“Helmer!”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, pulling the dictionary out from between the rural novels. I sit on Henk’s bed with my knees touching the bookcase. I’ll have to rearrange things in here, there’s almost no space to move and the dressing table is pushed up against the door of the built-in wardrobe. The stuff in the wardrobe is mine. The kind of things you want to keep or can’t bring yourself to get rid of, but never actually need. There’s mark. From German Mark and Goth marka, borderland. The dirty Germans — that bit of land on the edge of our empire, that bit of land where the Danes live. It also means a landmark, a boundary or a tract of land held in common by German peasants. Is that how Marken came to be called Marken?
“Helmer!”
I clap the dictionary shut, slide it back between the rural novels and walk to the door. Mother could read for hours in the evenings. “Romantic soul,” Father would sometimes mutter when heading off to the bedroom hours before her. It always sounded nasty.
I shit twice a day. First, just after milking, the second time after coffee. On very rare occasions I get an urge to go again later in the day, usually in the evening, but I always ignore it.
If I think of it, I carry Father downstairs to put him on the toilet. I shut the door and wait in front of it like a faithful dog — dogs are supposed to be faithful but I wouldn’t know, we’ve never had dogs here — until he shouts “ready.” He has to go when I put him on the toilet. That can be once every two days; sometimes four days go by. He hardly pisses either, now and then I find a splash of urine in the bedpan. I empty it and rinse it out with boiling water. I don’t know how and when that thing came into the house, but it is handy.
“What is it?” I ask as I go into Father’s bedroom.
“Nothing,” he says.
“What are you calling me for then?” I walk over to a straight-backed chair with armrests next to the window, under the sheep painting, and turn it around. I try to avoid breathing through my nose.
“Get the doctor.”
“No.”
“I want to get out of bed.”
It’s not something I would normally let myself be drawn into, but right now his wish suits me fine. I fold back the blankets and the sheet. The fumes that rise from the warm bed leave me gasping. I slide my arms under his body, pick him up and carry him over to the chair. His bony hands grab hold of the armrests. I pull the covers off the bed and take the sheets downstairs. I stuff them into the washing machine with a load of whites and set the temperature to ninety degrees. Then I take a bucket from the cupboard under the sink and fill it with lukewarm water. I fetch a towel and flannel from the linen cupboard and go back upstairs. Father is drooped forward in the chair. Apparently unable to support his own weight with his arms, he must have slid forward slowly and saved himself from falling by grabbing the chair legs. I put the bucket down and push him upright. First I take off his pajama top, that’s not too difficult. The gray hairs on his sunken chest are lying flat on his skin. I go around behind him and lift him with one arm under his arm and around his chest. I use my free hand to slide the pajama bottoms off his bum. The trousers are stained. Then he’s sitting naked on the chair. His penis is clamped between his legs. Compared to his body and the skin on his arms and legs, it is remarkably large and smooth.
“Was Ada here?” he asks, finding it hard to keep his head up.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t she come upstairs?”
“She didn’t feel like it.”
“Did she say that?”
“Yes, she said that.” I look from Father to the bucket and from the bucket to the floor, which is covered with dark-blue carpet, and from the floor to the flannel lying on the stripped bed. I’m not getting anywhere like this. I go back downstairs and move a plastic stool from the kitchen to the bathroom.
“Cold,” he says.
I hold one hand under the spout and turn the hot water on a little more. I haven’t planned things properly: I’m still fully dressed and now it’s too late; if I let go, he’ll fall. We don’t want that, a falling father, here on the tiled floor. The stool is up against the wall, in a corner, so I can keep him upright with one arm. He raises an arm to protect his head from the jet of water, just as I’m turning off the taps.
“I’m going to wash you,” I say.
He says nothing.
I lay the flannel on his knee and squirt a good squeeze of bath gel on it. It’s called Badedas and smells of menthol. It’s not easy, with one hand. I start to wash him. Again he reminds me of a newborn calf, smooth and slippery, jerky. I want to run the flannel over his bum and to do that I have to lift him with one arm the way I did to take off his pajama bottoms, except that now I’m standing in front of him instead of behind him. I’m glad I didn’t plan it properly and that I still have my clothes on, otherwise my naked torso would be pressed against his gaunt, naked chest. After running the flannel over his bum a couple of times, I feel his balls against my fingertips through the wet material. I lower him back onto the stool. God almighty, his penis is getting hard. I should really rinse out the flannel, but I use one foot to push his legs apart and quickly wipe his groin, making his penis get even harder. I throw away the flannel and turn on the taps.
“Cold,” he complains again.
“It’s your own fault,” I say.
Slowly his penis sinks back down between his legs. After rinsing him off, I wonder whether I need to wash his hair — “still a fine head of hair” Ada would say. No, enough’s enough. I dry him off. He manages to stand on his own two feet for a moment.
Poised in the doorway of his bedroom like an old-fashioned bride-groom, I realize I’ve done things the wrong way round. I still have to make the bed. I put Father, with the wet towel wrapped around his waist, in the chair by the window. His dirty pajamas are in a pile next to one of the chair legs. I make the bed with clean sheets from the cupboard. Then I lay him on the bed and dress him in clean pajamas. My wet clothes make it awkward and it’s cold in the bedroom. I put the two pillows against the headboard and pull the blankets up over him.
“I wish I was dead,” he says softly.
“Now you’re nice and clean?” I ask.
“It’s that crow,” he says, pointing with a trembling finger.
“What about it?”
“It’s waiting for me.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Whatever,” I say.
Father wouldn’t hear a word about central heating. Mother disagreed, but her vote didn’t count. There are two oil heaters: one in the kitchen and one in the living room. Now he can feel the consequences, upstairs. In the old days, when there was a frost outside, he’d leave the heater on low at night with their bedroom door ajar. When Henk and I woke up we couldn’t see outside, so exuberantly had the ice flowers blossomed on the window.
Our hot water comes from a boiler. I haven’t wasted all that much on Father, so there’s nothing stopping me. I can’t remember the last time I showered in the middle of the day. Now I smell like menthol myself. I feel young and strong, but when I take hold of my penis, I feel strangely useless and empty. I can’t help comparing it to Father’s. Mine is larger and that conclusion alone is enough to make it grow. Just when I’m wondering what that signifies, the doorbell rings. I feel my balls shrink in my hand. Almost no one rings the bell here, at first I don’t even realize what it is. I turn off the taps and await developments. I can feel an artery throbbing in my throat, the water dripping on the tiled floor sounds like thunder. All quiet. I dry myself slowly and pull on a pair of underpants. My clothes are in the bedroom. I open the bathroom door and don’t see anyone standing in front of the rectangular frosted pane in the front door. Before going into the living room, I peer around the doorpost to see whether there is anyone at the window. No one. I walk to the bedroom where the blinds are closed. Pulling on dry clothes, I again notice the frayed edges of the blankets. Once I’m dressed, I walk to the hall and open the front door. The road is empty. The hooded crow stares at me.