B007P4V3G4 EBOK (54 page)

'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

Once again, he began to walk down the road; by his watch he
saw that it was seven-thirty; he still had an entire evening ahead of
him; a flock of birds passed along, high and far away against the
grey sky.

He turned round.

A woman made up of large, brown spheres tapped against the
window, slowly and seductively; the rain began to come down
again; plumes of vapour rose from the water as if big animals were
breathing in the winter air; a swan, created from small white
blossoms, attempted, hissing, to rid itself of a condom that had
wrapped itself round its beak. He nodded.

Tears came to his eyes and, with a rapid movement, before the
dark woman opened the door, he loaded his revolver.

P.F. Thomese

I

Only after some time did the hunters notice that they were no
longer walking along a path. Drink whispered and giggled in their
ears so that they did not know it had become as quiet as death
itself around them. They wanted to shoot, for they had not yet
shot a thing all day. From time to time, one of them would train
his gun in order to feel the butt against his cheek. With the barrel
he would describe the flight of a grouse or the course of a rabbit.
But all who rustled and fluttered concealed themselves in the trees
and the scrub, so the gun was shouldered once more, with nothing
to show for it. The hunters tottered on, and they did not know
that they tottered - their drunken thoughts sped on ahead like
fawns' hooves on moss, enticing. The dogs, curious, looked round
continually, following the hunters' trail, thinking that it led somewhere. Behind them, the landscape fell apart into dunes of dusty
sand.