Why did you do it? Because you thought I wouldn’t come otherwise? You only think of yourself. There isn’t a day goes by I don’t think of Henk. Henk was a boy, but he was a real man as well, and he gave me what I wanted. Wien was completely different. In a way he was more interested in his pigs than in me. I came second. If only you knew the pictures that haunt me every night. Always that car and Lake IJssel. You’re more like Wien than Henk. And to think that I found some degree of peace on the farm in the days after Henk’s death. Your mother was a comfort to me and I thought there was also some kind of connection between us (you and me). There was something we could build on, I thought.
And something else: I want Henk back (not your brother, my son). Having him round the house wasn’t easy but I see now that not having him is even worse. I want to learn to talk to him, I want to understand him. He’s my son. What’s more, I realize now that he doesn’t belong there with you, because you’re a liar and a cheat, and a bad example for him. And what’s this story about the crow? Didn’t you realize it was such a dangerous animal? Why did you expose my son to that kind of danger? Did he at least get proper treatment at the hospital? You’re an irresponsible man.
I’ll write to Henk as well, telling him he has to come back to his mother, that she needs him.
It can’t go on like this.
Yours,
Riet.
43
Fog. All I can see are the bare branches of the ash. Empty branches. Beyond that, nothing. It’s always a bit damp in Father’s bedroom. I can’t remember it being clammy when I slept here. It’s still March, but to me it feels like it could just as well be May or even June. Father agrees entirely.
“I’ve had enough.”
“You just said that.”
“It’s taking too long.”
“It’s not spring yet.”
“I know. That’s why.”
I look at the crowded walls: the photos, the samplers, the watercolor mushrooms. Do people take photos for later, for when they’re gone? “And?” I ask. “What do you want to do about it?”
“Stop eating.”
“What?”
“I’m not going to eat any more. I’ll just drink.”
“But. .”
“Is that so bad?”
“If I don’t bring you any food. .”
“You’ll be guilty of killing me? Bah. If it bothers you so much, bring up the meals anyway. I just won’t eat’em.” He’s lying there cheerfully, as if it’s a joke. Maybe he’s thinking, If my son can joke, so can I.
The last few days I’ve kept looking at Henk’s wrists. He has strong, broad wrists. Covered with fine ginger hair. After ending the telephone conversation with his mother, he followed me out. He hung around for a while at the causeway gate, where he couldn’t see me, but noticed the sheep clumped together and staring in the same direction. There was something funny about it, he said later. In retrospect I think that must have been the moment I managed to get my head above water for the last time. He climbed over the gate just in time, and walked just fast enough to reach me before I drowned. He saw the sheep lying there and a limp arm draped over its flank. He too stepped into the ditch, slid the sheep off me with ease and pulled me upright with those strong wrists. My boots stayed behind in the mud; they’re still there now. He heaved me up out of the ditch. When I opened my eyes I saw an ear, a hand and a scar. He kissed me on the mouth, I thought, and the next thing I knew a powerful stream of air was forcing its way into my lungs-I felt like I was suffocating. There was nowhere else for the air to go, he had my nose pinched shut. I made a noise and Henk’s head moved away.
My diaphragm contracted and the next thing I knew I was lying on my side — helped by his strong wrists — and vomiting a wave of muddy body-warmed water. “Just stay there, don’t move,” said Henk. I obeyed. I was gasping and glad to be breathing air instead of water. A little later a few drops splashed onto my face from a bale of wool that came wobbling by. He’d even managed to get the sheep up out of the ditch.
Now he’s in bed. He says he’s come down with something. I see his wrists on a background of African animals. I vomited a few more times in the course of the day and that was that.
“How’s Henk?” Father asks.
“Okay,” I say. “Better.” It’s as if I can still taste the mud in my mouth. Or feel the gritty soil between my teeth. I can well imagine death tasting like mud. I stare at the ash.
“You were going to tell me why you hate me and what I did to you.”
“Yes,” I say.
“Why you tell Ada that I’m senile and why you refuse to call the doctor.”
“Yes,” I say.
“I understand.”
“What do you mean?”
“You put me upstairs as the first step. You keep people away from me.”
I stop answering and stare out of the window.
“At first you hardly brought me anything to eat. And now I’ve said I don’t want any any more, you start grumbling. Just let me go.”
Slowly I turn my head towards him. He is no longer cheerful. He’s about to say things he’s never said before.
“You tell people I’m senile so that whatever I say, no matter who I say it to, it won’t be true.”
I stay silent.
“That time you brought me bread and cheese, on that beautiful sunny day.”
“Yes?”
“And you thought I was asleep.”
I don’t say yes again. He said, “thought,” that’s enough.
“I know, son. I know.” He smoothes out the blanket next to his legs with one hand. It’s a strange, feminine gesture. “No,” he goes on, “I suspected it. And I don’t want to hear another word about it. Ever.”
The fog is thinning out, thinning and paling. There is a silver glimmer to the road and almost imperceptible ripples on the surface of the canal. I get up and walk to the door. What exactly does he know or did he suspect? He doesn’t want to hear another word about it, ever, but that’s not as easy as stopping eating.
I see myself kneeling next to the bed and laying my head on the blanket and I see Father’s old hand stop rubbing the blanket. He raises his hand, lifts it up over his legs and lays it on my head. The hand feels dry and the skin scrapes over my hair, and it feels warm as well. I open the door and look at the plate on his bedside cabinet. A cheese sandwich, an apple and a knife. I leave the plate where it is and go out onto the landing.
Everyone else is in bed so I lie down on my bed too. It’s just gone midday. I feel even more that I don’t belong here. Henk should have lived here. With Riet and with kids. Despite the age difference, Riet would have been as thick as thieves with Ada, and her children would have gone to school with Teun and Ronald. No, her grandchildren. I should have been an uncle. Henk would have told the young tanker driver from his heart that he was sorry to see him go and wished him all the best, maybe even patting him on the shoulder. When I look in a mirror, I see myself. Sometimes I look through myself and see Henk, who generally looks back with a strange expression on his face. What would it have been like if the two of us had been standing there with Father just now, united? Would he still think we were conspiring against him? Would we have still been capable of provoking him by looking him straight in the eye? Would Henk have stood up for me or would he quietly but clearly have called me an idiot?