The painter falls on his arse. One of the others knocks the tin over in pure fright. The third clutches his heart. They’re no spring chickens. I estimate two of them as mid-thirties. The third is in his late fifties.
‘Shit,’ the painter hisses as he recovers a little. ‘These trousers are fucked. Thanks a lot!’
Jean picks up the half-empty tin and wastes no time in pouring the rest over the man’s hat and coat. Drenched with it now, he roars, ‘You bastard!’
Casually Jean brings the tin down on his head.
‘We’ve got a permit…’ one of the others bleats.
‘There’s no call for this,’ groans the other.
Jean kicks the painter in the ribs. He’s wearing a thick coat but I still hear something crack. The word ‘Germany’ has been reduced to a smudge after a capital G.
‘I’m going to lodge a complaint!’ the painter screams, protecting his ribs while trying to scramble up onto his feet.
‘Wilfried! Note this gentleman’s complaint!’
Shaking my head, I reach for my notebook.
‘I!… Name!’ Jean roars at the man, before purring, ‘What’s your name, sir?’
‘Verschueren, Jozef…’ the painter snaps.
‘Verschueren, Jozef! Of…’ He gives the man another boot. ‘Your address?’
The two others reach out impotently to their buddy, but are too scared to come within range of me or Jean.
‘Of… Come on, what else?’
‘Twenty-three Maarschalk Gérard Straat.’
‘Profession?’
‘It’s all right… I withdraw my complaint.’
Jean kicks the man’s paint-splashed hat off his skull and pulls him up onto his feet by his hair.
‘Profession?’
‘Oh, fucking hell… Civil servant at the Chamber of Commerce. Let go of me.’
‘What if we just…’ says one of the others—not the one with the red, flushed face, but his friend with wet, almost purple lips, who blows bubbles of spit when he talks. ‘What if we just act like none of this happened and all go our own way?’
‘And then…’ exclaims Jean, not loosening his grip on the painter’s hair, ‘they found the magic key and they all lived happily ever after! Is that what you had in mind, sir? And by the way, what’s your name, if I may be so bold?’
‘Verstrepen, Kamiel,’ the man bubbles.
‘Also a civil servant, like your good friend here?’
‘Section head at the city’s department of finance,’ he says, suddenly sounding assured, as if realizing that the way he makes his living might make a difference.
‘And you?’ Jean nods in the direction of the skinny fool who knocked over the tin of paint. He looks a bit like the rich Jews you see on posters.
‘I have a paint shop in Lange Lozana Straat. That is, I used to. I’m retired.’
Jean looks at the paint tin and says, ‘Hilarious! It could hardly be better, could it, Wilfried?’
‘I’m splitting my sides…’ I say quietly.
‘And how are we going to resolve this, gentlemen?’
‘We’d like to go home,’ says one of them, while another nods like a schoolboy who recognizes the correct answer even though he could never have come up with it himself.
‘Go home like good boys, because the missus is frying up some fish for you… Do you think that’s a good idea, Wilfried?’ Jean winks at me.
I tell him it’s an idea like any other.
Jean promptly lets go of the painter’s hair.
*
On Sunday I generally shut myself in my room and read Verlaine. ‘Aujourd’hui, l’Action et le Rêve ont brisé / Le pacte primitif par les siècles usé, / Et plusieurs ont trouvé funeste ce divorce / De l’Harmonie immense et bleue et de la Force.’ I’m not going to translate it for you, son, because I don’t want to embarrass either of us with my inability to capture something that needs, above all, to be felt. According to the poet these lines were written under the sign of Saturn, the dark Roman god whose festivals were once celebrated during the months of winter, and I was just writing them down in my diary when there was a knock on the door.
My mother was standing there.
‘Sorry to disturb,’ she says quietly. ‘I just forgot there was a letter for you on Friday.’
She lays the envelope on the bedside cabinet, tells me tea is almost ready and disappears. I recognize the handwriting.
Dearest, how I long for your touch! Time has become a horror to me, a harsh taskmaster who scolds me when I think of you and curse the hours and days that separate us. It is you who have set me ablaze, so you won’t hold my complaints against me, I hope. If only I could feel your fingers on my throat and your lips on mine right now! Sweetness, what we have together is so beautiful, I can’t find words to describe it. You make me sing, do you know that? I can already see you laughing as you read this, or maybe you’re thinking, ‘Oh, the silly cow.’ But I can’t help it. I am yours completely! Let me know when we can meet again and when you’re on duty. Lode says he doesn’t see you much either, but adds that that’s normal. Please write to me, even though we don’t live that far apart. I want to be able to cherish your written words when I am alone in my room in the evening. Big, juicy kisses from your… Yvette.
How can I tell your future great-grandmother that letters like this make me feel a bit queasy? On the page, this quick-witted woman who is so worldly and fearless turns into a doll made of pink icing sugar. As if she feels obliged to adapt to what a love letter is meant to be and doesn’t realize how much she betrays in the process. I put the letter with the others and go downstairs for the frugal meal my mother serves up as if it’s
