B007P4V3G4 EBOK Page 7

  The music began, a soft, sweet lingering melody; the suspended women now addressed the world beneath them with movements, like in a dream at first, more emphatically as the music grew, with enticing gestures of arms, head and legs. Everything about them seemed to say: come to us, we are intended for you and there is nothing we would more dearly like to do than to fulfil that purpose.

  Meanwhile, the balcony had become a complete pleasure ground.

  Dash it all. Not satisfied with the havoc they had wrought, they wished to continue their amusement with those who had survived it, whose drive for food had been assuaged and who through this had regained their strength, to continue it by baiting them as regards their second drive. While they themselves were fornicating freely there, they attempted to whip up their prisoners one more time to acts of fruitless rage. Slavegirls served them to this end. Perhaps they had been promised their freedom for playing this role, for they vied with one another in seductive movements of love. They gyrated, they sang and smiled down at the men, and with their arms they pretended to draw them up to them.

  With despair, he saw that this devilish intent succeeded too. His cave-mates kept their eyes riveted on the sirens above. They got up in order to be closer to them; they paced back and forth, restless, as though in a fever. He saw some of them stretch their arms aloft as if to say: let yourselves drop, we'll catch you. But the other ones laughed and beckoned and gyrated their bodies.

  One now tried to climb up the steep rock face. It was rough; here and there one could gain a hold. Followed by all eyes, the balcony's too, he went on climbing. Half way up, his strength failed him or a support gave way. He plummeted down and lay there.

  Others, too, attempted it, chose the most charming of the women or the roughest ascent and began, encouraged by a chorus of cries, their daring journey. The start to the vault, only a few metres removed from the desired goal, when the hands stretched out from either side almost touched, was nearly always fatal. Each time someone dropped down, the music would suddenly fall silent so the thud could clearly be heard.

  Once, he saw a he that big hairy succeed. He was already clutching the edges of the oval gap. But the same white arm that first had helped him get as far as this, now thrust him down unexpectedly.

  Never before had there been such cheering in the cave as when this happened.

  The longer he viewed all this, the more his soul unravelled. He felt himself go quietly mad. He felt regret over the food he had taken, for he wished to die. He stretched himself out on the rock floor, closed his eyes and resolved not to open them ever again. He wept over the sight the world still proffered him now on parting. He would turn away from it for good.

  That's the way he lay there a little while, the goings on around him forced back to a distant clamour. Then a droplet fell on his chest. The unexpectedness, the strangeness of this cleared his mind completely and made him abandon his resolve at once. He opened his eyes and looked straight up above. And lo: there was a slavegirl right above him. And regarding her closely, things became clear to him at once. She wept.

  Oh, what is it, that powerful thing that suddenly can come into being between two people? A current? A force field? An invisible ladder, in this case? He saw that, among all those women, she was different. No less charming, but dazed and desperate like him. He was the only one who saw this in the midst of the hellish uproar. He could not see that she wept but her tear had reached him there. A second one fell, on his shoulder.

  A great desire quivered throughout his being. If ever two people must be united in this wilderness, they were the ones. He jumped up and stretched his muscles, felt his strength return to him as though by magic. Did she see him too? He looked up and thought she did. Was that a smile breaking around her mouth? Was that a gleam in her eye? Was it the case that they only existed for one another now?

  With the eye of a hunter, he explored the steep rock face. Every fissure, every ledge he perceived and then he plotted his way accordingly, like in the past, when reaching a nest of young vultures was at stake. He gave a sign she would have to understand if the same fire had been kindled within her. And she did understand, for in reply she crossed her arms in front of her chest, thus indicating that she would pray for him the while.

  Now the alliance had been sealed. Who knows, she may already have noticed him much earlier on, and her tears had been a call.

  Slowly, and uncertainly at first because of his emotion, he began the ascent. As he rose higher and more perilously, the placement of his hands, of his fingers, the support of his feet, the transfer of his weight demanded all his attention. He was inconspicuous doing this: he was one of the many. Only later on, at the edge of the vaulting, did he attract general notice.

  Each time he had found sufficient support, he would rest for a moment and look up, and the more clearly he could see her, the more glorious she seemed to him. Now he could read his own, huge desire in her face. No, it wasn't a game with her like it was with the others, a game of cat and mouse, for beyond the radiance of her love's glow he could see the fear, the fear of failure, of him falling. But the others had to think that she, too, was luring him to his death.

  There had been one perilous moment; not when, for the first time, he saw her lips, her teeth, her nostrils, the wave in her hair, not even when he could distinguish the pupils in her eyes, when they switched focus from their faces to their eyes. All this was just glorious.

  Dangerous was the moment when, for the first time, they could call out to each other. He began, and when she answered him she did so in his own language. She was one of his tribe!

  By a whisker, he avoided toppling right over backwards. His entire body atremble, he clung to the rock and waited like this until he'd calmed down.

  His language, his language! His language had not yet died: it was still alive. It revived between the two of them, which was the most important thing, the only important thing. Now, she was completely like him.

