there people picked at the hors d’oeuvres laid on long tables. Regina had spent days preparing the little snacks. Seasoned meat on skewers lay beneath foil, for roasting later on. There were flat Arab loaves and bowls of red and green tapenades, and for the children – none of whom were there – she had baked almond cookies in the form of Lomark roosters. There lay a woman’s love, and not a hungry soul in sight.
Piet Honing tied the ferry to its moorings and came on land. He shook Regina’s hand.
‘A fine-looking vessel, ma’am, isn’t it? Yes indeed. A real beauty.’
His gaze cruised over the tables of food behind her back. She took him by the arm and said, ‘Come on, Piet, help yourself. Please, people, do have something to eat!’
The Eilanders’ Peugeot station wagon came roaring in from Lomark, Kathleen Eilander at the wheel. She parked with two wheels up against the embankment and yanked on the emergency brake. Julius Eilander climbed out, his hair tousled, looking like an escaped hostage.
‘Kathleen!’ Regina cried. ‘How wonderful to see you!’
‘Oh, you look divine, Regina! Is that the boat? What a jewel, simply gorgeous! Where’s Mahfouz? I just have to tell him how much I admire it!’
‘First have a drink, have something to eat! Eat! Oh, there’s going to be so much left over.’
Julius Eilander followed in the wake of his wife’s warlike enthusiasm. Piet Honing and Papa Africa were down by the boat, speaking the wondrous abracadabra only they understood. Running their hands over the wood, their lips formed words regarding the ship. Until a squall blew in between them.
‘Mahfouz, how wonderful! I’m so proud of you . . .’
The Egyptian grinned sheepishly at Kathleen Eilander. Her husband seized Mahfouz’s hand and cranked it forcefully.
‘Good job, good job. You will take me out for a spin soon, won’t you, old boy?’
About fifty people had gathered by the waterside. The ship was ready, waiting in the chocks to be pushed over the rubber mats and into the water. Papa Africa took off his shoes and socks and rolled up his trouser legs to just below the knee. Joe, Engel and Christof did the same, and even Julius Eilander sat down to untie his laces. Three more men removed their shoes as well. John Kraakman of the Lomarker Weekly took pictures.
‘Are we going to be in the paper?’ India shouted.
Kraakman licked his lips.
‘Wait, don’t move, that’s right . . .’
He took a photograph of India smiling at the camera with her big, strong teeth, behind her the men discussing the way to go about it. The sides of the ship were waist high and their bare feet made them vulnerable. Papa Africa slid out of his jacket and handed it to Regina, who draped it carefully over her forearm to keep it from wrinkling.
‘A kiss, my love!’ she said theatrically.
She gave him a real film kiss, full abandon, eyes closed. With one arm she held him loosely around the middle, the other, on which the jacket hung, she held prettily outside the embrace. He returned her kiss with a more workaday one, a kiss alloyed with embarrassment; where he came from, intimacies between the sexes were not displayed in public. Then he turned and went back to the others. The men took hold of the gunwales, Papa Africa moved to the stern. ‘On “go”.’
‘Yalla!’
They heaved as one.
‘Yalla!’
The ship slid a few inches. This was how the pyramids had been built, the Sphinx, the royal tombs . . . Papa Africa shouted, the men leaned into it, an observer might have been reminded of a stranded whale being pushed back into the waves. Slowly the boat slid toward the water, the men in front already up to their ankles.
‘Yalla! Yalla!’
Two, three more times they pushed, then
the felucca slid into the water with remarkable lightness. Papa Africa was standing up to his waist in the water with both hands on the stern.
‘Darling, your trousers,’ Regina said, but he couldn’t hear.
He climbed into the boat, loosened the halyards and lowered the sail into place. The ship almost rammed against the side of the ferry ramp. Everyone held their breath. Joe waded in up to his knees to help, but it was no longer necessary, Papa Africa secured the sail and fastened the boom. He ran to the helm and steered, away from the ramp, toward open water. Then he lowered the leeboard.
The ship drifted calmly into the stream. Kraakman’s camera clicked, Papa Africa brought the ship around on the wind. People sighed as the sail billowed and unfolded like a dragon’s wing. The ship was heeling, leaving a trail in the water. Papa Africa peered tensely at the top of the mast, then back at us. We couldn’t see the expression on his face, but when we applauded he waved. Sometimes pleats appeared in the sail and Papa Africa steered to catch more wind. A little further and he would be out of sight, past the Bethlehem freight docks.
The guests were cheerful. They had witnessed a victory; the launch had gone as well as one could hope, and that lent the afternoon a symmetrical beauty. Papa Africa disappeared around the bend in the river, the people went back to the table with soft drinks, beer and snacks. Mr Eilander remained barefooted, waiting at the waterside for the ship to return. Sparrows bathed in the dust beneath the poplars, the world was at peace. Regina’s gaze kept returning to the river.
Joe Speedboat Page 13
