“Nothing.”
“Why aren’t you getting up then?”
“Don’t feel like it.”
“Get out from under that duvet.”
“Why?”
“So I can see you.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Don’t be so childish.”
“Look who’s talking.”
The duvet slipped down. His ginger hair had grown, it was time for him to get it cut again. He stared at me with drowsy eyes. There was a Walkman among the clothes on the floor next to his bed. A few butts lay in the ashtray on the bedside cabinet. Teun’s poster - still rolled up - was against the skirting board.
“Could you move out of the doorway, please?” he asked.
“Why?”
“It looks horrible, you standing there like that. It’s scary.”
I walked into the new room and sat down on the chair. Henk slid up in bed so that his shoulders came to rest against the wall. The window was open, it was cold. Despite the twenty-five-watt bulb, I could see the hairs on his arms standing up. “What’s the matter, Henk?”
“Nothing. I told you.”
“Why don’t you get up then?”
“I’m scared.”
“What of?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Me neither.”
He keeps snapping back and forth between boy and man. Sometimes I feel like I should take him by the hand, at other times he towers over me. He is unpredictable. He took the packet of cigarettes from the bedside cabinet and lit one, blowing the smoke up at the open window.
“I’d rather you didn’t do that,” I said.
“No doubt,” he said. And then, in a different tone. “I hear noises, at night.”
“What kind of noises?”
“Animals. At least I hope so.”
“That’s no reason to be frightened, surely?”
“Short, high-pitched yapping noises.”
“That’s the coots.”
“It drives me up the wall. And your father coughs in bed.”
“Is that so terrible?”
“I feel sorry for him,” he said quietly.
“Go in and sit with him sometimes.”
Again he looked at me as if I’d asked him to lay out a dead body. “Coots,” he said, “are they the black ones with those ridiculous big feet?”
“That’s right.”
He stubbed out the cigarette. The stench of smoldering filter drifted up towards me. He snuggled back down in bed and pulled the duvet up over his head again. “Will you turn off the light when you leave?” he asked.
Father called out when I walked past his bedroom. I opened the door but left the light off and didn’t go in.
“Is Henk smoking in the new room?”
“Yes.”
“Tell him it’s not allowed.”
“I did. He doesn’t listen.”
“I have to go to the toilet.”
“Later.”
I did everything myself this morning and I didn’t find it easy, I wasn’t back in the house until nine. The yearlings were restless, they’re already used to Henk, I do things differently. In a few days, when it’s a bit warmer in the daytime, I’ll put the donkeys out again.
The young tanker driver is looking at the sight glass when I step into the milking parlor. In the time it takes me to reach him a number of names that start with G have run through my mind and I’ve latched onto his. Ever since Henk has been here, I’ve wanted to introduce him to Galtjo. I don’t know why, I’ve just wanted to see them together and stand between them.
“How do you manage to get that thing so clean?” he says.
“I rinse it nice and hot,” I say.
“They’ve found a replacement for Arie.”
“You’ve got a new workmate then.”
“Yes and no.”
“Yes and no?”
“He’s going to do this run, I’m moving to another district.”
“You won’t be coming here any more?”
“No.”
His eternal smile becomes a crooked grin.
“Where?”
“Oh, near Bovenkarspel. I live up there.”
“Well, all the best, then.” I hold out a hand, which he shakes, somewhat surprised. I turn and walk to the scullery door. “See you round, Galtjo,” I say, just before going into the scullery.
“Um, yeah,” he says.
I close the door behind me and go over to the shed door on the other side of the room. One of the two light switches is next to it. I turn the light off and come back to stand in front of the window, four or five feet back. The young tanker driver stares at the door, shakes his head and looks in the storage tank. A little later he unscrews the hose and winds it round the reel. He unhooks the lid of the tank and carefully lowers it. He fills in a form, looks around the milk parlor one last time and pulls open the cab door. As supple as ever, he jumps up. The tanker disappears and bright light pours into the milking parlor. The storage tank shines.
Solidarity, a fine thing.
I go in, walk up the stairs and bring Father back down. I put him on the toilet.
“Ow,” I hear him mutter.
“What is it?” I ask through the closed toilet door.
“It hurts.”
“Wipe properly,” I say.
“It hurts,” he says again.
I pull open the door. He’s sitting on the toilet like a half-dead bird, a piece of toilet paper in one hesitant hand. He looks at me with big, helpless eyes. “Just stay there,” I say. I walk to the kitchen and get a flannel out of the linen cupboard. I turn on the hot water and moisten the flannel. I walk back to the toilet. “You have to bend forward a little.” He does. Carefully I wipe his bum a few times with the warm flannel.
“Pants up,” I say, while lifting him up under his armpits. He obeys. I carry him upstairs. A strange sound is coming from the new room, a shrill, rhythmic sound. I lay Father in bed and tuck him in. Then I walk to the new room. I pull open the door and in two steps I’m standing at Henk’s bed. I tear the headphones off his head. “Now get up out of your bloody bed!” I shout.
