In Search of Achilles

By Marco van den Berg Scholten

Summer 1990. The Berlin Wall has fallen. In Europe, society is about to spiral upward toward more prosperity and freedom for all. The free market provides the lone blueprint for a life of purpose. But does it? As the sun of plenty shines brighter, the shadows grow darker. And while his professors teach po

• Language: English
• Publisher: Koehler Books
• Release date: Oct 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888241066

Marco van den Berg Scholten

Marco van den Berg Scholten is the former head coach of the Dutch national basketball team. He was a professional basketball coach in the Netherlands and Germany as well as in European Cup leagues from 1988 until 2021. He is a multiple-championship winner and the first Dutch basketball coach to work in Germany's highest league, the Bundesliga. He studied journalism and history at the university of his hometown of Groningen and has always been a writer. He previously published No Prima Donnas, a textbook on his coaching philosophy, and written numerous columns in national newspapers and media outlets. In Search of Achilles is his debut novel.

Book preview

1.

I walked a full round but found no one.

I had returned to my hometown, a midsized, unassertive town in our small, unassertive country. It was a hot evening, early June, and the student population dominated the downtown scene. As was generally the case on a Thursday, the students were already signing off their learning week. Fridays were for hangovers and collecting dirty laundry to take home in a pillowcase. The restlessness of the party atmosphere was enhanced by the fact that for the majority of the students, it was the end of the entire learning year as well.

This pretty much applied to me also: I was technically a student in English literature at that time—not in my hometown, where I hadn’t been for the length of two full years, but in our capital, which wasn’t, and still isn’t, unassertive or small. I say technically because for three whole semesters, I had not attended any classes, nor written any papers. This had been a conscious decision and grounds for recurrent animated discussions with members of my family.

I spent the year and a half finding out if I could make it as a writer, trying my hand at short stories and poems. For living expenses, I accepted a job as a youth basketball trainer. It made just enough to sustain both Els and me, but for breathing room, she worked two mornings cleaning houses. We were able to eat relatively healthy and took good care of our clothes. We were deeply in love then, which helped us more than anything to keep believing in ourselves.

But technically I was still a student, and after sending my works to the publisher who published my elder brother, Michiel’s, work, I was half-ready to pick up my studies again in case the writing did not work out. I had about a year of study remaining before I could get my degree, so in that sense, the mountaintop was in sight.

But I was restless, for if the response that came back deemed my writing not good, I had no idea what I was going to do with my life.

The main reason for returning now was my best friend, Achilles. He was still living and studying in our hometown. Like me, he was a literature major. He was the first person I wanted to share my work with after I sent it off to the publishers. I had brought copies of my stories and poems with me for him to read and judge. His opinion was most important to me—more so than my brother’s, my mother’s, or my uncle’s. Achilles had always been my closest friend. We had grown up together, sharing a love of basketball and literature. We were each other’s literary friend as well as sports friend. Now I solicited his honest opinion for the clarity it would bring me, positive or not.

So here I was. I had just turned right and was moving away from our ninety-seven-meter-tall church tower, where the homeless men gathered under the arches at night; it always stunk of urine and cheap berry wine. With my back to the smells, the building housing the biggest and most influential student club stood on my left, and across the empty open space of the town square, a hundred meters to the right, was the eighteenth-century stone galley known as city hall.

TTTTTRRRRRROOOOOOOOIIIIINNNNNNNNG! The force of a sudden sound startled people on the street. On the balcony of the student club building, some thirty students in uniform erupted into hollered chants, laughing wildly and jumping up and down in a drunken, stupid manner. Below them on the pavement, other members of their tribe started assembling scattered pieces of a concert piano. The instrument had just been tossed over the balcony, violently crashing to bits on the pavement and producing the startling noise, which I assumed was the reason for tossing the instrument to its destruction.

As I passed the shattered instrument, I noticed how beautifully the black paint still shone on the wood, how powerfully the varnish reflected the light from the streetlamps. The piano had not been on its last legs. The strings were strewn all over the walkway and the street, some broken in two, some sadly bent. The students assigned cleanup duty were laughed at by their friends above them. There was a lot of taunting.

