‘Okay, little fella, now it’s time to go to sleep.’
Every time I gently nudged him down, he bounced back up like a jack-in-the-box, his big eyes glued to the windscreen. He simply had to keep looking.
Perhaps I underestimated the fearfulness of a one-year-old. It prevented me from getting any shuteye myself. Of course bus accidents always happened to other people (who, according to the tour operators responsible, were ‘at the wrong place at the wrong time’), but never to us. But the drivers also were putting in long hours, without a break, I’d sussed that out by now. Pit stops at a roadside restaurant consisted of the off-duty driver shunting the passengers to and from the toilets, while his colleague waited at the wheel of the purring and palpitating bus with its oversized tyres. This, in combination with the breakneck speed, did considerably cut down on travel time, while the drivers still earned their complete wage.
Tonio and I spent most of the night awake. I watched him, and he never once took his eyes off the teeming motorway. Gradually the dummy came into action; it had been clamped firmly in his jaw and I had to prise it out of his mouth in order to give him his bottle of water. His sucking meant he was relaxing. Tonio’s eyelids started drooping just as it began to get light above the hills on the eastern horizon. By the time the sun was visible, Tonio was fast asleep. I laid him carefully between my legs. The jack-in-the-box mechanism had shut down. He slept until we arrived in Marsalès. Daybreak was apparently the sign to his small, frightened soul that the danger of night had subsided.
Damn it, Tonio, how I wish that early this morning, before daybreak on the Stadhouderskade, I could have mustered up the same vigilance as back then.
5
‘What a horrible complex. Huge.’ Hinde rushed into the room. ‘I got totally lost.’
She was pale, her eyes wide with fear. ‘To start with, the taxi driver set me off at the wrong entrance.’
She held a pack of cigarettes. ‘Yeah, I just had to have smokes. Otherwise I’d never make it through the day.’
I suggested going back outside so she could light one up. But before we made a move to leave, the sisters fell tearfully into each other’s arms.
The courtyard, an open terrace built atop a lower floor of the hospital, radiated the heat of the noonday sun. A perfect Whit Sunday. We sat on a bench between the planters, but before long we all felt that the sun was too strong. There were some outdoor chairs further up. We dragged them into the shade. The sun continued to reflect intensely from the light-grey paving stones, large windows and gravel-cement planters.
‘Gotta do this today,’ Hinde said, lighting a cigarette. Soon thereafter the young nurse hurried over to us. My heart clenched. I felt on my shoulder how Miriam stiffened, gasping for breath. That the nurse came charging at us like that, her blonde hair flapping in the sun, could only mean that there was news, bad news.
‘Ma’am,’ she said, panting slightly, ‘you’re not allowed to smoke here.’
‘I don’t normally,’ said Hinde. ‘It’s just that my nerves … this whole mess …’
‘I really do understand,’ the young woman replied, ‘but this is a no-smoking area, no matter what. So please …’
‘I’ll put it out.’
Poor Hinde. She was forbidden even this one transgression in her new life. The nurse headed back — no longer running, but more like trotting — to the glass door, back to Tonio’s sedated hell.
6
We were dropped off at the campground reception, which was run by the Dutch couple who rented us the maison décole. We’d be taken to the house later in a minivan once it was available, but for now we could wait at the campground’s outdoor café. The bus drivers were already there. Instead of having a lie-down they went straight for large glasses of Heineken from the tap, while the departing campground guests dragged their luggage to the coach, which would leave in an hour’s time for the Netherlands — with the same two drivers at the wheel.
Miriam and I were draped over our chairs with sleep deprivation, but the café itself was abuzz. Two girls of around ten, one a bit bigger than the other, descended with squeals of excitement upon Tonio, who couldn’t really walk yet and tried to keep himself standing by grasping table legs and chair backs. No problem: the little ladies took turns lifting him from the ground and carrying him, happy as could be, hither and thither. A real-life baby doll, with a real-life full nappy, no less — their holiday enjoyment was sealed. Only a pity that there weren’t two of these golden-locked cherubs.
