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by Richard Huijing

  4

  The beached whale lay motionless, waiting, and the bystanders looked on and waited too. They stood at a safe distance and they had brought along knives and axes - just in case - even though they did not know whether they would be able to kill it, given the tremendous dimensions of the creature. Neither did they know what to do should they unexpectedly succeed. Most of all, they wished it would go away so that they, too, could go away. But it did not go away, and neither did they. The rain tapped on their caps and fell noiselessly on both land and sea. The drops splashed on the whaleskin, slick as oil, and pearled down; it seemed as if the whale shivered but it was the rain, splashing. The ones who had been standing there longest maintained that they had seen it laugh. The comers of its mouth twitched, they said. Why it had laughed, they did not know. Bloated and cumbrous, it lay on dry land and birds skimmed over the top of it and pecked at its skin. Had it not laughed, one might have thought that it was dead, the more so as it stank like the grave. No one would then have to be afraid of the whale, but for the fact that it was so large, it deprived all that surrounded it of its meaning.

  Because the whale was so unconscionably large and the bystanders therefore insignificant, the feeling crept over them that this had something to do with God and that He had sent the whale as a sign.

  At the same time, a stranger had arrived on a dogcart. Nobody had spoken to him for he had not ventured in their midst. He kept himself apart and did not seem to wonder at the calamity that gripped the community's spirits and kept them low. From a distance one might believe him to be a monk, but on looking closely one saw that he was not wearing a habit but a horse blanket, bound by a rope round his waist. Because of this miserable blanket some saw in him a mendicant monk from an unknown order, others thought he was an anabaptist, but no one excluded the possibility that here might be a case of the appearance of a saint. This was because of his head which was bald and as smooth as the polished wood of statues, but it was especially because of his eyes. These were of an impenetrable grey which reminded one of the indifference of November skies: these were eyes that had seen too much and from which all wonder had been erased, eyes that looked from a yonder as from within a different world. Since the whale had appeared he had stood on top of the dunes and looked down on all. The curious ones on the beach were afraid of him and at the same time they hated him because he stood on top there and looked down on them. It might be that he was looking with his autumnal eyes at the beached whale, it might be that he was looking down on the bystanders who hid themselves behind each other's backs and waited for that which eluded them for the time being. It might also be that his eyes were tired and found rest in the far beyond. That was why they hated him: because he left them in uncertainty.

  The appearances numbered three: the storm, the whale and the saint on the dogcart. According to some, however, they numbered four: the storm, the whale, the saint and the floods. Again others came to five or six or seven - and thus the truth fell apart into multiplicity.

  When the Lord of Noordwijk rode on to the beach, all faith and hope was placed in him. He was a well-travelled and well-read man and though they themselves were neither one nor the other, they suspected that these matters were connected with the truth. To them, truth was something in which they would never have a part, something which revealed itself in matters incomprehensible, the way one can see lightning but not where it comes from, and they suspected, without realising this, that truth kept itself hidden in a distant yonder, in an unknown realm which might only be found by following the, to them, unfathomable and obscurely twisting paths of script. They themselves were not capable of thinking things any other way than they were; they lived in a world which was self-evident, no matter what - even doom had acquired something familiar so that it had become unimaginable that there had been a time when the whale had not been lying on the beach and that there had not been any corpses floating down the streets.

  Dousa was startled when he discovered the whale, but because he saw that bailiff Woutersz, who had been here earlier, was observing him from the side to sound out his reaction, he let as little as possible be seen. So this was why the man had kept silent so mysteriously on the way here. And for a moment he held Woutersz responsible for the total disarray in his demesne. This was a pointless and unsatisfactory impulse, as he could not stand disarray even if this might be charged to Woutersz's account. Therefore he recovered himself and sought a description or an allencompassing idea which would give meaning to what he saw. He ought Pliny to mind with the classics he always had the experience of entering an ordered space, each word in its own place within the indissoluble context of grammar. However, his large memory notwithstanding, he was unable to remember whether there was any report in the Naturalis Historia of a balaena or a phallaina, as the whale was called in Greek. Nor could he remember himself as ever having devoted any extended thought to the phenomenon of the whale. It was, in as far as he had any image of it at all, a mythological monster, a creature of fable like the griffon, the centaur and the flying horse - and he was surprised that, without ever having seen such an apparition before, he had recognised the creature at once. How curious, he concluded, the way everything became curious if only one thought about it for long enough. So now a whale had ended up within his thought. But the whale swimming about in his mind was a different one from that one there, stinking on the beach, and he could not understand how this was possible. How could that whale have ended up in his head - and why was it different from the one on the beach? He felt he was approaching the essence of something, though he knew not of what, but soon the perception had already lost its coherence.

  The waiting populace was disappointed that their lord was so indecisive. It had been hoped that, following his arrival, something would happen, but everything stayed the way it was. Perhaps it was because he had dismounted and now was standing just as low down as the rest, because now for him, too, the cold drr • up from the ground through the soft leather of his boots, a cold which was like paralysis.

