Will, стр. 69

for all the times it was him stumbling up the stairs. I’ve been drunk many times, but up till last night I managed to keep it hidden, which probably annoyed the hell out of him. Now revenge is sweet. Given his feeble performance as a patriarch and the open contempt I’ve shown, he’s not going to miss this chance to take it out on me now. You too, Wilfried Wils, have been worsted by male stupidity, the overconfidence that comes with booze, green-eyed jealousy on the dance floor and all the pettiness, the extreme pettiness that normally remains hidden but is enlarged and expanded by the demon alcohol until it becomes a tragicomedy full of sleaze, passed down from father to son for the eternity of a barfly’s existence. As if the simple-minded poser I am obliged to call my father has now permanently and to his great relief ascertained that his son shares his bleary liver after all, the only inheritance a weak man considers true and just. Me, weak? Welcome to the club, you little brat.

‘I… um.’

‘Ooph, you’re turning green. Hurry off to the toilet, you idiot.’

I make it just in time. The smell of soap and bleach that always lingers there makes me gag. I vomit, eyes watering the whole time, twisted over the bowl, vomiting again. Slime won’t stop dripping out of my mouth. My head explodes. I lie down next to the toilet. Inside of me Angelo is singing a song that makes my underworld peal with pain and regret. Last night’s events are full of black holes and the moment I peer into their depths they fill with the stagnant water of humiliating shame. I can’t get myself up off the floor and onto my feet. There are  only obsessive questions that leave me floundering in murky waters up to my neck. Did I really call Yvette a whore? Is it possible I only felt like smashing that poet in the face but didn’t actually do it? Is there a chance of a horrified Aunty Emma launching into a tirade about me to our mother? What was I blathering to Oberscharführer Gregor about? That last question in particular makes me quiver like a rabbit that’s been skinned alive and strung up by the heels in the cellar to die. Preposterous image. It makes me puke again. Bile this time, although it feels like it’s my gall bladder itself coming up as soft stinking chunks of dog food.

Someone rattles the toilet door.

‘I’m busy!’ I croak.

‘Enjoying yourself?’ my mother snaps on the other side of the door. ‘It’s what you deserve.’

The flower stall at Groen Plaats is still open.

‘They’re the last ones, sir.’

Orange might not be her colour, and I don’t know what her favourite flower is either, but it is what it is, and what’s been ruined might be salvageable yet. I need to get to Meanbeard’s because I know she’ll be reading to his mother again this afternoon. A bunch of flowers isn’t enough; I know that too. I need an explanation, something to glue the pieces of her broken heart back together, something to convince her that this really is something that will never happen again. I’ll never touch jenever again, my God, that stuff, I’ve learnt my lesson, really, if I’d known it could turn you into such a mean drunk, I would never… Something like that? Or should I dig into the deep dark recesses of my soul? Something along the lines of her having now, unfortunately, seen what a bastard I can be, that this black-hearted monster is kept under lock and key ninety-nine per cent of the time, but that, unfortunately, she happened to be there on that one exceptional occasion when it burst free, frothing at the mouth and lashing out at everyone, and that too is a part of me, sweetie, forgive me, I am so ashamed of myself, but on the other hand, maybe it’s good… I mean, no, not good, but not bad… I mean, not that either… It’s only honest, yes that’s it, it’s only honest that you get to see the other side of me for once, as it’s nonetheless part of me, but a very small part, and most of all very well concealed, and that I now feel safe enough to share that too with you, not that I did it on purpose, but you know what I’m trying to say, that we have to get to know each other’s bad sides, especially mine, before we can really be sure of each other’s love… Something like that?

I’m half an hour too late. She’s not there. Meanbeard looks at my flowers and asks if they’re for him.

‘Smart alec.’

‘Your girl left me in the lurch, pal. My mother’s strict. It’s your Yvette or nobody. So now I’m stuck here. I was going to go do something with Jenny.’

‘That’s a shame.’

‘You’ve obviously got something to make up for. I can’t say I’m surprised. It seems you really played the swine last night at the Hulstkamp.’

‘That got round fast.’ More than fast. It’s an innate quality of probably every city. The tendrils spread far and wide, creeping over everything. Someone relieves himself in one neighbourhood and in no time there are people on the other side of town who know who’s caused the stench and which bowel problem explains it. All crammed together in a roofed, windowless playground where rumours, gossip and half-truths try to slowly strangle the breath out of us.

‘I bumped into mein Freund Gregor yesterday in the Raven. That’s where he likes to drink his nightcap, together with his real friends.’

We sit down. We wait. I unbutton my jacket. Now and then the old lady in the next room groans, as if she’s just been bitten by a nasty insect. Her son doesn’t budge.

‘She’s really not coming,’ I say at last.

‘That bloke you beat up in the toilet…’

‘Don’t bloody start.’

So it’s true, seeing as it’s already hardened into a