Meanwhile, a distinguished-looking, white-haired older man appeared on the scene carrying a camera. I had already spotted him when we arrived: he had probably gone back to his tent to fetch his camera. He approached our table, almost quaking with emotion, and pathetically beseeched us if he could take a picture of Tonio.
‘Honest to goodness,’ he said hoarsely, ‘I have never seen such a beautiful child. I simply must photograph him.’
‘Go on then, just one,’ I said.
The man commanded the little girl who had just lifted Tonio up over her head to put him on the ground. He clamped himself to her leg and smiled at the camera, just as he’d been taught. The photographer, in all his creakiness, threw himself to his knees in front of Tonio and took a close-up. He groaned, but I suspect it had nothing to do with his uncomfortable position, because he kept on clicking. He shifted his knees.
‘Such a beautiful child,’ he cried. ‘I just can’t get over it.’
Miriam and I glanced at each other. I got up, went over to the man and said, while laying a hand on his shoulder: ‘That’s probably enough, sir. Why don’t we let the girls play with him now?’
I helped him up. He was teary-eyed. Another photo of Tonio, who was back in the arms of the other little girl.
‘If you’ll just give me your address,’ the man said, ‘I can send you a few prints. Here’s a pen.’
I felt the sleepless night buzzing through my head. Was I seeing danger at every turn? Was the whole world out to threaten Tonio?
‘Later,’ I said. ‘We’ve only just arrived.’
‘That’s just it,’ said the man. ‘I’m just about to go back to Amsterdam with the bus.’
‘Then if I might give you a bit of advice,’ I said, ‘keep an eye out that the drivers take enough rests.’
Another Dutch campground guest rescued me, taking me for the Dutch writer and former chess champion Tim Krabbé. ‘I’ve always wanted to play chess with you,’ he said. ‘Can I invite you for a game tonight? Here on the terrace. I’ve got everything with me. A timer, too.’
7
The girls were the Van Persie sisters from Rotterdam. Lily (nine) and Kiki (going on twelve). They were staying at the campground with their divorced mother and younger brother Robin, who was just about to turn six.* It was mostly Lily, with her broad mouth and uncombed curls, who took Tonio under her wing, and with a gusto I had seldom seen in a girl that age. As soon as she laid eyes on Tonio, she would insist he be removed from his pushchair. She agreed to stay within sight of us, his parents, as she carried the tyke to and fro, but refused to give him back. Tonio was too heavy for her girlish body; he kept sliding down her chest, and Lily would then shimmy him back up as far as he’d go. With any luck, Tonio would throw his arms around her neck, giving her a bit of extra grip.
[* Robin van Persie would later become a well-known soccer player and a member of the Dutch national team, and is at present a star striker for Manchester United.]
Tonio loved all the attention and cuddling. With his head up close to Lily’s, his laugh was broad and drooly, and he panted with flirtatiousness. And the important thing was: he and Lily were on the same wavelength. It was as though, their heads close together, they were continually in conversation.
Lily had the distinct misfortune that Tonio learned to walk during those first weeks of the holiday. As
soon as he realised that his place was down there with both feet on the ground, he would thrash wildly in Lily’s arms until she gingerly set him down — and not just in the hard grass, where he’d soon plop onto his rear, but near a large object, a table or chair, which he could hold onto as he walked around it. Best of all were the metal supports of his stroller, because they had wheels — he was mobile.
Kiki and Lily often showed up at the schoolhouse early in the morning, while we were still eating breakfast, to ooh and aah in admiration as Tonio’s mother pushed dice of Laughing Cow soft cheese into his mouth. Soon enough the girls were allowed to unwrap the foil themselves and feed Tonio the bite-sized cheese cubes. His eyes sparkled, his drool became milky from the white cheese. All we had to do was watch out he didn’t get overfed.
Sometimes the sisters brought their little brother Robin with them, who never spoke and always wore an angry little pout. After breakfast, Tonio resumed his walking lessons behind the stroller under the tutelage of Lily and Kiki. He was now between thirteen and fourteen months old.
