No Man's Land E-Book

Bernard Lovink

• Herausgeber: novum pro Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 527

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

No Man's Land - the debut novel by Bernard Lovink - tells the story of a man whose "freedom" unexpectedly falls into his lap. Not everyone finds satisfaction in hurtling through time aboard the overcrowded train called "society", Lovink writes in his foreword. Our protagonist, Chris Janssen - later N. - narrowly escapes an inferno. He is faced with a split-second decision that will determine the trajectory of the rest of his life. But does he have the strength of character to use it for good? Or will he stumble into the same old pitfalls? The plan he creates to escape his old life - after some minor mishaps - is ingenious. But is he going to overplay his hand? His approach may elicit sympathy at first, but will quickly horrify as Lovink captivates readers with a riveting story full of unexpected twists and turns

Leseprobe

Contents

Imprint 3

Citation 4

Foreword 5

PART I - Reorientation 6

1. 6

2. 17

3. 20

4. 26

5. 37

6. 42

7. 51

8. 55

9. 60

10. 63

11. 73

12. 76

13. 79

14. 83

15. 95

16. 97

17. 104

PART II - Arcadia Devastated 110

18. 110

19. 120

20. 130

21. 134

22. 136

23. 140

24. 149

25. 152

26. 160

27. 168

28. 172

29. 174

30. 177

31. 188

32. 193

33. 200

34. 206

35. 215

36. 224

PART III - The great plan 233

37. 233

38. 238

39. 243

40. 250

41. 255

42. 259

43. 261

44. 266

45. 270

46. 273

47. 279

48. 284

49. 284

50. 284

Imprint

All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved.

© 2021 novum publishing

ISBN print edition: 978-3-99107-856-2

ISBN e-book: 978-3-99107-857-9

Cover images: Vdvtut | Dreamstime.com

Cover design, layout & typesetting:novum publishing

www.novum-publishing.co.uk

Citation

The degree and kind of a man’s sexuality

reach up into the ultimate pinnacle of his spirit.

F. Nietzsche

Foreword

Not everyone finds satisfaction in hurtling through time on

the overcrowded train called “society”. A single person jumps

off… After the colossus has faded from view,

the cacophony of steel on steel ceases to be deafening,

he becomes aware of the soft sound of the wind through the trees…

He stands up, brushes the dust from his clothes, stretches his limbs,

and hastily clambers off the embankment to avoid seeing

the coming trains, so as not to be overcome by regret and

pity for those who, like him, look like living beings, indeed

like people, and who will quickly become unreal in his

mind’s eye…

B.L.

PART I - Reorientation

1.

In hindsight, it would seem as though thirty-four-year-old Christiaan Jacob Janssen fundamentally lacks an instinct for self-preservation. Perhaps Chris – as he is known among friends – is unaware that he has been driving for the last hour and a half toward catastrophe, and certainly he cannot know that he will soon narrowly escape an inferno that will capture the attention of every television-watching or newspaper-reading citizen of the world.

It is a Saturday afternoon, the eleventh of May in a still somewhat nascent third millennium. The air is bright and sunny, a surprisingly warm spring morning. Chris has been invited to give a lecture that afternoon to members of an urban literary society on the “future of fiction”. He taps the steering wheel in nervous anticipation as he mulls over his stimulating intro for the dozenth time:Does compiled writing still stand a chance?

Chris checks his watch. 2:15 pm.Still well ahead of schedulehe thinks as he rolls into the city. He will have plenty of time to meet with his old colleague, who has a preference for downtown buildings in the old city. His colleague has recently accepted a post at the Alma Mater in the city and asked Chris to tag along to tour a few real estate listings.

Chris, guided by his Falkland GPS, parks his car in the thin shade of a row of shabby trees in a friendly-looking, but somewhat cluttered 1930s neighborhood. The tranquility all around suggests that many residents of this neighborhood – nestled in a quiet pocket just outside the city center – are today finding recreation outside of the city.

Chris is impressed by the robust supply in the city’s real estate market. Notes are made (type, size, location, sun position, visible state of maintenance, facsimile brokerage) on four properties offered for sale. This foursome, plotted out on a field of imaginary lines and diagonals, forms an almost perfect rectangle around a dilapidated plot of land boasting an old, ramshackle warehouse, clearly abandoned. Children have been lighting fires there.

‘Sufficient to be going on with,’ he murmurs.

While Chris seems to lack the instinct for self-preservation, he does have an eye and an ear for quietly approaching disasters creeping up on him in felt slippers: pale shadows leaping forward, vibrations in the atmosphere, portents like those of an earthquake that cause sensitive creatures instinctively to fly from the trees, crawl in or out of the ground, or softly howl. He will remember slightly later – when the dust settles and the fires dampen – feeling a sensation as if the air pressure around him was increasing slightly, pressing against his eardrums. The heat becomes almost oppressive, with waves of it rustling in the shabby trees and driving the flies to become more insistent, even more aggressive perhaps.

Chris checks his watch again. 2:45 pm. An electronic signboard flashes 28°C at the small corner parking lot. A sound like water gushing into a sewer after a downpour puts Chris on edge. It seems nearby, but as he cranes his neck, Chris can see that the noise is coming from behind a row of houses. With hindsight, and after reading an account in a newspaper, Chris will conclude that it was at a distance of about two hundred meters, at least, and that the sound was not gushing water at all, but a glowing blaze shot high into the air. The ball of fire drops to the ground and shatters as if glass, sending flames in every direction, the effect of which, Chris decides later, was only slightly spoiled by the bright direct sunlight.

Then a sudden, intense heat upends the atmosphere. For a moment, Chris feels as though two glowing hands are tightening their grasp around his neck, then he’s thrown to the ground by a hot blast of air. He’s on his feet in an instant, looking for somewhere, anywhere, to take cover.

