13
‘Penny for your thoughts,’ Miriam said one of those afternoons, when I propped myself on one elbow in preparation to jack myself up to a vertical position.
‘Oh, nothing, just a little mind game. Tomorrow we’ll probably lie here like this again. Enjoy the tingling while it lasts. But just imagine a world in which a person was only allowed to perform this … mating act, as they call it in the nature films … just once. No second chance. That one time, it would have to embody everything. Love, tenderness. A whole human life in one discharge … Because of its intensity, weaker specimens wouldn’t stand a chance of survival. May I speak to the man of the house? No, I’m sorry, he can’t come to the telephone. You see, it’s like this … sir ejaculated yesterday, and is now confined to his bed for the next fortnight at least.’
‘Don’t forget fertilisation,’ said Miriam. ‘That’s also got to be bang on that one time, otherwise the poor little species will die out in no time.’
I made a note of this mad notion, and then promptly forgot it. Coming across the sheet of paper later, I saw that the entire conversation had been summarised thus: ‘one-day world, one-day people.’
In the morning, when it wasn’t so hot, we would occasionally walk down the lane to a suburb of Aix, where we caught the bus to the city centre to have lunch and do some shopping. On the way back we would stop at our favourite supermarket for gourmandises that Miriam would only have to heat up for dinner. That is how it went on 29 June, but the next day it was too hot to walk along the searing asphalt. Supplies needn’t be replenished, and there was still half a portion of boeuf à la Normande with pâtes fraiches from the previous evening (what a life). We stayed put in Villa Tagora.
What does a historic day in the life of two lovers look like? Not sensationally remarkable, in this particular case. In my diary, I wrote that on Tuesday, 30 June 1987 we had taken breakfast in the garden at about a quarter after nine. ‘We watch the hornets and butterflies flit from one cone-shaped purple flower to the next. The (white) butterflies remind me of white-jacketed lab assistants going from flask to flask with a pointy pipette. At 9:30 I sit down to work at my small military-invalid table in the shadow of the terrace. Documentation folder Hans K. Notes for Advocaat …’
At around midday, I took a walk in the surrounding open fields. Squatting down on a gently rolling, thicketed hillock under the murderous sun, the whole intrigue for the new novel fell into place. Without pen and paper, I simply had to stay sitting there, risking sunstroke, until the plot had been worked out in its entirety.
Not that this point made the day such a historic one per se. I mentioned two lovers.
Overcome by the heat, I walked back to the house, where I scribbled everything down, obstructed by a swarm of mouches volantes between my eyes and the paper. I then drank, out of euphoria or to reward myself, nearly a litre of wine at lunch, after which Miriam and I retired to the bedroom-sauna. We woke from a deep sleep only at half past five. Miriam had dreamt about sharks.
Out in the shade, I wrote some letters until Gijs, or Gregory, came over to chat. Gijs was an actor and musician from Amsterdam, who, under the nom d’artiste Gregory, had built a career in France. Thanks to his coppery red hair (and his accent), he was cast as Vincent van Gogh in a television series on the painter’s life. He married a local politician, and accordingly wound up in Marseilles, where, having appeared on regional broadcasters, he was becoming something of a local celebrity. Additionally he served as the regular accompanist, on guitar and accordion, of Jean Nehr, the Provençal singer. He had come to Villa Tagora to rehearse with Jean for a series of performances. They were planning to record an album soon.
Gregory, so he told me, missed Amsterdam. Whenever he got the chance to go back, no matter how briefly, he would make a beeline for the pool hall above the Hema on the Ferdinand Bolstraat, where he had played since his youth. He promised to bring me one of his LPs the next time he was in Amsterdam. ‘If I send one by post, there’s a good chance the package’ll sit in an overheated van in the sun and arrive at your door two days later as a warped liquorice pancake.’
With that, he disappeared into an annex behind the house for his rehearsal. Soon we could hear a guitar being tuned. Since we had promised to pay the rent for the upcoming period on the last day of the month, I asked Miriam to take Anneke the money. She was gone for some time: Anneke would never pass up the chance of a chat in her mother tongue. I sat at the small table on the terrace, drinking Pays du Var wine from a cardboard carton, listening to Gregory’s melancholy accordion, which more or less drowned out Jean’s unamplified voice. Miriam’s absence made me impatient (I wanted to share with her my story of the novel’s plot that had come to me in a brainwave under the scorching midday sun), and at the same time I hoped she’d be away there a while (perhaps I was aware that there was something false and dangerous about my euphoria). The moon, melon-coloured and surreally large, appeared on the horizon. The music, the wine, the moon — what more could a person ask for?
‘Empty.’ Miriam shook the wine carton; there was nothing left to slosh about. ‘Where do you put it, for heaven’s sake?’
More wine with dinner. The musicians must have opened a window or door, for Jean’s voice now reached us; even the words were clear. He sang, as far as I could tell, a doleful song about ill-fated love. Gregory accompanied him on the mandolin. The music was moving and extremely melancholic.
I tried to relate the intrigue of my Advocaat to Miriam. Maybe the copper-headed punk, in teamwork with the plot, had rammed my head full of sunstroke: I couldn’t make a sensible yarn of it, but Miriam expressed her enthusiasm for my progress, even if it was hazardous to my health.
The next number, with Gregory back on the accordion, was in a completely unintelligible Occitan dialect. Judging from the profoundly minor-key melody, the text described an even more tragic love than the previous one. During the coffee and cognac, I heard myself suddenly broach an old subject. It hadn’t been brought up in so long that it seemed to be weighed down by a heavy taboo.
14
A child. The child. Our child.
‘Minchen, I haven’t brought up you-know-what in ages. The hush-hush subject.’
If — past difficulties on this issue at the back of my mind — I was trying to raise the subject a bit teasingly, cloak it in light-heartedness, then I apparently did not succeed. Perhaps I had been too ebulliant all evening for yet more banter.
‘Of course I want a child,’ Miriam said. ‘But I also want to achieve something. Do something.’
Just like that, all of a sudden. She didn’t give in entirely, but this was the first time she openly acknowledged her own desire. I was buoyed. Now just stay the course.
‘I’d say … have the child first. Finish your studies during pregnancy, get on top of your writing and all … and once you’re past the breast-feeding period, get a job. I’ll look after the little one during the day.’
Aside from the moon, the only source of light was a candle on the small dining table. Although Miriam did her best to lean back, the flame still illuminated her tears. The candle stem was, for some reason, decorated with strawberries.