B007P4V3G4 EBOK (17 page)

'I built roads and bridges,' the man said, 'deposits everywhere, liquidations of associations, stock meetings, speculations, frauds. I
knew my way around everywhere and like a master. But everything
suddenly collapsed, people began to ask me convoluted questions,
worse, I myself began to ask myself convoluted questions. My
business wilted, I left the safe wide open, no longer bolted
anything, left briefcases and portfolios behind everywhere, tipped
off my enemies by mistake. There seemed to be no end to the
collapse; I was taken to one of the most respected asylums where
in vain I tried to explain that the fate of the world was connected
with mine.

'I once was able to prevent the doom of the world, for instance,
by guarding heaven for a whole night; I also saved a harvest by
making flocks of migrant birds change direction. That's why I
beseech you to.' As the man was saying this, he carefully
raised a trouserleg a little by the knee, laid his dress-handkerchief
down on the stones, knelt on it and raised the great knobbly hands
in the moonlight.

With mounting interest, the youth looked down on the man, on
the coarse-featured, excited face, the neat starched collar, the
tremendous manicured nails, and he felt great respect for this man
of the world.

'Speak,' he said, 'and whatever it may be, my good man, it shall
be forgiven thee - bear this in mind.'

The man jumped up, a spring in his movement, dusted down his
trousers, and he said, relieved: 'Thank heaven I am still permitted
to experience this.'

'What then exactly?' the youth asked, patient and curious.

'That crucifixion business, way back,' the man cried, voice
breaking. 'No matter what I did, I couldn't manage. The sacrifices I
made: transferring money abroad, talking the hind leg off a
donkey; but come hell or high water, they wanted that cross. A
right royal mess ... not short on the writhing and groaning, that
was of well, we know all about it.'

The youth stepped back with shock and his mouth hung open
slightly, but the man was just as quick: with both fists he grabbed
the hand of the Saviour, pumped it vigorously and cried: 'I'm so
sorry I wasn't able to turn things back again; oh please, I do beg
your pardon.' Meanwhile, he glanced fleetingly at his watch and
said: 'Up early tomorrow, must still try to get a few hours sleep.'

'So must I,' said the Redeemer, suddenly a little weak in the
bladder. Where am Ito go?'

The man pointed upwards with his stick where the dark silhouette of the monastery could be seen on top of the hill. 'To the
Chabotins,' he said, 'a decent order that says of itself that they're
proud of their virtues and have let go of all vices.' Following this,
he adjusted the angle of his hat, little finger raised elegantly, said:
'Good night, and good luck,' and walked off, unmistakably and
immaculately a gentleman from the rear as well.

Remo Campert

Bertje S. had been missing for weeks. His parents, close acquaintances of mine, had, deep in their hearts, without daring to admit it
to one another, given up hope of being able to lock him in their
arms ever again. The police had dragged all possible rivers, canals
and waterways in the area for a body, with no results whatsoever.
His description had appeared in the newspapers and had been
broadcast on the radio. Clairvoyants had offered their services but
had not succeeded in finding a trace of the blond, six-year-old little
boy.

Anton, Bertje's father, who was in the service of one of our
biggest weekly magazines as an academic correspondent, sat for
most of the day, as if paralysed, in an armchair by the radio which
was switched on from morning till night, washing waves of sound
over the head of the unhappy man. At times, however, he would
jump up and telephone police inspectors whom by turn he would
bawl out or, weeping, plead with to continue the search with all
available force. Or he would take his car and drive around, with a
pale face in which his eyes glinted feverishly, at wild speeds along
little back roads, stopping, tyres screeching, at whatever farmers
child he happened to spot.

Sonja, his wife, was in bed in her room, refused to take any food
and had surrounded herself with photos of Bertje, toys he enjoyed
playing with and drawings he had made. A smile played around
her lips which I could only behold with a shudder, for sorrow that
induces a smile has assumed dimensions that an outsider can no
longer understand. When entering her room, she would always
receive me very politely, would offer me a chair and would talk to
me about this and that as if she were in bed only to rest for an
hour or so from the ordinary fatigue of the day.

Then came the morning that I stepped into my car in order to
drive to one of the spots in our country where there are still
woods which are seldom marked by human footsteps. Day in, day
out, almost, I had spent the past weeks with Anton and Sonja, and witnessing their suffering, combined with my impotence to assuage
that suffering, had exhausted me. I wished to be away from all of
this for a single day, in surroundings which in no way would
remind me of the terrible event which had befallen my friends. At
about midday I arrived in the vicinity of the woods. I parked my
car in a quiet, leafy avenue. The sun was shining, the sky was
cloudless and in the woods where I was walking now, setting
down my feet with a sensation of physical well-being in the soft
moss growing beneath the trees, it was cool and the air was
scented. I felt as if reborn. All the misery I had experienced lately
had slid from my shoulders like a drab cloak.

For hours I roamed without stopping until, in the end, I was so
tired that I decided to rest a moment. I settled down on the moss,
leaned with my back against the mighty trunk of a beech tree and
lit a cigarette. I closed my eyes and relished my tiredness which,
for the first time in a long while, was a healthy, physical tiredness
again. It would not be long before I would return to the inhabited
world once more, but this I tried to forget right now and I
succeeded remarkably well.

