“Henk?”
“Bastard.”
“What you say?”
“I called you a bastard.”
“Now, now.”
“Are you saying you’re not?”
“I don’t know.”
The duvet slips down, exposing his chest. A hand moves towards the bedside cabinet. The strip of newspaper that was serving as a bookmark is lying on the cover of the book.
“Your cigarettes are downstairs,” I say.
“Shit.” He crosses his arms and stares at the wall opposite the bed. “What have you come up here for anyway?”
“You didn’t do the yearlings this morning.”
“So?”
“I did them myself.”
“Serves you right.”
“That’s all I’ve come up for.”
“You can go away then.”
“Fine.” I turn and walk out onto the landing. I’d forgotten the cigarettes; I can go downstairs and bide my time.
A little before twelve he comes down, dressed and all. He walks straight through to the living room and lights a cigarette. Then he comes into the kitchen, fills the coffee pot with water, spoons coffee into the filter and goes over to the side window. “What kind of weather’s this?” he says after a while. The water gurgles through the coffee machine.
“Beautiful weather,” I say.
“It’s like summer.”
“And you haven’t even been outside.”
He stays there by the side window until all the water has dripped through. Then he pours himself a mug and sits down at the kitchen table. He doesn’t ask whether I’d like a cup of coffee as well.
“Don’t you want anything to eat?”
“Later.”
“Have you got plans for this afternoon?”
He stares at me in disbelief. “Plans?”
“Uh-huh.”
“No.”
“In Broek there’s a small canoe rental place that doesn’t bother about the official seasons. If you mention my name, he’ll give you a canoe without any problems. He’s got maps too. East Waterland.”
“A canoe.” He lights a fresh cigarette and looks at the canal through the front window.
“You have to take advantage of weather like this.”
“How do I get there?”
“Right at the end of the road, then straight ahead and in Broek it’s the seventh house on the left. You can take a route that comes past here.”
“Do you want me out of the way?” he asks.
“What for? You never go anywhere. You’ve only been to Monnickendam.”
“You’re still a bastard.”
“Sure. Maybe I am.”
Just before he gets on the bike, I give him fifty euros in ten-euro notes. His coat is in a plastic bag hanging from the handlebars. He rides out of the barn with a wide curve. I stroll over to the chicken coop and pick up four eggs. I take the eggs inside, put them in an empty egg box and leave it next to the stove. I take off my overalls, lie down on the sofa and close my eyes. It will take him a while to get back here.
It’s April 16th and a young lad passes in a canoe. That doesn’t happen often, especially not this early in the season because the official canoeing routes don’t pass my farm. He has taken off his shirt, it’s unusually warm for the time of the year. I’m standing at the side of the house, on the north side, as yet unseen. Because the canoeist is alone, there’s no talking. He doesn’t make any comments about my farm, the trees or my two donkeys. A hooded crow sits on a branch in the crooked ash. The crow is preening itself and now and then pulls its large beak out from under its wings to check the progress of the canoe. The paddle doesn’t slap at the yellow water lilies; there aren’t any yellow water lilies in April. There aren’t any noisy redshanks either; there are two oystercatchers in the field on the other side of the canal, calmly foraging.
The young man has ginger hair and sunburnt shoulders, he has underestimated the strength of the spring sun. The paddle is resting on the canoe in front of him, water drips into water. The canoe slides forward slowly. There’s nowhere for me to go, there’s nothing on the bare north side of the house that I could be working on. I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to stand here and be seen.
He sees me. His canoe gets caught with its nose against the side of the canal. He looks at me and he looks at the dormer window. He looks at the hooded crow, at the trees lining the yard, he even looks — if briefly — at the two inquisitive donkeys that have come to stand at the new fence along the road. I can’t tell whether he is surprised to see me here. He doesn’t raise a hand, I don’t raise one either. If it’s worked out, he sees what he is seeing as an old, yellowed postcard, with buildings, people, animals and trees frozen in time. Something to pick up for a moment and then lay aside again. A place with nothing to offer him.
Then he picks up the paddle and pushes off from the bank. A little later he turns right, into Opperwoud Canal. He must have studied the map carefully. I walk up to the road to watch him. Opperwoud Canal empties into Big Lake. Past Big Lake is a narrow ditch, whose name I don’t know, that leads to the Die near Uitdam. Beyond Uitdam is Lake IJssel.
He comes into the shed when I’m almost finished milking. He stays standing there just past the open sliding door. The sun is around him, I see only a silhouette. I feel the weight of my twenty cows, the weight of the straw in the hayloft, the heavy rafters, the tiles on the roof (not one of which is crooked), the neatly pollarded willows. I can hardly stand.
“You want me gone,” he says.
“Yes,” I say, lowering the milking claw to the floor.
“Shit.”
When will the swallows arrive? Or have they already come? I wonder. I’ve lost my sense of time. It’s summer outside.
52
“It’s almost over,” says Father.
“Yeah,” I say, thinking of earlier in the day.
The window is wide open.
I correct myself. “Yeah?”
“And I haven’t had a spring, but a summer instead.”
“Are you going to eat your egg?”
“Soon. I’m going to look at it for a while first.”
I have already shelled the egg for him. It is lying on a saucer and the salt dish is next to the saucer. Mosquitoes dance in front of the open window. I’ve sat down on the foot of the bed. He says he’s going to look at the egg, but he looks at me. The sheet of paper is no longer sticking out from under the bedside cabinet. I wonder where the poem has got to.
“Will you manage on your own?”
“I think so.”
“You’re a grown man.”
“Half a grown man.”
Now he looks at the egg as if he’s got a little marzipan cake in front of him, the kind the baker in Monnickendam calls “castles.” In the old days he would sometimes drive all the way into town on a Saturday to buy four. On some occasions he might have got five. Later it became three and, after Mother died, very rarely, he went in for two. I never told him that castles were not my favorite cake.
“I was second choice,” I say. “That was the worst. Always feeling I wasn’t good enough.”
“I did my best,” he says.
“And I didn’t?”
“Of course you did. We all did.” There’s a lot more life in him now than there was this morning.
“Where’s Henk?”
“I don’t know. Outside, I think.”
There is something I want to ask him. Despite everything, there is something I want his permission for. “Shall I. .” I say. I stand up, go down on my knees and stick my head under the bed. There’s the poem, covered with fluff. I stand up and sit back down on the bed, close to his feet. He’s still staring at the egg, a bit frightened now.