Will, стр. 95
‘WHAT YOU STILL DON’T REALIZE is that I’m the only person in your life who’s not scared of you. Is the penny dropping? Our Yvette, your son, your so-called friends… everyone. Did anybody from work ever show up when you said you wanted to buy them a round? Nobody. You and me, that’s all. You and me and we both know why. Because you dragged me down into your filth. You murderer… And no, what I told your granddaughter wasn’t bloody revenge. I just told her the truth because I had no choice. And what happened afterwards… It’s bloody killing me. I can’t sleep at night. But if it’s my fault, it’s yours too. If I’m paying for it, you have to too… Why do you think my sister drank herself silly? Fear. Everyone’s frightened of you the way you can never trust a mean dog, the way you can never trust someone who’s blind to himself, to what’s inside him, and always acts like it’s everyone else who’s faking it, as if nobody knows what he’s up to, as if nobody else knows how to cope with the filthiness, while you yourself haven’t got a clue how you reek of the filthy dirty bastard you are, you, the great poet, with nothing but black spots on his heart, nothing but betrayal—’
‘It was revenge, Lode. Don’t try to tell me otherwise.’
‘Ah, lad.’
*
Lode dies and is buried at Schoonselhof. Survived by his wife. Yes, he got married. Just after the war, like me. With a man like him that woman won’t have got much enjoyment out of the state of matrimony. On the other hand, you never know. She cries her eyes out in the church. She doesn’t give me a hug or even shake my hand. These few lines are all she deserves.
So many times I’ve wanted to piss on the grave of Metdepenningen, Lode. Never have. I’m haunted enough as it is.
I’M ALMOST FINISHED.
I’m done.
Nicole moistens my lips.
Nicole says you don’t exist.
She doesn’t put it that bluntly. ‘It’s like the cigars you don’t smoke any more, Mr Wils. You gave them up so long ago.’
She looks at me again and I think she’s doing it out of love. Or pity, that’s also possible; at my age you don’t need to keep up the facade of differentiating between the two. ‘Your grandson doesn’t have any children…’ she sighs quietly.
I laugh and can’t stop.
‘Oh, Mr Wils, easy now, watch out you don’t choke yourself.’
She’s right, son.
Because fucking hell, what kind of bastard trick is that, bursting out laughing at a moment like that?
But it is a joke, thought up by Angelo or some other monster that feeds on what happens inside your head.
Because if you, my listener, do not exist…
Who’s to say someone like me exists?
Who’s to say we exist?
Not you.
I WOULD LIKE TO THANK
Herman van Goethem for his light in my darkness Koen Aerts for his encouragement and comments Stef Franck for his brotherliness, hospitality and the right books at the right time Luc Coorevits for his Behoud de Begeerte Katrijn van Hauwermeiren and Charles Derre for every email and every conversation.
I THANK
my mother, my brother, my family, my friends and also the Nymph, who heard it all day after day and gave me so much love the whole time and keeps giving it to me.
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COPYRIGHT
Pushkin Press
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London WC2H 9JQ
Original text © 2016 Jeroen Olyslaegers.
Originally published by De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam / Antwerp
English translation © David Colmer 2019
Will was first published as Wil in Amsterdam, 2016
First published by Pushkin Press in 2019
This book was published with the support of Flanders Literature (flandersliterature.be)
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ISBN 13: 978–1–78227–442–1
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