Finding nowhere suitable, Chris turns and runs. The streets are suddenly filling with people investigating the sound, and they stand frozen, awestruck by the grandiose firework display, forcing Chris to weave and jump and shove his way through the crowd as he flees. Moments later (a second, a few seconds?), the blast. Is it one, is it more, is it a series of blasts? Chris doesn’t know anymore. For a moment there is only the silence of the grave.Thisisthe grave!Chris thinks. He will only remember the most heart-rending part of what follows, dazed as he was by that Neolithic explosion: an invisible force like a wave breaking, shattered windows pushed into the houses all around, people screaming, people bleeding, those who are still able to stand rushing for safety. It all seems like a gruesome fairy tale to him, one full of icy reality, written to terrify grown-ups. Roofs are blown off houses, floors collapse. Chris sees a man and woman, both naked, standing in the bedroom of their home whose facade has been blown away, cracked open like a dollhouse. The woman covers her face with her hands and her screams slice through Chris. He sees an outer wall crumble to rubble and a child buried, the sound of bricks collapsing on cobblestones behind him. Window frames burst from falling facades and clatter on the street right in front of him. Roof tiles slide from building tops and shatter on the paving stones all around him, yet by some miracle, he isn’t hit, all around him the unspeakable horrors of fiery destruction.

The hot squall is all around him: the blow of the shockwave to his back, birds flying off in every direction, a cat darts in front of him, then a large dog with its tail between its legs, all emerging from and disappearing into the thickening clouds of dust and grit that flow into the narrow street behind him, taking possession, catching and enveloping him. Yet behind this cacophony, Chris hears the soft rustle of last autumn’s leaves whipping in the wind of the firestorm, and for an instant, everything is clear: fate has pulled back its dark and heavy cloak and extended a weathered hand to him. Suppressing a whoop of delight, Chris Janssen steps into the fold.

In hindsight, fate should not have staked so much on Chris. A handful of injuries, a couple of victims, one or two missing, a few damaged houses. Why so many dead and missing people for one person’s luck? Surely, he isn’t worth such a high price, is he?

Consider your next move carefully,Chris thinks to himself. Consider? He runs down another street. The sign above a shop door reads ‘party supplies’. He rushes in and, in halting bursts, tries to explain what he’s seen – and smelled and heard – to the thin, silver-haired shopkeeper. Shaken, the man rushes outside, and after choosing a wig, a pair of thick framed glasses and a mustache (he picks up a joke nose, then shakes his head and sets it down again), Chris walks out without paying. The shopkeeper is rushing toward the sound of disarray, and Chris hurries in the opposite direction.

Leave nothing to chance. Rounding the corner, Chris ducks between some bushes, to don his new appearance.There is a plausible chance in our small country,he thinks,that someone will remember. He imagines the reports to come.Chris Janssen? Yes, I saw him walking just there. No,afterthe explosion, I’m sure of it. Still, I thought…and on it would go until eventually, yes, they would find him alive and the jig would be up, his moment lost. So, yes. Now. He needs a different appearance, immediately. And also, a different inner self, as he still believes in all his awful ignorance that Chris Janssen can truly disappear. He isn’t Chris anymore. He isn’t Janssen anymore (a last name he’s been unhappy with for at least twenty-five years). He decides he’ll come up with a new name eventually, but for now, he’s nothing. A Nobody. N. for short.

Chris continues walking hurriedly down the streets in whatever direction feels like the opposite of the explosion. Finally, he comes upon a ladies’ bicycle leaning against a house. He, who has never stolen anything in his life, checks whether the bike is locked. It isn’t.

He feels like a twelve-year-old miscreant as he jumps on the saddle, pedaling as fast as he can away from the scene of disaster. He waits for the imagined shouts of “stop thief!” to echo through the neighborhood and fade away behind him, but they do not come. It’s as though the entire city has been paralyzed by the infernal event. Or perhaps this is the day of judgment freely rendered from Belcampo (N. can already hear Kees Brusse’s distressed voiceover). He thinks that perhaps the difference between mine and yours has been blasted away, and the moment has come at last to introduce collective ownership according to Bakunin and the little red books. Some events force different times.

It isn’t long before N. leaves the last houses of the stricken city behind. With whizzing, slightly under-inflated tires, he rides to the countryside. Warm wind whips at his face, adding to his feeling of giddy jubilation, like a long-caged bird that’s finally been set free. The weight of worry has lifted when suddenly N. realizes that, without purpose or preference, he has set his course for the north. Towards home. Or, at least, towards Chris Janssen’s home. Apparently, the tendency to flee back to where one came from, back to home and hearth, is a deep-seeded condition.

But N. cannot go to Chris Janssen’s home. As he slows, a thick column of smoke catches him, spreading the scent of burning scrap wood, fired stone, and warm slag from the old coke-fired foundry. He isn’t far from where he was born, played, and went to school. At the next intersection he cycles through, deliberately rerouting his path.

Heading southwest and toward the fading sunlight, N. guides the bicycle onto a paved cycle path alongside a wide road. An unbroken procession of ambulances and fire trucks, sirens blaring and lights flashing, stream past him and into the city. It takes some time before N. notices that the traffic is only going one way; the counter-flow of traffic has pulled over along the side, having crept onto the verge, giving the impression of a modesty quite uncommon among Dutch drivers. It is all far too serious. N. is noticeably the only person moving in the opposite direction, the culprit fleeing the inferno behind him; the light, the sun, the summer, the future, to meet his new future.

The road rolls gently through green pastures where cows graze, too stoic to be bothered by this human activity, unaware of the ominous cloud on the eastern horizon, their slow brains interpreting the explosion as a distant storm at most. N. looks around, realizing suddenly that, aside from those tucked behind the glass and metal of their busy vehicles, there are no people anywhere. Not even at the houses he’s passing by. Colorful summer chairs have been set out here and there on lawns and patios, but they are unoccupied. There is no one enjoying the cool shade of equally colorful parasols.What an untapped luxury, N. thinks as he begins to sweat slightly.

N. muses at the idea of the literary society, and wonders uselessly whether they are all shuffling their feet with impatience, awaiting his arrival, or whether they, like him, have abandoned their literary acuity in favor of the more immediate firestorm nearby. N. cycles steadily on towards the sun. Cars continue to drive towards him, among them still an occasional ambulance, a fire truck answering the call, a police car with a raging engine. There is an insistent drone as a few helicopters hover in the air, pushing toward the disaster that seems to have created its own orbit and was pulling everything in, in the air, on land, perhaps even on water. That filthy plume of smoke still billows up behind him, but as he continues to distance himself the threat seems to fade, as though every mile is making it fade further into history.Perhaps, he thinksI can ride this bike until today is just a footnote.

