On the Bright Side

by Hendrik Groen

  Evert almost lost his mind over the fantastic whisky menu.

  ‘I can’t choose. I really don’t know how to choose!’ he cried, in a veritable panic.

  Towards the end of the evening, having poured something like six different whiskies down his gullet, he was unable to speak, aside from the occasional groan, ‘Paradise, paradise!’ He even allowed Leonie to pat his head fondly every so often. Sweet.

  The restaurant project is already a resounding success.

  Upon coming home we woke the porter from his slumber in order to wish him a good night. Geert informed him we would overlook his minor dereliction of duty ‘unless there should be a reason not to’. That Geert, such a blackmail artist.

  I slipped under the covers at 11 p.m., blissfully satisfied.

  Saturday, 31 January

  Every winter we hear a lot of griping about the flu shot.

  ‘Is it called the flu-shot because it gives you the flu?’ Mrs Quint wondered. Almost everyone gets vaccinated, yet the flu hits us hard every year nonetheless. A concert of barking and coughing has been going on for weeks, and rumour has it that it has claimed two victims, one gentleman I don’t know, and Mrs Schreuder, whose only claim to fame was that her Hoover once sucked up her canary.

  Which brings me to the subject of pets.

  There is a new resident, Mr Verlaat, who on moving here had to leave his puppy with his sister who’s even older than he is, because pets, with the exception of birds, are prohibited.

  He has threatened to sue; he believes that keeping a pet is a fundamental human right.

  I think Stelwagen is a bit worried about the publicity. She’s already visited Verlaat twice in his room.

  If Verlaat were to get his way, this place could become quite a zoo, going by the recently published list of pets allowed in the Netherlands. African pygmy hedgehog, steenbok, kangaroo, porcupine are all defined as domestic animals. It would make the place quite a bit livelier, I can tell you.

  The barking deer has been removed from the list, however. When I read the reason why, I got tears in my eyes. That poor little deer’s legs are so frail that they could break if it tried to run away. So sad. Although one has to wonder how the barking deer managed to survive for so long on its own in the pitiless wild.

  When I watch nature films I never know who I should root for: the innocent baby zebra or the lioness doing her best to procure some meat for her cute, famished little cubs.

  Sunday, 1 February

  ‘The Netherlands has the best healthcare in Europe.’

  According to the Swedish Think Tank Health Consumer Powerhouse, our healthcare is far superior to that of our European neighbours. And who am I to contradict a Think Tank?

  I clipped the article, enlarged it on the photocopy machine in the supermarket and pinned it on the noticeboard in the conversation lounge. Just to make a point.

  ‘Huh! It says more about all those other countries,’ was the only sour comment Bakker could come up with after having a long think about it.

  The fact that we’re not that badly off here compared to the Republic of Kalmykia is no surprise, but compared to all our European neighbours …

  As soon as anyone else complains about the care again, I’ll turn my head to look pointedly at the noticeboard, and a number of my friends will do the same. That should stop the irritating whingers.

  ‘Why do you keep glaring at that newspaper clipping? It’s not as if I don’t know what it says!’

  Monday, 2 February

  I don’t believe in God, but I do like peace and quiet every so often, so I visit the Quiet Centre from time to time. Preferably on a Sunday afternoon, because that’s when it’s quietest. The devout have already had their ecumenical service in the morning, and are too busy in the afternoon waiting for their visitors.

  Yesterday afternoon I spent half an hour enjoying the peace and quiet, and at the end of my visit I lit a candle for my little girl. A slight rustle behind me alerted me to the arrival of the old vicar.

  ‘May I ask who you’re lighting it for?’ he asked, with a friendly nod.

  ‘For my little girl, who died.’

  ‘You never attend services, do you?’

  ‘No, I’m not a member of your flock. I don’t belong to any flock.’

  The vicar stood there staring into space for a while. ‘I’ll confess something to you,’ he finally said, ‘on the condition that you keep it to yourself.’

  I said I’d always wanted to hear a priest’s confession. He laughed heartily.

  ‘I may have a flock, but I’m actually an unbelieving shepherd,’ he said. ‘I haven’t believed in God in years. One fine day, I saw the light: either God doesn’t exist, or He is unknowable. In practical terms, there isn’t really much of a difference.’

  ‘I agree with you about God, but it would seem to me that for your calling, it would be more practical to believe in Him.’

  ‘It’s easier than you’d think. I mean, I manage. I love being able to offer support and consolation to others. I wouldn’t know what I’d do in my old age if I wasn’t a pastor. Besides, no one ever asks me if I believe in God myself.’

  We sat and chatted for an hour and a half. A fascinating bloke.

  Tuesday, 3 February

  By some weird fluke, today there’s a long article in the paper about a priest in Nijkerk who has come to the conclusion that Jesus Christ never existed.

  Our home’s pastor has chosen to keep his agnosticism to himself, whereas this other preacher wrote a book about it. To each his own disbelief. I intend to slip the clipping discreetly into my friend Doubting Thomas’s hand.

  Yesterday I bumped into Mrs Stelwagen in the hallway.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Groen, how is life treating you?’

