Read Online Marcel by Erwin Mortier - Free Book Online

swallowed hard and glanced at Wieland.
    He grinned. The downy black hairs on his upper lip lay in perfectly regimented lines.
    “And that one there,” he said. “You know who that is, don’t you?”
    Next to the shopkeeper in disguise stood a slim figure in a dark, unshowy uniform. Instinctively I blurted: “It’s Marcel.”
    “Our Dad always says Marcel could have gone far. He could have done a lot to help the Flemish cause. It’s a shame he died before …”
    Wieland shut the album, jumped up and put it back in the drawer.
    Silence fell. I just sat there, stroking the bedspread.
    He watched me narrowly.
    “Great pictures, eh?”
    “Yes, yes.”
    He sprawled on the bed again, letting his hand rest chummily on my shoulder. “I know what people say behind our backs. Do they call you ‘blackshirt’ at your school too?”
    He didn’t wait for me to reply.
    “Mind you, I couldn’t care less … Come on, let’s be blackshirts and talk about girls.” He wrinkled his nose. “You got a girlfriend?”
    I stammered non-committally.
    “I suppose not. They’re always a bit backward in the country … I’ve got one, though.”
    “What’s her name?”
    “Kathy.” His voice cracked again. He jiggled his right foot and tossed the lock of hair from his forehead for the umpteenth time.
    “Wouldn’t it be a good idea to get your hair cut sometime?” I asked, to change the subject. “It keeps getting in your eyes.”
    “Girls are crazy about long hair,” he boasted. “Wait. I’ll show you a picture of Kathy.”
    He sat up and raised his right arm to the bookshelf over the bed. His hand fumbled around, tipping a tin soldier onto his pillow, followed by a stamp bearing a postmark and a revolting crumpled handkerchief. He drew himself up further, lost his balance and fell on top of me. His dark jersey gave off a metallic body smell. I tried to push him off.
    “Sorry,” he stammered. It sounded a little too studied.
    His bony hands gripped my shoulders.
    “Let me go, runt.”
    He flattened me against the mattress, drew himself up again and planted his knees on my upper arms. His trousers crackled with static.
    His face broke into a hard smile. “See if you can escape now.”
    He took a deep breath and looked around with a show of unconcern.
    “What shall we do? Any ideas? D’you know how to snog?”
    I wasn’t sure I knew what he was getting at.
    “Snog. Don’t you understand?”
    He leaned over until his nose touched mine and his fringe tickled my eyelashes. His eyes were dark brown.
    “Snog,” he repeated.
    He put his lips to my right ear.
    “What girls do. Not like this …” he said, moving his lips to my cheek, “… like this.”
    He pressed his face down and ground his mouth against mine to force it open. I screwed up my eyes and clenched my jaws. His tongue wormed itself between my lips. Our teeth collided painfully.
    He shrank back and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
    “Pig.”
    He leaned forward for a renewed attempt. Suddenly his mother’s voice called from the landing: “Wieland!”
    We drew back instantly and glared at each other from opposite sides of the bed.
    “Wieland?” Anna repeated.
    She pushed the door open a little way, eyed the pair of us carefully, put on a solemn expression and said: “Our Dad, Wieland, would like you to take a nice photo of us all.” She paused. “You know where the camera is.”
    Wieland left the room. His mother motioned me to follow her.
    “He didn’t try to tie you up, I hope,” she said. “He keeps wanting to play Red Indians. His friends don’t fancy it, so they’ve stopped coming to the house. All of seventeen and still playing games.”
    Shaking her head she retreated to the sparsely-lit landing.
    *
    Cyriel was sitting in the biggest chair on the veranda, with cushions at his back and a tartan rug over his legs, which were propped up on the footstool Wieland had occupied before. He was wearing spectacles; the frames were