  Dousa was aware that he was failing, and in his insecurity and impotence he was irritated by the bailiff who, in the light of the gravity of the circumstances, was sitting there, incomprehensibly calmly, on top of his overly tall horse. Woutersz - Dousa realised with a mixture of envy and contempt - was a man who divided up the world by responsibilities, and who only bothered himself with his own affairs. Because of this, he seemed devoid of fear or uncertainty concerning higher things, for the way he saw it, this was the responsibility of the church which attended to such matters in God's name - as if the life of a bailiff was not spent in a state of darkness, too, and as if in the case of a bailiff each glimmer of light, too, would not also show up that shadow cast ahead by death.

  This was probably a correct characterisation of the bailiff; in the matter of the whale, however, the bailiff was not at all so sure of himself. He had checked on the privileges but his researches had brought no clarity. The coast belonged to the manor of Noordwijk, but was this at high or at low tide? And the sea the whale had come forth from and of which he was a part, as it were, that sea was no one's - something the bailiff found highly unsatisfactory. Moreover, there was the possibility that the whale was the property of the King of Spain, though it was not likely that he would be coming here demanding his rights. The fact that, all this notwithstanding, the bailiff still sat relatively calmly on his horse was because of the restful realisation that the Lord of Noordwijk bore more responsibility than he, no matter what, and that it did not even appear impossible to pass all responsibility on to his shoulders altogether.

  This last thing he did not dare do; perhaps it was because of his meticulousness, perhaps because of his servility, but when his lord asked him what needed to be done, he did not reject his own responsibilities but gave as faithful as possible a report of his official findings.

  Dousa did not understand what the bailiff was going on about and he frowned when the King of Spain was being dragged in with all h
is majesty, a thing that - Woutersz realised this - made rather a foolish impression here, at the edge of the world with that stinking cadaver - or was it still alive?

  Still, it did not strike Dousa as unpleasant to have to listen to the useless minutiae coming from the bailiff. It was as though something slipped from his shoulders, a heavy burden or, to put it in the bailiff's terms, a responsibility. Now the ever-accurate Woutersz did not know what it was they must do either, one was permitted, as it were, to stand deedless on the beach beneath the unfathomable dome of heaven in an almost grand realisation of one's own insignificance, a realisation that offered him a way out for the conscientiousness that rested upon him.

  And thus nothing happened for some while.

  Surprisingly, the Leiden friends were the ones to break that arrested state, stepping forward out of the background. Some clamour arose among the bystanders though this was borne off at once by the wind so that nobody knew what had been said. This was not of importance, either, for it had been understood what might have been intended by those not-understood words: that people were tense and unsure about what those unknown gentlemen were going to do. The gentlemen from Leiden, as rhetoricians having an understanding of display, bore the wishes of the public in mind. Hands on their backs, as befitted scientists, they made for the whale and what is more, to stretch the period of uncertainty, they also gave it a wide berth walking round it, creating an atmosphere of weighing-up-possibilities by making lovely tutting sounds with finely pursed lips. Perhaps they would have been frightened otherwise, for close-up like this the whale reached from the comer of one eye all the way to the comer of the other and beyond, but losing themselves in their roles they forgot that they themselves were the ones who were standing there and, like the public, they now believed that they were three scientists from distant parts who wished to take a more detailed look at the anatomy of this wondrous fish. The scientists regretted that they had no access to a measuring rule, for it was writ in the Bible: 'Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast.' The understanding was there: this they had themselves, and the beast was there, too, but without a measuring rule no wisdom would be theirs. So as not to forget themselves, they decided to measure the whale, in as far as this was possible, by their own bodily measurements: the yard, the foot and the span. Because of the solemnity with which they went about their business, their performance gained something preposterous about it, it became an unintentional mockery of the incomprehensible. All three arranged themselves beside the whale and at the same time placed their lower arms against the flaccid, wet skin of the tail. The one in front stayed in place and the two hindmost overtook him to join those in front. Then the one in front kept his place and the two others went and stood in front of him in their turn. Thus they went on, in this unequal mating dance with the whale that stank of putrefaction. Because they were continually muttering numbers all the while, the display acquired the darkness and malevolent character of a satanic rite.

  The spectators, who were not sure whether this was allowed, this curious and probably even blasphemous mating dance of three gentlemen and a whale, looked in anxious expectation to the lawful authorities who, however, seemed to think everything was in order. Still, the bystanders did not have much truck with it and when the scientists noted down their measurements - something which, for want of a slate, they did on the beach, drawing numbers in the wet sand with their heels - the spectators feared something terrible, that is, they feared the number that is the number of the beast and though none of them could read, there were those who believed they saw the number. Six hundred, threescore and six. Six hundred, threescore and six, lisped the wind. Six hundred, threescore and six: everybody was whispering it, but no one understood what it meant.

