Dirk van Weelden

Along the Singelgracht, under a stately plane tree: five men around a bench. It’s well into the afternoon and they have already drunk quite a bit of beer and sweet wine. Three of the youngest are sitting down, legs spread wide, can and bottle at their feet.  A fat bald guy on an electric scootmobile talks and waves his arms around. Next to the bench stands a sinewy dark skinned man in his sixties. His head an impressive sculpture of grey dreadlocks. There seems to be a discussion going on. He is about to rebut the bald guy.

Coming closer one can hear his voice.

Yeah, what do you know? Let me tell you something, Djengis Khan, right?  A fellow this tall.’

His cigarette hovers at a metre and a half.

‘With big rosy cheeks! So, you talking bullshit’.

The historical facts hit hard. The silence on the bench deepens. The heads droop even further.  A big cloud of smoke swirls around the dreadlocks of the historian. Triumphantly.