B007P4V3G4 EBOK (11 page)

Each time he had found sufficient support, he would rest for a
moment and look up, and the more clearly he could see her, the
more glorious she seemed to him. Now he could read his own,
huge desire in her face. No, it wasn't a game with her like it was
with the others, a game of cat and mouse, for beyond the radiance
of her love's glow he could see the fear, the fear of failure, of him
falling. But the others had to think that she, too, was luring him to
his death.

There had been one perilous moment; not when, for the first
time, he saw her lips, her teeth, her nostrils, the wave in her hair,
not even when he could distinguish the pupils in her eyes, when
they switched focus from their faces to their eyes. All this was just
glorious.

Dangerous was the moment when, for the first time, they could
call out to each other. He began, and when she answered him she
did so in his own language. She was one of his tribe!

By a whisker, he avoided toppling right over backwards. His
entire body atremble, he clung to the rock and waited like this
until he'd calmed down.

His language, his language! His language had not yet died: it
was still alive. It revived between the two of them, which was the
most important thing, the only important thing. Now, she was
completely like him.

Who cared the way the others spoke? Nobody existed for him
any more, except her. What he had wished to do when he believed
to be closing his eyes for ever, to banish all that surrounded him
from his thought, that same thing happened to him now. To him,
she was all that truly existed.

This was no trembling with fear, but trembling with happiness
which was why it could change into strength and control. No
more abandoning himself to tenderness now, no more words now
except the ones trapeze artists will cry out to each other in the
circus: no taking an advance on their happiness as long as it hadn't
been captured yet.

The most difficult part of all came at the edge, where he must
surmount the incline. He now avoided looking at her on purpose;
the sight of her so close by would be as deadly as that of Medusa,
would make him fall at once.

Measure for measure, he progressed. He, too, began to incline,
over backwards: he had to grip the stone tightly. Softly, almost at
a whisper, she gave instructions. 'Bit more to the left - a little
further - no, not there, that bit's there's a hollow
there - now raise your foot: there's another ledge
along very go your left hand and stretch out as far as
possible.'

Yes, she gripped him: let go!

Now those who were following him with bated breath from below
and from the balcony saw him float through the air but to their
amazement, he did not fall, though the music had already ceased.

Quite how it was done, no one could really tell: a few seconds
on, they saw the prisoner and the slavegirl in up
there.

She had truly drawn him to her.

Now they were together. Now they could behold one another,
say sweet nothings in each other's ears, melt their joys and their
sorrow into one and entrust one another with their bodies.

Both wept with happiness, but they knew, too, that it would not
last, and that all that can be between man and woman must be
encompassed in that short time.

The sense of this brevity was the only thing that remained
within them of the mayhem in the cave; all other things had been
completely obliterated by their mutual possession.

Every word, each gesture proved to them that they were alike
to an unfathomable depth.

They hurled themselves into the abyss of one another.

Amazement soon turned to anger in those who beheld this. They began to hurl abuse, to shout, to rant. Rage took all in its grip, the
prisoners as much as the others. The empress shrieked. Like a fishwife.

None of this got through to the loving couple.

It took a long time before the order had been passed down the
line and its execution came into effect.

Then the servants reached them with their stakes and pushed
them down.

They still remained united in their fall.

On the ground, she was torn to pieces over his broken back.

Huub Beurskens

We have arrived. I can hear the hubbub. People have come by the
carload. There is excited calling and shouting. Cheerful, popular
music sounds from loudspeakers, repeatedly interrupted by a voice
listing numbers. These will be the numbers of parties allowed to
go in, in the order announced. They are trying to make everything
run in an orderly fashion and so prevent a crush. I can hear more
cars arriving all the time. Particularly those with the heavy droning
engines will be bringing in throngs of invited guests. There are so
many guests that, right through the stink of exhaust fumes, I can
even sniff their presence here. I don't mean anything derogatory
by that, of course. On the contrary, the smell has something
salutary about it, Doubtless, all have made themselves
look splendid.

I presume that I'll go in last and will stride forwards through the
guests to enthusiastic applause. This accounts for one of the
reasons why the car I am in has been shuttered off. Had the car
been open to view, I would be being sniffed over by entire groups
of admirers right stared at in any case. Moreover, I'm
no spring chicken any more; I'm easily troubled by light that's too
bright. In the back here, I can still stretch myself out for a moment,
still savour the peace and quiet a while, and that way prepare
myself for all the hullabaloo that will bear down on me any
moment now. My driver knows this. I can rely on him.

I am tense though. I have been through much in my life, but I
can feel my heart thudding now even so. Just imagine: a heart
attack right in front of the entrance, on the threshold! So, keep
calm, as calm as possible. Best not to get all of a doodah: that I'm
wobbly on my pins and because of this I possibly won't be able to
proceed to the front, straight as a ramrod, later on. People will
understand.

Odd really: you're on your way to receive highest honours,
everyone is full of respect and admiration for your achievements
and you yourself are fretting about the way you

I'd do better, ahead of time, to wallow a bit in the accolade that
will be accorded me. It'll probably be a high dignitary who'll
present the insignia. But secretly I entertain the hope that the
president himself will think it an honour. After all, I was quite in
the dark until this morning. 'Come,' the driver who is also my
secretary said, and before I knew it, before I'd had time to ask
anything, we were on our way by car. Gradually it dawned on me.
Well, yes, of course a thing like that has to be kept a surprise until
the very last moment: that's the finest way of all.

