Harry Mulisch - The Discovery of Heaven

He woke with a start. Through the car window he caught a glimpse of the terrace of the Capitol in Havana — which immediately afterward shrank to become the entrance to the Academic Hospital in Leiden. His clothes were still clammy and damp. It was raining, but the storm had died down, or perhaps there hadn't been a storm here; he paid the bill and went inside without saying goodbye.

The night porter, who surveyed him suspiciously from top to toe, had a message for Mr. and Mrs. Quist — and asked who he was. Once he decided to believe Max's story, he said that Mrs. Brons had gone home ten minutes ago. She was going to wait for her daughter there.

"And Mr. Brons?"

"He died at about twelve-thirty."

Max turned away, looked at him again, turned away again, and looked at him again.

"Would you be kind enough to call the hospital in Hoogeveen for me?"

He realized that the formality of that sentence helped him control himself.

The porter did as he had been asked and handed Max the receiver.

It took a little while before he got Onno on the line.

"Mother?"

"No, it's Max. I'm here in Leiden at the hospital." He hesitated for a moment. "There's worse to come, Onno." And when there was a silence: "Ada's father is dead."

"You can't be serious!"

"It's as if none of this is real."

"My God, I'm going mad. It's unbelievable! The poor guy, is he really dead?"

"It seems it happened at about twelve-thirty, apart from that I don't know anything, either."

"And what about my mother-in-law? How's she coping? Have you already told her what's happened to Ada?"

"I haven't talked to her yet. She waited for us, but now she's at home; I'm going straight there. How is Ada?"

"She's with the neurologist, they're taking X rays."

"I'll be off, then. Take care. Try and get a bit of sleep tonight."

"Yes, they've made up a bed for me here in Ada's room. I'll make sure she's transferred to Amsterdam tomorrow."

"Your mother-in-law will be calling you shortly."

"Thanks a lot, Max. It's fantastic what you've done for me."

"Shut up, you know I'm glad to do it."

Max handed the receiver back to the porter, who hung up.

"Can I make a note of the number of that hospital?" When he'd done that, he asked, "Would you order a taxi for me? I'll wait outside."

"You take care, too." said the porter, picking up the receiver again.

On the terrace Max took a couple of deep breaths. What a night! But now it had hit them, and on other nights other people were the victims, and tonight countless other people were being struck too — there had never been a day or a night or even a moment when something like this was not happening to someone, for as long as humanity had existed. Doom roamed the earth constantly, like a swallow through a swarm of gnats, with sharp twists and turns, its beak wide open.

When he got out of the taxi at "In Praise of Folly," the rain had finally stopped. There was a light on in the shop. Somewhere farther off in the silent town there was the sound of students coming from their club celebrating noisily; all through those hours they had been bawling away in their ravaged, oak-paneled domain. As soon as he rang the bell, Sophia Brons appeared at the back of the cave of books. Her face was taut, but her eyes showed no sign of redness.

When she opened the door and saw him, she seemed to be alarmed for a moment. She looked quickly left and right down the street.

"You look a sight! What's happened? Where are Ada and Onno?"

"We had an accident on the way here, but don't be alarmed, everyone's alive."

"An accident?" she repeated. Her cold, dark eyes looked at him in a way that made him feel immediately guilty. "And her child?"

"All fine. They're in Hoogeveen hospital. I came by taxi. I've just been at the Academic Hospital, and heard the terrible news about your husband. How awful for you."

She looked at his scratches and ruined clothes again.

"Everything comes to an end," she said with a taut mouth. "Come in."

Onno did not know his mother-in-law very well: this was not the kind of woman who needed to be treated with kid gloves and would be devastated by a telephone call. He followed her through the labyrinth of legibility to the back room. Poetry. Technology. Theology. On the low table he saw an opened photo album, and next to it a pair of black reading glasses. Above the brown corduroy sofa hung a large portrait of the writer Multatuli, which he hadn't noticed the last time, in the Romantic, conquering pose of a Bavarian king, a coat with a cape attached over his shoulders like an ermine mantle, focusing on truth with watery eyes.

"A cup of coffee?"

"I'd like nothing better."

While she poured the coffee, he told her what had happened. When he mentioned with concern that Ada was still unconscious, she stopped stirring her cup and said:

"Still? For more than three hours?" She thought. "Fortunately she's still young. I've known patients who were in a coma for days or weeks, without permanent effects."

He looked at her in amazement. "Were you in nursing?"

"Ages ago. In the war."

"Anyway, I don't know what things are like now. I just called Onno from the hospital, and the neurologist was with her. Shall I call Hoogeveen for you? I've got the number."

She pointed to the telephone. "Go ahead."

"Onno knows about your husband," he said as he dialed the number. "He was very shocked, and he said that he would make sure that Ada was transferred to Amsterdam tomorrow." When he got through, Max handed the receiver to Sophia.

"Mrs. Brons here," she said. "Thank you very much — thank you, Onno. I don't know. I'd gone to a lecture on Thoreau and Gandhi. When I got home, he was on the floor in the kitchen, unconscious. — Yes. Yes, don't worry. — So I heard. He's here now. — Yes. — Yes. — Yes. — Yes. — Of course. — Yes. — Oh.—Yes. — Yes. — Yes. — Let me know what happens. — Fine. — Of course. — I'll see you tomorrow."

She put the receiver down.

When she sat down again and said nothing, Max asked: "Well?"

"The X rays are good. No fracture of the base of the skull or anything like that. We'll have to wait. Tomorrow she'll be admitted in Amsterdam, probably at the Wilhelmina Hospital. They'll do an E.E.G. there."

Max nodded. He didn't know what else to say and asked: "How old was your husband?"

"Forty-seven."

"And a fatal heart attack, though he led such a quiet life here among his books."

"No one knows the kind of life a person really leads."

Max nodded. "You could be right about that." He was silent for a moment. "There are also people who are constantly under terrific pressure who live to be a hundred. What were his last words?"

" 'That rain just goes on pelting down.' " With her arms folded, Sophia looked straight ahead for a while, as though she could see him again. "He'd been feeling nervous and anxious all day. He thought it was the weather."

They continued looking at each other. Max wanted to ask if he had had much pain, but that didn't seem appropriate. He bent over the photo album and saw the family at the base of a statue. At the foot of it was a giant-size winged lion; in a burst of high spirits, Ada had laid her head on a step, under a bronze claw, while her father shrank back with feigned alarm. Her mother was looking up at the statue, which was not visible on the photo.

"Venice?" he asked, and looked up.

"Two years ago."

"All three of you are in it. Who took the photo?"

"Someone who happened to be passing by."

He leaned back and looked at the shop through the open dividing door. In fact he wanted to leave, but he had the feeling that it wasn't possible yet.

"What will you do about the bookshop now? Are you going to continue it?"