The Dinner (26 page)

Babette had put a cigarette between her lips, but now she removed it. She looked at Claire and me.

‘Dear Claire,’ she said. ‘Dear Paul … the two of you have to say something. Please tell him he can’t do this. Tell him he’s out of his mind.’

‘You can’t do that,’ Claire said.

‘He can’t, can he?’ Babette said. ‘You see, Serge? What do you think, Paul? Don’t you think it’s a ridiculous idea? There’s no reason to do that, is there?’

To me, personally, it seemed like an excellent idea for my brother to put an end to his political career, right here and now; it would be the best thing for everyone – for all of us, for the country – the country would be spared a four-year Serge Lohman administration: four costly years. I thought about the unthinkable, about things I had mostly been able to suppress: Serge Lohman standing beside the Queen on the steps of the royal palace, posing for the official photo with his newly formed cabinet; with George Bush in an easy chair in front of a fireplace; with Putin on a boat on the Volga … ‘After the conclusion of the European summit, Prime Minister Lohman raised a toast to success with the French president …’

First of all, it was the sense of vicarious embarrassment, the unbearable thought that government leaders all around the world would become acquainted with my brother’s vacuous presence. How, even in the White House and at the Elysée Palace, he would wolf down his tournedos in three bites because he had to eat
now
. The meaningful looks the government leaders would exchange. ‘He’s from Holland,’ they would say – or perhaps only think to themselves, which was even worse. That sense of vicarious shame was a constant. Our being ashamed of our prime ministers was the only feeling that created a seamless connection between one Dutch administration and the next.

‘Maybe he should take some time to think through it carefully again,’ I said to Babette with a shrug.

The most terrrible image of all was that of Serge sitting at our dinner table at home, somewhere in the – until recently – near future, but a future that was now thankfully fading fast, telling stories about his meetings with the world’s rulers. They would be lame stories, stories brimming over with platitudes. Claire and I would be able to see through them. But Michel? Whether he liked it or not, my son would be fascinated by the anecdotes, the corners of the veil that my brother would lift to his own honour and glory, the behind-the-scenes views of international affairs with which he would justify his presence at our table. ‘What are you griping about, Paul? Your son finds it interesting, you can see that, can’t you?’

My son. Michel. I had thought about a future, without stopping to ask myself if there would be one.

‘Think it through carefully?’ Babette said. ‘That’s exactly it. If only he would stop sometimes and think things through!’

‘That’s not what I mean,’ Claire said. ‘I mean that Serge isn’t free to simply decide this on his own.’

‘I’m his wife!’ Babette said, and she began sobbing again.

‘That’s not what I mean either, Babette,’ Claire said, looking at Serge. ‘I mean that all of us have a stake in this. We’re all in this together. All four of us.’

‘That’s why I wanted us to meet,’ Serge said. ‘So we could talk together about how we’re going to do it.’

‘How we’re going to do what?’ Claire said.

‘How we’re going to bring it out into the open. In a way that will give our children a fair chance.’

‘But you’re not giving them a chance, Serge. What you’re planning to bring out into the open is that you’re withdrawing from politics. That you don’t want to be the prime minister any more. Because you can’t live with it, that’s what you said.’

‘Can you live with it?’

‘It’s not about whether I can live with it. It’s about Michel. Michel has to be able to live with it.’

‘And can he?’

‘Serge, don’t be obtuse. You make a decision. With that decision, you also decide your son’s future. That’s up to you. Although I wonder whether you realize what kind of damage you’re going to cause. But your decision will also destroy the future of my son.’

My son. Claire had said my son, she could have glanced over at me then, for support, even if only for a knowing look, then recouped and said our son – but she didn’t; she didn’t even look my way, she kept her eyes fixed on Serge.

‘Oh, come on, Claire,’ my brother said. ‘That future has already been ruined. Whatever happens. That has nothing more to do now with what I decide or don’t decide.’

‘No, Serge. That future will be ruined only if you give in to your urge to play the noble politician. Just because you can’t live with something, you assume that that applies to my son as well. Maybe you’ll be able to make it up to Rick; I hope for your sake that you can explain to your son what you’re about to do to his life, but please leave Michel out of it.’

‘How can I leave Michel out of it, Claire? How am I supposed to do that? Explain that to me first. I mean, they were both there, if I remember correctly. Or are you trying to deny that, too?’ He fell silent for a moment, as though shocked by his own, uncompleted thought. ‘Is that what you’re trying to do?’ he asked.

‘Serge, try to be realistic. There is nothing happening. No one has been arrested. There isn’t even any suspicion. We’re the only ones who know what happened. It’s just not enough to justify sacrificing the future of two fifteen-year-old boys. And I’m not even talking now about your own future. You have to do whatever you think you have to do. But you can’t go dragging other people into it. Especially not your own child. Let alone mine. You present it as an act of pure self-sacrifice: Serge Lohman, the ambitious politician, our next prime minister, gives up his political career because he can’t live with a secret like this. In fact, he doesn’t mean a secret, he means a scandal. It all seems entirely noble, but in fact it’s purely egocentric.’

‘Claire—’ Babette said.

‘Wait a minute, wait a minute,’ Serge said, silencing his wife with a gesture. ‘Let me finish, I’m not done yet.’ He turned to Claire again. ‘Is it egocentric to give your son a fair chance? Is it egocentric of a father to give up his own future for his son’s future? You have to at least explain to me what’s egocentric about that.’

‘And what does a future like that consist of? What is he supposed to do with a future in which his father puts him up on trial? How will his father explain to him that it was this same father’s doing that put him behind bars?’

‘But that’s maybe only for a couple of years. That’s all you get for manslaughter in this country. I’m not denying that it will be hard, but after a couple of years they will have served their sentences and can try to carefully pick up their lives again and move on. I mean, what else do you propose, Claire?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing.’ Serge repeated the word as a neutral conclusion, not a question.

