We were in a special room where there were many women wearing scarves. It was certainly not a mosque, because in a mosque there is carpet. This place is between the large grass square with the white stripes, where we were the day before yesterday, and the square with the numbered houses, where we were yesterday.
It was as if I had to be careful and quiet in this space. A man hung on the wall and was fastened to a cross. The man was naked with only a white cloth around his waist. He was injured on his right breast. It seemed as if he was attached to the cross with nails. Despite his condition he still looked good.
With my other end I lay in a dining room. Women with scarves came in. Everyone was old there. Food was served. Ief explained to the people who I was and what I had done in the last few days in this neighborhood: the Braemblokken, the square, the lawn with the white lines, the mosque, ...
In the special room one of the women had talked about a last evening meal on a Thursday that is white, and a man being nailed to the cross on a Friday that is good. I wondered if the chicken was the last supper and if another man would be nailed to a cross tomorrow. That could well be, because there was enough room on the wall.
I was in two rooms at the same time. This is confusing for me, but nobody thinks about that. On my one end I saw the mouths of the people who ate chicken and on my other end I looked at the nails in the hands and feet of the man on the cross. I saw nails in the mouths of the eating women and goose bumps and bones in the man’s mouth. I thought of the goosebumps of Madam 7 and wondered how she is. I wondered if the car park lines had already been drawn and if Betty’s lawn was now full of cars. I also wondered if Charles was standing in front of or behind his door, and whether everything was fine with him or no
I would like them to lay me down in a circle on the lawn between the Braemblokken. A ball rolls back and forth in my centre. The ball rolls to where it rolls, because balls are ingenious and always know where to roll. I look up and see that Charles’ door is open again and that he is sitting on the steps in front of his door. A woman is sitting next to him, also on the steps in front of her door. She chats and pours tea, from so high that it is as if the tea flows down directly from heaven. Her children play downstairs in the splash pool. Mustafa says: it used to be worse here. The nails fall from the hands and feet of the man so that he no longer has to hang on that cross. Imran does not have 2.5 friends, but 3. They are the first to await me and use the nails to put the doors back in their hinges again.