The Darkroom of Damocles by Willem Frederik Hermans

must get a move on, we’re taking the tram to Leiden. I know someone there who’s well connected.’
    They staggered on, both of them practically blind. Nausea welled up in Osewoudt’s gut; the world now consisted of bulging gelatine, his brains seethed under the hat, for he had never worn a hat before and the hooks of the glasses chafed behind his ears.
    â€˜That friend of yours with the connections, any chance he could get me a new ID card?’
    â€˜Of course, that’s what I had in mind.’
    â€˜I also need another one for that girl I told you about.’
    At Bezuidenhoutseweg they boarded the tram to Leiden.
    Osewoudt sat by the window with his hand shielding his eyes to ease the headache, and also to raise the glasses slightly, so that he could look out from underneath.
    Squalid, run-down tenements along Schenkweg. Prim, middle class free-standing houses on Laan van Nieuw Oost-Indië. Stretches of sodden grassland. Beyond that the railway track, on which an electric train was racing against the tram. Voorburg. The small white station. Further back, to one side, was where I first saw her, in her white raincoat, a rolled-up newspaper in her hand.
    Stop. Conductors get off. New conductors get on. A low whistling sound. Under the floor of the tram an electric pressure pump begins to throb angrily.
    The tram gathers speed. Shade: the Leidschendam viaduct. On the horizon three windmills in a row. Shimmering glasshouses.
    He felt the sweat beading on his brow; the leather hatband on the inside was beginning to smell.
    Voorschoten. The tram slowed down as it rolled into the street where he lived.
    He was now covering his face almost entirely with his hand, but his eyes bored holes between his fingers.
    EUREKA CIGARS AND CIGARETTES . He kept his eyes on the shop as they went past. No German car outside, no crowd. Not a soul. The blind over the door had been fully lowered, but the blind over the shop window had caught on one side and hung down lopsidedly like a half-open fan. That’s how the blinds hang in houses whose occupants have left in a hurry:from the street there is nothing much to see. You ask yourself why they didn’t at least lower their blinds properly before they went. But the neighbours know that the back of the house has been torched and that only time will tell how long the front will stay up.

At a white stuccoed house on Hoge Woerd, Moorlag rang the bell. The fanlight was decorated with a realistic, life-size painting of a white duck. Osewoudt took off the glasses and rubbed his eyes. Moorlag noted this.
    â€˜Let me have my glasses back, all right?’ he said.
    A young man in a long grey dressing gown let them in. He was short with a domed forehead under a shock of curly fair hair.
    â€˜Hello, Moorlag, my landlady’s out, or it wouldn’t have been me answering the door.’
    â€˜Stands to reason,’ said Moorlag, in a tone that was new to Osewoudt. ‘May I introduce you to Mr van Druten?’
    Osewoudt held out his hand.
    The young man took it.
    â€˜Meinarends is the name. It is a great honour to meet you, but are you by any chance keeping something under your hat?’
    Meinarends kept his left eye screwed up, thereby raising the left corner of his mouth.
    â€˜I beg your pardon, I’m not very well,’ said Osewoudt, stepping into the hallway. Only then did he remove his hat.
    Moorlag pushed the front door to.
    â€˜Don’t tease, Frits. He’s had a terrible shock. The Germans are after him. His wife and mother were taken away by the Gestapo this morning.’
    â€˜Well, well. Then I suppose this gentleman would like a new ID card?’ said Meinarends.
    Moorlag tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good thinking, my friend, but there’s more to it than that. I’ve had quite a shock too. I’ve lost my digs. But if you go back to your parents in Deventer, I’d be able to move in here.’
    â€˜I can’t