But the late afternoon sun has only grown more stifling, and N. is now sweating so profusely under his wig and behind his mustache that they’re beginning to slip here and there. His glasses might fog up if the frames had lenses. N. is dressed lightly, in a short-sleeved shirt, cotton jacket with no tie, linen trousers, thin socks, and open shoes, but still the heat is oppressive. By the position and height of the bicycle saddle, N. guesses that the height of the rightful owner is probably not much taller than five foot three. At nearly six foot three, N. is beginning to feel acute pain in his back, not to mention the growing discomfort in his seat. The road widens, and N. dismounts to walk away and rest his aching body. His watch reads 4:00 pm.

The fields and pastures give way to a wooded forest on one side where the bicycle path veers away from the main road and into the deeper shade of the trees. N., grateful for the momentary reprieve from the sun, follows a gravel path to a wooden bench where he sits down in the shade of an oak tree. Behind him a brook babbles, around him birds’ bustle and chirp, busy with the task of feeding newly hatched chicks. A spotted woodpecker flies from tree trunk to tree trunk, a jay squawks its shrill call. After some time, two deer amble through to graze along a section of the forest edge. He can hear only occasional murmurs of traffic from the main road now. In the clear blue sky above him, he imagines the invisible exchange of digital waves, carrying increasingly nervous, frenetic sounds and images. He senses the soft sound of wind in the conifers, and then suddenly, N. is aware of a silence that affects him more intensely than all of the past hour’s raucous disaster. His ears ring and his head begins a quiet throb. Stretching out on the bench, N. longs for the lure of sleep but is too restless to relax. His hands shake, his heart is in his throat, his neck is aching and stiff.

After fifteen minutes, N. gets up again and walks his bike back to the cycle path, which winds its way through the remaining patch of forest and settles alongside the provincial road again. He passes a cluster of houses – some tiny, forgettable village – with still very few signs of life outside, but here and there he notices the cold glare of television screens flickering inside. The good citizens within are already under the spell of the first images of the disaster he so narrowly escaped.

He pedals on. At an intersection, he changes route, more to the northwest judging from the position of the sun. N. rides into another small village, and then another. For the most part, life seems to have continued, or has returned to, its usual course. That is to say, farmers are getting ready for the evening cow milking, children scutter about side yards in the final hours of daylight. The frenzied one-way stream of traffic has now fully welcomed the return of the oncoming flow again. A clock tower strikes five. Now and then, when not obscured by trees, N. can still see glimpses of the black column of smoke from the city center. The hellish fire must still be raging. It now seems distant to N., less realistic, barely an omen, just a glowing pinhead in the light of the great wide world. Nevertheless, he has the impression of moving against the backdrop of an absurd landscape.

“I’ll have to get used to my new life,” he mumbles.

It is on the outskirts of the neighboring city that N. concludes that the bicycle’s rear tire has a slow leak. The rubber tire slips on bumps, jarring the metal rim against the against the hard concrete and sending jolts up the frame and handlebars. In front of a house where an elderly gentleman muses on a garden chair (N. guesses he is about eighty), he dismounts and politely asks the man for a bicycle pump. As he disappears into the house, N. notices through the windows the flicker of television, the news broadcast glowing across the faces of the inhabitants.

Noticing N.’s attention to the TV, the old Saxon nods toward it and says “That is something, isn’t it, sir? Some mess they’ve got there.” He looks rather studiously at N., working quite vigorously at pumping up the tires. N. wonders whether the old man has noticed that the bike is a small ladies’ size. He realizes with some embarrassment at how he must look, with a too-small bike and thrown-together disguise. He nevertheless thanks him warmly and continues on his way, in a direction he believes to be westward.

N. throws his leg over the saddle and checks his watch. It is now 5:30 pm. If you kept your back to the billowing plume of black smoke rising from the city, you might think life had completely returned to normal. Some people have begun populating their patio chairs, and the air is filled with the happy sound of children playing on lawns. Down the street, someone is washing their car in the fading evening light. N. can smell someone cooking an early supper and he feels his stomach turn and growl.

By 6:00 pm, N. can no longer ignore the throbbing ache that travels up his tail bone and takes hold in his lower back. When he comes upon Village Q, he turns the bike toward the town center. After stashing the bicycle behind a fence, he sets out on foot to explore the village. The streets are mostly deserted. Here, too, people are transfixed by the television broadcast.I could shoot a cannon off in the village square, N. thinks,and it wouldn’t hurt a soul.

N. finds a corner café still open and orders some fries. He tries to strike up a conversation with the server, whose eyes linger on N. for just a moment before returning a fixing his gaze solidly on a small screen. The fries are lukewarm and greasy, but they satisfy the most aggressive hunger pangs. N. stands, pushing back his chair as he does, counts out the required coins, and leaves them beside his empty plate. Leaving the café, N. remembers the hotel he had seen during his brief exploration on the main road just outside the village.Hotel Aurora, lodging and breakfast, 50 euros per night. Decidedly not a big city price. He will spend the weekend there, he decides, and try to put things in order.

At the front counter of the hotel, a pimply young man greets N. and hesitates only a moment before offering him a guest register to sign for a room. He signs in under the name K. van Andel, a name that comes to him on the spot and which, as far as he knows, has no connection with anything. He writes down a fictitious address, pays two nights in advance, and takes a room on the first floor. There is a view of the main road, lined on either side by large oak trees, cutting through a meadow where two ponies are grazing contentedly. His reflection in the shower mirror catches him by surprise; he was in such general disarray from the strange events of the day that he had almost entirely forgotten about the wig, mustache, and glasses. He did not look like a man escaping the calamity of a lifetime; he looked like a part-time clown returning from last night’s party in the harsh light of day. He thought he might be good for a big laugh at the Brabant carnival.

