But she said nothing.
‘I know full well that it wasn’t very good for you last time,’ he went on. ‘But that happens. You shouldn’t give up just because it’s not the same intense experience every time. You have to learn to forget it and move on.’
‘I don’t think I really understand what you’re talking about,’ she said. ‘So you think we should carry on as before?’
He nodded.
‘Of course. Why not?’
‘Because I don’t want to, for instance.’
He smiled and put his hand on hers.
‘How can you know whether or not you want to continue if we don’t give it a try?’
She thought for a moment. Tried to find words that would somehow make holes in his stubborn self-assurance.
‘It wasn’t just that last time,’ she said. ‘It’s the whole situation, as it were. I can’t cope with it. I like you, but not as my lover. I simply can’t handle that. . It was okay for a short time, but it can’t go on any longer. You are more than twice as old as me, and you’re in a relationship with my mother.’
He didn’t remove his hand. Sat there in silence for a few seconds and looked thoughtful. Contemplated different parts of her face. Mouth, hairline, eyes.
‘Are you quite sure about that?’
‘As sure as I can be.’
‘All right,’ he said, leaning back. ‘Maybe it’s best to do as you say. Shall we pay the bill and leave?’
She nodded, excused herself and went to the toilet.
It started raining as they were driving back towards the centre of Maardam. Instead of turning right at the Richter Stadium, he continued straight on past the Pixner Brewery and Keymer church.
‘How’s your mum?’ he asked.
‘She’s ill today, I told you that. Why are we going this way? Aren’t you going to drive me home?’
‘I don’t mean how your mother is feeling today: I mean in general.’
She shrugged.
‘So-so. You know what her problem is. Why are we going this way?’
‘I just thought I’d show you where I live. You don’t have anything against that, I hope?’
She glanced at her watch and hesitated. It was a quarter past nine. She sat in silence for a while, staring out into the rain.
‘I want to be home before ten.’
He patted her forearm.
‘Don’t worry. Couldn’t we talk a bit how you feel, at least? It’s not good to break off relationships willy nilly. Believe you me, you have to make sure the scars heal over as well.’
‘I think I’ve talked enough about that.’
She was feeling quite angry now. He put his hand back on the steering wheel.
‘Talked enough about it? What do you mean by that?’
‘What I say. I’ve discussed it long enough.’
‘I don’t understand. With whom have you discussed it?’
She could hear that tone in his voice again. The tone she had noticed when she first got into the car. Like a dash of spice that didn’t suit the taste. Something acrid, a little bitter. The word ‘dangerous’ came into her mind for the first time.
‘With a priest.’
‘A priest?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why have you spoken to a priest?’
‘Because I needed somebody to talk to about it, of course.’
‘I didn’t know you had a priest among your friends.’
‘I don’t. He was visiting the school and telling us what programmes the church was organizing for young people. I went to see him after that.’
‘Which church?’
She tried in haste to decide whether or not she wanted to reveal the name of the church, and made up her mind that she did. I might as well, she thought, so that he doesn’t get the impression that I’m making it all up. It struck her also that it was a sort of insurance — an independent person who knew all about it. Even if it was only a priest bound by vows of silence.
She didn’t have time to ask herself why on earth she should need that kind of insurance.
‘Which church?’ he asked again.
‘The one out at Leimaar. Pastor Gassel. I’ve met him twice — it’s part of their job description to listen to what people tell them, but not say anything about it to anybody else. A sort of confession, although they are not Catholics.’
He nodded vaguely, and scratched his neck.
‘But you haven’t told your mother at least?’
‘Of course not.’
He turned left behind the university into Geldenerstraat, and parked in one of the lanes leading up to the Keymer churchyard. It was raining quite heavily now, and there was not a soul to be seen in the dark alley. He switched off the engine and took out the key, but made no move to get out of the car. He just sat there, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.
‘And what do you think would happen if she found out about it? If somebody were to tell her what we’d been up to?’
‘What do you mean? She’s not going to know anything about it.’
‘Of course not. But how do you think she would take it if she did find out? Hypothetically, that is.’
‘I don’t understand why you’re asking about that. It’s pretty obvious that she would have a nasty shock — we’ve talked about that before.’
He carried on drumming on the wheel.
‘So you don’t think it would be a good idea for me to tell her?’
Monica stared at him.
‘Why would you. .’
‘Because I also feel that I need to be honest about things. More of a need than either you or she has, it seems.’
In a split second the penny dropped for her. And just as quickly she knew what the implications might be. It wasn’t he or she, the guilty parties, who would be worst affected if their affair became known: it would be her mother. No doubt about it. Twofold treachery of this nature — on the part of her lover and her only daughter — given her fragile state and her emotionally unstable situation. . No, anything but that was Monica’s reluctant reaction. And in the circumstances she seemed to be ending up in, to make things even worse. .
An image of her mother’s washed-out face as she lay in bed earlier that afternoon found its way into Monica’s mind’s eye, and she felt the tears welling up behind her eyes. She swallowed, and tried to pull herself together.
‘You mustn’t do that,’ she said. ‘Do you hear? You really must not do that!’
He took a deep breath and let go of the steering wheel.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I know. But can’t we go up for a while and talk it over, at least?’
She looked out through the rain-soaked side window at the building they were parked outside.
‘Is this where you live?’
‘It certainly is. Shall we go in?’
She glanced at her watch again, but realized that it no longer mattered much what time it was. Whether she got home at ten or eleven or even later. She opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement.
He hurried round the car, put his arm round her shoulders and steered her rapidly through the rain and in through the entrance door, which was some ten metres further up the alley in the direction of the churchyard. She had time to note that the building was four or five storeys high, quite old and with stone walls. The entrance door led into an inner courtyard with bicycle stands, a shed for rubbish, and some benches under a large tree she thought was an elm. It was all a bit reminiscent of Palitzerlaan, and she felt a slight pang of nostalgia.
‘What a lovely building,’ she said.
‘Art Nouveau,’ he said. ‘Built exactly a hundred years ago. Yes, it’s pretty impressive.’
His flat was also impressive. To say the least. Four rooms plus a kitchen, as far as she could tell; large parquet floor tiles made of light-coloured, grained wood and an open fire in the large living room. Heavy, dark furniture widely spaced — and well-filled bookshelves covering almost all of every wall. Two large, low sofas and soft carpets. She compared it with Moerckstraat, and felt a somewhat different pang.
He must be rich, she thought. Why is he bothering with the likes of us?
‘What was that name on your door?’ she asked. ‘It wasn’t yours.’