The Darkroom of Damocles by Willem Frederik Hermans Page A

leave now,’ said Meinarends as they went up a flight of stairs. ‘I’m far too busy. Have you matriculated, by any chance? Is that why you’re so keen on living in Leiden?’
    They both laughed heartily. Osewoudt began to feel left out. These were students, the pair of them, for Moorlag also counted as a student, in spite of not yet having matriculated nor living in Leiden. And what am I? A tobacconist.
    He took a packet of Gold Flake from his pocket and said: ‘Care for a smoke, Mr Meinarends? A real English cigarette. Do have one, I run a tobacco shop, you see.’
    Meinarends took a cigarette without looking at the brand, and put it between his lips. They went into a room with half a metre of books neatly lined up on a shelf. The room was clean and tidy, except for a large table by the window, on which lay various small implements which Osewoudt could not identify.
    They sat down.
    Meinarends struck a match and said, ‘You must understand, Mr van Druten, the university has been closed down by the Germans. I have no business here any more, strictly speaking. Which is why our theologian here is after my room. But first he ought to matriculate, in my opinion.’
    Osewoudt twisted the hat in his hands, felt himself redden, put the hat down on the floor, but couldn’t think of an answer.
    â€˜How long would it take, an ID card?’ Moorlag asked.
    â€˜Not very long.’
    â€˜I need two. Apparently there’s something wrong with thewatermark on this one,’ said Osewoudt, producing Elly’s identity card. ‘And I also need one for myself.’
    Meinarends unfolded Elly’s identity card, gave it a cursory look, then said: ‘Made in England.’
    He put it in his pocket.
    Osewoudt said: ‘The photo and the name don’t need changing, but on mine the name has to be different, as well as the date of birth and everything else.’
    â€˜Occupation, too. How about police detective? You’ve got the right kind of face for that. A German name? Or isn’t your German up to scratch? A German name is safer.’
    â€˜Not a German name,’ said Osewoudt, drawing his feet under his chair. ‘I have something for you in return.’
    He felt in his inside pocket, took what he judged to be half of Elly’s ration coupons between thumb and forefinger, and gave them to Meinarends.
    Screwing up both his eyes now, Meinarends studied them through a magnifying glass and said: ‘These coupons are remarkably good fakes, I must say. Pity they were declared invalid just an hour ago. Haven’t you been listening to the radio? Don’t you know what’s going on?’
    â€˜We’ve been on the go all day,’ said Moorlag. ‘How could we have listened to the radio? We’ve been running around like refugees, no home, no nothing, haven’t eaten all day either. Couldn’t you find us a couple of sandwiches?’
    Meinarends and Moorlag left the room at about five, saying they would be back in a quarter of an hour.
    Osewoudt stood up as soon as he heard the front door slam. He went over to the table and examined the array of implements. He had worked out what they were for, but not how they were used. I’m no good at this underground stuff, he thought, I’ve got the face of a home-grown Nazi working as a detective for the Germans. Then he lifted the telephone fromthe hook, dialled the code for Amsterdam, waited for the tone and picked out Uncle Bart’s number. An extraordinary blaring he had never heard before erupted from the earpiece. He put down the phone and cast around for a directory so he could check what the extraordinary noise might signify, but didn’t see one anywhere. Maybe I made a mistake dialling the number, he thought. He tried again, but there was the same noise. He tried a third time, and a fourth. The fifth time he spoke each digit out loud before dialling and then waited a few moments before