Jan-sen! Jaaan-sen! Move your fat ass, will you?

Want some brewski? another yelled and poured the contents of his beer bottle over the balcony.

Below, the two students collecting piano keys eyed each other, one with a scowl on his face.

Is it piss? he asked. Are they pissing on us?

No, just beer, said the second, who shook his head almost imperceptibly. As long as it’s only beer, we’re okay.

The first one growled, I swear, when they start pissing, I will smack somebody up there.

Come on, man, his friend said. Everyone goes through this experience. They told us, didn’t they? It’s the price to pay.

Price to pay my ass!

I moved on. At the southern corner of the town square, in front of a cafeteria, a fight was about to start. A semicircle of outgoing people had formed around two young men. A buzz of tense expectation rose from the onlookers. The two men stood opposite each other, their gazes locked. It was too late to pull out. This seemed to worry only one of the two, a jumpy, thin young man with greasy hair that could not stay away from his forehead. This young man attempted to look threatening, but he did not have cold eyes. The other was calm, standing steady, grounded, one fist—his right—ready to strike. This one had cold eyes.

The thin one was now jumping on the balls of his feet like a pro boxer, with his fists raised to his chest. The cold-eyed one stayed put, ready as could be.

You messed up, man, the jumpy one said and made a hissing sound: You don’t know who I am, do you?

The other said nothing, keeping his eyes on his opponent.

The nervous man jabbed. His fist was calmly blocked by the cold-eyed man, who sidestepped and landed a clean left hook on the ear, throwing the talkative fighter a meter sideways.

It was a punch that should have told the greasy-haired fighter he was way out of his depth—should have hurtled him back into reality. But it didn’t. Gathering himself, he wound his wiry body up and leaped forward in a flying kick. He did have surprising hops, but again the other man sidestepped him without a problem, and the jumpy one landed on his butt. Quick as a panther, the strong man was on him, a knee pressing down on his chest and a forearm on his throat.

A police car came to a stop at the corner. It wailed once, and two policemen jumped out and separated the fighters. The strong man had just enough time to land a couple more blows; blood dribbled from the skinny one’s nose, down to his mouth. Both men were cuffed and taken away in the car. A minute later, the only trace of the fight was a lingering pall of disappointment and exhilaration amid the slowly dispersing half circle of onlookers. When all were gone, I stood by myself again, searching for familiar faces on the terraces without finding anyone.

The point had arrived to continue the search indoors. A whole assembly of bars lined this side of city hall. All of them were very uninviting and without exception decorated by violent neon lights pronouncing their names on the nineteenth-century stone walls. I took a few deep breaths to prepare myself and then picked a bar at random. A stone stairway of a dozen steps led me down to the souterrain of a large former warehouse. The front door stood open. A drunken student hung against the doorpost.

He eyed me with a friendly, unsteady gaze and lifted his head to greet me.

Hello, I said, smiling.

Puddy cool, he said and made an effort to steady his focus in the direction of my jacket. "Dads han-made?

I laughed and nodded. I looked over his head into the bar filled with laughter and young people.

May I feel? he asked and did not wait for my answer. With surprising delicacy, he took the cloth of my lapel between his thumb and index finger and inspected the material. Once again, he made a concerted effort to focus on the task at hand.

High grade was his conclusion, and he nodded approvingly.

Almost ancient, I said and tried to scan the faces inside. It was a small, low-ceilinged place, crowded with customers standing in separate small groups. The dominant smell of cigarette smoke was infested with a hint of nervous body odors. The long wooden counter on the right side of the room filled almost the entire length, and three students were working hard behind it.

I squinted at the groups and even tried to listen for familiar voices. Still I recognized nobody. Next to me, the fashion inspector had lost interest and returned to hanging against the doorpost.

I had just turned and was about to take the first step back up the stairway when I heard someone calling my name.

Van Geesteren? Hello, Johan van Geesteren!

I turned back and saw a jovial young man waving as he came toward me. He was tall, about my height, but much heavier. When he caught my eye, he eagerly pushed through the clutter of people. He wore what people would now call Harry Potter glasses, but of course, they were not known as such back then.

"Van Geesteren, it is you!" He shook my hand with both of his and gave me a questioning look.

