And he had gone for a walk in town, right hand in the pocket of his unbuttoned raincoat, finger on the trigger - in reality he was clenching the key to his front he an uninterrupted hail of grey bullets ... he felt himself grow strong, a strange power seemed to take possession of him, the sombreness in his life was solved at a he even had to restrain himself from dancing a few the disdainful expression on her face would disappear. The trick, discovered just now, did not turn out a success; he could riddle her with bullets, shoot like a daemon: in vain.
He never could have imagined that something like this would happen to him. Even as a boy he had been convinced that terrible afflictions lay in wait to assail his body; he was forty-two: anything was to be expected at that age and gratitude was a fitting thing for each day without pain. Thus, he had been prepared for many things - not for this. He well remembered that evening when it had gone wrong for the first time; he blamed it on the combination of tiredness and booze, and her discovery, too - he could not deny this - of an entire year's worth of 'Knock-knock, knockers', the bigboobs mag, underneath a folder of bills in his desk drawer; and shortly afterwards she had come into his room (a blush of shame rose to his cheeks again) and he had not been able to stuff the booklet out of sight quickly enough; it had fallen from his trousers, down in front of her 'I'm the one watching every penny - Sir buys expensive, filthy little books ...' They lived in a small place near Utrecht. She worked for social services in Amsterdam, visited broken homes, rang up ever more frequently to say that the consultation was running over time, that she wasn't coming home, and in the end she moved in with a man she had helped with his divorce. In letters she wrote from time to time another reproach came to the fore. That they had remained childless was his fault. The sexologist had once confided to her that his semen was too meagre.
It would happen that he would lean in town against a lamppost, right hand in his coat pocket, and that for a moment he was really of a mind to buy himself a firearm, but people had looked at him so penetratingly and he'd hurried off into the suburbs. He would never buy a firearm, and that moment of repentance had given him childlike pleasure because he was mild-mannered by nature, but particularly because he could now give his imagination free rein if need be; without danger, he could observe all the effects of a shot fired, down to the last detail, as his whim dictated.
He became a regular visitor to the house boats on the Zandpad. Most of the prostitutes knew him alright: always carefully dressed, but never without an unbuttoned beige raincoat.
The noise had sunk away into the drab bedspread. Except for the woman who, sighing, moved her leg, it was quiet inside. Outside, birds uttering sharp cries flew in across the water; in dense swarms they would dive, over the road situated higher up, over the fence in the verge, rotting away, over a crumbling wall - the last remains of a little farm - down into the depths where the fields began and faded away, further on, to a dead plain with a block of flats under construction.
The mirror. with blister marks was the sole luxury in this bare, repulsive room; he turned his head and his eye fell on a poster depicting a naked woman in a curious vaulting position. At one time, the walls had been papered; the remnants were still stuck to the faded, badly fitted slats. On the table by the door stood a table lamp without a shade and a portable radio; he heard the birds again and he pressed himself up against the woman; with his head held to one side he could continue to see the shine that gave a depressing intimacy to the room - the fo'c'sle in fact. Under the lamp lay two twenty-five-guilder notes.
It was always asked for immediately upon coming in. Van Baak had adopted the habit of taking the money from his wallet in advance and to come in with the money clearly visible, mumbling, half-stooping, as if he had just found it on the path that led steeply down from the road to the boat. The money he was holding in his hand wasn't even his! And now those notes were lying there just so, brightly lit under the lamp, he could barely remember having put them there. Of course, his behaviour was very childish, but this playing with illusion had become a necessity to him.
There was a further advantage connected with this course of action. What he was holding in his hand was the sum he wished to spend. He had no more for that evening. In order to answer the call, financially, of this increasingly compelling 'extravagance', he had to draw cash more and more frequently. Van Baak was an averagely paid white-collar worker.
It was quiet outside now, too; the boat rocked and in that moving silence he expected, any moment now, that the woman would let fly at him. He would get in there first: he turned his face towards her, almost closed his eyes and said: 'It won't work.' He raised himself and leant on his arms.
