The Man Who Watched the Trains Go By Read online

  ‘He’s free to do what he wants, isn’t he? I asked you to let me sleep.’

  ‘That’s impossible; there’s one of the staff downstairs wanting to see you.’

  ‘Tell him I’m asleep.’

  ‘The police will probably be round to ask you questions.’

  ‘That will be time enough to wake up.’

  ‘Kees! You’re frightening me! You don’t seem yourself! Your eyes look strange.’

  ‘Send me up some cigars.’

  At this point, she concluded that her husband was seriously ill, overworked at least, and perhaps a little deranged. In a resigned voice, she ordered the maid to take up a box of cigars, since it was better to humour him.

  She whispered for a long while in the corridor with the man from the office, who went off with downcast face.

  ‘Sir doesn’t feel well?’ the maid thought she should whisper, as she entered the room.

  ‘Sir has never felt better! Who told you that . . .?’

  ‘Madam did . . .’

  It must have been ten o’clock and a dozen or so boats would be unloading at the port at this hour of the day. That would admittedly be a fine sight, especially in the sunshine, and he regretted not seeing it, particularly since most of the vessels had green, red or blue streamers, which would be reflected in the water of the canal, and some of them would be taking advantage of the windless air to spread their sails out to dry.

  From his office, other mornings, he had been able to see them. He knew all the captains and all the mariners. He also knew the sound of every fog horn, and could say:

  ‘Aha, the Jesus Maria is coming through the second bridge. It’ll be here in half an hour!’

  Then at eleven o’clock precisely, the office boy would bring him a cup of tea and two biscuits.

  And all that time, Julius de Coster the Elder would be in his office, alone, behind the padded doors. To think that no one had noticed that he was wandering in his wits! He was installed in an armchair, like a mummy, or like the sign outside the business. Customers were only permitted to see him for a few seconds at a time, and mistook for wisdom what was a total absence of understanding.

  Kees shifted in his bed, which was becoming damp. His pyjama jacket was wet under the arms. Yet he hesitated to get up, because then he would have to act.

  Lying there in his bedroom, he could do anything he wanted to in his mind’s eye, and Pamela seemed within easy reach; even Éléonore de Coster scarcely intimidated him, despite her haughty cigarette-holder.

  But if he was up and dressed in the grey suit belonging to Kees Popinga, washed and freshly shaved, his fair hair smoothed down with brilliantine, what would he feel like then?

  Already he was struggling a little against his curiosity, and indeed a more confused feeling, the temptation to go down and take charge of what was happening. The captain of the Ocean III was quite capable – being, as Kees knew, a loud-mouthed and aggressive man – of stirring up the entire port and demanding compensation.

  And what if the police really did turn up at the offices? That was so unprecedented that it was hard to see what would happen. The entire ground floor was taken up by storage bays, with goods piled up to the ceiling and warehousemen in their blue overalls.

  In one corner there was a glassed-in room, one window looking down on the port while the other three gave a view of the stores: this was Kees’s office, and once in there, it was as if he were the conductor of an orchestra.

  On the first floor there were more storage bays and offices; and further offices again on the second floor, above the two-metre-wide band painted on the outer wall, with the firm’s name in black and white lettering: Julius de Coster en Zoon: Ships’ Chandlers.

  He managed not to get up, but he was now irritated that he had been left so long alone – although he had clearly asked not to be disturbed.

  What were the two women doing downstairs? Why couldn’t he hear them any more? And why weren’t they coming to ask him questions about his boss’s suicide?

  Of course, he would tell them nothing. But it vexed him that nobody had appealed to him so far.

  He ate his orange, without a knife, threw the peel on the floor to annoy Mama, and settled back down between the sheets, hugging his pillow, closing his eyes and forcing himself to think of Pamela and everything he would do with her.

  A train’s whistle reached his ears like a promise. In his half-awake state, he decided not to leave during the day, which would not be atmospheric enough, but to wait, if not for night, at least for darkness, which would fall at about four o’clock.

  Pamela was a brunette, like Éléonore. She was plumper than Mrs de Coster. As for Mrs Popinga, she was certainly sturdy, but not plump. She always felt shy when Kees became amorous at night, and jumped at any noise, haunted by the thought that the children might hear.

  Kees thought as hard as he could about Pamela, then, in spite of himself, unconsciously, he started to visualize images of the De Coster en Zoon offices, different corners of the port, boats loading or unloading, and when he realized what he was doing, he turned heavily on to his other side and started again:

  ‘When I get to her rooms at the Carlton, I’ll say to her . . .’

  And he went over, second by second, the events as he predicted them.

  ‘Papa?’

  He must have gone to sleep, since he gave a start and looked in amazement at his daughter, who was snivelling.

  ‘What have you done to Mama?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘She’s crying. She says you’re not behaving normally, that something terrible is happening.’

  How cunning of her!

  ‘Where is she, your mother?’

  ‘In the dining room. We’re just going to eat. Carl’s back home. Mama didn’t want me to come up.’

  Frida was crying without crying, which was one of her specialities. As a very small girl, she had had this habit of shedding tears for no reason, seeming to be a victim of the cruelty of the world. At the drop of a hat, for a stern glance, she would break down.

