On the Bright Side

by Hendrik Groen

  I am thinking of proposing Mr Okkie for membership.

  We also drew lots for Sinterklaas presents. I have to buy a gift for Edward, accompanied, naturally, by a suitable piece of doggerel verse. Or, rather, three. Because this year’s rules are: one gift of €10 maximum, and two joke-presents, together worth no more than €5. There’s going to be a crush at the discount shop. Leonie is offering a prize for the silliest gift.

  Thursday, 26 November

  Pharmaceutical giant Pfizer is buying out its competitor Allergan for $160 billion. Together they have a turnover of $60 billion dollars a year. The morning paper says so.

  ‘I’ve got quite a few euros sitting in that lot,’ said Mrs De Gans. Most of the residents swallow at least a few pills a day, but De Gans is truly a major consumer. When she comes down for morning coffee, she sets down on the table in front of her two pill dispensers holding the day’s supply of medicines. She then proceeds to swallow a whole repast of pills in all colours of the rainbow.

  ‘You must have a bookkeeper to keep track of all that,’ Ria said admiringly. Oh, no, Mrs De Gans managed it all by herself.

  Wednesday is her biggest day, when she has to swallow seventeen pills. I was sitting next to her as she counted them out.

  Actually, the merger of the two pharmaceutical companies is mainly to cut their American tax bill by billions of dollars. Mrs De Gans hopes that means her pills will cost less.

  ‘Even though it’s my insurance that pays for them,’ she added.

  Our Turkish friend Mr Okkie always has to answer for the actions of the land of his birth. This time the Turks shot down a Russian jet that may or may not have been flying in Turkish airspace.

  ‘Your Erdogan’s playing with fire. If Putin gets pissed off, there’ll be hell to pay,’ Mr Pot snapped at him. Okkie wasn’t all that sure what paying hell had to do with it, but he felt he had to respond.

  ‘He isn’t my Erdogan. He’s a bad and dangerous man. He had a palace built for him that has 1,150 rooms, not because he likes having people come and stay, but because he’s a megalomaniac.’ This isn’t exactly what Okkie said, since his Dutch isn’t perfect, but the message was clear. He sounded calm, but if looks could kill, we’d have been rid of Pot for good.

  Friday, 27 November

  During a brief power outage yesterday afternoon, five inmates suffered falls. The damage wasn’t as bad as it might have been: just one fractured wrist and some bruises. When the lights went out many of the residents, instead of calmly staying where they were and waiting for whatever came next, promptly got up, crashing into things in the dark in search of candles they must have lying about in a drawer somewhere. And where had they left those matches? It was lucky they didn’t find those, actually, since we’d likely have gone up in flames otherwise. Old people, you see, despite their supposed wisdom, placidity and experience, tend to panic. Whereas in this case the solution was simple: to shuffle calmly to the door, visible in the dark thanks to the crack of light shining in underneath, and open it to let in the corridor’s emergency lighting. In the end most people did open their doors, to ask anxiously what was going on. Nobody had a clue. Ten minutes later the lights came on again; everyone sighed with relief, and the casualties were seen to.

  ‘My immediate thought was that it was a terrorist attack or something,’ Mrs Quint told anyone who would listen.

  ‘We have no means of escape, especially if the lift doesn’t work,’ Mr Pot said, adding fuel to the fire. ‘Without a lift, we’re like rats caught in a trap.’

  Mrs Quint did not appreciate being likened to a rat. Ria tried explaining that it was a simile, but I don’t believe Quint had ever heard of that word.

  ‘Don’t you ever call me Milly,’ she said indignantly.

  Later came management’s official explanation: the cause of the outage was work being done in an electricity substation. A few residents had their dinner brought to their room just to be safe, because they were worried about taking the lift.

  Monday, 30 November

  I’ve had a couple of difficult days. Friday afternoon I ambled over to Evert’s flat without thinking. I even knocked on his door before realizing that he was dead and buried. I stood there in front of his door and broke down, shuddering without tears. I informed the dining room I would not be down for dinner and went straight up to bed. It was 4 p.m. I must have fallen asleep, because I woke up at 10 p.m. all in a muddle. Then I tossed and turned until the early hours of the morning, when I dozed off again, and overslept. I woke up when Antoine came knocking at my door.

