The article was quite well done, but Hoyer said later that he was sure Japi didn’t write it.
“Now I could really go for a pint of beer,” Japi said, leaning back. “Sorry, man,” I said, “none in the house, no beer and no jenever and no clothes to go across the street in, but have a cigar.”
The rain clattered on the roof like it was about to break through and the windows were white with water. Japi was not in the mood to go outside, I was sure of that. He lit a cigar, looked at the smoke for a while, then said, “That Hoyer, what kind of a guy is he really?” Hoyer and Japi didn’t get along. I’d already realized that. Hoyer was a penny-pincher and spoke his mind too. “He’s useless,” Japi said, “he should stick to smearing his paints around, he’s no good for anything else.”
Bavink had left town for the day, “on business” Japi said, and he (Japi) had run into van Houten on the way home from the office. Van Houten, a friend of Bavink’s, worked in an office and thought he could write. He had already published a brick of a novel, which had cost the publisher a pretty penny. Japi let himself be invited out to dinner. Hoyer was there too, he was the first one to say, “Hey, freeloader!” Japi thought that was excellent. After all, who among us is not a freeloader? “The bourgeoisie are there to pay our expenses.” That same night he had asked Hoyer to loan him a rijksdollar, just to needle him. He knew perfectly well that Hoyer wouldn’t happen to have any money on him at the moment. But even big ol’ Hoyer got taken eventually, he couldn’t help it. Japi borrowed Hoyer’s ridiculous salmon-colored coat and never brought it back. Japi didn’t get much enjoyment out of it, though. He was always getting into fights about it, and eventually some roughnecks tore a sleeve off, on the bridge in Ouderkerk.
“Look at that,” Japi said, “quarter past nine. Time to get going. Listen to that rain.” He went and stood by the window. “Pitch black,” he said. “Can’t see anything through this rain. Phew, I’m shivering, my pants legs are still wet. Too bad you don’t have anything to drink in the house.” I fetched his jacket. It was still water-logged.
“Do you have a long way to go in this weather?” I asked. “I could go by the old man’s,” Japi said, “but that’s half an hour away too. That’s your nest, is it?” Japi shoved the curtain aside and sat down on my bed and yawned. “I think I’m coming down with something,” he said. “You know what you should do, go get a half dram of old jen-ever, it’s on me. I’ll pay you back when I get the chance.” I was still standing there with his jacket over my arm. “Wear my jacket,” he said. I stumbled out to the attic — my sweater was more or less dry. The liquor store wasn’t far. I draped Japi’s wet jacket over my sweater. The thing felt cold and unpleasant. And I went down the stairs like that and across the street. There was no line and I was back within ten minutes. When I came upstairs I found Japi lying there snoring, in his clothes, with his shoes on. “Hello!” I shouted and shook him by the shoulder. He mumbled something. “Hello, jenever’s here.” He looked drowsily up at me and sat up slowly. “Oh,” he said, “so I see.” He drank a sip. “That’ll fix me right up. Say,” he said, “can’t I spend the night here? I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night or today either.” What was I supposed to say? He could sleep on the floor, he said, if he could just have something to put under his head. “Thank God,” he said, throwing both his shoes across the room at the same time, “Thank God I’m out of those dripping wet monsters!” Then he hung his pants over the back of a chair, “to dry out.” He pushed my little burner aside, put Appi’s books down in the corner, put his jacket on top, and kept his sweater on. Then he took my best blanket, rolled himself up in it, took another sip of jenever, and lay down with his head on the little pile and said, “Sleep tight.”
And I went back to the table and sat down, looked at my money, and dozed off. When I woke up the lamp was out of oil and sputtering. I crept into my bed and slept badly because of the cold. Japi didn’t notice a thing.
When day broke and I woke up, for the umpteenth time, I heard him rummaging around. He was busy making tea, had gone downstairs on his own to get water and told my startled neighbor that he was a cousin of mine. He had slept great, was just a bit stiff. He hoped he hadn’t woken me up. “I already ate,” he said. “I think you’re pretty much out of bread.” He had to go. He wanted to talk to Bavink who in those days usually went to sleep around ten in the morning. He brought me a mixing bowl of tea in bed and stood by the window slurping his own bowl. He held it tight in both hands and looked out. “Times are tough all over,” he said. “Well then, ciao, I can get my jacket from the clothesline myself.” At the door he turned around again. “A place like this looks a lot nicer at night.”
