A short story by Ruud van Weerdenburg

Read the Italian version here!

Encounters at night can be fascinating. Close to Damsquare I saw a man rummaging through a dustbin. Bent over, wool cap on head – it was January, and you could hardly see the city for snow – he seemed to be thinking: “Not that, not that, not that either – good Lord, what`s left?” He kept his head lowered, not even raising it as he took two steps back then walked in my direction.
  His finger tips poked through black gloves, just as did those of the milkman who used to come to us in our Dutch village; but the milkman had made the holes on purpose, to count change. The man wore old army boots. Just before our eyes met I fished a twenty guilder note out of my trouser pocket – for the purpose I did not need “milkman gloves” – and held it toward the advancing wool cap.
  He looked at me – with surprisingly beautiful green eyes. There was in them the same shine I had admired on the ice at midday. Shaking his head he thanked me and wanted to walk on. But he interested me, because of his eyes, because of his modest gestures and most of all, naturally, because he had refused money.
  Didn`t I need the twenty guilder myself, he asked, as I offered it to him. “Didn`t I need” was saying too little. I often could not afford a second cup of coffee.
  “Don`t think you have to give it to me because I need it. That would be a big mistake. Keep it.”
  Our rolls had been exchanged. The benefactor had brutally burst in upon a private life. The situation was still more shameful: within a few moments I had jumped to the conclusion this man was not capable of feeding himself. Damn it! By being so obliging I had shoved him far under my niveau! “Then you can at least have a cup of coffee – something warm,” I said, “anyway I`m home soon.” Why had I concluded that the other had no home?
  Immediately I asked where he lived. “Over there somewhere,” was what I understood, and he gestured in the direction from which I had come.
  “Do you have a room?” My curiosity grew with every second.
  “Some cardboard,” he said.
  What should I imagine by that? “Would you like to spend the night in my flat?”
  “No, no,” he answered with a smile. He preferred his own shelter. All this tiring fuss from such an unexpected provider of lodging got on his nerves. Actually I wanted to ask if I could walk with him: he radiated such contentment. How old would he be? The large expressive eyes, the smile on the thin lips and the impish beard suggested an open-mindedness I had previously never come across. Priceless. I did not dare enquire about his origins.
  Although I had enough money, he would not for all the world take anything from me. I asked him whether he occasionally visited a particular pub where we could see each other. But he claimed not to know beforehand where his way would lead. My telephone number! It suddenly occurred to me, I could give him my telephone number! But he shook his head in a friendly way. “We`ll certainly meet again,” he said.

  It was a year before I next saw him. One day the following winter while standing in the Museumstraat waiting for a bus, I was seized by a sudden impulse and began walking directly to McDonalds. I did ask myself why I was doing this but in the meantime my legs, unwavering, carried me to the “Hamburger Temple,” where to my astonishment I heard my own voice order “A double hamburger, please!” As though it were the most natural thing in the world, I sat down on the end of a long table.
  Two seats farther down I saw the broad back of a man in a wool cap the color and pattern of which seemed familiar. From the way he let his head fall back on the nape of his neck I knew he was drinking the last drop from his cup. At the same time the raised tip of his beard sprang into view. I leaned over and said, “We know each other.” He turned toward me, and I looked him full in the eyes. At that moment I realized that one human being can never know another. This sad certainty not only shone in his eyes but also broke out in his smile. It seemed to me the year had made him sadder, but he also appeared stronger and prouder from the conviction that only independence could serve him. This man had surely found the right dance for his life. I wanted to ask him what experiences had brought him to this point, but I knew it was impossible for words to express more than his face, his whole person.
  Even those who have perfected the talent of speaking skillfully come no farther than to a certain deftness in conversation, at best on a higher level. All that has nothing to do with truth. “We know each other.” The sentence echoed in my head as though it had been shouted amid high mountains. I could have bitten of my tongue. That, of all sentences!
  “We have met, yes,” he said nodding slowly. Once again I brought up money, I simply couldn`t stop myself. To hide my embarrassment? To win his affection? To put him under obligation? To show that I also had power? All this caused me to think in a way I had never done before. All thought of the last bus vanished – it was twelve when I left McDonalds – so I began to walk home and even then walked past my own door. The very act of walking pleased me: my feet found their way with even greater ease, and, almost flowing, my body followed after. There was nothing more beautiful than simply walking – idle walking.

  Since then that walking nowhere in particular has become the pattern of my life. Year in, year out I take my way. Last night as I was combing a dustbin for food someone offered me money himself. I apparently interested him; he asked if I wouldn`t like to visit him, or if we couldn`t meet in a pub. Yes, he even asked if I would like to have his telephone number. I shook my head. “We will certainly meet again,” I explained.

Erschienen 2006 im Magazin IN BALANCE