Gerbrand Bakker: June

‘Miss Kwanten, could you perhaps clarify the actual distinction between a nun and a sister for me?’ she asks.

‘A nun takes solemn vows,’ says Kwanten.

‘And you haven’t?’

‘No. I am a member of the Order of the Sisters of Charity.’

Her glass is empty. She gestures at the full glass on the table. ‘If you’re not going to drink that, I will,’ she says.

‘I wouldn’t mind a drop of sherry after all,’ says Röell.

She looks askance at her secretary but has no choice other than to pass her the second glass. ‘Who commissioned you to make the bust?’

‘The city of Tilburg.’

‘That’s where you live as well?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘How do you find the countryside around here?’

‘Empty. Empty and cold.’

‘Cold?’ The Queen smiles. ‘You’re having a hard time of it today, then. Have you ever been to the island of Texel?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Tomorrow will be more to your taste.’

‘Oh, I already think it’s tremendous. I have the privilege of accompanying you for two days.’ The sister’s pencil scratches over the page.

The Queen pats her hair into place. ‘Are you sure you won’t take a small glass of sherry?’

‘No, thank you, ma’am, really not.’

‘Then I’ll have another half a glass for you.’

Röell sighs and sips her sherry with a sour expression.

During lunch she is next to Van der Hoeven. The unmarried pedigree-cattle breeder has been seated diagonally opposite. Otherwise, the usual guests are sitting at the long, impeccably set table. The chairwomen of the countrywomen’s association and the women’s branch of the employers’ federation, polder-board members, dyke reeves, councillors. But not the GP and not the notary. Kwanten isn’t here either, she’ll be having lunch somewhere else in the Polder House, probably in the company of the driver, amongst others. She’s pleased to see that someone has thought of putting out sweet peas in a number of small vases. The inevitable oxtail soup — presumably the reasoning is that if one eats a certain soup at Christmas it must be appropriate on other festive occasions as well — is spicy. Milk and buttermilk are the drinks at the table. Or would Your Majesty prefer a dry white wine with her soup? She would, after a brief hesitation. Van der Hoeven and the mayoress join her and, on the other side of the table, the pedigree-cattle breeder has also accepted a glass. Her second private secretary’s warm young voice is a calm counterweight to the nervous, somewhat high-pitched voice of the mayor.

She herself doesn’t say much. She eats and drinks. The bread is fresh, the cheeses and sliced meats various and abundant. That Blom fellow bakes delicious bread, she thinks. Bright light enters the room through the tall windows and only now does she hear excited voices outside, even though the children seem to have gone. The cattle breeder is sitting just a little too far away for her to strike up a conversation. She nods almost imperceptibly at the handsome woman and raises her wine glass slightly. The woman nods and raises hers in reply, as if she’s understood that the Queen would love to talk to her about the whys and wherefores of stud bulls, the weather, or anything else that might come up, if only they were that little bit closer. Then one of the women in the company stands up and is introduced by the mayoress as Mrs Backer-Breed, elocutionist.

During the performance, which is delivered partly in the local dialect, her thoughts drift again. She thinks about Pappie. Wondering if he’ll be on the Piet Hein this evening. The man is impossible, of course, but he feels at home on the yacht. In just under a fortnight it will be his birthday and now, approaching sixty, he surely won’t get up to any more foolishness. She sips a second glass of wine, evidently chosen by someone who knows what he’s doing. When the company begins to applaud, she joins in. Then large dishes of fresh strawberries are brought out to the table with bowls of whipped cream. The coffee that concludes the lunch is strong. There’s a soft crunching underfoot. They’ve scattered sand on the wooden floor of the council chamber.

She was right: the schoolchildren have disappeared. But there are still plenty of people about. Several newspaper photographers are hanging around too. The visit has already been officially concluded inside, now it’s just a question of walking to the car and driving to the next village. The village that was named after her great-grandmother. Will the people who live there realise how strange that is? In contrast to the two previous mayors, this mayor will not lead the way. Röell has taken her bag off her hands again; she herself is walking towards the road with the flowers. The coffee has tempered the effect of the sherry and the white wine, but she still has a pleasantly light-headed feeling. Van der Hoeven is walking beside her, bumping gently against her arm every now and then.

Out of the thinned and now disordered line of people, a large man in immaculate overalls steps forward onto the path. Lengths of cord in both hands and on the cords are two little goats. ‘Ma’am,’ he says.

‘Yes?’ she asks.

‘I would like to offer you these two pygmy goats.’

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘On behalf of whom?’

‘On behalf of myself.’

‘And you are?’

‘Blauwboer.’

One of the goats starts to nibble at a bunch of Sweet William a woman is holding a little too close by. She hands Van der Hoeven her flowers and kneels down. The other goat sniffs at her leather glove with its soft nose. The animals are brown with a black blaze. And so small she could easily pick them up. She does just that and feels their tight round bellies against the palms of her hands. The farmer pays out a little cord.

‘I have three grandsons,’ she says.

‘I know that, ma’am.’

‘They’ll be very pleased with this gift.’ She feels the goats’ little hearts racing in their chests.

‘That was my idea,’ the farmer says.

Photographers push forward, a policeman steps between them. Queen ignores protocol to play with pygmy goats. She can see tomorrow’s headline already. When she bends to put the goats back down on the ground, she is overcome by a slight dizziness. Van der Hoeven takes hold of her elbow as she rises. One of the goats starts to bleat loudly.

‘We can’t take them with us now,’ says her second private secretary.

‘I realise that,’ the farmer says.

She thanks the man warmly and walks on, leaving Van der Hoeven behind to arrange things. She has her hands free again. No handbag, no bouquet, no goats. Wiry brown hairs are stuck to her gloves. A goat for Willem-Alexander and a goat for Maurits. Someone from the stables will come to pick up the animals in the next few days. And they’ll think of something else for Johan Friso.

The driver is standing beside the open door.

‘How are we for time?’ Röell asks.

‘Nicely on schedule,’ he replies. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

Before getting into the car, she looks around. Flags are flying on almost all of the houses, and on the other side of the waterway that divides the village in two she sees the gleaming van again. Only now does she ask herself why the baker isn’t out doing his rounds. Or is the area he covers so small that he can get it all done in the morning? People are walking away from the Polder House, still turning to look back, but not crowding around the car. They’re returning to the order of the day, the children might be back in the classrooms already. No, they’ll have the afternoon off, it’s a holiday. Perhaps there’s a village swimming pool they can go to. Then she sees a young woman coming towards her against the flow of the dissipating crowd, holding a child on her hip and trying to wheel a bicycle with her other hand. Someone running late and hurrying to catch a glimpse of the Queen. She gestures to the driver and walks towards the woman, seeing Röell start off after her out of the corner of her eye.