J.Z. Herrenberg - No Community Without Enemies

(written in 1994, published in 2002, translated from the Dutch by the author)

Man in shopping trolley.

Why should that particular image be flailing again before my mind's eye...

A child in a shopping trolley is sufficiently well-known – in front, little hands on the bar between the biggies of its pushing mother, little legs through the apertures, now full of life, now tongue-tied (slice of cheese, slice of sausage), the tide of other products rising incessantly in its little back. The one pinned down, the other pinned up, a child in a shopping trolley is like Christ on His cross.

But seeing a male, richly adult, stuffed into that rolling pit, his face nothing but a grilled scream, I’ll make you wobbly at the knees belted out by the driver, no, that was a different kettle of fish.


Yet again?! Talk about a breach of the peace! Have they really run out of coupons, those two below, and been declared UPs?

This has been going on for a whole week now. Fiery love, I initially thought, with a smidgin of envy, and all lust longs for eternity. Rutting-sounds erupting from the vaults of a secret SM ring. Now, however, their racket can be interpreted only as an expression of terminal despair...

I have a shrewd suspicion her line of survival, for which she strove so valiantly, has been rejected. Crushingly. Tough luck – she doesn't paint reality, she paints figurative horror no right-minded sponsor would ever leap at. And who can blame him? Three rattling granddads on a park bench, residential fortresses in a rain of blood, rabbits in a field (shunning your plate), all sporting her abstract signature… you wouldn’t want to spoil your office walls with those. And I am only describing the ‘pieces’ that enliven the landing downstairs! I walk past them every day, every day shaking my head and wondering When will you appear on my screen? Pity, she was dead spontaneous. But she should have known better, just like me. In a country like ours, a moral beacon to the world, naively espoused ‘originality’ condemns you automatically to ugly untruthfulness.


I repeat, I can't quite understand why I should suddenly be thinking of that man again. Is it an occupational hazard I should be so busy with methods, strategies, approaches and procedures, refining them, improving them, even in this soft-earned night off? Grandeur and misery of an eco knight!

Perhaps – and my jaws’ square is flushed by a shameful blush – perhaps I am a mite too self-willed, too much the cleaning aesthete... Sure, some leeway in the implementation of the Civic Space Act is tolerated by William R, flexibility is the royal road to productivity, an emancipated work force does protect your organization from metal fatigue. Too often, however, I will seek to rid the character of my professional actions of that last trivial vestige of harshness, unreformed niggler that I am, despite the fact that it is no mean feat to create, for me and the bio-waste entrusted to me, the wished-for atmosphere of a simple, altruistic discharge of duties (Oh do believe me, I sometimes implore it, the selective protection of wealth is an absolute necessity!)

Bohuslav and Taco have long since passed beyond that stage of excessive individualism, their gorges never rise in the grip of outdated sentiments, they are not as pestered by an artistic conscience as I am. What I have seen of their work consequently suffers from a lack of finesse and imagination (though, admittedly, Taco did show us some humour and rounding-up ingenuity last Tuesday). When I compare myself to them – always illuminating – I see something old-fashioned, something quaintly saurian still clinging to my scrupulous implementations. Why should I, in the safe closed circuit of our society, I, ideally the meek supply to a burning demand, why should I agonize, overweeningly, I, who only should be executing in unvexed efficiency!? It is the primordially human urge, probably, of wanting to give all things a personal tincture that drives my somewhat strained creativity in the fascinating domain of our Environmental Five-Year Plan.


The man in the shopping trolley.

Bohuslav and Taco, from Blitz Force D, they were no strangers to me, the former in particular I know quite well, he lives in the Western Quarter too, just around the corner. When the weather is fine, I can see this sympathetic hulk of a man from my verandah, sunning his cream-glistening frame on his. Bohuslav is Czech, a legal import, and has been gainfully employed in the eco-sanitary industry for the last few years, just like me. He shares his survival with a native, Megan Grubble, who justifies her existence by all-round waitering in Hoofbeck Central's refreshment-room. They don't possess any children. They are still saving up for them.

—Bo'll rather buy a car as a buffer, Megan groused only last week, placing a mug of coffee in front of me. She spilt some from sheer fierceness.

I sat, having just dropped by, in their simply-furnished living-room – three-piece suite, table, a few chairs, computer in the corner, white walls livened up by labour snaps from him and her, and on the floor, fallen open, read to pieces, full of underlinings and marginal notes, our Bible: Hall's Guide to institutional cleaning (the 20th, completely revised edition). The midday sun shone sharply, which a monstrous plant and other assorted verdure couldn't temper and filter in the least.

Bohuslav turned his engaging composition of scars and hair to me in affirmation and opined succinctly:

—Kid risky. (dismissive hand gesture)

—A child is an investment! la Grubble snapped, mopping up the little puddle. We don’t know if we’re allowed to remain in work. Think of the future! I think ahead, you only function in the present! You men!