'Don't give up so soon.' The eyes beneath slate-blue eyebrows in the thin face had a friendly expression. He heard the birds outside again; in the dusk they would be gleaming black and round; birds or people, in great numbers they were always terrifying. He had never been inside this woman's place. He always took a great deal of time to take his pick, but today the chattering creatures flying over so low had frightened him. Without looking, he had fled in here. He shifted his weight from one arm to the other, lowered himself beside her, spotted a shallow fold, like an eager child's mouth, in her neck, and he was moved; his nose caught the scent of her perfumed hair; he was afraid that he would have to cough, and he looked in the mirror again, his head in the hollow of her arm. When the woman was lying down she had very hunched shoulders too; she breathed heavily; he thought she had asthmatic bronchitis.
'Come,' the woman said hoarsely.
'It's no good today,' he said. 'I don't need to try: it's because of the birds.' He lay perfectly motionless, actually expecting that she would begin to laugh, derisively.
After a good while, she said: 'And you haven't been drinking?' Her voice was calm; it seemed resilient because of the asthma.
'No.'
'Been working too hard, have you?'
'Yes,' he admitted. 'I'm sorry.'
'When you're tired it's always difficult.'
'I do believe I'm tired,' he said softly and weepily. He raised his head, stared at the bare wall above the pillow. Her hand stroked his back; he stretched his legs, laid his head back down on her shoulder.
'Are you nervous?' she asked.
'Yes, I should have stayed home today.'
'You must relax and not think - look at me.' He looked at the ageless face; she pulled his head towards her, pressed it against herself; he felt her thin neck and her bony hand slid across his body. 'It's no good,' he said. 'My eyelids are trembling - I'm tired, I'm terribly sorry.' She looked him in the face, made a slight movement, and he thought she shrugged her shoulders.
'I'm restless ... if the birds hadn't been there ... it was just as if they were coming out of the water: vicious, black creatures. He acted a bit hard-done-by, made a helpless gesture with his hands. 'You're afraid but don't you go thinking that there's anyone who'll take any notice of your fear. You, yourself, will have to ...'
'I can't help it.' He would have liked to stroke the woman's hair but its hard sheen of lacquer prevented him.
'Better luck next time,' she said and remained lying down.
'I'm making a fool of myself.'
'You'd never been to me before?'
'No, I walked in, just like that.'
'Walked!' She had a thoughtful way of smiling. 'It looked as if they were after you; like a bat out of hell, you ...'
'The birds. . .'
'They settled this afternoon, opposite; they seem very vicious.' She thought and then she said: 'It's as if they want to fly themselves to death; perhaps it's only at dusk that they shriek like this.' She looked at him for a moment and said: 'There's something very sad about you.'
He got up from the bed.
'Why are you in a hurry all of a sudden?'
'I'm ashamed of myself.'
A cat came out from underneath the bed; it rubbed against his legs, it purred; it was airless in the low room and the table lamp was burning; he
stroked the creature. In the mirror he saw that she, too, now left the bed. To save face, he asked: D'you loathe it?'
'Why?' She was standing in front of the wash stand.
'With all those men?'
'I know who I take in.'
'How many a day?'
'Curiosity killed the fine, if you want to know: things are very quiet now but on a day with lots of regulars I quickly hit thirty or so, but I do make things easy for myself at times.' He stroked the cat. He had gone and sat on his heels next to the bed; he began to put his shirt on.
'So how d'you do that?' She began to laugh, a hoarse laugh that ended in a fit of coughing; she let water run into the mitten flannel; he saw in the mirror that she closed the tap, allowed the flannel to slide into the basin and came towards him; the cat's body was warm.
'She's a timid puss, actually; she'll only allow me to stroke her. She loves you; I think you must have a lot of friends.'
'I've got no friends.' He waited. 'I've got too powerful an imagination.' He did not understand quite what that last sentence amounted to right now; he was surprised for he felt at ease in a strange kind of way.