I am deeply honoured, on behalf of the entire government,
to be able to award you highest honours for your many years of
unremitting endeavour in the field of promoting artificial intelligence ...' The president will signal me to approach him and
applause will resound afresh.

It was clear very early on already that I was what is called a
genius. I simply had it.

Of late, with an eye to my age, I have begun to round things
off and at the moment my productivity is no longer might
as well say it's nil. I enjoy my old age. At last I'm getting down to
activities which previously I could and would not allow myself:
sleeping through the night, having a bite to eat, just lolloping
something down, then sleeping the day away again: wonderful.

That's the way things go. When you're young, you yearn for
recognition, but that's not forthcoming and you go on, grinding
yourself down even though nobody ever truly seems to show
appreciation for what you produce. And then, when you withdraw,
tired, when you've done your bit and the sorrow you've had
because of all that lack of appreciation barely affects you any more,
then, from one day to the next, you're being praised and made
into a folk hero. In retrospect it turns out to have to be that way;
you realise that that way's the best. Appreciation at too early a
stage breeds arrogance and sloth and who would be served by
that? But just you try telling that to a young ambitious so-andso...

I can still hear more folk arriving. The noise some of them make!
Their gleeful anticipation's enough to shatter your eardrums.

My driver's standing outside with one of his colleagues -
judging by the a cigarette, awaiting things to
come.

I've never mixed with the common crowd. This too is curious in
a way. I have never gone among the people; I had no time and
opportunity for it. And now, precisely because of that solitary,
celibate life, I, with all my being, will end up the centre of
attention. No, I have never been married; I've never asked someone
to walk out The toll paid by genius. I never experienced
it physically as such, however. No earthly reason to bemoan my
fate because of that.

Everything will be colourfully decorated in the main hall. Beaming,
the president will be awaiting me on the dais. The lectern has been
tittified up with flags and inflated balloons. The ceiling and
everything behind him is festooned with garlands in the most wide
ranging hues of pink and red. His Excellency is wearing a bright
yellow rose on his left lapel. Doubtless, later on, after the official
part, he will pin this to me with a grand gesture, as a personal,
friendly token of appreciation.

Heavens, I haven't got a coat! I haven't got a coat. I'm not even
wearing a shirt or a See, that's what happens when you're
not accustomed to move about in public and then one morning,
from one moment to the next, without having been informed
about it, you're having to go by car to receive highest honours. To
be pleasantly surprised is highly goes without
saying - but the consternation it brings along in its wake can also
have its disadvantageous side, too, it seems. It's making me
grumpy. Driver!

He doesn't hear me of course. Let's give the door a bash. He
doesn't heed that either. He's too busy talking, with the president's
driver probably - again, that's quite an honour for him personally,
too. But there will definitely not be time later on to quickly rustle
up a frock coat from somewhere. He will, still having a laugh with
the president's driver, open the door and there'll be me, sitting
there in the flashlight of scores of photographers, and in all the
papers tomorrow: LAUREATE UNFROCKED!

I can't help it: this makes me giggle myself. My whole body
begins to judder, all the fat joins in, it even sets my belly atremble;
it takes a huge effort not to burst forth; the tears are already
running down my cheeks; ohhh, there you have it: I'm roaring
with it already. I yelp and let off a right-old fart on top of
it all!

The driver strikes the car with the flat of his hand. He's right: soon everyone will know i'm here after all. And I must keep
bearing my health in mind. This has left me quite hot. There's not
much ventilation. I'll catch cold, getting out in a moment. My
lungs and my heart can't stand just anything any more. I'm portly.
Since becoming emeritus, my weight has even increased considerably. Should I make too much of an effort, my ticker won't cope, I
fear. Ah well, like every stage in life, old age too, besides its
pleasures, has its afflictions.

In a kind of way, it's possibly quite fitting, in fact, that I'm not
wearing any upper garments. People all too readily like to see the
genius as a somewhat absentminded character; one doesn't merely
have to look up to him, in that case: it makes him earthly and less
unapproachable. Not such a bad idea, therefore, to come to receive
highest honours without a shirt, tie and frock coat: as a token of
absentmindedness. Understanding, everybody will laugh and I'll be
able to gamer even more sympathy.

What is it I hear the presidential driver say? 'He'll be getting a
blue stamp,' he says. 'No,' my driver replies, 'he'll be having a red
one.' 'Blue, purple, perhaps green,' the state driver responds, 'but
no way red.' This continues for a while between those two.

A stamp?! All the time I've based things on the premise that I
would be allowed to receive a medal or would have a decoration
pinned to my frock coat at least. Must be an old fashioned image
of mine: apparently I'm no longer up to date. If I've got things
straight, it's to be a stamp, I gather. Each area of life thus has its
own Ah, that's why the driver at our departure did
not draw my attention to the fact that I wasn't wearing upper
garments! If one is stamping someone on such an occasion, one
doesn't stamp the black frock coat, nor the tie or the spotless shirt,
but the chest. This at least I may assume: the bare body, the chest,
though the advantage of the stamp is that it can be applied not
just to one place but to many.

It's doubtless done with indelible ink. Herein, too, must lie the
point of this innovation: a medal can go missing, one can forget to
pin on a decoration and in the crush, even at the reception
afterwards already, it might drop from the lapel. Such a stamp
stays in place once and for all, indelible, so the laureate can move
proudly among the people at all times.