Will, стр. 77
People gently tap the table in appreciation. The nose-picker lights a cigarette and blows triumphant smoke at the ceiling like a bit player in a gangster film.
The professor looks at me. ‘Robert, like your friend Vincent, you can be of great—’
Lode, or ‘Vincent’, interrupts immediately. ‘That’s not what he’s here for, Professor.’
‘Why, then?’
‘Because of certain developments. My Jew has to go.’
The professor looks at the fellow who opened the door to us. ‘Guillaume?’
The one who goes by the name of Guillaume tugs one of his earlobes for a second, then starts talking in a thin, almost comical voice. ‘The address in Brussels has been arranged. The people there have been informed. The only thing we still need to tell them is when he will be arriving. His papers—’
‘I’m working on that,’ the professor nods. ‘Matter of days. Virtually indistinguishable from real documents. It really is unimaginable, my friends, what people can achieve when they are united. Soon it will be our turn, you’ll see. You can feel that people are ready for it. The cruelty of the occupation is helping us win the heart of the nation.’
His eyes are shining. He hits the table, but immediately smiles. ‘Sorry. I know we mustn’t disturb the peace of mind of Mr Goetschalckx here below.’
Those around him respond with sheepish smiles, Lode too. I’m standing by the curtains and hear a tram passing, slow and squeaking like scrap metal on wheels. The sound of footsteps. Someone calls, ‘Stop!’ It’s like the tram has to sigh before braking. Outside it’s ordinary life; in this room the conspiracy of a small band that believes the time is ripe, a revolution with tea and oat biscuits, putting their faith in the professor’s beliefs about being in the right and on the winning side, like a little boy striking matches in a storeroom full of gunpowder and seeing every little flame as a sign of shining hope.
‘Reassured?’ Lode asks cheerfully as we walk towards Van Eyck Lei with our collars turned up.
I don’t answer and we keep striding ahead.
‘Tell me,’ I ask finally with a deadpan expression, ‘is this Flor Goetschalckx one of the plotters too?’
Lode frowns.
‘He could come in handy, you see. A crew like this could use an insurance agent. For all possible accidents in and around the home.’
Lode sighs. ‘What are you, the court jester?’
‘Out of the mouths of fools, mate. What are you doing with those amateurs?’
‘Shall we not mention some of the places you frequent, mate?’
‘Such as?’
‘All that scum in the Hulstkamp where you dragged our Yvette to? Yeah, I know, you told her not to tell anyone. Are you completely mad?’
‘It’s safer like that, being in with bastards.’
‘Safer for who? My sister? I don’t think so. Everyone sees everything in this city. But you think you’re invisible. You think it’s all a game.’
‘Come off it, your professor thinks so too. And so do you. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.’
‘So we’re all fools.’
‘You’re not wrong there.’
‘Shall we go for a beer?’
‘Ah, sure, why not? Maybe the Hulstkamp’s still open…’
‘Up yours, “Robert”.’
Same to you, “Vincent”.’
A quarter of an hour later we’re saying ‘cheers’ to each other in the Alma.
My uniform has become a comfort. It delineates my days. Going on patrol is a calming ritual amid the daily madness, and in the meantime I’ve got to know Gaston so well I can complete his sentences as a matter of routine. At the end of our shift we run through the bullshit that’s happened to us that day with the deputy superintendent and he writes whatever suits him in the incident log. Generally I hope he’ll bless us afterwards. That’s what it feels like, an absolution of sins.
‘Exactly,’ growls Gaston. ‘And as long as none of us lot…’
‘…makes a fuss…’
‘…it will all turn out fine. Blast if you’re not making progress, Wilfried. It’s a beautiful thing to see a young foal, after wobbling and waggling on its four legs, finally—’
‘I get it.’
Gaston laughs his hearty laugh. We’re sitting in the canteen and eating our sandwiches before our shift starts.
‘Listen to this!’ Gaston chortles as he smooths the creases out of his newspaper. ‘A pastoral letter from our cardinal. “The inner state of the country grows worse by the day. Acts of violence are being carried out incessantly almost everywhere. It is no longer even possible to keep track of these assaults on life. Where is this river of blood leading us?”’
‘Goodness,’ I say.
‘Things are getting serious when the mitre mob starts squeaking. This line’s priceless too. Listen to this: “We ask for an end to bloodshed and a return to patience and calm in the unshakable hope of a just peace.” There you have it, all solved. Everyone in the resistance will have read the paper, surely? Now we can go home.’
‘And terrorism will be consigned to hell forever…’
‘Rest assured.’
Gaston goes to stand up, but starts groaning instead and lowers himself back down again extremely cautiously.
‘What’s wrong now?’
‘Piles, also known as a bloody pain in the arse. Don’t laugh. It’s caused by drink and that’s a weakness we all share. Learn from me before you give yourself over to disgrace and debauchery.’
Gus Skew comes in and says that a bomb has just gone off in Potgieter Straat.
‘You should be on your way then,’ says Gaston, without batting an eyelid. He winks at me while reopening his lunch bag.
‘Don’t be daft—it’s not on our beat and you know that perfectly well.’
I chime in with, ‘It’s not our speciality either, to be honest.’
In our neighbourhood full of bars, hotels and jewellers, no bombs get detonated and nobody throws explosives in through windows. Too many Germans out whoring and boozing, I suspect, and bombs aren’t