Willem Hermans - The Darkroom of Damocles

‘You’re a good sort,’ said Osewoudt. ‘I mean it.’

He turned away even before Moorlag left the room. My country, he thought, what’s that supposed to mean? The blue tram? The yellow tram? The service is the same as before, except for the lights being dimmed after dark. A tobacco shop with empty packaging in the window? Dr Dushkind? North State? Havana cigars? I still have a packet of real English cigarettes on me. If Dorbeck hadn’t asked me to develop a film for him I wouldn’t have got mixed up in any of this. I’d be at home, safe and sound.

‘You’re an odd bloke, aren’t you?’ said Meinarends, when Moorlag had gone. ‘What I wanted to say, though — you have a Leica, isn’t that right?’

Osewoudt went over to his raincoat, then held out the camera.

Meinarends did not take it.

‘We could do with someone who can use a camera. If you want to get involved, I could find you somewhere to stay. You can stay here tonight, and tomorrow night as well if necessary, but not indefinitely.’

‘I’ll go now if you prefer.’

‘Certainly not. The ID cards won’t be ready till tomorrow. The best thing would be for you to avoid going out during the day for the next week or two. Can’t you grow a moustache?’

‘I don’t have a moustache, no beard either.’

‘You don’t? Curious. Then we’ll get your hair dyed black.’

‘Fine by me, the sooner the better.’

But the following evening he was still waiting for his hair to be dyed.

‘Listen here, Meinarends,’ said Osewoudt, ‘you must realise that I hadn’t bargained for anything like my mother and my wife being arrested. I have appointments to keep. I was supposed to be in Amsterdam this morning. I can’t put it off any longer. I have the papers now, I have money, there’s no reason for me to hang around here. That girl’s desperate for her ID card.’

‘You idiot! Your ID card says your hair’s black! And it’s still fair! Have you gone mad?’

‘Maybe. Don’t get me wrong. I tried phoning that address in Amsterdam. No reply. I haven’t the faintest idea what’s going on there and I need to know. You go instead of me if you must, but I have to know, I have to get some message to them, it’s the least I can do.’

‘Me go? I can’t leave here.’

‘Fair enough. But black hair or not, I’m going to Amsterdam.’

‘No you’re not. Do you think I’d risk my neck on your account? What’s the matter with you? If they stop you and your ID card says you have black hair while it’s fair, don’t you think they’ll want to know where you got the ID card?’

‘It’s a risky business. Think of all the risks involved if I don’t keep my appointment. Why only consider the people at your end?’

‘But you can’t go now. Tomorrow, perhaps. I’ll see if we can hurry things up.’

Meinarends went over to the table and picked up the phone.

When it was nearly dark outside, he took Osewoudt to a small hairdresser’s in Breestraat, directly opposite the town hall.

‘Well, you can find your own way back,’ he said when the door was opened.

The light was not on in the shop, but Osewoudt could make out a girl in a white smock.

‘We can’t switch the light on here,’ she said, ‘but I’ve got everything ready out the back, don’t worry.’

She fastened the door bolts and took him by the hand, laughing out loud in the dark.

‘It’s through here. I’m taking you to the ladies’ salon. That’s where we do the dyeing.’

‘Fine by me,’ said Osewoudt. ‘Nice smell in here.’

‘You’re in good hands with me, I promise.’

She pushed open a door. An empty space, brightly lit, almost dazzlingly so, with metal hoods on stands down one side and cubicles made of white curtains on metal rails down the other.

‘Do take a seat, we pride ourselves on our prompt service.’

He sat down, she remained standing behind him. He saw himself and her in the mirror. Her breasts were level with his ears. It was impossible to see what she had on under the white smock: the neckline of her dress was evidently lower than that of the smock. At her throat hung a red coral pendant from a thin gold chain. She had a long neck, and also long, wavy, pale blonde hair reaching down past her shoulders. Her mouth was so big that her teeth were almost permanently on view. Beautiful teeth. She had a naturally smiling expression in any case.

She took a handful of his hair, and with her free hand brought a strand of her own to hold against his.

‘Such sweet fair hair, do I really have to dye it pitch-black?’

‘Everything sweet turns sour in war,’ he replied. ‘You mark my words!’

She took a small basin from the washstand, turned on the hot tap and filled the basin.

He wanted to put his arm round her hips, but she swung round to face him.

‘Are you a student too?’ she asked.

‘No. I’m in the tobacco trade.’

‘I went to university for a year and a half, but when the Krauts closed the place down I looked for a job here in Leiden. I was already rooming with these people anyway.’

She stirred some sort of powder into the water, put down the basin, draped a large towel over his shoulders and began to tuck the edge into the collar of his shirt. The backs of her hands brushed against his cheeks, so he said: ‘I don’t need to shave, I don’t have a beard.’

‘Really?’ She turned her hands over and he saw her ten red fingernails lying like geranium petals on his face. He wished he could bite her slender fingers. She smiled, gave his jaw a playful pinch and asked: ‘Something to do with hormones?’

‘Never thought about it.’

‘Everything okay otherwise?’

‘Big questions for a little girl like you.’

‘Come on! I was a medical student!’

‘Want me to strip to the waist?’

‘No. Just keep your head over the washbasin.’

She pushed his head down, warm water streamed through his hair. He heard the soap frothing, not through his ears but directly through his skull, he felt her fingers on his scalp. Another gush of warm water. Maybe it was warming up his brains. I’ll be a new man, he thought, it’ll be a new life! Ria arrested, the tobacco shop closed down, Uncle Bart may well be gone, too. I’m being born again. Whoever ends up winning this war, I’ll be among the winners. He now felt her squeezing the moisture from his hair, then her two hands pushing his head back until he was sitting upright. He opened his eyes and saw the girl in the mirror again.

‘Do you mind telling me your first name?’

‘My name’s Marianne. What’s yours?’

‘Filip.’

In another dish she mixed a black paste. She divided his wet hair into narrow sections, dipped the comb in the paste and set about applying the dye.

‘Will it be ready soon?’

‘It’ll take another twenty minutes or so.’

‘This is all so ridiculous.’

She combed. His scalp turned a shiny black. Suddenly it hit him: Dorbeck! He was the spitting image of Dorbeck! Same black hair, same white face with red spots on the cheekbones. If I’d always had black hair, my entire life would have been different, even without a beard, he thought. A man who appears and disappears as he pleases, bound by nothing but his own will, a man before whom the world bows. As if by magic, Ria and the shop fell away from him; he dared to admit to himself it might not be such a bad idea if the Germans helped his unfortunate mother to a painless but better world. He burst out laughing, couldn’t stop.

‘Keep your head still,’ said Marianne. ‘Watch out, you’ll get the dye all over you!’

‘My hair’s turning black, but apart from that it’s all sweetness and light,’ he laughed. ‘You’ve put a spell on me. It’s not just the colour of my hair you’ve changed, it’s my whole face!’