Beyond Sleep by Willem Frederik Hermans

Author:Willem Frederik Hermans [Hermans, Willem Frederik]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC000000, FIC019000
ISBN: 9781468303759
Publisher: Overlook
Published: 2008-05-26T22:00:00+00:00

27

Curious as to why all Arne’s possessions look so shabby, I asked him last night if he gets on well with his father.

My question puzzled him:

‘Don’t you?’

‘My father died when I was seven.’

‘You hardly knew him, then.’

‘No, but I suppose I loved him dearly. Sometimes I think I’m still trying to get into his good books.’

‘Who knows.’

‘I don’t believe in life after death, but sometimes I feel as if I’m doing things in the subconscious hope that my father is looking on. Perhaps it’s just that I don’t care to admit I’m doing them with an eye to my mother, who’s still alive.’

‘You are very introspective,’ he said.

‘But it’s so simple. If I hadn’t known who my father was, if I’d been a foundling, I might have done exactly the same things I’m doing now, but I’d believe my motives were completely different. So you are on good terms with your father, are you?’

‘Too good maybe. My father is rather a rich man, you see. He has always been very successful. I am his only son. That complicates things. ‘Night.’

*

A sunny morning. Each one of us sets off on his own. My skin is smooth, dry and brown – whether tanned or impregnated with grime and mosquito oil is hard to say. None of us has bothered to wash, let alone shave. Heating water is too much trouble and a cold shave too painful, especially with all those mosquito bites. Not shaving makes the cheeks itchy, but the stubble serves as protection.

I even tried going without my head-net for a bit: less stuffy. Mikkelsen and Qvigstad aren’t wearing head-nets. No doubt Qvigstad’s thick beard is better protection against insects than mine, and Mikkelsen himself is probably too repellent to attract them.

I have been roaming around all day without coming across one iota of support for my sensational hypothesis. The notes I have made until now don’t add up to more than half a page.

At six, on my way back to the tents, I catch sight of Arne. With much ado, he is preparing to take a photograph of a sizeable outcrop of glacial rock, for which purpose he has climbed onto another outcrop with a sheer drop of several metres on one side.

Arne is doing some kind of gymnastics. Flexing his knees, moving his head forwards and backwards with the Leica pressed to his eye. I charge up the side of his outcrop and join him at the top. Pressing the shutter, he mutters:

‘Perhaps …’

‘Why do you say “ perhaps” every time you take a picture?’

‘My photographs don’t usually turn out very well.’

‘You can’t be serious! Anyone can use a camera nowadays. Plenty of teach-yourself books.’

‘It isn’t that. Look, the lens is loose in the collar – that’s the problem.’

‘Buy a new camera. Ask your father to get you one.’

‘Oh, him. Every time I see him he asks sarcastically whether I’ve taken any pictures lately. The moment I show them to him he offers me a new Leica.’

‘Well then.’

‘I don’t dare.

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