Will, стр. 78
We nod, we establish the facts, we take notes, we draw up a record, we ask for details. When exactly did you find that letter, ma’am? Could you tell us the exact time this took place, sir? Which of the neighbours have been behaving suspiciously, in your opinion? There is a soothing undertone to all our actions; they are designed to induce calm. We are watching over you. That thought, however, calms us more than anyone else.
‘That’s important too,’ Gaston says. ‘Nobody has any use for a jittery cop letting on that nothing gets followed up any more and everything’s out of our control.’
‘It has been for ages.’
‘Absolutely. But that’s not the point. Your calm and dignity are weapons in times of insanity. Be grateful for your uniform, son—it gives you peace of mind.’
Someone downstairs calls our names at the top of his voice.
The deputy superintendent informs us that we have to go to the Golding in Anneessens Straat.
‘A couple of Germans are making trouble.’
‘Forget it. Give it to two other idiots.’
‘I’m giving it to you two, Gaston. What are you standing here for?’
‘I don’t want—’
‘Gaston,’ the deputy super roars, ‘if you don’t want to make a fuss, don’t! Go and do your bloody job for once!’
A couple of our fellow officers can’t restrain their laughter, relieved that they’re not the ones who have to go to the Golding. We stride out to loud applause. ‘Give ’em what for, lads!’ they shout after us.
Brasserie Golding is two doors up from the Metro Cinema in a narrow street full of nightspots. There are a lot of people around, but it’s only just gone eight and the night hasn’t really kicked off yet. For one member of the SS it’s already too much. He’s leaning on a tree outside the Golding and roaring at the full moon, delirious. Everyone acts like he doesn’t exist. Even before we’ve made it that far a table flies out through the Golding’s front window. The drunk soldier ducks, but still gets covered with shards of glass. He looks in, shrugs stupidly as the glass falls off him, waves to his chums and laughs out loud as customers scuttle out of the building like terrified rats. One of them, a fairly sloshed man with a Hitler moustache and an outsized raincoat, stops us on the street. ‘They’re mad as hatters. It’s good you’re here because it’s really getting out of hand…’ Then he pauses, looks us over one after the other and sighs. ‘I don’t think there’s enough of you.’
The interior of the brasserie looks like a battlefield. Chairs and tables scattered left and right. One of the SS men is frothing at the mouth as he smashes a stool to pieces on the bar. Splinters of wood fly everywhere. I see a head pop up and then take shelter again behind the taps. Five other men in SS uniforms are standing in a circle to toast each other, paying no attention to the havoc. A few more are sitting a little further back in the restaurant, surrounded by guffawing women and champagne bottles in buckets. One soldier is sitting by himself at a small table weeping, ignored by all. The frothing soldier is reaching for another bar stool with his bleeding hands when he catches sight of us standing there. With a beaming smile, he calls out to his comrades, ‘Hurra, Jungs! Die Feuerwehr ist da!’
‘What’s the dick saying?’ Gaston asks through clenched teeth.
‘He says we’re firemen.’
Gaston pulls out his truncheon and hits the blonde Aryan drunk, who has his arms wide and is smiling in welcome, straight in the throat. Coughing and grabbing his neck, he drops to his knees. Everyone is now looking at us. Besides the rattling of the felled SS man, who is having great difficulty breathing, silence now reigns. Everyone has sobered up; everyone is suddenly determined. At the back soldiers are calmly disentangling themselves from their tarts’ arms. A champagne glass falls to the floor. Even the one who was just sobbing cracks his knuckles, ready for battle.
‘That wasn’t the best idea you’ve ever had, Gaston.’
He ignores me and roars, louder than I’ve ever heard him before, ‘Everyone zu house, God damn it! Get out of here now, or you’re in for it. Sie gehen here raus or else. Understood?’
Someone knocks Gaston’s helmet off his head. Swearing, he turns and hits the SS man in the stomach. The rest take another step closer, calm and controlled, a killing machine that’s ready to devour us, their clown-like prey. One of them picks the white helmet up off the ground, undoes his fly and pisses into it. It takes a few seconds before the soldiers start bellowing with laughter.
‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ I say, as calmly as I can.
‘My bloody helmet!’
Gaston’s sparse black hair is sticking up in sweaty wisps. The SS man shakes off his cock and tosses the helmet back to Gaston. The piss runs down our faces.
Sirens start their loud howling.
Thunder in the distance.
The British. An air raid.
The AA guns start immediately.
Behind the bar we hear a trapdoor slamming shut. The landlord has taken shelter in his beer cellar.
Then we hear a dull bang that makes the walls shake and has everyone running for their lives and suddenly Gaston and I are not comical firemen any more.
‘Saved