Читать книгу His Name is David - Jan Vantoortelboom - Страница 18

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MARCUS VERSCHOPPEN. A boy with thick black hair and a perfectly cut fringe. He walked with short steps, as if afraid of breaking. The other boys regularly followed him around, marching over the playground as stiff as boards, only to start shoving each other when one of them bumped into the other or threw up his leg just a little too high. Marcus knew they did it. During playtime, he stood with his back against the wall, hands beside his hips, palms pressed against the bricks. Always in the same spot, where his nails had scraped a slight hollow into the granular surface of the bricks. From there, he watched as the others resumed their game, watched their flexible bodies and double-jointed knees and elbows as they jostled to steal the ball from each other. There was no envy in his gaze, rather admiration. Sometimes he straightened up, lifting the top of his head half a brick higher than before. Toward the end of the break period he would finally summon up the courage to leave the wall and stand on the edge of the playing field, just close enough not to get in the boys’ way, and out of reach of their flailing arms. On such moments, I could tell he was bursting to join in, to fight for the ball and perhaps even deliver the occasional kick or shove himself. He never allowed himself to disrupt their game, however.

Marcus’s eyes never hid the fact he knew the answer before I had finished the question. He would bend over, pick up his pen from its groove and scribble the answer into his exercise book. When four o’clock had passed and the classroom was empty and silent again, I would rummage in the belly of his desk to fish out his exercise book and find that he had jotted down all the correct answers. Without smudges or scratches. And in perfect handwriting.

One day in the first week of school, I noticed that he lingered after I had dismissed the class. He was placing his books in his satchel with deliberate slowness while the others were already outside, their chattering voices dying away in the distance. I was sitting at my desk writing the chores for the next day in my diary. He fastened the straps of his satchel, and after a moment’s hesitation, mustered all his courage and walked up to me.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you last Saturday,’ he said.

‘That’s all right, Marcus,’ I said, surprised that a boy his age would apologize for such a thing.

‘I never usually forget a face,’ he said.

‘A very useful skill for an artist.’

He nodded.

‘After seeing you on my walk that Saturday, I wondered how you manage to draw the butterflies. Surely they would have to hold very still for you to get a proper look. How do you do it?’ I asked.

The worried expression vanished from his face as he started talking. ‘I’ve got a small bottle of ether in my bag. I put a drop on a piece of cloth that I spread out on the bottom, and when I’ve caught a butterfly in it, I close the bag—just for a moment, mind, too long is bad for them. Just long enough, so the butterfly is drugged.’

I nodded with interest.

‘Then I spread its wings. I never pin them down,’ he hastened to add, ‘I just let them lie there. And if they come round too soon, that’s too bad. They are free to fly away again. I must have drawn a hundred half-finished butterflies.’

‘That’s clever,’ I said, impressed. ‘Most boys your age are more interested in pulling out the butterflies’ wings, or burying them alive.’

He looked at me in horror.

‘I mean … of course I’m not saying you should do that, or that I ever did it as a boy, I didn’t; but I knew plenty of boys who did … ’

I was lying. I didn’t really have any playmates as a boy, and Ratface would never have done such a thing.

‘Well, Marcus. I really think your drawings are very beautiful. I would like to see all of them one day.’

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘Perhaps you could bring them to school with you.’ He dropped his gaze to the floor.

‘I meant for me, Marcus. Not to show the other boys.’

‘I’ll do that, sir.’

‘Go on home now,’ I said. ‘Or your parents will worry.’ He picked up his satchel and left the classroom in high spirits.

On my way home, I made a mental list of a number of necessities I believed every tenant should have at his disposal: a blanket, a comb, soap, a wash basin and perhaps, if available, a decent mattress. I decided to call on Mr Vantomme—he was my landlord, after all, and should have provided me with at least some of these things. He was sitting on a chair in the doorway, smoking a cigar. Facing him, I was startled by the bags under his eyes. A black cat was winding a figure of eight around his legs, rubbing its body against his trousers. The enormous lump in his crotch was still there. It looked like a cannonball. He noticed my surprise, and told me without batting an eyelid that it was a groin hernia. I didn’t know a single piece of proverbial wisdom that applied to this situation—except that it might be wise to see his GP about it, as the hernia was obviously keeping him awake at night.

‘Have you come to hand me my cash already?’

‘You mean the rent?’

‘Naturally.’

‘No. There’s something else I want to see you about.’ But I no longer had his undivided attention. He was greeting a woman on a bicycle, who, in an embarrassed effort to keep the wind from blowing up her skirt, held one hand on the handlebar and the other between her thighs.

‘Good day, Godalevakins!’

Flaming past, Godaleva gave him a curt but polite nod. Mr Vantomme watched her until she had turned into Stone Street, turned to me again and asked a second time whether I was about to hand him the cash.

