thing anymore, the street plan made room for her and conjured up a magnificent church or a fish market or presented her with a sixteenth-century town hall.
She had had enough of driving. And she was hungry. As she was deciding to ask someone the way—there were enough people on the street—she saw a woman stop with her back to the houses, as if she knew she was needed.
“The Verre Nieuwstraat?”
The woman screamed the question back at her, to show that she had understood in spite of the wind.
The two of them looked at each other through the open window of the car. Lidy saw a round face not six inches from her own, wearing extravagant makeup; somehow it seemed to fit right in with the storm. She wasn’t at all surprised by the green eyelids and the tragic scarlet mouth, but was given an explanation nonetheless.
“We had dress rehearsal this afternoon. I’m the duke’s daughter!”
The woman advised her that the best way to go was along the new harbor.
That way lay danger, impossible not to see it. Lidy was offered a lively, almost entertaining view of this when she had to wait for a moment at the Hoofdpoortstraat before being able to make the turn onto the quay. Men were busy lifting the planks of a sort of wooden fence out of some concrete footings that had been positioned against the house walls on both sides of the street. One of them was nice enough to explain to the unknown girl who had climbed out of the car in the howling wind, clutching her hair with both hands, that the high tide would start retreating at any moment, should have done so already, actually, so they were taking down the fencing until the next high tide, later tonight. Give it a minute and she could be on her way again!
Distracted, her mind a muddle, Lidy stared into the man’s enthusiastic face, which seemed to be captured on film against a background of hell and damnation. Ink-black sky, a row of fragile little houses, and high above the quay a whole fleet of heaving ships.
“Wow,” she said to herself quietly a moment later, “people in this town keep working really late.”
She drove slowly behind an old Vauxhall along the quay, which was underwater, just like the one in Numansdorp. The whole atmosphere was like an autumn fair, she thought, the same sense of people caught up in every sort of activity in a cold, wet twilight.
Indeed, a lot was going on here on the south side of town, where the tidal basin with its moorings for regular ships, cutters, and the direct daily service to Rotterdam had access to the Oosterschelde by way of a canal. At this hour on a Saturday the pubs were full of customers. Excited by the storm, many of them were raising their glasses toward the windows, outside which things were raging most impressively in the dark sky. In front of the houses a little farther down, figures were to be seen kneeling and crouching. Inhabitants of the wharves, who had erected the wooden flood barriers in front of their doorsteps a few hours before, inspected them again, smeared them with handfuls of clay, and then straightened up again, to have conversations with one another about whether the windows, which the Flood of 1906 had almost reached, might not be able to use a board or two this evening as well. Diagonally opposite, under the lamp with its yellow light, which looked lost against the huge soaring bulk of the corn mill with its fixed sails behind it and to one side, stood a little group of fishermen watching the boats. They were worried, understandably, but not excessively so, since the wind, thank God, was pushing the boats away from the quay. And now the harbormaster appeared, downstage right. He was holding his hands in front of his mouth like a megaphone. Although everyone already knew this, nobody took it amiss that they were getting another official announcement that according to the depth gauge, the water this evening was going to remain high, instead of turning into an ebb tide.
Bizarre, but it was common
She had had enough of driving. And she was hungry. As she was deciding to ask someone the way—there were enough people on the street—she saw a woman stop with her back to the houses, as if she knew she was needed.
“The Verre Nieuwstraat?”
The woman screamed the question back at her, to show that she had understood in spite of the wind.
The two of them looked at each other through the open window of the car. Lidy saw a round face not six inches from her own, wearing extravagant makeup; somehow it seemed to fit right in with the storm. She wasn’t at all surprised by the green eyelids and the tragic scarlet mouth, but was given an explanation nonetheless.
“We had dress rehearsal this afternoon. I’m the duke’s daughter!”
The woman advised her that the best way to go was along the new harbor.
That way lay danger, impossible not to see it. Lidy was offered a lively, almost entertaining view of this when she had to wait for a moment at the Hoofdpoortstraat before being able to make the turn onto the quay. Men were busy lifting the planks of a sort of wooden fence out of some concrete footings that had been positioned against the house walls on both sides of the street. One of them was nice enough to explain to the unknown girl who had climbed out of the car in the howling wind, clutching her hair with both hands, that the high tide would start retreating at any moment, should have done so already, actually, so they were taking down the fencing until the next high tide, later tonight. Give it a minute and she could be on her way again!
Distracted, her mind a muddle, Lidy stared into the man’s enthusiastic face, which seemed to be captured on film against a background of hell and damnation. Ink-black sky, a row of fragile little houses, and high above the quay a whole fleet of heaving ships.
“Wow,” she said to herself quietly a moment later, “people in this town keep working really late.”
She drove slowly behind an old Vauxhall along the quay, which was underwater, just like the one in Numansdorp. The whole atmosphere was like an autumn fair, she thought, the same sense of people caught up in every sort of activity in a cold, wet twilight.
Indeed, a lot was going on here on the south side of town, where the tidal basin with its moorings for regular ships, cutters, and the direct daily service to Rotterdam had access to the Oosterschelde by way of a canal. At this hour on a Saturday the pubs were full of customers. Excited by the storm, many of them were raising their glasses toward the windows, outside which things were raging most impressively in the dark sky. In front of the houses a little farther down, figures were to be seen kneeling and crouching. Inhabitants of the wharves, who had erected the wooden flood barriers in front of their doorsteps a few hours before, inspected them again, smeared them with handfuls of clay, and then straightened up again, to have conversations with one another about whether the windows, which the Flood of 1906 had almost reached, might not be able to use a board or two this evening as well. Diagonally opposite, under the lamp with its yellow light, which looked lost against the huge soaring bulk of the corn mill with its fixed sails behind it and to one side, stood a little group of fishermen watching the boats. They were worried, understandably, but not excessively so, since the wind, thank God, was pushing the boats away from the quay. And now the harbormaster appeared, downstage right. He was holding his hands in front of his mouth like a megaphone. Although everyone already knew this, nobody took it amiss that they were getting another official announcement that according to the depth gauge, the water this evening was going to remain high, instead of turning into an ebb tide.
Bizarre, but it was common
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