'You're an odd-un.' The cat shivered; the birds were silent.
'How old are you really?' Across the back of the animal, his eyes trained on her, he said: 'Forty-two.' He got tired of hunkering down and, with the cat, he went and sat on the bed; the woman had walked back to the wash stand. He looked at her sunken back.
'Forty-two,' she repeated. He squeezed the cat hard below its backbone. It jumped away, moaning; making itself small, it crawled away beneath the bed.
'What on earth're you doing now?' She looked him up and down from head to toe, but he couldn't discover anything disapproving in her; only her voice was upset. 'I made an unexpected movement,' he replied despondently and he bowed his head.
'You don't half look glum, you do - I've never had a man like you before.' She acted a little annoyed. The woman came and sat down beside him; footsteps sounded outside, it had begun to rain; he knew what the sky would be like this autumn which had set in early: from behind the flats, dark clouds would come sailing in, winging their way up like tremendous beasts, lit from below by the last rays of the evening sun; it was as if all those clouds were gathering for an attack upon the endless row of dripping, rocking boats, in order to smother the shrill cries of love. He looked in the mirror and was startled: he was still holding his revolver in his hand; it was not heavy, what with its slender, cobalt-blue barrel and the flame-grained grip. He got up and walked over to his raincoat hanging on a nail against the door, and he put the gun away, deep in the coat pocket. The woman followed him and shook her head. The rain was falling, hard and monotonous; again he heard footsteps, someone was listening at the window; the image of the feverish sky returned; he was sweaty and he saw that his hands were trembling.
'Actually, what's the time?' She took his right hand, rotated his wrist forty-five degrees, and looked. 'Ten past seven. Quietest time of the day.' She put his hand on her bare, knobbly knee. 'Try just one more time.' He looked at his shirt which he was busy buttoning up.
'Never mind, keep it on.'
'Yes,' he said, without conviction. He lay there looking at himself again and at the woman who was doing all she possibly could.
'Just think of nothing at all and don't do anything either; you're all wet with perspiration.'
'It's hot.'
'The room has low ceilings; it soon gets too hot with the electric fire on.'
'It's hard to regulate the temperature in such a little room,' he said, 'an electric fire has just two settings.'
'Don't move,' she ordered; she acted very strict, almost the same tone as his mother's, way back.
'My wife ...' he said, and was silent.
'Well ... ?'
He was silent. 'You don't have to tell me anything, but if you want to get something off your chest, I can listen, I've learned to - , I'm here, I sometimes think, more to listen than ...' He went on being silent.
'Fine ... all the same to me...'
'No,' he said, suddenly.
'What, no?'
'It won't work, honest ... I'm s...'
'Is that you apologising again?' She acted cross again; looked at him in the mirror. 'No need to be ashamed of yourself: you're just tired, we're all tired at times.' The rain clattered on the roof and against the little window pane. 'Please don't pull such a helpless face: you're just like a child.'
'I shouldn't have done it today - I might have known.'
'You're in a bit of a state: you ought to go home.' He got up at once, walked over to the chair his clothes were lying on and, with a rapid gesture, pulled his trousers from it. The woman continued lying down and said: 'See: now you're acting all panicky again.' He stared at the money under the lamp, on the table by the door - he only need stretch out his hand.
'Perhaps I'll already be back again tomorrow,' and a little laugh spread across his face.
'I won't let you in.'
'You'll let me in alright.'
'Yes, I will let you in,' she admitted and she smiled, thoughtfully.
'Just imagine, me being so tired today of all days, when I'm here for the first time.'
'Now you listen here,' she said, 'it's time you stopped that whingeing.'
'Could I have some water, please: my mouth's dry.'
'That's what it's there for., He walked past the bed the woman was still lying on, held his head sideways underneath the tap and drank; he saw the money; why hadn't she put it away at once? He drank greedily, wiped his mouth and said: 'I'm sorry.'