‘Things like this blow over. You can see it happening already. People say it’s a disgrace. But in the end, they want to get on with their own lives. In two or three months, no one will be talking about it any more.’

‘I’m referring to something else, Claire. I … we notice that it’s starting to tear Rick apart. People may forget it, but he won’t.’

‘But we can help them with that, Serge. With that forgetting. I’m only saying that you shouldn’t rush decisions like this. In a few months, maybe even a few weeks, everything may have changed. We can discuss it calmly then. We. The four of us. With Rick. With Michel.’

With Beau, I felt like adding, but held myself back.

‘I’m afraid that’s not on,’ Serge said.

In the silence that followed, the only thing you could hear was Babette’s quiet sobbing.

‘Tomorrow there is going to be a press conference, where I’ll announce that I’m stepping down,’ Serge said. ‘Tomorrow at noon. It’s going to be broadcast live. The twelve o’clock news is going to lead with it.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Oh, is it already that late?’ he said, seemingly indifferent to whether this sounded natural or not. ‘I have to … I’ve got another appointment,’ he said. ‘In a little bit. In half an hour.’

‘An appointment?’ Claire said. ‘But we have to – who are you meeting?’

‘The director wants to confirm the location for my press conference, and run through a few things beforehand. It didn’t seem to me like a good idea to do something like this in The Hague, a press conference like this. That’s never really been my kind of thing. So I was thinking of some place less formal …’

‘Where?’ Claire said. ‘Not here, I hope?’

‘No. You know that café that serves meals across the street, where you took us a few months ago? We ate there too. The—’ Here he pretended to be searching for the name of the café; then he named it. ‘When I was trying to think of a suitable place, it suddenly came into my mind. An ordinary café. Ordinary people. I can be myself there, more than in some frigid press centre. I suggested to Paul that we have a beer there tonight before coming here, but he didn’t feel like it.’

‘Could I interest you in coffee?’

The manager had popped up out of nowhere beside our table, he had his hands tucked behind his back and was leaning over slightly; his eyes were caught for a moment by Serge’s collapsed dame blanche, then he looked at each of us enquiringly, in turn.

I might have been mistaken, but I thought I noted a certain briskness in the manager’s movements and facial expression. That’s how things often go in restaurants like this: as soon as you’ve finished your meal and there is no longer any real chance of you ordering another bottle of wine, you might as well get lost.

Even if you were going to be the new prime minister in seven months’ time, I thought. There was a time to come and a time to go.

Serge checked his watch again.

‘Well, I think …’ He looked first at Babette, then at Claire. ‘Why don’t we order a cup of coffee at the café?’ he said.

Ex, I corrected myself. Ex-prime minister. Or no … what did you call someone who had never been prime minister, but decided not to run anyway? Ex-candidate?

The prefix ‘ex’, in any case, didn’t sound good. Ex-footballers and ex-cyclists know what that’s like. It was doubtful whether my brother, after tomorrow’s press conference, would still be able to reserve a table at this restaurant. On the same day. It seemed more likely that an ex-candidate would be put on the waiting list for three months, at the very least.

‘Then would you bring us the check?’ Serge said. Maybe I’d missed something, but I couldn’t remember his having waited to see whether Babette and Claire also thought it was a better idea to move to the café.

‘I’d like coffee,’ I said. ‘An espresso,’ I added. ‘And something to go with it.’ I thought about it for a moment, I’d been moderate throughout the evening, I just didn’t know right away what I felt like drinking.

‘I’ll have an espresso as well,’ Claire said. ‘And a grappa.’

My wife. I felt a warmth, I wished I was sitting beside her and could touch her now. ‘A grappa for me too,’ I said.

‘And you, sir?’ The manager seemed a bit confused at first, and looked at my brother. But Serge shook his head.

‘Just the check,’ he said. ‘My wife and I … we have to …’ He glanced over at his wife – a panicky glance, I could see that even from this angle. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Babette had then ordered an espresso as well.

But Babette had stopped blubbering, she dabbed at her nose with the tip of her napkin. ‘Nothing for me, thank you,’ she said without looking at the manager.

‘So that will be two espressos and two grappas,’ he said. ‘Which grappa would you like? We have seven kinds, from old wood-ripened to young—’

‘The ordinary one,’ Claire interrupted him. ‘The clear one.’

The manager gave a bow barely visible to the naked eye. ‘A young grappa for the lady,’ he said. ‘And what would you like, sir?’

‘The same,’ I said.

‘And the check,’ Serge repeated.

After the manager had hurried away, Babette turned to me – with an attempt at a smile. ‘And you, Paul? We haven’t heard from you at all. What do you think?’

‘I think it’s ridiculous that Serge has picked our café for this,’ I said.

The smile, or at least the attempt at one, disappeared from Babette’s face.

‘Paul, please,’ Serge said. He looked at Claire.

‘Yeah, I think it’s ridiculous,’ I said. ‘We took the two of you to that café. It’s a place where Claire and I go all the time, for the daily special. You can’t just walk in there and hold a press conference.’

‘Paul,’ Serge said. ‘I don’t know whether you realize how serious—’

‘Let him finish,’ Babette said.

‘I was finished,’ I said. ‘Anyone who doesn’t understand something like that, I can’t explain it to him.’

‘We thought it was a nice café, too,’ Babette said. ‘We have only pleasant memories of that evening.’

‘Spare-ribs!’ Serge said.

I waited to see if anything else was coming, but they were silent. ‘Precisely,’ I said. ‘Pleasant memories. What kind of memories will Claire and I have after this?’

‘Paul, don’t be silly,’ Serge said. ‘We’re talking about our children’s futures here. To say nothing of my own future.’