After the meal the women do the washing-up; Father disappears behind his newspaper and Lode and I talk a little, sometimes in the living room, sometimes in his attic room, a privilege that occasionally provokes a jealous reaction from Yvette, as it goes without saying that never in a thousand years would it be possible for me to spend even a second alone with her in her bedroom. If we were caught there together, my only way of averting the scandal in the eyes of her father would be to ask him on the spot for her hand in marriage. The only thing we are permitted to do together is go out for a walk, but only after the washing-up has been done and tidied away, and that can sometimes, to our great annoyance, take a very long time.
Lode leads the way up the steep stairs to the attic. Yvette catches my eye for a moment and purses her lips to blow me a kiss. I give her a quick wink.
‘Bleeding heck, I stuffed myself and now I feel like a slug…’ Lode sighs and kicks his shoes under the bed as he enters the room. It’s true. It’s still a feast when you eat at a butcher’s. Families like his don’t need to do without. We’re still getting by at home too, especially when my partner and I have managed to nab another black-marketeer, but otherwise it’s moans and groans all round. The city and her residents are sick to death of rationing and can hardly bear the sight of yet more herring, as if the whole thing’s a game that has gone on too long. There’s a lot more begging too. Sometimes you see little children holding out their hands. They rarely get anything.
I sit down on Lode’s bed and roll a cigarette. Standing at the washstand with his back to me, he picks up an earthenware pitcher and pours water into a bowl, yawning out loud. He takes off his waistcoat and tosses it on the nearest chair, under the skylight. In one movement his braces are off his shoulders and he’s pulled off his white shirt and singlet to freshen himself up. Water splashes and drips on the stand’s marble top. ‘That’s better!’ he chuckles, flicking back his wet quiff. Droplets run down his back, shining in the autumn sun. He unbuttons his trousers and lowers them together with his underpants. Dancing on one leg and then the other, still without turning, he takes off everything, even his socks. The backs of his thighs are covered with soft, brownish-black hair that runs up to his buttocks. He lets some water run down his belly, goes up on tiptoes, presumably to tip some water over his cock and balls, and carries on washing. His whole body seems to be shouting out to me to enjoy its beauty. But at the same time he acts like nothing’s going on, just a routine scrub in the coincidental presence of a friend. Nothing is said, neither of us makes a sound and that makes a mockery of this being somehow routine. I manage to cough or mutter ‘Uh-huh’, but that’s as far as I get. His answer is equally inarticulate while his wet hands run a bar of soap over his buttocks. Again he bends forward to splash more water over his already-clean face, after which he slowly wipes the last suds off his behind with a flannel. The attic walls are closing in on me. My mouth is dry. I feel like the door’s been locked. Whatever I do or say in the presence of this naked body, there will be no satisfaction in it, neither for him, nor for me. Meanwhile, deep in my gut, I hear Angelo roaring with laughter. Look at him sitting there on the bed, Wilfried Wils—the great thinker who knows no mercy and longs to lead a stirring life, imposing his will on others—watch him plummeting into embarrassment and banality, as normal as everyone else and therefore doomed to die a surreptitious poser who never managed to escape his predetermined existence. Lode glances over his shoulder at me. The look in his eyes is vulnerable yet proud, a look that evokes both lust and loathing in me, making my head spin.
‘Could you pass the towel next to the bed?’
Without standing, I reach for it and chuck the stiff thing in his direction.
Slowly he starts to dry himself. The scent of soap, mixed with the smell of his masculinity, fills the still shrinking room. My brain starts to race like a rat in a maze of doors, corridors and potentially locked rooms. There has to be a way out somewhere. One man’s lust is another man’s opportunity, Angelo would say.
‘I hope you realize,’ I say hoarsely, ‘who you have to watch out for.’
Still without turning around, still towelling himself off, he asks, ‘Who?’
‘Eduard Vingerhoets.’
‘The Finger? I know what kind of bastard he is. Don’t worry.’
‘Ever since Terlist Straat he’s had his eye on you. He’s also the one who snitched to the Jerries about the Jews being warned.’
‘How can you be so sure of that?’ Lode gives me a sideways glance, slowly running the towel over the leg he’s raised up on the chair. I see his balls dangling and think, ‘Don’t be daft, it’s too dark in here, you’re imagining things.’
‘You know who I drink with. The Finger goes to the White Raven too sometimes.’
Lode turns towards me. He’s draped the towel over his shoulders. His eyes are sparkling. I have to keep focused on his face; I mustn’t let my gaze drift down.
‘Something needs to be done about him. We know that too.’
‘Who’s we?’
Lode takes a step closer.
‘Not you, at this stage.’
Another step closer. One of his fingers goes into his right ear