  Who cared the way the others spoke? Nobody existed for him any more, except her. What he had wished to do when he believed to be closing his eyes for ever, to banish all that surrounded him from his thought, that same thing happened to him now. To him, she was all that truly existed.

  This was no trembling with fear, but trembling with happiness which was why it could change into strength and control. No more abandoning himself to tenderness now, no more words now except the ones trapeze artists will cry out to each other in the circus: no taking an advance on their happiness as long as it hadn't been captured yet.

  The most difficult part of all came at the edge, where he must surmount the incline. He now avoided looking at her on purpose; the sight of her so close by would be as deadly as that of Medusa, would make him fall at once.

  Measure for measure, he progressed. He, too, began to incline, over backwards: he had to grip the stone tightly. Softly, almost at a whisper, she gave instructions. 'Bit more to the left - a little further - no, not there, that bit's there's a hollow there - now raise your foot: there's another ledge along very go your left hand and stretch out as far as possible.'

  Yes, she gripped him: let go!

  Now those who were following him with bated breath from below and from the balcony saw him float through the air but to their amazement, he did not fall, though the music had already ceased.

  Quite how it was done, no one could really tell: a few seconds on, they saw the prisoner and the slavegirl in up there.

  She had truly drawn him to her.

  Now they were together. Now they could behold one another, say sweet nothings in each other's ears, melt their joys and their sorrow into one and entrust one another with their bodies.

  Both wept with happiness, but they knew, too, that it would not last, and that all that can be between man and woman must be encompassed in that short time.

  The sense of this brevity was the only thing that remained within them of the mayhem in the cave; all other things had been completely obliterated by their mutual poss
ession.

  Every word, each gesture proved to them that they were alike to an unfathomable depth.

  They hurled themselves into the abyss of one another.

  Amazement soon turned to anger in those who beheld this. They began to hurl abuse, to shout, to rant. Rage took all in its grip, the prisoners as much as the others. The empress shrieked. Like a fishwife.

  None of this got through to the loving couple.

  It took a long time before the order had been passed down the line and its execution came into effect.

  Then the servants reached them with their stakes and pushed them down.

  They still remained united in their fall.

  On the ground, she was torn to pieces over his broken back.

  Huub Beurskens

  We have arrived. I can hear the hubbub. People have come by the carload. There is excited calling and shouting. Cheerful, popular music sounds from loudspeakers, repeatedly interrupted by a voice listing numbers. These will be the numbers of parties allowed to go in, in the order announced. They are trying to make everything run in an orderly fashion and so prevent a crush. I can hear more cars arriving all the time. Particularly those with the heavy droning engines will be bringing in throngs of invited guests. There are so many guests that, right through the stink of exhaust fumes, I can even sniff their presence here. I don't mean anything derogatory by that, of course. On the contrary, the smell has something salutary about it, Doubtless, all have made themselves look splendid.

  I presume that I'll go in last and will stride forwards through the guests to enthusiastic applause. This accounts for one of the reasons why the car I am in has been shuttered off. Had the car been open to view, I would be being sniffed over by entire groups of admirers right stared at in any case. Moreover, I'm no spring chicken any more; I'm easily troubled by light that's too bright. In the back here, I can still stretch myself out for a moment, still savour the peace and quiet a while, and that way prepare myself for all the hullabaloo that will bear down on me any moment now. My driver knows this. I can rely on him.

  I am tense though. I have been through much in my life, but I can feel my heart thudding now even so. Just imagine: a heart attack right in front of the entrance, on the threshold! So, keep calm, as calm as possible. Best not to get all of a doodah: that I'm wobbly on my pins and because of this I possibly won't be able to proceed to the front, straight as a ramrod, later on. People will understand.

  Odd really: you're on your way to receive highest honours, everyone is full of respect and admiration for your achievements and you yourself are fretting about the way you

  I'd do better, ahead of time, to wallow a bit in the accolade that will be accorded me. It'll probably be a high dignitary who'll present the insignia. But secretly I entertain the hope that the president himself will think it an honour. After all, I was quite in the dark until this morning. 'Come,' the driver who is also my secretary said, and before I knew it, before I'd had time to ask anything, we were on our way by car. Gradually it dawned on me. Well, yes, of course a thing like that has to be kept a surprise until the very last moment: that's the finest way of all.

  I am deeply honoured, on behalf of the entire government, to be able to award you highest honours for your many years of unremitting endeavour in the field of promoting artificial intelligence ...' The president will signal me to approach him and applause will resound afresh.

  It was clear very early on already that I was what is called a genius. I simply had it.

  Of late, with an eye to my age, I have begun to round things off and at the moment my productivity is no longer might as well say it's nil. I enjoy my old age. At last I'm getting down to activities which previously I could and would not allow myself: sleeping through the night, having a bite to eat, just lolloping something down, then sleeping the day away again: wonderful.

  That's the way things go. When you're young, you yearn for recognition, but that's not forthcoming and you go on, grinding yourself down even though nobody ever truly seems to show appreciation for what you produce. And then, when you withdraw, tired, when you've done your bit and the sorrow you've had because of all that lack of appreciation barely affects you any more, then, from one day to the next, you're being praised and made into a folk hero. In retrospect it turns out to have to be that way; you realise that that way's the best. Appreciation at too early a stage breeds arrogance and sloth and who would be served by that? But just you try telling that to a young ambitious so-andso...

