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536 pages, Audiobook
First published November 22, 2019
Maybe this is the last time he will walk down the familiar corridor as the man called Noon Merckem, that door there on the left with those welcoming panes of glass could mean the end of his existence, weak in the knees like a man being dragged to the gallows, that's how he feels in this instant, as the hope that sustained him, the certainty that everything would be new and better beyond imagining and normal at last, that he would pass through that everyday door and be another man when he came out, a man with a home and a family and a life outside these walls, all drains away. And he comes to a halt on the sun-dappled tiles and Brother Reginald turns toward him and sees the desperation on his face and murmurs that God will never test Noon more harshly than he can bear, and gives an encouraging nod, and Noon remains silent, because in his four years here he has not seen much to reassure him about God's notions of what is bearable.
It is a fictional exploration of the events which lead to the discovery of a middle aged woman in a Dutch refugee home, who could not recollect any account of her past, yet trembled at the thought of going to Germany. Her stupefying fear of arrest and trial for a capital offence inspired the authorities and doctors to get down to the root of her mystery. Little by little the truth comes out, half grey reality, half nightmare.
and he didn’t know if it had been her plan from the start or if their mutual repugnance gradually made it happen, she didn’t resist, he didn’t use violence, and yet it was rape, except it wasn’t clear who the perpetrator was and who the victim. He used her body to heighten his own disgust with himself, the less he desired her, the more essential it seemed to penetrate her and commit acts of lovelessness and brutality, and she knew that and let him do it, just as she fabricated the deadliest explosives with clean hands and a clear conscience and proud yellow skin.’


Memories are like treacherous quicksand within the twilight of the mind. And in love, everyone more or less invents the other, and in the end, one must make a choice about what to leave behind as the truth…
Five years after the end of the First World War, in a Belgian shelter for veterans, one of them has absolutely no memory of the front, nor of his life before it. That is, until a miracle occurs: in response to a newspaper advertisement, his wife recognizes him and takes him back home.
But do such miracles truly happen? Where does reality end and illusion begin? Where does intimacy start and the nightmare fade away? What is it that constructs identity and selfhood?
The book is a tango for two—with him and with her. The two of them often mistake the steps and stumble, yet they invariably follow the melody, frequently without even realizing it. The melody is not always pleasant; it is often false and grating. Until, suddenly and unexpectedly, it flows into music once more.
This peculiar third-person stream of consciousness is a bit heavy to read. From a certain point onward, the repetitions started piling up on me and the plot stalled. It would have been much better if a portion of the volume had been cut. The ending restored the overall resonance and completed the framework—this alone made the read worthwhile for me, so I will be generous. And yet, what a beautiful short story this would have made instead of all these pages upon pages!
P.S. It is strange that the author has not been translated into English—she has written other intriguing titles that remain silent in a Dutch language unfamiliar to me…
▶️ Quotes:
📸 “…perhaps one needs a past in order to be happy…”
📸“…there is something cold-hearted in this, as if owning a camera gives her the right to exploit her fellow human beings.”
📸“…and he is amazed by how easy it is for a person to turn their life into an inspiring story where every single fact is the truth, yet from beginning to end, it is a lie.”
📸“…the world emerges with sinister reality, as if it had been waiting for him in ambush…”
📸“…in a book you can turn back a few pages, in a dream you can start all over again, but in reality, what has once been spoken cannot be undone.”
And she says she never lied to him and, what's more, she means it, and he says keeping quiet is a kind of lying, and she disagrees, she says he's not the only one allowed to forget, and then he gets angry, that stupid envy of his amnesia, what are people thinking, as if the truth is interchangeable, a version of your life you can choose if and when it suits you, she doesn't know the first thing about it, he says, the opposite of truth is not untruth but uncertainty, and if she only knew how awful that is, she wouldn't yearn for it.
And in that instant he sees right through her, how her whole life long she's been reinventing herself, a housemaid in love, a respectable shopkeeper's wife, a heroine waiting for her moment, a Flämische Engel, a widow who experienced a miracle, the realization hits him as if he's opened a door and a cold blast of wind has smacked him in the face, and he looks at her and doesn't know what it means, whether she always lies, or doesn't know herself if she's lying, or whether her lies hew so close to the truth that no one can tell the one from the other, if he and their happy marriage are also part of her lies, if he loves her lies, more than he loves her, and then the moment of insight is over, or of unreason, because he looks at her and he sees Julie, the woman he loves, who loves him unconditionally.
