Gerbrand Bakker - June

Not the baker, her son. He’s lying on his back, his underpants down around his ankles, one knee raised, the other on the floor, the jeans with the leather knee patches in a heap next to him, black pubic hair that comes as a shock to her, and the Kaan boy, the redhead, and her own head, of course, sticking up through the trapdoor in the floor of the garage attic, thinking, I don’t want this, look away, go back down the ladder; and not reacting to that, continuing to stare at her son, that beautiful black-haired boy with an erect penis amongst that unexpected pubic hair, and that red-headed Kaan, naked, with his head on her son’s beautiful belly and his hand on his own crotch, and still her own head sticking up through that hatch, and the thought of that bloke of hers, the hopeless drip who never paid her any attention but preferred to go out and play pool or spend the whole evening slumped on the sofa staring at a conveyor belt with prizes on it, and a strange longing for her very own son, so young still, so unspoilt, but that longing comes up in her so intensely and so suddenly that she blushes and when that cheeky red-headed Kaan stares back at her — but probably doesn’t even notice her because her son’s penis is between them, the penis she doesn’t want to see, but can’t avoid seeing — the thought: get out of here.

She sits up much too quickly, the blood rushes to her head, making her dizzy. The Negro dissolves in the hot air, but his tongue and penis have left their mark. She doesn’t want to think about her son when the Negro’s here. That’s not right. It’s not allowed. She suddenly feels sick. Not bitter leaves — bile. She no longer grabs at heavy balls, but at her bra, lying on the carpet next to the bed. She puts it on quickly and pulls her girdle and skirt on even faster. Despite the dizziness, she jumps up off the bed, pulls open the wardrobe door and grabs a blouse without even looking. Benno barks. She opens the door, pushes the big dog out of the way with one knee and goes into the bathroom. The first thing she sees is her raven hair in the mirror. The second is the wild look in her eyes. On the shelf under the mirror is a pot of Wella Dark Brown. Not Wella Black, that makes her look ridiculous. She bends forward and turns on the cold tap.

She’s heard him all right. Maybe he took off his clogs and is now standing on the concrete in dusty socks. He must have been there at least five minutes; is he staring the bull down to keep it quiet? She might as well say something for a change. ‘You never think of Mother’s Day.’

Silence.

‘Do you even know when it is, Mother’s Day?’

‘December?’

‘The second Sunday in May!’

Silence.

A daughter knows things like that. A daughter would visit in May with presents, or at least ring. She would have come. She scratches her stomach again. Is it the straw that’s making her itchy? Her stomach’s never itchy otherwise. Or is it the heat? ‘What time is it?’

‘You really want to know?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Ten thirty.’

She can’t help it, she has to laugh. To herself. She pictures him standing there with his head back. ‘Where is everyone? Have they all gone to the churchyard?’

‘The cemetery.’

‘Huh?’

‘Is there a church there?’

She’s still smiling. ‘You know that better than anyone.’

‘Yes.’

Ten thirty. Way too soon to come down off the straw. ‘Have you been stirring them up?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Don’t lie.’

‘I never lie. And who exactly do you mean by “them”?’

‘Jan, of course. And Johan.’

‘Johan?’

‘Why does everyone down there keep shouting out “Johan” as if they’re so surprised?’

‘He’s not even here.’

‘No, not yet. But soon enough.’ She drinks some water. The bottle is starting to get quite empty. ‘So, where’s Klaas?’

‘I don’t know.’

Swallows flying in and out. Spiderwebs, very old ones, like grey wool. And then suddenly the sound of concentrate sliding in the wooden silo that forms one pillar-like corner of the straw loft, even though it’s been a very long time since there was any feed in it at all.

‘And another thing, you’re not my mother.’

‘I’m your children’s mother.’

‘You’re not my mother.’

‘Ah, man, go back to your Christmas trees.’

That’s shut him up. For a moment.

‘You coming down?’

‘No.’

‘Aren’t you hungry?’

‘Of course I’m hungry!’

‘Come down then.’

‘No.’

Now it’s finished. She waits. Tilts the water bottle; the water sloshes back and forth, growing warmer and mustier. More sliding in the wooden silo. Is there a rat in there? The noise is drowned out by the swelling roar of a jet fighter. During exercises, the pilots do their best to fly as low over the trees and farmhouses as they can, and for a second Anna Kaan is scared the plane’s going to go straight through the barn. It doesn’t.

‘Talk to me!’ He’s waited until the sound of the jet has died away completely. She tilts the bottle one way, then the other. Beams, spiderwebs, a swinging rope that hasn’t been used for years, cane, tile laths.

‘Have you got the parade sword up there?’

And of course the peepholes to the outside, even if there’s nothing out there to see.

‘What do you intend to do with that?’

She takes one of its two red tassels in her hand. Nothing, she thinks. Or can she do better than that?

‘I’ll think of something. You’ll see.’ Oh yes you will, she thinks.

‘I’m about to go. I’ve fixed my tyre. Then you’ll be stuck here alone.’

I’m already stuck here alone.

‘Talk to me!’

It’s hard not to say anything. She has to be firm. Now he starts to sigh. The bull, which has been silent until now, joins in by snorting. It’s almost too much. And all that when she’s not even a hundred per cent about being up on the straw.

‘When’s Father’s Day?’

She knows, but she’s not going to take the bait.

‘I’m going now,’ Zeeger calls.

No, stay. Sit down somewhere, on a leftover bale of hay, on a sack of pellets, on the old workbench, on the tray of the hay wagon. On the concrete floor if necessary. Zeeger, don’t go.

‘If I’m not here, I’m off with Jan.’

Anna Kaan stops tilting the bottle. She rests it on her stomach and stares at the rectangle of light over her head. Then she starts to count the tiles, first to the left of the gap, then to the right.

‘June!’ Zeeger calls up, already outside and with his clogs back on. ‘The third Sunday in June!’

Dieke thinks about what she says when someone like Grandpa asks her what she’s doing. It depends what she’s doing, of course. If she’s drawing, she’ll say, ‘I’m drawing.’ But sometimes she’s really deep into her drawing and then she doesn’t say anything, if only because the tip of her tongue is in the way. Grandma’s never once asked her what she’s doing. But it’s not a hard question. Uncle Jan could easily come up with something. His shoulder blade goes up and down, he keeps scratching and poking, he keeps swearing under his breath. She takes a couple of careful backward steps until she’s back on the path with the broken shells. She squeezes her eyes half shut. There’s her rucksack. First, a drink. She gets the Jip and Janneke drinking cup out of the bag and shakes it from side to side before taking a couple of sips. The water’s already warm. An apple? No, she’ll save that for later. Anyway, she wants to eat the apples with Uncle Jan, not by herself. The bag shouldn’t be on the path, she needs to put it somewhere tidy. She looks over at the big tree. There’s a bench under it, in the shade. That’s a good spot.