Tomorrow Pamplona E-Book

Jan Van Mersbergen

• Herausgeber: Peirene Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Seitenzahl: 227

Beschreibung

A story about anger, aggression and the desire for intimacy by a rising star of modern Dutch literature. A professional boxer and a family man meet by chance on a journey to the Pamplona Bull Run. The boxer is fleeing an unhappy love. The father hopes to escape his dull routine. Both know that, eventually, they will have to return to the place each calls 'home'. Why Peirene chose to publish this book: 'I adore the deceptive simplicity of this story. On the surface, the fast moving plot, the short sentences, the ordinary words make the text as straightforward as punches in a boxing match. But just as physical conflict stirs deep emotions, so too does this book as it focuses on a single question: how do you choose between flight and fight?' Meike Ziervogel 'An impressive work.' Harry Ritchie, Daily Mail 'As he tracks back and forth between the dual narratives, moving inexorably to the double climax, Van Mersbergen skilfully builds emotional intensity until the point when the boxer and bulls' fury are finally unleashed.' Lucy Popescu, Independent on Sunday 'An intriguing and intricate gem of a novel . . . Van Mersbergen's tightly controlled prose skilfully conveys the overriding sense of repressed emotion and sheer physicality that drive a compelling and complex story.' Pam Norfolk, Lancashire Evening Post 'Flawlessly translated.' Adrian Turpin, Financial Times 'A refreshing change from the byzantine complexities of all too many contemporary novels.' John Oakley, New Books Magazine 'An intense reading experience . . . Van Mersbergen tells what needs to be told and not a word more.' De Morgen

Leseprobe

MEIKE ZIERVOGEL  

PEIRENE PRESS      

I adore the deceptive simplicity of this story. On the surface, the fast moving plot, the short sentences, the ordinary words make the text as straightforward as punches in a boxing match. But just as physical conflict stirs deep emotions, so too does this book as it focuses on a single question: how do you choose between flight and fight? 

Contents

Title Page

1

2

3

4

5

Other Peirene Press books

About the Author and Translator

Copyright

1

A boxer is running through the city. He heads down a street with tall buildings on either side, darts between parked cars, runs diagonally across a junction, down a bike path, crosses a bridge and follows the curve of the tram tracks. Anyone passing would think he was in training. But he’s running faster than usual. His breathing is out of control. His eyes are wide.

His boxing boots fly silently over the pavement. Fragments of sentences echo around his head, accompanied by the ringing of a bell. Disconnected words thud against his eardrums, buzzing sounds, distorted, far away. Then suddenly they become clear.

Stop.

He lands a punch.

Stop that!

He lands another punch. Again he hears a bell, sharper and louder than before. Stop, someone screams. He feels a hand on his shoulder, fends it off with a jab of his elbow. He throws a left hook, hits the man square in the face and turns back to his opponent.

Stop that! he hears again. He lands another punch, and another, and another.

He crosses a busy main road and runs into a park. He comes to a patch of grass with a bronze statue in the centre, a woman holding a child in the air as though she wants to entrust it to the clouds.

The boxer slows, panting, and looks at the statue. He sits down on a bench. The bushes and trees stand motionless between him and the street with the tramlines. Dark grey clouds slide past behind the trees. There are no birds, not even pigeons.

He feels fine drops of rain on his face. The leaves on the trees move gently in the breeze. A man in a denim jacket is standing on the other side of the park, beneath the awning of the cigar shop on the corner. He’s looking in the boxer’s direction. Another man comes out of the shop, lights a cigarette, and says something to the man in the denim jacket, who replies without taking his eyes off the boxer. The smoke dissolves in the air. The boxer looks down at his legs and at the wood of the bench, as it slowly darkens in the rain.

He hears footsteps. For a moment, he seems resigned to his fate. He waits for a deep voice to say something, to speak his name, to pin him to the bench. When it comes, the tone isn’t what he expected: Hey, you’re Danny Clare, aren’t you?

