Читать книгу Ventoux - Bert Wagendorp - Страница 19

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IX

We first saw her on 14 July 1981. The five of us were at the swimming pool, under the oak trees, our regular spot, where there was a slight grassy slope. We were doing what we always did: playing football, eating ice cream, catching wasps in a bottle, talking nonsense, and putting David in a double nelson. From my transistor radio came the voice of the motorbike commentator on the Tour de France. Today’s stage was over the Alpe d’Huez, and I didn’t want to miss it.

Joost was just subjecting David to what he called the diabolical punishment of Sodomites—he had read Gerard Reve’s The Language of Love for his literature exam, and that book had made as big an impression on him as The Rider had on me. He was hitting David’s light-coloured soles viciously with a branch. ‘You like it, you old fairy.’ Ever since David’s admission to the club, he had been our resident gay. It was because of his way of dressing, but also because he never took the trouble to deny that he was. He let us get on with it. He didn’t bother in the slightest about the resulting teasing by other people. Other people didn’t matter. In fact, we didn’t much care whether David really was gay or not.

‘And shortly I shall have to whip your tight boy’s ass,’ cried Joost. David went on calmly reading Huckleberry Finn. Peter had an exercise book and was making notes.

André kept the ball in the air and counted. It was actually unnecessary, because if he had to, he could go on till closing time. With his left or his right foot, with his head, or with a combination of all three.

I did nothing. Well, I looked at the others.

Then she came floating along. André stopped counting, let the ball roll away, and turned round. Joost interrupted his torture activities and looked in the same direction as André, while his mouth fell open and his tongue appeared. David closed his book and looked, too. Peter stopped writing and turned his head to the right.

She was radiant. She drew all the energy of the swimming pool to herself and seemed unaware of the havoc she was causing. She laid a towel on the grass, sank down like a leaf on a breath of wind in late summer, turned onto her back, drew up her right leg, and closed her eyes.

Joost was the first to pull himself together. He stammered, made speech movements without saying anything, which for him meant that there were still powerful and unassimilated experiences spinning around in his brain.

‘Did you see that?’ he asked in a whisper, as if it had been a mirage. ‘Did you see that? Christ. I mean, can you see that?’

‘What do you mean?’ said David.

Joost was too flabbergasted to react to the joke. He stared at the creature open-mouthed.

‘Who is that?’ I asked.

No one answered. It was a stupid question, anyway. Peter had stood up. He was quite experienced when it came to beautiful women, but this was a special apparition for him, too.

André grabbed his ball, kept it in the air ten or so times, and deliberately let it bounce off his instep, toward the girl. It was perfectly executed: the ball rolled gently in her direction, touched her hip, and came to a halt next to her.

The girl looked up. She smiled.

André went over to her. As he picked up the ball, he said: ‘Hello.’ He said ‘Hello’ to a holy angel or a film star or God knows what it was.

‘Hello,’ said the girl.

‘Sorry about the ball. It shot off my foot.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

André hesitated a moment. He bounced the ball once. ‘Do you want an ice cream?’ he asked, as if she were his sister.

‘That would be nice.’

There was something about that voice. It was rather sing-song, and it was warm. It was a voice that massaged your soul. André pointed to the four of us. ‘Come and join us. That dark-brown guy was just going to get ice creams.’

The goddess got lithely to her feet, picked up her book, her bag, and her towel, and came toward us.

She had blond, shoulder-length hair, which framed her face in long locks. Her eyes were blue—not hard, Germanic blue, but the blue you see on houses on the Greek islands. Her skin was golden silk.

‘David, your turn.’ André said it again with a boldness that I could not remember having noticed before.

David got up and gave the girl a look that suggested he probably wasn’t gay after all. She smiled at him, and a wave of jealousy went through me. I should have gone to get the ice creams.

‘Chocolate?’ he asked the girl.

‘Yes, great.’

While David trotted off, she sat down, pulled her knees up, and then said: ‘I’m Laura.’

Peter looked at her for a long time without saying anything. ‘Peter,’ he said. ‘I’m Peter. Her eyes rested on him longer than any of us, but that was the same with all girls.

‘Peter, you beauty, Peter, you beauty!’ cried the Tour de France commentator on the radio. Peter Winnen had won the stage.