N. had felt a bit uncomfortable talking to the young man at the front desk because he felt as though his mustache was out of place. Now seeing himself in the mirror for the first time since donning the ridiculous disguise, he understands the odd look the young man had given him; he remembers now that the grandpa with the bike pump and the café owner and even a few passersby had looked at him so curiously. The mustache itself is bad, rumpled like the one on Nietzsche’s death mask. To make matters worse, it’s also completely crooked. The left side of this artificial thicket starts an inch above the lip, the right side ends an inch below. One corner of it is curled to reveal the flesh-colored adhesive, a dab of oily mayonnaise trembles on the other end. He’s doing a very poor impression of Charlie Chaplin in an awkward pose, a caricature of a caricature. What a ridiculous introduction he’s made to this down-to-earth village! N. is astonished that the young man gave him a room without asking for identification.I think I would’ve called the madhouse immediately; he thinks.

He grins at himself, but the grin is so flat and meaningless that he is once again startled to see himself. Upon further investigation, he discovers that there is a scorch mark on the back of his linen jacket, and a small trail of clotted blood has dried along his neck. After taking stock of his body from head to toe, he discovers only one minor irritation from a slight burn. He escaped what will become known as the Gunpowder Disaster nearly unscathed. N. inhales deeply, and after a long and somewhat pregnant exhale, he takes a long shower.

The television seems to be stuck on one of the private channels, but piece by piece, N. is able to build a larger image of the explosion. From the short sound bites and flashes of images and videos between lively, persistent commercial ads, he concludes that there is now a preliminary inventory of victims; many people were injured, dozens are in hospital, and many more are missing. And there are dead to be mourned, some of them badly mutilated. With this information, N.’s confidence in his plan is reinforced slightly. Once the dust has settled and it is accepted that missing people are a sad byproduct of this catastrophe, this blow that has knocked so many people off course will put him on course, he feels certain of that much.

He keeps watching the broadcast for a while, the commentary by breathless and/or allegedly sympathetic reporters, while his thoughts dwell on very different matters. As his mind wanders, his gaze subconsciously fixes on an image of a vehicle. It takes a few moments before he recognizes it as his own badly mutilated, half-burnt car. The wreckage was caught by a telephoto lens, focused, zoomed in. The license plate—relatively undamaged, for the state of the rest of the car—only appears for a few seconds, right before a commercial promoting a new Andrélon line, but it’s enough. He knows that it’s his Peugeot station wagon on the screen, standing there as evidence to support the high probability that death is the only explanation for his disappearance into oblivion. This image could of course be used and reused later as evidence for investigators, should his loved ones still doubt his total dissolution in a devastating fire. “But Mrs. Janssen, you know about that car. Your husband couldn’t have been very far away. We’re sorry, you’ll have to accept the inevitable.”

Poor Paula. After that hellish blast, everythinghaschanged! There have been twenty-four hours of silence on his part; there is no credible way back now, if he still wanted to go back. N. would have to call her now, right now (not tomorrow or the day after tomorrow) with some foggy excuse (the explosion – shock – escaped in panic – found myself here – please, Paula, come pick me up). Now or never! Do I want that?

“No, I don’t want that, not now, not ever again!” His inner voice is prompt and clear. This ismychance!The supreme moment!N. has already embraced it; the time that will do the work for him.

He puts his sweaty clothes back on, stinking of smoke and soot, checks his disguise and descends to the restaurant, a spacious sunroom that has been built onto the hotel. He is the only guest there.

2.

N. sits in a chair by the window in his room and begins taking stock of his belongings. Wallet with contents, approximately 500 euros, minus his expenses. He’s lucky to have this much cash. When planning his trip at the ATM this morning, he had decided to splurge on a nice hotel and to hire an escort for the evening; to dine somewhere exquisite with her, then do something fun together, and other things, later in the hotel room. This has often been his habit over the past few years.

He continues his inventory: driver’s license, his watch, a Lamy pen, a Blueline notebook, underwear, shirt (slightly scorched), trousers (somewhat stained), socks (smelly), jacket (heavily scorched), shoes, the silly disguise and the illegally obtained bicycle. That’s it. He’ll be able to stay in this hotel for five days, including evening meals. After that, he’ll be broke, down to his last penny. Any electronic transactions made after 2:30 pm yesterday afternoon will betray him like tracks in fresh snow. He will have to proceed with caution, deliberation, like a petty criminal, at least at first. He can’t forget one thing, make one misstep. His deranged disguise is just the beginning. To get through what is to come, he will have to immerse himself again in that noisy mishmash called society. He must continue to feel its pulse. But from a new perspective, one he will slide back into it with complete silence, smoothly, like a scaly reptile that’s just shed its skin. What a wonderful challenge!

N. takes out his wallet. He has 361.45 euros cash (after paying for fries and two days room and board). He has one bank card, one credit card. “Useless,” he mumbles “I’d make a fool of myself and my disappearance. Cut them into pieces and flush them down the toilet to be safe.” Then driver’s license (unnecessary, even dangerous), registration (ditto), an older photo of Paula and of Anke when she was about three years old, a snapshot from a family reunion, photo of his parents, a dated bank statement, the business card from Piet Perfect chimney sweeps, an article clipped from a newspaper (he doesn’t remember why), a photo of a charcoal drawing he once made—a nude of an art school friend—a piece of paper with addresses and telephone numbers of people he hasn’t seen or spoken to in years, a pin, a mother-of-pearl button, a paper clip.

N.’s heart suddenly begins beating fast and hard. Here indeed is the challenge, at the rock-bottom of his dispossession.

He sits with his back to the television set, which is still switched on, and stares out the window. He lets the sound of the broadcast wash over him—voices of reporters, of first responders, stories of what happened from local residents and witnesses, the shameless politicking by the authorities. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the dismayed face of a mayor, a fire chief in uniform (why on earth haven’t they taken decisive action?) delivering his technical explanation as if from a textbook, conveyed with the necessary gravity. The game of passing the buck begins. He sees traffic passing in front of the hotel: cars, cyclists, a moped, a motorcycle, a jeep with a horse trailer. Across the street, the ponies start to trot, chasing each other.

