Out of Mind

'The war has been over for a long time, Maarten. We're living in a free country, in America.'

'You don't need to tell me where I live. I live in Gloucester, Massachusetts. The other day I was in the tavern and a fellow says to me, at sea they don't teach you to talk. What are you nodding your head for? You weren't there, were you?'

'Nevermind.'

'Ah, here's Robert. Shall we go for a walk, Robert?'

'In a while, Maarten, in a while. You'd better stay in now. We're going to have company in a minute.'

'Company at this hour of the day? Or is it evening already?'

'Wait quietly, now.'

'Who's coming, then?'

She does not reply.

As long as it isn't Karen. I wouldn't know what to say to her. She'd be sixty-five now, a ridiculous thought. Maybe she's dead. Imagine me sitting here thinking of someone who doesn't exist any longer. There's no way of knowing. I remember it so clearly, how I stood before her, naked and trembling like an aspen-leaf.

'Maarten.'

'Bye, Aspen-leaf. I really must be off now. Otherwise I'll be much too late for my meeting.'

'You don't have to go.'

'Did they phone, then? Did Bähr phone?'

'Yes… he phoned.'

'Why didn't you say so before?'

'You only mentioned it yourself just now. You don't have to go to work, Maarten. Lie down on the settee for a while.'

'Yesyesyesyesyesyes.' The weapon of politeness, secret and lethal. I lie down but in my mind I am standing up. By God, I will go on fighting against those waves, against those breakers inside my head. I slowly sway this way and that on the cushion someone slides under my head, and I start singing, it happens all by itself, softly and under my breath so Mama and Pop won't hear me in the living room, I sing songs from which the words slowly slip away, I feel them slipping away from my head which turns heavily this way and that.

I hear women's voices coming from the kitchen. They are talking in English. Vera's voice and a voice I don't know, a soft, young, woman's voice. First I can distinguish only what the unfamiliar voice says, beautifully modulating the words. Patience and the correct medicines, as far as possible the same environment. Then I hear Vera.

'More than forty years I have been married to him. And then suddenly this. Usually these things happen more slowly, gradually. But with him it came all at once. I feel it has been sprung on me. It's cruel and unfair. Sometimes I get so angry and rebellious when I see him looking at me as if from another world. And then again I feel only sad and I would so much like to understand him. Or I just talk along with him and then I feel ashamed afterwards. I'm glad you're here because it really gets on top of me at times, when I just can't bear watching it any more. At least now I'll be able to get out occasionally.'

There is a moment of silence. I feel the tears running under my eyelids and down my cheeks.

'And sometimes, sometimes his face radiates perfect peace. As if he's happy. Like a child can be. Those moments are so brief I sometimes think I imagine them. But I know only too well what I see at such moments: someone who looks exactly like my husband of long ago. At your age it's difficult to understand that. But people like us live by their memories. If they no longer have those there's nothing left. I am afraid he is in the process of forgetting his whole life. And to live alone with those memories while he sits there beside me. . empty.'

I press the palms of my hands against my ears, I don't want to hear it but I know that what is being said is true. I am being split open from inside. It is a process I cannot stop because I myself am that process. You think 'I', 'my body', 'my mind', but these are only words. They used to protect me. Before I was like this. But now there is a greater force holding sway in me, which is not to be gainsaid. I don't want to think about it any more. I had better go and do some work. Work provides distraction. I must go through some reports for tomorrow. The texts of reports reassure me, because of the inexorable peace and calm with which an unreachable undersea reality is described in figures. As if that world were immobile, as if it could be measured.

The sun shines on the grain of the wooden leaf of the desk. No idea where I put those reports. Maybe they are still in my briefcase. I bend down, but my briefcase is not where it should be under the desk. Perhaps Vera put it somewhere else when she was cleaning the room.

I stand up and go to the kitchen. In the doorway I pause. My legs tremble. A white woollen polo-neck sweater over which falls long blonde hair. I wave to Vera. I put my forefinger on my lips. Then she turns and fortunately I just manage to say, 'Good morning, miss.' How could it possibly have been Karen, fool that I am, where do such thoughts come from?

She gets up. She is surprisingly tall, with broad, practical hands. No rings. A bit heavy around the hips, where her jeans stretch in tight creases.

'Phil Taylor.'

She speaks hurriedly, as if I were making her feel nervous. She wants to come and stay with us for a while, I gather. I nod amiably.

'Kitty and Fred aren't here,' I say. 'So you'll have the whole upper floor to yourself.'

'Kitty and Fred?'

'My children.'

Vera points at a carton of purchases standing on the draining-board. 'Phil has already done the shopping. We're having roast beef tonight. Your favourite meat.'

So she is called Phil. Lovely long blond hair. A high, slightly rounded forehead. Now I suddenly remember why I came into the kitchen. 'Have you seen my briefcase anywhere?'

'Not under the desk?'

'It's not there.'

'I'll look for it for you.'

'Look for what?'

'Your briefcase.'

I turn abruptly and walk straight to the front room and sit by the table with my head in my hands. Something inside me thinks and then stops half-way. Starts on a totally different track and then halts again. Like a car engine that keeps stalling.

I get up and start walking. Using the choke, you might call it. Trying to get things going again. Robert raises himself slowly and lazily and shambles along beside me, rubbing against my legs. No wonder a dog wants to go out in this fine weather. I come to a halt with my knees pressing against the ribs of the radiator.

Spring hides in those bare branches. Birds will soon be returning from far away across the sea. Behind Vera's blue Datsun stands a bright green resprayed Chevrolet with a dented left pane. . panel. . sheet. . metal. . dent. . metal. . fender.

'Goddammit!' I bang against the window with both fists.

'Mr Klein!'

I turn, raise my eyebrows. Who is that? How did that girl get in here?

'Kitty isn't in. Or have you come for Fred? Are you a friend of my son?'

'Would you like us to take the dog for a walk together?'

'What about Vera?' (How panicky my voice sounds all of a sudden.)

'Her back is troubling her a bit.'

Why am I always so timid? 'I don't even know your name,' I say. 'And isn't it rather unusual, anyway, an old horse like me walking out with a pretty young filly like you? Are you a classmate of Kitty's?'

'My name is Phil Taylor,' she says. 'I've come to stay with you and your wife for a while.'

'Oh, have you? I didn't know. But it's all right with me. I rather like having company actually.'

'Shall we go, then?'

She goes to the hall and puts on a blue quilted anorak. Then she helps me into my coat. She knows her manners. I watch her face from aside. A slightly plump nose, that's a pity. And her eyebrows are a little on the heavy side as well. Resolute chin. Usually people with resolute chins have a beautiful neck, but I cannot see that because of the high collar of her anorak.

The girl goes to the front door. She unlocks it. 'Where are we going?' I ask.