Gerband Bakker - The Twin

“And when he died you had no choice.”

“No, I had no choice.”

“The hand was gone by then?”

“Yes. Six months before.”

“And?”

“What?”

“How did you like it?”

God almighty. It’s as if she’s asked me how my life has been. Calling me to account for the life she should have led with Henk. Next she’ll ask to see the books. None of it’s any of her business, especially not the way I feel about things. Why is she here? What does she hope to find? “Fine,” I snap.

She sets her teacup down carefully on the saucer. “That’s good,” she says. Slowly her eyes fill up again and she turns her head away. For a long time she looks out of the side window at Ada and Wim’s farm. Then she sighs deeply and stands up. Apparently she’s finished here.

We’re about to get into the Opel Kadett when Ronald comes running into the yard. “Wait!” he shouts.

We wait.

“I’ve come to show you my hand,” he says, without looking at Riet.

“Show me then,” I say.

“Can’t you see it?”

“Up close.”

Ronald almost shoves his hand in my face. The skin on the side, under his little finger, is pink, pale and tight.

“Does it still hurt?”

“Nah,” he shrugs. “We took the bandage off “cause the cold’s good for it.”

“Did your mother say that?”

“Yes.” For a moment he looks past me at the other side of the car, where Riet is standing waiting. “Who’s that?” he asks.

“That’s Riet.”

“Where’s she from?”

“Brabant.”

“Brabbend?”

“Brabant. A long way from here.”

“What’s she here for?”

“Ask her, she won’t bite.”

He looks at me with doggy eyes.

“I used to come here very often,” says Riet. “And now I’ve come to have a look around.”

“Oh,” says Ronald, staring at my stomach.

“I was going to marry Mr. van Wonderen’s brother.”

“Huh?”

“That’s me,” I say.

“Do you have a brother?” he asks in astonishment.

“No, not any more.”

“Oh.”

“But now I’m going home. On the train.”

“Are you taking her?”

“Yes,” I say. “To the ferry in Amsterdam.”

“Is she going to come back another time?”

“I don’t know. Are you going to come back another time?”

“Maybe,” says Riet. She gets into the car and closes the door.

“We’re going,” I tell Ronald.

“Okay,” he says. He turns around and walks off. When he’s almost at the causeway, he turns around. He’s going to copy Teun, I can see it coming. “Where’s your father?” he screams.

“Upstairs,” I say, pointing at the sky with one finger.

“Upstairs,” Riet says when we’re parked in front of the chip stand.

“Yeah,” I say.

“What a joy to be a child.”

“Yeah.”

“He must have died fairly recently?”

“Yes, not so long ago.”

We’ve been parked in front of the chip stand for a good while now. The sun hasn’t gone down yet, but it must be getting close. I can’t see it, the train station is in the way. It’s much busier than it was this morning. People are going home in both directions. If the ferries weren’t operating and the Rhine barges and tour boats weren’t sailing, the water of the IJ would be perfectly smooth. In the distance I see tall buildings in a place I remember as empty. It frightens me, the other side. This side frightens me less, because I know exactly which roads to take to get away as quickly as possible. Riet shows no signs of wanting to get out. Even the bag on her lap isn’t standard for women of her age. Although the double-fisted way she’s holding it is.

“Henk is a bit of a problem,” says Riet.

Is?

“He doesn’t do anything. He’s been hanging round the house for six months now. He hasn’t even got any friends.”

Doesn’t? Hasn’t?

“Sometimes he just lies in bed and then suddenly he’s gone. I have no idea what he gets up to.”

“Riet, what are you talking about?”

“Henk.”

“Which Henk?”

“My son.”

“Is your son called Henk?”

“Yes. Didn’t you know that?”

“How would I?”

“Lying in bed like that, that’s what gets to me the most.”

“Henk? You called your son Henk?”

“Why not?”

“What did your husband think of that?”

“Nothing. Wien thought it was a good name. There was a Henk in his family too. Short and snappy, that’s what he said.”

A passing cyclist bumps the wing mirror. He half turns to raise a hand in apology.

“I was thinking, couldn’t he come and stay with you for a while? Working, I mean.”

Is this what she wanted to ask me? “With me?”

“Yes. You’ve got animals. Cows, sheep, chickens. I think animals would be good for him. And you’re alone, maybe you could make use of someone. As a farmhand.”

As a farmhand. She forgot to mention the donkeys.

“It will do him good. Working. Getting up early, going to bed early, regularity. Fresh air, although he gets enough of that at home, of course.”

“Really?” I say, “With all those pigs?”

“That’s true,” Riet says. “It smells better here.”

“What’s he think about it himself?”

“He doesn’t know about it.”

“When did you come up with this?”

“Oh, about a month ago.”

There’s no reflected sunlight visible anywhere any more, not on the water, not in the windows of the tall buildings. It’s getting dark quickly and the sky over the train station is turning orange. Riet lets go of her bag to open the passenger door.

“Will you think about it?” she asks.

“Of course,” I say.

Glancing over her shoulder to check for pedestrians, she opens the door. She hesitates. “I’ve lost him,” she says. “When he looks at me, it’s as if he’s looking at a stranger.” She leans to the right, ready to get out of the car. Cold air streams in. Then she leans back to the left and kisses me on the cheek. “Thank you,” she says.

I watch her go. During the interrogation Ronald subjected her to through me, I felt like I would be seeing her more often. Now I think I will never see her again. Dragging her leg slightly and not looking back, she disappears among the pedestrians and cyclists. She is crossing the harbor, soon she’ll be on the other side, walking among hundreds of people who will all be traveling in different directions. Thousands of people taking different trains that will carry them all over the country. There won’t be anything to see outside, it’s dark. What will she do? Read? Sit there quietly and think? Talk to the people opposite her? I don’t know. Before starting the car, I rub my hand over my cheek and look at my fingers.

While milking I rest my head on the cows’ warm flanks more often than usual, even when the teat cups are attached and the milk is being sucked into the tubes in a soothing rhythm. I will never stand in a white-tiled milking pit wearing a plastic apron while ten or twelve cows are milked simultaneously; there will never be a big free stall barn here where you spread sawdust instead of straw; here the gutter cleaner will always shuttle back and forth slowly and the muck heap will always grow a little every day until I spread the manure with my ramshackle muck-spreader; a woman will never work in the kitchen here every day, or hang out the washing two or three times a week on the clothesline on the strip of grass next to the vegetable garden. Here, my head moves in time to the breathing of the cows, it is safe and secure. But also empty.