Gerband Bakker - The Twin

“Yes,” I say, still panting.

“Cold,” he adds.

“Yes.”

“Been skating?”

“Yeah. Big Lake’s already frozen.”

“I sold your sheep.”

“That’s fast.”

“Ah, one of those hobby farmers. A hundred and twenty-five a head.”

“Not bad.”

He pulls out his wallet, an enormous thing that’s chained to his belt. He licks his thumb and index finger, pulls out five fifties and digs a handful of change out of his pocket. He takes thirty per cent, whatever the price.

“Thanks,” I say. “You going to declare it?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He walks over to his truck, parked in the middle of the yard. Before climbing into the cab, he says, “Have a good Christmas.” He’s talkative today.

I vaguely remember an art shop at the start of the Prooyen and park the car. It’s called Simmie’s. I notice that I’m feeling nervous and open the door without looking through the windows. A large woman in loose-fitting clothes approaches, the artist herself from the look of her. Was there something I wanted to ask? “No, I’m just looking.” It doesn’t take me long; if these colorful splotches are art, I’m a gentleman farmer from Groningen. Back on the street, I smell the wood fire from the smokehouse. I buy a pound of eel, which the fishmonger rolls up in old newspaper and puts in a plastic bag. Then I carry on along the water-front. There’s a gallery near the English Corner. The soapstone statues on the shelves along the wall are beautiful, especially to touch, but I am still thinking of a painting. I head back to the middle of town. Banners announcing “FIREWORKS” have been hung everywhere. A crib with life-size cows and donkeys has been set up in the roofed outdoor section of The Weighhouse. A child touches the nose of a donkey and almost tumbles off the raised floor with surprise when its head rocks back and forth. In the old harbor there is an enormous Christmas tree on a barge, all lit up. The barge is stuck in the ice.

Walking back to the car, I pass an antiques shop. I go in, even though the last thing I’m looking for is more old junk; I’ve just tossed a load of that on the woodpile or stowed it away in Henk’s room. An elderly man looks up from a dark corner, but doesn’t say a word. I put the plastic bag with the eel down on a chair near the door and look around. There is a pile of old maps on an oak table. No idea what I would want with an old map, but I still leaf through the pile: North Holland, land reclamation, something I don’t immediately recognize, Marken, the Beemster. I drop the maps one after the other until I’m back at the one I didn’t recognize. It’s Denmark, an old Denmark and mostly in green, with three insets: Iceland, Bornholm and the Faroe Islands. Iceland and the Faroes are in shades of brown. The map is in good condition, just slightly yellowed along the edge. I buy it and even get change from the fifty I give the old man. Then I cross the road to the picture framer’s. I find a wide frame in the right size that has been painted with clear varnish. There is no one else in the shop; the frame-maker has time to cut a piece of non-reflective glass for me. He packs the frame and the glass separately. I don’t get any change from the four fifties I give him. Before returning to the car, I pop back into the antique shop. In all the excitement I forgot my smoked eel.

Driving home I think of Jarno Koper. In Jutland.

I quickly eat a few slices of bread and cross the fields to Big Lake for the second time today. The light is different from this morning and a flock of geese have settled near the open spot in the ice. I pull on my skates. By my second lap around the lake, I’m going so fast that I don’t need to skate any straight sections at all. I skate one big loop, a corner that never ends. I keep going until I’m exhausted.

After milking, I eat half of the pound of eel on bread. I drink a glass of milk with it. When I’ve finished I go upstairs with an apple. I turn on the light in his room. He is lying on his back with his eyes wide open, the blanket pulled up to his nose. He gives off almost no warmth, the bottom of the window is covered with frost flowers. Maybe he’ll freeze to death in the coming night.

“I’ve got an apple for you,” I say.

“Cold,” he says.

“Yes, it’s freezing.” I lay the apple on the bedside cabinet and leave the room. It’s only on the stairs that I think of a knife. I’m not going back up again, not to take him a knife and not to turn off the light either.

The framer has stuck a paper bag with little nails in it to the glass. Now everything is spread out on the kitchen table I notice that something is missing. A back. I measure up the frame and go out to the barn with a pencil and tape measure. I find a piece of thinnish plywood among some old timber and cut it to size on the workbench under the silver-gray death’s-head cabinet. The activity keeps me warm. I hammer two small nails into the plywood and attach a thin wire to hang it up with.

I lay the frame face down on the kitchen table, then slot in the piece of glass, followed by the map (which fits perfectly, so that most of the yellowed edge disappears behind the frame), finally laying the piece of plywood on top. I haven’t left much leeway and four small nails are enough to anchor it tightly in the frame. Then I carry the framed map into the living room and hold it up against the wall here and there. It’s lost between the windows and it can’t go to the left or right of the mantelpiece without making the other side look empty. It will have to be the bedroom. I bang a large nail into the wall next to the door and hang the map where I can see it from my bed.

The donkeys are waiting for me, even though I don’t go out to them every evening. I’ve left the light on and it casts a broad track into the yard. My very own crib. They snort when I enter the shed. I give them a couple of winter carrots and a scoop of oats. Their breath billows up out of the trough as a cold cloud. I sit on a bale of hay and wait for them to finish feeding. Quiet cackling noises come from the chicken coop next to the donkey shed. Strange.

I’ve got cold from sitting still. When I take off my clothes in the scullery, I do it slowly, to get even colder. I shiver in the bathroom until the water has warmed up. I wash my hair and clasp my hands together behind my neck to make a bowl that I empty again and again, splashing hot water over my shoulders and down my back. I dry myself off and walk to the living room, where I turn off the lights and turn up the fire. I stand up straight and study myself in the mirror in the light coming from the bedroom. This is my house now. I can stand naked in front of the mirror whenever I like. The warmth from the fire glows on my penis, the muscles in my bum and legs feel heavy and strong. It’s as if I can feel the farmhand’s hands on my bum again. The sensation is so real that I can’t help putting my own hands there to make the imagined hands disappear. Riet’s letter is on the mantelpiece. I take it to the bedroom and read it yet again in bed (under the second duvet cover, which I have washed in the meantime). Before turning off the light I look up at the map of Denmark. That’s three sheep hanging there, I think, rolling onto my left side and pulling my knees up in the dark.

A second letter has arrived:

Dear Helmer,

Brabant is horrible. I don’t know if you’ve ever been here, but take it from me: it’s terrible. Nothing but pigs and sociable people, but their kind of sociable is nothing like what we used to have at home in North Holland. Carnival, for instance, can you imagine? Can you see me dressed up in funny clothes, a clown suit with a mask on? And everyone keeps on smiling the whole time, as if they’ve got anything to smile about.