The Darkroom of Damocles by Willem Frederik Hermans Read Free Book Online

snowman with a helmet and a rifle
    three soldiers in pyjamas and gas masks
    one bare-chested soldier in pyjama trousers manning an anti-aircraft gun.
    Osewoudt checked the adjustable number on the letter box: 3, signifying yesterday’s last mail collection. He slid the pictures back into the envelope, stuck it down and pushed it through the slit.
    Just before five that afternoon he entered the main post office in The Hague. Looking constantly about him, he sauntered towards the wall of post-office boxes. Almost immediately he spotted the small metal door with the number 234. He waited.
    There was the usual post-office fug of damp sacking, drying ink and endless yearning, but it seemed to him that he smelled it for the first time. From outside came the clanging of tram signals and the afternoon sunlight shafting into the airless, twilit space.
    There were other people besides him waiting for the lastdelivery. Some went straight to their box, key in hand, removed a small batch of letters and vanished.
    By quarter past five Osewoudt was the only person left.
    Maybe there’s been a hitch and now Dorbeck can’t come, Osewoudt thought, maybe he wants me to stick around near the post-office boxes for a couple of days until we manage to meet.
    He felt his knees beginning to quake. If only he weren’t so conspicuously alone! He had every right to stand there, of course, but wouldn’t people notice him and wonder what he was doing? The last delivery had been made. What was he waiting for? Osewoudt turned round slowly, suddenly afraid that he was being watched, that it was perhaps a trap.
    He stood where he was, his hand on the butt of the pistol in his trouser pocket. There were two exits, left and right, and he glanced continually from one to the other. The post office was now practically deserted.
    Then he saw a woman enter. He thought she was coming straight towards him. She was wearing the Salvation Army uniform. He couldn’t see her face as the light was behind her, only the shape of her bonnet with the bow, her dumpy figure belted tightly in her navy raincoat, her spindly black-stockinged legs. A shopping bag hung from her left hand. She marched up to the wall of post-office boxes and opened number 234, as if she came here every day. She put something in her shopping bag, shut the metal door with a click and walked off.
    When she reached the revolving door Osewoudt went after her. She had a head start of some twenty metres. In the street too he maintained the same distance.
    She crossed the street just before a yellow tram came past, clanging loudly. Osewoudt had to wait. When the tram had gone the Salvation Army woman was nowhere to be seen.
    * * *
    The following day, at the same time, Osewoudt went to the post office again and waited by the boxes. But no one came to unlock number 234. He went back two more days; on the last day he was there at one o’clock and again at five. He waited until half past five, but no one turned up.
    He went to the porter and asked which window dealt with post-office box rental. The porter pointed it out.
    The window was empty. Osewoudt drummed his fingers on the slate counter and craned his neck to see as far inside as he could. At last a clerk arrived and asked what he wanted.
    Osewoudt took a deep breath and said: ‘Could you give me the name of the owner of box number 234? I can explain. That box number belongs to an acquaintance of mine, or rather, I believe it does. But I never get replies to my letters. So now I think I may have the wrong number.’
    â€˜Number 234, did you say?’
    â€˜Yes! 234!’
    The clerk consulted a list, narrowed his eyes, shook his head.
    â€˜That number is not currently in use,’ he said. ‘If you have a moment I’ll get your letters and return them to you.’
    Off he went.
    Osewoudt also went off, to the exit, out of the building.
    And yet, the next day he was back again, hanging around the post-office box