He picked up the coal scuttle, waved it around, letting it swing low over the tabletop as he did, and walked into the hallway. “Why women are afraid of mice,” he thought, “I told Maurits about that. But I forgot to say that elephants are actually afraid for more or less the same reason. They’re afraid that one will crawl up their trunk.”
He climbed the stairs and crossed the narrow, darkened landing to the attic door. “If there is a monster up here,” he thought, “and it grabs me, and strangles me before I have time to even scream, then no one will notice.” He opened the door and went in. The outlines of the windows were only vaguely visible; he could make out nothing of what lay on the floor. He felt his way across it. Banging his leg against an old bicycle frame, he cursed and rubbed his shin. “Coal and briquettes,” he said to himself, went to a window and listened to the silence.
“If there is someone up here,” he said in a whisper, “who wishes me ill, who is waiting with a length of cord to strangle me, then I am a goner.” Moving his head slowly from side to side, he looked around, drew his lungs full of air and stood still. “I am afraid,” he thought, “but still I enjoy it. I enjoy the fear. How can that be?” He bent down over a large trunk that lay beside him, the contours of which he could now make out, opened it and breathed in deeply. “Odours don’t vanish,” he said to himself, “it is the same smell.”
“In a trunk like this one,” he said to himself in a whisper, “two children were once playing, two brothers, aboard a ship. It was a very large steamer trunk, very heavy, with a heavy lid. And deep, it was very deep. Can you hear me? Have you been able to follow me so far? Good. They were playing, they were in the trunk together, and the lid fell shut. They couldn’t get out, couldn’t lift the lid. After half an hour, people noticed they were gone. They searched for them for an hour. Then someone said that he had seen two children playing in a trunk. The rest is simple. They had suffocated. Yes, people, life is no bed of roses.” “I am afraid,” he said to himself, “but I won’t say that out loud. If he hears it, he’ll leap from his hiding place.”
He sat down on the floor beside the window, his back to the wall, lowered his head between his raised knees, took a deep breath and peered into the darkness. “He could leap on me now,” he thought. “I’m afraid, I am trembling, but at the same time I’m enjoying it. It’s like with boiled sweets, when I was a child, those red ones. You suck on them till the roof of your mouth is raw, but it remains pleasant.” He clutched the coal scuttle between his legs and clenched his teeth. Shivers ran up and down him. He stood up, tiptoed to the crate of coal and filled his scuttle. Stepping carefully, he left the attic, closed the door and raced down the stairs so quickly that he almost fell twice.
“Here you are,” he said, placing the scuttle behind the fire. “What in heaven’s name were you doing up there the whole time?” his mother asked. She was sitting by the fire. “I couldn’t find the scoop,” Frits replied. “I always put it on top,” she said, “it’s always on top, you don’t have to look for it at all.” “Well, it wasn’t on top,” Frits said. “I had to feel around all over the floor. It was over by the window.” “Then you’re the one who put it there,” she said. Looking past the fire at the scuttle, she asked: “Didn’t you bring any briquettes?” “No,” Frits said, “I have no idea where those things are, if you wanted them you should have given me directions. Briquettes, bring some briquettes with you. That’s not enough. As far as I knew, they would be in with the coal. But that’s not where they were. I can’t go crawling around over the floor looking for them.”
“They’re stacked against the wall, on the right, beside and behind the blue crate,” she said. “If I don’t have any briquettes, I can’t get the fire lit in the morning.”
“Oh,” said Frits, who had taken his seat before the radio again, “that’s no problem. When I light the fire, it goes very well without briquettes.” “Yes, if you happen to have a whole storeroom full of wood,” his mother said. She picked up the scuttle and shook a few pieces of coal into the fire. “And now close the lid with a bang,” Frits said to himself.
Using her index finger, she wiped coal dust from the rim of the feeder and slammed the lid loudly. “Ow,” Frits said in a whisper. “Still, in my opinion, Mother,” he said, “you definitely light the fire all wrong. You do it very clumsily. First you take a newspaper. You light it. Once it’s on fire, once it’s almost burning your fingers, you stuff it into the stove. The lid stays open. Then you toss in cardboard, then wood, and a huge flame goes on roaring out of the opening the whole time. The room fills with smoke. And only after you have tossed in the briquettes do you close it.” His father stood up, took a book from the shelf and sat down again in the chair by the window.