I’m sorry, I mumbled.

Rombouts! he yelled, pitching a half octave up. Now, don’t tell me you don’t want to know me anymore.

Aah, Rombouts.

"See? You and your buddy always used to call me Golf-Jan de Hockeyer! Even though I’d never even played hockey!"

Roelof-Jan, I said, still unsure. The boy in my memory was not nearly this heavy.

Of course! he cried.

How are you, man?

Plastered. Couldn’t be better, he answered. Come on; the others are in the back.

He took my arm, and we slalomed through the crowd with audacious dexterity. We reached a table in the far corner away from the bar, where two more former schoolmates stood drinking beer. A tray sat on a tall, round table. There were at least twenty empty glasses on the tray. The two other men were Erik Leeghwater and Hink Jan Hulsecker. It took the introductions for me to remember them clearly, even though it had only been five years since my graduation from the gymnasium. Both were way, way ahead of me.

Va-Gestre, Hink Jan would say. "How are you, old boy?" The way he spoke helped paint a clearer picture. All three had been good boys in school, blending in without taking chances, inconsequential like almost everyone. They were surprisingly happy to see me again.

"Van Geesteren, what have you been doing?" Erik asked.

"Yeah, va-Gestre, what have you been up to, old boy?"

Living in Amsterdam.

This answer caused a break in the rhythm of their thinking. Each looked me over briefly in his unique way.

And you? All still here, studying? I asked.

RJ and myself are doing medicine, Erik explained. "And the special one over here is doing economics.

Yeah, va-Gestre, Hink Jan said and let out a cracker of a rolling burp. "De spezzal one is doing ukkenomics."

Roelof-Jan took the last full glass from the tray and handed it to me. They all still had beer in their glasses.

A great excuse for drink, Roelof-Jan said. They raised their glass to me.

To van Geesteren, Roelof-Jan said, wherever the hell he’s been all these years.

To van Geesteren, Erik saluted.

"And the spezzal one."

They emptied their glasses in one take. I just took a sip. It tasted terrible, watered down and served out of a dirty pipe. I held my glass in my hand while the others put theirs down. Hink Jan unleashed another bomb from his gastrointestinal tract. I pointed at him.

What makes him the special one? I asked.

His eyes lit up, and Roelof-Jan giggled.

He makes the fetal bitches happy in a very, very special way. At the end of a night out, they all seem to want to land on him.

Hink Jan started moving his hips to and fro, making small circles.

"Them fetal bitches, va-Gestre, old boy, they love the spezzal one’s pole."

Pole position! yelled Erik, and he broke out in crazed laughter. I put my glass to my mouth and wrestled down more of the beer.

But where are they now? I asked the special one.

Later, va-Gestre, old boy. Later, at the club, I’ll score one or two.

I marveled at what being a member of a student fraternity had done for them. I remembered all three perfectly vividly now: good, falling-in-line boys, always waiting for cues. I had seen the same phenomenon at my university. Initiation into a certain tribe in the community of club members seemed to provide them with new armor, shield, sword and all, enabling their social interactions to pass so much more smoothly than before. It had been a big moment for them, and they really seemed to believe they were set for life.

Care to come with us to the club? Roelof-Jan asked me. You never know: one might fall off the bus for you.

Very kind offer, but I must decline.

Going monk, eh?

No. Happily chained.

They looked me over again. Roelof-Jan raised his arms as if holding them up to the heavens in despair. Irony seeped from bloodshot eyes behind his little round glasses.

What is this world coming to? Van Geesteren on a ball and chain.

It’s even worse, I said, smiling and looking him in the eyes. Van Geesteren is living together.

Tsss, Roelof-Jan uttered; he seemed to be in charge of inquiry into the relationship status of guests. Would you care to tell us about it?

I took a sip from the beer and told myself it had a neutral, tap-water-like taste.

My girlfriend, Els, and I have been together now for two and a half years, the last of which we have been living together in Amsterdam-Zuid. It is a lovely spot, for students especially. I have been studying English lit, and Els is going to be a psychologist. We have been very happy together.

Hink Jan choked and coughed wildly.

