Amsterdam Stories Read Online Free PDF Page B

stove-buster for you.” And Bavink had laughed. And Japi went straight to the shelf and found a new bottle of Bols in the usual place, “next to Dante.” And the three of them knocked back most of the bottle and then Japi cut thick slices of Bavink’s bread to make sandwiches and then all three of them were off to Amstelveld and they bought a new stove for seventy cents (it was Monday), a prehistoric model, and they got it home in a wheelbarrow, the three of them.
    I handed Japi a cup of tea. He drank it out of a mixing bowl, I didn’t have a cup for him. He groaned in contentment and banged the bowl down on the table. “What I could really use now is some bread,” he said. “Don’t mind me, I think I can find it.” He’d had his eye on my cupboard for a while. “Hey,” he said, “did you know you have meat in the house?” Did I know! He was already putting some sausage on the bread. “Sausage on bread—the people’s victuals.” My sausage, my treasure, the object of my reveries of luxury: the ham I was saving for tomorrow. Of course Japi went straight for that. I have to admit that he didn’t forget about me—he gave me two slices of sausage on every slice of bread. There was enough for that. And Japi ate. How he could eat! The bread was there next to him on the table and he just sliced away. I started to enjoy it. “Don’t be shy, Japi, there’s enough money.” Japi hadn’t noticed the money yet. “Damn!” he said. “It’s a pot of gold! They must have printed another one of your pieces.” I nodded. “As well they should,” he said. “What else are those people good for besides paying our expenses, I’d like to know. I’ve also written a thing or two in my day.” He stuffed his mouth full of bread and sausage and wiped his hands on the newspaper before crumpling it up. “I shouldn’t be writing anything, though, it’s not like I’m any good.”
    Then out from his inner pocket came an old, moldering, nasty-smelling newspaper with the creases worn through. It was The Vlagtwedde Sentinel and he showed me an article with “Letters from Amsterdam” at the top. He’d written six, he said, but his brother had lost the other five. Japi helped himself to another slice of bread. “You don’t want any more?” he asked. I declined and Japi took the last quarter pound of my sausage. “The people’s victuals” seemed to agree with him. “Did it at night,” Japi said with his mouth full, pointing to the paper with his knife. “After hours. I always had to go back to the office in the evening. Sometimes I had to hold my head under the faucet to stay awake. Now I’d say no thank you. What do I care? Nothing. It only tires you out. I’d rather just walk around and look at people and the carriages and the houses. And especially at the pretty girls and the fresh-faced brides. You can always pick out women who have just gotten married, you can tell right away. And then I think about the fun I don’t have with all those dear creatures. I’d rather do that than write about it. What do the numskulls care what I see. They just shuffle down their own streets, staring down at the ground with tedious faces stuck to their heads because it’s a lost cause, life is so hard, it makes them miserable. What have they ever done for me? Let ’em keep their couple dollars.”
    The article was quite well done, but Hoyer said later that he was sure Japi didn’t write it.
    â€œNow I could really go for a pint of beer,” Japi said, leaning back. “Sorry, man,” I said, “none in the house, no beer and no jenever and no clothes to go across the street in, but have a cigar.”
    The rain clattered on the roof like it was about to break through and the windows were white with water. Japi was not in the mood