The man walks over and stands in front of him, turns up the collar of his denim jacket. The other man stops behind his friend, off to one side. With no expression on his face, the boxer looks at the two men.

You are him though, aren’t you? The boxer?

Danny gets up.

We saw you, says the man in the denim jacket. He tugs at his collar again, trying to shield his neck from the rain.

Against that big blond guy, it was. The Hungarian.

The other man corrects him: Bulgarian.

Danny doesn’t react. He just clasps his hands.

Good fight, that was.

The cigarette falls to the wet gravel and the man crushes it with his foot. The two men smile at the boxer. The man in the denim jacket says something else, but his voice fades away and Danny looks down at the cigarette butt, which is still smouldering, and then at his feet. Now he can hear words from his conversation with Pavel, at the boxing school. And there’s that click in his head again, when it all fell into place, and the click that came afterwards when everything around him imploded and went black.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, he says. He runs to the park exit, leaving the men and the statue behind. He goes through the gate, crosses the tramlines and races along the brick wall and around the corner. Finally, he reaches a busy dual carriageway, with an endless stream of cars flowing out of the city. That’s the road he wants. The rain sweeps against his face. He runs past a supermarket and sees a black kid pushing a line of shopping trolleys inside. He passes beneath a viaduct with drops of rainwater clinging to its solid metal girders. Reflections of the posters on the walls ripple dimly in the puddles. He stops in the shelter of a tree by a big roundabout. On his right, a railway line hangs high above the street. He sees the station just beyond the roundabout. A long train is pulling in, its wheels screeching. The boxer puts his hands in his pockets. His keys, his loose change, his mobile – it’s all still in the changing room at the boxing school.

The traffic spins around the roundabout and fans out along the roads leading to and from the city. He takes the road to the motorway. He crosses over, walks through the long grass in the centre of the roundabout, waits for a gap in the traffic, crosses again, stands by the roadside and raises his thumb. A car soon stops for him. There’s an old man at the wheel. I can take you a few kilometres down the motorway, he says.

The boxer nods and gets in.

I’ll drop you off at the petrol station. You’ll be able to get another ride from there, no problem.

The man accelerates gently, navigates a few bends and heads onto the motorway. Opera plays on the radio. The voice pierces through the noise of the engine. When Danny looks at the radio, the man turns the knob and the music becomes louder. The voice grates on his nerves. They sit in silence for a few minutes. Then the man takes the exit for the petrol station. When they reach the pumps, Danny thanks him and steps out of the car into the smell of petrol.

You’re welcome, says the man.

Danny slams the car door.

*

He walks over to the verge just beyond the canopy of the petrol station. The rain is coming down harder now. His hair is plastered to his forehead and his T-shirt is sticking to his chest. Cars race past, just patches of colour on the other side of the crash barrier, all heading in the direction he wants to go. Half-heartedly, without looking at the drivers, he holds up his thumb at every car that drives back onto the motorway with a full tank.

He sees a big estate car. A family car. Automatically, he raises his thumb again. When the car stops, it’s a moment before he realizes he can now walk over to the open door and ask the question he needs to ask. He reaches the car and leans over, but not too far. The roof hides his eyes from the driver.

Where do you want to go? A hurried voice.

He straightens up, glances over his shoulder. The rain beats down on the roof and the windscreen wipers squeak. He shows his face to the driver and says: I’m heading that way.

He points down the motorway, just as the wind picks up and the rain starts rattling on the bonnet. The man tells him to get in, says he shouldn’t be standing out there in the rain.

Beyond the canopy of the petrol station, he sees silhouettes of buildings huddled together in the distance, where the cars are coming from, where he came from. A few office blocks rise up above a serrated horizon. For a moment, he thinks about saying goodbye to that image, even though it means nothing to him. He stares at the silhouette of the city. Then he climbs into the car and shuts the door. There are scraps of paper on the floor, sweet wrappers. A plastic bottle without a top. The car moves onto the slip road, lets another car overtake and moves into the right-hand lane. Danny asks the driver if he minds his upholstery getting wet.