—Who provides for his future provides for his funeral! Bohuslav exclaimed in witty annoyance, by which the Language Plus Centre again gave indirect but ample evidence of its usefulness and indispensability. I want mobility, that's advantage. Kid can put you out of action, and what then? Your parents are doornailed!

Bohuslav, bless him! But it is and remains a fierce bone of contention. No one, not even an econologist, can know in advance whether a child will be able to save you, can add to your existential profitability or satisfy you sufficiently in any other way (my parents, for example, weren't affordable anymore, either). The deterioration of the environment begins at birth, that is the mortgage we lug with us from the first breath we draw. Whether you can redeem it and yourself, as a Responsible Citizen, or whether you'll grow into a Useless Polluter, ripe for weeding, it's a lottery, a national lottery. But in the meantime earth, air and water keep crying SOS, SOS!

Oh, just listen to them! Now the sparks are flying in earnest! My poor generation! His submitted design for living will have been refused too. Whew! They really must have given up the fight for participation in our slimmed-down nation! I had already put them down as pushing twenty-five. Well, time presses then. With so much hopelessness, no-one answering for you, what else can you do but commit frenetic rounds of intimate violence? Until there cometh that certain moment, with its instant, personalized dispatch.

Their own fault entirely. They are completely out of touch.

But to return to carefree Bohuslav: he is, for the time being, given tasks of fundamental importance to do, of which he acquits himself with commendable zeal. Like last Tuesday. He and Taco.


I had rostered in a bit of leave for some much-needed recharging and cycled to the Mega Market for a change, despite that small loss of status. It was getting on for twelve o’clock. A stiff breeze whipped the clouds, the bare-branched trees were convulsed, the ditch along the path was brown and wrinkled like the skin on cold coffee, and in the distance the concrete dike, straight and firm and strong, was an etching in wintry light, decked with a fell of cloned supergrass. Only the penetrating smell from the Central Piggery complex fleetingly spoiled my shock-proof briskness.

I arrived. In the car park a few consumers stowed away their purchases. I left my bike locked in a shed, got a trolley, and janglingly and clangingly approached the building.

And here I have a confession to make: sometimes I could do without having to shake the hand, clammy or otherwise, of a complete stranger. The month was still in its infancy and so the branch manager hung above the entrance, flashing his teeth (‘Your host – Boris Brorson!’), a remarkably smooth and gleaming specimen this time, of which the more modest meat version on the ground was just releasing the hand of a client, roaring with laughter.

It is one of the few negative side-effects of the Social Regeneration that in its fervorous wake the Mega Market felt the purchasing space to be too dull and deadening for us, honoured customers, with only one face continually on view. Excitement and exhilaration were badly needed.

So the store was thoroughly eroticized.

Since then branch managers circulate as a total package, every month bringing a new, muscular ‘shop body’, shot full-length in a titillating posture with little ballroom in its Y-fronts. The pleasant icons hang in every aisle. School girls get infatuated. Housewives’ juices flow. The bodies get much publicity, especially from local television. Some achieve national notoriety, as media personalities.

The one bright spot, though of a Bethlehem-like magnitude, occurs during the Festive Season, when turkies and the child Jesus enjoy the centre of attention too, for then the ordinary healthy heterosexual male gets his tasty morsel: the branch manageress. Oh my. Although many men and women, especially those from the counting classes, have recovered their specific roles, in December the lords of creation really gate-crash the Mega Market, accompanying their morose-looking spouses on every possible occasion! No, apart from the harmony of the spheres which from on high lubricates the bitter parting of our cash almost non-stop, in those days there is no tastier reason I know of for emptying your wallet than the branch manageress!

—Welcome, welcome! Boris Brorson exclaimed with a smile, ardently pressing my hand. How are we today? Caught an uncommon cold, did you? What a weather we're having! Happy buying!

He fell silent. I said nothing. He let go.

I wished the branch manager cock rot and bollock cancer and entered the maze of commodities.

‘Welcome, welcome! How are’

Check-outs are making dramatic intensive care music. I find my way with as much ease as in the recently revised Penal Code, every aisle a familiar page.

The girls on hire are all on fire! the tannoy is singing.

A majestic, extremely old woman is dithering in front of me, deliberating aloud. A rare sight in the wild, this being 2013. I respect her jewellery. Why you and not my parents? Some have got all the money in the world! At last she has decided on the purchase of an expensive brand of support stockings and I can get past her. I must put this case to the Department of Pre-emptive Geriatrics (which I did only the day after: the interminable wait had furnished this inveterate workaholic the opportunity of writing down her bar code).

Onward to the meat counter!

No number is necessary. There are two people waiting ahead of me.

‘A call for Mrs Wilberforce, extension 13!’

Behind the counter, in full splendour, is she, her name pinned to her flat girl's breast in her own round handwriting – Belinda, the only being left breathing inside the vacuum.