  ‘We missed you at coffee, Henk, and I thought, I’ll just go and check on him. You look awful, actually … What’s the matter?’

  I glanced in the mirror and saw a bedraggled old bloke with a two-day beard. Two skinny legs emerged from a pair of too-baggy, nappy-lined underpants. The shirt in which I’d lain in bed for twenty hours was, like my face, no longer completely unrumpled.

  I told Antoine about my little breakdown. It felt good to get my sadness off my chest.

  ‘It isn’t unusual, I think, for a great loss to hit you only after some time has passed,’ said Antoine. ‘It has to find a spot.’

  Then he prepared some breakfast for me, and left me alone. Later in the afternoon Leonie stopped by.

  ‘I just came to make sure you weren’t thinking of doing anything funny,’ she said to explain her visit.

  I promised not to do anything ‘funny’.

  It turns out that Evert meant more to me than I realized. He inadvertently helped me keep up my zest for and belief in life. From now on, whenever I’m down in the dumps, I’ll have to make do with his framed yellow sticky, ‘NO WHINING, GROEN, ACTION!!!’ I was glum the rest of the day, and then decided I’d had enough of all the self-pity.

  Shower, shave, comb through hair, a spritz of Cologne, clean shirt, dapper suit, bowtie and polished shoes. My appearance downstairs at the Old-But-Not-Dead table didn’t set off a round of loud cheers, but close enough.

  ‘At last! Our beloved Mr Groen is back,’ said Leonie, beaming.

  I believe I acknowledged my friends with a slight bow.

  Tuesday, 1 December

  Just one more thing about our ally Saudi Arabia. Rumour has it that next Friday the Saudis are going to decapitate fifty-five opponents of the regime.

  ‘I don’t know if that’s setting a very good example for ISIS,’ Graeme wondered out loud. ‘It’s becoming a bit of a beheaders’ society over there, if you ask me.’

  Mrs Duits didn’t remember which beheaders were our friends and which our enemies.

  ‘You can always tell a terrorist by his beard,’ Mr Pot explained. Someone remarked that most young men in the Netherlands have beards nowadays, because beards are in. Which makes it harder to spot the terrorist in our midst. Mrs Duits suggested the problem could be solved by pressing all non-terrorists to shave their beards.

  ‘Surely it isn’t too much to ask, for the good cause? At least then you’ll know that every bearded man is a terrorist.’

  In North Korea moustaches and beards are against the law, Edward informed us, but he had no idea if that had anything to do with terrorism.

  And while we were at it, we proceeded to tackle the problem of climate change. We all agreed the climate isn’t what it used to be. According to the latest predictions, a 2 degree warming of the earth could make sea levels rise as much as 60 metres, instead of the 20 or 30 metres originally forecast.

  ‘Well, then we’ll be needing extra high dikes,’ said Ria gloomily.

  ‘As tall as a twenty-storey building,’ Graeme calculated.

  Antoine told us that once, years ago, he’d walked on the Oosterschelde dam. It had felt reassuringly sturdy. But a year later he’d seen the same dam from an airplane.

  ‘Then it seemed a thin little pencil line against a formidable sea.’

  Wednesday, 2 December

  This afternoon the cast comes off. In the meantime I have become quite dexterous with my left
hand. I can even pull on my socks one-handed, with the help of my sock-pulling gadget. You just shouldn’t be in a hurry. I also mastered typing these entries at an acceptable pace, after several days of cursing, sighing and practising. I am very glad nevertheless that I’m being liberated this afternoon. It was growing itchier and more uncomfortably hot every day. Ria lent me a knitting needle that let me scratch myself carefully under the plaster.