Not a problem. Just be glad you’re inside and dry, the driver says. Danny looks at him and tries to smile. The man is blinking, a tic.

The driver’s older than him. Maybe mid-forties. And he’s a lot smaller, with narrow shoulders and pale, thin arms. He’s wearing white trousers and a white polo shirt and Danny can see the beginnings of a paunch.

You been there long?

He doesn’t know. Could have been a couple of minutes, could have been quarter of an hour. He spots a digital clock between the speedometer and some other dial with a needle. Not too long, he says. The two dots between the digits blink and he realizes that, even though the man is asking him questions, the answers don’t really matter. The numbers on the clock change. He stares at them until they change again. Then his gaze falls on a frame stuck to the dashboard. There’s a photo in it. A woman with long, straight hair. Two children standing in front of her, a boy and a girl. The woman’s hand rests on the girl’s shoulder.

He turns away, swears at the window and says her name, his breath steaming up the glass. Damn it, Ragna. It’s as though she’s sitting in the back seat and he’s whispering to her.

The car passes beneath a flyover and for a moment the window darkens and he’s looking at his reflection. He turns his head again. As the car drives back into the grey light, he stares at the bonnet, at the white line stretching ahead of the car, shakily trying to maintain its course, scratching away at his thoughts.

They overtake a lorry. Splashing circles of rainwater spray out around its huge wheels. The driver has a roll-up in his hand. He looks down at Danny. At his wet clothes, his hair. His face. They accelerate and Danny watches the lorry growing smaller in the wing mirror. When it’s disappeared, he leans against the window. He shivers.

Need a towel?

I’m almost dry.

There’s one in that bag behind you.

On the back seat are a few carrier bags, a sports holdall, a rucksack and a big red grocery bag lying on its side. He notices a wholemeal loaf, a packet of biscuits, a bottle of mineral water. In that green one, says the man. Danny pulls over the sports bag, unzips it and takes out a towel. He dries his hair, presses his face into the towel. It smells of fabric softener. He hangs the towel over the back of his seat and leans against it.

The driver says: Better now?

He’s not very comfortable, but he nods.

Could you put your seatbelt on?

What?

Would you put your seatbelt on?

Danny pulls the belt and clicks it shut. His cold T-shirt is sticking to his body. Something is pressing into his lower back. Something hard and pointed. He doesn’t move.

The motorway is wide, three lanes and a hard shoulder. They cruise along in the middle lane for a while. The driver occasionally glances over at him.

I often pick up hitchhikers.

Danny remains silent.

Not many people stop for hitchers nowadays, but I do. The driver coughs. I’m just interested. To hear what they have to say.

Danny looks at the driver, who continues: It doesn’t matter whether they’re in the car for a few hours or just a few minutes, they all tell me something. About their work. About home, relationships, pets. All kinds of things. Their lives, the stuff they get up to. And sometimes it’s not the nicest stuff. I mean, it’s not that nice to listen to.

Who says I’m going to tell you anything?

The man blinks and smiles.

*

He switched off the fluorescent lights, walked down the corridor to the changing room, sat on the bench in his usual spot and pulled a towel around his shoulders. He was still panting. He bit through the tape on his right wrist, clasped the end of the bandage between his teeth, pulled it loose and freed his other hand. The bandages spooled onto the tiled floor between his feet. He stood up, walked over to the sink, turned on the tap and drank. Then he cupped his hands, filled them with water, washed his face and splashed water onto his hair and neck.

Danny?

Richard Rosenberger’s face appeared around the door. A bunch of keys dangled against his thigh. His hair was swept back.

Hey, Rich.

The others all gone home?

Yeah.

Well?

Danny nodded. Looking good. He sat back down and undid his laces.

I only saw the first fifteen minutes.

Against that black guy?

Yeah.

He’s lighter.

Not much.

But then he’s taller.

