“It’s all wet there,” he says after reaching me.
“That’s the idea,” I say.
I can hardly remember the last time it rained and yesterday evening I saw on TV that there have been dune and heath fires because of the drought, but still the field near the windmill has got boggy. This isn’t dune or heath here, it’s peat meadow.
“What for?”
“For the birds, Ronald. They like that, wet land.”
“Oh, right.” He stays standing on the other side of the gate.
“Aren’t you going to climb over the gate?”
“Yeah.” He looks around. “Nice weather, isn’t it?”
“It’s like summer.”
“Yes. But it’s only April.”
“How’s your mother’s garden?”
“What about it?”
“Is it looking good?”
“Uh-huh. Where’s Henk?”
“Henk’s gone to Monnickendam to get some cigarettes.”
“By bike?”
“Yep.”
“Smoking’s bad, isn’t it?”
“Smoking is very bad. But enjoyable.”
“Why didn’t he take the car?”
“Because he doesn’t have a license.”
“Is he scared?”
“No. He’s only just eighteen.”
“How old are you?”
“Old.”
“What did you do with Henk’s head?” He’s still standing on the other side of the gate.
“What do you mean, Ronald?”
“The stitches.”
“I took them out.”
“Doesn’t a doctor have to do that?”
“No, it’s easy.”
“Oh.” He looks a bit unhappy and puts one foot on the bottom bar of the gate.
I take him under the arms and help him over the gate.
“I’m going home now,” he says.
“Fine.”
“Just going to see the donkeys first.” He crosses the yard to the donkey paddock. The donkeys are over near the cottage and come trotting when they see him at the gate. Ronald sticks his arms through the bars and rubs them both under the chin at the same time. When he tires of it they stay there for a while using the top bar of the gate to scratch their own chins. Slowly Ronald walks to the road, kicking stones along in front of him. Not once does he turn back to look at me.
Not much has changed when I see Henk come riding up. I’m still standing at the causeway gate and the donkeys are still standing at their gate. They start braying and shaking their heads when they see Henk. He ignores them. He rides straight at me, brakes and stretches a hand out towards my head. I step aside, just like he pulled back when he’d been to the hairdresser’s - how long ago now? - and felt my hand moving towards his shaven head.
He puffs a little, leans Father’s bike against the gate and takes off his coat. He drapes the coat over the gate, then pulls a new packet of cigarettes out of an inside pocket. “It’s boiling,” he says, pulling the cellophane off the pack, flicking the lid up and taking a cigarette. The lighter appears from his back pocket. He lights the cigarette and inhales deeply, selfishly. The way everything about him is selfish. “Boiling,” he says again. “And it’s not even summer.”
“No,” I say, “It’s not summer by a long shot.”
After we’ve eaten, Henk goes upstairs with a plate. I clear the table and start washing up. He comes back down - plateless - just when I’m wiping the last knife. He has the gall to say, “He’s not dead yet.”
I turn to face him, still holding the shining clean knife in my right hand and with the damp tea towel over one shoulder. “Henk,” I say. “Shut your trap.”
“Goodness,” he says.
I yank open the cutlery drawer and throw in the knife. I drape the tea towel over the back of a chair and walk into the scullery.
“Where you going?” he calls out after me.
I don’t answer. In the shed the cows are calmly chewing the cud. It’s quiet in the sheep shed as well. One sheep has started in the afternoon and isn’t making any progress. I roll up a sleeve, make my hand as narrow as possible and feel my way round a warm tangle of legs, bodies and heads. There are three: this is the first sheep with triplets. Number eighteen. In a few minutes I’ve got them out. One is dead. A dead lamb is always a shame, but triplets almost invariably mean that at least one of them will need bottle-feeding. With just two sheep left to go, it’s looking unlikely this year. Ronald has already complained, he loves mucking around with bottles and teats. His father doesn’t have sheep. I lift the two remaining lambs into the lambing pen, then pull the gate open a little to herd the sheep through to the other side. I lay the dead lamb outside the sheep shed next to a dead lamb from yesterday. I’ll have to call the incinerator tomorrow morning. Twenty-nine from eighteen. It could be better.
Coming back into the house, I go straight to the bathroom. I leave the taps running until the boiler is empty. I dry myself and wrap the towel around my waist. It’s quiet in the house. Henk isn’t watching TV. He’s sitting at the kitchen table with his back to the side window. The curtain is drawn. He’s smoking. The table is completely bare except for the butt-filled ashtray. I walk into the living room.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“I’m going to bed.”
“Oh,” he exclaims indignantly, “I’ll go to bed too then.”
“Your own bed,” I say.
“Upstairs?”
“That’s right, upstairs, that’s where your bed is.”
“But . . .”
