The Darkroom of Damocles

  He pressed her face so hard against his that the stitches in his eyebrow hurt. She slipped her hands under his jacket and he felt them on his back, through his thin shirt.

  He said: ‘I missed you more than I ever thought I could miss anyone. You’re going to have to spend the night here, as it’s past eleven already. You’ll stay with me, I have a small bedroom upstairs.’

  These were plain facts, facts that were irrefutable, so much so that he had an instantaneous sensation of having check-mated her.

  She said: ‘Why do you put it like that? Even if I could go out all night, if I could come and go as I please, I’d still want to be with you more than anything else. Don’t you under-stand? How suspicious you are.’

  ‘Sometimes I think I’m afraid of you.’

  ‘Getting arrested gave you a shock, so now you’re scared of everything, for no reason.’

  ‘Do you love me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And when the war’s over, will you still love me?’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  He held on to her hair, knowing he was hurting her. He went up on his toes and had to kiss her to stop himself saying: I don’t believe a word of it, because I know what I am, and I have a feeling I know what you are too. (I can’t be sure, he thought, sometimes the strangest things happen, she may go on loving me, but it’s unlikely, if only because things won’t be so mad any more after the war. I can’t keep on dyeing my hair for ever and even if I did it wouldn’t make me the man Dorbeck is. We’re alike, but not the same.)

  A ghostly vision entered his mind. The war was over, and he and Marianne were strolling hand in hand in some faraway countryside. Then they saw Dorbeck. Without a word, she went off with Dorbeck and left him standing there. No goodbye, no turning round to wave, just one quick look over the shoulder, only to call back to him: I knew what the man I wanted looked like. Forgive me for thinking it was you. Why must you look so much like him when you’re not him? It’s your own fault. Mine too, because I’m the one who dyed your hair, I made you fit the picture in my head. Now your hair’s no longer black, what are you? A bleached rat.

  Or, worse, they had a date one evening and he suffered an accident on the way, so couldn’t be with her on time. By chance she would run into Dorbeck at the very hour they were supposed to meet. She wouldn’t consciously notice the difference, but she’d say: I love you tonight more than ever before! And when he at last caught up with her she would say: now I understand. You’re a fraud, you were always pretending to be someone else.

  Marianne slid her mouth away from his and said: ‘This is the longest you’ve ever kissed me.’

  He let her go and looked about. Labare, Suyling and the boy had apparently gone back inside. The door was still open. They went into the unlit room, and he groped behind him to close the door. The house was quiet. Taking Marianne by the hand he drew her into the corridor and upstairs to the small room with the narrow bed and the dingy white counterpane, the straight-backed chair, the small table with the enamel basin and the enamel jug, and the framed picture of a family of ginger apes partially clothed as humans.

  Their clothes lay in a heap on the straight-backed chair.

  Marianne pushed him away and began to laugh.

  ‘I say, didn’t they give you a bath in hospital?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  Her laughter became uproarious. He laughed as well and asked: ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Didn’t the nurses think it was funny?’

  He stopped laughing. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘You and I are exact opposites!’ giggled Marianne. ‘Don’t look so glum! If they had noticed, the worst they could have done was tell some German they’d seen a patient who’d changed his hair from fair to dark. No harm in the Germans knowing that, is there?’

  She made a grasping gesture with her hands, as though plucking the conclusion from the air: ‘How bad could it be? They’re looking for a man with dark hair and the man they arrest turns out to be naturally fair! So then they know they’ve got the wrong man!’

  ‘No,’ said Osewoudt, ‘because they don’t know how long I’ve been dyeing my hair. It might already have been dyed when that photo was taken. By the way, what did you do with my pistol? I gave it to you in the cinema before I left.’

  ‘I’ve kept it with me all the time. It’s in my handbag. Do you need it now?’

  ‘You make me laugh.’