“So how would you do it?” she asked, rattling the grate back and forth. “I put everything in the stove first, piled up,” Frits replied. “Paper at the bottom, then cardboard, then wood, then thicker pieces of wood, one or two briquettes broken in half, and little bit of coal, a thin layer. There’s no reason why you can’t put that all in there. You keep everything closed and then light it from the bottom.”
“I’ve been lighting the stove for thirty years, maybe longer,” she said. “Well then you’ve been doing it wrong for thirty years or maybe longer,” Frits said, “so much the worse.”
“What on earth are you two arguing about now?” his father asked. He was holding the book, closed now, on his lap. His mother began setting the table. “Oh no,” Frits said, “we’re engaged in a discourse with regard to the physics of combustion in stoves.” “What?” his father asked. “It is a conversation concerning a principle of nature,” Frits shouted. “I don’t understand,” his father said, “why there must be this snapping all the time.” “The skin turns all red at the places where the creases are,” Frits thought. His mother brought their dinner. They sat down at the table.
The meal began with soup. Frits tapped his fork against the rim of his bowl, raised the tines to his ear and made a humming sound. “Soh,” he sang loudly. He repeated it twice and looked at his father. The man raised his eyebrows. “Almighty Christ,” Frits thought, “they’re slurping. Both of them are slurping. Now they can still pretend that it is because the soup is hot. Although that is really no excuse. But later on they will keep on slurping, because that’s easier. Could it really be easier?” He picked up his fork again, tapped it against his bowl, held it to his ear and sang loudly, in a low voice: “Soh!”
“Sometimes I think you could well doubt your own sanity,” his father said. He pursed his lips, producing a half circle of creases on his chin.
“Absolutely,” Frits said loudly, “I am a small-time neurotic. It starts with small-time compulsions. And it ends with counting change or saying no.” With his right hand he made the motion of quickly counting out change and shaking his head back and forth jerkily. “Then you are well on your way.” “It doesn’t sound like anything to be proud of,” his father said. “You mustn’t say that,” Frits said, “it’s all the rage at the moment.” They ate the rest of their soup in silence.
His mother took the bowls to the kitchen.
“There, now we have a little more space,” she said when she came back. “More space,” Frits said to himself, “space.” He served himself from the platters. There were potatoes, canned broad beans, apple sauce and pork. “It seems to me, Mother, that you have once again outdone yourself,” he said, “especially the gravy.” “Don’t go too wild with that, please,” she said, “what’s in the boat is all there is.” “We are dining in particularly great fashion today,” Frits said. He took a second helping of potatoes and apple sauce.
“Perhaps it would have been even tastier if the apple sauce was cooled,” he thought. He glanced over at his father. “That he leaves his meat on his plate so long is his own business,” he said to himself. “It doesn’t matter to me. There’s a bone in it, I see. Not a big one. You could remove it with a single swipe of your knife and fork. But good God almighty
, I know for a fact that he is going to use his hands.” “Don’t you want some more?” his mother asked. He went on eating quickly, but kept an eye on his father. When the man had finished everything on his plate but the meat, he picked it up and used thumb and index finger to separate the meat and a border of fat from the bone, laid the meat back on his plate, stuck the bone in his mouth, withdrew it with a sucking noise and then held it cupped in his hand. “I wonder if there’s a…” he said, peering around. “Fetch a saucer, would you?” his mother said. Frits got up, took a yellow saucer from the sideboard, carried it over on the flat of his hand, then stood beside his father and bowed, holding it out to him. “All-Powerful, Eternal One,” Frits said to himself. “I can’t believe that this has gone unnoticed in Your eyes. What is he going to do with his fingers now? Impossible to say.”
His father pulled out his linen handkerchief. “Aha,” Frits said to himself. His father wiped his hands, crumpled up the handkerchief but did not return it to his pocket. “What now?” Frits thought. His father unfurled the handkerchief and blew his nose, then examined the linen closely and put the handkerchief away. “Approved and accepted with no visible anomalies,” Frits said to himself, moving his lips soundlessly.
