P.J. cried, the way she’d cried the day Joe pulled away from the Rabobank in his bulldozer. She kissed Christof and patted the horse’s neck clumsily — she’d never really been much of a pony girl. The guests stood around admiringly, oohs and ahhs and so on, and Christof grinned from ear to ear. Then, at that moment, from out of the sky, came the sound of an engine: a lovely, purring growl that no one noticed at first, on lovely days like this one the sky was always full of small planes. This time, though, the sound became increasingly compelling, forcing itself as it were on the wedding party. Someone looked up, more and more heads turned in the direction of the noise that was suddenly very close. Then someone shouted, ‘That thing’s going to crash!’ and the crowd blew apart as though someone had tossed a stink bomb in their midst.
A sky-blue airplane.
From low across the fields it came storming at the villa, trailing a banner behind it. Christof’s mother was the first to knock over a table as she dove for cover, the clear tinkle of breaking glass made me shiver. The plane looked like it was still descending, then it roared right over our heads. A lot of guests made a dash for the house, the field behind was full of people running, but when the shadow blackened the patio I looked up; the association I had was that of a huge, ominous cross about to crush us. The pilot pulled up, I saw that he was wearing ski goggles and his teeth were bared in a grin. Around that point is when I started laughing and couldn’t stop.
In the middle of the patio one woman stood frozen, staring at the shape the plane made against the sky: Kathleen Eilander. Her mouth hung open a little, she raised one feeble hand and pointed.
‘There. .’ she said. ‘That. .’
I don’t know whether a lot of people were able to read the words on the banner at that moment, but later the text buzzed its way around. I’ve said it before: with Joe there was never a dull moment. This is what it said:
WHORE OF THE CENTURY
in nice, neat letters. I almost choked with laughter. So he had read that book at last and, on this glorious day, put it to good use!
A pathetic note was that no one had thought amid the panic of holding onto the horse, which went galloping off across the fields to God-knows-where. The plane made a wide sweep and came back for a final salute. At that moment a furious, no, a seething Christof came running out of the house with his father’s hunting rifle. His mother screamed as he cocked it, aimed and fired at the plane vanishing in the distance. He missed, or else the plane was already too far off in the direction of the village. Kathleen Eilander set a chair upright, sat down in it and watched the plane go. ‘The horse!’ someone shouted. Christof swore and took off after it with a few of the others.
Those who stayed behind stared at the wreckage in silent amazement. P.J. stood there like a billowing spinnaker of lace and silk amid the ruins of her wedding day. It was as though she couldn’t decide between anger and hilarious laughter. My own laughter wouldn’t stop, and in fact it has lasted until this day. P.J. looked at me, then at the colourful ribbon of wedding guests chasing a white horse across the fields, and shook her head slightly. She poured two glasses of champagne from one of the only tables left standing, ticked the glasses together, poured one of them down my throat and knocked back the other one herself in two gulps.
‘Whore of the century,’ she said pensively, wiping her lips. ‘Whore of the century. Man oh man. .’
Two weeks later P.J. gave birth to a son, that autumn they moved into the house where they still live. The little boy I saw for the first time as he was bicycling down Poolseweg beside Christof, an orange flag swaying from the back of his bike. Christof raised his hand in greeting, the fat little boy ploughed on. He didn’t look like Heinrich Himmler.
Technically speaking, it’s even possible that the little boy is my son, for P.J. and I never stopped sleeping together. And my balls are in perfect working order. Says P.J. She comes by when Christof is off travelling. Pa always closes the living-room curtains, on days like that she is there in full. P.J. is getting little wrinkles of age beside her ears, my love for her has never cooled. She is still my only reader.
The passages where I wrote about Joe, the things that happened and how we lost our souls make her uneasy. ‘He was a dreamer,’ she says, as though that explains or justifies anything.
Sometimes she asks me to pick her up with my good arm, I put my hand under her arse and she keeps herself in balance on my shoulder, so I can slowly lift her off the ground. Then she sits briefly on my hand like on the saddle of a racing bike. When I lift her I am, for a moment, as strong as a bear and she feels as light as a feather. This gives her a great deal of pleasure. After that we fuck like animals.
I still make my village rounds and occasionally drop in on Hennie Oosterloo in his garden house behind the Little Red Rooster. He sets his elbow in the middle of the table, because he will associate me with arm wrestling for the rest of his dimwitted life, but I shake my head and sometimes I almost start crying. I think about seppuku, the clean, straight cut, but in the end that is not in my line. I didn’t lose my honour, I gave it away while in full possession of my senses.
The E981 has opened. A glacier of asphalt came grinding in, steamrolling new times before it, and we have disappeared behind a towering sound barrier of earth and plastic. And indeed, we hear nothing, just as little as we are heard. From the corner of their eye, drivers zipping by may catch a glimpse of the tip of our steeple poking up above the wall, atop it the cock that showed its pluck; otherwise the world has hidden us from view. But behind that we have not passed away, nor have we changed our shape. We are still here.