during his private moments; like tonight, in the restaurant.
He looked at the man with the beard and then at me; the wrinkle was gone. He winked, and the next moment he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his cell phone.
‘Excuse me, would you?’ he said, taking a look at the display. ‘I’m afraid I have to take this.’ He smiled apologetically at the beard, pressed a key and raised the phone to his ear.
There had been no sound, no old-fashioned ringing, no special ringtone with a little tune – but it was possible; there was plenty of background noise that could have prevented the beard and Naomi and me from hearing anything, or who knows, maybe he had the phone set to vibrate.
Who could say? Certainly not the beard. For him the moment had arrived to slink away empty-handed: of course he might have had his doubts about the phone call, he had every reason to think he was being flimflammed – but experience showed that people didn’t do that. It ruined their story; they’d had their picture taken with the future prime minister of the Netherlands, they had talked to him a little, but he was a busy man too.
‘Oh,’ Serge said into the phone. ‘Where?’ He was no longer looking at the beard and his daughter, he was looking outside; as far as he was concerned they had already left. It was, I must admit, a great bit of acting. ‘I’m having dinner at the moment,’ he said and looked at his watch; he mentioned the name of the restaurant. ‘No, I won’t be able to do that before midnight,’ he said.
I felt it was my duty to look at the man with the beard. I was the receptionist who shows the patient to the door, because the doctor himself has to deal with the next patient. I gestured, not an apologetic gesture, but one that more or less said that he and his daughter could now withdraw without suffering any loss of face.
‘These are the times when you ask yourself what you do it for,’ my brother sighed when we were alone again and he had put away his cell phone. ‘Jesus Christ, those are the worst! The ones who just won’t go away. If the girl had at least been a little bit pretty …’ He winked. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Paul, I forgot. You like them like that, the wallflowers.’
He grinned at his own joke, and I grinned along with him, looking towards the door to see if Claire and Babette were on their way back. But then, before I expected it, Serge grew serious again. He put his elbows on the table and formed a little bridge with his fingertips. ‘So what were we talking about?’ he said.
And then they came with the main course.
18
And then? Then I was standing outside, looking from a distance at my brother who was sitting at our table all alone. I was sorely tempted to spend the rest of the evening out here – or at least not go back inside.
I heard an electronic beep that I couldn’t place at first, followed by other beeps that together seemed to form a melody; what it resembled most was the ringtone coming from a cell phone, but not my own.
Still, undeniably, it was coming from the pocket of my own blazer, the right pocket: I’m left-handed, so I always put my cell in my left-hand pocket. I slid my hand – my right hand – into the pocket and felt, in addition to the familiar keyring and something hard, which I knew to be an open pack of Stimorol gum, an object that could only be a phone.
Before I had time to even pull it out, I realized what was going on. How Michel’s phone had ended up in my pocket was something I couldn’t reconstruct immediately, but I still found myself faced with the simple fact that someone was calling Michel – on his cell phone. Now that it was no longer muffled by the fabric of my blazer, the ringtone was awfully loud, so loud that I was afraid you might hear it all over the park.
‘Fuck,’ I said.
The best thing, of course, would be to let the phone go on ringing until it switched to voicemail. On the other hand, I wanted it to stop
He looked at the man with the beard and then at me; the wrinkle was gone. He winked, and the next moment he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his cell phone.
‘Excuse me, would you?’ he said, taking a look at the display. ‘I’m afraid I have to take this.’ He smiled apologetically at the beard, pressed a key and raised the phone to his ear.
There had been no sound, no old-fashioned ringing, no special ringtone with a little tune – but it was possible; there was plenty of background noise that could have prevented the beard and Naomi and me from hearing anything, or who knows, maybe he had the phone set to vibrate.
Who could say? Certainly not the beard. For him the moment had arrived to slink away empty-handed: of course he might have had his doubts about the phone call, he had every reason to think he was being flimflammed – but experience showed that people didn’t do that. It ruined their story; they’d had their picture taken with the future prime minister of the Netherlands, they had talked to him a little, but he was a busy man too.
‘Oh,’ Serge said into the phone. ‘Where?’ He was no longer looking at the beard and his daughter, he was looking outside; as far as he was concerned they had already left. It was, I must admit, a great bit of acting. ‘I’m having dinner at the moment,’ he said and looked at his watch; he mentioned the name of the restaurant. ‘No, I won’t be able to do that before midnight,’ he said.
I felt it was my duty to look at the man with the beard. I was the receptionist who shows the patient to the door, because the doctor himself has to deal with the next patient. I gestured, not an apologetic gesture, but one that more or less said that he and his daughter could now withdraw without suffering any loss of face.
‘These are the times when you ask yourself what you do it for,’ my brother sighed when we were alone again and he had put away his cell phone. ‘Jesus Christ, those are the worst! The ones who just won’t go away. If the girl had at least been a little bit pretty …’ He winked. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Paul, I forgot. You like them like that, the wallflowers.’
He grinned at his own joke, and I grinned along with him, looking towards the door to see if Claire and Babette were on their way back. But then, before I expected it, Serge grew serious again. He put his elbows on the table and formed a little bridge with his fingertips. ‘So what were we talking about?’ he said.
And then they came with the main course.
18
And then? Then I was standing outside, looking from a distance at my brother who was sitting at our table all alone. I was sorely tempted to spend the rest of the evening out here – or at least not go back inside.
I heard an electronic beep that I couldn’t place at first, followed by other beeps that together seemed to form a melody; what it resembled most was the ringtone coming from a cell phone, but not my own.
Still, undeniably, it was coming from the pocket of my own blazer, the right pocket: I’m left-handed, so I always put my cell in my left-hand pocket. I slid my hand – my right hand – into the pocket and felt, in addition to the familiar keyring and something hard, which I knew to be an open pack of Stimorol gum, an object that could only be a phone.
Before I had time to even pull it out, I realized what was going on. How Michel’s phone had ended up in my pocket was something I couldn’t reconstruct immediately, but I still found myself faced with the simple fact that someone was calling Michel – on his cell phone. Now that it was no longer muffled by the fabric of my blazer, the ringtone was awfully loud, so loud that I was afraid you might hear it all over the park.
‘Fuck,’ I said.
The best thing, of course, would be to let the phone go on ringing until it switched to voicemail. On the other hand, I wanted it to stop
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