slightly heavier than in the photograph taken forty years ago. The lenses enlarged his eyes in their deep sockets, making him look like an old carp gasping for breath.
The grandmother inclined her head sideways to catch what he was saying. I saw her stuffing a sheaf of papers into her handbag just as I came into the room.
“I kept them all for you,” I heard Cyriel say. His voice came in weak little gasps. Under his chin the flaccid skin sagged over his Adam’s apple, which rose with each laboured swallow to vanish into the wrinkles for a long time. Out of each nostril came a plastic tube connected to an oxygen cylinder suspended from a metal frame behind his chair.
“You should have them, they’re no use to Anna … His last letters … I still can’t read them without … You’re a strong woman, Andrea …”
The grandmother’s chin started to tremble and her lips were nowhere to be seen, the way they were early in the morning when her false teeth were still in their glass by the tap and she went about the house in her quilted dressing gown, her slippers flip-flopping on the floor. They were like camels’ feet in the sand. She even had a camel’s hump. When her shoulders sloped forward her spine made a bump between her shoulder blades. Without her false teeth sheseemed quite desiccated. Her face would shrivel up, as though the water reservoir in her hump had run dry.
Cyriel had heard me come in. He turned his head in my direction and extended his hand. His fingers were bony and wide at the tips. They looked like drumsticks.
“Ha, the young grandson!”
I could feel the tremor in his fingers when he shook my hand.
He looked up at the grandmother, who was putting her handbag down at her feet.
“Marcel to a tee …”
“He’s inherited his mother’s eyes,” she said, “but for the rest – an out-and-out Ornelis.”
Cyriel turned to me again. “So you’ll be another staunch Fleming, will you?”
“That depends,” the grandmother said.
*
In the meantime Wieland had appeared with the camera, an unwieldy contraption in a dark leather case.
“I suppose I’ll have to use the flash,” he said eagerly, fitting a fresh film into the slot. “The sun’s gone now, and there’s not much light here because of the sheets on the roof.”
Mechanically, as if he were loading a gun, he clicked an outsize metal disc onto the camera. He held it up against his nose and stepped around the veranda like an automated Cyclops.
“Must find the best angle.”
The grandfather rose from his chair. “Quite an old model, isn’t it?”
“Never gave me any trouble …” Cyriel gasped. “Bought it in Cologne … Made in Germany, never wears out …”
“And then they say Germany lost the war!” Anna chimed in. “You should see their industry. All those factories …”
“You’ve all got to move a bit closer together,” Wieland instructed, posting himself in a corner of the veranda.
The grandfather stood next to Anna on one side of Cyriel’s chair. The grandmother hovered on the other side with me planted in front of her. All of us focused on Wieland’s Cyclopean lens. Cyriel crossed his arm over his chest to hide the oxygen tube.
Wieland was clearly enjoying himself.
“Now if you all say cheese,” he cried, “then you’ll look as if you’re laughing … One … Two …”
“Never mind about that,” Anna said, “what’s there to laugh about, anyway?”
The whoosh of an umbrella bursting open was followed by a blinding light.
*
Six weeks later the photograph was prominently displayed in the grandmother’s glass-fronted cabinet, at the foot of the Yser Tower. We are all on it, white-faced, as though the flash had drained the blood from our veins.
The funeral mass was attended by a crowd of boys in short trousers. They stood in the nave swinging Flemish Lion flags so vigorously that they churned up a strong breeze. Wieland, with bowed head, shuffled in the wake of his elder brothers and
The grandmother inclined her head sideways to catch what he was saying. I saw her stuffing a sheaf of papers into her handbag just as I came into the room.
“I kept them all for you,” I heard Cyriel say. His voice came in weak little gasps. Under his chin the flaccid skin sagged over his Adam’s apple, which rose with each laboured swallow to vanish into the wrinkles for a long time. Out of each nostril came a plastic tube connected to an oxygen cylinder suspended from a metal frame behind his chair.
“You should have them, they’re no use to Anna … His last letters … I still can’t read them without … You’re a strong woman, Andrea …”
The grandmother’s chin started to tremble and her lips were nowhere to be seen, the way they were early in the morning when her false teeth were still in their glass by the tap and she went about the house in her quilted dressing gown, her slippers flip-flopping on the floor. They were like camels’ feet in the sand. She even had a camel’s hump. When her shoulders sloped forward her spine made a bump between her shoulder blades. Without her false teeth sheseemed quite desiccated. Her face would shrivel up, as though the water reservoir in her hump had run dry.
Cyriel had heard me come in. He turned his head in my direction and extended his hand. His fingers were bony and wide at the tips. They looked like drumsticks.
“Ha, the young grandson!”
I could feel the tremor in his fingers when he shook my hand.
He looked up at the grandmother, who was putting her handbag down at her feet.
“Marcel to a tee …”
“He’s inherited his mother’s eyes,” she said, “but for the rest – an out-and-out Ornelis.”
Cyriel turned to me again. “So you’ll be another staunch Fleming, will you?”
“That depends,” the grandmother said.
*
In the meantime Wieland had appeared with the camera, an unwieldy contraption in a dark leather case.
“I suppose I’ll have to use the flash,” he said eagerly, fitting a fresh film into the slot. “The sun’s gone now, and there’s not much light here because of the sheets on the roof.”
Mechanically, as if he were loading a gun, he clicked an outsize metal disc onto the camera. He held it up against his nose and stepped around the veranda like an automated Cyclops.
“Must find the best angle.”
The grandfather rose from his chair. “Quite an old model, isn’t it?”
“Never gave me any trouble …” Cyriel gasped. “Bought it in Cologne … Made in Germany, never wears out …”
“And then they say Germany lost the war!” Anna chimed in. “You should see their industry. All those factories …”
“You’ve all got to move a bit closer together,” Wieland instructed, posting himself in a corner of the veranda.
The grandfather stood next to Anna on one side of Cyriel’s chair. The grandmother hovered on the other side with me planted in front of her. All of us focused on Wieland’s Cyclopean lens. Cyriel crossed his arm over his chest to hide the oxygen tube.
Wieland was clearly enjoying himself.
“Now if you all say cheese,” he cried, “then you’ll look as if you’re laughing … One … Two …”
“Never mind about that,” Anna said, “what’s there to laugh about, anyway?”
The whoosh of an umbrella bursting open was followed by a blinding light.
*
Six weeks later the photograph was prominently displayed in the grandmother’s glass-fronted cabinet, at the foot of the Yser Tower. We are all on it, white-faced, as though the flash had drained the blood from our veins.
The funeral mass was attended by a crowd of boys in short trousers. They stood in the nave swinging Flemish Lion flags so vigorously that they churned up a strong breeze. Wieland, with bowed head, shuffled in the wake of his elder brothers and
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