Of the time before then, when Tjak together with Minnaar lodged in the monastery (or the gaol). Often they were hungry. So that they were only too keen to devour every last crumb of their rations, to slurp the soup with long lips from the tin dishes. The days are like the waves’ white break and suck, breaking and sucking white.
They are fetched for an outing by Sergeant Roog and Warder Smokes. It is meant to break the routine. They are fetched for a kind of picnic and Martha and Levedi Tjeling are there too, they are going with, it turns out to be a pleasant trip. Follows a story concerning Martha and L.T., background information, but I don’t remember it exactly, and our time is too short, our space too limited.
If there must be a weakness of the intellect, a genetic hitch, which we call “love”, then we would consider it sacred, not so? Yes, near the mirror halls they go to sit in fastidious positions on the silver-green grass under the trees. And they pose in such a way as to look like a Déjeuner sur l’herbe, after the painting based on Marcantonio Raimondi’s Le jugement de Paris. But Sergeant Roog is full of fun and games. He disappears. He returns on horseback. The horse has such muscular haunches. The horse sings and no one can detect the sound. The horse rears up on its hind legs and with this the muscles of the haunches are bunched in clearly defined knots. Sergeant Roog has his automatic in his hand. His grip is firm. He shoots. (He is a jealous man. Life treated him shabbily.) He shoots at the large circular targets. He shoots securely, hitting the bull’s-eye without having to take aim, and the horse rises up and hits out, hits out at nothing with the pawing front legs. He shoots and tumbles over the precipice, away, totally away, far away.
From here on Minnaar and Levedi Tjeling also disappear from the story since they were never of any importance for its development, except perhaps as wraiths to be addressed, or decorations completing the space of a canvas. It is thus, when you throw off the words, that you become lighter — because you obscure the matter, because the words crawl out of “you”, devour the id-entity — under the glass the insects formicate.
Martha takes Tjak to the lobby of the mirror hall. (“I shall come to you again and you will remember. . my way of walking.”) She tells him that it is not going to be difficult. She explains further that the magazine can contain one hundred cartridges. She pulls the trigger, she pulls off shots in the dark to point out to him, Tjak, how easy it is. You must learn to look deeper, under the surface of the present, and what you see and wherever you look will come true, some day, some day, far away. When you see you create and where you don’t look it will remain dark, then.
Tjak is in the dark entrance to the hall of mirrors. He dons a satin tuxedo, extremely modish.
He: The men swimming through the night in dinner
jackets like papercups
floating on the ocean;
She: It is not the mysteries that draw the men,
but the fear of that great mystery
the veiled woman, Isis,
mother, whom they fear to be greater than all else.
In a lovable way just about he fires off the rounds into the dark of the mirrorhall. The jets of fire and the terrible boomeranging echoes and jingling and spattering. The white streaks, hard, unique, finger on the future. Silence is an enormous hollow. He switches on the lights and the mirror walls are there in all glory and splendour to millionate the light itself. Tjak has a hand full of smoke. He has also a red flower pinned to the lapel of his dinner-jacket. He walks up to where his representation is standing. Notices the little holes like splintered eyes over the mirror image’s tuxedo.
(We must hurry. It is a heartsore ending. This precedes the previous section.)