“But what?” I’ve reached the bedroom door.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
I close my bedroom door and go over to stand in front of the map of Denmark. “Helsingør,” I say. “Stenstrup, Esrum, Blistrup, Tisvildeleje.” Five names spoken slowly are not enough tonight. I do a few extra islands. “Samsø, Ærø, Anholt, Møn.” The big bed is ready for me. When I pull back the duvet, I smell Henk. I lie down and tug the light cord above my head. It’s dark. I hear him enter the living room. I hear him walking up to the bedroom door. He breathes in front of the closed door, I breathe here in bed. Then he walks away from the door. A few seconds later the TV goes on. Cigarette smoke drifts into the bedroom through the cracks. He rips open a bag of crisps. An hour later the TV goes off. He stamps upstairs and slams the door of the new room behind him. He doesn’t think of Father, he doesn’t think of me. He is young and thinks only of himself.
50
Riet,
You’re right: I am a liar and a cheat. I said that Father was dead because I thought you wouldn’t come otherwise. And I wanted you to come. I wanted to see you and I wanted to talk about Henk. I was curious about you. Just like you - presumably - were curious about me. That’s why. But you didn’t ask me anything, you just talked about yourself in relation to Henk. That hurt. I felt forgotten then and I felt forgotten again now.
I could also question your motives for putting Henk in my care. Everyone wants something, but what you want is not entirely clear to me. Did you think he needed a father figure? Well, I can be all kinds of things if necessary, but I’m not a father. I’m not an uncle either. I’m a son. I’m a brother. But I don’t want to go into that. I think Henk’s “apprenticeship” is over, I believe - no, I am certain - that it is time for him to go back to Brabant. To you, or maybe to something of his own. He has been here for two and a half months now and I think he’s learned quite a lot, and I’m not just talking about looking after livestock or different kinds of farm work. He gets along well with Father. Lately they’ve spent a lot of time talking together, but that might be something you’d rather not hear. Either way: he has to leave.
If you ask me there’s not too much wrong with him or about him. I think that, if there is anything, he’s more than capable of working it out for himself. In time. I can’t do anything else for him. You’re his mother. It’s your responsibility. I suggest you come and get him. It’s hard
for me to get away because of the cows and the sheep. Surely one of your daughters has a car? I’ll ring you up about the details. It is very likely - and this time I’m not lying - that Father really will be gone by then. He’s had enough and stopped eating a while ago.
Best wishes,
Helmer van Wonderen
Some things have ceased to amaze me. Henk hasn’t got up yet, so it wasn’t until after nine this morning that I sat down at the kitchen table. In the sheep shed the count is now thirty from nineteen. One sheep to go. After breakfast I put on some coffee and sat down at the bureau to write the letter to Riet, signing it with my full name. Maybe I did that to show her I’m serious. The letter is already in an envelope with a stamp on it; I’ll post it later today.
I’m sitting on the sofa in the living room. Mother watches from the mantelpiece while I smoke a cigarette. She was already seductive, haughty and alert, but now she is disparaging as well. The sunlight through the narrow slats of the blinds is beautiful. Last night Henk left his packet next to the sofa. I look ridiculous with the smoldering cigarette in my hand, I can see that in the mirror. A filter cigarette is slender and elegant, my hand is coarse and bony. No matter how I hold the cigarette the smoke drifts up to my left eye, which is watering. I look back at Mother’s photo. It’s impossible, I know-a photo is a photo and Mother is dead - but still I seem to see a mocking smile flit over her lips. Maybe I’m more a roll-your-own kind of bloke.
Father is sleeping. Without snoring. His chest, or what is left of it, is moving up and down very slightly. I have to look closely, otherwise I would miss it. It’s actually high time he had a shower, but I no longer dare to do it. I’d rather not have him die, like Mother, in the bathroom. Two parents dying in the bathroom, no. The plate of food Henk brought up last night is sitting on the bedside cabinet untouched. A couple of dry potatoes, shriveled green beans, a meatball. Next to the plate, a glass of water he’s hardly drunk from. He moves.
“Henk?” he says, with his eyes closed.
Which Henk does he actually mean? I wonder. Was he dreaming about his son? “No, it’s me,” I say.
“Have you been smoking?”
“Yes.”
He opens his eyes and looks at me. “You’re a weird one,” he says quietly.
“Yep.”
“Do you know what I keep thinking about?”
“No.”
“That drive on the Gouw Sea. Do you remember?”
“Yes. The ice was two and a half feet thick.”
“I wanted to go out onto Lake IJssel, but I was too scared. We sat there near the embankment for hours.”
“It wasn’t hours,” I say.
“It felt like it.” He closes his eyes again. His arms are lying next to his body like the legs of a dead calf. “I was too scared,” he whispers. “I was too scared.”
I don’t say anything. I listen.
“And you sat in the middle of the back seat like one boy.”
I stand up. It’s as if he’s fallen asleep again and is dreaming of that arctic winter forty years ago.
“Helmer?” he says, when I’m at the door.
“Yes?”
“I want to be buried with your mother and Henk. And don’t put a notice in the paper until afterwards.”
“You sure? No one there?”
“No one there,” he says.
“Okay,” I say.
“And I want an egg.”
“What?”
“A hardboiled egg.”
“You haven’t eaten for weeks. It will kill you.”
“If I could laugh, I’d laugh. I feel like an egg.”
“I’ll bring you an egg later.”
I close the door and cross the landing.
Am I doing the right thing? I wonder.
