Ventoux. Bert Wagendorp

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СКАЧАТЬ got my old Batavus out of the shed, and began cleaning it up. It was, may I say, one of my better decisions. On the bike I began slowly but surely to realize that you can go right, but also left. That you can always take the same route, but can also choose a different one. That things sometimes happen to you, but that you can do something for yourself. Anyway, it was another five years before we got divorced. Anna was 18 by then, and there was no longer any reason for Hinke and me to stay together.

      Ever since I’ve been alone again, I’ve lived in a spacious flat in the centre of Alkmaar. I once moved to the town because I found Amsterdam too big and the people too noisy and far too full of themselves, and now I don’t want to leave. The flat is sparsely furnished, but that doesn’t bother me. Everything I need is there, and I like space around me.

      I know every metre of cyclable road between Den Helder and Purmerend. On the bike you think time is standing still, or at least that it is no threat at all. The bike protects you from despair.

      Anna has bought a Bianchi—she was well brought up. Not a German racing bike via the Internet, not some new American racer, but an Italian classic make. She knows who Coppi and Bartali were, and likes the Giro better than the Tour.

      ‘Brilliant colour,’ I said, when she brought it to show me. ‘Nice sea-green.’

      ‘Celeste, it’s called.’

      Never knew that; you have to be a cycling woman for that.

      ‘La Dama Bianca,’ I said.

      ‘Giulia Occhini.’

      ‘The doctor?’

      ‘Locatelli. Enrico.’

      ‘In?’

      ‘Varano Borghi.’

      ‘On…’

      ‘Lago Comabbio.’

      ‘Never heard of it.’

      ‘Never existed, it’s the tears of dottore Locatelli, mixed with the sweat of Fausto Coppi.’

      ‘And the love juices of Giulia Occhini.’

      She started roaring with laughter. ‘Bart! The child is here!’

      The latter was a quote from her mother. I immediately saw the tent before me, on the Italian campsite, the rickety table with the breakfast on it and Anna’s conspiratorial smile.

      ‘Passion or betrayal?’

      ‘Passion. If she hadn’t gone with Fausto it would have been betrayal.’

      ‘Very good.’

      ‘Bart! You’re making the child completely amoral! Of course it was betrayal.’

      It was one of our set dialogues. We had about ten of them, and both of us knew our lines perfectly. This one was extra special. On a holiday trip when she was 10 we rode to Varano Borghi, not so far from Lago Maggiore, to see where Giulia came from. I had just seen a play called Fausto and Giulia and wanted to know whether there was anything to be found in the village that evoked the most famous love story in sport.

      There was nothing. I asked a passer-by if he knew where dottore Locatelli’s old house had been, but he shrugged his shoulders.

      It was the end of February; people were still talking about the Eleven Cities Skating Race, but she had already done a few circuits. She pointed to the kilometre counter: 195 kilometres. ‘Four times. Not bad, is it? And alone, you know, you’ve got to allow for that. Average 26.1.’ We made a date for two days later. I was looking forward to it—cycling together is friendship, love and togetherness, all in one.

      We rode west. At Egmond we went into the dunes. Rays of sunshine were drawing the cold out of the ground. ‘Take it easy, Dad,’ shouted Anna. ‘I’m still not properly in shape.’

      She was talking like a pro in the early spring. I held back, rode alongside her, and gave her a push in the back. ‘You’re pedalling too hard! All women pedal too hard. It’s because they’re always toiling along on those crazy Granny bikes. You must keep it supple. Change gears more lightly.’ She did as I said. I put my hands on the handlebars and just for a moment touched happiness.

      In a café in Bakkum, a handsome lad served us coffee. Anna had taken her jacket off and he looked at her jersey.

      ‘Suits you,’ he said.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said, and gave him a heavenly smile.

      ‘Bottoms suit you too.’ She waved him away with a casual gesture.

      I drank a mouthful of coffee and looked at her. ‘Strange things are happening, Anna,’ I said.

      ‘Very strange things are happening. In America, a panther walked into a house on a new estate and fell asleep on the sofa. I read it this morning on…’

      ‘With me. With my life.’

      ‘Oh. What kind of strange things?’

      ‘Well, first I see my old friend André in court.’

      ‘Is he a judge?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘A lawyer?’

      ‘No, he’s a criminal.’

      ‘Christ. And is he your friend? Will he have to go to jail?’

      ‘No, acquitted due to lack of evidence.’

      ‘Lucky. For him, that is. And what else, in the way of odd things?’

      ‘A little later I read that my friend Joost has been nominated for the Spinoza Prize.’

      ‘What does he do?’

      ‘He’s a brilliant physicist. At least that was what the paper said.’

      ‘Oh. Don’t know the prize.’

      ‘Kind of Dutch Nobel Prize, you could say.’

      ‘Funny friends you’ve got. And the other one, what’s his name…’

      ‘David. From the travel agency. He doesn’t count for the moment, because I still see him regularly and he calls me twice a week.’

      ‘But what kind of strange stuff is going on then?’

      ‘Everything is coming back.’

      She looked at me thoughtfully. ‘I don’t find it that strange, I think. These things happen. Chance.’

      ‘There were two other friends,’ I said. ‘Or rather, a friend and a girlfriend, Peter and Laura.’

      Now she raised her eyebrows. ‘And have they turned up, too?’

      ‘No.’

      I waved to the waiter and ordered two more coffees. СКАЧАТЬ