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who is cut out for work. Then they said I was distracting the others. They were probably right about that too. When I complained that this was boring the hell out of me and asked if this was why I had learned all those strange facts at school, the old accountant said, ‘Yes, my boy, life’s no novel.’ I could tell a good joke, and they liked that, but it wasn’t enough for them. It didn’t take long before the old accountant had no idea what to do with me. When the boss wasn’t there I made animal noises or sang funny songs they’d never heard before. The boss’s son was a stuck-up little brat who came by the office now and then to get some money. Everything he said was horribly pretentious and he looked down on daddy’s employees with an absolutely insufferable, totally unfounded air of superiority. The guys laughed their heads off when I imitated the young gentleman. I ruined a typewriter there too, and misplaced a book. Then they sat me down at a machine they called ‘the guillotine.’ I had to cut samples. For days and days I sat there and guillotined. All the samples I cut were crooked. They must have known that that was going to happen, what else would they expect? They’d only put me there to prevent anything worse. They threw out the samples—the clients never saw them. But I’d still managed to put a letter in the wrong envelope somehow. It was pretty bad, of course: the man who got the letter wasn’t supposed to know that the boss was doing business with the man the letter was written to. The accountant practically had a stroke. That’s when I figured it would be better if I left. The boss held out his hand, and I was glad to be on my way too, I shook it heartily up and down. I said I was sorry but that there was nothing I could do about it. I think I meant it too. See, Koekebakker, that’s an office job. After that I interned in a stockbroker’s office once, looking through newspapers with a book to see if any of the clients’ bonds had been selected for redemption. Wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. They had to get rid of me. I had to copy there too, but I don’t think they could ever figure out what I’d copied. I could see it wasn’t working out, I couldn’t stay focused.
    â€œMy old man was at his wit’s end. Now he’s hoping that things have improved with time. I’m not so sure. Doesn’t look that way to me. I’m doing just fine. Did you know Bavink just made a pile of money with his latest painting? Ditch at Kortenhoef , with calf and haystack. Look at this.” He took out his wallet. “It’s bulging with cash, Koekebakker my boy, just bulging with cash. Cold hard cash. I’m going on a trip tomorrow.”
    â€œWith Bavink?” I asked. “No,” Japi said, “not with Bavink. Alone. I’m going to Friesland.” “In the middle of winter?” Japi nodded. “To do what?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Do? Nothing. All you people are so pathetically sensible: everything needs a reason and a purpose. I’m going to Friesland, not to do anything, not for anything. No reason. Because I feel like it.”
    The next day I took him to the station to catch the 7 p.m. express. It was already dark. He was wearing a jacket with the buttons missing, much too big for him, and a hat with a brim that flopped down over his ears, and Appi’s new yellow shoes on his feet. In his hand was a paper cigar holder with an advertisement on it. “Wait a second,” he said, when we were already downstairs. “I forgot something.” He came right back down carrying a fishing pole.
    He wasn’t very talkative that evening. I couldn’t get out of him what he was planning to do with the fishing pole. On the way to the station, he smoked four cigars in half an hour with his paper cigar holder, and when I said goodbye to him at the gate he asked