On her way to the kitchen she spread her arms to indicate the bare walls of the living room. Art. Why didn’t I buy “some art”?
Ada is still young, about thirty-five. Her husband is at least ten years older, maybe fifteen. She’s bursting with energy. If she had her way, she’d come to my house to clean once a week instead of once a year, in April, as she does now. She’s treasurer of the local Women’s Institute, makes quilts, is a member of a reading group, supports her local community and is busy planting “the most beautiful garden in all of Waterland.” She reminds me of Mother because she is almost as ugly, but in Ada’s case the cause is a harelip that wasn’t corrected all that neatly. Her boys are beautiful, with blond hair, long lashes and perfect mouths. She’s not from round here, and maybe that’s why she knows everything about everyone for miles around.
I pour us a second cup of coffee and suppress a yawn. I like Ada, but her enthusiasm and open-hearted chatter still overwhelm me, especially when I’ve just done the milking and fed the yearlings.
“So you’ve swapped bedrooms with your father. How is he? Can I pop up to see him?”
“Fine,” I say, then lie to her. “No, he’s asleep, don’t disturb him.”
Ada drinks her coffee and eyes me over the rim of her mug. “Old. .” she says. “What gave you that idea? You’ve got a handsome face, a nice full head of hair and not an ounce of fat on you.”
I turn red, I feel it and can’t do a thing about it. Not just because Ada says I have a handsome face, but most of all because I’ve lied and my lie could be exposed at any moment by Father. He’s not asleep.
“And you’re blushing like a schoolboy!”
Ada is sitting in my old spot. That’s where she always sits when she’s here, so she can see her husband’s farm through the side window and feel like she’s keeping an eye on things, even though the farm is more than five hundred yards away. I’m sitting in Mother’s place. The hooded crow has been perching on the same branch in the ash for more than a week now. Saint Nicholas came — but not to our house — and went. It’s a Saturday, the sun is shining and there’s no wind. A clear December morning with everything very bare and sharp. A day to feel homesick. Not for home, because that’s where I am, but for days that were just like this, only long ago. Homesick isn’t the right word, perhaps I should say wistful. Ada wouldn’t understand. Not coming from here, she doesn’t remember days long ago that were just like this, here.
“Have you ever seen a hooded crow around here?” I ask.
“What’s a hooded crow look like?”
“There’s one in the ash.”
She gets up and looks out of the front window. “It’s enormous,” she says.
“It’s been sitting there watching my every move for days now.”
“Nice,” says Ada. She couldn’t care less. She turns and sits down again. When she talks it’s as if she’s got a ball of cotton wool in her mouth. That must be something to do with having had a cleft palate. “What was that about the donkeys?”
“They left the gate open.”
“I’ll tell them not to do it again.”
“I already have.”
“Has the doctor been back?”
“Yep.”
“What did he say?”
“Old. He’s just old. Old and forgetful. He’s been saying funny things lately as well.”
“Like what?”
“Ah, just things. About the old days. Sometimes I have no idea what he’s on about.” I make a vague gesture at my forehead.
“And now?”
“And now what?” I put my coffee down and try to rub the warmth out of my forehead with my left hand. Left — to get my hand between Ada and me.
“Should I drop in now and then? I’d be happy to help look after him a little.”
“No, I can manage. It’s almost winter, I’ve only got the milking to do.”
“All right.” She’s finished her coffee and slumps a little on her chair. She stares out of the side window. “No, Klaas van Baalen, he’s old. You can look after yourself just fine.” She keeps staring, she’s thinking. Maybe she’s wondering why Father is in bed upstairs and why I have painted the floors bluish gray. “He never even talks to anyone,” she adds, “he’s shy and lonely, and now that they’ve taken his sheep away he doesn’t have anything any more.” She shivers. “Terrible.”
“Yes,” I say. That is terrible.
“Why didn’t you ever get married, Helmer?”
“Huh?”
“Married?”
“You need a woman for that,” I say.
“Yes, but why haven’t you got one?”
“Ah. .”
“That brother of yours, he had a girlfriend, didn’t he? Weren’t they going to get married?” If Ada really is thirty-five, she was born the year Henk died. 1967.
“Yes,” I say. “Riet.”
“Henk and Riet,” says Ada. “That has a nice ring to it.”
“Yes,” I say.
“So he had a girlfriend and you didn’t?”
“No.”
“Strange.”
“Ah, things are like that sometimes.” I hear the scullery door open. Before anyone appears at the kitchen door, we both know who is coming in.
“Don’t yell like that,” Ada calls out.
Teun and Ronald come into the kitchen together and take up positions on either side of their mother, their shoulders drooping. “Hi, Helmer,” says Teun. Ronald doesn’t say anything, he just stares at the packet of cake on the table.
“What are you two here for?” asks Ada.
“Dad wants you to come home,” says Teun.
“Why?”
Teun thinks for a moment. “I don’t know.”
“Do you not know or have you forgotten?”
“Forgotten,” says Ronald.
“We’d better go then,” says Ada. She stands up. “Have you seen Helmer’s new room yet?”
“No,” says Teun.
“Go and have a look.” She follows the boys into the living room.
Teun and Ronald try to outdo each other shouting “Oh” and “Ah” because they think I’ll like it. They’re right. I also like sitting here in the kitchen while people are walking around and talking in the living room.
They go out through the front door. Halfway up the gravel path, Ada turns around. “I completely forgot to tell you that the Koper boy, you know, from Buitenweeren Road. .”
“Shoot, Jarno, shoot!” shouts Ronald. A football hero. He himself plays in the E or F team.
“That’s right, Jarno, he’s going to Denmark to farm. Or did you already know that?”
“No,” I say, “I hadn’t heard that.”
“Jutland, I think. There’s room to breathe up there. Will you say hello to your father?”
“I will,” I say, closing the front door.
I stand in the doorway of my bedroom and look at the woollen blankets on my single bed. The top blanket has frayed edges. I turn around and look at the bare walls in the living room. Some art.
“Helmer!” the old man upstairs bellows.
I lie down on the fabric-covered sofa and close my eyes. Denmark.
9
Denmark. Jutland, Zealand, Funen, Bornholm, the Great Belt, the Little Belt, Odense. Ada has got me thinking. Rolling hills, lots of room, heathland. Jarno Koper is a farm boy who has had enough here. Darkhaired, he must be about twenty-five. When I speak to him — which is hardly ever — he always says things like “slush and muck here.” He’s leaving, he’s brave enough to go to Denmark. An old country: if I’m not mistaken the mark in the name is something Germanic, I’ll check in the dictionary. I get up off the sofa and look behind me. The low bookcase with the rural novels Mother used to read is no longer there. I’ll have to go upstairs.