Nicole, however, watches over me like a German shepherd. Not that I suspect her of collaborating with those who want my old body in their bed and on their drip. No, she’s not like that: her mistrust of those legal drug dealers seems almost as great as my own. But when it comes down to it, she will reach for the telephone, call the ambulance and, sighing deeply and whispering that there’s no alternative, finally deliver my body up to chemical torment. For the moment she’s popped out to do some shopping and freedom beckons, something beckons, something tells me I must go out now. Unaccompanied for the first time, I walk down the street to Quinten Matsijs Lei, catching my breath on Loos Plaats, on one of the cold white blocks that can’t decide whether they’re art or street furniture and which vaguely resemble a wolf’s hook. There is a flame burning in one of my hips that flares up at the slightest exertion, a pilot light fuelled by the fear of falling again and becoming permanently crippled.
Didn’t I write somewhere here that I’ve never known fear in my life? It turns out that’s a load of rubbish, and it always was, too. I promise that I will no longer conceal my blindness to my own fear. My untrustworthy body has brought that message home to me. Just like all those other voices in everyone’s head, your fear is something you can talk to. You can even bargain with it, just never trust it. Keep your fear at a distance, don’t entrust it with your wallet, never lend it to a woman you love and refuse politely when it offers to take you on a trip. Tell fear you know what it is and that’s enough for you. Tell it you know it’s a teacher. No, people everywhere cry, that’s totally wrong: fear is a poor counsellor. Maybe, but it does teach you what it means to live intensely, to value a lie, to play the game, all as long as you’re able to keep it at arm’s length.
I’m panting, not just because of the effort, but mainly because of my suddenly rewon freedom, which is starting to feel less reckless. Sweat trickles down the inside of my collar. Then I see two army trucks driving up onto the central reservation in front of the police station. Paras with machine guns jump out. Two by two they move east into the city. Four of them give me a friendly nod as they pass on their way to Brialmont Lei. Two take up position in the middle of the street in front of a Jewish school. The other two move on. The two at the school light up cigarettes while a crowd of children come out to race home on their brightly coloured hand-me-down pushbikes. I wait until most of the mob has disappeared and then stand up. I find it less difficult than I expected. After reaching the school I ask if the revolution has broken out. A blonde para of about twenty laughs and tells me they’re here for security reasons. ‘We’re here for you too,’ the other adds. I put on an expression that is as innocent as possible and say, ‘Thank you.’ Has the world gone mad during my quarantine? At the end of Brialmont Lei I see another two standing on the other side of the railway line, close to the synagogue in Oosten Straat. I turn left into Mercator Straat and head home with a head full of questions.
Unfortunately, Nicole is already back. Of course, she gives me a dressing-down. And this and that. I could have been dead and what would she have done then? I should be relieved it turned out so well! I can count my lucky stars!
‘I saw some soldiers,’ I say, hoping to calm her down a little.
‘They’ve been here for months!’ she snaps from the kitchen.
Months?
‘It’s all propaganda!’ she tells me. ‘They’re trying to pull the wool over our eyes.’
They’re always trying to pull the wool over our eyes, son, and don’t you ever forget it. I learnt that long ago, as I told you much earlier. People tell you who they are and what they’ve come to do in your life and you just have to believe them. Here is your father. Here is your mother. We’re here to protect you.
‘How long are they here for?’ I shout through to the kitchen because it’s always amusing to wind up Nicole with her undoubtedly extremist left-wing sympathies.
‘Nobody bloody knows!’
‘And the police?’
That goes unanswered.
This city is fond of a firm hand now and then. And when someone tells her off, she responds like a whore in a clip joint, or cabardouche as they call it here. Talk about law and order and this city starts to coo. She runs a finger over the rim of her champagne glass, looks deep into the eyes of yet another papa who wants it all stricter and then pants, ‘Tell me more about discipline and security on the streets?’ Order always gets her hot at first, or freedom too for that matter, if that’s what’s being held up to her. After all, they can offer her anything. The papa who’s proposing it just has to come over as self-confident, that’s all, and what’s he’s actually arguing for doesn’t really matter. That leads to the kind of misunderstanding that’s typical
