“Cyriel’s still asleep,” she said. “Let’s sit out on the veranda for a while.”
At the back of the house, where the blinds had been let down over the windows, the air was cool and funereal. The roof of the glazed veranda had been covered with linen sheets.
Anna motioned us to take a seat. The grandmother glanced round for a swift appraisal of the interior. On the windowsills stood tired house plants barely surviving in clumps of parched compost. Over the backs of the beige, fake leather chairs hung crochet antimacassars, which released little puffs of dust around our ears when we sat down. Several untidily folded newspapers littered the place.
Anna perched stiffly on a chair with a cane seat. Her fingertips kept touching the pendant on her chest.
“Well, we got here safe and sound,” the grandmother remarked, for want of anything else to say.
Anna smiled feebly and turned to look at me.
“Our Wieland must show you his room later on.” Over her shoulder she shouted “Wieland! What’s keeping you?”
“Coming, Ma,” the boy called from the kitchen. His voice was breaking, and rose from a growl to a squeak. I heard him setting cups on a tray, tipping sugar lumps into the bowl, filling the milk jug and rattling spoons in a kitchen drawer.
Anna spread her fingers on her lap and studied them at length.
“To be honest, we must be prepared for the worst.”
The grandmother gave a little nod as she slipped into her tried and tested routine of bobbing her head up and down and murmuring “Yes … yes. I know … yes, yes … But what can you do? It’s not fair, you know.”
“I know,” sighed Anna.
*
Meanwhile there was some commotion in the kitchen. Wieland could be heard wrestling frantically with a tightly-sealed package and, when it finally ripped open, swearing under his breath. Drawers were opened and cupboard doors slammed. Next came the sweeping sound of a brush.
Anna did not seem to notice. She raised her hands from her skirt and lowered them again.
“We’re all treading on eggshells.”
“As well you might be,” said the grandmother. “It’s very trying. Personally, I’ve buried more than my share …”
She was shocked by her own words. Her self-assured poise evaporated.
“Dear me, here I am carrying on … just as if …”
“It’s no use pretending it won’t happen,” Anna said. “We just don’t know when. It may be days or weeks, but not much longer than that. I think he knows.”
Wieland came in from the kitchen carrying a tray, which he set down on the low table with a clatter. He busied himself with the distribution of cups and saucers. His Terylene flares flapped around his shins, and every few seconds he tossed the hair out of his eyes.
“If I’ve told him once I’ve told him a hundred times to get that fringe of his cut,” Anna said, “but he won’t listen …”
“It’s the fashion,” Wieland said, his voice switching from growl to squeak. He poured the coffee, pausing repeatedly to rub his nose with the back of his hand.
“And how’s the vegetable garden, Henri?” Anna asked.
The atmosphere on the veranda lifted, to everyone’s relief.
“My spuds are in a right state,” the grandfather replied brightly, as if that were a good thing. “Those Colorado beetles … when those little blighters decide to pay you a visit …”
Wieland seated himself next to me on the low footstool. His body doubled up like a jackknife, with his knees almost touching his chin. He drained his cup of coffee, put it back on the table and then held his left wrist under my nose.
“Look, Our Dad’s given me his watch. A proper deep sea diver’s watch. Goes down to a hundred metres.”
“Have you tried it yet?” I wanted to know.
The grandmother shot me a look I took to mean I should not be critical.
“I’ve tried diving to the bottom of the swimming pool with it. Four metres at least.” After a pause he said: “And it didn’t budge.”
“I think I can hear him,” Anna said, rising to her feet. “I’ll see if he needs anything.” She vanished to the back of the house.
*
The grandmother had been fidgeting with her empty coffee cup for a while before Wieland noticed. He sprang up and went round with the coffee again.
“Thank you, lad,” the grandmother said. “And how’s your school work?”
“Fine,” Wieland said gruffly. He had no desire to pursue the subject.
“What was it you were taking your exams in? I ought to know, but I keep forgetting. At my age …”
“Latin,” Wieland said hoarsely, “at the College of the Blessed Fathers. It’s quite a long way from here.”
“Latin,” she sighed. “Difficult, I suppose, but worth the effort … Cicero, Seneca …” Her voice faltered as she tried to recollect. “How did it go? Tityre, tu patulae … Oh dear. Tityre tu patulae … recubans …” She gave up. “My memory’s like a sieve …”
“Virgil,” Wieland broke in. “A bit of a bore, to tell you the truth. Give me Caesar any day.”
“What’s that? Jules César!” The grandfather laughed. “He didn’t stand for any nonsense, did he? Still, we led him quite a dance. Said so himself.” He drew himself up. “Of all the Belgians, the Gauls are … how did it go?”
The grandmother ignored him.
Wieland filled my cup to the brim.
“I’ve got some great pictures upstairs,” he said. “Of the army. Want to have a look?”
“He’d like that,” the grandmother said.
Wieland waved his arm towards me. “Compared to my photographs,” he said proudly, “even Caesar’s a softie.”
*
Wieland’s room was seldom aired. It held all his stale breath. The orange curtains on the narrow window were half open, revealing a dusty radiator. The bed was rumpled; there were posters stuck randomly on the faded wallpaper. Wedged into a corner was a small writing table strewn with crumpled bits of paper. On the rug lay a still life of tangled shirts and underwear, all black or grey aside from the circles left behind by dried body fluids.
“It’s a bit cramped in here,” he said. “How d’you like my posters?”
They were too fierce-looking for my taste, but I did my best to appear enthusiastic. He had filled the spaces between the posters with pictures of pop singers in glittery outfits.
Wieland cleared away some stray clothes.
“You can sit on the bed. I’ve got something to show you. Some photo albums our Dad has given me. Wait.”
He opened the drawer of the writing table.
I glanced round. There was a shelf of books over the bed. Most of the spines were cracked, some were so ragged that you could barely read the titles.
Onward Soldiers
All Quiet on the Western Front
Incense and Tear-gas
A thin book squeezed in between two fat volumes caught my eye. I drew it out carefully.
Pussy Street
“That one’s about tarts,” Wieland squeaked nervously.
His mouth was disconcertingly close to my ear. He snatched the book from me and replaced it on the shelf.
“They don’t know I’ve got it. Come on.”
He installed himself on the bed and opened a large album with a glossy black cover. More soldiers. Ramrod-straight in serried ranks, parading past the tall town houses.