N. turns to the hazy blue images of the disaster that relentlessly invade living rooms—millions, tens of millions of living rooms around the world—as N. will soon discover. People around the globe all watching the same thing he is now. It’s getting dark in his room. He checks his watch. It’s past 10:00. The sky in the east turns from mauve to violet. On the other side of the hotel, the sun has already set. The TV images keep catching his eye; people, things and events grab his attention for a second, but cannot hold it. He sees ruined houses, facades torn away, living rooms and bedrooms that have been cracked open and, as if violated in their intimacy, shamelessly flaunt their naked parts. There is a big hole where houses could have stood before (they may well have, but N. can’t remember clearly). Damaged and burnt cars glide past on the screen, and only then does he become alert. His Peugeot offers a gruesome and cinematic image, and the camera focuses on it again. “For God’s sake,” he mumbles, “for God’s sake, just leave that car in the picture. Leave it in the picture until everyone knows the license plate and starts talking about it, guessing, gathering information, until it is finally accepted that the care belongs to C.J.J., and that C.J.J. is among the missing.” Because that is something people want to know, even if they don’t personally know a C.J.J., they still want to know it’s him. Then they can all build a story, one they can believe, and one they can create their own ending for..

Reporters now know that dozens have been killed and injured, including two firefighters. A mustached fire investigation expert comes on. His shirt is bright and a bit too frivolous for the story he’s telling, of mutilations so serious that identification may no longer be possible (don’t mistake the expertise, sir, gathered at the forensic institute). Hope builds in N.’s chest until it aches. He hopes that Paula is also glued to this program and that her days of uncertainty about his tragic end will be short. He hopes that she will quickly reach the conclusion that her husband is one of the missing with a likelihood bordering on certainty of death. He hopes she will not sit and wonder about their future together. The word ‘missing’ will not officially appear next to his name until the next day.

That will be Sunday. He will have all day and the days that follow to work out his plans, his strategies to counter the usual course of events. N. switches off the television and stretches his limbs. He feels a leaden fatigue, especially in his thighs. He rubs his hands almost contentedly, undresses, laments the fact that he can’t brush his teeth or put on pajamas and slides naked into the crisply ironed sheets. In a relatively cool room, he manages to slip away from the historic day.

3.

When he comes downstairs, there are three people in the restaurant. A fairly young couple are sitting together at a table in the far corner—perhaps an already fairly seasoned pair, N. thinks, judging from the impressive silence at that table—and an older man, sitting alone on the opposite side. The breakfast nook is arranged to only take up a small part of the room. Nevertheless, N. manages to stay far enough removed from the other guests to limit greetings to a nod. He has never been much of a morning person and he’d prefer to limit conversations entirely right now.

Surrounded by sunlight and the serenity of tinkling cutlery, lightly interrupted now and then by the waiter zipping past and the older man’s restrained cough, N. eats a light breakfast and returns to his room.

Refreshed by three cups of good coffee, he sinks into the creaky wicker armchair by the sliding glass door. It opens onto a modest veranda still shaded by a row of huge oak trees that are just starting to don their springtime buds. The TV continues to stream images of the disaster, still steaming and glowing like a volcanic crater leaking lava. Now, nearly 24 hours later, the commentators and local residents have turned to connecting this horrific accident with the protection of the petty bourgeoisie in this town. Of course, they wouldn’t miss such an opportunity to make it clear to the city council and all those other high ‘lords’ what, exactly, they’ve done wrong.

Then there are questions about a horse and a locked stable door; the blame game is in full swing now.

A wave of nausea rolls over N., bringing him to his feet. He’s a familiar cynic on the carousel of emotions the television-watching nation engages in; he predicts the misery of this disaster will be milked to the last drop. This tragedy is a gold mine for all those broadcasters; devastating news, a pick-me-up, a stroke of luck in the middle of a twelve-month slow cycle. After he hears the umpteenth bureaucrat playing Pontius Pilate, N. can take no more. Completely involuntarily, he deposits the entirety of his recent breakfast into the toilet.

“I’m not myself yet,” he mumbles, wiping his sour mouth. Feeling lightheaded, he sits on the porch to get a breath of fresh air and watches the ponies across the road. At first there are only two, then three, and then a fourth pony joins them. Seemingly unmoved by the traffic in front of them, they stare blankly in the same direction. N. hears the growing rumble of an accelerating diesel train (he’d heard it a few times last night) and remembers crossing a track further down the road yesterday.

Regaining his constitution, N. decides to take a bike ride through the countryside to give his spirit a little room to breathe.

After a few hours of pedaling through the varied landscapes (guided by those handy ANWB signs) he makes up for his lost breakfast in a charming restaurant somewhere on the edge of a forest with a tasty double omelet. He has a beer with it. A sweet-looking and apparently unattached young woman tries to strike up a conversation with him, which he reluctantly avoids thinking about his increasingly unpleasant mustache. Nevertheless, he cannot deny that this countryside is full of beauty, even astonishing beauty. The rolling hills are scattered with alternating swathes of forests and farmland, outlined by rows of trees. Some of the larger sections of farmland, with their extensive fields and pastures, are obviously operated by crop consolidation companies. Other plots are small, with rustic farmhouses tucked away, seemingly unaffected by the passage of time. He cycles through fairy-tale cathedrals of trees, decorated with their delicate spring greenery—birch, beech, oak, and alder.

His rear tire has slowly softened over the course of the afternoon. N. rides back to Q casually, stopping along the way to sit on the bank of a brook bordered by cow parsley. Grass carp and a few minnows swim in the brook, and further downstream he sees a kingfisher diving. It does not escape his attention how curative these quiet moments are for him. He had felt it that morning, too, when he awoke in the fresh air of a new environment. On the bank of the stream, N. considers his “plans”, both immediate and big picture. His bike ride had somehow transformed his abstract ideas into concrete reality. He will have to be careful, and patient, to wait for just the right moment; after all, time is now the only thing he has in abundance. He can cultivate patience.

N. stands up, mounts the bicycle, and ends his wonderful afternoon back in Q, completely satisfied. He decides his disguise is in urgent need of attention when a young man in a group hanging around the chip shop shouts, “Hey, there’s that crooked mustache on his pussy bike again!” He spoke in the local dialect, but N. understood every word. It turns out his disguise was already attracting attention in town. Not ideal. He may have to figure out how to get a new bike, too, if he wants to avoid attention. N.’s overactive imagination conjures up a little car with police stripes cutting off his path.Sir, can we see your ID?

