know who he has standing here in front of him, he hasnât got the brains.â And they paid us badly, the gentlemen did.
IV
And we were in love. For months Bekker went out of his way to walk down Sarphatistraat every morning. He was in love with a school-girl of seventeen or so, and he walked fifty steps behind her or on the other side of the street and he looked at her. He never knew her name, never said a word to her. Over Christmas break he was unhappy. In February he took an afternoon off to wait for her when school got out. He stood there on the quiet canal-side street in the snow and a man rode by on a white horse wearing a blue smock and a straw hat. How odd, that on precisely that afternoon he had had to see something so ludicrous. But Bekker left at five minutes to four, he didnât dare stay. He walked slowly away, and on Weteringschans she caught up to him. She was laughing loudly with a friend, another girl. I donât think she ever knew Bekker existed.
Bekker wanted me to tell him where this was heading, it couldnât go on like this. And it didnât either. After summer vacation she never came back.
âGirls,â Bekker said, âtheyâre not worth itâ¦. She had a spring in her step when she walked.â He turned the lamp up a bit and turned the page in the book he was reading. âWhere do you think she is now? Do you think sheâs kissing someone?â A little spark fell from his pipe onto the book. He put it out with his matchbox. âDamn, a hole, that was stupid.â âItâs better this way, girls arenât worth it, they donât get you anywhere, they only distract you. Theyâre pretty at a distance, to write poems about.â
He read. After a short pause he looked up againâ¦. âYou know what the strange thing is? When she caught up to me that afternoon she walked past me, right next to me. She only just missed me. There was so to speak nothing separating us, a little clothing on her and practically none on me.â (Bekker went around summer and winter with only an overshirt covering his bare chest.) âThatâs not much, you know?â I said it wasnât muchâthere was a lot more between the Naarden tower and Bekkerâs room, for example. âBetween the Naarden tower and this mustache,â Bekker said, âis much less, much less, than there was between her shoulder and mine that day. No comparison, Koekebakker.â He turned another page, looked into the light, and said âThatâs how it is,â and went on with his reading.
V
And so it was: God showed his face and then hid it again. You never got anywhere, especially if you only looked at the girls from a distance and let other men kiss their pretty faces, the important gentlemen they as a rule liked a whole lot more than us. They were so much more respectable and spoke so well. And we were bums.
There was nothing to hope for from Godâwho goes his own way and gives no explanations. If there was something we wanted we had to take care of it ourselves. But we realized that it was easy for Bavink and Hoyer to talk, they had talent, they could really accomplish something in the world, but weâBekker and Kees and meâthe only difference weâd ever make was as socialists and it did seem a bit weak, after sitting at Godâs table, to address envelopes or join the Kastanjeplein Neighborhood Association. And nothing came of life on the heath either, because even when Bekker did get a little money his shoes needed repairing. Maybe we could join Van Eedenâs commune, but when we walked out to Bussum one Sunday, four hours on foot, we saw a man strolling around in a peasant smock and expensive yellow shoes, eating sponge cakes out of a paper bag, hatless, in inner harmony with nature as people used to say back then, with crumbs in his beard. We couldnât bring ourselves to keep going, we turned right around and walked back
IV
And we were in love. For months Bekker went out of his way to walk down Sarphatistraat every morning. He was in love with a school-girl of seventeen or so, and he walked fifty steps behind her or on the other side of the street and he looked at her. He never knew her name, never said a word to her. Over Christmas break he was unhappy. In February he took an afternoon off to wait for her when school got out. He stood there on the quiet canal-side street in the snow and a man rode by on a white horse wearing a blue smock and a straw hat. How odd, that on precisely that afternoon he had had to see something so ludicrous. But Bekker left at five minutes to four, he didnât dare stay. He walked slowly away, and on Weteringschans she caught up to him. She was laughing loudly with a friend, another girl. I donât think she ever knew Bekker existed.
Bekker wanted me to tell him where this was heading, it couldnât go on like this. And it didnât either. After summer vacation she never came back.
âGirls,â Bekker said, âtheyâre not worth itâ¦. She had a spring in her step when she walked.â He turned the lamp up a bit and turned the page in the book he was reading. âWhere do you think she is now? Do you think sheâs kissing someone?â A little spark fell from his pipe onto the book. He put it out with his matchbox. âDamn, a hole, that was stupid.â âItâs better this way, girls arenât worth it, they donât get you anywhere, they only distract you. Theyâre pretty at a distance, to write poems about.â
He read. After a short pause he looked up againâ¦. âYou know what the strange thing is? When she caught up to me that afternoon she walked past me, right next to me. She only just missed me. There was so to speak nothing separating us, a little clothing on her and practically none on me.â (Bekker went around summer and winter with only an overshirt covering his bare chest.) âThatâs not much, you know?â I said it wasnât muchâthere was a lot more between the Naarden tower and Bekkerâs room, for example. âBetween the Naarden tower and this mustache,â Bekker said, âis much less, much less, than there was between her shoulder and mine that day. No comparison, Koekebakker.â He turned another page, looked into the light, and said âThatâs how it is,â and went on with his reading.
V
And so it was: God showed his face and then hid it again. You never got anywhere, especially if you only looked at the girls from a distance and let other men kiss their pretty faces, the important gentlemen they as a rule liked a whole lot more than us. They were so much more respectable and spoke so well. And we were bums.
There was nothing to hope for from Godâwho goes his own way and gives no explanations. If there was something we wanted we had to take care of it ourselves. But we realized that it was easy for Bavink and Hoyer to talk, they had talent, they could really accomplish something in the world, but weâBekker and Kees and meâthe only difference weâd ever make was as socialists and it did seem a bit weak, after sitting at Godâs table, to address envelopes or join the Kastanjeplein Neighborhood Association. And nothing came of life on the heath either, because even when Bekker did get a little money his shoes needed repairing. Maybe we could join Van Eedenâs commune, but when we walked out to Bussum one Sunday, four hours on foot, we saw a man strolling around in a peasant smock and expensive yellow shoes, eating sponge cakes out of a paper bag, hatless, in inner harmony with nature as people used to say back then, with crumbs in his beard. We couldnât bring ourselves to keep going, we turned right around and walked back
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