A few months ago. I approached the meat, just like now. Panels, lifted from their ceiling, lay in heaps between sprawling cables. A ladder. I looked up, right into a dark skeleton, gleaming lightning-blue: the metal paling that usually sits invisible above our heads. A man had clambered inside this rib-room and was welding on his haunches. Rows of power points were gaping.

Below him, still empty and dim, waited an outsize piece of refrigerated furniture. The voices of the women opposite, entrenched behind their counter, were shrill but fatalistic. Among them the big, robust forty-something with the Easter Island head, whose service had always been so cheerful. By no means a beauty, yet courageous. (Oh do believe me, I implored her, the selective protection of wealth is an absolute necessity!)

And so Belinda appeared on the scene, alone.

Through her the purchase of a cutlet is transformed into sheer pleasure. I guess she is sixteen, so she is dead cheap. She lives in a boat-house down by the river. Her throat is a musical box. But firm, juicy legs protrude from under her butcher's uniform with the colour of goose-flesh, from which a delicious soup could be extracted.

Belinda is busy helping a man.

—Anything else? she tinkles.

How often this classic sounds withered and sterile. Belinda knows how to add a wholly unexpected dimension, and the face accompanying it, with its childlike, inquisitive expression, has often been the epicentre of a priceless and much-prized orgasm (I can't feed the contents of my piggy bank to a whore every time).

The man she is serving suddenly seems to experience some difficulty, he blushes like a beetroot, unable for a moment to put two words together. Belinda looks and waits, pink hand on hip.

—Anything else? she repeats her question, this time performed with an even greater intensity.

The two gentlemen before me start to grumble, the mistress of the meat hurls a row of sparkling teeth into the fray, but then the hesitator pulls himself miraculously together.

—I need spare ribs, he says, self-assured, but in a somewhat constricted voice.

—Spare ribs? Belinda echoes slowly and mockingly, bending forward ever more. How many?

—For one person, the man answers, swallowing.

A tense silence descends. Her blue eyes are big.

—For one person only? she coos in coquettish sadness.

—For one person. How many do you think I'll be needing, then?

—Well..., Belinda ponders with a drawn-out sigh, and her breath wafts through his brown hair. Big eater, small eater?

—6 ft. 4, comes the devastatingly joky reply, and the man looks about him, relieved and triumphant.

Belinda's cheeks are burning. Our hero is indeed very tall. We in front of the counter produce a liberated roar.

Then – commotion. At first I don't understand what is happening. A tangle of voices. Someone is laughing coarsely in my back. An infant advances a little question. I turn around.

Bohuslav Nowak and Taco Hare... In broad daylight!

And I am swelling, a current through my spine, my scrotum tingling, oh, I know how that feels, a uniform, I know the drama of it, the transformation and redemption of the ego, bliss! Your feet safe in iron-hard shoes, those jet-black gloves, that logo with its green fist on your breast, that three-coloured cap on your proud head, TOPCLEAN in an orange phosphorescence on your back! Dirt is a matter / out of place! Oh, the company song is thundering through me!

Yes, there they come, Bohuslav heavily, as if wanting to punish the earth, his glance stainless steel, Taco lightly and with a spring in his step, a wee bit of tension below his carroty hair.

They act as if they don't know me. According to which agreement? My heart becomes a hammer. They are approaching. SOS! Keys and hand-cuffs jingle. Stop the Over-manning of Society! They are coming straight at me without knowing me, Bohuslav and

Taco, the leader that afternoon, addresses the 6 ft. 4 man, whispering in his ear.

—It isn’t my birthday today! he suddenly cries, panicking.

—Oh, yes, it is! Taco grins. Little fibber. No mistake, impossible. First we check, then we grab. Question of professional ethics.

Belinda watches motionless, only fingering the cellophane with the spare-ribs in crackling agitation, my poor darling.

—Are those for this one here? Taco inquires business-like.

The defiled one says nothing, she only nods.

—Well well, a feast!

—Human beings have to eat, the 6 ft. 4 man asserts with dignity.

—That's a complete waste of money then in your rotten case, counters Taco.

And in a flash he dives into the man's crotch and hurls the writher clean into his trolley, right on top of a round of ham, two cans of lager and a packet of cracknels. While Bohuslav keeps the screamer in check with sophisticated violence, Taco heads for the entrance, roaringly joining in a carnival evergreen.

Exit.

‘How can I help you?’ Belinda panted at her next one.

The tannoy exultantly proclaimed the latest discount.


Birds are singing. The sun is pure fire. Go for a stroll, get a breath of fresh air? Even better: today I'll walk to the office, I think, touch no car, no bike. Monday is network, no field-work day.

Through the cool morning, leaving this quarter, leaving Hoofbeck and entering an awakening ventricle of our Green Heart, where the residential fortresses of the counting classes bleed in the early light.

Yes, I'll walk.


Peace reigns down below.