Annelies полностью

The movie is a comedy. A short, fat man and a tall, skinny man are best pals, yet there’s always something the fat one is doing to earn him a slap or a punch. It’s easy to see that the fat one is the funny man and that his antics are driving the show. The skinny man is only there to have jokes bounced off him and to administer hilarious punishment with a seltzer bottle or a bop on the noggin. The fat man is chased by a tiny yapping lapdog. Chased by a Chinese cook wielding a cleaver. Chased by a woman whose skirt has been ripped off. Everyone laughs. Anne laughs. She laughs as if she might never stop, as if she might drown in her own laughter.

The girls are still laughing when they stagger out into the afternoon. They lean against the casements featuring the advertising placards and huff smilingly at the air.

“Jezus Christus, that was too much,” Griet moans.

Anne sighs a laugh and breathes through a smile. “I’ve never heard you say that,” she notices.

“Heard me say what?”

“Jezus Christus.”

Griet only shrugs. “It’s just a saying.”

They hear a whistle as two of the Canadian soldiers cycle past them. “Hey there, honeypot.” One of them grins at Griet. “You look like you’re gonna bust outta your shirt.” And then he says something else that exceeds Anne’s grasp of English, something that causes the soldiers to chortle together loudly as they pedal off.

“What did he say, what did he say?” Griet is desperate to know.

“He said, ‘Hello, you beautiful ladies—please marry us and come live in our castles in Canada.’”

“Oh, he did not. Did he?”

“No.”

“Are there castles in Canada?”

“I don’t know. Maybe there are.” She expels a breath. “I have to be going.”

“Aw, don’t tell me you have to work in your father’s dumb old office again.”

“I do.”

“It’s not fair. You should come over to my flat. Nobody’s home at this time of day. We could do whatever we want.”

“Tomorrow, maybe. Today, I promised my father.”

“Promises.” Griet shrugs. “Well, if you must. But before you go”—she smiles—“I’ve got something for you.”

Anne smiles back at the tube of lipstick that Griet produces from her pocket. “Where did you get that?”

“Henk. He got a bunch of them from his brother,” Griet whispers mischievously as she unscrews the tube. Anne answers by shaping her mouth into a bow. She feels the sticky, creamy flow of the lip rouge, watching Griet shape her own mouth into an instructive oval as she applies the color to Anne’s lips. “Perfection.” Griet’s laugh is impish. “Now you’re irresistible.”

But Anne’s attention has been caught by a figure leaning against the brick balustrade at the end of the canal bridge. It’s the yellow-haired boy from the spice warehouse. A loiterer, dressed in poor, ill-fitting clothes, he gazes at them.

“Who’s that?” Griet wants to know.

“I don’t know his name. He works in my father’s warehouse.”

“Well. He looks very interested in something,” she points out, and gives Anne a nudge. “I wonder what.”

•   •   •

Curiosity. That’s all it is. It’s just for curiosity’s sake that Anne walks her bicycle up the Prinsengracht rather than riding it. At first she camouflages her over-the-shoulder glances. Stopping to tie her shoe and sneaking a peek. Another fleeting look as she allows an old man to pass with his cane or to yield to a pair of cyclists dinging their bells as they turn onto the Leidsegracht. Each time, she sees that he’s still behind her, hands stuffed into his trouser pockets, his shoulders hunched with a purposeful stride.

She’s both excited by this and a little frightened. The gulls are swooping above her, crying. She can smell the diesel stench of boat engines. By the time she passes the fat yellow advertising column at the corner of the Rozenstraat, she quits trying to cover her backward glances. Halfway across the bridge to the Westermarkt, she stops as a canal boat putters beneath and leans her bike against the stonework. The boy hesitates for an instant. But then he walks toward her.

“You’re following me,” she accuses him blankly.

“Could be,” he answers.

“Why?” She feels his eyes penetrating her bravado.

“Why do you think?”

“I’m sure I haven’t the slightest,” Anne insists.

“No?” A smile bends his lip. “I saw you coming out of the movie house. Do you like it when soldiers whistle at you?”

She feels a sudden heat. “It wasn’t me they were whistling at.”

“Oh. You mean it was your friend with the big boobies.”

Anne’s jaw clenches.

“Well, I like you better,” the boy tells her.

“Oh, do you? That’s such an honor.” She frowns. Though, honestly, she’s surprised at the bright sting of joy she feels.

“I like your face. I like watching you look at things.”

“Things?”

“Things.” He shrugs. “I liked the way you looked at me. But I wasn’t sure.”

“Sure of what?”

The boy gazes at her.

“Sure of what?”

Another shrug. “You’re the owner’s daughter. I’m just a broom boy. A piece of canal trash.”