Willem Hermans - The Darkroom of Damocles

He opened the car door before Spuybroek could stop him, and got out. But he didn’t run for cover. He went to the middle of the road and stood there, scanning the stepped gables for any recognisable feature. Then he looked across the way to the factory buildings. The motorcyclists were on either side of him, engines sputtering.

‘Everything I’ve ever done is slipping through my fingers! The people I worked with during the war are all either dead or missing, and even the streets I used to know no longer exist. It’s beyond belief. I feel I’m in a different world, where no one will believe me. What am I to do? How in God’s name can I ever justify myself at this rate?’

Osewoudt paced to and fro. The motorcyclists revved in anticipation.

Then Spuybroek took hold of Osewoudt’s left hand and left elbow and straightened the arm, but without hurting him.

‘No one said you could get out of the car,’ he said.

Muttering under his breath, Osewoudt allowed himself to be led back to the car. He got in; Spuybroek got in beside him and pulled the door shut.

Selderhorst said nothing, put in the clutch and drove off. He drove like a madman, racing down alleyways with NO ENTRY signs, screeching round corners until finally they found themselves in Hoge Woerd again. From now on he slowed down at everything resembling a lane or side street.

‘Was it here, Osewoudt? Here? Wielmakersstraat? No? Not good enough?’

He drove on.

‘What about here? Nieuwebrugsteeg? Was it here by any chance? Anyone see a house with a porch?’

‘No, not just yet,’ said Spuybroek. ‘But we’re bound to see one round the next corner, aren’t we, Osewoudt? Round the next corner, eh, because we don’t want to be going round too many more corners, do we, or we’ll be in a different part of town altogether!’

Selderhorst stopped at an alley called Koenesteeg, and then again at the next one, called Krauwelsteeg.

‘Well Osewoudt? Any ideas?’

Osewoudt looked dutifully in all directions. At the entrance to this alley was a sign saying NO BICYCLES and further along a shed with a sign saying BICYCLE PARK. Those were the only distinctive features in Krauwelsteeg.

They drove on, and passed the house where Meinarends used to live.

‘Look!’ cried Osewoudt. ‘That’s where Meinarends lived. There’s a life-size picture of a duck on the fanlight over the front door. See? I told you I wasn’t making it all up!’

‘If it had been a picture of Dorbeck over that door, we might be getting somewhere!’ said Spuybroek.

Selderhorst, tight-lipped, was still braking sharply at the entrance to every lane and alley.

He continued to do so even in Breestraat.

‘How about this alley, Osewoudt? Plaatsteeg, is it?’

Now Spuybroek burst out with: ‘Look, it’s got a bend in it! Damn it, there’s a bend!’

Spuybroek got out, pulling Osewoudt after him. Selderhorst also got out. People stopped and stared.

They walked into the alley; Osewoudt kept his eyes on the ground. But the sides of Plaatsteeg were for the most part wooden fencing. There were no more than three front doors, and none had a porch.

Selderhorst stood still, hitched up his trousers and took a deep breath.

‘Well! Now what do you want? Do you want us to go to Voorschoten and dig up that uniform of Dorbeck’s, or shall we skip that part? Eh? Shut your trap, don’t contradict me! Make up your mind, Osewoudt! Do you want us to go to Voorschoten, yes or no? But I’m warning you. If we go to Voorschoten and there’s nothing there, the uniform’s been eaten by maggots, or the whole back garden’s vanished into thin air, then I’ll see that you get a damn good hiding! I’d rather have you strung up on barbed wire than deal with any more of your nonsense! Understand?’

‘I understand. I want to go to Voorschoten.’

The sun had stopped shining, great clouds were massing in the sky. The blue tram, the yellow tram — both were running again. Cows grazed in the fields.

The car followed the route of the blue tram, one motor-cyclist in front, one behind. They passed the silver factory, and as they drove into Voorschoten it started to rain. At the point where the tramlines sidle towards each other until they overlap, the first motorcyclist turned right towards the police station.

‘Are you sure you’ll be able to find your house, Osewoudt?’

A blue tram approached from the opposite direction, sounding its whistle. Selderhorst steered the car close to the houses to avoid the tram.

‘The shop is at the other end of the high street,’ said Osewoudt tonelessly. ‘I’ll show you where it is.’

After a minute he said: ‘Stop here.’

They stopped right in front of the shop. Planks had been nailed across the door-pane and the display window had been bricked up with old bricks from a demolition site.

The rain now poured down with almost supernatural force.

Selderhorst made no move to get out. Now and then he glanced in the rear-view mirror. The motorcyclist who had gone to the police station returned. Close behind him came two policemen on ordinary bicycles. One had a spade tied to the frame.

The policemen leaned their bicycles against the shop front. The one with the spade untied it from his bicycle, the other began to break down the door. Osewoudt recognised him. He got out of the car and said: ‘Officer, do you remember who I am?’

‘Certainly. You’re Osewoudt.’

‘Do you remember that evening — it was at the start of the German occupation — when you came to the shop? There was a thunderstorm, and it was raining as hard as this. You came to check up because the light was on and the blackout blind wasn’t down. Do you remember that? You had only just been posted here.’

‘Yes, I remember.’

‘Didn’t you see someone leaving the shop?’

‘It’s possible.’

Osewoudt now turned to Selderhorst and said: ‘That was the night Dorbeck brought me the pistol.’

Selderhorst drew a cigarette from his pocket, tapped it on his thumbnail and put it between his lips. He kept his hand over the cigarette to shield it from the rain. The door opened. Selderhorst was the first to enter.

Inside, it was less dark than you would expect for a house with bricked-up windows. The shop had been entirely gutted. There were holes in the floor, the sliding doors were open, and most of the leaded glass had gone. So had the glass in the French windows opening from the back room on to the garden. The walls were stained with soot, there had obviously been a fire, but it could not have lasted long.

The rainwater apparently collected on the flat roof and came straight down through the upper storey and out of a hole in the ceiling of the back room, in a gushing, clattering stream.

Dodging the waterfall, they headed towards the back garden.

The place was overrun with nettles and broom; it was beyond recognition.

‘Well,’ said Selderhorst, ‘I think I’ll wait inside. Tell them where to dig.’

Osewoudt took two steps into the garden, halted, and pointed to his feet.

‘Here.’

The policeman swiped his spade to clear the nettles, and began to dig. Osewoudt turned up the collar of his jacket against the rain and watched closely. Spuybroek lounged in the doorway with his thumbs in his belt.

The soil was black and lumpy. The spade turned up a large bisected worm. Then a piece of newspaper.

‘There it is!’ Osewoudt cried. He bent down; the policeman stopped digging.

Osewoudt squatted down and continued to dig, using his hands. The newspaper disintegrated into slimy shreds at his touch. In the end he managed to pull away a handkerchiefsized piece, which he held out to Selderhorst.

Selderhorst took it and stepped outside. His shoulders darkened instantly in the rain. Both Osewoudt and the policeman were now squatting. The uniform emerged: tunic, breeches and boots. The fabric had gone completely black, and soft as a spider’s web, the insignia were rusty, and also the buttons had turned green. When they picked up the boots, the soles stayed behind in the mud.