  I can still hear more folk arriving. The noise some of them make! Their gleeful anticipation's enough to shatter your eardrums.

  My driver's standing outside with one of his colleagues - judging by the a cigarette, awaiting things to come.

  I've never mixed with the common crowd. This too is curious in a way. I have never gone among the people; I had no time and opportunity for it. And now, precisely because of that solitary, celibate life, I, with all my being, will end up the centre of attention. No, I have never been married; I've never asked someone to walk out The toll paid by genius. I never experienced it physically as such, however. No earthly reason to bemoan my fate because of that.

  Everything will be colourfully decorated in the main hall. Beaming, the president will be awaiting me on the dais. The lectern has been tittified up with flags and inflated balloons. The ceiling and everything behind him is festooned with garlands in the most wide ranging hues of pink and red. His Excellency is wearing a bright yellow rose on his left lapel. Doubtless, later on, after the official part, he will pin this to me with a grand gesture, as a personal, friendly token of appreciation.

  Heavens, I haven't got a coat! I haven't got a coat. I'm not even wearing a shirt or a See, that's what happens when you're not accustomed to move about in public and then one morning, from one moment to the next, without having been informed about it, you're having to go by car to receive highest honours. To be pleasantly surprised is highly goes without saying - but the consternation it brings along in its wake can also have its disadvantageous side, too, it seems. It's making me grumpy. Driver!

  He doesn't hear me of course. Let's give the door a bash. He doesn't heed that either. He's too busy talking, with the president's driver probably - again, that's quite an honour for him personally, too. But there will definitely not be time later on to quickly rustle up a frock coat from somewhere. He will, still having a laugh with the president's driver, open the door and there'll be me, sitting there in the flashlight of scores of photographers, and in all the papers tomorrow: LAUREATE UNFROCKED!

  I can't help it: this makes me giggle myself. My whole body begins to judder, all the fat joins in, it even sets my belly atremble; it takes a huge effort not to burst forth; the tears are already running down my cheeks; ohhh, there you have it: I'm roaring with it already. I yelp and let off a right-old fart on top of it all!

  The driver strikes the car with the flat of his hand. He's right: soon everyone will know i'm here after all. And I must keep bearing my health in mind. This has left me quite hot. There's not much ventilation. I'll catch cold, getting out in a moment. My lungs and my heart can't stand just anything any more. I'm portly. Since becoming emeritus, my weight has even increased considerably. Should I make too much of an effort, my ticker won't cope, I fear. Ah well, like every stage in life, old age too, besides its pleasures, has its afflictions.

  In a kind of way, it's possibly quite fitting, in fact, that I'm not wearing any upper garments. People all too readily like to see the genius as a somewhat absentminded character; one doesn't merely have to look up to him, in that case: it makes him earthly and less unapproachable. Not such a bad idea, therefore, to come to receive highest honours without a shirt, tie and frock coat: as a token of absentmindedness. Understanding, everybody will laugh and I'll be able to gamer even more sympathy.

  What is it I hear the presidential driver say? 'He'll be getting a blue stamp,' he says. 'No,' my driver replies, 'he'll be having a red one.' 'Blue, purple, perhaps g
reen,' the state driver responds, 'but no way red.' This continues for a while between those two.

  A stamp?! All the time I've based things on the premise that I would be allowed to receive a medal or would have a decoration pinned to my frock coat at least. Must be an old fashioned image of mine: apparently I'm no longer up to date. If I've got things straight, it's to be a stamp, I gather. Each area of life thus has its own Ah, that's why the driver at our departure did not draw my attention to the fact that I wasn't wearing upper garments! If one is stamping someone on such an occasion, one doesn't stamp the black frock coat, nor the tie or the spotless shirt, but the chest. This at least I may assume: the bare body, the chest, though the advantage of the stamp is that it can be applied not just to one place but to many.

  It's doubtless done with indelible ink. Herein, too, must lie the point of this innovation: a medal can go missing, one can forget to pin on a decoration and in the crush, even at the reception afterwards already, it might drop from the lapel. Such a stamp stays in place once and for all, indelible, so the laureate can move proudly among the people at all times.

  For that matter, it's not improbable, now I actually think about it, that such an innovation as this one can be ascribed directly or indirectly to the use of artificial intelligence provided by me. Should this indeed be the case, I owe the highest honours to myself in two ways rather than one. Further reason to be grand, methinks.

  So there'll be a reception at the conclusion of the ceremony, an informal gathering with all kinds of snacks: Scotch eggs, sausage rolls, canapes, sausages, possibly even a grill or barbecue, for such are also things of these times, it seems to me. I like a bit of what I fancy. There's not much I'll turn my nose up at. My mouth's watering even now.

  Meanwhile the president wants to have a cosy chat with me. On that occasion I'll just ask him how things are with the younger generation, whether there's sufficient new talent, and I'll press him to stimulate that talent and to go on stimulating it. Then I take another bite and a swig.