Solicitously, she sets everything down on the little table, already laid. She walks over to Mr Koopman's bed. He has woken up at last. But he doesn't seem to be quite as good as usual today. He is sitting half-upright in bed and his eyes do look odd. A bit wild. He might be ill. Then he must stay in bed and the entire breakfast thing is off. Then she has laid the table for nothing. And all that work. You often get disappointments with these old folks, you do. Yet, the good old orderly decides to encourage him to leave his bed. There's always something doing with the gentlemen, after all. Of a temporary nature, in the main.
'Come on, out of bed, Dirk. Then I'll get you dressed.'
Mr Koopman's Christian name is Dirk.
The orderly is standing at his bedside now and in a motherly way she pinches the calf of the leg sticking out from underneath the blankets.
She can't have hurt him with that!
But Mr Koopman is making some of those funny noises that aren't human at all, and ones you wouldn't expect from senile gentlemen either. Not squeaking. Not groaning. Not growling. They're creepy.
'I think he's having me on,' the orderly says.
'There's no gratitude in the man. Never been any either.'
And she starts to get angry.
She walks back to the little table.
'If you don't get out of bed now and come and eat, I'll take the lot away again. Then you won't be having a thing. Then I'll tie you down to your bed. Then I'll teach you to stay in bed. Then you won't be getting out all week. Then you won't be allowed to chew your baccy either.'
With senile gents you never can tell what arguments they're susceptible to. And Mr Koopman is highly addicted to his baccy. Now indeed he does get out of bed. There's something not quite right, all the same. Mr Koopman is still quite nimble on his pins. Yet never bouncy. And now he's suddenly making all those little hops. Like a pierrot loosening up his muscles with jumps, and exercising. It doesn't suit his age, and it isn't human at all, for that matter. With a few of those hops he has reached the sunlounge. Now he looks outside with an expression on his face as if everything to be seen in that garden is perfectly new to him.
'Come over here, Dirk,' the orderly calls out. Her voice is tender now. She is truly worried. There's also something the matter with Mr Koopman's pyjamas. They're blue, aren't they? But all of a sudden they seem a bit brownish. A bit hairy, for that matter. The coat of a monkey. The orderly doesn't even want to look at Mr Koopman's feet. Those aren't feet any more. They're paws.
Now the orderly is sure that it's ingratitude, that Mr Koopman's not satisfied with his breakfast. And she is very hurt. It's pure devilment of the old bugger. He has turned round in the sunlounge now. And he looks at the breakfast. But what a mug he's got: enough to give you the willies. Those small, vicious, beady little eyes. That's not the gaze of an old gentleman whose birthday it is. And certainly not when a festive breakfast is standing ready for him. Those old gents are not accustomed to that much, though the home isn't bad either.
That's it. She has taken her decision. She assumes a dignified attitude and wags her index finger. This she only will do when she means it very seriously indeed.
'But I won't have the mickey taken. To bed with you. You'll never get out of it again.' (Her voice has turned shrill and it cracks occasionally.) 'You'll be leaving this place. To an asylum, that's where you'll go. Then you'll be singing a different tune.' And meanwhile, she has walked over to the sunlounge to grab Mr Koopman by the scruff of his neck and put him back in his bed. As a punishment. But it's already too late for this. Mr Koopman has already turned into a monkey. He has already acquired a tail.
With a few big leaps, Mr Koopman disappears through the sunlounge door into the garden. It's surprising to see the way old gentlemen are able to climb trees when they change into monkeys.
In no time, Mr Koopman is sitting on the lowest branch of the chestnut tree. It's still the first of September. A most splendid day indeed. A day for miracles to happen. A day to make people jolly. And Mr Koopman seems to be happy as well. Though it is an odd way of celebrating your birthday. He sits on his branch of the tree and has his tail in his little monkey-fist. He's got a pondering expression in his eyes as if he's very struck and moved by something happening far away and outside of the world. And now his reflectiveness has changed to jollity. He points his finger at the other gentlemen in the sunlounge and roars with laughter. And yet there's nothing extraordinary to be seen about the gentlemen of the home. Certainly not something that's odd or ridiculous.
