‘It’s not only about me, you know,’ Ebernuss persisted, pinching Osewoudt’s sleeve between thumb and forefinger. ‘Truly Osewoudt, it’s of vital importance to you as well. You’ll understand that later.’
‘If it’s so important, why won’t you tell me now?’
‘What good would that do? It’s not you who needs to know, it’s them. Not you, them. I wish you would believe me, Osewoudt.’
‘I haven’t any cigarettes on me,’ said Osewoudt. ‘Give me another of yours, will you?’
Ebernuss stood still, fumbled in his trouser pocket, and offered Osewoudt a cigarette.
‘Why won’t you believe me? The way things stand now, with everything falling apart — do you really think it makes sense for me to go on collecting evidence against you? Why do you imagine I still care about tracking down your Mr Dorbeck? He may or may not exist, you may or may not have a double, and I may or may not have accused you of acts perpetrated by him, but do you really think I care? Let the committees doling out medals after the war sort that out! Let them rack their brains as to whether Dorbeck exists or not, and if he does, then let them decide who the hero is, Dorbeck or Osewoudt — or both, for all I care!’
Osewoudt crossed to the pavement, followed by Ebernuss, who struck a match and gave him a light.
‘I’m putting all my cards on the table,’ said Ebernuss. ‘All I’m doing is trying to save my own skin.’
They came to a house with a flight of five steps set into a wide porch. There were three front doors. Ebernuss pulled a string dangling from the letter box of the middle door.
The door opened. They entered a narrow hallway leading to a steep flight of stairs.
At the top of the stairs stood a figure holding a candle.
‘Moorlag, is he here?’ Osewoudt called out.
‘Yes he is. What do you want?’
‘I’m Osewoudt! I need to speak to Moorlag!’
He started up the stairs, leaving Ebernuss in the hallway. As he climbed, his view of the man at the top of the stairs improved.
‘Moorlag, is that you?’
‘Yes.’
Osewoudt now bounded up the stairs two at a time.
‘Jesus, it’s ages since we last saw each other.’
Osewoudt tried to laugh, without success.
‘Yes, Henri, it’s been ages. The last time was at Meinarends’, I remember it well.’
‘So do I,’ said Osewoudt. ‘Any news of Meinarends?’
‘Yes. He’s dead.’
‘Really? Dropping like flies, we are.’
Osewoudt now stood face to face with Moorlag. Moorlag was holding the candle in his right hand, his left hand in his trouser pocket. He evidently had no intention to shake hands, so Osewoudt folded his arms over his chest, Leica in one hand, cigarette in the other. The aspiring theologian’s appearance had altered considerably. He wore glasses with a heavy black frame, and had sprouted a large, frizzy moustache. He wore a thick jumper of lumpy, undyed homespun wool, with a tight collar rolled up to his chin. Osewoudt drew on his cigarette and cast an eye over the space. The stairs ended abruptly in the floor of an attic. A few small tables and wooden benches stood about. Sitting around one of the tables were several figures, whose faces were lit by a small, shadeless paraffin lamp in the middle.
Moorlag stood where he was.
‘You’re the last person I expected to see,’ Osewoudt said. ‘I thought you’d be sitting out the war in Nieuw-Buinen.’
‘Oh.’
‘You can’t imagine what I’ve been through. Aren’t you surprised to see me?’
‘I heard about you. People talk. I thought you’d turn up at some point.’
Who had talked about him? Osewoudt eyed the group at the table: three young men and two girls, none of whom he had seen before. There were two piles of books on the table in front of them.
‘Look here, I’ve got someone with me. He’s waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Can he come up?’
‘What does he want?’
‘He has something to say to someone here, or who’ll be here soon.’
‘Who?’
‘Dorbeck.’
It was so cold that his breath was distinctly visible in the candlelight.
‘Dorbeck? Never heard of him.’
‘Never heard of him? Can’t you remember that time in Voorschoten? I’m sure I told you about Dorbeck back then. He asked me to develop some photographs, which I later got back one by one. You know, the army officer who looked so much like me!’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘But you must remember the evening I went to Amsterdam with that girl who’d just arrived from England. Elly Berkelbach Sprenkel. She had real silver guilders and an ID card you could tell at a glance was fake. Called herself Sprenkelbach Meijer. An inconspicuous alias! I rang you up. It was the night the Krauts arrested my mother and Ria. You were at the station in The Hague next morning, waiting for me!’
‘Certainly, I remember that very well.’
‘When we met at the station you gave me an envelope that had come for me, and in that envelope was another of those pictures.’
‘I vaguely remember something about an envelope. What’s that you’ve got in your hand?’
‘My Leica. Don’t you remember …?’
‘Yes, yes. Still the same Leica, is it?’
‘Ah, so you do remember that. Is it all right for that man to come upstairs?’
‘What sort of man is he?’
‘Keep quiet and don’t tell anyone here. He’s from the Gestapo.’
‘Any other men from the Gestapo outside?’
‘No, of course not. You have nothing to fear. It’s me pulling the strings. He just needs to tell Dorbeck something, and then he’ll vamoose.’
‘I told you there is no Dorbeck here.’
‘Let the man come up anyway, then he can see for himself.’
‘All right then. Go and sit down somewhere. I’ve got things to do.’
Moorlag turned on his heel and disappeared into the unlit recesses of the attic.
Osewoudt leaned over the stairwell, called: ‘Hey, you can come up now!’ Then he made his way to the gathering at one of the tables, without waiting for Ebernuss to appear.
‘My name is van Druten,’ said Osewoudt, stopping one step short of the table.
The three boys and two girls were mumbling unintelligibly, and remained seated.
Osewoudt sat down with them, at the same table, although it would have been more natural for him to occupy a vacant one.
‘You can say what you like, but Roland Holst’s poems have been reprinted during the war, whereas you can’t get a complete set of Rilke anywhere.’
The boy who had spoken laid his hand on the pile of Rilke: the complete works. Another boy took a volume from the Roland Holst pile.
‘This isn’t a reprint. You can tell by the paper. It’s pre-war quality. But the binding isn’t pre-war, it’s cardboard. Oh well, as I said: I’ll give you 300 guilders extra, but that’s more than enough!’
‘300 guilders? What can I get for that? A measly pouch of shag tobacco, at the most!’
‘Fine, then you can have a smoke as you read Roland Holst!’
‘Poor old Alfred! He’ll have to read his Rilke without a cigarette. How very dull!’
‘Culture is a mighty achievement of mankind,’ said the third boy. He belched by way of conclusion. He had sunken, pimply cheeks and thick curly hair which stood on end.
The girl said: ‘Hark at Simon’s words of wisdom! He’d be worth his weight in gold if he didn’t keep repeating himself.’
‘Shut it, will you? Whore. Slut,’ said Simon. The insults were uttered evenly. ‘As I was saying,’ he went on in the same toneless voice, ‘listening to repeating is often irritating, always repeating is all of living, everything in a being is always repeating, more and more listening to repeating gives to me completed understanding. Gertrude Stein said that. Hey, what’s going on?’