  She planted swift kisses in the hollow above his left collarbone, and ran her fingertips over his throat. He raised his left arm to look at her body beneath him. He was aware of their bodies touching all over, and yet it was not as if she were another, separate being. Time passed at breakneck speed, and this, this would be happiness or eternity: bringing time to a standstill but keeping the breakneck speed. Marianne gave a moan, and it was as if he sank into her, or as if he was swallowed up by her and she by him.

  Afterwards he lay beside her, his arm beneath her head; he pressed her cheek to his chest. A wave of despondency came over him.

  ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I didn’t tell Labare the whole truth.’

  ‘What didn’t you tell him?’

  ‘I told him they didn’t trust me, but there was more to it than that. That fellow Cor said he didn’t think I was a day over seventeen. He didn’t believe I was Osewoudt. He said there’d been no point in rescuing me, because I was just some poor sod the Germans had beaten up by mistake, and that they only put themselves on the line for people important to the Resistance, not for the likes of me. He said I looked like a girl. But I’m a man!’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘It’s true, I don’t shave. I’ve been picked on for that ever since I reached the age boys start sprouting beards.’

  ‘Oh, that’s just some physiological peculiarity, or it could be a skin disorder, something minor that has nothing to do with the rest of you. I wouldn’t feel the way I do if you weren’t a man.’

  She tickled his side, saying: ‘Every time you see me you prove you’re a man. And what a man!’

  ‘Proving it to you is easy. But I can’t go around proving it in public, can I now?’

  ‘Just as well. I love being the only one to know. I’m very jealous. You shouldn’t take any notice of what people say or think.’

  ‘All the same, it got to me, almost as if I had a sneaking feeling they were right.’

  ‘Why, for goodness sake?’

  ‘The thing is, the man in the photograph actually exists. You’re not going to believe this, but it’s the truth. I met that man a number of times. His name is Dorbeck. We’re the same height, and he looks exactly like me. Really, like a twin. It’s hard to imagine how two unrelated people can look so alike, but we do. Only, his hair’s black, and he shaves. Everything else about him is completely different. He was an officer in the Dutch army back in ’40. When Rotterdam was being bombed he saw two Germans in the street. He had them shot immediately. So he was a wanted man from the moment we capitulated. He wasn’t afraid of anything. He asked me to do things for him a couple of times. I did everything he asked. I had the feeling I was an extension of him, or even part of him.

  ‘When I first saw him I thought: this is the sort of man I ought to have been. It’s a bit difficult to put into words, but think of the goods being produced in factories: now and then a substandard article gets made, so they make another one and throw away the reject …

  ‘Only, they didn’t throw me away. I continued to exist, reject though I was. I didn’t realise I was the reject until I met Dorbeck. Then I knew. That’s when I knew he was the successful specimen, that compared to him I had no reason to exist, and the only way I could accept that was to do exactly as he said. I did everything he told me to do, which was quite a lot sometimes … quite a lot …’

  Marianne sat up and leaned forward, propping herself up on her elbow.

  ‘But Filip, aren’t you getting a bit carried away? You could be imagining it all, you know, I mean abo
ut that man looking so much like you.’

  ‘Imagining it? Why do you suppose the Germans arrested me if it’s him they’re looking for, why would they circulate his picture with my name? And how could Roorda be so sure he recognised me, when I know for certain it was Dorbeck he met? There’s no other explanation than that Dorbeck is the spitting image of me, other than that we’re like twins – identical twins even: same height, same build, one voice lower than the other but the same intonation, same gestures. I’m telling you: the only difference between Dorbeck and me is that Dorbeck has black hair and shaves.’

  ‘But he’s not you. Would you prefer to be someone else then?’

  ‘Why not? Who am I? Do you think it’s any fun being me?’

  ‘Maybe I wouldn’t be yours if you were someone else.’

  ‘Maybe if you knew Dorbeck you’d rather have him than me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How can you say that? When you met me I was at Dorbeck’s beck and call. It was only by doing what Dorbeck said that I got to know you. Without Dorbeck I’d still be stuck behind the counter in the tobacco shop. You’d never have met me. You’ve never known me the way I used to be. Ten minutes after we met my hair was pitch-black, like Dorbeck’s.’