When I had finished my cigarette, I carefully extinguished the stub,
mindful of the ordinances which tell us to be careful with fire in
forests and heathland. With an expansive swing I tossed the stub
away, which ended up in some shrubbery that had managed to
nestle here. Barely had I done this when I began to doubt whether
the stub had indeed been out when I threw it away. Having been
in two minds for a while, I got up with a sigh in order to go and
convince myself, one way or another.

I moved the shrubs aside, bent down, and what I then saw made
my blood curdle with fright.

In the shrubs was a pile of clothes. Children's clothes. Two little
brown shoes, a pair of socks, underpants, a pair of khaki shorts and
a vest. On top of the underwear there was a wrist watch which I
picked up with trembling fingers in order to take a better look at
it, though this was really me necessary as I was already sure that it
was Bertje's watch. Not a real watch, but a cheap toy thing with a
plastic strap, one that would not run.

Bertje had been given it by his father and he was as proud
as a peacock of it. I reversed the little timepiece and saw how
Bertje's.initials had been scratched into the cheap metal. Sonja had
done that, and I myself had been there at the time. Not a shadow of
a doubt. This was Bertje's watch and these were Bertje's clothes.

It seemed indisputable to me that his little corpse would have to
be here, somewhere in the neighbourhood, who knows how
gruesomely abused, for I would not find the child alive again, of
this I was convinced. It was my duty to warn the police at once,
but it could do no harm, I thought, to hunt around a little myself,
first. But where? Unable to decide, I looked around me, the watch
still in my hand. I regarded the woods in an entirely different light
now. The beauties of nature had just then been a source of joy and
new vigour to me; now these same beauties had become a
backdrop before which a scene, the gruesomeness of which could
only be guessed at, had been enacted which had cost the life of an
innocent child.

I looked, but nowhere did I see a trace of Bertje. Then (perhaps by
chance, but since that day I do not believe in chance any more) I
cast my eyes upward and high in the tree under which I had been
sitting (it was not possible, it could not be, but I knew that it was
the truth), in a fork formed by two branches, gleaming grey-white
in the sunlight trickling down the leaves, I saw a huge cocoon
gently being rocked, to and fro, by the wind.

Louis Couperus

Her name was Fatma and she lived at one of her country houses in
the environs of Baghdad. She was Bluebeard's daughter from his
first marriage and she was a wondrously beautiful woman; around
her moon-pale face her blue hair cascaded like a cloak down her
slender

It is not generally known that Bluebeard had a daughter. It is
commonly thought that he, childless, was vanquished by the
brothers of his last, I believe ninth, wife who was said to have
inherited all his riches. When one has searched, as I have, the secret
archives of the Lay, one discovers without too much difficulty that
Bluebeard, his skull cleft in two, died in his daughter's arms and left
her all his possessions.

The young orphan, the bewitching Fatma, had loved her father
most dearly, as he had loved her, though she had never been able
to come to accept the manner in which he freed himself of his
many disobedient wives. She thought this manner to be not mild,
not noble, and monotonous in its psychology. She understood too
well that, each time, her new stepmother had had to give in to the
temptation of her curiosity. She did not gloss over her father's
actions, and considered them to be something of an inexcusable
expression of sadism.

The azure-tressed Fatma, a youthful orphan, continued lonely
among her countless riches and all her servants and slaves who
surrounded her like a royal progress as it were. The notable families
in Baghdad, at the court of the Caliph, spoke much about the young,
rich, blue-haired one but, her immeasurable riches notwithstanding,
not one desired her as the bride for a son or a nephew. Her tresses
evoked too many memories of terrible things, so the beautiful Fatma
remained alone on her onyx terraces which made their progress
among date copses and rose gardens to her crystal clear, reflecting
ponds ... And she, likewise lonely, wandered back between the
onyx pillars of the galleries to her summer palace which, paved with
gold and silver tiles, was also clad with gold and silver roofing.

Until she could bear the loneliness no longer and ignited in
virgin love for the foreman of her gardeners. He was a very
handsome youth, come from the country, and the rusticity of his
occupation gave him in Fatma's eyes, which were a little tired
through over-refinement, an irresistible power to enchant. Therefore she married him without concerning herself about what would
be said about her among the notable Baghdad families or at the
Caliph's court.

Fatma seemed very happy. She displayed herself together with
her spouse in full splendour and precious elegance, in town and
countryside, in tapestry-adorned gondolas on the ponds, in
cushion-filled sedan chairs in the streets, with a train of slaves in
the bazaars and even at the court feasts which, because of her rank
and wealth, she had entry to. Fatma together with her beloved
Emin formed an enchantingly beautiful couple: he, sturdy and
young, and glorying in his new wealth - the type did not exist
then at all yet - she, glittering with love and priceless jewels
which glinted on her gauze turban and weighed down the hems of
her robes, while her azure tresses had been woven through with
wondrously large pearls. And already the notable Baghdad families
sadly regretted not having made any effort to win Bluebeard's
daughter for their sons or nephews ...