For dessert there was yellow vanilla custard, with layers of beschuiten, jam and chocolate sprinkles. “The chill is off a bit now,” his mother said, lifting the glass bowl from the mantelpiece and placing it on the table. “It is delicious,” Frits said after the first bite, “it could only be a bit cooler. Now it is still lukewarm. That doesn’t help the flavour. But still, very tasty.”
“When it’s too cold, it makes my teeth hurt,” his mother said. “Then you need to do something about that,” Frits said. “When are you going to the dentist? Father needs to go as well. His teeth are always bothering him too.”
“What is it?” his father asked. “I was saying,” Frits said loudly, “that the two of you, in fact, neglect your teeth. When are you going to see Mergel again?” “Right,” his father said, raising his hand to his face. “Now we are about to receive a glimpse of the pearly whites,” Frits said to himself.
His father opened his mouth and poked at the top row of molars. “This is where it is,” he said. “The remains of dinner are not a standard part of the tableau,” Frits thought. “If he doesn’t notice, he will leave them sticking to his finger. But it’s also possible that he will suck them off, or wipe his finger on his trousers.” “Watch now,” he said to himself, “watch out. Red alert.”
His father withdrew his hand, closed his mouth, looked at his index finger and wiped it on the edge of the tablecloth. Then he went back to his pudding. “What could be worse?” Frits thought. “I know,” he said to himself, “it’s when we have bean soup. The stock has been drawn. Gnawing the bones, with a piece of bread. That was a month ago. There was a chunk of lower jawbone in it, with a bit of the lip and bristles still attached. I didn’t let on. That was courageous of me.”
“Do you know what’s really terrible, Mother?” he asked loudly. “It’s something Louis told me about. He was spending the night at a farmer’s house in Doornspijk. In the middle of the night he gets thirsty—are you listening, Father?” “That first part,” his father said, “what was it about Louis?” “I was talking about something really terrible,” Frits said, turning to face his father, “that Louis told me. He was spending the night at a farmer’s house in Doornspijk. In the middle of the night he gets thirsty and goes to the kitchen, but the pump is dry, nothing comes out. That happens sometimes, you have to pour water into the top of it first. He looks around.” “He does what?” his father asked. “He looks around,” Frits repeated. “And he sees a glass of water. He drinks from it and, when it’s almost empty, a pair of dentures knocks up against his teeth. That’s quite something, isn’t it?” “Fantastic, the nasty faces the man is capable of,” he thought.
“You could have saved that for after dinner,” his mother said. “So now we’ve had the dentures,” Frits thought. “What else have we got? Oh yes, the elephant.”
“Do you know, Mother, why an elephant is afraid of a mouse?” he asked, “do you know that?” “No idea,” she said. “He’s afraid that he’ll get one up his trunk,” he said. “My,” she said. “But it’s also because his mother was afraid of them too,” he said. “Haw haw,” he mumbled to himself, “a laugh a minute, pure entertainment.”
His mother stacked the dishes and cleared the table. “Even if it’s only for half an hour,” Frits thought, “I need to get out of here.” “Mother,” he said, “there’s somewhere I need to go. I’ll be back at eight o’clock.” “Will you come back right away?” she asked. “I have something nice, and there’s something else as well.” “Well, well,” Frits said, smiling, “and what might that be?” “You’ll see,” she said. “A surprise?” he asked. She nodded.
“Where are you headed?” she asked after he had taken his coat from the stand. “Is he going out tonight?” his father asked. “There’s somewhere I need to go,” Frits said, “otherwise I’m sure I’ll forget about it completely.” “Back in a bit,” he shouted, and went out.
Stepping outside, he turned up his collar. It was dry and the air was clear; a mild easterly wind was blowing. “I should have worn a scarf,” he thought. “I’m sure the weather is taking a turn. The mist has blown away already and the air is drier. That means a light frost, and thaw during the day.” He walked along the river and stopped before Louis Spanjaard’s door. “Not even a quarter to seven yet,” he murmured, looking at his watch. He stepped back and looked up. “The light is on,” he said quietly, “he must be home. Fortune smiles on us.”
