Rituals by Cees Nooteboom

helps to make you aware of it a little sooner. It is the knowledge, instinctive, sudden, and sure, that somebody is okay."
    "Okay?"
    "Yes, that she is in tune with herself. I can't fall for someone who is not in tune with herself. And the other keystone — it is a structure after all — is that you know she has something for you."
    "Has something for you?"
    "Yes. That if the time and the place are right, there is a logic in the encounter."
    Logic. The very word would make any lover run a mile. But that was just it. It had to be entirely logical, going to bed with such a person. You knew it would happen because it had to happen. The only thing left to be done was to inform the other person. That was the seduction. The certainty of the outcome was a great help. That, and the strange contradiction that the bed bit was not the main thing at all. This you began to see more clearly when, on occasion, you yourself were the other person. What mattered was whether you were in tune. But the longing, the quivering, that odd, desperate feeling, always the same, which he experienced now at this table, watching her walk so straight and hearing her say that one sentence with that deliciously soft lilt while she glanced at him briefly with her green mocking eyes that laughed at "that old fool with his glass eye and that skinny young one with his funny look as if he couldn't keep his eyes off you" — that had to be there first. Only then came the "verification", a question of adoration, of woman worship. He had been declared mad by his friends as he was off on one of his missions again, flying to the other end of the world merely to follow a line, a thought that someone had left in him and that he had to verify at all costs. Was it so or was it not so? Would he have a chance, with that person, of a life that, if he chose to take it, would become a reality? That was the point. The search was a labour of love, but he could not explain this to anyone.
    "And if you're not in tune?"
    No. Quite clearly, no one understood anything about it except the women themselves. And then you were in tune.
    His aunt did not appear again, and Taads's merciless clock struck here, too. Between three and four he would have his snooze, even had he been at Novaya Zemlya. Inni walked aimlessly about the house and after much hesitation opened the kitchen door. The girl was sitting by a large table, polishing silver.
    "Hello," said Inni.
    She did not reply, but smiled, unless it was mockery. "What's your name?" she asked.
    "Inni."
    She exploded with laughter. Her breasts shook. He was consumed by desire. He went up to her and put his hand on her head.
    "Hoho," she said, but sat very still until she suddenly picked up a large, freshly polished spoon and held it up with the convex side towards him. Everything he hated in his face was magnified, elongated, emphasized.
    "I'm Petra," she said. On this rock, this soft, round rock, he thought later, he had built his church. For there was no doubt about it — on that day women had become his religion, the centre, the essence of everything, the great cartwheel on which the world turned.
    "What sign are you?"
    "Leo." And before she could say anything, he added quickly: "My number is one, my metal gold, my star the sun. And my profession is either king or banker."
    "Oy-oy," she said, and put his hand on the table amid the silver. "Shall I show you the village?"
    They walked among the Saturday afternoon bustle in the village street. People kept greeting them, and inquisitive glances were cast at him.
    "Where are we going?"
    "To the woods. But you mustn't tell your aunt."
    In the woods it was quiet and cool. They both stuck out their hand at the same moment and walked on holding hands under the tall trees. It would never be so simple again. The leaves, the trees, the lofty beams of mysterious light in the half-dark — everything contributed.
    They lay down and he kissed her breasts and her hair, and she held him very close to