‘Actually, I wanted to ask you something.’

‘Did you see that posh lady cycle past just now?’

‘No.’

‘She’s the mother of one of your lads. Now what’s his name … the pale, skinny one … always neatly dressed and in long trousers all summer?’

‘Do you mean Marcus Verschoppen?’

‘That’s him. Well, that was his mother.’ He smacked his lips. ‘A real beaut’, smashing white thighs. The more wind, the better.’

I hadn’t had a good look at the woman, though I had caught the nod.

‘She’s farmer Verschoppen’s girl. Beware of him. Jealous as a billy goat. Was in the army as a lad. Even made it to officer. But then he took over his father’s farm and … ’

I thought of the green patches of mould on my bedroom wall, the blanket I didn’t have and the pump that didn’t work, but no longer felt like bringing those things up.

‘I think I’ll be heading home now,’ I interrupted him. ‘It’s been a busy week, and I need to get everything ready for tomorrow.’

‘Fine! Fine! Well, goodbye.’

As I stuck the key into the keyhole, I heard a rustle in the bushes. Curious, I crept toward the sound. I hunched down at the hawthorn hedge, brushed aside a heap of brown leaves and discovered a hedgehog snuffling around. A small specimen. He curled up in a ball when I touched him. The sight of the creature instantly put me in a benevolent mood. I gently picked him up in cupped hands and carried him to my weed garden, where I placed him underneath a couple of boards leaning against the wall. I named him ‘Spiney’. It occurred to me I should ask Marcus to draw him for me. Then I walked back to fetch a bucket and poured a dash of water into the hole at the top of the pump. After pumping the rusty rod forty times, I heard a slurping sound and the water started flowing. Rust-coloured at first, then clear. Another step closer to civilisation, I thought with satisfaction as I picked up the bucket, cast a quick glance behind the boards, where Spiney was mercilessly chomping on a worm, and shuffled inside.

That evening, there was a knock at the door. Surprised and slightly annoyed, I answered it. It was the priest. His black cassock blended seamlessly into the surrounding dusk.

‘Good evening, Father, do come in,’ I said.

‘Thank you.’

I offered him my chair and went to fetch the other one from the kitchen.

‘I’m not disturbing, I hope?’ he asked, glancing at the exercise books on the table.

I shook my head.

He looked around, and after a sniff in which I seemed to detect a certain contempt, he launched into his explanation.

‘Actually, my reason for visiting is threefold,’ he said. ‘Firstly, I wanted to meet a new parishioner, who is, moreover, going to be our new teacher for the children of Year Six. And secondly, I wanted to ask your permission to say a few words about you in this Sunday’s service.’

A short pause, in which I just kept nodding mechanically. Why not, I thought. I didn’t see anything particularly objectionable in his proposal, given I would not have to be there myself.

‘And thirdly, I have a question to put to you.’

‘Yes?’ I asked, half expecting the question.

‘Let’s start with reason number one,’ he said. ‘Would you like to tell me a little about yourself?’

‘I would,’ I said, though I didn’t much feel like it. He must have noticed my sigh. He leaned forward encouragingly. I gave him the short version, saying nothing about the death of my brother. I did talk about Father and Mother. My education. A little about the woods at the back of our house and my love of animals.

When I had ended, he summarized what I had said, but was still fishing for more.

‘So you were brought up by your mother?’

‘More or less.’

He frowned.

‘You said your father worked at the State University of Ghent?’

‘That’s right,’ I said.

His chair creaked. Or was it mine?

‘But you were raised a Catholic?’

‘More or less,’ I lied.

He frowned again. I could tell he had to stop himself from asking more questions on that subject. He managed with an effort; though one more personal question did make it past his lips.

‘You don’t have any siblings?’

I hesitated.

‘I had a younger brother.’

‘Ah … ’

‘Died a long time ago,’ I said.

‘That’s very sad,’ he said.

I said nothing.

‘I trust you honour his memory? Flowers on All Souls’ Day? An annual mass for him?’

I wasn’t really sure—maybe Mother made the arrangements. He looked at me, sensing my doubt. There was a short silence.

‘You understand I would like to tell the parishioners something of what you have just told me on Sunday?’

‘Be my guest.’

‘You will be there, of course?’ he asked.

‘My parents are visiting that day.’

A blatant lie.

‘That’s regrettable. Another time, perhaps,’ he said.

He stood up, I opened the door for him. We wished each other good evening without shaking hands. Only once I was back on my chair going over the conversation again did I realize he had not asked his question. I wondered whether he had forgotten, but realized it was highly unlikely. He struck me as a man who was always prepared and never forgot things. Perhaps I had already provided the answer.