English? he said after catching his breath. "What on earth can you do with that, va-Gestre, old boy?"

I haven’t decided yet. I guess I could always become a teacher.

They all eyed me with suspicion now. I had rocked the social hierarchy, generally so comfortably fixed and ready in their minds, and I had definitely lost many rungs on their power ladder, as if I had fallen off unexpectedly and had to be reassessed for value. I saw the thoughts racing behind their watery eyes. Erik the medicine doer gathered his the quickest.

But in your case, you have always the wheelbarrow of family. You could easily be a diplomat. Isn’t your father one?

He used to be, for a while, yes.

Not anymore?

He is dead.

Instant shock showed on his face. He looked down, embarrassed.

I’m so sorry, he said. I didn’t know.

Don’t worry. It’s been over three years now.

Roelof-Jan came to his aid. Then it must have been big news when it happened.

I guess it was.

Can’t believe I missed it. How did it happen?

Plane crash.

Bad stuff, he said, staring at the empty glasses on the tray. I always thought he was a great guy, even when not from my party. Great for the town, too.

The two others nodded solemnly. I hoped the topic was now closed.

But you guys, I said in a labored upbeat tone, you are on a nice upward trajectory. Two doctors and an economist.

Banker, va-Gestre, old boy. We’re going into banking. Wall Street, to be exact. At a Wall Street firm, with a big fat salary.

The special one will collect a big fat Wall Street salary! Erik called out, happy the reunion had steered back into lighter skies. That means the special one can buy us all another round!

What! Again?

"Come on. Be a sport. We have to celebrate."

It wasn’t all a waste of time. Surprisingly, they knew quite a bit about Achilles and had spoken with him only a few days ago. Of course, they had known him distantly in high school, but they seemed to have much more actual knowledge of how my friend was doing than I had. Apparently, he was a regular visitor at their club, where legends had grown around his aura, as Roelof-Jan explained in the most emphatic way. One of the legends was that Achilles was most popular with the fetals, even more than the special one, even though this was scoffed at by the special one himself, who raised his nose as Roelof-Jan did the telling. It was a legend I could easily picture.

Another one was that he had given up his studies and gone into modeling. Gone quite beyond the local, apparently, were the words used. When Achilles was spotted downtown, it was a certainty that some beautiful female would be walking by his side, according to the boys. A lot of guys were jealous, but no one tried to mess with him, as he had grown too big.

Most of the legend spilling was done by Roelof-Jan, but I noticed that the other two listened carefully, almost deferentially, to the tales about my friend. Earnest, sober respect glowed behind their drunken masks. Remarkable, I thought.

They provided me with three suggestions for bars where I might find Achilles at this hour. That is when I said goodbye to them, and we shook hands and thanked each other for the pleasant reunion. After some wrangling and tapping shoulders, I found myself outside again. The loitering student had gone. The warm, spring night air felt fresh on my face. The terraces were still packed with people having a good time.

The first two bars were letdowns, but I found him in the third: a two-story, dimly lit place with a small dance floor on the ground level and lots of tables and chairs on the first. He and his friends were upstairs. They occupied a table and had drawn a crowd. Various people watched him from the other tables, but a dozen onlookers simply stood in the vicinity of Achilles’s table, following the scene unfolding there with interest.

He sat alone at the end, blindfolded with a black satin shawl solidly knotted at the back of his head. On the table in front of him stood ten small liqueur glasses, all different in shape, and all but two still full. At his sides sat, two by two, four beautiful young women. They were tall and slim and internationally dressed, all in separate styles. These were the years when good taste had been given up, totally, to individuality—with disastrous consequences, as we know; but the sense of style and proportion in these four women was in good working order. They looked eminently superior to these surroundings, and utterly unconcerned. They were no ordinary students, that much was sure.

Achilles was playing a game with them. The young women took turns drinking from one of the glasses, standing, and kissing Achilles on the mouth, who then guessed which liqueur the woman had just sampled. When he got it right, he won, and when not, the women won and high-fived one another. The spectators remained at a certain distance, as if instinctively shying away from the force of the energy at the table.