The good old orderly has burst into tears. There is no one to comfort her. The gentlemen of the home haven't noticed anything of what's going on yet. That is why she has gone and sat down on a chair and she laments into her own lap.
'There's nothing wrong with that damned breakfast is there? There's an egg with it, no less. The other gentlemen don't even get that when it's their birthday. Just jam. But he does. Because you want to make him look happy. Because he always looks so disgruntled. Alright. Perhaps the ham is a little bit discoloured. But what do you expect with so many people in just one house. For that's what it is, all said. Just a house. Even if they do call it a home for the elderly. And then that business of our gentlemen's poo, too. It all wafts over the food. It does make for smells, that does. And so the stuff discolours. There's no keeping the ham fresh then.'
Her sorrow acquires an ever more loquacious character.
"Cause it stinks here, after all. Standing here out on the doorstep, the smell coming from the letter box already makes me retch. It's a little warehouse. And just one set of facilities and not a scrap of ventilation. But I eat here too, you know, myself. What the gentlemen eat, I eat as well. Alright, the ham's a bit discoloured. But no way has it gone off.'
Meanwhile, the doctor has entered the home. He is a quiet, placid man who is no trouble to others. He is most outstandingly a doctor. He hangs his raincoat (for his wife didn't trust the look of the sky) on the hallstand. A perfectly ordinary raincoat. And yet so decidedly a doctor's coat that now it almost seems as if the doctor himself is hanging on the hallstand with his coat.
He tears off a leaf from the calendar which is still showing August 31. He smiles, a touch nostalgically.
'Ah, yes. Tearing them off. Amputating days from a man's life.' So the doctor has a reflective nature. Good intuition, too. He knows already that there's something not quite right in the home, though, of course, he doesn't know yet that Mr Koopman is sitting in the chestnut tree.
Before he goes on to the ward, he must just wash his hands first, at the basin in the toilet. There's always a clean towel hanging there. For the doctor, specially, to dry his hands once he has washed them. But there's no towel hanging there now.
'That's really annoying,' the doctor says. 'That's negligence. Such small things as these are the ones that prevent a doctor from doing his work properly and which then begin to play a part in decisions about life and death.'
He isn't in such a good mood at all. He had wanted to do a spot of gardening in his little garden, but he had to go to the home because one of the gentlemen had mild symptoms yesterday. So it's not at all such a festive morning for the doctor.
He goes on to the ward. He's almost sure by now that there are things going on there and that nothing will come any more of raking his garden today.
And the orderly is still sitting there lamenting about the breakfast that Dirk hasn't wished to partake of and about the grotty life she really has.
The gentlemen of the home have taken advantage of her slackened attention by making a bit of a party of things, in their own way.
One of the gentlemen has undressed himself completely and is walking naked across the ward in macabre sexual display. Other gents have done naughties on the floor. The stench is such that it gives the doctor a pain in the nose. He quickly walks over to the sunlounge to open the garden door. There! Now some fresh air can come in, at least.
That's how it comes to pass that the doctor sees Mr Koopma
n sitting in the chestnut tree.
He's unnerved.
'Heavens,' he says. 'That's Mr Koopman up in the tree.'
So he's no doctor who'll begin to suffer from delusions because of minor semblances. He's sure not to take Mr Koopman for a monkey even if he does think the old gentleman looks peculiar. And so thin. Eerily thin, in fact.
He will check him over thoroughly tomorrow.
That's as may be. So there's the rub: Mr Koopman is sitting in the tree and that's why the entire home is all of a doodah. Ah, well; the situation is an unusual one. But from a qualified orderly you may demand that she can keep control of uncommon situations, too.
He takes a few steps forward so he can get a good view of Mr Koopman sitting on his branch.
Malevolently, he looks with his fierce, beady little eyes at the doctor.
However, the doctor is used to much in the field of care for the elderly.
In a friendly tone, and very calmly, especially, he says: Why not come out of that tree, Mr Koopman. It's your birthday today, after all, isn't itT (For the doctor knows all those little, everyday things about the gentlemen.) 'I've got a packet of chewing tobacco for you here.'