Yeah, a bit. My dad always said you shouldn’t pay attention to that sort of thing. Height. And it’s only the scales that should be paying any attention to your weight. That’s what he always said.

When’s your brother get back?

You missing him?

He’s good to train with.

He’ll be back in a week.

Neither of the men spoke for a while.

You ever seen that Bulgarian fight? Danny asked, breaking the silence.

Once, in Germany. That’s where he trains. At Azzopardi’s.

Danny nodded. Rich sat down on the bench opposite him, resting his elbows on his knees.

The time I saw him he was fighting a Russian. I was with my dad. One of the last fights he saw. The Russian guy had won twenty-one fights in a row – and then he came up against Hristov.

Okay, said Danny. He took off his boots and wiggled his toes.

What about tonight? The other guy no good?

He’s got more power than that black guy, but he’s slow. Spent too much time standing still.

Hristov’s slow too.

Not that slow.

No, not that slow, Richard agreed. He stood up, ran his hands through his hair and said: Just stay cool.

That’s what your dad always said.

Yeah, why do you think I took over this place?

*

There’s a red van in front of them with PVC pipes on its roof. All he can see in the wing mirror is wet tarmac and a few cars. Then a flash of colour on the floor, orange and yellow, a couple of letters. An A and a G. The wet floor. A bare leg lying in a puddle in the corner. The lights above him reflected on either side of the leg like small yellow globes.

Where do you want to go?

He nods at the windscreen and says: That way.

That way?

Yes.

The driver looks over at him.

I need to know where to drop you off.

I’ll get out whenever you want me to.

The man leans forward a little, blinks a few times, and says: I won’t be stopping any time soon.

He steers into the left-hand lane, grips the steering wheel and accelerates. I’m just going to keep on driving for a while yet.

That tic again. Everything is still, except for his eyes.

You mean you’re going to drive through the night?

Yes, if I can. The driver blinks a few more times. Then he says: I get the feeling you’d rather not say where you’re going, but you’re in my car, so you might at least tell me what’s up.

A sign beside the motorway indicates an exit just over a kilometre away.

You can drop me off there.

They drive past the sign. The exit looms in the distance.

There?

Yes.

That’s where you want to get out?

Danny rests his large hands on his thighs and hangs his head. His breath quickens. He closes his eyes and everything goes dark. For a moment, all he can feel is the hum of the car and the beating of his heart. The two rhythms slowly synchronize. The sound and direction of the car remain the same. When he opens his eyes, they’re passing the sign with the white arrow and he sees the rain pelting against it. The turning and the white line curve away from them.

Hey, let me know when you really want to get out.

Thanks, he whispers.

The car’s speeding up now, the blinking becomes faster too, and the boxer looks at his forearms, at the bulging veins. He stares over the top of the wing mirror. Square buildings line the motorway, huge toy blocks in the watery landscape. He sees a showroom with a gleaming new car in the window, like a trophy in a display cabinet. They stay in the right-hand lane for a long time. Now and then, the wheels brush the solid white line and the high-pitched sound that buzzes through the car reminds him that they really are moving. They’re heading somewhere else.

*

The windscreen wipers swish backwards and forwards. Road signs appear within the glass rectangle as it is wiped clean over and over again. They approach Utrecht, leave it behind. A fat black fly buzzes against the window behind him. It twitches nervously along the rubber strip. They overtake a line of cars. Each of the back seats is occupied by a gaggle of young boys, about ten years old. Some of them are wearing football shirts. Yellow shirts with black stripes. There’s a boy in a goalkeeper’s shirt in the front car. As they go past, he pushes two big goalie gloves up against the window, waggles his head between the gloves and pokes his tongue out.

The driver rests his hands on the steering wheel. Is your T-shirt dry yet?

Yes.

There’s a dry one in that big bag behind you. You can wear that if you like.

I’m almost dry.

The man reaches out to feel the sleeve of his T-shirt.

You’ll catch cold.

Danny shifts in his seat. Something’s poking into him again. He shifts forward, reaches behind him and pulls a blue toy car from the crack of the seat.

