That I remain brave

“Don't you see it? Can’t you see that they are waiting for us! As soon as I step outside the door, they will grab me! Don't you realize it? Are you really so naive not to understand? We are stuck in our own house. We are locked up, imprisoned! As limp jailbirds!”

He stands in front of me and waves his arms as if he is afraid, I won't listen to him. And maybe he's right. Maybe I don't want to listen to his warnings, his ravings. I would much rather sit with him, drink a glass of brandy, listen to music or watch a nice movie.

“I didn't realize it at first,” he continues. “In fact, I liked it that there were more police and soldiers on the streets. It gave a feeling of security at the time. After all, there was a lot of crime. Lots of theft, burglaries, drug trafficking. Why bother on more troopers?”

He sits down next to his easel. That is why he invited me in the first place to his house. Because he would like to show me some new paintings. Ruben is not an undeserving artist. His landscapes and still lifes, radiate a certain tranquility. A certain simplicity. Something I certainly do miss in his demeanor this evening.

“But while I initially believed that law enforcement wanted to protect their own population, I am no longer so sure. Didn't you notice? How dark is it in the streets? How menacing? People have become afraid. Afraid of the black shirts, the fascists. The so-called friends of the government. Ha! But before you know it, they arrest you. Because they do not like your face. Because they want something from you? Money? Possessions? Because they simply want to show their power? Because it should be clear that they are the boss? They are the oppressors, the occupiers, the bullies?”

He goes on like this for a while. Although it is already late at night, Ruben does not show any signs of fatigue. He rattles constantly. About the occupation by the Dark Powers, the Black Force. About why nobody in his vicinity seems to recognize the danger.

Ruben usually paints in the style of Monet, Pissarro and Renoir. Colorful sceneries, tranquil settings. But lately he mainly sketched bleak landscapes. Charcoal, licorice, onyx, black olive.

Ruben walks to the kitchen. He turns on the kettle. A little later he returns with two steaming mugs of coffee. Apparently, he has no intention of going to bed yet. He gestures for me to sit opposite him. Is it starting again now? Has he not finished yet?

“But you can't stay in your own house for the rest of your life,” I try cautiously. “Then you are indeed a prisoner. Is that worth it to you? Your fear? Your desperation? How she obsesses you?”

He looks at me like I am the Pope in swimming clothes. Ruben clenches his fists. Out of powerlessness? Because even I, his best friend, do not understand him? Even I do not realize the threat?

So are we standing opposite each other. Soldiers on a battlefield.

There is a Frisian Tail Clock in the middle of the room. It is half past six. Stiff from sitting for so long, I stand up and stretch my legs. I shuffle to the window that opens onto the town square. I carefully push the stiff and cold curtains a little aside. It is still dusk outside. And foggy. I spot a group of twenty, thirty people in uniforms. What are they carrying? Suitcases? Bags? Weapons?

Suddenly Ruben is standing next to me. "See! There you have them! The soldiers, the black shirts!” He is shaking, he's sweating.

After more coffee and cheese sandwiches, I try to persuade him to go outside with me. “We have to move on,” I explain to him. “You cannot live like this. So short of breath, so scared, so worried.”

Ultimately, he allows himself to be persuaded. We put on our winter coats and carefully open the front door. Ruben holds my arm tightly. As it is icy outside. In the east the sun breaks through the heavy ink black clouds. Thin rays of sunlight fall on the cobblestones of the square. And on the brass instruments of the men in uniform. It is King's Day. This morning the band give an aubade. As we walk past them, they play the national anthem. I hear Ruben singing along softly. He starts to let go of my arm.