The burgomaster of Kampen had forbidden the usher to shiver. It was distracting during meetings.
The usher stood by the door. The burgomaster sat by the fire. So they did not entirely agree on how serious the problem was.
Outside, it was freezing. Inside, the council was debating whether it was cold. The oldest councillor believed it was. The youngest first wanted to know whether that also applied to yesterday. The secretary had already filled two pages. The council had not yet decided anything.
“More wood,” said the burgomaster.
The usher brought in wood. His name was Jan, and he knew that a fire got warmer when you put wood on it. That put him a whole agenda item ahead of the council.
The flames rose. The burgomaster moved his chair forward. The other gentlemen moved with him; nobody wanted to fall behind a strong administration.
Under the table stood seven pairs of shoes. The burgomaster wore the largest. He felt that his feet should radiate authority, even when his mouth was shut.
“That’s better,” he said.
The secretary wrote it down.
An hour later, the burgomaster moved a little closer to the fire again. His trousers had wide legs of expensive black broadcloth. They had cost him more than Jan’s entire winter supply of firewood. He liked to mention this, especially to Jan.
A smell began to rise.
The oldest councillor sniffed.
“Is something being roasted in here?”
Jan looked from the fire to the burgomaster’s legs. A thin wisp of smoke was creeping up along the cloth.
“Your trousers, sir.”
The burgomaster looked offended.
“My trousers are not being roasted.”
“Not quite yet.”
Jan moved a bucket closer. The gentlemen thought this excessive. The youngest councillor proposed first establishing whether the smoke was indeed coming from the trousers. A discussion followed, because the oldest councillor maintained that the smoke came from the fire and was merely leaving by way of the trousers.
The secretary asked whether he should write that down word for word.
Then a small patch of cloth turned red.
“Perhaps,” said Jan, “you could move back a little.”
There was silence.
Back a little.
The burgomaster placed his hands on the armrests. He looked at the usher the way he otherwise looked only at a misplaced comma.
“The authorities do not yield.”
The other gentlemen nodded. A decision that could be carried out without standing up was always their preference.
The burgomaster thought deeply. A burning bit of fluff landed on his shoe. He stamped on it with his other shoe and then had two warm feet.
“The fireplace,” he said at last, “is too close.”
The oldest councillor slapped his knee. The youngest pointed at the wall. The secretary dipped his pen in the ink. That was how simple a solution could be, if the right man thought of it.
The chimney would have to be rebuilt further back.
“Unanimous,” said the secretary.
“Immediately,” said the burgomaster.
“Now,” said Jan, and he emptied the bucket.
There was a sound as if someone had insulted an enormous cat.
The burgomaster was standing.
The whole council was standing.
Water ran under the table, over the shoes, past the chair legs and towards the door. Jan put the bucket down. By the fire lay a small piece of trouser.
A week later the bricklayers began. They moved the chimney and built the fireplace further back. It cost a fortune, but the authorities had kept their word.
At the next meeting, the gentlemen found the fire rather far away.
The burgomaster took hold of the armrests of his chair.
Jan got his bucket ready, just in case.