My son’s, says the driver. It’s got opening doors.

It’s an Alfa Romeo 1300. Danny turns it over. Through the tiny window, he can make out a plastic steering wheel and seats. The car has a tow bar and a number plate. It even has suspension. Front and rear. The blue paint’s worn off in places, down to the grey of the metal beneath. He pulls open the driver’s door with his fingernail. Then closes it again.

Pretty cool, eh?

Danny opens the door on the driver’s side again. Then he flicks open the passenger door. I used to have an Alfa, he says.

Like that one?

No, but it was still an Alfa.

Silence. Then the driver says: My name’s Robert.

The boxer looks at the man out of the corner of his eye. Robert, he echoes, closing the toy car’s doors with a click.

What about you?

Daniel. But everyone calls me Danny.

Danny.

Robert takes his right hand off the steering wheel. It looks as though he’s about to shake Danny’s hand, but he doesn’t. He puts his hand back on the wheel, leans forward and studies Danny. Then he looks back at the tarmac. I’m in insurance.

Danny nods.

What about you? What do you do?

Danny puts the Alfa on the dashboard. The toy car rolls from one side to the other, gets stuck on a bump, goes into reverse, bounces back and hits the bump again. He says: I’m a boxer.

A boxer?

Yes.

You fight in proper matches?

He hesitates, then says: I just fought my last fight.

Are you well known?

Yes.

What’s your surname?

Clare. Danny Clare.

Robert looks at him. Yeah, now that you mention it. You say you’ve just had your last fight?

Yes.

Well? Did you win?

He sees Ragna’s face again. Her eyes are closed and her hair is spread out over the pillow. The white moonlight is shining through the roof window, illuminating one of the corners of the pillow. He looks away and takes hold of the soft fabric of his trousers, squeezing it between his thumb and index finger.

Yes, I won, he says.

Robert doesn’t ask him any more questions. A bird flies low over the meadows, its shadow gliding beneath it like a dark patch on the wet grass. Danny winds down the window, rests his elbow on the door and feels the fresh wind on his face and his arm.

*

He began training at seven o’clock. At that hour, there were only a few lads at the Rosenbergers’ boxing school, working with their stocky Turkish trainer. Richard said he’d once been the Turkish army welterweight champion. He’d been living in Amsterdam for ten years and he certainly wasn’t a welterweight any more.

Danny stood in his usual corner, beneath the steamed-up windows. The boys worked through their programme. Every time the bell went and they took a breather, they looked over at Danny. When the bell rang for the next five minutes, they carried on training. Danny warmed up with some stretches, followed by a few strength exercises on the mat.

Then Ron arrived. He and his brother Richard were almost like two peas in a pod. The only difference was that Ron was completely bald – and he’d once been a boxer himself and had broken his nose at some point. He was bigger than Danny and must have outweighed him by twenty kilos. Danny said hello to them and when Ron had got changed into his training gear he helped Danny put on his gloves. Ron took the boxing pads out of the cupboard. The junior boxers had all gone home by then and the seniors were trickling into the room one by one. Ron set the clock and they worked through a few jabs and combinations. They trained for over seventy-five minutes. Danny held back because the other boxers were all amateurs. He gave them the occasional pointer. He sparred with a guy from Russia who’d trained at boxing schools in Tula and Kiev, and who didn’t say a word, just smiled whenever Danny explained something to him. Towards the end of each interval, Ron stepped things up, clapping to set the tempo and to encourage the boxers to keep it up until the bell rang. Ron’s T-shirt was damp and his bald head was beaded with sweat.

Danny went off for a shower after the training session and then headed to the canteen. One of the younger boxers was sitting there with a bowl of water in front of him. He was a tough-looking Surinamese lad with drowsy eyes and he was wearing a padded jacket with a huge hood. Ron came out from behind the bar with a plastic mouth guard in his hand. He dropped it into the warm water. His first gum shield, he said to Danny.

When’s your fight?