  But it was so automatic, and so predictable, that you wondered whether she was really upset.

  ‘Is it true that Mr de Coster is dead?’

  ‘What’s that to do with me?’

  ‘Mama thinks you are ill . . .’

  ‘Me, ill?’

  ‘She wants to call Dr Claes, but she’s afraid you’ll be angry if she does . . .’

  ‘And she’s damn well right. I don’t need Dr Claes or anyone else.’

  What a strange girl she was. Kees had never understood her, today less than ever. What was she doing there, looking at him lying in bed, with those big frightened eyes? Had he ever done her any harm?

  And besides all that, despite her tears, she had a remarkable faculty for coming down to earth.

  ‘What shall I tell Mama? Will you be down for lunch?’

  ‘No, I won’t.’

  ‘Should we start eating without you?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Eat! Cry your eyes out! But for the love of God, leave me in peace.’

  It wasn’t that he felt remorse. But it was still awkward. He would have done better to leave the house this morning, as if nothing had happened, letting them think he was going to his office as usual.

  Now, he was not too sure what he was going to do. He could foresee obstacles. And above all, he feared the arrival of his brother-in-law, Merkemans, who would come along full of goodwill to offer his help. Because that’s what he was like! Nobody could die in this neighbourhood without his volunteering for the wake.

  ‘Go and eat. Leave me alone.’

  If only he could have had a glass or three of alcohol!

  But there wasn’t any in the house. Just a bottle of bitters, for special occasions, or when someone turned up unexpectedly. And that was under lock and key in the left-hand part of the sideboard.

  ‘Goodbye, Frida.’

  ‘Goodbye, Papa.’

  She didn’t understand that he
was saying this in a special way, nor did she realize that he was following her to the door with his eyes, then burying his face in the pillow.

  In fact, he was at a loss. He was finding it very difficult to think about Pamela and all the rest of it.

  Luckily, at two o’clock they told him that the police were now at the De Coster offices, and wanted to speak to him.

  He dressed with care, looked at himself for a while in the mirror, went downstairs and lingered near his wife for some time.

  ‘Do you think perhaps I ought to come with you?’ she ventured to say.

  That was what saved him. He was on the point of hesitating again. But the fact that, for no reason, she sensed danger, the fact that she was preparing to face up to it . . .

  ‘I’m quite old enough to take care of things like this myself.’

  Her eyes were red, and so was her nose, as always when she had been crying. She dared not look him in the face, which proved there was something going on inside her head.

  ‘Are you taking your bicycle, my dear?’

  ‘No.’

  She only rarely addressed him familiarly, but it happened on special occasions.

  ‘What are you crying for?’ he asked impatiently.

  ‘I’m not crying.’

  She wasn’t crying, but big tears were rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘You silly thing!’

  She would never understand what he meant, she would never realize that it was the most affectionate thing he had said to her in his life.

  ‘You won’t be too late back, will you?’

  The stupid part of it was that he was on the point of weeping himself. The five hundred florins were in his pocket. But he hadn’t touched the two hundred florins that were upstairs in the bedroom, ready to pay a bill due in two days’ time.

  ‘You’ve got your gloves?’

  No, he’d forgotten them. She brought them to him, and didn’t kiss him goodbye, because that was not their usual practice. She was content to stay on the doorstep, leaning forward a little, as he walked away, making the snow crunch under his rubber galoshes.

  He found it the hardest thing in the world not to turn round.

  3.

  Concerning a little notebook bound in red morocco, purchased for a florin, one day when Popinga had won at chess

  The train was a quarter of an hour out of Groningen. Since it was now half past four and already dark, there wasn’t the distraction of looking out of the windows. Kees Popinga was sitting in a second-class compartment with two other people: a skinny little man who must be an official or a legal clerk, and in the opposite corner a middle-aged lady in deep mourning.

  Kees’s hand met by chance, in his pocket, a little notebook bound in red morocco, with gold leaf on the pages, which he had bought for a florin in order to record his most difficult chess matches.

  His action was not in any way remarkable. Kees had nothing better to do. In the notebook, there were only two chess games written out, that is two pages covered with the conventional notations.

  So it happened that he took out the pencil fitting inside the spine and wrote:

  Left Groningen by the 16.07 train.

  After which he put the notebook back in his pocket, taking it out only after Sneek station to add:

  That stop was too short to be able to get a drink.

  Much later, that notebook and the notes it contained would be cited by specialists on mental illness to prove that by the time he left Groningen, he was already insane!

  Was his wife insane? A woman who had carefully preserved her diary from when she was a young girl, and who, if she had no images to stick in her album, wrote with a straight face:

  Bought new shoes for Carl. Frida had a haircut.

  In fact, the notebook would not be the only thing. The people who had been travelling alongside him, and who for the moment were paying no attention to him, would all, later, remember significant details.

  And yet nothing about his behaviour would have aroused curiosity. He was calm. Perhaps he was even unnaturally calm? He noticed this himself, and it reminded him of two episodes in his life when he had displayed the same involuntary cool demeanour.

