Willem Hermans - The Darkroom of Damocles

‘In that case you’d better put your head over the washbasin again. Time for the final rinse.’

When he was sitting upright again, she passed him the comb. He stood up and made a parting in his wet hair.

She stood beside him, washing her hands.

‘Like it?’ she asked in the mirror.

He put down the comb and caught her wet hands. He was still laughing. At the edge of his vision he could see the mirror, and in the mirror himself, laughing. He was certain his new laugh would get her to do anything he asked!

‘You’ve done a wonderful job. Not only have I turned into someone else, you have too,’ he said. ‘Know what I mean?’

She put her hands against his chest and pushed him away.

‘I think you’re crazy.’

‘Yes I’m crazy, crazy about you. I can’t imagine you wouldn’t let me thank you with a kiss.’

But she pushed him further away: ‘It sounds so silly when you put it like that!’ As his hands were gripping hers he was unable to pull her to him.

‘You don’t mean that,’ he said. ‘But I won’t insist.’

‘Just as well. I hope I can take you at your word.’

He laughed some more.

‘Before the week is out I’ll be back, perhaps even the day after tomorrow.’

She pulled her hands free and left the cubicle. He followed her, putting on his coat as he went.

‘Your collar’s not right,’ said Marianne, smoothing it down for him. ‘Come on, I have to switch the light off. They’ll be wondering upstairs what’s keeping me.’

She tugged at a cord and the lamp in the cubicle went out, but the rest of the room was still ablaze with light.

He followed her into the narrow corridor.

‘You know,’ he said with his mouth close to her ear, ‘I’ve done every heroic deed in the book, enough to get me decorated three times over, but until now I never knew what I was doing it for.’ He buried his nose in her soft, long hair.

She turned to face him. Her expression was more serious than it had been all evening.

‘After all, how many people really know why they’re against the Germans? The dominees in London safe and sound behind their microphones, they know exactly what it’s all about: Justice and Faith and Queen and Country. But none of that stuff means anything to me. I’m only against the Germans because they’re our enemies, because I refuse to surrender to an enemy. I’m only fighting in my own defence. War as such doesn’t make any sense, there’s not a single ideology worth taking seriously. Freedom! they cry, as if freedom were something that ever existed. All very well for people making lots of money talking into a safe microphone, not for the rest of us. Being exploited is the one thing I really won’t have. I won’t be told what to do by people I didn’t ask for advice. I didn’t ask the Germans for anything. That’s why I want them kaput. It’s as simple as that.’

They were at the door. She began sliding back the bolts. The moon was shining and a slab of light slanted in through the display window just in front of Marianne, so that all he could see was the white smock and the glistening hair framing her face. She pushed the door open.

‘It’s five to eleven. You’d better be quick or they’ll catch you straightaway, my little hero.’

He took her hand and she let him pull her forwards. But the shadow of the door frame fell across her face, so that only her body was clearly lit. Osewoudt bit his lip and gripped her hand more tightly than he meant to, and his arm began to tremble.

‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

She made to close the door but he was still clinging to her hand. Suddenly she pulled him close, kissed him on the forehead and the next thing he knew he was out in the street and the door was shut. He heard the click of the safety lock. He took a step sideways, put his forehead against the window, shielding the sides of his eyes with his hands. He stared and stared, but couldn’t see anything move inside, and anyway his view was largely obstructed by the short curtain at the back of the display.

He started banging on the glass, thought to himself that this was ridiculous, turned back to ring the doorbell. Then he took something out of his inside pocket.

The safety lock squeaked and the door opened.

‘You again? You’d better get cracking, it’s almost eleven!’

‘There’s something I forgot to ask you. Would you do me a favour?’

‘What is it?’

‘Go to Amsterdam tomorrow morning, early, to Oudezijds Achterburgwal, number 28, Bellincoff Ltd. Ask to speak to Mr Nauta. If he’s not there, try and find out when he’ll be back. If there are any Germans about say you’re from some firm or other, doesn’t matter where, and that you’ve come to choose some feathers for a hat. Tell them you’re a milliner’s assistant and you need feathers for a client. But if you get to talk to Mr Nauta himself, begin by asking him why he hasn’t been answering the phone. If he has a satisfactory explanation you can carry on. But if he says he doesn’t know what you’re talking about, tell him to watch out, because Ria and her mother-in-law have been arrested by the Germans. Ask him where Elly is. Just ask after Elly. But if it turns out there’s nothing wrong with the phone, give him this ID card. Put it in a sealed envelope first. Give him the envelope and tell him: from Henri. If he asks any questions, just don’t answer them.’

He thrust Elly’s new identity card into her hand.

Zoeterwoudsesingel did not have an even and an uneven side, the houses were numbered consecutively: 70, 71, 72. On the far side of the canal, which followed the zigzag course of the town’s old defences, was a stretch of parkland with huge weeping willows.

Number 74 sat exactly in the crook of an angle in the zigzag waterway. The house was quite different from the houses to the left and right, which stood slightly further back. The windows and eaves were decorated with lavish woodcarving. There was no garden at the front, but next to the doorway there were iron railings enclosing a flagged space hardly big enough to park a baby’s pram in.

The house next door was full of doctors, all of whom shared the same name. Their nameplates were set one above the other by the entrance.

Labare opened the door in person. He was about forty, and had a dented appearance, with hollow temples, hollow cheeks covered in a thick stubble of a mousy shade, and grey, spiky hair. He wore slippers. He extended an ink-stained hand and said: ‘My name is Labare. Come in.’

‘I’m Joost Melgers,’ said Osewoudt, and shook the proffered hand.

He was quickly ushered upstairs. Labare drew him into a small, narrow room.

In it stood a narrow bed with a dingy white counterpane, a straight-backed chair and a small table with an enamel basin and jug. On the wall: a framed picture of a family of ginger apes partially clothed as humans.

Labare sat down on the bed, and with a weary wave of the hand indicated by turns the chair and the space beside him on the bed. In his other hand he held a flat tin box.

Osewoudt sat down on the bed.

‘Look here, Melgers, it’s like this. You can sleep up here as long as nothing’s going on, but in emergencies you’ll have to stay in the basement. These are all strict orders. We have no time for amateurs, jokers, show-offs or blabbermouths here. There have been enough accidents already. Have you heard about the Dreadnought group? It’s the firing squad for them all next week. That lot talked too much, they all knew exactly who the others were. The Germans rounded up every one of them in an afternoon at the same address. So we don’t go in for chit-chat here. Like to roll yourself a smoke?’

‘No thanks. Allow me to offer you an English cigarette.’