I, and no one else, am the painted bird here. Tomorrow, he will buy sunglasses.

N. had never been to this rural hamlet before, but after the calming effect the day had had on him, and after a hot evening meal and long shower, he decides he will stay in Q. Not in this little hotel itself, he’ll have to find something cheaper in the coming days. He’ll also need to somehow arrange for a more or less regular, modest income to avoid quickly burning through the capital he might build from the plan he was brewing. If he ran out of money, he’d be in real trouble.

As for the income, N. had already worked through that on his ride. How fruitful these quiet Sunday hours have been! In the village of X, quite a bit larger than Q and some twelve kilometers to the south, which he had visited on his bike tour, his keen eye fell on an advertisement near the entrance to a supermarket: Help wanted, shelf stockers, anyone 16 to 60 years old, part-time or full-time employment, available for other incidental tasks. Hiring immediately. He decides to inquire at the modest establishment as soon as he has everything in order.

N. remembers the moment he first began seriously looking for a suitable moment to make this leap. It was a little more than a year ago, in response to a crucial fragment of an otherwise uninspiring essay, he felt the long-latent need become manifest. One dazzling metaphor that put him on a completely different path—in his fantasies and now, so suddenly, in reality too. Away from unimaginative Calvinism with its utilitarianism, which is ultimately just one of many life philosophies!

N. lies on his back on the hotel bed, thinking. He shivers, suddenly feeling cold as he flips through his mental catalogue of the various options he’s considered in recent months: a drowning death without a body, a hike in the mountains gone awry. Paula doesn’t like hiking, especially not in the mountains, afraid as she is of the slightest heights. Just two days ago, he had nearly booked a hiking tour through the Italian Alps for this August, but an unscheduled meeting with a colleague and a few students delayed these plans.

But that was the point. For his next of kin, he needs to have died. Without mortal remains, his death must still seem plausible, the only option. For their sake, he needed them to believe that he had not just disappeared into the world from one day to the next for some banal reason: a young floozy, economic hardship, unwanted fatherhood, an unexplainable sudden intolerance for a domestic existence that has become too cozy, too predictable.

His desire is driven by something deeper, more complex. There are three or four elements at play here: a nostalgic longing for a kind of simplicity and perspective he thinks he remembers from before his college days. The need to “slow down”—an expression he actually despises for having been plagiarized and dragged into a cliché by so-called avant-gardism or post-modernism. All this coupled with an undeniable longing for a quiet, ascetic life. He believes he is ready for it. Ready to reject the barren materialism that surrounds him.

Then there is his need for a kind of spiritual detoxification through renunciation or severe restriction; in this case, removal of the television and the written media that are increasingly upsetting to him. And then, finally, there is the distressing fact that if the situation remains unchanged regarding career, income, and social status, he will be forced to continue working into old age, doing something he no longer has any affinity for. The idea of receiving a generous but undeserved salary year after year for academic work that hardly benefits a poorly prepared and increasingly less qualified and less motivated student population, to regularly publish articles that will never be read by anyone, endless participation in symposiums, consultations, restructuring committees who want to reinvent the wheel again and again, and perhaps worst of all, having to keep up the facade that all of this is still interesting, having to keep fooling his colleagues, and his colleagues him, while everyone knows or should know better … it’s been enough to drive him to despair.

How long has he been searching, desperately looking for a crack in the lattice of a fast-moving life of which his job is such an inextricable part? Oh, to escape that ever more dizzying speed, to find a momentum more suited to his nature and desire, to escape the merry-go-round of “time” to which he’s been tied! Jump off at the perfect spot, hope you don’t get hurt too badly, don’t crash into anything, knock the dust off your clothes, yes, take a deep breath and point yourself in the right direction. Passenger as he was—no longer aboard a speeding train, but rather on an airliner traveling dizzying distances without any recognition of the landscape below, disregarding its exotic locales, things to reflect on, quiet places to rest, to catch your breath and come to yourself again.

How unhappy he felt then, near despair every time he returned from a weekend away, even during and after every vacation. How can you willingly step back onto that carousel of a “normal” life that is, either unconsciously or knowingly and willingly, sustained by laziness, conservatism, fear of uncertainty, hunger for consumerism or whatever reason?

How much more would my life have soured and decayed, he muses,had that liberating explosion and acrid smoke not filled my nose, my eyes, my ears!?

He takes a shower, slides naked into the bed, and falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

4.

Despite his new existence and his general satisfaction with his beautiful plans, both large and small, N. cannot ignore the fact that his financial situation is becoming dire. The serpent is stretching out in his Arcadia. The refreshing afternoon he’d had yesterday, while modest, had taken a dangerous slice of his meager funds. He has only 265.95 euros remaining.

He books three more days in the hotel, then walks to a corner pharmacy and buys a pair of sunglasses, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a small patch and repair kit. Total cash remaining: 64.75 euros. As his wallet lightened, his mind grew heavy with worry: it was worrying to watch his reserves diminish so quickly. After having grown used to receiving a generous salary every month, this experience of economic fragility feels foreign. If he wants his first little plan to be a success, he won’t be able to eat in the hotel restaurant tonight or he won’t have enough to cover his travel expenses. N. contents himself with a bag of fries.

By 8:00 the next morning, he’s boarded a train. He buys a ticket from the conductor. He has 14.25 euros left.

The train to Y is slow, and the seats gradually fill around N., the crowd grows larger at every station. After a while, it seems like noisy, provocative teenagers have filled every compartment. N. concludes that, apart from the difference in regional dialect, adolescents in this rural part of the country are no different than those anywhere else. The noisy train was only a fresh reminder of an opinion he had long ago settled on: better to lecture unmotivated university students than try to teach annoying and aggressive fourteen- to eighteen-year-olds. This singular motivation led him years ago to pursue his doctorate.Why, N. laments,don’t people go to school to learn something anymore? All they seem to accomplish is making the teachers regret their profession!By the time N. steps off the train in Y, his palms are sweaty with annoyance. At the station restaurant, N. decides to spend his remaining euros on a cup of coffee and two generously filled sandwiches, which he eats while he waits for the intercity train to take him home.

