Читать книгу Ventoux онлайн

70 страница из 86

And yes, he was a poet. Odd poems, we thought. They were so full of wild leaps and associations. Sometimes they were four lines long, sometimes a hundred. In the bookcase in his room, besides scores of videos, there was also a whole row of poetry collections. He could recite poems by heart, even very long ones. As he stood there declaiming, you could see how he seemed to disappear into another world. How the words and images seemed to take possession of him. Sometimes a look came into his eyes that struck fear into me.

Close friendship is a rainbow. The rational spirit of Joost, the emotional one of André, the romantic one of Peter, and the stoical one of David fit together well. It is always difficult to analyze oneself, but I think I had something of everyone in me. You may find that a lack of a personality on my part, but also the binding force of the modest ego. If they formed the different colours, I was the reverse prism that merged the beams of light.

Peter left the PR for his poetry to us, and to his father, who had asked Hein Broekhuis of the Modern Fashion Store to make copies of Peter’s poems in calligraphy on handmade paper. Calligraphy was Hein’s great hobby, and Peter’s father paid him in kind. Captain Willem framed them nicely and hung them on the wall of the Sweet Lady Jane.