The Darkroom of Damocles by Willem Frederik Hermans Page B

touching the phone again. All he heard was that strange blaring noise.
    He headed back to his chair, changed his mind, dialled the information service and asked the operator for the number of Bellincoff Ltd., Oudezijds Achterburgwal 28, in Amsterdam.
    â€˜48662, madam.’
    â€˜I’m not a madam. And that’s the number I’ve been dialling, Miss, but all I get is a whining noise rather like an air-raid siren, do you understand?’
    â€˜That means the number’s been cut off, sir.’
    â€˜Cut off? By whom?’
    â€˜The account has been cancelled, sir.’
    He thanked her and rang off. He looked out of the window, but there was no sign of Moorlag and Meinarends. He dialled the information service again. A different voice answered this time.
    â€˜Could you give me the number of the Sicherheitspolizei, at Binnenhof, The Hague?’ He found a pencil on the desk and wrote down the number.
    He telephoned the Sicherheitspolizei straightaway. A female voice answered. He said: ‘Could you put me through to the department dealing with persons taken into custody?’
    When the department came on the line, he said: ‘Dominee Verberne speaking. I would like to know what has become ofold Mrs Osewoudt of Voorschoten, who was detained this morning along with her daughter-in-law.’
    â€˜Information of that kind is not released over the telephone, Dominee. You should visit our office in person!’

Moorlag and Meinarends returned, having made up their minds as to the best course of action.
    For the time being Osewoudt would stay with Meinarends, until the identity cards were ready. Moorlag would return to his relatives in Nieuw-Buinen, and didn’t even take his coat off, as he was going straight on to catch the train.
    â€˜You know the address, Osewoudt, in case there’s any trouble. It’s easier for a person to hide where we live in the country. More food there too.’
    Osewoudt shook his hand, saying: ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.’
    â€˜I did it for my country,’ said Moorlag. ‘Don’t thank me, it’s me who’s grateful for the chance to serve my country by helping you.’
    Osewoudt put his hands in his pockets and beat a rapid tattoo with his feet.
    â€˜Oh Christ! He’ll be speaking in tongues next! Lord in heaven! Strike up the harmonium!’
    Moorlag chuckled softly.
    â€˜You’re thinking of your mother. She’ll be in my thoughts too, Henri, if you’d rather not hear me say I’ll pray for her.’
    â€˜You’re a good sort,’ said Osewoudt. ‘I mean it.’
    He turned away even before Moorlag left the room. My country, he thought, what’s that supposed to mean? The blue tram? The yellow tram? The service is the same as before,except for the lights being dimmed after dark. A tobacco shop with empty packaging in the window? Dr Dushkind? North State? Havana cigars? I still have a packet of real English cigarettes on me. If Dorbeck hadn’t asked me to develop a film for him I wouldn’t have got mixed up in any of this. I’d be at home, safe and sound.
    â€˜You’re an odd bloke, aren’t you?’ said Meinarends, when Moorlag had gone. ‘What I wanted to say, though – you have a Leica, isn’t that right?’
    Osewoudt went over to his raincoat, then held out the camera.
    Meinarends did not take it.
    â€˜We could do with someone who can use a camera. If you want to get involved, I could find you somewhere to stay. You can stay here tonight, and tomorrow night as well if necessary, but not indefinitely.’
    â€˜I’ll go now if you prefer.’
    â€˜Certainly not. The ID cards won’t be ready till tomorrow. The best thing would be for you to avoid going out during the day for the next week or two. Can’t you grow a moustache?’
    â€˜I don’t have a moustache, no beard either.’
    â€˜You don’t?