But when he looked back at how one of her hairs had come loose and was hanging down over her left temple, so lovely, so softly wavy, their eyes met again, for a moment. “I think you’re handsome, do you think I’m pretty?” “I want you, if I had the courage, do you want me too, if you had the courage?” “I want to live, really live for once, be free, be a Goddess and not a lady from the Museum District, not so-and-so’s daughter, so-and-so’s sister, so-and-so’s wife, so-and-so’s mother, Mrs. So-and-so’s friend. Just for a little while, in my thoughts. My thoughts go out to you, through my eyes, my thoughts range far and wide, forwards and backwards in time, through all veils and coverings. No one can stop them, no one can harm them, they go out to you through my eyes.”
And his thoughts went out to her like that too, through his eyes into hers, in those few short seconds. And no one knew.
A tall tower surged up from his spirit and a tall tower surged up from hers. And they looked out far and wide over everything and saw only each other.
And so the little poet poetized away at his never-ending poem and even the silliest woman could poetize along with him. But they couldn’t be together. And maybe that was what made it so beautiful.
At Hobbemastraat her husband glanced at the conductor and his hand went straight to the cord. And she stood up and walked through the streetcar, behind her husband, proper and stately and without seeing anyone.
But while Monsieur stepped off the tram and she had to wait on the step in front of the door, her left shoulder towards the little poet, and it was almost over, she vanquished the Museum District for just one infinitesimal moment and looked.
“I think you’re handsome and you think I’m pretty too. My heart sings in my breast and my brain sings beneath my hair. Pretty hair, hmm?” The little poet kept poetizing his poem, without end. But the poem took a somber turn and Amsterdam was dark and empty.
Like a true ridiculous little poet he wandered around the Museum District on a few afternoons after that, always feeling terribly poor and never quite sure if his tie was tied straight and his collar was clean and if he looked polished enough in general. But he never saw her again, of course, maybe she didn’t even live in Amsterdam. There was a house on the corner, surrounded by a small garden, and growing against the wall was a climbing vine that bloomed without leaves in the soft November air, flowering in little yellow stars. He decided that this was the house where she lived and he named the vine “Clara.”
Still, he did love his wife and his wife loved him very much and they gave each other everything they wanted.
Why did God ever make anyone a little poet?
The devil always has a good time with adorable, unaffected young women who love their lawfully wedded husbands very much. When they’ve been married for a year or so they start to feel a strange homesickness for a land they know. But they’ve never been there. How can they miss something they don’t know? How can you know something you don’t actually know? Strange. What do they long for? They fling open the balcony doors one spring morning, singing, and suddenly feel vaguely sad, and why? C’est là, c’est là qu’il faut être. Là?* Where? “I’m crazy.” And they hug their child tight and kiss it all over.
Coba is sitting at an outdoor table at the Beursbengel café on the Damrak, one of those tables with a heavy round marble top and a copper band around the edge. Her little girl is sitting across from her and the girl’s bare little legs in low white socks dangle off of the chair. She has a piece of pie and a glass of milk and is eating with her little fingers. Her adorable eyes are so big and look around at everything. The child is awed by the special treat and all the people, but is very lively and cheerful. Mama looks to make sure she isn’t making a mess and gently helps her but doesn’t say much.
In the corner sits the devil, twisting the ends of his mustache. I once heard a woman, a high-minded, principled woman, say: “A man like that, what does he take me for? Does he think I’ll fall in love with him just because he tugs at a wisp of hair? Bah!” Don’t trust this woman too much. Now she’s lying awake at night clenching her wet pillow in her teeth.
Coba takes off her jacket and lays it across her knees; it’s too warm out for a blue twill suit. She is wearing a white blouse and her arms show through it, so pinkish brown, and the very top of her back and her chest too. You can see where her undershirt ends and that it’s hanging from her shoulders on lace ribbons. Now she sucks in her upper lip, sticks out her lower jaw, and smoothes down her hair with her right hand, she turns her head a little and the tip of her tongue appears, brushes along her upper lip, and quickly disappears again. The devil twists his mustache. Now she says something sweet to her little girl and laughs, showing all her teeth; she has a good set of teeth — strong, even, dazzling white — so that you want to hold out your hand for her to bite, on the outside between pinkie and wrist. It is early May. For the first time this year she is wearing a V-neck blouse and her chest is white, so intensely white that the devil cannot help but think of heavenly light. And her collarbones stand out so perkily next to the indentation in her neck. She brushes the edge of her blouse with her slender fingers. Now she wipes the dessert off her child’s hands with her lace-fringed handkerchief. She takes her child’s little hand in her own two hands and squeezes it and gives the child a kiss on her big eyes and the child asks, “Mommy, why did you do that?” And she blushes and asks, “Do what, Bobi?” “Why did you suddenly kiss me?” “But Mommy kisses you like that all the time, doesn’t she? Do you want another piece of pie, honey? But you can’t make such a big mess, okay? Should Mommy go choose one for you? Stay right here, okay?” And Mommy goes inside, her hips just barely swaying, her blue twill skirt swinging back and forth. Then she comes back out holding a plate and laughs at her little girl from the doorway and sits back down. The devil twists the ends of his mustache. And suddenly she is afraid. What if he says something to her? What should she do? “Come on, Bobi, finish up, wait, should I help you?” And she picks up half the piece of pie on the tines of her fork and sticks it in the girl’s mouth. She feels the fat lady next to her looking. The child has a face full of whipped cream. “Bah, what a messy girl!” “But Mama, you did it!” And there’s Papa. He says hello and doffs his hat to the devil and the devil doffs his hat to Papa. Mommy blushes again, this time down to the indentation in her neck, but the little poet doesn’t see it. He’s been married too long.
She stands up and helps the child from her chair. “You want to leave right now?” “I have to go buy some wool to finish knitting my sweater. I can’t find the color anywhere. I’ve already been to four stores and then I thought I should come here first, it was getting late.” The little child’s eyes open very wide and she looks up at Mommy. “All right, we can go. Did you pay? Waiter!” The little poet doffs, the devil doffs, Mommy nods stiffly. Bobi waves her little hand and says in a high-pitched little voice, “Goodbye, mister.” The devil nods and smiles and winks. “Mommy, that man was looking at you the whole time.”