Free The Darkroom of Damocles by Willem Frederik Hermans Page B

say?’
    â€˜No, I’ll buy them for you, at least I will if you give me the money.’
    â€˜All I have is seventeen real silver guilders.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Real silver guilders! From that girl I had to take to Amsterdam yesterday. She got them in England! To live on as a secret agent! God almighty!’
    â€˜Don’t get all worked up for nothing. Give me the guilders, I’ll go and change them for you. I’ll make a profit, you’ll see. I know somebody. The black-market boys are scared their paper money won’t be worth a cent after the war. They give three times the value for silver guilders!’
    â€˜Mind they don’t call the police,’ said Osewoudt. ‘Oh damnit all. I wonder where they’ve taken my mother. Given her an injection straightaway, maybe – finished her off. They do that sometimes with cripples or mental cases. Damn and blast.’
    â€˜Stop swearing, Henri. Look, you can wait here while I do the errands.’
    They were standing in front of a narrow display window. Osewoudt raised the glasses, blinked a few times and read the sign on the pane: EAST INDIAN RESTAURANT PEMATANG SIANTAR .
    There was a white card behind the glass in the lower right-hand corner, which said, in Gothic script: FÜR WEHRMACHTSANGEHÖRIGE VERBOTEN. DER ORTSKOMMANDANT .
    â€˜Wait for me in there,’ said Moorlag. ‘No Germans allowed, and it’s still early so it may be empty. No one will see you.’
    Osewoudt opened the door.
    â€˜Let me have my glasses back for now,’ said Moorlag, ‘I can’t do without them.’
    Osewoudt handed back the glasses, went inside and took a seat roughly in the middle of the empty restaurant.
    A smell of fried onion and garlic reached him.
    A white-coated Javanese waiter with a batik cloth tied around his head enquired in a whisper whether he wanted his rice on the ration or off. But suppose Moorlag didn’t manage to change the guilders?
    â€˜I’ll have a glass of soda water,’ said Osewoudt, rubbing his eyes with both hands, still unaccustomed to being able to see properly.
    A gentleman and a lady came in, sat down and ordered fried rice off the ration. It was half past twelve. Four young men came in, also for fried rice off the ration. More people drifted in. By two o’clock the restaurant was full to bursting, but Moorlag had still not returned and Osewoudt was now sharing his table with three strangers, all having fried rice off the ration while he had nothing but his soda water to sip every ten minutes.He kept studying the menu, from which he could glean nothing of interest except that a glass of soda water cost twenty-five cents. A relief. He still had three zinc ten-cent coins in his pocket. No need to run off without paying, in so far as running off without paying would be feasible in a crowded restaurant.
    He leaped up when he saw Moorlag through the window at last and deposited his three ten-cent pieces next to his glass. Moorlag came in carrying a large paper bag in his left hand. He cast his eyes around the restaurant, barely looked at Osewoudt, shrugged as if to say the place was too crowded for his taste, and walked out again. Osewoudt followed.
    â€˜Did you manage all right?’
    â€˜Of course. I got forty-five guilders for them. I also ordered a pair of glasses with plain lenses, but they won’t be ready until this evening. And here’s your hat.’
    Moorlag opened the paper bag. It contained a green hat of coarse felt.
    Osewoudt took the hat from him, Moorlag screwed up the bag and threw it away.
    Osewoudt walked along, swinging the hat nonchalantly as if it had always belonged to him and he just happened to be carrying it in his hand. Then he put it on.
    â€˜Moorlag, I know it’s awkward for you, but let’s stop in this doorway so you can give me your glasses again.’
    Moorlag promptly took off his glasses and handed them over.
    â€˜We