of disloyalty: the pain in her limbs was a warning that she had already gone too far. Those first years of life that Anna referred to – what did they really represent in a human life? They had been put into the world together, half-way through the First World War, while there had been wholesale death not even a hundred kilometres away. There was something improper about being born at such a moment, and twins at that. A curse must lie upon them. Great estrangement deservedly existed between them, it needed to remain so. Perhaps an impersonal historical guilt lay upon them and in the course of their lives, independently of one another, they had had to repay an amount of misfortune brought about by circumstances.
As Lotte was waiting in the basement for the preparation of her peat bath, Anna appeared in the doorway. There was already something familiar about her – hopefully this was not the precursor of some sort of family feeling! Anna slid next to her on the white bench.
‘How did you sleep, meine Liebe?’
‘All right,’ said Lotte superciliously.
‘I slept wonderfully.’ Anna massaged her thighs.
A woman in a white overall beckoned to Lotte. Anna grasped her by her shoulder. ‘There’s a lovely café next door, Relais de la Poste, let’s meet there. This afternoon!’
Nodding vaguely, Lotte glided into the bathroom. How was it possible: once again Anna succeeded in taking her by surprise, presenting a fait accompli !
In the Relais de la Poste time had stood still since the beginning of the thirties. Dark brown wooden chairs, white table-cloths beneath plate glass, copper lamps with glass bulbs, everything originated from that period. The owner had seen no reason to change anything to the post-war fancies for steel, plastic or pseudo-rustic. It was quiet there, a few regulars chatting softly at the buffet. Passers-by with turned-up collars walked through the snow where, across the street, the walls of the Thermal Institute contrasted grubbily. The woman behind the bar recommended a regional drink to the ladies, to warm them up: Ratafia de Pommes. This apple liqueur infiltrated Lotte’s resistance to the meeting with a sour-sweet refinement. After the second glass she spotted a primitive radio in a dark corner, with a lovely wooden case. Delighted, she walked over to it and let her fingers slide lovingly over the polished wood. ‘Look at this,’ she called. ‘That crazy father of mine had one like it too!’
The purchase of a gramophone from the firm Grammophon and Polyphon in Amsterdam brought a cause of quarrels and sleeplessness to the home, apart from a source of pleasure. Hours of musical gastronomy had preceded the definitive choice. Lotte’s father listened with eyes closed to Caruso’s divine voice; his ‘Hosannah’ and ‘Paliaccio’ almost caused Polyphon’s luxurious auditorium in Leidsestraat to come apart at the seams. The turntable lay beneath a flap in the top of the new piece of furniture. It acquired a prominent position in the living-room; from then on the house was permeated with the symphonies of Schubert and Beethoven, with thevoice of the famous tenor Jacques Urlus – who sang ‘Murmelndes Lüftchen’ – but also with the serene voice of Aaltje Noordewier in Bach’s Passions. He played the new machine until deep into the night; it enabled his love of music and for the very newest achievements of electrical technology to enter into a perfect symbiosis. His wife kept him company to the very end of his nightly sessions since she had discovered that in his intoxicated state he forgot to put out the lamps and stoves before going to bed. He liked it loud. The children were developing sleep problems through the excess of heavenly sounds. They dozed over their arithmetic books at school; Lotte could hear the melting songs of Orfeo in surging waves right through reading lessons.
Polyphon’s warehouse contained a stock of four thousand five hundred different gramophone records.
As Lotte was waiting in the basement for the preparation of her peat bath, Anna appeared in the doorway. There was already something familiar about her – hopefully this was not the precursor of some sort of family feeling! Anna slid next to her on the white bench.
‘How did you sleep, meine Liebe?’
‘All right,’ said Lotte superciliously.
‘I slept wonderfully.’ Anna massaged her thighs.
A woman in a white overall beckoned to Lotte. Anna grasped her by her shoulder. ‘There’s a lovely café next door, Relais de la Poste, let’s meet there. This afternoon!’
Nodding vaguely, Lotte glided into the bathroom. How was it possible: once again Anna succeeded in taking her by surprise, presenting a fait accompli !
In the Relais de la Poste time had stood still since the beginning of the thirties. Dark brown wooden chairs, white table-cloths beneath plate glass, copper lamps with glass bulbs, everything originated from that period. The owner had seen no reason to change anything to the post-war fancies for steel, plastic or pseudo-rustic. It was quiet there, a few regulars chatting softly at the buffet. Passers-by with turned-up collars walked through the snow where, across the street, the walls of the Thermal Institute contrasted grubbily. The woman behind the bar recommended a regional drink to the ladies, to warm them up: Ratafia de Pommes. This apple liqueur infiltrated Lotte’s resistance to the meeting with a sour-sweet refinement. After the second glass she spotted a primitive radio in a dark corner, with a lovely wooden case. Delighted, she walked over to it and let her fingers slide lovingly over the polished wood. ‘Look at this,’ she called. ‘That crazy father of mine had one like it too!’
The purchase of a gramophone from the firm Grammophon and Polyphon in Amsterdam brought a cause of quarrels and sleeplessness to the home, apart from a source of pleasure. Hours of musical gastronomy had preceded the definitive choice. Lotte’s father listened with eyes closed to Caruso’s divine voice; his ‘Hosannah’ and ‘Paliaccio’ almost caused Polyphon’s luxurious auditorium in Leidsestraat to come apart at the seams. The turntable lay beneath a flap in the top of the new piece of furniture. It acquired a prominent position in the living-room; from then on the house was permeated with the symphonies of Schubert and Beethoven, with thevoice of the famous tenor Jacques Urlus – who sang ‘Murmelndes Lüftchen’ – but also with the serene voice of Aaltje Noordewier in Bach’s Passions. He played the new machine until deep into the night; it enabled his love of music and for the very newest achievements of electrical technology to enter into a perfect symbiosis. His wife kept him company to the very end of his nightly sessions since she had discovered that in his intoxicated state he forgot to put out the lamps and stoves before going to bed. He liked it loud. The children were developing sleep problems through the excess of heavenly sounds. They dozed over their arithmetic books at school; Lotte could hear the melting songs of Orfeo in surging waves right through reading lessons.
Polyphon’s warehouse contained a stock of four thousand five hundred different gramophone records.
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