'Put a sock in it, please.' She put a long cigarette between her lips. It had become stronger of late, this mania of apologising for every word, for every deed.
'D'you know what it is with you7' He shook his head. 'Lack of self-confidence.'
'Perhaps.' Half hunched over, he stood by the wash stand, in socks and a buttoned-up shirt: preposterous and unworthy, full of revulsion at himself. She said: 'You're still afraid and the birds can't be heard, haven't been for ages.'
'I'm always afraid,' and he put his trousers on. 'I have to do battle a great deal,' he said with an ironical laugh. It seemed as if the woman was thinking about something.
'It's very odd,' she said, 'I'm never frightened. I get customers like that more often and then I think to myself: why haven't I got it? That fear - and then I sit trying to work it out and I almost seem to get frightened and then I say to my self: 'Bugger it, my girl, get a grip on yourself: you're letting yourself be wound up by all those She waited. And then she added: 'I'm only frightened of my chest going tight.'
'Fear is frightful,' he said. He wanted to say some more, but nothing would come to him.
'If I get ill, I'll take things as they come: you die willy-nilly, only you shouldn't give in to it.'
D'you always talk so much with your clients?'
'Sometimes.' And the money was just lying there under the lamp. If I had it back, he thought, if ... and he went on dressing himself, slowly, but his hands were trembling so much he had to stop for a moment. It wasn't raining any more; he thought he heard footsteps again. The woman had got up; there was a tap at the window. He put his raincoat on. 'You do look neat,' she said. 'I know who I take in.' He laughed a little sheepishly and said: 'My money doesn't grow on trees ... I'd best be off,' and he walked to the door. She was too quick for him. 'Wait,' she said, pushing him aside. 'I'm not done yet.' He stood by the door, hunched, slave-like almost, and the revolver felt heavy in his coat pocket; he waited. She moved in his direction and at that moment Van Baak still wanted to make a remark, about the cosiness of the room or about her, that they weren't all like her, that she had so much patience, that with others he was back out on the street in five minutes, usually, but he said nothing and looked at the door. He heard her taking the money from the table, heard her fold it up slowly - he didn't dare to look; she was standing behind him, she touched his arm, breathed with difficulty, her hand slipped into his coat
pocket, she clutched his fingers, he let go of the key and felt the money. 'Go on, off with you,' she said, 'and see you again some time?'
She unlocked the door.
The door closed behind him, the curtain was drawn open and she followed him with her gaze; he clasped the money in his hands - it was still and empty around him; he didn't have the courage to look. A cool scent hung above the road; the moon forced its way between the clouds, casting scraps of light on the dead plain and revealing a foaming drainage-canal. Perfectly alone, he stood in the road the was wind passing over. With the greatest possible difficulty, he kept himself upright; mysterious light had gathered behind the wall as if there was a fire there, that's how bright the glow was, and then he saw that he was not alone. Figures, almost invisible because of the moving shadows the boats cast on the road, looked at him with curiosity; some were on their haunches: ominous, motionless phantoms; a frog floated in the muddy stream of water between the road and the verge. Why were they watching him? How many men were waiting there? Had he stayed inside too long? Did they have it in for him? What did they have to do with him? A man with a briefcase and a walking stick loosed himself from a hollow of darkness, walked in the direction of the woman Van Baak had just left. He halted in the middle of the road, walked back as if having second thoughts, came to a halt again. Within the safe shelter of his hands, he lit a cigarette; his face lit up above his hands, in his eyes the surprised look of someone wondering how he has ended up there. He prodded the gleaming stomach of the frog, then walked resolutely to the window and went inside.
Van Baak remembered that the cat had not showed itself again; he proceeded slowly in the direction of his car; he no longer had any interest in the eyes fixed on him, nor in the plentiful light the moon was casting behind the wall. The house boats looked bloated because of the moisture; he averted his gaze from all of this, took a few more steps. In his hand he clutched the money she had returned to him; she had let it slide into his hand and he had had the feeling as if it was sliding up inside his
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