In my recollection, I see Robin leaning up against the outside of the schoolhouse, one foot up against the wall. Surly and haughty, he watches the movements of the toddler, who enjoys his sisters’ full attention. I sit at the picnic table under the apple tree, pretending to be absorbed in yesterday’s already yellowed newspaper, but I cannot take my eyes off the scene before me. Tonio has the tendency to push a bit faster than the wheels can furrow through the rough grass, so that he leans back slightly and easily falls over. He’s got the hand-grips firmly in his fists, above his head, so that as he topples over backwards he pulls the pushchair on top of himself.
‘Oof.’ The girls rush to prop him back up. At Tonio’s eye level is a shopping net, strung onto the frame by an elastic cord, with tissues and extra Pampers. Every time he falls over backwards, the nylon netting falls over Tonio’s face, like a loosely woven veil, and he doesn’t like it much. Not much time for crying, though: practice makes perfect. His dismay is limited to a brief whine while his fingers tug at the butterfly net. Kiki and Lily leap to the rescue. Lily takes advantage of the situation by scooping Tonio up and nuzzling him. He tries to wriggle away: there’s work to be done.
Robin’s stance hovers between childish contempt (pff, he can’t even walk) and an equally childish jealousy (my sisters don’t give me the time of day, but they’re all over that clumsy sprog). He, Robin, is not only good at walking, fast and slow, but he can creep, jump and climb, too. ‘Robin’s problem is,’ says Kiki superciliously, imitating her mother, ‘that he has no concept of danger.’
Tonio is back up on his feet, and screeches as he pushes the stroller. Again he’s learned something new: he wrenches and jerks the stroller over a stubborn tuft of grass and walks on. The girls follow him with arms extended, prepared to catch him should he fall.
I am worried about the fearsomely large wasps here; they fly close to the ground, as though they’re too heavy for their wispy wings. They look savage, and I imagine their stinger dripping with poison. I have already chopped one in half with a breakfast knife; it was pestering Tonio and I thought I was giving it a quick, painless death. Horrified, I saw how both halves stayed alive: the front half propped itself up on its wings, the back half — call it the weapon-wielding half — wobbled off, carrying the defeated stinger with the remaining legs.
‘If you want, Robin,’ I say in an attempt to include the boy in the adventure, ‘you can keep an eye on those big wasps to see they don’t fly near Tonio and your sisters. They’re much scarier than the ones we’ve got back home.’
Robin doesn’t answer. When I glance up from the paper a while later, Tonio and his entourage have already reached the other side of the yard. Robin is nowhere to be seen.
8
Four nurses filed from the corridor through the open glass doors into the courtyard. Two men and two women. They each carried a full cafeteria tray. Lunchtime. After blinking for a moment into the bright sunlight, they opt unanimously for a table in the sun.
‘Life goes on, of course,’ Hinde said. ‘No matter what’s happening inside.’
The nurses occupied a table some distance from us, but as it was otherwise so quiet in the courtyard I could clearly pick up snippets of their conversation. They spent some time quoting large sums in euros, the estimate ranging from two-and-a-half to three million.
‘Say there’s ten thousand staff, including partners,’ said one of the men. ‘That still comes out to 250 to 300 per person.’
‘But for that amount you get Marco Borsato’s cute bum,’ one of the female nurses said.
‘Don’t forget Karin Bloemen’s cute bum,’ said the other man. ‘And they call it a cold buffet.’
‘And the Mart Visser catwalk,’ said the second woman.
‘I still think it’s weird,’ the first man continued. ‘It’s always cutbacks, cutbacks, cutbacks. And then they go and rent a whole convention centre for ten thousand of us.’
‘Jesus, Jan, you really are a killjoy,’ said the Marco Borsato’s-bum woman. ‘It’s the AMC’s twenty-fifth anniversary. Can’t they throw a proper party for once? I’ve been here for twelve years and till now it’s been a dry house.’
9
Twice since Tonio was very young (one and almost three years old), I have been pursued by obsessive visions concerning his safety.