Achilles looked very, very healthy. He wore only khaki shorts, a red polo shirt, and leather sandals. His tan was a deep golden brown, smooth all over his skin. His strong muscles looked more cut than I had ever seen them. I noticed his quads and calves bulging under the table. His black curls had been cut short, and something in his hair made it shine lightly under the soft light.

Even without being able to see the eyes, the face looked handsome, strong. His full mouth arched down a little at the edges, yet it expressed nothing but optimism and lust for life. When he smiled, his healthy white teeth uncovered his benevolent predatory confidence. He was cleanly shaved, accentuating the playful lines carved down the sides of his mouth from the cheekbones. He looked like someone who would be great in Levi’s 501 advertisements. He emanated a magnetic force unlike anything I had ever experienced from a human being, and the four young women gravitated toward it instinctively.

Across from Achilles sat two men, one of whom I did not know. The other, younger one I knew very well: it was Kees de Korte, whom I had known since elementary school. He was very seriously dressed up in a white suit worn over a pink shirt with a light-blue tie in a Windsor knot. He looked like a man who spent a lot of time in front of the bathroom mirror. He sat straight in his chair, smoking a cigarette, acting underaroused. When he saw me standing among the onlookers, he nodded in recognition. Then, slowly, he rose from his chair and came strolling toward me.

Hey, Johan. He held out his hand. Think it, you are here also.

Hello, Kees.

I took his hand, and he squeezed mine hard. This had been a habit of his, basically since I’d known him. I believe he had been taught by his father.

What a party we’re having, he said.

His lips made a smile that went unconfirmed by his serious gray eyes. I tried to make eye contact, but he averted. In a slow-motion manner, he pulled on his cigarette and closed his eyes like he was in pain. After a deep, long inhalation, he turned and blew the smoke in my direction, again very slowly. He nodded to Achilles at the table, and his look changed. It was less supercool, although still straight out of a method actor’s playbook.

What a guy he is, he whispered. What a great, great guy.

You are part of the party?

Naturally. They picked me up right after they arrived, straight from Paris. Those beau-ti-ful women are all famous models.

Who is the Mediterranean? I asked, indicating the other man sitting with Achilles.

He fabricated a laugh, an original Mickey Rourke.

The son of a sheik, would you believe. He is a big-time fashion agent, you know.

He spoke in a whispery, conspiratorial tone, like some secret agent who was in the loop. Achilles signed with him.

Ugh! Achilles said at the table. That one’s a piece of cake. Bailey’s!

The young woman who had just kissed him looked at the others and shrugged.

"Guess that’s just too obvious, indeed," she said. She sounded British.

Just look at her, Kees whispered. Have you ever seen such a beau-ti-ful woman?

How come they’re here?

To celebrate, of course. He’s just signed with the agency, and now we’re showing them the roots. He looked at me with raised eyebrows and let me take it all in for a moment.

Do you know what this means for him? he whispered on. "He’ll be on the cover of Cosmo, you know. That’s what the agent told us. Cosmo. Imagine that. He’ll make serious money, you know."

I tried to think back. My friend’s last letter, six months ago, had not mentioned anything like this. He had been interested in my writing progress and gave the impression he was still very much occupied by his studies and literature and philosophy. Kees de Korte had never been mentioned in the letter, nor in any other. Of course, I knew they were acquaintances; I just found it difficult to imagine that they had common interests, but here we were: Kees was in the loop, and I was very surprised.

He was still mesmerized by the scene at the table. A fresh kiss was presently exchanged. It all seemed to make a big impression on Kees, more than his actors studio pose was supposed to show. I put a hand on his shoulder.

Can I ask how your wife is? I asked.

The old lady is just fine. His eyes showed, only very briefly, a flash of fire. Marga is fine, he added, in an actor’s low tone.

She did not feel like coming to the party?

He puffed his cigarette and looked me in the eye. He was still in his slow-motion act but could not conceal his annoyance with my questions. He blew the smoke in my face.

No, she did not, he answered, not whispering. He looked over my attire with some sarcasm. How have you been, anyway? he asked.

Fine. Just arrived today. Have been studying and living a boring life for the last two years. All happily regular going.

You play somewhere?

No, not anymore. I’m a youth coach.