  It took me a fraction of a second to decide on a little bluff. ‘Well, perfectly fine, really, except for one minor thing: I hear our home is slated for demolition.’

  Momentarily taken aback by my frontal approach, she gaped at me in feigned surprise for just a tad too long.

  ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘From well-informed sources close to management.’ I tried to accompany it with an inscrutable smile. I must say I was surprised at my own gumption.

  ‘So … you still have one?’

  That was an unforced error on Stelwagen’s part. She has stoutly denied Anja Appelboom’s forced early retirement had anything to do with her role as informant.

  ‘How do you mean, still have one?’ I inquired.

  ‘Uh, no, nothing … But as far as demolition plans are concerned, if there were any such plans, it would be up to the board.’

  ‘But all I asked was if our home was slated for demolition. Not who makes the decision.’

  ‘No matter how dearly I should like to be open with you about this, I cannot. Not to mention the uproar if some residents were to start fanning speculation about possible demolition. That would be extremely unfortunate, Mr Groen.’ Cocking her head slightly, she stared at me stone-faced.

  ‘Unforewarned demolition would be even more unfortunate. Some people would not survive it, I fear,’ I said, staring back.

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘If I have something definite to report, I will tell you as soon as I have it, naturally.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘I must get going, Mr Groen. A very pleasant afternoon to you.’

  A shot across the bow, I think. If it happens to be true that we are on the list of homes slated for the scrapheap, Stelwagen will now try to hunt down an informant who doesn’t exist; mark my words. We’re in for some laughs.

  Wednesday, 4 February

  I was proud to be able to give a full report of my exchange with Stelwagen to Evert, Graeme, Edward, Leonie, Ria, Antoine and Geert. I received some pats on the back, and a firm whack from Evert. ‘Well done, Henkie!’

  We decided that we’ll keep adding a little fuel to the fire whenever the occasion presents itself. Evert was thinking mor
e along the lines of a whole barrel of oil; he wanted to start distributing flyers straightaway saying Demolition Is Death. We threatened to take away his booze. It did the trick.

  I have finally taken the first step. I have downloaded the euthanasia declaration form from The Euthanasia Society’s website. The very idea of it does give one pause, but the thing’s lying on my bedside table now. It’ll just have to stay there for a while until I fill it out. For my own peace of mind, I have to deal with it at an elderly pace.

  I do think it wouldn’t be a bad idea to acquire a handy ‘out box’. A box for everything you need for your last voyage. The euthanasia pills, of course; important papers, a wish list, the music you want played at your funeral, items you want to have with you in the coffin, and certain other personal effects. Plus, my old organ donor card, although I suspect most, if not all, of my parts are long past their expiry date.

  I still have to find out what kind of pills you need, and how to get your hands on some. For that I’ll need to gather a fresh dose of courage.

  Thursday, 5 February

  I’ve had a dream about freeze-drying. The designer of that handy ‘out box’ I read about yesterday also suggested freeze-drying, cryomation, as an alternative to cremation or burial. In my dream they dunked me into a bath of liquid nitrogen of minus 196 Celsius, but I wasn’t completely dead yet. Then I woke up, shivering.

  Cryomation is better for the environment than burial. After being frozen, you’re given a good shake, to shed the heavy metals, and then all that’s left is twenty-five kilos of powder that can be used as compost. At least that way you’re still good for something. Dust thou art, and unto compost shalt thou return. Murderers, I imagine, must be very interested in freeze-drying, since it would make the crime very hard to trace.

  There is one problem with freeze-drying, however: it is still illegal in the Netherlands. As well as in most other countries.

  A resident who tends to get a bit confused went out in his pyjamas and slippers to fetch some cod liver oil from the chemist’s.

  ‘That’s no longer sold, sir,’ said the salesgirl.

  He returned home disappointed. His slippers were covered in snow as he shuffled into the entrance hall. A nurse sounded the alarm, and the porter was reprimanded. He isn’t only supposed to keep an eye on who leaves the building, but also how they leave the building.

  ‘Yes, but I can’t see what they’re wearing on their feet when they walk by my desk, can I?’ he said, in an attempt at self-defence.

  Now management has ordered him to stand up to get a better look in case of doubt. The porter doesn’t like it one bit. He is one of our best chair-sitters. It shows in his dull, uninterested gaze: he won’t take one step too many. He’s on a permanent contract, with fifteen years of chair-sitting yet to go.

  Friday, 6 February

  ‘Look,’ said Evert, a bit too loudly, ‘invalid or no invalid, you can still take good aim and rinse off the poo dregs in the toilet bowl.’ And took a bite of his sandwich.

  ‘Yes, but how?’ Edward inquired, pretending to be interested. Evert was prepared to demonstrate on the spot.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, Mr Duiker. Very funny, but there are people trying to have their lunch here. Please save the piss-and-poo stories until you’re back in your own flat.’ It was the head of housekeeping, Mrs De Roos, who decided to intervene.

  Evert is his rowdy, boorish self one day, and the next he’s silent and brooding. I’m starting to be rather worried about him.

