Bonger, Wauters, Leverkuhn and Palinski.
It has to be said they were a long-standing, ancient quartet. He had known Bonger and Palinski since he was a boy. Since they were at school together at the Magdeburgska, and the war-time winters in the cellars on Zuiderslaan and Merdwick. They had drifted apart for a few decades in the middle of their lives, naturally enough, but their paths had crossed once again in their late middle age.
Wauters had joined them later, much later. One of the lone gents who hung out at Freddy’s, herr Wauters. Moved there from Hamburg and Frigge and God only knows where else; had never been married (the only one of the quartet who had managed to avoid that, he liked to point out – although he now shared the bachelor state with both Bonger and Palinski) – and he was probably the loneliest old bugger you could possibly imagine. Or at least, that’s what Bonger used to confide in them, strictly between friends of course. It was Bonger who had got to know him first, and introduced him into their circle. A bit of a gambler as well, this Wauters – if you could believe the rumours he spread somewhat discriminately about himself, that is. But now he restricted himself to the football pools and the lottery. The gee-gees nowadays were nothing but drugged-up donkeys, he used to maintain with a sigh, and the jockeys were all on the make. And as for cards?… Well, if you’d lost nearly twelve hundred on a full house, huh, let’s face it – it was about bloody time you took things easy in your old age!
According to Benjamin Wauters.
Bonger, Wauters, Leverkuhn and Palinski.
The other evening Palinski had worked out that their combined age came to 292, and so if they could hang on for another couple of years, they could look forward to celebrating their 300th anniversary at the turn of the century. Christ Almighty, that wasn’t something to be sneered at!
Palinski had patted froken Gautiers’s generously proportioned bum and informed her of that fact as well, but froken Gautiers had merely snorted and stated that she would have guessed 400.
But in reality these round figures had no significance at all, because this Saturday was the last day of Waldemar Leverkuhn’s life. As already said.
Marie-Louise arrived with the carrier bags of groceries just as he was on his way out.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Out.’
‘Why?’
‘To buy a tie.’
There was a clicking noise from her false teeth, twice, as always happened when she was irritated by something. Tick, tock.
‘A tie?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why are you going to buy a tie? You already have fifty.’
‘I’ve grown tired of them.’
She shook her head and pushed her way past him with the bags. A smell of kidney floated into his nostrils.
‘You don’t need to cook a meal tonight.’
‘Eh? What do you mean by that?’
‘I’m eating out.’
She put the carrier bags on the table.
‘I’ve bought some kidney.’
‘So I’d noticed.’
‘Why have you suddenly decided to eat out? I thought we were going to have an early meal – I’m going round to Emmeline’s this evening, and you’re supposed to be going-’
‘-to Freddy’s, yes. But I’m going out to have a bite to eat as well. You can put it in the freezer. The kidney, that is.’
She screwed up her eyes and stared at him.
‘Has something happened?’
He buttoned up his overcoat.
‘Not that I know of. Such as what?’
‘Have you taken your medicine?’
He didn’t reply.
‘Put a scarf on. It’s windy out there.’
He shrugged and went out.
Five thousand, he thought. I could spend a few nights in a hotel.
Wauters and Palinski were also wearing new ties, but not Bonger.
Bonger never wore a tie, had probably never owned one in his life, but at least his shirt was fairly clean. His wife had died eight years ago, and nowadays it was a matter of getting by as best he could. With regard to shirts and everything else.
Wauters had reserved a table in the restaurant area, and they started with champagne and caviar as recommended by Palinski – apart from Bonger who declined the caviar and ordered lobster tails. In a Sauterne sauce.
‘What’s got into you old devils this evening?’ froken Gautiers wondered incredulously. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve sold your prostates to some research institute.’
But she took their orders without more ado, and when Palinski patted her bottom as usual she almost forgot to fend off his rheumatic hand.
‘Your very good health, my friends!’ proposed Wauters at regular intervals.
‘Let the knees-up in Capernaum commence!’ Palinski urged at even more regular intervals.
For Christ’s sake, I’m sick and fed up of these idiots, Leverkuhn thought.
By about eleven Wauters had told them eight or nine times how he had bought the lottery ticket. Palinski had begun to sing ‘Oh, those sinful days of youth’ about as frequently, breaking off after a line and a half because he couldn’t remember the words; and Bonger’s stomach had started playing up. For his part, Waldemar Leverkuhn established that he was probably even more drunk than he’d been at the Oktoberfest in Grunwald fifteen years ago. Or was it sixteen?
Whatever, it was about time to head for home.
If only he could find his shoes, that is. He’d been sitting in his stockinged feet for the last half-hour or so. He had realized this, somewhat to his surprise, when he had made his way to the loo for a pee; but no matter how much he fished around for them under the table with his feet, he didn’t get a bite.
This was a damned nuisance. He could smell that Bonger’s stomach had spoken once more, and when Polinski started singing yet again, he realized that his search needed to be more systematic.
He coughed by way of creating a diversion, then ducked down discreetly – but unfortunately caught the edge of the tablecloth as he collapsed onto the floor, and the chaos that ensued made him reluctant to leave his temporary exile under the table. Especially as he could see no sign of any shoes.
‘Leave me alone, damn you!’ he growled threateningly. ‘Fuck off and leave me in peace!’
He rolled over onto his back and pulled down the rest of the tablecloth and all the glasses and crockery. From the surrounding tables came a mixed chorus of roars of masculine laughter and horrified feminine shrieks. Wauters and Palinski offered well-meaning advice, and Bonger weighed in with another stinkbomb.
Then froken Gautiers and herr Van der Valk and Freddy himself put in an appearance, and ten minutes later Waldemar Leverkuhn was standing on the pavement outside, in the rain, complete with both overcoat and shoes. Palinski and Wauters went off in a taxi, and Bonger asked right away if Leverkuhn might like to share one with him.
Most certainly not, you bloody skunk! Leverkuhn thought; and he must have said so as well because Bonger’s fist hovered threateningly under his nose for a worrying second: but then both the hand and its owner set off along Langgracht.
Touchy as usual, Leverkuhn thought as he started walking in more or less the same direction. The rain was getting heavier. But that didn’t worry him, not in the least. Despite being drunk, he felt on top of the world and could walk in a more or less straight line. It was only when he turned into the slippery slope leading to the Wagner Bridge that he slipped and fell over. Two women who happened to be passing, probably whores from the Zwille,
