Never before

We were to come at around two in the afternoon, L. had said. He's sitting in the leather armchair he spends most of his days in of late. What's left of his hair is trailing around his head, his beard has thinned. His hollow cheeks have lost colour, look almost waxen. Behind him the impressive bookcase covering almost all of the wall of the eighteenth century drawing room. When the highest shelves were gradually filling, L. ordered a special stepladder from the same carpenter that built the bookcase. The ceiling is still original and in the care of the Dutch National Trust. L. hates that. Any whitewash needs the approval of an inspector, before and after. That's why the ceiling has slowly turned brownish over the years. For a long time L. was a happy smoker, but two years ago he suddenly gave it up. At first he asked his GP for pills to help him get over it, but when the doctor refused he decided he'd do without and never touched a fag anymore. He made it look an easy thing to do. L. sometimes has a strong mind. Sometimes.

There are thirteen of us. L., his brother and sister and ten friends. To give ourselves an air we chat about the weather. We tell L. that is has been snowing and that there is an icy wind. After that we talk about the Complete Works of Karel van het Reve, of which L. ordered me to buy him volume two just a week ago. L. asks for tea. It's made in the mucky kitchen. Months ago L. ordered his cleaning woman out from fear of losing control and from wanting to check everything that goes on around him. He says we're free to poor ourselves a glass of wine or a beer if we want. He asks for chocolate with his tea.

I imagine L. as I got to know him, forty-six years ago. We were together in class 3A2. Including mathematics. We weren't very good at it, but L. just a little better than me. That's why he is better at playing chess. He was better in footbal too, but I was less shy with the girls. L. remained single. We used to write poems in the school magazine. L. was always coing up with ideas to write about. If he had carried them out he would have published seven books too, like me, or maybe more, but L. didn't always have a strong mind.

The GP is quarter of an hour late, entering without greeting and without an apology. L. looks slightly vexed. He slowly rises and embraces each of us. He follows the doctor and his brother and sister to the bedroom. In the doorway he turns around, lifts a hand and says: 'Well, chow!' Chow, a word I never heard him use before. After fifteen minutes we are allowed in to see. L. lies on the bed, motionless, as relaxed as he wasn't for months.

@C.A. Klok