He struggled on; no images appeared. He tried holding the strips up to the red light. Nothing happened, other than that the films, which were milky white to start with, turned completely black. Finally he hung them up to dry and went to bed. When he looked at them again in the morning all he could see was dark smudges. He cut the strips into sections and put them in an envelope, which he laid in the drawer under the counter. But because he assumed they’d be no good and didn’t want to appear totally inept, he did something that could be interpreted as a deed of desperation: he withdrew his working capital (600 guilders) from the bank, went to The Hague, stepped into a camera shop and within five minutes had bought himself a Leica, which he paid for in cash. He took the tram to Scheveningen in the hope of photographing German military installations: anti-aircraft batteries, army encampments and vessels being fitted for the invasion of England. But when he got there he saw very little of potential interest. There were indeed a few ships in the harbour, but he had no idea whether they had anything to do with the impending German offensive against England. He photographed a few lorries on the off-chance, and also took a picture of the German sentry outside the prison. This was seen by the German. Instead of raising the alarm, he stood yet more stiffly to attention. Osewoudt returned home having taken no more than six photos, none of which he thought would be of any use. He was supposed to have sent off Dorbeck’s films the day before. As a last resort he took the envelope containing the botched negatives from the counter drawer, wrote E. Jagtman, Legmeerplein 25, Amsterdam on the front, stuck a stamp on it and dropped it in the letter box. For the next few days he left his mother in charge of the shop, only returning home at night to sleep. He wandered around taking photos at random, for what purpose he did not know. No Germans took any notice of him, which strengthened his feeling that he could not have photographed any location of significance, simply because he was so ignorant about military affairs. But in any case he would be able to show Dorbeck he had tried his level best not to let him down. After three days he felt he had sufficient grounds for a reprieve, should he be called to account. Besides, he had run out of ideas about what to photograph (the first film still wasn’t used up). If they came again and said: what’s going on? We send you two rolls of film for which people risked their lives and all you do is ruin them — he would be able to prove he had spared neither money nor effort to repair the damage. He went back to running the shop. No one came. One evening a week later there was a storm. In between thunderclaps he heard a ring at the door. He crossed to the front but couldn’t see who it was. He decided to take the chance and unlocked the door, turning the light switch at the same time. But the light didn’t come on.
It was Dorbeck, in a long raincoat, dripping wet.
‘Dorbeck, the photographs—’
Dorbeck placed the flat of his left hand against Osewoudt’s chest and pushed him backwards. Tight-lipped, he barely looked at Osewoudt. He shut the door behind him and strode to the darkest part of the shop, at the back by the sliding doors.
‘Where’s your wife?’
‘Upstairs, in bed with flu. The photos—’
‘Is there anyone else around?’
‘No, but listen—’
‘I’m sorry you went to all that trouble for nothing. The films were worthless. They were put into our hands by a German provocateur. There was nothing on them, of course. I sent two people to tell you, but your mother wouldn’t let them in. Did you know that?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I haven’t much time. I need your help. I want you to be in the waiting room of Haarlem station next Tuesday at 2.45 p.m. Look out for me. I’ll be sitting at a table with someone else. Here …’ Dorbeck took Osewoudt’s hand and pressed a heavy object into it. ‘Here’s a pistol. Bring it with you.’
Outside, the storm intensified, the shop grew even darker than before.
‘All right? I must go now,’ said Dorbeck.
The pouring rain made a hissing sound. A flash of lightning lit up the interior, but not Dorbeck’s face, which was in Osewoudt’s shadow.
‘Hadn’t you better wait for the rain to stop?’
‘No time. Catch you later.’
Dorbeck went round the counter towards the door and out into the street. Just then the electric light came on of its own accord. A long slab of light fell across the black asphalt paving.
Osewoudt put his head round the door to look for Dorbeck, but couldn’t see him anywhere.
‘What’s the idea? Don’t you know there’s a blackout?’
A policeman with a bicycle stood in the next doorway, water pouring from his cap.
‘So sorry, officer, I was just showing someone out. I tried turning the light on five minutes ago, but the current was down. And now it’s suddenly come on again.’
Osewoudt turned the light switch.
‘I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Posted here recently, were you?’
‘Yes, not long ago,’ the policeman said. ‘Don’t let it happen again, sir.’
The tramlines were still flooded with rainwater, but the sun shone. Osewoudt was halfway up a stepladder behind the door fixing the broken cord of the blind. Evert Turlings came past, and pointed to the cardboard sign with the snapshots on it. He asked: ‘Get much call for that, do you?’
‘Not much. I don’t do the work myself, actually. I ought to take that sign down, because the bloke who did the developing for me has given it up.’
‘Good!’
‘Why?’
‘I’m starting in the developing and printing business myself. So if anyone comes asking, just send them on to me. I’ll make you a present of some shaving soap! But you wouldn’t have any use for it would you, ha ha!’
Osewoudt came down the stepladder, and asked: ‘Is it difficult to learn? I don’t know the first thing about it. Doing all that stuff in red light, don’t you get exhausted?’
‘Red light, did you say? That was how they did it in your grandfather’s day. Modern films are sensitive to all kinds of light, including red.’
‘So what happens if you develop them in red light?’
‘They go black, of course. They’re ruined.’
‘Is there no chance of getting them to turn out right after that?’
‘None at all. Why do you ask?’
‘Just wondering. What with everything they can do nowadays. What I mean is—’
Evert Turlings squeezed his arm. He was almost a head and a half taller than Osewoudt.
‘We’re living in great age, in every respect. You’ll see. I was saying so to Ria only yesterday. How is she, anyway? Still in bed?’
‘Her temperature was down this morning.’
‘I’ll just pop in and say hello.’
Evert Turlings squeezed past the stepladder into the shop.
Tuesday, 23 July was a sweltering day.
At 1 p.m. Osewoudt locked up. He changed into a white shirt, white shorts and tennis shoes.