Everyone can see De Kuyper if they know how and where to look. He is the keeper of memories and everything remembered. Very few know that people don't have memories and that they don't remember anything. What they get is just what De Kuyper gives, according to his unknowable rules and his impenetrable algorithm.
From my many long talks with him, I still have only a vague idea. I know that when you die, all your memories die with you—and then, in that moment only, you get to see everything (ALL).
I always argued that it was too late, and useless, and cruel—bitter, brutal, and callous, but De Kuyper just smiled crookedly and shrugged.
De Kuyper doesn't admit it, but he clearly favors the young over the old. The young get a lot of stuff fast. The old get more stuff from childhood and youth, but not "what they had for breakfast the other day" or "why am I in this room?" When he is too busy and he doesn't get around to everybody in time, he gives a lapsus that some people physically perceive as on the tip of their tongue.
I always thought he liked me, until one day he said he liked no one and hated no one. "You're all the same to me," he said, but he enjoys interacting with the few who could see him and talk to him.
One day I said something (I don't remember what) that upset him and made him sad. He clearly wanted to make up and offered, "C'mon, what do you want to see? August 1961?" When I said, "I don't care," he continued, "How about that goal you scored that put your team in the final?" "We lost the final. Don't remind me. I want to see ALL."
De Kuyper shook his head and told me that I will see it the day I die.
"But ALL is a lot of stuff. How long do I have to look at it?"
De Kuyper said, "You have an eternity."
I got angry, "And how long is an eternity?"
He looked straight at me, as if I should have known: "Eternity is sometimes as long as one second."
Nice one!
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