separated the light into coloured fragments, somewhere behind her the sound reverberated through the marble corridors of a labyrinthine building. It was an indefinable feeling that nevertheless half penetrated her consciousness and was immediately forgotten , as soon as she stopped singing.
A walnut piano of obscure East European make was acquired so that she could accompany herself. The money for it and the lessons was scraped together by her mother, to her father’s bloodthirsty delight: now it was his turn to make a row about irresponsible expenditure. He readily over-indulged himself in the idolatry of such famous figures as Marx and Stalin, Beethoven and Caruso, but he could not imagine that something exceptional, for which sacrifices had to be made, could be developing within reach in his own surroundings, where the trivialities made him bad tempered increasingly often.
The piano brought a tuner to the house every three months. He was long and thin with a gypsy’s bird-of-prey nose. His black curly hair was shaved on the sides but stuck up on top so that from a distance he looked as though he had a beret on his head. He always wore the same close-fitting black suit that elicited all kinds of speculations. Was it a wedding outfit from before the war, the dress coat of an undertaker, a morning coat with the tails cut off, or a theatrical costume worn by the devil or death? Below his tight trousers he wore modern American shoes which he kept in impeccable condition. He was a man of contrasts. The leanness of his body was compensated for by the visible dimensions of his genitalia , which, because of the shortage of space, he gave air in hisright trouser leg, or on another occasion in his left. The whispering modesty of his voice was cancelled out by the honky-tonk sounds he elicited from the piano. The sisters fled to the kitchen, united in their aversion to his thing, but also amazed that his face remained so neutral in the presence of that which made itself so evident below his belt. They were commissioned to take him coffee, but no one dared. They clung to each other, giggling. Eventually Lotte took the cup in – he was her tuner. He accepted it with a smile, unaware of the consternation he was arousing with his controversial body. After his visit the cup was washed up with extra soap.
He was also a serviceable amateur photographer. Lotte’s mother persuaded him to take a family portrait on the occasion of Eefje’s birth. She had invited him on a Sunday afternoon in May; above the white garden bench that was selected to be the central ornament , a swallow’s nest hung beneath the roof gable – the parental couple were doing overtime flying back and forth. Nervous activity prevailed before the photographer’s arrival; up to the last moment dresses were being adjusted and straightened. Lotte’s father refused to put on another suit. He was not planning to pose, he said; only the Tsar and Tsarina had themselves commemorated en famille. ‘What have I got to do with that man?’ he added scornfully . ‘You don’t have to do anything with that man,’ said his wife, ‘he’s coming here to take photographs, I shall offer him a cup of coffee convivially and you will present a cigar.’ But he was in the mood for sabotage, enjoying the power tossed into his lap by the occasion.
He was nowhere to be found when the photographer arrived lugging a heavy telescopic camera and stand. Irresistible in a dress with poppies on a cream background, Lotte’s mother steered him into the garden. Her offspring trickled outside while he was positioning himself and his equipment where she indicated, directly opposite the bench. Mies, who worked in a milliner’s business, wore a cognac-coloured suit with an inverted bird’s nest of raffia on her head. Marie wanted to establish for posterity that she was theugly duckling of the family; she had on a high-necked grey dress and refused to remove her glasses for the photograph. Jet
A walnut piano of obscure East European make was acquired so that she could accompany herself. The money for it and the lessons was scraped together by her mother, to her father’s bloodthirsty delight: now it was his turn to make a row about irresponsible expenditure. He readily over-indulged himself in the idolatry of such famous figures as Marx and Stalin, Beethoven and Caruso, but he could not imagine that something exceptional, for which sacrifices had to be made, could be developing within reach in his own surroundings, where the trivialities made him bad tempered increasingly often.
The piano brought a tuner to the house every three months. He was long and thin with a gypsy’s bird-of-prey nose. His black curly hair was shaved on the sides but stuck up on top so that from a distance he looked as though he had a beret on his head. He always wore the same close-fitting black suit that elicited all kinds of speculations. Was it a wedding outfit from before the war, the dress coat of an undertaker, a morning coat with the tails cut off, or a theatrical costume worn by the devil or death? Below his tight trousers he wore modern American shoes which he kept in impeccable condition. He was a man of contrasts. The leanness of his body was compensated for by the visible dimensions of his genitalia , which, because of the shortage of space, he gave air in hisright trouser leg, or on another occasion in his left. The whispering modesty of his voice was cancelled out by the honky-tonk sounds he elicited from the piano. The sisters fled to the kitchen, united in their aversion to his thing, but also amazed that his face remained so neutral in the presence of that which made itself so evident below his belt. They were commissioned to take him coffee, but no one dared. They clung to each other, giggling. Eventually Lotte took the cup in – he was her tuner. He accepted it with a smile, unaware of the consternation he was arousing with his controversial body. After his visit the cup was washed up with extra soap.
He was also a serviceable amateur photographer. Lotte’s mother persuaded him to take a family portrait on the occasion of Eefje’s birth. She had invited him on a Sunday afternoon in May; above the white garden bench that was selected to be the central ornament , a swallow’s nest hung beneath the roof gable – the parental couple were doing overtime flying back and forth. Nervous activity prevailed before the photographer’s arrival; up to the last moment dresses were being adjusted and straightened. Lotte’s father refused to put on another suit. He was not planning to pose, he said; only the Tsar and Tsarina had themselves commemorated en famille. ‘What have I got to do with that man?’ he added scornfully . ‘You don’t have to do anything with that man,’ said his wife, ‘he’s coming here to take photographs, I shall offer him a cup of coffee convivially and you will present a cigar.’ But he was in the mood for sabotage, enjoying the power tossed into his lap by the occasion.
He was nowhere to be found when the photographer arrived lugging a heavy telescopic camera and stand. Irresistible in a dress with poppies on a cream background, Lotte’s mother steered him into the garden. Her offspring trickled outside while he was positioning himself and his equipment where she indicated, directly opposite the bench. Mies, who worked in a milliner’s business, wore a cognac-coloured suit with an inverted bird’s nest of raffia on her head. Marie wanted to establish for posterity that she was theugly duckling of the family; she had on a high-necked grey dress and refused to remove her glasses for the photograph. Jet
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