The Key
They should never have told him about the key. Not that they ever said anything directly. Never that. But Sergeant Roog mentioned to Warder Softly-Softly that painters would soon be coming with a lorry filled with tins of paint to paint the gaol afresh (in cream and army green) and that the key in the door should not be forgotten then it’s a potential security risk one never knows. (The door they referred to was that of his cell of course the last in line under the veranda.) And he had heard their words because in the boop one overhears everything even without stretching an ear. As you are blind. Up to now, it must be said, he had never paid any attention to the key. And out of pure curiosity — since he wanted to smell the painters and the shiny lorry surely when the wheels come grating over the gravel — he upped and turned the key in the lock and the door swung open and he put the master complained of in his pocket. And in the courtyard there was no guard on duty everyone gone to watch the painters’ brush hands legs apart the cap over one eye thumbs hooked in the belt web. And the outside gate was similarly unguarded. So that he sauntered out whistle-thistle nonchalantly between the lips meaning to just go take a quick peep make a turn and then slip back key in the pocket before they stop forgetting him and the key. At an angle across the Place du Châtré by the bridge against the wind past the Palais de Justesse on the right the flower market left (where birds in coops are auctioned) another bridge to cross all along the Place Saint-Moche and the boulevard higher somewhat rising away from the Sane. Here it’s literally crawling with people. And he locked away all these years in isolation. He is sore thumb out of place here dressed in Khaki. Passes a hand self-effacing over his crew-cut. Must grin then. For nobody’s taking any notice at all. Who knows, perhaps prison garb is at present the dernier cri. Starts limping because it is as if the key in his pocket is gradually growing heavier. Reflects abruptly then: God, why not just escape? Why not kick out? Yes but for that I need assistance the feet aren’t used to freedom. Like a newborn shepherd’s babe among butting sheep am I. Turns right by Gilbert Fils’s bookshop back towards boulevard Michemain. In a peaceful side street fleetingly eye-cornered he suddenly recognizes his aunt by marriage the late Kuo Dik’s widow a few frog-leaps further heavily engaged in whispering. With her myopic little eyes behind thick lenses and the golden eyetooth. How she wipes a small flag of conversation from the mouth with a young man straight-a-back in a dark blue tunic and with smooth black hair blue shining. And then in a clandestine movement passes him something. But for sure! He is certainly the area representative of the Cong, she just paid her contribution. This man he must talk to. Come what may. This man will be able to help him. But not here for all to see in the street. Where unasked-for attention will be as suspicious as the assassin’s stiletto. Rather let him carefully keep an eye on the man. Follow. And where he enters, knock there. Wherever though goest I go with thee. Present his case. Try to raise sympathy. Solidarity perhaps. The proud young man weaving through the pedestrians making the rue des Cocoles black. He in his wake. But with greater difficulty seeing that the key keeps weighing more. Is it his imagination or is it bigger also? Does the imagination rise? Past the university buildings there are less people. The street now calmer. The houses taller. The asphalt-top bending back towards the river. The houses taller. No people now. Yet. Every ten yards or so on either side of the road on the sidewalk there is half hidden strategically placed in doorway or behind tree a man holding on to the shadows. Each fellow stands quiet but alert with expectations dark glasses over the eyes. Jaws shift rhythmically and an elastic colourlessness is sometimes pulled thread-thin from the mouth regarded dispassionately before being returned to orifice it’s the sharpened skepticism finding shape and considered carefully the pop of exploding bubbles brains munched. In coat pockets paperback spy thrillers cum pig-eared manuals. Wide shoulders and bumps under armpits. Must be pistols. Pisstools. Attributes of manliness. Guaranteeing a grip on any reality. What are the security agents looking for here? For him? Why don’t they arrest him then? Don’t they see how lame he is already with this enormous glowing key in his pocket? Are they waiting for the procession of a statesman to come by? Is it an ambush before the raid? A coup d’état being executed? He senses the focused eyes hand-large holes scorching his khaki jacket. Before him his humped shadow crawling on the back grovelling fawning licking his feet a halting flame teasing his soul. The Cong representative has disappeared ages ago around a corner down a lane underground meeting probably discovered someone on his tail. To his right in the street a wooden door opens. The door is much higher than street level above three steep steps. Against the lowest step leans a tall bicycle. The bike is painted grey but you can clearly see the rust stains coming through a cape of flames in the iron. From behind the open door giving on to the highest step a Chinese appears dressed in an army-green uniform. The Chinese wears a pair of knickerbockers and has swathes wound tight about the legs between ankle and knee. His head is shaven. He keeps his arms straight down his body and bows the torso deep from the hips. There is absolutely no expression on his face and the eyes are part of the face. He hears the windy sound of the political police’s moving mouths. Fifteen yards on there is an arcade above the right-hand sidewalk. A big building. A signboard. HOME FOR RETARDED ORPHANS. He struggles to get in under the cool arcade and his one leg has died he drags it along with extreme difficulty his shadow has crawled up the trouser leg the other leg is of necessity. Higher than his head under the shelter is a line of windows. The panes framing a shiny darkness. From which is emitted wild, howling, interminable laughter. “A-a-a-t-l-a-a-a-s-t!” (As a key would crunch in the lock.) (Shame.)