N.’s irritation lightens a bit as he eats. He observes with great satisfaction that this rural region does offer a particularly beautiful bevy of young women, some of them truly stunning. And not just beautiful, but friendly. One young beauty even sits down next to him, scans him up and down without a hint of reserve, and, rubbing her shapely form against his bony shoulders, tries to chat with him, in excellent Dutch no less. N. stifles the conversation with painful reluctance; his disguise suddenly feels itchy and obvious, like a child playing dress-up. He can’t wait to be rid of this ridiculous outlaw facade, his laughable Hercule Poirot mustache. But today, especially today, he cannot possibly abandon it. His mission today requires exacting execution; there is no room for error. N. wraps up his remaining sandwich and leaves the station on foot.

With just a 5 euro note and few small coins left in his pocket (not enough for a bus ticket), at 10:55 am, delayed only 45 minutes, he leaves his hometown railway station. The weather is as beautiful here as it was in Q. Sunbeams break into myriad dapples on the chromed handlebars of countless bicycles lining the station square. In the glassy waters of the canal, a tour boat full of seniors breaks into jubilant partying. None of the locals seem to be exceedingly burdened by the mysterious disappearance of C.J. Janssen. On the contrary, the patios around the city center are decked in cheerful summer furniture. Two young ladies dressed in long, modest burkas fixate on N. as he walks in front of them with his sultanesque appearance (do they think him a countryman? Perhaps a kindred spirit?)

A little before half past twelve, N. turns the corner and is confronted by his own house—well, not his house. Christian Janssen’s house. Market value, approximately 400,000 euros. Outstanding mortgage, approximately a hundred thousand, the still legal co-owner at 5.15 euros in the black. Upon the pronouncement of his death or permanent disappearance, a life insurance policy will pay out to Paula that will cover the remainder of the outstanding mortgage. This thought comforts him; she deserves that much at least. The house stands on the corner of a row of semi-detached houses, all built together about twenty years ago, spaciously designed, with enough of a garden for the enthusiast (he never was one for plants; Paula maintained the garden. Chris had proven to be an efficient but entirely unenthusiastic lawn mower).

The Janssen house is on a quiet street, the seemingly idyllic urban home of a picturesque modern Dutch family. Parallel to their street is a pond, lined by bushes and trees hiding another quiet neighborhood from view. In those bushes, at the edge of the parking lot in front of a low-rise apartment building, stands N., fully disguised and desperate to avoid those who, he assumes (one could always be wrong), would most like to see him right now. He checks his watch; it’s half past twelve. At 1:00, he’s still there, but moves to a bench in the sun. There is a problem. Paula is home, her car is in the driveway in front of the garage. Paula is not the type of woman to leave home without the car. But worse still, she is not alone. Her mother’s Mercedes SEL is parked in front of the house. Of course her mother is there! She will be worried about her daughter who, in turn, will be gravely concerned about her husband. That is when mothers should be there.

Would Anke be at home too, he wondered, kept home from school to mourn the tragedy? But N. does not see his stepdaughter’s blond head in any of the windows.

At half past one, a Volkswagen Passat pulls up to the house and parks behind the Mercedes. A smartly dressed man in a dark suit with coiffed hair steps out, carrying a shiny briefcase. He walks up the driveway with a springy, purposeful gait. He rings the bell and is let in by N.’s mother-in-law. N. imagines the visitor being offered a chair, balancing the briefcase on his knees as he takes something out. Perhaps he is an insurance agent, sent over to explain what and how much the life insurance policy will cover? But that seems a bit premature. A representative from a crematorium, then, or the funeral insurance company? He imagines the slick argument: “But we don’t have anything, ma’am, after all he has already been cremated (ha ha). Well yes, we can pay for an empty coffin as a symbol, perhaps just a small one. As a company, we’ve been in situations like this before.”

After a long half hour, the visitor is let out, again by the mother-in-law. Mrs. De Geus van Wateringen had always been fond of the idea of N. as a son-in-law, a prospective professor within the circle of her illustrious but not very intellectual family. And it was a good thing he’d come along when he did; Paula’s distinguished parents were faced with financial ruin after Paula’s childhood sweetheart, turned husband and wealthy bank manager, had brazenly cast Paula and their eighteen-month-old daughter aside for his beautiful young secretary. It had been the talk of the month in certain social circles; the sweetheart and the secretary, it was later discovered, had been cheating as far back as his wedding day, and then the sweetheart had gotten accidentally (or perhaps not) pregnant.

Paula had been deeply traumatized by the event. Even now, more than six years later, she was still plagued by bouts of moodiness and fitful, waking nightmares. It was for this reason that N. had been so reluctant to start divorce proceedings.

But he knew now, without question, that this attachment to Paula, and hers to him, was a mistake. It was his mother-in-law’s hasty and premature brokerage that he had failed to counteract in time. Anxious to see her spurned daughter and fatherless granddaughter tucked into a financially (if not emotionally) stable marriage, Mrs. De Geus van Wateringen encouraged them toward marriage. He is not the type of person, it would turn out, who is built to endure a permanent commitment. He is a lover of casual contact, with a promiscuous nature, relentless in his longing to discover, then conquer, new bodies, preferably the bodies of young women. And he wanted to let the inevitable parting, the peeling apart of bodies rather than spirits, go smoothly, without heartbreak. He wanted to live unhindered by the weight of amorous mortgages, to quickly and easily plunge into new adventures without the tether of consideration for another person. He sometimes considers himself a Casanova, Don Juan, and Bluebeard, all rolled into one, refuses to accept a tragic fate of aging and decline like any of those dubious characters. He’ll stave off the wear of time by settling with a woman at some point, maybe in his fifth decade, somewhere in the world (but he already knows exactly where). He’ll find a young girl, beautiful and naïve, say about seventeen, and she’ll bear him a few children where he can see his youth blossom again.

At that time, N. believed that he had taken control of his wanderlust, his prowling and seemingly insatiable libido taken in hand.

