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

I’ll know how the land lies.
    But the tram, having reached the end of its route, was in no hurry to depart. Osewoudt turned round, went back overthe level crossing and struck left, thinking to keep an eye on the terminal from there. But he couldn’t see it: there was a mass of new bricks stacked up along the railway line. He walked on, only to find his view blocked by the small station. Bells began to ring, a railway signal dropped. When he got back to the level crossing, it was closed. A rumbling in the distance. Hanging over the barrier, Osewoudt focussed his eyes on the tram shelter. The tram whistled and set off.
    A car pulled up beside him, followed by a second. When the train finally thundered past dozens of cyclists were standing around him. The cars started up and the cyclists pushed off, one foot on the pedal.
    In the middle of that small flow, hampered by a similar flow coming from the opposite direction, Osewoudt crossed the tracks and walked without hesitation to the now deserted tram shelter.
    There she was. As soon as he saw her she met his gaze and held out a rolled-up newspaper.
    She was hatless, her hair was long and sleek, and she wore a white raincoat.
    He saw nobody else at the stop.
    In lieu of a handshake he grasped the newspaper, saying: ‘Elly? Are you the Elly who rang me up?’
    â€˜Yes, that’s me. I wanted to speak to you.’
    â€˜I’ve never seen you before. Why did you phone? Why me?’
    â€˜I’ll tell you later. Not now, not here. I’ve been here for ages, and I’m a bundle of nerves as it is.’
    Her face was round and very pale, her mouth was small with red lips, which she moved slightly as though shaping words under her breath.
    Osewoudt looked in all directions, but saw nothing alarming.
    â€˜Fine, we’ll go somewhere else.’
    He took her elbow and steered her along, away from thetram stop and past the nursery garden at the corner of Prinses Mariannelaan.
    â€˜Now, will you tell me how you got my address?’
    He was still holding her elbow and could feel her arm trembling. She was short, even shorter than him; he actually found himself looking down into her face. Her big, bulbous blue eyes stared up at him, unblinking, as she said: ‘I was given your address in England.’
    â€˜When were you in England then?’
    â€˜I left the day before yesterday.’
    â€˜By train, I bet,’ he muttered, letting her go. He thrust his hands in his pockets, his right hand seeking reassurance from the pistol.
    â€˜I have proof, you can trust me!’
    He didn’t reply for the next few minutes; then, at the corner of Laan van Middenburg and Prinses Mariannelaan, he pushed her into a café. He made sure they took a table near the door. She said: ‘Why are you so pale? Your hands are shaking, it isn’t malnutrition, is it?’
    â€˜No, things aren’t that bad yet. Is that what they’re saying in England? That people aren’t getting enough to eat?’
    â€˜Yes, they say all sorts of things in England that aren’t true.’
    She couldn’t be older than eighteen.
    She now opened a bag that hung from a strap over her shoulder.
    â€˜They told me to show you this.’
    Osewoudt almost gasped but took the photograph from her anyway. He had immediately seen what it was: a snowman wearing a Dutch army helmet and holding a rifle instead of a broom.
    â€˜I don’t know what it means. They said it didn’t matter, they just told me to show it to you and you’d know I was safe!’
    â€˜Who do you mean by “they”?’
    â€˜You know, back in England.’
    He slipped the photo into his pocket.
    â€˜How did you come to be in England?’
    â€˜I was there already at the end of ’39. I was staying with a family to improve my English. My father and mother are in the East Indies.’
    â€˜I didn’t catch your name when you phoned. Would you write it