“I’ve spent my whole life not taking interest in anything,” he said, very heatedly, “I’ve lived on the margins of what we might call everyday life. Well, that’s over and done with as well. I’m now interested in anything that happens, particularly politics. I’m a militant pacifist and am considered to be a dangerous subversive. They are right to think that. The society in which we live needs to be improved, to be rationalized. If we don’t see to that, the horrors we have just witnessed will be repeated hundredfold. We must fight against this society on all fronts, with all the weapons at our disposal. I do so, and do so consciously …”
I must have looked so astonished and then all of a sudden he addressed the ladies present — who were listening to him most attentively — and begged them to forgive his oversight in speaking French to me. As it was late — past seven o’clock already — I took the opportunity to say goodbye. Professor Busch gave me his address. I said I’d introduce him to the young student the following day. We decided to have lunch together.
“Yes, that’s possible,” he said, “because the ladies will leave for Ostend tomorrow.”
These ladies bowed stiffly, as if from a haunted castle.
As I returned to my hotel, I remembered my time in Louvaine, and some of the details of my contact with Dr Busch shifted into focus. He lived alone, with a housekeeper who looked after him. His large, dark flat, full of books and papers, was poorly lit and rather funereal. His study overlooked an old, salamander-green garden, full of moss and fern, together with a few withered trees. I think he rarely had visitors, but the fact that I practically came from the country of Vives furnished me the honor of the occasional invitation to his house. It was late autumn, and the garden was a rusty color, as if covered by a film of vinegar. He welcomed me in his slippers, in front the fire. By night, in that gloomy room, the hot coals were reflected on the corners of the polished furniture, the shadows from the fire made flickering, twisted shapes on the walls, and the long shadows of his slippers lay still on the ceiling. If there was a moon, the branches swayed the other side of the windows, a patch of light settled on the frozen grass in the garden, and the brightness, now soft and gentle, sometimes reached as far as the small sitting room. That garden had a melancholy charm and really matched the mindset and tastes of its owner. I would imagine how that sleepy corner must change when the good weather returned. The brighter light must enliven the drowsiness in the air; some tiny campanulas leapt up and dotted the drops of water on the fern, and the water from the fountain trickled through the flowing beards of some aquatic herbs and over the damp moss … But what had happened to all that? The professor had turned his back on tranquility and had become a wild man on no small scale.
The next morning I told Marta about my first encounter with my teacher and how surprised I was to find him in the company of two rather dubious English ladies.
“You don’t remember whether one was a Miss Clark?” asked Marta in a most matter-of-fact tone.
“That’s right. How come you know?” I asked, visibly shocked.
“There are no secrets … and I,” she added with a laugh, “am well informed. This lady is known as Miss Clark here, in England she goes by another name. She is German, the widow of an Englishman and naturalized. She lives in Plymouth, doesn’t she?”
“Exactly, in Plymouth … And what’s most odd is that, from what he said, Professor Busch wants to move there as well.”
“This is so amusing … In any case, these things are never really as funny as they seem and I told you that the old professor is a big deal …”
“Bah …! This professor is just a crackpot, like so many others in his line. A kind of would-be wild man, with no appreciable impact …”
“They are the worst, because they are the most ingen—”
“But, mademoiselle, you seem keen on this sort of thing?”
What I would like,” replied Marta with a mock-serious expression, “is to own a cottage in this country with small white curtains. I told you days ago. But, as that is impossible, I have to fill my time: I find renseignements are interesting. You must see that I wouldn’t have mentioned it if my role were at all important. It’s quite nondescript work … You know! Like something they put on menus in elegant restaurants when describing the salad: quelques feuilles. This saves me the bother of having to keep looking for new patrons …”
“You seem to be in extremely good spirits today …”
“Yes, I am happy. You’ve been the bearer of such good news! I don’t think one could ask for more in so short a time.”
I then told her how surprised I’d been by the change in the professor’s life, the way he’d transformed from a peaceful, discreet, self-effacing gentleman into a crazy lunatic. Marta listened with an intense interest I’d never garnered previously. She made no comment, but seemed really intrigued and that gave her quite another demeanor.
We’d agreed to go and see the Memlings — the best in the world — in the Hôpital de Saint Jean, and Marta, though she was all spruced up, felt she needed to add some final touches and went up to her bedroom. She returned half an hour later, looking sophisticated, fascinating and, above all, intriguing. She’d put on a black dress with a silky quality that molded wonderfully to her long, undulating curves. So many young ladies wear dresses that seem to have been made for others that it’s always pleasant to see a proper fit in this respect. A small red hat, imbued with real French impishness, seemed to remove any scrap of northern naïveté her features might have had. She had put on light, imperceptible make-up, the minimum for her face to show intent. She’d achieved a charming mix of the risqué and the candid — added vivaciousness into the bargain. She seemed quite another person, a radiant young woman.
It was a lovely day. The sun was rather misty and remote, but it was bright. The air was deliciously gentle and cool. Life in Bruges pursued its usual calm, positive activity.
We went as far as Notre-Dame. The entrance to the Hôpital de Saint Jean is through an almost hidden door opposite the church. It so happened, however, that we bumped into Professor Busch in the Rue du Sablon. And that was that. I introduced Marta to him.
“Oh, mademoiselle!” he said, suddenly moistening his lips. “You are so lovely.”
At first, she was visibly surprised by his rather buffoonish appearance — that big head of his was quite scary. Then she glanced at him pleasantly, in an ingenuously flirtatious manner, but — and this was surely what the professor most appreciated — obviously intrigued.
He said he was on his way back from the station where he’d accompanied those ladies, who were planning to take the London ferry from Ostend that afternoon, and had lost his way. I said we were planning to go to the Hôpital to see the Memlings and I asked him to accompany us, but he didn’t seem at all keen on the idea.
“Bah!” he replied, reacting rather histrionically, puffing out his chest and raising his head to the sky, “forget those antiques! When I hear the word ‘hôpital’ I get goose bumps. Why do you want to go to a hospital when you are in the company of such a pleasant young woman? Put these anachronisms behind you. Let’s go for some aperitifs and then have lunch …”
Marta immediately went along with his surprising outburst and filled Dr Busch’s cup of happiness to the brim. So we strolled leisurely to the Grande Place and entered a café that was completely empty. The waiters were getting the place ready. They watched us walk in not with looks of surprise — because the world is full of fools — but with the irritation the unexpected can often provoke. The professor headed to a back corner of the dining room. Marta sat on the cushioned seat, Busch sat next to her. I took the chair opposite him.