“No,” says Henk.
I tear the duvet off him and drag him out of bed by one arm. He doesn’t have time to get his legs under him and falls onto the floor. “Get up!” I shout.
“Take it easy,” he says.
“Get up!”
He scrambles to his feet.
“Get dressed.” I hook my foot under his jeans and kick them towards him. They land on his bare feet. He looks down. I feel like hitting him, hitting him and kicking him. His semi-naked body here in this small room is too much for me. Instead of doing it, I walk over to the poster lying innocently against the skirting board, bend over and start to tear it up. Henk looks at me and pulls on his jeans. Then he pulls a T-shirt over his head.
“Teun will be pleased,” he says sheepishly.
“Socks,” I say.
He sits down on the bed and puts on his socks.
I grab him by one arm, jerk him to his feet and shove him over to the door. “Get to work,” I say. But I think, What’s he going to do?
He walks out onto the landing calmly, then runs to the door of Father’s bedroom, pulls it open and disappears inside. An artery in my neck pounds so hard I have to put my hand to it. I stand still for a moment, then turn around and go back into the new room. I pick the Walkman up off the floor and lay it on the bedside cabinet. The duvet is on the floor behind the bed, half of the girl singer’s face whose name I’ve forgotten is lying at my feet. I flick the thick paper a couple of times with my big toe. I pick up the duvet, spread it out over the bed and lie down on top of the dark-blue letters and numbers. I close my eyes.
It must be a couple of hours later. I’m hungry. I haven’t slept, but I haven’t been thinking either. I’ve been lying on someone else’s bed and seeing my own large bed before me. I used to go to
bed to sleep and get up to milk. Now I notice more and more that my bed has become a place to rest. Not to sleep, but to rest. Sometimes I do my best to avoid falling asleep. Because too much happens in the daytime. The bed has become a safe place, like a shed full of cows in the winter or, until recently, Father’s bedroom. Before getting into bed, I look at the map of Denmark and recite the names of a few towns or villages. I no longer concentrate on Jutland. I no longer wonder where Jarno Koper has settled. More and more often, I take a nap in the afternoon.
“Helmer?”
I open my eyes. Henk is standing in the doorway.
“What do you want?”
“Old Mr. van Wonderen . . . your father says you have to go and do the milking.”
“Why?”
He turns. I hear him asking Father why. He comes back.
“Because it’s already five o’clock.”
“Tell him to do it himself.”
He’s about to turn around again but reconsiders. “He can’t,” he says.
“Why not?”
“He can’t walk.”
“No?”
“No.” I can tell from the look of him that he’s too scared to come in. It’s his room, with his things in it. His eyes keep returning to the packet of cigarettes. It must be at least two hours since he’s had a smoke.
“Maybe I should get moving then,” I say.
“May I . . .”
“It’s your room, isn’t it?”
“You’re lying on my bed.”
“That’s true.”
He comes in, picks the cigarettes up off the bedside cabinet, takes one out and lights it. I sit up straight and swing my legs off the bed.
“Are you going to do the yearlings?”
“Of course.”
“And are you going to help me tomorrow with the new fence along the side of the donkey paddock?”
“Sure.”
“Good. Have you been in there with Father the whole time?”
“Yes. But he falls asleep a lot.”
“He’s very old.”
“He sure is. Christ.” He stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray.
“Come on,” I say.
Going out onto the landing he looks over his shoulder quickly, as if to make sure nothing has changed in his bedroom. I see it because I have turned around to make sure he is following me.
“About time,” Father mutters in his bedroom.
“Mind your own business,” I say, closing the door.
“It is my business,” he shouts.
“How old are you actually?” Henk asks me on the stairs.
“Fifty-five.”
“Really? Your hair’s still completely black.”
In the scullery we pull on sweaters and overalls. Henk puts the packet of cigarettes in his breast pocket and runs his fingers through his hair. We set to work, the farmer and his hand.
37
“Henk?”
Henk turns and lets go of the concrete post he was trying to wrench loose. The sun is shining on the back of his head, it’s a few degrees warmer than yesterday. Teun and Ronald are standing next to each other on the road like classic brothers: big and small; the oldest with a serious expression on his face, the youngest irrepressibly happy; the same hair, the same noses. All they need to do is hold hands. Teun is too old for that, but I can imagine Ronald still doing it. They could be orphans.
“Yeah?” Henk says.
“Have you put the poster up yet?”
Henk looks at me. I rest the head of the sledgehammer between my feet. Henk shakes his head.
“Don’t you like it?”
“I like it a lot,” Henk says, looking miserable.
“The poster got ruined by accident,” I say.
Teun turns around to face me. “Ruined?” he says.
“Yes.”
“By accident?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Did you do it, Henk?” asks Ronald happily.
“No,” I say. “I did it.”
“But . . .”
“Did you want it back again?” asks Henk.
