In the snow-covered courtyard stands a birch, spindly branches end in fine, motionless twigs, dark patches on the thin twisted trunk, a
BIRCH
he still has that word and therefore I still see you beloved. .
Such people's faces are white as sheets and show nothing. . masks in a museum. . perhaps it is an exhibition, a competition in sitting still?
Loud school bell, several times in a row. . chatter breaks out on all sides… a voice cries softly. . another voice crooning the same tune all the time… it seems spontaneous but it is mechanical.
A birch surrounded by snow… if only I could be where that birch is. .
YOU'RE MR KLEIN?
the birch in the snow… it can't help me either… I am led away. . wave one last time. . shall never see her again.
A white corridor with a green line half-way up the wall. . very slow, solemn walking held by one arm (and by the line on the wall).
Utterly loose in space. . girl with reddish-brown curly hair very close by now. . the sun sparkles in the outer hairs around her head.. space. . sink at once. . feel ground. . they don't understand why someone who is so empty must lie down here. . they understand nothing of what I say. . the thought of an interpreter doesn't occur to them… I am the only survivor of my own language.
People sit in long rows on benches and wooden seats. . women and men. . drugged it would seem from the way they sit staring in front of them at the whitewashed wall.
Smell of paper, cardboard, glue, wood. . good smells. . those people bending over are they asleep?. . high up in the ceiling there is music slowly trickling down. . tables covered in colourful strips of paper, glue-pots, brushes. . party hat rolled on to its side. . red with a green pompom at the top.
It's stuffy here. . fresher atmosphere would be desirable. . my footsteps on the floor can no longer be felt. . soles too thick, floor too soft, who or what is to tell?. . feeling is no longer passed on. . remains hanging somewhere halfway. . counter-pressure. . soft compulsion. . sit.
WE'RE GOING TO MAKE A DRAWING TODAY, A SELF PORTRAIT.
WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO IT IN PENCIL OR WOULD YOU RATHER USE PAINT, MR KLEIN?
A woman's voice ebbing away into a question mark. . scent moves from place to place. . the air has become almost too thin for smells… a hand holding scissors cuts slowly in the air.
LET'S GIVE IT A TRY
Flower scent. . daffodils… so spring must have come. . without him having noticed.
HERE YOU ARE!
A big sheet of white paper… a hand… a woman's hand… a woman's hand holding a wooden box… a box divided into sections, upright partitions… a scent rises from it, right across the daffodils. . two scents floating around me. . flowing into one another. . flowers and graphite. . together a name. . sweetest and heaviest word of my life. . rises from the bottom-most depth like an air bubble. . escapes and bursts resoundingly asunder… I slam my hand in front of my mouth and bite my fingers.
THAT'S OK. DRAW VERA'S PORTRAIT, THAT'S JUST FINE, THAT'S
OK FOR US.
Out of here. . don't know from which side the world is coming towards me. . there must surely be a direction?. . every space must have an entrance and an exit, mustn't it?
Hands. . feet. . scraping of scuffed chair legs across concrete. . want one Mr Klein to say 'Vera', say it, Vera Vera Vera Vera Vera Vera until I hear it.. hear how my voice drifts away. . gone is gone.
Much singing and crooning from all nooks and crannies. . faces: battered. . stretched. . bloated. . flaky (and more such words).
Lightly undulating. . the whole inside now threatens to come out. . Einstein was right once but he forgot this place. . light has no longer any velocity here. . nothing for me to enjoy.
Can that smell of piss clear off!
They shine lamps at you in here. . probably to see what is still lying here. . what has been left in my eyes. . what may still move a little. . they want to have it all. . grasp everything they can get… so he is being slowly scooped empty here, the Maarten that was.
Beam of light full of dancing dust specks. . proof once more that light itself stands still. . perhaps this is the discovery of your life. . the goal.
As soon as singing, shouting, chattering breaks out, the light becomes denser. . everyone hopes to be home before dark.
From behind a stick prodding me in the back. . straight away give a kick backwards without looking round. . bellowing!… on your knees you!. . kneel!
Hands and feet it must have. . eyes open and shut: same place. . eyes open and shut and open again: same place.
Thick, greasy smell is born or carried in. . hangs sweating everywhere. . the doors are deliberately kept shut with clanging keys. . they seem to need music with everything here. . this in imitation of time if you ask him. . farts are the only remedy against it. . utmost disapproval… a sound that is usually accompanied by great hilarity. . but for hilarity one needs a head and nobody here has that any more.
They come past. . they are on their way. . stand still. . not allowed. . changes are clearly no longer permitted. . sit with a big head which from sheer emptiness flops forward. . caught hard by the edge of a table. . and laughing!
Look, this is not exactly humour. . humour is when someone trips on a banana skin. . comic is when someone sees a banana skin and gives it a wide berth and ends up in the path of a falling brick. . big lump. . head which is clearly so conspicuous here that they keep fussing about it. . especially women or what pass as such. . away, you witches!
All the time he needs to keep human beings at arm's length. . someone sings. . very wonderful but hidden behind a pillar. .and why not. .why not admit to everything: that there are voices without bodies.
They make sure that people always take everything with them when they are dragged from place to place.
There are still hands and feet on him but hardly controlled. . spoon. . fork. . still knows more or less what this has to do with eating and so on. . steering is seriously impeded. . steaming food lies all over the place. a plate. . the rim is smooth and round to the fingers. . things keep being taken away in order to prevent one from settling down here. . complete disorientation, that is the aim. . deliberately refuse to understand that this plate is a prop, an anchor for his fingers.
Don't understand anyone. . only the familiar words. . his own language from within. . both his parents spoke Dutch. . they are both dead now. . everyone he knows seems to be dead… do you know. . you astray amid this herd. .you are the only ray of hope.
Tucking in. . beside. . across. . opposite. . don't even know why they are being fed, the stupid hogs. . namely to retain any weight at all. . hence the rumpus when suddenly someone sits down to shit. . quite understand those guards… a) it is filthy. . b) they would blow away on the merest breeze.
Too far removed from the wall. . which is bad… a body that can no longer propel itself becomes a tree. . like that thin one over there in the snow. . the wall… to the wall. . over the wall. . that is what he means when he thinks: only in language can I still undertake anything.