  ‘Poor Filip. The one thing I can’t give you is a beard. A stick-on moustache maybe, but that’s all. Anyway, I don’t like moustaches.’

  ‘You’re turning it into a joke.’

  ‘What else can I do? It’s almost as if you’re telling me you’re a fraud and that loving you is a mistake. You make it sound as if you’d offer me to Dorbeck on a plate the moment he turned up. How do you think that makes me feel?’

  ‘You might fall for him anyway.’

  ‘It’s good to know where you stand, I must say. You obviously have a high opinion of me and my feelings.’

  ‘That’s not the point. The point is I can’t help thinking: in reality she’s in love with Dorbeck, even if she doesn’t know it. She says she loves me, but she means Dorbeck, because Dorbeck’s the genuine article and I’m the reject.’

  ‘Your nerves are on edge, that’s all. The black dye will grow out eventually. You’ll see how much I love you when you’re fair-haired again. I wish you’d believe me. Why don’t you break contact with Dorbeck, if he’s such a nuisance? Give up on him, be yourself. You can trust me. Try me.’

  ‘What do you mean, break contact with Dorbeck? You don’t know what you’re saying! Give up on Dorbeck? That would mean betraying him. And how would I go about that? By going to the Germans and saying: you’ve got it all wrong. I know who you’re looking for. His name’s Dorbeck. His hair’s black, mine’s only dyed. That’s not what you meant, is it, Marianne?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I meant.’

  ‘And even if it was, it would still be absolutely impossible, because of all the things I did on his behalf. I developed secret films for him, I shot a man in Haarlem, I killed a Youth Storm leader, I shot a German agent and the agent’s wife, I abducted their kid to Amsterdam …’

  ‘But it was you doing all those things on your own, Filip, just you. Dorbeck wasn’t there, was he?’

  ‘No, Dorbeck wasn’t there.’

  ‘So if Dorbeck wasn’t there, they were your own actions! What difference does it make that it was Dorbeck telling you what to do? Soldiers obey orders, too. Does that mean a soldier’s actions aren’t his own?’

  ‘A soldier obeys whoever’s superior in rank. He doesn’t obey the man, he obeys the orders. But I can only obey Dorbeck, and no one forced me. Do try to understand: before I knew him I didn’t have a life, really. I got married to a first cousin seven years older than me, it was pure chance. I did nothing, wanted nothing, left everything to chance. My uncle thought I should go to university, but by chance, when the time came, my mother was discharged from the mental institution, so the easy way out was to take over my father’s tobacco shop and have my mother stay there. It looked as if I was making sacrifices for her, but that wasn’t the case at all: I sacrificed nothing because I was nothing. I had no skills, no ambition. It wasn’t until I met Dorbeck that I felt I wanted something, if only to be like Dorbeck, if only to want the same things as he did. And wanting the same thing as someone else is a step up from not wanting anything.’

  Marianne lifted her elbow and leaned diagonally across his body. She kissed his ear. ‘Here you are, talking away, while I could do with some loving. Why can’t you do what I want for a change? If you love me as much as you say you do?’

  He pressed her to him, muttering: ‘You’re right. This is the answer. This is the only possible answer.’

  He had an acute sense of how tired he was, but overcoming his weariness became in his mind a bid for glory. Everything that might happen from now on he would confront with this passion, as if life itself were a gigantic female, the tang of whose sweat alone would drive every virile male to unrelenting ecstasy. Not just once, but time and again, without respite, without rest.

  He heard Marianne’s shallow breathing and drew himself half upright, gritting his teeth. She gave a moan and opened her eyes wide, as though showing him how to fight and die with eyes open.

  Neither spoke for the next quarter of an hour. He rose from the bed, switched off the lamp, opened the curtains and the window. Hardly any light came into the room from outside.

  ‘Such awful things you’ve been telling me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He lay down beside her again.

  ‘That you’re married to an ugly cousin of yours who’s seven years older than you.’

  ‘Was that what upset you the most?’

  ‘Yes. Where is she?’

  ‘Arrested by the Germans.’

