'Speel what to me,' he says.
'What?'
'On Your cello. Play what to me.'
'Now?'
'Now'.
They laughs. 'You're not good.' as if he has made a joke, to table, while two friends have continued to eat. A not very successful joke.
Always if friends or girlfriends were eating or play, he made jokes. According to a ship's steward of the father is a struggle.
'It is important.'
They must play for him, as previously, on her cello. That is what he is now still can think, that is all that can save him. His youngest daughter and her cello.
'I have not played for years.'
'Dat does not matter. You are not forgotten. Something rather imposes not.' You
'Everyone sleeps. Mama is also already up.'
'They sleep through it. They are used, of the past.'
'Papa," she says, and with the side of her head leaning back still against the tiled, 'You're not good point. It is true what Ibi me told years ago. You are really not good.'
Between all its other thoughts by he also wonders how it must have been a father that will not good point is, but because he did not reply to that question, he says: 'I am healthy, Tirza. Just as healthy as you. And I ask only or you what to me. A Sentimental question perhaps, a strange question in the middle of the night. But not not properly.'
She looks at him. Its lips curls itself. He has no idea whether it is a smile. 'Papa' whispers to them. She looks to love him, understandable. 'I want best one more time for you to play but not now.'
'No, Tirza. So immediately. This evening. Tonight.'
They are silent.
He does not understand themselves why this is so important to him is a neck now all other matters have been resolved, neck disappeared. What else could still be important in his life?
He picks up his wallet from his pocket. 'I pay you sure,' he says. 'I'll give you extra spending money for Namibia.'
It counts the most of what there is to paper money in it. 'Here,' he says, 'over five hundred euro. You can use the good in Africa.'
'Papa.'
They fingers with the back of her hand on his cheek.
'Papa, why do you want that i for your play?'
He is there with the paper money in his hand. More he has not. Perhaps he has never had more than that. Paper money had to conceal the fact that he had nothing else to offer. It pays. Pay is freedom. Pay is dignity. 'Because it makes me happy,' he says. 'Because it makes me so happy.' He wants its money in the hands push, but she still makes a defense gesture.
He likes to pay for the happiness. In the happiness is an unsustainable debt hidden. A mistake. Something he must be paid as a lump sum.
Now he has not more cold, he has the hot. He feels the sweat resistance along its spine. It seems as if he has fever as if he were cold is trying.
Tirza looks at him, but no longer as the daughter to the father is looking even if the caring daughter who looks at the man who has brought for her, she looks quite different to him. In her view he sees the alien. The tenant to the landlord looks while he is considering the offer.
She turns around, she runs away from him, he hears her up the stairs to run. If a Levite, do ship's steward.
In the kitchen it a glass gewürztraminer in. There is not much more. Cold is the wine even though not. It does not matter. Still shivering he. Of the fatigue, the emotion, shame.
Than he hears the earth orbits the sun. The stairs Tirza He is going to look at. She has the cello. She drags him. As if it were a beast, a recalcitrant cow which should to the slaughter. They will pass without her father to watch him. They put the cello in the living room.
He looks in the opening of the door with the empty glass in his hand how it will do so.
Another time she goes to the top. She is coming back with the music stand and sheet music. Install them all for the window. She picks the cello bow response.
'Are you sure you want to do this?' she asks.
He nods.
'This is what makes you happy?'
He nods back.
'Sit down," she says. The bow in the stop.
And He whispers: 'Elgar, that you could well, that you also played on the music school. Elgar. It was nevertheless Elgar?'
He knows the self not more. He shall take place on the ground. Between the remnants of the feast, between sticky rice grains and chunks of gherkin from a foot are flown.
There are no more. Little is more. The money he explains on the coffee table.
She agrees the cello.
'Papa," she says. 'You're not good point. Is that hereditary?'
'hereditary?'
'I? Should I be afraid that I just as word as you? Should I be afraid that i love word?'
Then begins to play them.
Her shoulders and upper arms are visible, and one of its bra straps.
He looks at her and he remembers everything. He is a shivering body that hear music are daughter sees and everything reminds. And while a ship's steward listening to the music and to his youngest daughter looks for him, for him and for him only, he starts for the first ask why food hurts so much.
Why the actually always so much pain has done.
Not all life. There are people who are not affected. Many have not affected. Presumptuous life. He has thought of everything she does not always thoroughly, but never about pain. That was something for sissies, he had always found. And now he is there for the first time involved, discerns he still somewhat reluctantly. Disgust.
He had everything he has now received nothing more. Even when he had everything, did the pain.
Of the existence he recalls an uncomfortable silence, a rigid dexterity, a nerve pull, a barely suppressed desire. The Eternal need under all circumstances to come over to civilized.
This means Tirza on playing.
They shall submit to the cello down carefully. As you a baby in bed captures those on your arm is asleep. In the hope that he will continue to sleep.
She is on, they get about her father, which is on the ground is just a child that is not yet on a seat or bench seat can sit.
'take it,' he says.
'What?'
They remain stationary. She looks down. There she sees her father, its old father, which may not be children had to begin if disaster him not had forced, as he himself so like used to say: the fate in the form of a woman.
He has done for others. His children, the house, the renting of the upper floor are course, maintaining the home of his parents, also after their death. And that he never that reference work on expressionist poets wrote, also that he has done for others. A life lived for others. On the assumption that you are the only then alive, if you for others it, nothing you as self-catering individual. Have enough on yourself, have enough to your work, have enough to Schiphol, that is the real shame.
'The money. Take it.'
She looks to the notes on the coffee table.
'take it,' he repeats, 'Tirza, you have played. Please, contact the. I have promised you.'
He sees that they hesitates.
He does not dare itself. It is all of her. It is located on the coffee table. They must also tackle the only. That is all. Only suits.
'take it, Tirza,' he says. 'take it well. For you and Mohammed Atta, if you are in Africa.'
'Choukri.'
'Choukri. Also good. For you and for those of you who Choukri once again want to eat.'
She shakes her head.
'We do not go to Africa to enjoy going out to eat papa.'
'You can almost everywhere good food, also in Africa.' He remembers how he suffered an hour or twelve in the kitchen was to the raw fish to cut.
'Please,' he whispers, 'Please, my solar queen.'