By John Beringen
Anekdotische wetenswaardigheden over de verhalen over de jongensboekenheld Bob Evers en over de schrijver Willy van der Heide (ps. van W.H.M. van den Hout; 1915-1985).
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Additional info for Bob Evers' Laatste Ereronde
I also stay at the hotel. Mister has been in accident! [Now looking closely at me, too closely, examining like a med student] Mister is a toughman! You two party guys out for good time! " -- and back to the hotel and straight to one of the two auto-rental desks. We'd go back to the airport, book a flight out, and then see basically all of Senegal, by car, this afternoon. At the counter, a round and broad-smiling man. We asked for a small car. He dispatched an assistant to get one. At the other rental desk, across the lobby delta, a man dressed for tennis was berating a different, smaller, clerk.
I wanted to sit with them, laugh at other people with them. But what did I do? I gave them the tight, smarmy smile I give to homeless people when I have nothing for them, always with a slight, quick shoulder shrug, and we were gone. I followed Hand and Raymond the two steps to the taxis and we were groped by the man without legs. He wanted money. Then an old woman, middle finger crooked through an actual tin cup, placed herself in front of us, sticking the cup a few inches from my mouth. One of the other women from the bar appeared before us -- what she wanted she didn't say.
I stepped over and smiled, hoping he'd give me English. He gave me French. "Sorry," I said. "No parlez pat francais. Mon frer --" I said, gesturing somewhere toward the door, in a way intended to mean that I had a friend who spoke French, an old friend -- from kindergarten! from birth! -- but he was out in the lobby waiting for a Taurus. I'm not sure if it came across. "English then," he said heartily. "These are my wives," he said, waving his hand over the three women surrounding him, all very pretty, all very tall.