His cracked lips, the hollow sloping line of his cheeks, the eyebrows that almost join and his strong round neck, I pass them all in review, taking them in carefully, the colour, the outline, every irregularity, every feature: I must never forget any of them!
I slip my hand cautiously back under his shirt. He opens his eyes and looks at me in surprise, as if wondering how he has landed there, on this sandbar, with this boy and in this situation. He makes a chewing movement and swallows audibly.
I would like to say something, to talk to him; the long silences are oppressive and each time add to the distance between us. With a moan, he moves closer to me and I bury my face in his sandy hair. He folds his cold hands between our bodies.
Why does he keep falling asleep? I had thought he would do the same as yesterday; I was frightened of that, but now that he doesn’t I am disappointed. I think of Amsterdam: will I ever hear from them again, from my father and mother? What if they are dead, what will happen then?
I feel cold and tired; I ought to get up and go home or else I’II be late again, but Walt is sleeping peacefully, like a child. Now and then there is a rustle in the reeds as if someone were moving behind us and I lift my head quickly to look. The waves make startled sounds against the shore, over and over again the glittering water sucked into the sand.
Time passes, why doesn’t he move? A small beetle runs across his hair, trying laboriously to find a way through the glistening tangle. Then he is awake and scratches his neck.
‘Baby.’ He looks sleepily at me.
I am no baby, I am his friend. He looks at his watch, gets up with a start and pulls me to my feet.
‘Go,’ he says and gives me a gentle push. ‘Quick.’
It feels like being sent out of class at school. I slap the sand from my clothes and slip into my clogs.
He doesn’t remember, I think; he’s forgotten what we did yesterday. And he probably won’t be taking me away with him, everything is different from what I imagined. ‘What about tomorrow?’ I want to ask, but how?
He sits down by the edge of the sea and lights a cigarette. No kiss, no touch?
When I am standing on the dyke he is still sitting there just the same. I want to call out but a hoarse noise is all my voice will produce.
The rest of the day seems endless. In the afternoon we go down to the boat with Hait and help him bail water out of the hull. I do the monotonous job of emptying a tin mechanically over the side of the boat, filling the tin with a regular movement and listening to the dull splashes beside the boat, time after time, first Meint, then me, in endless repetition. Meint keeps talking to me while Hait gives us directions. I pretend to listen. They mustn’t notice anything. I mustn’t I give them the slightest inkling of suspicion, but must act as if nothing is happening. I speak, I eat, I move about, I bail water out of the boat, I answer Hait and make jokes with Meint, everything as usual…
But later, doggedly, I run a little way back up the dyke and scan the horizon. Clouds of white gulls rise brightly against the darkening grey sky: I can hear the far-off screeching very clearly.
I stare intently: that’s where he was, that’s where we lay…
‘Give us a hand, come on,’ says Diet and pushes’ the breadboard into my hand, ‘don’t just sit there daydreaming.’ The evening meal is over and I help her clear away. ‘You must have met a nice girl at the celebrations yesterday. I can tell by just looking at you.’ It sounds like an accusation.
I pretend to be indignant: me? In love?
‘Don’t try to deny it, it’s nothing to be ashamed of!’ She throws her arms around me aggressively, sticks her head out of the door and shouts with a laugh, ‘Hey, boys, Jeroen is courting, he’s going to take a Frisian wife!’
I find a big marble in the grass and walk back towards the harbour. The sun is low and deep red between long strips of cloud and the grey walls of the shack have taken on a pink glow, as if lit up by fire.
I go and sit beside the little grave among the stones. I push the marble into the sand, a beautiful one with green and orange spirals running through it. Over towards Amsterdam the horizon is a bright line. Will a letter ever come? How will I ever find my way back to them?
Chapter 6
The same house. It stands hidden between the trees at the end of the overgrown path. I recognise it at once: this is where we were.
The engine is turned off. The soldier gets out cautiously and walks towards the garden behind the small building, then disappears around the corner. A moment later he hurries back, his feet crunching on the gravel path. ‘Quick,’ he takes my hand and pulls me impatiently to the door. It feels pleasantly cool in the shade of the house after the hot car. I take a deep breath. The cry of a bird echoes clearly and challengingly among the trees.
Before putting the key in the lock the soldier listens out and looks back at the road a few times. We stand like thieves outside the deserted house. The turning of the key seems to break the spell, shattering the stillness.
People are bound to hear us, I think, someone will come.
He pushes me into the house and immediately locks the door behind us. Inside it smells of damp wood; subdued light filters through the windows. We stand motionless and listen. I feel his hand touch my cheek. When I look at him, he nods reassuringly, but I can see how tense he is.
Meint had not gone back to school in the afternoon but had gone to help Hait with the boat. Mem had looked surprised when she saw that I wanted to go with him. ‘You can learn a lot from Hait,’ she said. ‘Not the things they teach you at school, but they’ll come in very useful later on.’ On the road to Warns I had let Jantsje go on ahead, thinking that with a bit of luck I would be too late for school. I took a quick look down the village street: was there anybody left outside or had they all gone into school? If no one was about then I could take my time about deciding what to do next. Perhaps there was some trace of the soldier somewhere, a car, something.
I noticed how oddly I was behaving, stopping, looking around, and then taking another few steps: why was I being such a fool, I really ought to be at school as usual. Then I heard a voice calling my name hoarsely, followed by a short whistle. Immediately I was torn between wanting to run away and looking back, and as I walked on I was surprised at myself: this was the sound I had been hoping for, that I wanted to hear, and here I was making off as if I was scared.
‘Jerome!’ Walt is waving to me. ‘Come.’
He is standing next to the Sunday school and starts coming towards me. We walk down the street out of the village. But I really ought to be at school…
‘Sit down.’ Hurriedly he pushes me onto the verge. ‘Wait.’
I make myself small, slide down towards the ditch where the grass is taller and watch him walking back along the road until he disappears around the bend in the village. I could get up now and run to school. I could say that I was late because I had a sore foot, and yet I do not move at all, the suspense ringing in my ears. Supposing I go back and run into him, supposing he sees that I’ve been disobedient; he could easily turn up suddenly in the classroom, point to me and order me outside, in front of the whole school.
The time that passes seems like an eternity, I could have run back to school a good five times over by now. My indecision grows: perhaps he won’t ever be coming back.
Then I hear a car in the village, a reassuring purring that is coming closer. A moment later, the car rounds the bend and makes straight for me. The door swings open, but instead of getting out Walt calls something that sounds curt and impatient. As soon as I am inside he accelerates and we are swishing along the road. He takes hold of my arm without stopping driving. I can feel a small tin in the warmth of his trouser pocket, keys, a few coins.