Quite true, too. He takes out a packet of chewing tobacco from his pocket which he holds up so Mr Koopman can take a good look at it.
Quite a festive little lure, really, for a gentleman who's addicted to chewing tobacco.
But Mr Koopman sticks his little head down, which looks unusually small, and you would say that he was gathering saliva to spit on to the pack.
'Don't do that, Mr Koopman,' says the doctor. 'Don't do that. This tobacco is far too precious for that.'
And he stretches his arm out a little further still to bring the packet somewhat closer to Mr Koopman's attention so the latter can see that it really is good tobacco. Of the brand he likes to chew so much. But Mr Koopman has returned to his previous position. Quite at ease there among the leaves, and by the look of things, not in friendly mood. 'Oh, do come down, Mr Koopman. There's a lovely smell of coffee in the sunlounge. A man of your age doesn't belong in a tree, surely. You ought to know better.'
By and by, the doctor's voice has become a little more severe. One's approach towards the elderly is a delicate affair. It's of great importance to find the right tone. This prevents sudden bouts of aggression and the suffering that in turn is the consequence of those bouts of aggression.
Meanwhile, the orderly has appeared in the garden with an old broom stick. Her tears have dried. Her face is now set hard with angry decisiveness.
Might as well go,' she says to the doctor and she tries to push him in the direction of the sunlounge. 'I'll see to this. My patience has run out. D'you hear, Dirk,' she shouts upwards. 'My patience has run out. Finished!' Her anger seems to amuse Mr Koopman highly. He dances up and down on his branch as if possessed, like monkeys can do when they're having fun they would put into words if only they were human beings.
'You rotten, sodding little monkey. You're taking the mickey out of me as well.' And she begins to poke about in the leaves of the tree. But it doesn't touch Dirk. He only goes and sits one branch higher up and his amusement becomes even more mobile.
'Sodding monkey. Get out of that tree.'
The doctor takes the stick away from her.
'That's not the way, Mrs Wolf. Our gentlemen aren't monkeys. Though they ought not to climb in trees, of course. But what d'you expect? Mr Koopman just happens to be slightly senile. Less usual behaviour is to be expected then. But 'slightly senile' doesn't mean to say no longer human. So 'monkey' is quite uncalled for. On the contrary, we must reinforce his still plentifully present humanity yet further. We must bring that to the fore. This really does not include calling him a monkey.'
'Slightly senile,' sneers the good orderly. 'That bloke's as senile as makes no difference. He lets his shit and piss run free like no tomorrow. The biggest crapmonger in the house. Slightly senile. No, that's a good one, that is. And then climb the tree too. Because the ham is a little bit off. Sodding monkey.' All the hullabaloo surrounding Dirk is now beginning to awaken the interest of the other gentlemen as well. In the main, the elderly don't live within the realm of every day. They are too preoccupied with matters of yesterday about which they tell the most incomprehensible things without ever thinking of stopping. But what's happening now is most exceptional. Even the gentlemen of the home notice this. And so the little lawn, hardly blessed with square metres as it is, slowly runs full of old codgers who really shouldn't be outside at all any more on this no longer radiant September Sunday morning. It has gone chillier and there's black ink in the sky, boding rain.
One of the old codgers has begun to remember his long-gone years of boyhood. He has picked up a stone and a nasty sneer has appeared around the toothless hole that is his mouth. His arm is already drawn back, its purpose to take aim. Fortunately, the doctor sees this just in time.
'Don't do that, Mr Willems. No throwing. We're going to tackle this quite differently.'
He draws up his figure and calls out in a voice full of yielding kindheartedness: 'Come on down out of that tree, Mr Koopman, please. You know your chair's in the sunlounge - course you do. That chair's yours by right. You're entitled to it after a life of hard work. You have a cosy home here, you do, together with the other gentlemen, haven't you?'