  There’s a bit of a door-tussle going on here. The staff are in the habit of leaving the residents’ doors open when they are in. It makes it easier to keep an eye on them, and more convenient for the housekeeping service. Some of the inmates like it; that way they can alternate gazing out the window and staring into the corridor. Others don’t care one way or the other. And then there are some like myself, who don’t enjoy having everyone brazenly peering in. I value my privacy and want to keep my door shut. It took quite a bit of doing, let me tell you, to get the personnel to close my door without being asked, but after almost three years of polite entreaties, I finally got my way.

  When a door’s been left open, I too will glance inside without thinking. I see the inhabitants sitting at their little tables at the window. Sometimes with a book, less often with a piece of embroidery or knitting, but mostly with nothing in front of them. Practising for the great nothingness to come.

  Saturday, 7 February

  We grew up in the time of pen and ink and the telegram: two letters or a couple of clicks per second. One letter after the next, one by one, from sender to receiver.

  Today, at AMS-IX, Amsterdam’s Internet exchange, it’s two terabytes per second on the digital speedway. That’s like scanning every book in the world’s largest library three times per second. A concept beyond the comprehension of old people from the analogue age.

  I read the article about AMS-IX in the paper and realized how much has changed in over half a century. On the other hand: we still have violence. People are decapitated, children are blown up, women are raped, and people are torched. So, on balance, can one really call it progress …?

  Parallel worlds are everywhere, having hardly anything to do with one another. In our care home we find ourselves somewhere on the very outer edge of it all. Until we tumble off.

  Well now, Groen, in a bit of a philosophical mood, aren’t you?

  Mrs Smit had a spot of trouble with a tin of Smac, which I believe the English call Spam. One of those tins shaped like a skating rink, with a key that opens it by rolling back the lid so that you can lift the top off. Watch out for the sharp edges.

  Inside there’s some kind of greasy salted ham. You can dice it and add it to pasta, or slice it, fry it in a pan, and eat it on toast. I’ll have a look in the supermarket to see if they’re still selling Smac, or if Mrs Smit’s tin came from a stash she’s had since the 1970s.

  The story goes that the ham was just sizzling on her illegal electric hot plate when the phone rang. She didn’t remember it until the fire alarm went off. Moments later the attendant caught her red-handed, tossing the blackened contents of the frying pan into the waste bin.

  Sunday, 8 February

  I’ve switched dates with Geert for the first Old-But-Not-Dead Club outing of the year. I have come up with a plan to take the Club to the Parent and Baby Show at the end of February. Just for a brief visit, though, just long enough to enjoy the astonished faces of all those pregnant mummies seeing eight old crocks pushing their way through the phalanx of high-tech prams. After that the real goal of our visit will be the Home Show next door. I think we’ll have a competition to see who can collect the most freebies within half an hour. It will be judged by weight. You’re only allowed one of each item; you can’t just shove a whole stack of brochures in your bag.

  There are still details to be worked out. I should really go on a reconnaissance mission, but that’s overdoing it a bit, I think. I’ve never been, but I imagine we’ll find plenty of things to marvel at.

  It’s a winter that hasn’t amounted to much so far. It’s been more like a five-month autumn. No snow or cold of any consequence. A pity. I think the chances of trying out my scooter on the ice this year are remote.

  Not that it’s necessary, but I wonder if there are snow tyres for mobility scooters?

  Monday, 9 February

  ‘OLD AND HOMELESS’ was the headline in Het Parool, the paper that never hesitates to throw more oil on the fire. Mrs Zwiers (eighty-one) is soon going to have to move for the fourth time because every care home she lives in gets razed as soon as she’s grown used to the place.

  The home she now lives in has ‘first-rate attendants’. They take her to IKEA and, when they bring her back, the photo shows them waving goodbye to her as she stands at the window when they leave. What more could you ask for?

  The uproar Mrs Stelwagen was so afraid of when I asked her if our home was slated for demolition has now, thanks to Het Parool, spread like a f
lu epidemic amongst the residents. The collective fear of having to move dominates every conversation. The newspaper is being passed from hand to hand.

  ‘We have very nice attendants here too, even if they don’t wave goodbye or take us to IKEA.’

  The upshot, after all the talk and handwringing, is that out of Amsterdam’s original seventy care homes, half a dozen have already closed. Remaining unmentioned is the fact that they are building new independent housing units for the elderly, although those may be a bit pricey for most of us. There are also smaller institutions in the works, for people with ‘complex’ needs. That’s probably something like lots of arts and crafts, to keep people with disabilities busy.

  Here in North Amsterdam we have a total of seven care homes.

  There’s been no announcement about this place being torn down, but Mrs Schansleh was already sure of it: ‘The wrecking ball is on its way.’

  Our only hope, expressed by many at coffee time, is that all the other old-age homes in North Amsterdam will bite the dust before it’s our turn.

  ‘It won’t matter any more,’ said Mr Bakker, ‘because we’ll all be in our coffins by then.’

  ‘I’ll be in my urn,’ Mrs Duits corrected him.

  The director did not show her face today, but I expect that we’ll shortly receive an empty, meaningless announcement meant to reassure us.