De Nederlandse schrijver Arnon Grunberg werd geboren in Amsterdam op 22 februari 1971. Zie ook alle tags voor Arnon Grunberg op dit blog.
Uit: Tirza (Vertaald door Sam Garrett)
„After Ibi began collecting the rent there were fewer complaints about moisture on the wallpaper, radiators that didn’t work, a window that didn’t close well. Her smile took away the complaints, her legs made the sneaking suspicion that one was paying way too much to vanish into thin air. Her eyes compensated for the leaky faucet. Ibi was more important than any defects in the furnished apartment.
And then, one autumn evening, on the first of the month—always the first of the month; when Hofmeester looked back on his life he saw an endless series of paydays—she stayed away for a long time. Hofmeester was reading the evening paper as he listened to one of Elgar’s cello concertos, but when he got to the page with ‘readers’ opinions’, for he read the newspaper from cover to cover, like a book, he became worried. She had been gone for more than half an hour. He read on, but the readers’ opinions no longer sank in. After each sentence he got stuck, and his thoughts wandered to Ibi.
Of course you couldn’t just grab the money and run, sometimes you had to stop and chat a little. He remembered that from when the unwelcome task had been his to fulfill. But half an hour was no chat anymore. That was a conversation, that was half an evening meal.
He had already walked to the door twice to see if she was coming, the way one looks for streetcars that refuse to arrive. The ridiculous assumption that looking made any difference. That a peremptory glance can summon that which apparently will never show up.
She couldn’t have been mugged, she didn’t even have to leave the yard.
It puzzled him, and it kept puzzling him. His wife had gone out to pick up Tirza, who was playing at a friend’s house. Hofmeester had no one with whom to share his anxiety. He turned off the Elgar, went into the garden to look at his apple tree and then peered up through the branches at the windows behind which the tenant was concealed, but could see nothing unusual. The curtains that always hung there and that actually needed washing. No movement. It was a lovely evening for early October. Nothing rustled in the bushes. No screams. Silence. Eternal silence.“
Arnon Grunberg (Amsterdam, 22 februari 1971)
Lees verder “Arnon Grunberg, Paul van Ostaijen, Hugo Ball, Jane Bowles”