“Yes. I was lending it to you, didn’t my mother say that?”
“No,” I say, “she didn’t say that.”
“Can’t you fix it?” Ronald asks Henk. “With sticky tape?”
“No, it’s very ruined.”
Teun looks from Henk to me and back again.
“Shall I buy a new one for you?” asks Henk.
“No,” says Teun. “Forget it.” Next to his right foot a lonely yellow crocus has come up in the verge. He doesn’t see it and squashes it underfoot when he turns around. “Come on, Ronald,” he says.
“I don’t . . .” says Ronald.
“Come on . . .” Teun says. “We’re going home.” He takes Ronald’s hand and pulls him away. A little further along, he lets the hand go again. Ronald looks back one last time, a bit less happy than usual.
“I want to do the pounding for a while,” says Henk. He’s managed to lever the post out of the ground and the new one is loose in the old hole. I give him the sledgehammer, bend my knees and hold the post halfway down. He hits the top of it so hard I can let go after a single blow. A rip appears in the armpit of his old overalls, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Fucking hell,” he says, swinging for the third time.
Of the thirty concrete posts in the fence along the road, eight need replacing. We did five this morning, now we’re doing the last three. We started on the farm side and are working towards the north-east, to the remnants of the laborer’s cottage. Once the posts are in place we will string green plastic-coated mesh along the whole length and put a rail on top.
“How was I to know?” he says.
“It’s my fault,” I say.
“It doesn’t matter whose fault it was.” He pulls on the concrete post as hard as he can.
“That’s fine,” I say. “One left.”
We walk over to the last post that needs replacing.
“What’s that?” Henk asks, pointing at the half-wall and the overgrown garden.
“That used to be the laborer’s cottage.”
“Did it blow over?”
“Burned down.”
Henk slips the packet of cigarettes out of his breast pocket and lights up. Then he walks past the last post and up onto the road. A little later he’s standing in the garden of the laborer’s cottage. “Did the farmhand live here?” he shouts, tugging on a branch of the bare magnolia.
I nod.
From the garden he walks onto the concrete floor of the cottage. “It’s tiny,” he shouts.
I nod.
He looks around, walks to the half wall and tries to push it over with one foot. It’s the wall the wooden staircase was once attached to. Henk is about the same age I was then. “Just a farmhand or a whole family?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“What?” he shouts.
“Just the hand.”
He stubs his cigarette out on the wall, takes a run-up and jumps over the narrow ditch that separates the small patch of land from the donkey paddock. He walks up to the last post and starts jerking it back and forth. “If we just go at it for a while we’ll be done,” he says.
I see his neck muscles quivering.
Before starting the milking, I walk to the causeway. I see him riding towards me on Father’s old bike. An Albert Heijn’s bag is hanging on the handlebars. He’s been to the barber’s and done some shopping, that’s why he’s been so long. He gets off the bike. “Food,” he says, gesturing at the bag. I raise a hand but he jerks his head away, as if he sensed that my hand was on its way to his cropped hair before I knew it myself.
“Why do you keep your hair so short?” I ask.
“No reason,” he says. “Nice and easy.”
I see the old village barber (dead more than twenty years now), swiping the comb over his white coat with a supple wrist to remove the hairs, and in the barber’s mirror I see a Ford drive sl
owly past, blocking the view of the budding shrubs in the garden of the house across the road. An old Ford with wings at the back, the same color as the old ferries, light green. I smell the tingling smell of birch lotion and I see Henk’s face, twisted into a grimace.
He’s bought mince at Albert Heijn’s, pale mince. Before he starts cooking I take him into the scullery to show him the freezer. “Open it,” I say.
He raises the lid. “Christ,” he says. “Is that all meat?”
“It’s half a cow,” I say. “Packed in bags.” I pull out a rock-hard frozen bag with a red seal. “Red’s mince: beef mince. Blue is steak, green is for roasting.”
“What did you do with the other half?”
“The butcher sold it.”
He lowers the lid again. “I’ve eaten pork all my life,” he says.
Henk makes something with tomatoes, red peppers, onion, garlic and spices. It’s ready in twenty minutes. I open the first bottle of South African wine with a corkscrew I had to search hard to find.
“Let me smell it,” Henk says when he hears the cork pop.
I stick the bottle under his nose.
“No, the cork.”
I hold the cork under his nose.
“Fine,” he says, as if he knows what he’s talking about.
I set the table and fill two glasses with wine. I had already noticed the days getting longer, but this is the first time dinner’s ready before dark. I can’t close the curtain in front of the side window yet.
“You’ll have to take a plateful up to Father yourself later,” I say.
“Why do I have to do it?”
“I don’t know how he’s going to react to this.”
“He must have had red peppers before?”
“Never.”
I like his food. I like the wine too. When I refill the plates, Henk tops up our glasses.
“If that house was still standing,” he says after a while, gesturing over his shoulder with a thumb, “would I have to live in it?”
The Twin Page 15