At that moment, I got grabbed from behind and lifted off the floor. I felt Achilles’s strong arms around my chest as he heaved me.

My brother! He let me down gently. You should have phoned.

I turned to look into his almost black eyes. He regarded me with much warmth. I grabbed him by the shoulders, and we hugged.

But then you never phone, he said and smiled. Have you lost weight?

A little. You surely haven’t.

Haven’t I, though? I’m fit like a middleweight.

Sure? You seem closer to a heavyweight.

He laughed, and his white teeth showed. He rocked his right hand.

I’m in between classes, as usual.

My brother, I said, and he smiled.

He introduced me to the others. The four models were from Great Britain (two), the south of France, and Egypt. Each inspected me in a very individual way. What connected them was the fact that they were very natural about it. No fuss, no embarrassment.

Achilles introduced me as his soul brother. When I shook hands with the son of the sheik, whose last name was Bin-Saleh, my hand was held a little bit longer than expected.

Van Geesteren? Mr. Bin-Saleh spoke with a melodic voice. Where does your family name originate?

From this part of the country.

And it goes back a long way in time, yes?

I’d say, Achilles answered, knowing I disliked talking about family. This one is old gentry. They go back to before the Napoleon days.

Gentry? Mr. Bin-Saleh looked at me with heightened curiosity.

In the little blue book and all, Achilles told him.

The fashion agent nodded.

I knew I felt something when I shook your hand, he said. One can always feel pedigree.

And on his mother’s side, there is a long line of blue blood as well. They are the Laquettes, of Huguenot stock.

Interesting, Mister Bin-Saleh said. What are you drinking, sir? I am afraid the champagne in this establishment is undrinkable.

I believe they serve Talisker.

Very well. You! he said to Kees. Order Monsieur van Geesteren a glass of Talisker, please. He handed Kees a banknote. And I shall drink one with him, please. I believe all others are provided for.

Kees jumped up, a half-suppressed look of indignation on his face and looking highly uncomfortable in his white suit and pink shirt. Above the collar, his pale skin showed red spots at the throat.

I’d like a glass, he told Mr. Bin-Saleh.

Go ahead, the man said. He then turned toward me and smiled.

We drank the nice whisky and shared pleasant talk for the next half hour. Achilles said little but listened very carefully to what was said. The fashion agent kept me talking about my literary and philosophical interests. Had I studied Avicenna yet? Not really. In Mr. Bin-Saleh’s upbringing, Avicenna had been a foundational influence, passionately discussed among contemporary scholars as he was. For the agent, Avicenna had built the bridge to the West. He was also the safekeeper of the great Aristotle. Was he my foundational influence? I could not tell yet, as I was still studying the dialectic in conjunction with Plato. Had I studied Descartes? I certainly had, but he had never entered the foundational level in my thinking. What about Locke? Pretty much the same. And Kant? Interesting, but I was not prepared to take a definitive position yet.

Altogether, my knowledge and insight were shallow still, even though I came from a family whose critical rationalism was a cornerstone to its ontological fundaments. My family, for sure, could be attributed as a foundational influence, but my philosophical building was far from complete.

That is just fine, he said in his singing voice. One can never rush this process. Surely, someone as earnest as yourself will find his way, your dao, so to speak. And of course, there are strong roots from the genealogy.

May I ask you something?

"Mais certainment."

How did you end up in the fashion business?

Ahh, he giggled. The mysterious workings of life on earth. I am the fourth son of my father, and not naturally talented at the family business. So, having little to do has brought me to where I am now. He gestured with his arms across the table. But I do have a talent for recognizing great beauty. He smiled and looked around with very friendly, almost humble eyes.

I sensed Achilles’s mood shifting. He had been surprised and excited at the beginning, but now he seemed sober and less lively. As I spoke with Mr. Bin-Saleh, my old friend seemed to concentrate on what I said and how I reacted. I glanced at him and sensed that he wondered what I made of his metamorphosis—as if my opinion worried him. At some point, I had to go to the toilets. When I came back out, he caught me at the doorway.

Not really your crowd, eh?

They’re very interesting.

Aren’t they? How long are you in town for?

A full week.

Come by tomorrow?

Of course.

