Free The Darkroom of Damocles by Willem Frederik Hermans Page A

in all this wouldn’t occur to any German. They had let him get away by mistake. If Moorlag hadn’t been at the station what else would I have done but go home to Voorschoten – and get caught?
    But Moorlag fell for it.
    â€˜Oh they’re a crafty lot! Now I get it! They thought if I told you about your mother being taken away you’d get in touch with them straightaway, of your own accord. They want to catch you by using your mother as bait!’
    â€˜Not by using Ria!’ Osewoudt laughed. ‘Have you got that Leica with you?’
    Moorlag reached into his pocket and with some difficulty pulled out the camera. A white envelope came with it, which became crushed in the process.
    â€˜What’s that letter? For me, is it?’
    â€˜Yes, it was lying on the mat last night.’
    Osewoudt put the camera in his pocket, then felt the envelope between his thumb and forefinger. It didn’t contain a letter, but something much smaller than a folded sheet of writing paper. He tore the envelope open. Out came a snapshot of sixby nine centimetres. It was of three soldiers in pyjamas, side by side. They wore gas masks over their faces and had their arms around each other’s shoulders.
    On the back a message had been printed in pencil: PHONE AMSTERDAM 38776 SATURDAY 5 P.M . DORBECK .
    He tucked the photo into the breast pocket of his jacket, and as he did so felt the other one, which he’d got from Elly. One more, he thought, and I’ll have all three of those damn pictures again, just the one to go: a soldier in pyjama trousers, bare-chested, manning an anti-aircraft gun.
    â€˜Hey,’ said Moorlag, catching him by the arm, ‘I’ll stick with you of course. I’ll do anything to help.’
    Osewoudt looked down at himself: there was a bulge on his left side because of the Leica, and, he thought, a bulge on the right too because of the pistol. He fumbled in his breast pocket, took the photos out again and memorised the phone number: 38776. Then he tore them both up into small pieces, crossed the street and dropped the pieces into the water of the Zieken canal.
    â€˜You need a disguise,’ said Moorlag. ‘That would be best. Couldn’t you grow a moustache?’
    â€˜No. I don’t have a moustache.’
    â€˜Oh, sorry. Do you want my glasses?’
    â€˜All right, give me your glasses.’
    They huddled in a doorway, looking about them in case anyone was watching. Moorlag took his glasses off. Osewoudt put them on. Straight lines were now curved and misty, the colours of pavements, buildings, roofs and sky running together like splashes of watercolour paint. Every time he moved his head the world became elastic. He could feel his gullet tightening as if he were seasick; with each step he took the ground seemed to fall away.
    â€˜Can you see anything?’ Moorlag asked. ‘I’m very short-sighted,the glasses are pretty strong, minus four, and the right lens is also cylindrical.’
    â€˜I can’t see a damn thing.’
    â€˜Nor can I. I’m no good without my glasses.’
    â€˜Let’s stop playing around like this. Here, take your glasses back.’
    â€˜No, don’t give up. What if some German turns up and recognises you? Come on, better keep moving.’
    Osewoudt sensed that Moorlag was pinching his coat sleeve between thumb and forefinger. Swallowing hard to suppress his nausea, he walked on, with Moorlag bumping along beside him.
    â€˜I say,’ said Moorlag, ‘the glasses aren’t enough, of course. You’ll have to get a hat. Makes an enormous difference to a face.’
    â€˜Come off it. You’ll be giving me a false beard next. Damn!’
    â€˜You’ll have to get glasses of your own. I’m not saying that because I want mine back, you understand, it’s just that you should get some with a black frame and plain lenses.’
    â€˜Come off it. What will the optician