  The Old-But-Not-Dead Sinterklaas party will be held at Ria and Antoine’s, since their flat is the largest and they have the best food. I am struggling with writer’s block: the poem for Edward just won’t come. Seeing that his speech is virtually unintelligible, I am now considering writing a gibberish poem for him; nothing but meaningless sounds. Except for one real word at the end of every line. Finding rhymes shouldn’t be too difficult. For example:

  Bze monie da twila Edward

  Hul marto zwervilba rill card

  Maybe it’s too lame, although I know Edward is fond of silly jokes. A major advantage of my poem is that for the first time in years Edward can read his St Nick verse out loud, and after the initial perplexity, everyone else will be able to understand him.

  I’ll buy him a colouring book, which is very fashionable at the moment. It’s meant to calm you down, although in Edward’s case that may be dangerous. If he calms down even more than usual, he’ll come to a complete standstill. They have a special colouring book for seniors, according to the brochure, not too childish, but not too complicated either. Just the thing for Edward.

  Thursday, 3 December

  My arm feels so much better without the cast! My skin is even whiter and more wrinkled than before, but how nice it is to have the fresh air on it, and how delightful to scratch unencumbered! The doctor, the nurse and the lady at the desk all cautioned me to be very careful.

  ‘Good idea. I’ll just give up kickboxing for a little while.’

  No, I did not actually say that.

  I did my gift shopping at the discount shop.

  For the windowsill: a plastic flower in a pot, which sways cheerfully (or irritatingly) from side to side all day long on solar energy.

  An enormous yellow ducky for the bath, or for the shower.

  Reading glasses festooned with little reading lights on either side.

  All together, less than €8. I can’t think how they can manufacture items for that little, even in poor countries. I have solemnly sworn to myself that I will not buy anything known to involve child labour, but you can never be sure. Where there’s money to be made, honesty tends to fly out the window.

  The colouring book for seniors has also arrived, so roll on, Sinterklaas.

  Friday, 4 December

  When, last week, one of my three remaining molars broke in half, I decided not to do anything about it. The remaining half was far back, and visible only if I yawned without covering my mouth. And since I was strictly raised as a hand-over-the-mouth sort of man, there was no aesthetic reason to go to the dentist. And if there isn’t a good reason for it, I don’t go, because I’ve been terrified of the dentist for eighty years.

  But now I’ve been having an annoying toothache for a few days, and after three strips of Paracetamol, I fear there’s no avoiding it. I made an appointment for Monday. That leaves three days for the toothache to go away of its own accord. In that case I’ll cancel the appointment. If I could, I’d ask a dentist to put me under completely. But I don’t have the nerve to ask, although apparently one could.

  When I was headmaster, I used to dread the school dentist’s yearly visit. Hearing the shrill, shrieking sound of the drill make its way from the staff room (which had been cleared for the dentist’s use) into my classroom made me break into a sweat. The dental assistant would summon the children one by one. Some returned quickly, with a happy no-cavities smile. But most of the pupils had to submit to the horrifying drill. I felt each and every child’s fear vicariously.

  Saturday, 5 December

  I’ve been thinking more often of late about my time as a primary school headmaster. The memories tend to return on special days, at Sinterklaas, Christmas or Easter. Pleasant nostalgia.

  Before Sinterklaas especially, the whole school buzzed with excitement, the little ones because of their devout belief in Sint, the older kids because they were in on the big secret. I still remember that when I was young and my father told me Saint Nick did not exist, I was convinced that before long he’d summon me again, this time to reveal that God, too, was a total fabrication. But he never did. I had to discover for myself, years later, that opinions about God’s existence are, to put it mildly, rather divided, and that the gods themselves don’t always agree about it.

  As headmaster, in any case, I did believe unconditionally in Sinterklaas, the great friend to children, year in, year out. He was the most important guest of the school year. My heart melted at every child who sang a song for him, did a handstand for him, or even just bashfully waved at him. In those days the fact that Piet was black, and that he thought two plus two equalled five, didn’t bother anyone. On the contrary, it was the reason the little ones liked him so very much.

  I am almost childishly eager for the Old-But-Not-Dead Club’s Sinterklaas party. I think there should be more celebrating, with more enthusiasm. We in the Netherlands, with the possible exception of the carnival in the South, are not ones for wild partying. We tend to think: just act normal, you’re peculiar enough as it is.

