feeding on the fruits of her goodness.
He’s tired and can’t seem to shower away the fatigue. What he feels is getting harder and harder to name. He knows what it isn’t. It’s not anything that hurts. Not at all. But it’s some kind of waiting.
The bleep of the phone, the landline this time, cuts through the water in his ears. He turns off the tap and wraps himself in a bathrobe. His guess is Dieter.
‘Alphonse?’ It’s Sieglinde.
‘Yes,’ he says.
‘I just wanted to call you. Because we got rather carried away today and because we’re not proud of it. We’d also like to thank you for listening.’
‘That’s all right. Don’t cry.’
‘It’s out of our control, know what I mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. Sorry to disturb you. Have a good night.’
‘Sleep well.’
-
29
Next morning he finally gets hold of Cat. She seems cheerful.
‘You’re feeling good, then?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ she says, unhappy with the subject. ‘But I have to go now.’
‘Where to?’
‘Well, to yoga. Another four days.’
‘Have fun.’
‘Bye, Alphonse.’ She’s never come up with a shorter form of his name, which is something he appreciates. Apart from her parents, everyone calls her Cat. Not very long ago she had a malignant tumour. They have to assume it won’t come back.
‘Fonzy!’ Dieter calls out. He’s wearing a dark-blue bathrobe, clearing away the breakfast things. ‘Great that you also work on Saturdays,’ he says in English. Sometimes people do that, suddenly address him in English, even after he’s had conversations with them in Dutch and even though there are four languages he speaks more fluently.
Els, who let him in, has jogged out of the door, this time with Björn on the lead. In the garden, bent over their swimming board, wearing anoraks, the girls are sitting on the top rungs of their ladders writing something on a piece of paper or card. When they see him standing at the window they wave in the manner of ladies-in-waiting. In reply he imitates the pope driving past.
Dieter’s gaze flutters out past his shoulder, a nervous moth that, despite the call of the light, quickly returns to the semi-darkness. He mumbles that he’s going upstairs to get dressed, walks across the living room to the hall but stops when he hears Alphonse slide the door open. He’s a father, Dieter is, and he’s obliged to entertain some slight suspicion when an adult man, ultimately a stranger, wants to talk to his adolescent daughter and her friend without involving him, and without there being any clear reason for it. So he returns to keep watch, Dieter does, peering into the garden, which he’s increasingly been avoiding, touched as ever by the harmonious relationship between the girls, a thing no longer talked about between these walls for fear of damaging it.
The children’s faces become more undecided, more serious during their conversation with Alphonse. What is he asking them? Is it time to step in? Then there’s some nodding. The girls nod, Alphonse nods, and they all turn in his direction, smiling feebly, it seems to him.
‘Sit down for a moment,’ says Alphonse, shutting the door behind him. In the background Mila and Lana bend down over their concerted scribblings once more.
Dieter does as he’s asked, resting his hands on his thighs and looking at the floor, paler than before, the bathrobe now lending him a fragile serenity.
‘Sieglinde and Ronny didn’t kill the cat.’ Alphonse stays on his feet as he talks.
‘I thought not.’ Dieter doesn’t look up. ‘How did it happen?’
‘It was a friend of the girls. A local boy who’s never dared come round since.’
‘I know the one. I’ve never seen him here blowing darts.’
‘It was an accident. The boy shouldn’t be punished for it. And neither should your daughter or her friend.’
Dieter nods. And nods again.
After that the glue that seemed to fill the room during their conversation flows out. The silence is driven away by metallic noises: the extending legs of his own ladder, his screwdriver opening a lid. Upstairs, Dieter takes a bath.
For most of the day the three family members leave him to paint in peace. They steal past respectfully, or express their approval when he turns to look at them. The work progresses quickly. Wall after wall begins to shine.
Just before midday he hears Els and Dieter’s voices intoning through the ceiling, Els getting agitated about something, then coming round. When they eat lunch at the kitchen table, they want him to sit with them. Once he’s there, no one can think what to talk about. They put local cheeses on his plate, peeled fruit, straight from the tree, he simply must taste it. Björn too awaits his reaction.
As he’s clearing up in the evening, they both grow restless.
‘A beautiful job,’ Els tells him. ‘And so quick.’
‘To think you’ve been here for barely two days,’ says Dieter.
Alphonse taps on the window. Mila and Lana wave back. Then he shakes Els and Dieter’s hands.
‘I’m not far away,’ he says. ‘On Monday I start next door.’
They nod.
‘There’s more work here too.’ Panic in their voices.
‘The rooms upstairs could do with repainting this year.’
‘You know where to find me.’
They walk with him along the hallway, catching his eye at every opportunity.
When he reaches the van and turns back toward them, Björn rushes at him full tilt. He picks up the floundering dog and carries him to the front door, where he lays him in Els’s arms. For one second she looks at Alphonse as if he’s just delivered their baby, then they laugh it off.
On the village square in Watou he orders a coffee on the empty terrace of a full bar. He has to admit the barman is right: it’s summer at last and the weather seems odd. There are motorcyclists passing through, and two youngsters on slender horses. At the church, overlooking the square, a statue of Jesus stands with arms spread. In the middle of the square is a soldier, accompanied by a lion.
He finds himself in a strange, beautiful life. Does he demand too little? Does he receive too much?
After settling up, on his way to the van, he sees the front of the statue. The soldier is holding a revolver to his chest, barrel pointed away. The nearby figure of Christ, head bowed, now seems frozen in the act of raising his hands.
Some