  ‘Is her name Ria?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Does her father live in Amsterdam on Oudezijds Achterburgwal?’

  ‘Yes. What of it?’

  ‘Then his name’s Nauta. Of Bellincoff Ltd. I went there and said: Henri sends his regards, and Ria’s been arrested. Don’t you remember asking me to do that?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘So you’re the Henri who left his wife and took a girl to spend the night with him at his Uncle Nauta’s?’

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  ‘Where’s the girl?’

  ‘Arrested. Maybe dead. She was an agent from England.’

  ‘How did you know her?’

  ‘She had my address. I had to help her on her way. She showed me a photo to prove her identity.’

  ‘Remember the ID card you asked me to take there? I can just see it now, with her picture on it. Well, well.’

  Osewoudt gave her a fleeting kiss.

  Marianne sighed: ‘All those people getting shot.’

  ‘You don’t mind about that.’

  ‘Of course not. In fact, it makes you special. If only you knew how much it means to me to be with a man who’s actually done that kind of thing – me, a Jewish girl who’s obliged to bleach her hair and take a non-Jewish name. Oh, Filip, some-times I imagine you were only doing it for my sake.’

  ‘So I was.’

  ‘Then you got off to a very early start! But it’s sweet of you to say so.’

  ‘Maybe I wouldn’t even be caught up in all this if I hadn’t been destined to meet you.’

  ‘Now you’re exaggerating.’

  She laughed. He laughed as well and rolled over on to his back.

  Suddenly they heard cars approaching along the canal, slowing down and stopping at the house. It became light in the room; German voices sounded in the street. The beam of a spotlight came slanting upwards through the window and froze on the far wall, illuminating the ginger apes partially clothed as humans. Outside, heavy boots thumped on the cobbles. The spotlight remained fixed on the apes.

  There was a commotion in the street, then the bell rang and someone started pounding the door with a heavy object.

  Osewoudt slid off the bed, ducked under the light-beam and made for the straight-backed chair.
He grabbed the heap of clothes, picked out his underwear, threw Marianne’s on to the bed.

  Alarm bells began to shrill all over the house. Orders were barked in German, more pounding on the door. Then the sound of breaking glass.

  ‘Filip! They’re coming in through the window.’

  ‘Where’s your bag?’

  ‘Isn’t it there?’

  ‘Can’t find it.’

  Wearing only his vest and pants he crawled over the floor, seizing clothes and tossing them aside.

  ‘Marianne, where’s your bag? It’s got my pistol in it.’

  He searched the floor in desperation, even looking under the bed, but no handbag. No time to put on his socks and shoes. Barefoot, he opened the door and went out to the landing. He saw circles of torchlight sweeping over the walls. Voices came from the front room. Someone kept turning a switch on and off, click, click, but the light didn’t come on. Labare must have disconnected the current at the mains.

  Osewoudt leaned over the banister and looked down. He saw the Germans going in and out of the rooms on the ground floor, torch in one hand, machine gun in the other. One of them opened the door to the basement and called to someone else to take a look behind it. Cackles of laughter. Osewoudt was surprised to see the door opened so easily, as the portcullis was supposed to prevent that. He started down the stairs, and when he was halfway put his hands up and shouted: ‘Don’t shoot, I surrender!’

  Three torches were trained on him as he completed his descent.

  ‘I’m Osewoudt!’ he said. ‘I’m the one you’re looking for.’

  As he reached the bottom he felt machine guns jabbing him in the ribs. He was too blinded by the three torches to see the Germans’ faces.

  ‘Stimmt. Ist der Osewoudt.’

  They manhandled him into the back room, where another two Germans were waiting. These were not in uniform. They pushed him towards an easy chair, and he sat down.

  One of the Germans in plain clothes pulled up a second low chair, which he placed directly opposite Osewoudt. He sat down, but jumped up instantly as though stung, looked at the seat, flung Marianne’s handbag into a corner, and settled himself on the chair. The bag hit the floor with a thud that sounded far too heavy for a lady’s handbag.