When Father’s dead, I’ll be the only one left, I think, as my hand moves up to the handle of the door to the new room.
So be it, I think, as I open the door.
51
The Velux window faces north and casts a strange light in the new room. The only direct sun it gets is late in the evening in June and July. Henk doesn’t know yet that it’s summer outside, more so even than yesterday. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do this afternoon either. The duvet with dark-blue letters and numbers is pulled up to his ears.
“Henk?”
“Bastard.”
“What you say?”
“I called you a bastard.”
“Now, now.”
“Are you saying you’re not?”
“I don’t know.”
The duvet slips down, exposing his chest. A hand moves towards the bedside cabinet. The strip of newspaper that was serving as a bookmark is lying on the cover of the book.
“Your cigarettes are downstairs,” I say.
“Shit.” He crosses his arms and stares at the wall opposite the bed. “What have you come up here for anyway?”
“You didn’t do the yearlings this morning.”
“So?”
“I did them myself.”
“Serves you right.”
“That’s all I’ve come up for.”
“You can go away then.”
“Fine.” I turn and walk out onto the landing. I’d forgotten the cigarettes ; I can go downstairs and bide my time.
A little before twelve he comes down, dressed and all. He walks straight through to the living room and lights a cigarette. Then he comes into the kitchen, fills the coffee pot with water, spoons coffee into the filter and goes over to the side window. “What kind of weather’s this?” he says after a while. The water gurgles through the coffee machine.
“Beautiful weather,” I say.
“It’s like summer.”
“And you haven’t even been outside.”
He stays there by the side window until all the water has dripped through. Then he pours himself a mug and sits down at the kitchen table. He doesn’t ask whether I’d like a cup of coffee as well.
“Don’t you want anything to eat?”
“Later.”
“Have you got plans for this afternoon?”
He stares at me in disbelief. “Plans?”
“Uh-huh.”
“No.”
“In Broek there’s a small canoe rental place that doesn’t bother about the official seasons. If you mention my name, he’ll give you a canoe without any problems. He’s got maps too. East Waterland.”
“A canoe.” He lights a fresh cigarette and looks at the canal through the front window.
“You have to take advantage of weather like this.”
“How do I get there?”
“Right at the end of the road, then straight ahead and in Broek it’s the seventh house on the left. You can take a route that comes past here.”
“Do you want me out of the way?” he asks.
“What for? You never go anywhere. You’ve only been to Monnickendam.”
“You’re still a bastard.”
“Sure. Maybe I am.”
Just before he gets on the bike, I give him fifty euros in ten-euro notes. His coat is in a plastic bag hanging from the handlebars. He rides out of the barn with a wide curve. I stroll over to the chicken coop and pick up four eggs. I take the eggs inside, put them in an empty egg box and leave it next to the stove. I take off my overalls, lie down on the sofa and close my eyes. It will take him a while to get back here.
It’s April 16th and a young lad passes in a canoe. That doesn’t happen often, especially not this early in the season because the official canoeing routes don’t pass my farm. He has taken off his shirt, it’s unusually warm for the time of the year. I’m standing at the side of the house, on the north side, as yet unseen. Because the canoeist is alone, there’s no talking. He doesn’t make any comments about my farm, the trees or my two donkeys. A hooded crow sits on a branch in the crooked ash. The crow is preening itself and now and then pulls its large beak out from under its wings to check the progress of the canoe. The paddle doesn’t sla
p at the yellow water lilies; there aren’t any yellow water lilies in April. There aren’t any noisy redshanks either; there are two oystercatchers in the field on the other side of the canal, calmly foraging.
The young man has ginger hair and sunburnt shoulders, he has underestimated the strength of the spring sun. The paddle is resting on the canoe in front of him, water drips into water. The canoe slides forward slowly. There’s nowhere for me to go, there’s nothing on the bare north side of the house that I could be working on. I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to stand here and be seen.
He sees me. His canoe gets caught with its nose against the side of the canal. He looks at me and he looks at the dormer window. He looks at the hooded crow, at the trees lining the yard, he even looks - if briefly - at the two inquisitive donkeys that have come to stand at the new fence along the road. I can’t tell whether he is surprised to see me here. He doesn’t raise a hand, I don’t raise one either. If it’s worked out, he sees what he is seeing as an old, yellowed postcard, with buildings, people, animals and trees frozen in time. Something to pick up for a moment and then lay aside again. A place with nothing to offer him.
Then he picks up the paddle and pushes off from the bank. A little later he turns right, into Opperwoud Canal. He must have studied the map carefully. I walk up to the road to watch him. Opperwoud Canal empties into Big Lake. Past Big Lake is a narrow ditch, whose name I don’t know, that leads to the Die near Uitdam. Beyond Uitdam is Lake IJssel.
He comes into the shed when I’m almost finished milking. He stays standing there just past the open sliding door. The sun is around him, I see only a silhouette. I feel the weight of my twenty cows, the weight of the straw in the hayloft, the heavy rafters, the tiles on the roof (not one of which is crooked), the neatly pollarded willows. I can hardly stand.
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