This seems to fill Dirk with mirth once more. He's sprawled out on his branch and he roars with laughter. Though he makes do with gestures, these convey the insults well, nevertheless. In a calculated mime he brings his paw to his nose, pinches it shut and pulls a very disgusted face. Perhaps Mr Koopman wants to indicate by this that it always stinks so in the home. And he begins to scratch himself at length too. From time to time, he also holds up something as if he wants to look at it as closely as possible in the best light and this could well be a louse or a flea. That's nonsense, of course. Malevolent insinuations - quite preposterous. There are no infestations in the home. The ladies who collectively bear responsibility for proper order in the home watch over this.
'Come out of that tree, Mr Koopman.'
The doctor's voice is a little more severe again. And he's really put out. Gratitude's out of fashion, apparently. All old hat. It is quite simply the duty of society to give proper care to people who, because of their advanced age, are not capable of taking care of themselves. Mr Koopman there on that branch is taking the Michael a bit. It is of course nice that, his senile condition notwithstanding, he develops so much initiative still, but there are indeed limits. Mr Koopman is still quite capable of having a grasp of his own behaviour and knowing what is allowed and what isn't. Small naughtiness is part of things in the home. But this is not just naughty any more.
And yet the doctor decides to leave things at the word naughty, for this is quite current in the home. Highly functional when the gents need to be called to order.
'You're being a little bit naughty, Mr Koopman. You know, don't you, that in that case we have to do things in your own interest which are not pleasant for any of us. You are very naughty if you continue to sit in that tree. And honestly there's no nasty smell in the home. As for creepie-crawlies, that's just plain nonsense. Now you come quickly out of that tree and you'll have a lovely cup of coffee. It's your birthday, after all!'
Now Mr Koopman roars with laughter very exaggeratedly indeed. He lays it on thick, unsavourily so. It's not nice of him to make the doctor's good intentions look so ridiculous. And now' he's tapping his fingers against his forehead to make even plainer what's wrong with the doctor.
The good old orderly, meanwhile, has tried to drive the other gentlemen back to the sunlounge.
'Now just you go back inside then. No good will come of Dirk. You wait and see. He'll be off to an asylum.'
But it doesn't do much good. Understandably so, too. It's very nice in the home; that's not the point. But it is very dull, too. And even though old people no longer have such a need for excitement, when the opportunity does present itself to
really relish things like in the old days, it's very nice indeed.
So the gents continue to stand around the tree and the orderly ends up picking up the broom stick from the ground again.
'We're not getting anywhere like this,' the doctor says. 'The best thing is for me to ring the proper authorities. Then they can fetch him out of that tree. It would be too dangerous, too, for him to come down under his own steam. He might break a leg, or worse. He's a great age, after all.'
In desperation, the good old orderly begins to poke about in the tree once more. It doesn't help a jot, of course. Dirk doesn't even take any notice of it. He has climbed up one branch higher and makes the craziest gestures to his fellow inhabitants. Dirty gestures too. Ones as if he's got hold of his sex and is masturbating passionately. Then he points at Mrs Wolf, looking exceptionally lewdly as he does so.
The doctor comes back into the garden. Because it has begun to rain lightly, he has put on his coat.
'The fire brigade has been called. The gentlemen are coming as soon as possible.' But the good old orderly shows no joy.
'He can stay in that tree till his death, as far as I'm concerned. Filthy old goat. That man's nothing but trouble. Contrary. Always. Never co-operates when he has to be washed and dressed. Keeps himself rigid, he does. Effing and blinding and wants to bite you on top of it all. If they were all like that! His pestering drives you round the twist. Last week he took a turd from a potty and plastered the stairs with it. Just imagine the work you're left with to get that clean again. And you won't get a char here. Not on their nelly, thank you. They think it's too dirty here. They're far too much a lady for that, nowadays.'
For the umpteenth time, she begins to poke about in the tree, quite out of control. Nerves all frazzled. And talk? All the time!
'D'you hear me, you old scumbag? You're not pestering me into an early grave. Two women he's pestered to their graves. And his five children went without their nosh. Drank like a fish. And work? Not on your life. And now we've got him here, in the home. And now it's suddenly Mr skunk. Mister. Because he's senile, now he's 'Mister'. Well, up yours matey.'
The Dedalus Book of Dutch Fantasy Page 3