  The Sinterklaas festivities in the recreation lounge usually amount to a CD with Sinterklaas songs and a holiday gingerbread man (taai-taai, which means ‘tough-tough’) instead of the usual biscuit with the coffee. And the gingerbread men are usually judged to be stale.

  ‘My teeth can’t deal with that,’ is what Mrs Smit says of anything that’s harder than vanilla pudding.

  Sunday, 6 December

  Last night Sinterklaas and Zwarte Piet honoured the Old-But-Not-Dead Club with a visit in the flesh. For an instant I thought Evert had risen from the dead and come back to earth as the old saint. I wasn’t that far off, since his son Jan looks very much like him and he was our Sint for the day. He had persuaded Grietje’s nephew Stef to be mad enough to play Piet. I have to say this was one of the most unkempt Sints I have ever seen in my life, and the Piet accompanying him also made a rather bedraggled impression, but that did not detract from the surprise. Sint Jan and Piet Stef had dressed themselves at Edward’s, who was in on the plot, and then paraded over to Ria and Antoine’s flat, tossing ginger nuts at the odd resident as they went. We, unsuspecting, were just on our first glass of wine when there came a loud banging at the door. It was the good saint and his sidekick standing at the door with a big sack filled with presents.

  After the unexpected guests were given something tasty to drink, the good bishop started the proceedings with a moving poem in which he thanked all those present for having provided Sinterklaas’s dad with some magnificent final years. Sint himself was a bit overcome; a tear rolled into his beard. The people around him, too, had to swallow a tear or two. Piet Stef broke the tension by offering each in turn a large gaudy handkerchief. There was a little something in the sack for each Old-But-Not-Dead member. I received a splendid Atlas of Amsterdam.

  It was a memorable evening. Nice or silly gifts, funny poems and five-star refreshments. The prize Leonie had put up for the most unusual present went to a balcony gnome with a casket of rum under its chin crafted by Geert.

  I did, however, nearly break my arm again; when I got home I tripped on my little rug in the bedroom and was sent sprawling. I landed on my bed, luckily. I can imagine the raised eyebrows in the plaster room at the hospital –

  ‘That isn’t alcohol I detect on your breath, is it, Mr Groen?’

  Monday, 7 December

  Just a bit over three weeks to go, and then that’s it for this diary. The daily obligation has been a therapeutic exercise: I write, therefore I am. Gymnastics for the mind. For body and mind the same thing is true: Use it or lose it.
Some professor wrote that once after a long study, but you could easily have worked it out for yourself.

  In order to fill the looming emptiness and keep the mind in shape, I have set myself a new challenge: in January I am starting on a novel. The only idea I have so far is that it’s about two elderly men. After all, old men are my speciality. They will inevitably resemble Evert and Hendrik somewhat. I’ll probably name them Ahrend and Nico, after my two grandfathers. Unavoidable circumstances won’t make things easy for Ahrend and Nico, but that only makes life more worth living.

  It’s growing on me.

  Tuesday, 8 December

  My toothache kept getting worse, so yesterday I went to the dentist. My dentist isn’t the type to calmly help you get over your fear of dentistry. He doesn’t say much, but starts muttering rather worriedly to himself as soon as you open wide for him.

  ‘Hmm, not a pretty picture. We’ll just have to do something about that, won’t we?’ At least, that’s what I understood. Picture the head looming over me rigged out like the riot police, for my dentist dons not only a surgical mask and gloves to peer into my mouth, but also a sort of splashguard over his eyes. As if he’s got a dangerous terrorist sitting in his chair instead of a terrified old man. Next he stared at his computer screen for a while and then tried to talk me into a crown costing €1,100, not covered by my insurance. Couldn’t he suggest a cheaper option? I asked anxiously.

  ‘Well … I could pull the tooth out, of course, but that’s rather an extreme solution.’

  I found €1,100 rather extreme as well, especially for a molar that was only biding its time back there anyway, so I asked him to go ahead and pull it immediately. I thought it was very brave of me, but alas, it wasn’t possible. There was no room in his appointments schedule. I have to go back on Friday. Which gives me another two days of working myself into a panic. I bought some more paracetamol on the way home.