As soon as he rang, the door was opened. “Here I am,” Louis called from the top of the stairs, “pleased to see you of course, but I am going out later. If you take that into account, you will be received here in all good grace.” “That suits me perfectly,” Frits shouted back. “How are you?” he asked on the landing, shaking Louis’s hand, “you’re not looking any too well this evening, I must admit.” Louis was wearing a heavy, dark-blue jumper with a high collar. A few loops were missing from his grey trousers: in two places, the waistband stuck out widely beneath the belt. He was in stockinged feet. They spoke no further until they were in his room, where the oil burner was hissing quietly.
“I was here the Sunday evening before last, too,” Frits said to himself. “We start off there where we have finished.” He sat down in the chair by the window. “There are no flowers on the panes,” he thought, and wiped his finger across the steamy glass. “You definitely look quite peaky, Louis,” he said. Louis sat at his table, drumming on a book with his fingers, and said nothing.
“So you won’t be home this evening?” Frits asked. “Are you going to your parents’?” “Yes,” Louis replied. “I don’t see any cats in here,” Frits said. “They have stopped coming into the room lately,” Louis said. “Frightened, of course,” Frits said. “I suppose it could be that,” said Louis, his eyes on the floor. “Do you know why an elephant is afraid of mice?” Frits asked. “No,” Louis said. “Because he’s afraid of getting one up his trunk,” Frits said. “Ah, might that be it?” said Louis. They were silent. “What am I going to talk about now?” Frits thought. “Will there be a lot of guests at your place tonight, Louis?” he asked. “Will there be drinks?” “Could be,” Louis replied. “If it’s too boring, I’ll leave right away. I won’t stick it out till midnight, I don’t believe.”
“God preserve us,” Frits said, “you are not in much of a mood this evening, I can see that already.” With his right index finger he wrote “Frits”, mirrorwise, on the windowpane. “Look, Louis,” he said, “how quickly I can do that. It’s not much more difficult than normal writing.” “Yes,” Louis said, raising his eyebrows, “in the olden days, everyone wrote from right to left. With their right hand. Until someone noticed that he was rubbing his hand through his own letters. Then they switched to the other way around.”
“It won’t ha
ve gone that quickly,” Frits said. “The first one who noticed that was roasted over a slow fire, of course.” “Ah, of course,” Louis said, “you’re right. Do you have anything to smoke?” “Damn, I left my rolling tobacco at home,” Frits said. “If another silence descends, we will be in a bad way,” he thought. “I’m spending the evening at home,” he said, “alone, with my parents.” “Whoo-pee,” said Louis, “oh, Jesus.” “Well, watch what you say,” Frits went on, “who knows what misery you will encounter at your parental home this evening. He who laughs last.” “Anything is better than just the three of you,” Louis said. “That’s only a little worse than just two.”
“There will be drinks at your place tonight, won’t there?” Frits asked. “But you don’t touch the stuff, do you? You can’t handle it, am I right? Yours is a pitiable fate. Like one of those children born with their heart on the wrong side. Or without a stomach. Madam, your child won’t live past the age of eleven. But doctor, is there no hope? No, ma’am, I’m afraid not. The only thing is, you yourself turned eleven a long time ago. You are way past your limit. So you don’t drink? Of course that’s always good for a laugh, when everyone else has had too much and you sit there being sober.”
“I heard a wonderful story about Elseboom,” Louis said. He grinned and rubbed his hands together. “You know who I mean? The painter.” “Yes, yes,” Frits said. “They were having a drinking party at someone’s house, during that week when it was so cold,” Louis went on. “And he was tanked, Elseboom, to the rim. He needed to take a shit. So they brought him to the toilet. But it was so cold in the house that they were all still wearing their overcoats. He was too.” “Were you there?” Frits asked. “No,” Louis replied, “but Willi told me.” “All right, go on,” Frits said. “He sat down on the pot,” Louis continued, “pulled down his trousers first, he still had that much sense left, and sat down on the seat, but on top of his coat. He pooped it all into his coat. And then he fell asleep. And stayed sitting there like that. It was so cold in there—the toilet was off in one corner of the house—that the shit froze to his coat. That was the night when it got down to eighteen degrees below zero.”