Gerbrand Bakker - June

The young guy in the light-blue T-shirt is the last to board the 8.38 to Den Helder. It’s a double-decker, the kind that sings, something you hear best in the vestibule. It’s not very busy, but there are at least two people in each of the four-seat sections. He puts his bag in the baggage rack and chooses the spot next to a girl reading a newspaper. Opposite her is a man with ginger hair. He has his bag on the seat next to him and is staring out the window. His forehead is burnt. The young guy feels that the T-shirt he put on just before leaving for the train station is already wet. The air conditioning doesn’t seem to be working properly. He’s jealous of the girl next to him, not a trace of sweat on her nose. The ginger-haired guy seems to be feeling the heat too, though. He runs a hand over the back of his neck and looks at him. A little too long. Then he moves his lips as if he’s saying ‘fucking hot’, but in that very same moment the conductor announces ‘Anna Paulowna’ over the PA. When the doors open, a very brief draught passes through the carriage. Nobody gets on. The young guy slumps down on his seat, making sure to end up with his legs spread. He pushes his long blond hair back behind one ear. He can smell himself: fresh sweat and deodorant. Nice. Maybe the man can smell him too.

‘Ticket?’ He opens his eyes. The conductor is looking at him impatiently. He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, gets his ticket out and hands it to the conductor. The girl next to him shows a monthly pass. The man looks through his wallet, starts to blush and looks up apologetically. ‘I don’t have a ticket,’ he says. ‘I completely forgot.’

‘No problem,’ says the conductor. ‘Off-peak discount?’

He shows her his card.

She writes out a ticket and charges him two forty. Apparently she’s in a good mood this evening. Then she gives his card a closer appraisal. ‘This is almost expired,’ she says.

‘I know,’ the man says. ‘Thanks.’

As the conductor strolls off, the young guy gives the man a conspiratorial glance. The man turns away and puts his wallet back in the front pocket of his rucksack. Evidently he really had forgotten. The girl has to get off at Den Helder South. He flops his legs to one side to let her pass, then slides over to the window so that he’s directly opposite the man. He spreads his legs again and slides back and forth a little until he’s happy with the bulge of his crotch. He looks out: wiry grass, small horses in the dunes, grey sky over the bunkers. He feels that the man is looking at him, waits, then turns his head to look straight ahead. And keeps staring until he’s forced the man to look away.

‘ Den Helder, this train terminates here. Please remember to take all of your belongings with you when you get off the train. ’

He stands up, bumping his knee against the man’s. ‘Sorry,’ he says.

‘No problem,’ says the man.

He stretches to get his bag out of the rack and feels his T-shirt creeping up. He’s also aware of the sweat patches. The man can’t go anywhere until he’s got his bag down. The young guy gets off in front of him and saunters along the platform. There’s no harm in having a bit of fun. He knows the man is just behind him, he can feel his eyes on his blond hair, moving down to his bum, his legs.

Walking through the train station building, he sees her waiting. She comes towards him. He puts his bag down on the ground, wraps a hand around the back of her neck and pulls her face towards his. She closes her eyes and opens her mouth. He kisses her long and hard without closing his eyes. Looking past her ear, he sees the man cut across the Middenweg and walk onto the deserted Julianaplein on his way to the Spoorstraat. He’s not in any kind of hurry. He turns back once. The young man smiles and pulls the girl closer. ‘I want you,’ he says, but sees himself: his six-pack, his damp neck, his hands on her breasts and belly.

‘Oh, fucking hell.’ The Dutch Navy Museum employee is standing with his hands on his hips and his head tilted back to look up at the side of the Tonijn . Someone had noticed something strange and called the museum and, since it was after closing time, a message had ended up on the answering machine. He’s in the habit of checking the answering machine on Saturday evenings; people often ring up enquiring about opening hours on Sundays or requesting other information. Plus he doesn’t mind having something to do. In the summer he likes to take an evening walk around the grounds, which have been open to the public since the opening of Cape Holland. His wife often comes with him. This is something new, something that’s never happened before. How did they get that writing up there anyway? They must have done it from the top, it’s at least six metres from the ground to the bottom of the black submarine. They must have used ropes, but the letters are so neat he can’t imagine anyone daubing them on while hanging upside down. It must have been a right performance, with all kinds of climbing gear, done after the five o’clock closing.

OH, YEAH? YEAH! No obscenities fortunately, but the lettering is enormous. Someone is approaching from behind, from the direction of town. He looks over his shoulder. A man with a small rucksack, striking red hair. He looks a bit sad. Sad and pissed off. The man stops and looks up.

‘‘‘Oh, yeah? Yeah!”?’ asks the man.

‘Makes a change from “Fuck you” or “Eat shit”,’ says the employee.

‘How’d they manage that?’

‘I haven’t got the foggiest. Maybe the fire brigade did it, with a ladder truck, because they were bored.’

‘No.’

‘No, of course not.’

‘It’s encouragement,’ the man says. ‘But who for? Us? The museum?’

‘Pink. That’s a strange colour.’

‘It stands out, on the black background like that.’

He looks to the side. The man is no longer staring up at the graffiti, but looking through under the Tonijn and into the distance, a serious expression on his face. ‘Headed for the ferry?’

‘Yeah.’

The employee checks his watch. ‘You better keep moving then, the last one’s about to sail.’

‘Yep.’ Once again, the man looks up at the submarine’s black hull, then turns and starts walking back into town.

‘Hey,’ he calls. ‘You’re going the wrong way.’

The man doesn’t react.

He wonders if he should call someone. ‘Oh, fucking hell,’ he says again, but his heart’s not really in it. It’s not that bad. Tomorrow’s visitors will have an extra attraction at no extra cost. And maybe it will change their view of things, just like this guy’s right now.

The man who’s bought two bottles of cola from the vending machine rubs his thighs cautiously and uses one bottle to cool the back of his neck. I would too, she thinks, if my neck was that burnt. She checks her watch. Almost ten. The train leaves at four minutes past and has been at the platform for a while, but almost no one has got on yet. It’s much too hot to sit on a stationary train. The man gulps down the first bottle in one go. Gosh, he’s thirsty. Has he just arrived from Texel? The fluorescent lights on the platform have flicked on. It’s not dark yet, but with the sky overcast like this, it’s gloomy under the platform roof. Today the sun will set at this train’s exact departure time. She knows that because she’s a fan of Jan Visser, the Radio North-Holland weatherman. She keeps precise daily records of everything — wind velocity, rainfall, hours of sunlight — and checks Jan’s predictions. If he’s wrong, which doesn’t happen often, she sends him an email. Occasionally she gets a reply. Today, whether it’s visible or not, the sun will shine exactly sixteen hours and forty-one minutes. In her back garden she even has an amateur wind meter. She’s on her way to her sister’s in Schagen; it’s her birthday tomorrow and she’s promised to be there all day to help.