  Unperturbed, the scientists continued with their measurements. They had the dimensions of the sides and the tail and they were now intent on a method of measuring its height. No mean thing, that, and their hands clasped their chins in a sign of profound thought. The whale was taller than they themselves so they would have to climb one on top of the other in order to reach the highest point. But what were they to measure with? Finally, they had it. Two of them, one having climbed upon the other, allowed themselves - to the horror of the spectators - to fall against the whale, at which the blubber trembled a moment, and then the upper one reached with his hand to the highest point. Then they let themselves slide down the whale, went to lie down on the beach, head to toe, that hand stretched out, so that the third, hopping alongside on his haunches, was able to measure the combined length using his lower arm. The result was noted down in the sand.

  A number of separate body parts were still to be measured, like the snout and the trunk-like sex, but they had the bulk and at this they were highly satisfied. They had the feeling that, thanks to their calculations, the whale had been explained satisfactorily, and they considered its presence as being obvious.

  Among the spectators, however, resentment arose over the self-satisfied demeanour of the Leiden gentlemen which they had experienced as mockery and blasphemy. The most sombre among them, who knew the eyes of the saint to be directed at them, feared that now something terrible had been provoked and they averted their gaze; others, more practical folk, thought that intervention was necessary and they directed their hopes towards the lord and the bailiff, with impatient expectancy. These, however, had fallen prey to paralysing doubt. Dousa in particular, though this was in his nature, for his spirit was like a blind man who feels his way with soft fingers; but the bailiff, this otherwise so punctual and in his punctuality, in a way, so simple a man: he too was at his wit's end, beset by the confusing feeling that the King of Spain had let him down.

  With dull helplessness, Dousa and Woutersz were obliged to watch as resentment in the people flared up into anger which, through lack of direction, caused confusion. There were those who demanded that the whale be towed back to sea with the help of nets and horses; others believed it would be better if the whale were to be killed because, in their eyes, death was the only effective solution. In all the zest of their anger they were apparently forgetting their fear of a judgement from God, for one of them even went so far as to declare the saint with the dogcart to be the guilty one. In so doing, he did bring down the indignation of others upon himself, it is true, but it had been said, nevertheless.

  And so, each had his own opinion; there were those who had a number of opinions and some even had contradictory ones.

  There was one person who remained quietly on the sidelines. He was the Admiral. He had been standing here from morning, free from the frightened curiosity that had held the others in its grip. And now, too, now they were brandishing their axes and crying for nets and horses, he stood apart for he knew that this was all irrelevant. At most he was surprised that it had come about like this. And in a curious way he had been proud as well: proud that God had sent the feared Leviathan for him, a humble fisherman. The Admiral waited for a sign and there had been a moment when he had thought that it was there. This had been when the beast of vengeance had laughed. Nobody who had seen this had understood it, except he. It had laughed at the saint on the dunetop and it would not have surprised the Admiral if, in a secret understanding between them, they had also winked at one another. The Admiral had not been afraid then either, for in his opinion he deserved to be punished, not only for the theft of statuary and heresy, or for what he had inflicted on his wife, but especially because he could no longer believe in the truth.

  He was tired and he wanted to sit down, but he thought: they will be coming to fetch me soon, so he continued to stand. He was very tired and did not understand why the others made such a fuss. He could not care less: he regarded everything from a great distance. Perhaps he was already dead. He had thought this that morning, too, when he had crept out into the open from his cellar: that he had died and that his soul no longer had a body to carry him. He would indeed not be surprised if he had died already, and in that case he t
hought he was entitled to go and sit down. He sat there and it occurred to him that it might be more pleasant to lie down. This was why he let himself slip over backwards in the wet sand. It was cold, but not unpleasant. He felt himself grow stiff and without sensation, the sounds became dull and far away, and above him was the sky, dull and far away, too - he thought of the candles in the sea chapel, how beautifully they glowed, and then he slipped away.

  It no longer concerned him that the others had decided to fetch nets and cart horses. Humpkin, who had been sent on ahead, wanted to greet his father, but because he was lying there asleep, he let him be instead.

  Not long after Humpkin had left, the North-Westerly began to roar. This did not necessarily signify much, but the people had become jittery. Dousa and Woutersz, too, thought it advisable to break up the gathering. Only the ones from Leiden hesitated: they had written their calculations in the sand and they did not know how they were to take them along. There they stood, at the high water mark, bent over their figures, rehearsing: Six hundred, threescore and six; six hundred, threescore and six - that is what it sounded like. Dousa would have liked best of all to have left that little lot behind, but he felt obliged to call them. They mounted and went at walking pace past the throng going laboriously up the dune path.

  Nobody thought of the Admiral lying asleep on the beach, left alone with the whale, while the saint stood on top of the dunes, looking on.