Once, during that summer of ’89, when we rented the schoolhouse in Marsalès, I took him out on the bicycle. I placed him in the child seat up front for what was perhaps the most wonderful and intimate day I had ever spent with him. Our destination was Biron Castle, but first we took a spin around the country roads, hardly bothered by any traffic. Tonio was getting on to 14 months, and his still-golden-blond curls fluttered right under my nose. I only had to tip my head down slightly in order to feel and smell his warm crown. Coasting downhill, a light breeze wafted through his hair. Only as noon approached did I put on his little white cap with the wavy edges, tying the lace under his chin, to keep him from getting sunstroke.
Earlier that summer, I had taught him the words ‘cow’ by pointing at the black-coated cattle, as always adorned with large yellow plastic earrings, on the grassy slopes. Until now, no cows had shown themselves along our route. We cycled through the fields, which were scattered with large rolled-up bales of hay, either as refuse or harvest by-product. Occasionally, Tonio would point a wet finger at one of the rolls, calling out with a thin voice, more sound than word: ‘owww … owww!’
Back in Amsterdam, I read a harrowing newspaper article about exactly the kind of child-seat we had used for Tonio in France. Designed for the flat Dutch landscape, it was attached to the handlebars by two U-shaped steel brackets, and was kept in place by its own weight. But on a steep downhill gradient, it had been shown, the seat could easily lurch out of place and hurl its infant passenger into the air. There was a particularly high rate of such accidents that summer in France, a traditional destination for Dutch cycling families.
To cycle from our schoolhouse in Marsalès to the lake, one had to go down quite a steep incline — Miriam, if she had Tonio with her, would always get off and walk, not because of the child’s seat but because she didn’t trust her own braking. That summer day, for our outing to the Château de Biron, I felt confident taking Tonio down that hill in his kiddie seat. I rode Miriam’s bike. It was new, the rubber brake blocks were not yet worn. Still, as we whizzed down the hill, I felt a kind of tugging below that I didn’t quite have under control. Tonio, confidently delivered into my care, was delighted with the speed and cooed ecstatically with outstretched arms.
I was relieved to reach the bottom, where the road levelled off along the lake. Nothing serious had happened, but after reading the article about the child seats I couldn’t shake the image of Tonio being flung through the air. I played and replayed his fall, down to the minutest detail: how his body rolled alo
ngside the bike, his golden locks smeared with blood and guts. The thought could creep up on me in the middle of the day, without any apparent reason, while I was working or telling a completely unrelated anecdote in the café. (‘Well? And then? Now that it’s finally getting interesting, the cat’s got your tongue.’) The obsessive visions had not ebbed in the ensuing twenty years. Since this morning it’s been playing up continually, more intrusively than before, as though my irresponsibility back then ultimately contributed to Tonio’s accident.
10
The blonde nurse returned, this time unhurriedly, greeting her colleagues as she passed them. They were busy collecting the remains of their lunch on the trays.
‘Can I get you something to eat?’ she asked, looking from me to Miriam and Hinde. ‘They’ll be busy with him for some time yet …’
‘Shall we share a cheese sandwich?’ I suggested to Miriam. ‘I don’t think I can stomach much more than that.’
Miriam said nothing, only shook her head, looking down at the ground in front of her feet.
‘I’ll bring a little of everything,’ the nurse said. ‘How about some milk?’
I nodded. The week before I had read somewhere that a glass of milk takes the edge off garlic breath. On her way back to the corridor, the nurse stopped to exchange a word with her colleagues, before walking ahead of them toward the glass doors.
11
The other obsessive thought had to do with the Makelaarsbrug over the Oudezijds Voorburgwal in Amsterdam. It must have been springtime, perhaps closer to summer, because the ducks in the canal weren’t constantly surrounded by their brood. The remaining ducklings were already partly grown. I had taken Tonio out of his stroller and walked with him onto the pedestrian footbridge. Brilliant sunlight from a sparklingly blue sky.
Tonio Page 10