I thought so too. I stumbled out of bed, cold and miserable. My money was still lying on the table. He had said he didn’t need his old man’s money, I thought, or the bourgeoisie’s money either. You try saying that.
“Koekebakker,” Japi said, “I feel so strange inside.” It was one afternoon at Bavink’s. I’d stopped by to talk to Bavink but he was out. Japi was sitting at the table with a little dime bottle of ink and a pile of newspapers in front of him. “Koekebakker, I feel so strange inside.”
“Well you certainly smell like jenever,” I said.
“No,” Japi said, “it’s not the jenever. I think my soul is too big.” Can you believe it? That sponger! “What are the newspapers for, Japi?” I asked. Japi slapped the pile. “Daily News, Koekebakker, Daily News. Some of them are a month old.” “Have to apply for a job again, Japi?” “You guessed it. Can’t go on like this. Grab a chair. Look: KH14684, Daily News. Dear Sirs:”—“How many have you done so far?” I asked. — “First one. It’s slow going. You people who’ve never worked in an office, you don’t know what it’s like. What’ll you have to drink, man? You don’t mind if I keep going, do you?” and he dipped his pen in the ink and then stared at the blank page. “Koekebakker,” Japi said, looking helplessly around and putting down his pen. “It’s no good. I’m not the man for this. I worked in an office once, and I’m not cut out for it. I know from experience. I don’t understand anything about it. What’s the point of it all? I’m perfectly satisfied as I am. Let’s just put that all away.” And he picked up the stack of newspapers and carefully placed them out of sight beneath the table.
“There, now I can’t see them. You don’t know what an office job is like, Koekebakker, or you wouldn’t laugh. First you go to school till you’re eighteen. Do you know how many sheep there are in Australia or how deep the Suez Canal is? My point exactly. But I knew all that. Do you know what polarization is? Me neither, but I used to. I had to learn the strangest things: ‘Credited to the inventory account,’ translate that into French. Have a go at that. You have no idea, Koekebakker. And it goes on for years. Then your old man sticks you in an office. And you realize that the reason you learned all those things was so that you could wet slips of paper with a little brush. And it’s always the same old routine, be there nine o’clock sharp, sit there quietly for hours and hours. I realized I couldn’t do it. I was always late, I really tried to get there on time but it never happened, it had been going on too long. And so boring. They said I did everything wrong and I’m sure they were right about that. I wanted to but I couldn’t do it, I’m not the kind of person who is cut out for work. Then they said I was distracting the others. They were probably right about that too. When I complained that this was boring the hell out of me and asked if this was why I had learned all those strange facts at school, the old accountant said, ‘Yes, my boy, life’s no novel.’ I could tell a good joke, and they liked that, but it wasn’t enough for them. It didn’t take long before the old accountant had no idea what to do with me. When the boss wasn’t there I made animal noises or sang funny songs they’d never heard before. The boss’s son was a stuck-up little brat who came by the office now and then to get some money. Everything he said was horribly pretentious and he looked down on daddy’s employees with an absolutely insufferable, totally unfounded air of superiority. The guys laughed their heads off when I imitated the young gentleman. I ruined a typewriter there too, and misplaced a book. Then they sat me down at a machine they called ‘the guillotine.’ I had to cut samples. For days and days I sat there and guillotined. All the samples I cut were crooked. They must have known that that was going to happen, what else would they expect? They’d only put me there to prevent anything worse. They threw out the samples — the clients never saw them. But I’d still managed to put a letter in the wrong envelope somehow. It was pretty bad, of course: the man who got the letter wasn’t supposed to know that the boss was doing business with the man the letter was written to. The accountant practically had a stroke. That’s when I figured it would be better if I left. The boss held out his hand, and I was glad to be on my way too, I shook it heartily up and down. I said I was sorry but that there was nothing I could do about it. I think I meant it too. See, Koekebakker, that’s an office job. After that I interned in a stockbroker’s office once, looking through newspapers with a book to see if any of the clients’ bonds had been selected for redemption. Wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. They had to get rid of me. I had to copy there too, but I don’t think they could ever figure out what I’d copied. I could see it wasn’t working out, I couldn’t stay focused.