Make it later, in the afternoon. We’re going to fiesta all night.

With Kees?

He’s along for the ride. Does him lots of good.

I never knew you two were close.

It’s not that, he said and scrutinized me closely. He wants to be an apprentice.

He acts like a moron.

Hence the apprentice status. You write any?

Yes. I brought my work for you to read.

He thought for a moment. I’m flying back to France day after tomorrow. Will be back midweek somewhere. Bring your stuff tomorrow so I can read it while there and let you know when I get back.

Okay, I said and sighed.

Johan? You and Els, everything’s fine?

We’re great.

I said goodbye to all of them. Mr. Bin-Saleh stood and made a small bow.

The honor was all mine. I am very sure we shall meet again. And your soul brother will be a success. I will see to that.

Thank you for the whisky.

Kees peered at me from his chair and nodded without friendliness. He was seated between the two British models, who were teasing him about his sensitive spots. One of the young women was tickling him under his chin with her fingernails.

"Now, do not break into a minor perspiration, Kees, dear," she taunted him in a very dominating way. He laughed and looked embarrassed and happy at the same time.

"You simply cannot get nervous on our account."

I waved at him and left. Outside, the pleasant, cooling breeze greeted me again. I felt perspiration under my armpits. I had not noticed it earlier.

2.

The long walk home was a straight line. It started by the employee entrance of city hall, passing through the main shopping street and then down all the way to the southern border of town.

Lots of happy people still lounged outside at the tables, but when I turned the corner, the shopping street was pleasantly empty. At the end of the pedestrian zone, two streets only a few shops apart turned off to the right: the red-light district; at the beginning and end of each were four conformingly seedy bars.

I walked straight on, out of the inner city. After a roundabout, I crossed the canal via a wide bridge, and one hundred meters further on, the street rose again across the railroad tracks. Across that bridge stood, still, the redbrick building formerly owned by the Salvation Army.

It had been their headquarters for many years until they had moved to a new complex some years ago. But their motto remained high on the facade for everyone to see. Painted in huge white letters, it read: God Zoekt U! Which translates as God is searching you, but the U had faded with the times and could not be discerned anymore. I just knew it was supposed to be there, because for six years I had come across that bridge every day on my bicycle, on my way back home from school. The advertisement had always seemed so effective. No one crossing the bridge in that direction could miss it. I wondered where they had set up their new quarters.

The road continued straight after the bridge and changed names halfway. I passed the gloomy World War II memorial and, behind that, the state penitentiary. Beyond that point, the first cluster of small, privately owned shops appeared on both sides of the street. The road widened into two extra brick lanes for parking, separated from the street by green patches planted with majestic chestnut trees. This gave the road a less functional character.

As a child, I had played in some of these houses, whose interiors were much more of an adventure than their symmetrical facades would suggest. Many of the old families were still living in them. Seeing them again in the night made me feel at ease. Many of my childhood memories are happy ones.

About two hundred meters on, directly across a pedestrian walk, stood our family home. It was built back at the beginning of the nineteenth century, when it still lay outside the town border. The size of the land owned by our ancestors had reduced in phases with the times, but now, as I write, the land still measures almost five acres. It is the largest privately owned, unbroken stretch of land in town to this day.

Just to be clear: I am not some retrograde, melancholic feudalist. I am quite the opposite. I consider anything belonging to the earth, to mean all matters material, to be not for our keeping but for our caring. In the end, private ownership means nothing more to me than taking on the responsibility to look after, properly, that which was given, so that somewhere in time it can be given back. I do not believe we own anything.

I reached the gate and saw the light in my uncle’s room still burning. I put my arm through the bars of the iron fence, reached for the loose brick, and took the key from underneath. Unlocking and opening the gate, I entered and closed it behind me, locked it again, and put the key back.

The driveway is twenty-eight meters to the front door and flanked by medium-high beeches, which are trimmed once a year. I took a deep breath, the freshness sweeping through my lungs. At the door, I pressed the code, opened the door with my key, and stepped inside. A dim yellow light switched on in the hallway. The suitcases I had put under the wardrobe when I arrived were no longer there. My uncle surely had found them and put them in my room, and most likely my clothes were