Will, стр. 65
‘Is that what it’s all about, Lode?’
‘What?’
‘Money.’
‘Sometimes, Will, you still sound like a little kid.’
‘For you too then?’
‘What?’
‘So it is the money.’
‘Come on, what’s got into you all of a sudden?’
Lode looks me in the eyes, searching for something, then shakes his head. Suddenly he’s tousling my hair.
‘Don’t,’ I say.
‘No,’ he says fiercely, ‘don’t.’
He doesn’t.
Cigars for fathers, cigarettes for youngsters, pipe tobacco for grandads huddled over stoves, and chewing or rolling tobacco for gardeners, roadworkers and railwaymen. Welcome to Bruyninckx Tobacconist, behind the counter our winsome Jenny, who, going by her summery neckline with the thermometer at an icy minus two, has not yet adjusted to the prevailing fashions amongst shop girls.
The bell on the door of this robbers’ den takes a moment to stop jingling.
‘It’s handsome Wilfried!’
Her lips form a red O of mock surrender, with her right hand pressed against her forehead as if she’s about to swoon. ‘It’s not easy for a woman like me when you appear. I get butterflies in my tummy.’
‘You sound very happy, Jenny.’
Jenny without alcohol is more intense than Jenny on the port. No more drowsy looks, no bafflement in her eyes, no tears threatening to fall at the slightest provocation, a lot less whorish than before.
‘Had many customers yet?’
She screws up her eyes. ‘Are you making fun of me?’
‘How could anyone?’
‘Goodness,’ she laughs, ‘what a charmer. And if you must know, this place is a goldmine. You have no idea how many people can’t wait to smoke their ration these days. People have long since forgotten what good tobacco tastes like.’
Jingle-jingle. A customer.
‘Your brother-in-arms is in the back room,’ Jenny whispers, nodding at the golden-brown curtain behind her.
A narrow hallway stacked with boxes left and right leads to Meanbeard, sitting at a table covered with letters, bills and receipts, lit by a desk lamp of relatively high wattage that makes his head shine and casts menacing shadows in the furrows on his brow. Preoccupied with mental labours or not, he definitely sounds cheerful.
‘Welcome to my new shop, jeune homme! Pack of tobacco? For you, it’s free of charge.’
‘Your shop? That’s fast.’
‘The owner has retired, you could say. I find it regrettable for him, but nonetheless, he did violate a race law. He should have known better. Anyway, I’m now the authorized administrator, or what’s it called?’
Meanbeard slides some papers to one side, finally finds his matches and contentedly sucks the flame into his pipe. ‘You wouldn’t believe the stock Mr Bruyninckx has here… All prewar. Turkish tobacco, English tobacco… All for his favourite customers. You have to see this!’
He waves a notebook.
I open it. There are all kinds of names in it, followed by crosses, numbers and brands of tobacco.
‘Mr Bruyninckx’s clientele. Nobody can accuse him of being disorganized. And look at these names…’ Meanbeard pulls over other documents. ‘Koch, Holz, Rothman, Kubelsky, Gottlieb… All of them Jews on our list who have been evading us. Can you believe it? These fellows are still regulars here. At least two of them popped in this very day. C’est vraiment stupéfiant! Don’t underestimate them… The inventiveness of the Israelite is beyond description. At the same time their stupid arrogance is so… Can you believe the two today simply announced themselves to Jenny with their own names, holding filched ration books and requesting their favourite brand? Just like that, as if life simply goes on.’
‘And what now?’
Meanbeard rubs his temples and yawns. ‘We’re going to pick up as many as possible in one go. There’s no point nabbing just one or two. Word’ll get out and we can whistle for the rest.’
‘You could announce a sale on tobacco and smoking paraphernalia.’
‘Bloody hell, that’s it. What a brilliant idea. A Jew always wants a discount! It’s so simple it’s perfect! We’ll do it!’
I regret those words so much, as if I’ve suddenly and through my own fault put myself under a showerhead with ice water, teeth chattering as if I’ve come down with a fever, cursing my own stupidity, despising the way I sometimes shoot my mouth off, saying things despite knowing better, my arrogance, the bastard inside me, my thoughtless fucking longing to simply join in, to be in on the joke, to be appreciated. Sometimes shame feels like a mosquito bite, sometimes it’s a heart attack, sometimes your bones are being crushed in a python’s deadly embrace. And nothing anybody ever says will make me forget it. You, dear great-grandson, are the first person I’ve ever told. Believe me when I say that I only meant that crack about a sale as a joke. It occurred to me and I blurted it out. It was so daft, so bloody cheap and crude. Know too that Angelo, the inner voice that used to hold such sway over me and has now been reduced to a rare whisper, confided in me that night that my shame was a sign of weakness and I believed it and probably fell asleep a little easier as a result. The very same week, after the announcement of a special discount, a dozen keen Jewish smokers were picked up at Bruyninckx Tobacconist.
‘When are you going to take me out dancing again, Wilfried?’
Yvette goes over to the gramophone.
‘It hasn’t been that simple recently…’
‘I know that.