  He recalled the first occasion because of the red leather notebook, since it concerned a game of chess. One evening, at the club, he had won three matches in a row, when old Copenghem, who couldn’t stand Kees, had started to laugh at him.

  ‘It’s easy, isn’t it, if you only play against people weaker than you?’

  Stung, Kees had answered him back. They had ended up with a challenge, and Kees finally proposed to play Copenghem without one bishop and one rook.

  He could still see that match, one of the most famous in the club’s history. Although Copenghem was an excellent player, Popinga pretended to be quite confident and even, something that made his opponent fume with anger, strolled round the room between moves. On a table near him was a glass of Munich beer, a barrel of which had just been delivered.

  After an hour, during which Popinga had maintained his pose of aggressive irony, the other man suddenly, with a thin smile, checkmated him.

  This was the most disagreeable outcome possible. Twenty or more people had been watching the game, and witnessing Popinga’s show of bravado.

  But the latter did not flinch, neither going pale nor blushing. On the contrary, he maintained an unreal calm and said without hostility:

  ‘These things happen, don’t they?’

  At the same time, he had picked up, without seeming to, one of the bishops from the board. The set, made of ivory and known all over Groningen, belonged to Copenghem himself, who claimed he could only play with his own pieces.

  Popinga had chosen the black bishop. A glance round had enabled him to make his calculations and, an instant later, he had let it drop into his beer glass.

  Another game was about to start. People realized that the bishop was missing, and looked everywhere, asking the waiter for help, and imagining every possible hiding-place except the glass of dark beer, which Kees took good care not to drink, and which someone must have emptied out later unwittingly, since Copenghem never got his bishop back.

  And throughout the search, Kees had kept his pose of absolute calm, just as in the train today, while he thought about the clever folk of Groningen on whom he was playing a good trick by disappearing.

  Which did not prevent the lady in mourning clothes from declaring, two days later:

  ‘He had a hunted expression. Twice he laughed out loud to himself!’

  No, he didn’t laugh, but he did smile. The first time because of the Copenghem incident. The second time because of the oxtail.

  That was more recent. It dated from the previous year, when Jef Van Duren had been appointed to a chair in the Faculty of Medicine. Van Duren, an old friend of his, had given a grand dinner. While they were serving the vermouth, Kees had gone into the kitchen, where he was in the habit of teasing Maria, the maidservant, a luscious-looking girl.

  But when he had tried to steal a kiss, she had said:

  ‘Since you just want to fool about, I’ll come back when you’ve gone away.’

  And she went down to the cellar to busy herself with something.

  It was all the more humiliating since Maria was practically the only woman to whom Kees allowed himself to make advances, and every time it brought his blood racing to the surface.

  However, he had remained calm, terribly calm. And in the same vein as with the chess bishop and the beer, he had noticed a saucepan on the stove full of oxtail soup – a dish the Van Durens only served on high days and holidays. On a shelf nearby was a row of containers, two of them marked ‘salt’. He opened one of them, and poured into the oxtail soup a good proportion of the contents. After which he returned with an innocent air to the drawing room.

  The effect was much more amusing than he had predicted. The container marked ‘salt’ had held, heaven only knew why, powdered sugar, and for some moments the faces round the table were agha
st, grimacing, as the guests tried another spoonful without being able to decide what the matter was.

  And that was the calm demeanour he was showing today. At six o’clock, he left the train at Stavoren, where he had no time to buy a drink, although he had long been feeling thirsty. At Stavoren, he had just time to board the ferry across the Zuyderzee: luckily, on board ship, refreshments were served.

  ‘Two glasses of genever,’ he said in the most natural way in the world, to the steward.

  He asked for two since he knew he would drink them both, and it was not worth making the steward come the whole length of the boat twice. The evening before, Julius de Coster had after all insisted the bottle was left on their table and the barman at the Petit Saint-Georges had not objected.

  So why did the same steward declare later:

  ‘He looked completely insane, and he ordered two glasses of genever at the same time.’

  After the forty-minute crossing, he caught another train, at Enkhuizen, for Amsterdam, reaching the city a few minutes after eight in the evening. The last leg of the trip had been made in a compartment with two cattle-dealers who were discussing their business and regarding him warily, as if he might be a competitor.

  But nobody, even himself, suspected at this stage the terrible celebrity which he would acquire within the next few hours. He was wearing grey as usual. He was carrying, out of habit, his leather briefcase, which he always took to the office.

  In Amsterdam, he did not hesitate for a moment before heading towards the Carlton, exactly as he had thrown the chess bishop in the beer and tipped the sugar into the oxtail soup.

  ‘Is Miss Pamela in?’

  Nothing, absolutely nothing, distinguished him from any other nondescript visitor, except perhaps his exceptional calm.

  ‘What name shall I say?’ the uniformed night porter asked.

  ‘Julius de Coster.’

  The man paused, looked at him, then said quietly:

  ‘Forgive me, but you are not Mr de Coster.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Mr de Coster comes every week, so I know him.’

  ‘And how do you know I am not another Mr de Coster?’