Two weeks, said the boy.

His first match, said Ron. He squeezed the mouth guard to see if it was soft enough. Then he shook the water off it and told the boy it wasn’t going to hurt.

The boy nodded. Ron told him to open his mouth and said: If it fits okay, just bite down on it.

He held the back of the boy’s head with one hand, pushed his head against his hip, and pressed the mouth guard onto the boy’s top row of teeth with his other hand. The boy closed his eyes and put a brave face on it.

Don’t worry. You’re in the hands of an expert, Danny said.

The boy just groaned.

Bite down on it for a while, make sure it fits properly.

Ron left the boy sitting there while he went to the bar. He poured himself a coffee and then took a carton of fruit juice out of the fridge for Danny and poured him a glass. Danny downed the juice in three gulps. Ron topped him up.

That long enough? the boy grunted.

You have to keep it in all night, said Ron. Oh yeah, and all the way through Christmas dinner too.

The boy laughed. He carefully removed the guard and studied the imprint of his teeth. Then he thanked Ron and left him alone with Danny.

Ron poured out a bowl of peanuts and joined Danny at the bar.

Right, mate, he said. If you fight like that, he’ll be down within three rounds.

Ron stuffed a handful of peanuts into his mouth.

I heard someone else was scheduled to fight him.

That’s right.

What happened? Did he drop out?

Don’t know. Rich sorted it.

Danny took a swig of juice, put the glass down on the bar and looked out at the sky through the tall windows. The clouds were grey.

Do you know why Aaron’s not boxing?

No idea.

When I heard there was a fight coming up with the Bulgarian guy, I thought he’d be doing it.

Don’t ask me, Ron said with a shrug.

Aaron’s a good boxer and he’s younger than me. I thought he’d fight. Or that other guy. What’s his name? The one who always wears those red shorts.

Sando?

He’s in my weight class too.

You seen him recently?

No. Has he stopped coming?

I don’t know.

Is he back inside again?

No, it’s not that. Rich bumped into him somewhere or other not long ago. He was off to another of those salsa parties of his.

Salsa?

Haven’t you heard? He goes to these salsa parties. To pick up women.

Danny looked at him.

He’s never told you? said Ron. He goes along to the parties, but it’s certainly not for the salsa. It’s just for the birds. They all want to shag him.

What? Sando? Sando from here?

You really didn’t know? They pick him up and they take him home. And they actually pay him for the pleasure.

What? They pay him for sex?

Yeah. Rich said he was all done up like a dog’s dinner. Because he’d had such a good night the last time. Know how much they pay? You’ll never guess. A hundred a go. He made four hundred in one night the last time. With the same woman. Then another hundred in the morning. Says he’s at it like a bloody rabbit.

Bunch of madwomen, said Danny.

Rabbits, the lot of them, Ron said. He looked at Danny and grinned. Hey, I can see the cogs turning. If that tosser gets a hundred a go, reckon I could ask two hundred.

More like three.

Ron smiled and said: All I know is they wanted you to fight the Bulgarian.

Danny shifted on his barstool.

You ever done any work for him?

Who? Gerard Varon? Ron cupped his hands around his coffee. Training sessions, he said. Only after Dad was gone though. He wasn’t that keen on him.

They say he takes good care of his people.

You’d have to ask my brother about that, Ron replied. He knows about that sort of thing. All I know is I’ve never had any problems with him. Can’t say the same about Dad though. He always called Varon a dirty old man, but that’s what he called everyone who wasn’t wearing training gear.

Danny slid down from his stool and stood there, looking at Ron. I seem to remember seeing your dad in a suit from time to time. With a tie and everything.

Yeah? Well, that must have been when he was off to visit the queen.

*

They’re driving along a concrete section of the motorway, the car thudding over the ridges between the slabs. The blue Alfa 1300 rolls from one side of the dashboard to the other. Danny picks it up, spins the wheels, tests the suspension and plays with the doors. Robert says: Did I tell you where I’m going?