Free The Assault by Harry Mulisch Page A

roof, and to the left, the dormer window of his room. On the board under the balcony were the letters
CAREFREE
    The name of the Kortewegs’ house had disappeared, painted over; but Hideaway and Bide-a-Wee were still there. He looked at the spot where Ploeg had been lying,ages ago. He saw him prone on the patterned bricks, as if drawn in contour with fluorescent chalk by the police. He was tempted to touch the spot, to lay his hands on it, and this worried him. Nevertheless, he did slowly cross the street—but before he reached the other side he saw something move at the window of Hideaway. Looking closely, he recognized Mrs. Beumer. She had already noticed him and waved.
    He was upset. Not once had it occurred to him that she or any of the others might still be living here. That was inconceivable. He cared only about the place, not the people. Whenever he had thought about it, the Beumers, the Kortewegs, and the Aartses had not been present. That the people too had remained the same … he wanted to run away, but she was already standing in the doorway.
    “Tonny!”
    He could still have escaped. Probably it was his good manners that made him walk with a smile through the garden gate toward her.
    “Hello, Mrs. Beumer!”
    “Tonny, my boy.” She took his hand and put her other arm around his waist, holding him with brief little squeezes against her, awkwardly, as if she had not embraced anyone in a long time. She had grown much older and smaller, her hair now completely white, with a tightly curled permanent. She would not let go of his hand. “Come in,” she said, pulling him across the threshold. There were tears in her eyes.
    “I’m afraid I really should …”
    “Look who’s here,” she called through the door of the front parlor.
    In an armchair dating from the previous century, which at that time had not become modern again but was still old-fashioned (the way it is now too, for the second time) sat Mr. Beumer, grown so old and thin that the crown of his head no longer reached the wood carving on the high-backed chair. His legs were hidden beneath a brown plaid blanket.On top of it lay his hands, in continuous motion. His head constantly nodded. When Anton held out his hand, Mr. Beumer’s came toward him like a wounded, fluttering bird. Anton held it but felt only the cool, feeble likeness of a hand.
    “How are you doing, Hans?” he asked in a gentle, broken voice.
    Anton looked at Mrs. Beumer. She made a gesture as if to say, this is the way things are.
    “Fine, Mr. Beumer,” he said. “Thank you. And how are you?”
    But putting the question seemed to have exhausted Mr. Beumer. He nodded and said nothing more, continuing to observe Anton with small, watery blue eyes. The corners of his mouth were damp and shiny. The skin of his face was as thin as wax paper. Whatever hair he had left was straw-colored, the way Anton remembered it. Perhaps he had been a redhead long ago. A dark-brown radio made of Bakelite and shaped like an egg halved lengthwise was broadcasting a program for children. Mrs. Beumer had started clearing the table; apparently they had finished supper.
    “Let me help you.”
    “No. Just make yourself comfortable and I’ll fix you a cup of coffee.”
    He sat straddling the exotic stool by the fireplace, a camel saddle which had been familiar to him all his life. Mr. Beumer did not take his eyes off him. Anton smiled and looked about. Nothing had changed. At the dining room table stood the four black-lacquered chairs, with their intricately carved, pointed backs, rather gothic and creepy, that used to frighten him when he came here for tea and cake. Above the door still hung the crucifix with the twisted, yellowed Corpus. There was a sour smell in the room; all the windows were closed tight. So were the connecting doors with the leaded panes. “Weedywot,” chanted the disguised woman’s voice on the radio. “I see you but I pick you not.” SuddenlyMr. Beumer belched and looked