The Darkroom of Damocles by Willem Frederik Hermans Page B

speaking, could I speak to Mr Moorlag?’ He kept pinching his nostrils.
    â€˜Meinarends, did you say? One moment please, I’ll see if Mr Moorlag is in.’
    He heard her lay down the receiver. Then came Moorlag’s voice: ‘Hello Meinarends, hello!’
    â€˜Moorlag! This isn’t Meinarends. Don’t say anything yet,don’t give me away. I’ll speak as softly as possible, I’m afraid Ria may be listening. Can you hear me?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜I won’t be coming home tonight, I have to go to Amsterdam, I’ll be back tomorrow. I couldn’t tell Ria myself, you’ve got to help me. Stop her from getting upset when I don’t come home. I’ll be back, though, at least I hope I will. I have to find somebody a place to stay. She says she arrived here from England yesterday, identified herself with a photo that was still in my hands a week ago. So I don’t believe the photo came from England. But I can’t leave her in the lurch either. Wait for me at the station in The Hague tomorrow morning at quarter to twelve. If I’m not there, take my Leica and all the papers and hide them as quickly as you can. Do your best, Moorlag, help me!’
    He did not wait for a reply but dashed out of the telephone box: their train, the last to Amsterdam, was leaving in two minutes.
    â€˜Did you get the tickets?’
    â€˜No, I thought you said I wasn’t to spend any money.’
    He dragged her through the barrier; the stationmaster blew his whistle as they entered the carriage.
    â€˜Don’t you have any paper money at all?’
    â€˜Yes I do, but it’s all new. You’ve got me worried now. The notes could be fakes, maybe poor ones. There’s something else, too, which I probably shouldn’t tell you because it’ll only make you more suspicious, but it wouldn’t be fair not to, so I will. Back in England they gave me an ID card, obviously, but the people I stayed with last night said it was no good. I don’t know about these things myself, but apparently ID cards have a watermark, a lion I think, and the lion in the thing they gave me is far too small.’
    Osewoudt laid his hand on her thigh and squeezed it hard, as if this might encourage her to keep quiet.
    â€˜Let’s not talk too much here. People will think: what are those two whispering about?’
    She put her arm around him and brushed his chin with the back of her hand.
    Osewoudt looked at Elly, and drew her towards him.
    â€˜I can’t believe you’re over twenty.’
    â€˜I’m eighteen.’
    â€˜You can’t stay with me.’
    â€˜Well, perhaps I could do something for you in return, in spite of my money and my ID card being no good. Surely there’s something you’re short of?’
    She turned her hand over and stroked his cheek with the tips of her fingers.
    â€˜Not razor blades though,’ she said. ‘No shortage there, obviously.’
    â€˜Razor blades! Who needs razor blades?’
    â€˜I’ve never met a man with a closer shave.’
    Osewoudt let go of her, almost groaning. But he took control of himself and said, with his lips close to her ear: ‘There’s no stubble because I don’t have a beard. I never shave – don’t need to. Feel.’
    He pursed his lips and rubbed his chin along her ear.
    The train stopped in Leiden.
    â€˜Don’t you mind my not having a beard?’
    She smiled, dimples appeared in her round, white cheeks, and her wide-eyed look became veiled, as if he had made some strange, sophisticated proposition and she was considering whether it appealed to her.
    â€˜Well in that case,’ he went on, ‘tell me, have you ever met someone called Dorbeck?’
    â€˜I told you before, I’ve met nobody. I just went to the address I’d been given, and when it turned out to be useless I went to my aunt’s.’
    â€˜So you didn’t meet a