The sun throws shade on the park bench from behind an oak. N. unwraps his remaining sandwich and eats it, panic growing from his lack of control over the situation. If there is no opportunity to get into the house unseen today, his situation will become truly dire. Where can he go with that paltry five-euro note in this money-driven society; where can he find shelter? Is there some distant acquaintance or colleague he could somehow fool into believing that he is not Chris Janssen, but just his double? He could accost total strangers like a mad man, beg them for an advance, promise to pay them back tomorrow. Perhaps they would trust his beautiful brown eyes? He could take his watch to the pawn shop. It’s a Rolex, but it also isn’t cheap, and still relatively new. Paula gave it to him last year for his 33rd birthday. It has a gilded case, gold-plated bezel and closure. He imagines he should be able to get two hundred euros for it, at least. There is nothing else, other than the clothes on his back that are starting to stink even from some distance now.

It’s a quarter past two. At the language and arts department of (what was once) his university, about 500 meters away as the crow flies, students would be taking their seats in a large lecture hall, waiting for one Dr. Chris Janssen to begin a lecture on general literary history (today’s topic is on the influence of Enlightenment and early Romanticism on 19th century literature). He wondered if the lecture had been postponed in deference to his probable death. Probably not, N. muses. Jan Nas will probably step in. His PhD student wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to really raise his profile within the faculty. And he’s right to do so. Jan could become a worthy successor. Of course, he’ll have to cultivate a relationship with Piet de Geer, the dean, and maybe pick up the pace on his dissertation. But it will be worth it; this “tragedy” could really make his career. Again, N. feels some small satisfaction with himself.

N. is up now, anxiously pacing across the parking lot. He feels the pressure of society squeezing around him, like an uncomfortable jacket that’s too tight in the shoulders. All around him, people are hurrying for this and for that, everyone’s in a big rush to take home their little piece for the day. He wonders at how long he can keep up this game if he fails to get into the house today. When a police car passes slowly in front of him, the two occupants seeming far too attentive to his presence, N.’s paranoia gets the best of him.Sir, he imagines,can we please see some ID?Or worse, what if he is recognized by some vague acquaintance on their way to console Paula? Or some nosy neighborhood watchman in the apartment block behind him, hungry to be part of a true crime documentary, decides to alert the police that some man in a bad disguise has been sitting, staring at a row of bourgeois houses and obviously awaiting his opportunity to break in. He feels his presence become suddenly untenable. With feigned nonchalance, N. walks casually around the block; he’ll return once the police are satisfied with their patrol.

Once back at his post, he breathes a sigh of relief. Through the window, N. can see the busy movements of mother and daughter preparing to leave. Paula seems a little hunched in her mouse-gray suit, blonde-haired and pale. It isn’t very flattering on her. She has a closet full of beautiful clothes, and rarely leaves the house in such drab attire. Is N. only flattering himself when he imagines that his life partner looks downcast, dejected, mournful? She shuffles down the driveway and eases herself into the passenger seat of her mother’s Mercedes; he is comforted slightly by the knowledge that, at the very least, Paula is not entirely herself. She is not the type of woman who willingly gives up control of the steering wheel, either literally or figuratively.

Finally, the big sedan pulls out of the driveway, rays of sunlight glinting off its shining chrome. It seems unlikely to him that they would leave Anke at home alone at a time like this, so N. assumes that, given the time of day, the ladies have left to collect the girl from school. That gives him a ten-minute window, at most. He doesn’t have a second to lose!

Although his disguise feels increasingly akin to the emperor’s new clothes, he approaches the house from the rear. He had left his house key on the ring of keys now smoldering in the Peugeot. It didn’t matter. After the third time they’d hired a locksmith because someone absentmindedly locked their keys inside, Paula had insisted on hiding a spare key to the back door in a crack under the roof of the shed. N.’s practiced hand, trembling as it might be, finds the key immediately and carefully opens the door. In the utility room, he is suddenly deluged by the familiar smells of home. He moves quietly; he can’t be absolutely sure Anke isn’t home, otherwise he would storm through the place. Something moves in the next room, and N. freezes in place, until he sees Flap push open the door and welcome him with a tail around his leg, purring imperturbably, expecting a cuddle or something from the refrigerator.

Sorry, Flap, not today, he thinks, pushing past the angora cat. She withdraws haughtily, fixing her unfaithful owner with a distant, yellow green glare.

Is anyone home? N. can smell the nicotine from his mother-in-law’s cigarettes. He gathers that she’s been here a few days, judging from disheveled state of the guest bed. He is halfway up the stairs to his study when the telephone rings. It is deafening in the silent house, and N. fears for a moment that his heart may stop. He feels suddenly sick with fear, sweat breaking out all over his body. He can’t explain away the ominous feeling that has overcome him.Hurry!he thinks, and takes the stairs two at a time.

In his desk drawer, stashed in the bottom right corner, are four icons in open wrapping paper. He sets them on the desk, inspects each one briefly, then folds the paper back around them and ties it with some twine from another drawer. Downstairs, the phone rings again, every bit as ominous and persistent as before. He quickly scans the room, picks out a few cassettes of his old recordings, then plucks a recently purchased three-volume Montaigne andUnder the Volcanofrom the bookshelf. He stuffs everything into a plastic AH bag and thinks only vaguely of his extremely devalued stock holdings in the parent company of the well-known retailer. Fearing that Paula might notice the removal of anything too personal, N. scans the room again and sneaks hastily down the stairs, a thief in his own house.

Can he already hear the car in the drive, keys jangling at the front door? It’s been nearly ten minutes. Of course, he has the story ready, just in case. Close to the disaster, bang, fire, heat, dead, terribly dead people everywhere, numb for a few days, short memory loss, hospitable reception, the slow regaining of self-awareness. He has rehearsed it at least ten times, knowing it isn’t credible but hoping that relief at his survival might drown out the timbre of his lie. But the bottom line is still this: he will never,everbe offered the chance like this again. Fate surely will not drop another opportunity like this in his lap again, to just slip away, discreetly and permanently. This diabolical chemistry of time, age, reason, spirit, attitude, insight, position of the stars, and, lest he forget, deadly tragedy, came together just this once in harmonic vibration to slice through the fabric of reality so that he might step through and disappear behind the fold. No fabricated story will save him, no devilish trick. How could he return to his previous life, made even more unbearable by the weight of the disgusting lie? Indeed, he’d be pulled back, into the roiling pool of human bodies, elbowing and clawing one another for the space to become respected citizens in this society.