Ventoux. Bert Wagendorp

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СКАЧАТЬ at me pityingly. Couldn’t climb, poor fucker.

      ‘I thought so,’ said Kees Nales. ‘Too heavy and no climbing muscles.’

      A little further on they went up the Eltenberg. It was a bit steeper and longer than the Peeske. They didn’t even wait for me at the top. I decided to cycle alone from then on. I tried to get André onto his father’s old bike, but failed.

      Cycling is a sport of the imagination. On my own, I was the talented one, and my unshaven legs didn’t matter. Others rode me and my fantasy to pieces.

      I celebrated my 45th birthday alone, since I was divorced a few months earlier. One day, after everything was settled, I bought a Pinarello Angliru, blue with red and grey highlights. As a consolation, I told myself, but actually it was more of a reward.

      Then Ventoux came back into my head.

      -

      III

      The first time we heard Joost say anything, immediately after he had entered our classroom, he made us laugh. It was because of his accent. It was 1969, October or November, I suspect, as we were making dolls of chestnuts and matches.

      Miss Hospes introduced him. ‘This is Joost,’ she said, with those nice Eastern os.

      ‘What a small class’, said Joost. ‘In Amsterdam the class is much bigger. And we have an aquarium, too. Our teacher is called Miss Prins.’

      ‘Joost’s father is a doctor,’ said Miss Hospes. Joost nodded. ‘First Joost’s father was a doctor in Amsterdam, now he’s a doctor here. Perhaps you will be able to go to Joost’s father sometime, if you’re ill.’

      ‘Or if you die.’ Joost laughed out loud, but we were shocked and Cora Berg started crying.

      ‘Don’t say those funny things, Joost,’ said Miss Hospes.

      ‘And my mother plays the saxophone.’ No one knew what a saxophone was.

      ‘Really, that’s nice. So tell the class what nice songs she plays.’

      ‘No songs. Mummy plays jazz.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Miss Hospes, who knew more about psalms.

      ‘She puts on records by Charlie Parker and she plays along. It drives Daddy crazy. “Can’t you stop that tooting,” he shouts. “It’s just like a cow.” Then she shouts, “Prick.”’ Joost must have found that very funny, because he almost got the giggles.

      ‘Do you have any brothers and sisters?’ asked Miss Hospes, with a blush on her cheeks.

      ‘I have sisters. One is called Louise and the other Sandra. Louise is seven and Sandra is seven, too. They’re twins. I can’t tell them apart, they’re so alike. But I like Sandra better than Louise.’

      ‘Right, Joost,’ said Miss Hospes, ‘go and sit next to Bart. Bart is that boy with the red sweater. Can you see him?’

      ‘Yes, he looks like a leprechaun.’

      He came over to me and said we were going to the clay tray. He paid scarcely any attention to the other children. I beckoned André, who was sitting opposite me at our table. ‘We’re going to the clay tray, come on.’

      ‘This is clay,’ said Joost at the clay tray, as if he were giving a commentary. ‘When I pick up a piece of clay, I can make something out of it. For example, a little man. But when I throw the man back in the clay tray and I give him a thump, he becomes clay again.’ He sounded really surprised, as if he himself were listening to something new. André looked at him open-mouthed.

      Within a day we were inseparable. AndréJoostandBart.

      -

      IV

      André lived in an apartment complex in South Rotterdam. I parked my car by the water, crossed the road, and walked toward a large glass door. I looked for number 85 and rang the bell. I had traced his address through a lawyer with whom I was friendly and sent him a postcard. On it I had written that I would be at his place on 16 March at 11 o’clock, and he should let me know if that didn’t suit him. I got an email in reply. ‘Bring your bike with you,’ it said. ‘You looked as if you were in training.’

      ‘Bart!’ cried a familiar voice. ‘Good to see you, man! Same as ever! Didn’t shave this morning, I see,’ There was a buzzing tone. ‘Door’s open. Come right up. Fourth floor. Got your bike with you?’

      I didn’t reply, but pushed the door open and went to the elevator.

      Of all my old friends, André is the most precious to me. Or perhaps I should say: the memories of André are dearest to me. Our friendship is older than we are. Our mothers were friends because our grannies were already friends. We went about together when our mothers sat opposite each other at table with their big tummies. Once we were born, a week apart, we were immediately an inseparable duo.

      I have a photo in which the two of us are sitting in a playpen, two boys of eighteen months, in the same pink knickerbockers and the same white jumpers. ‘November 1965, Bart and André’, my mother has written on the back. We are playing with blocks, me with my left hand, André with his right. We have put our free arms around each other. ‘The two of you sat like that for hours,’ says my mother.

      I think friendship is based more on shared experiences than on compatibility or attraction. I share more with André than anyone else.

      He gave me a Russian bear hug, long and powerful, kissed me on both cheeks, and beamed at me. He was moved, and I was probably the only person in the world who could spot that.

      ‘Bart, man, I’m so pleased to see you again.’

      ‘Me too, André.’

      ‘Coffee? Cappuccino?’

      ‘I’d love one.’

      The huge room was white. White walls, a floor of white tiles, and a white ceiling. In the middle there was a black Gispen table with six Jacobsen chairs around it. In front of the window with a view of the River Maas stood a large sofa; hanging on the wall was a TV screen of cinema proportions. In two corners were two tall speakers. Apart from that, the room was empty.

      André’s father was caretaker at the Baudartius, our secondary school. He had been a renowned amateur cyclist with a powerful finishing sprint. In André’s parental home, the living room was full of lamps, vases, and other knick-knacks that old Gerrit had won in the criteriums of the eastern Netherlands. Perhaps that explained André’s sparse interior.

      The emptiness spoke for itself and did not beg to be filled. In that emptiness stood a bike, a splendid racing bike. I walked around it once, I touched the stem and stroked the saddle. It was soft brown, like the tape on the handlebars and a strip on the tubes. The bike itself was white. Gold leaf seemed to have been applied on the down and seat tubes of the triangle of the frame.

      ‘Wow,’ I said. I saw André smiling contentedly as he came into the room with two cups on a tray.

      ‘Listen a minute.’ He took a remote off the table and pressed the button. I heard a guitar, and a little later a couple of violins, СКАЧАТЬ