Gerbrand Bakker - June

Jezuolda Kwanten looks shocked.

‘What’s got into you all of a sudden?’ asks Röell, who has slid back to her original position and is looking down her nose at her.

The Queen stares at her hands, feels an itching on the knuckles of her index finger. That child, she thinks. That mother and child. The beams of light shining in through the portholes disappear one after the other; it must be another passing shower. The mother’s smile breaking through, the story taking shape in that instant from all the little things that come together to form a greater whole — the kind of story that lasts a person’s whole life, that should last a person’s whole life. The falling bike, the photograph taken so close by it almost hurt her ear, her hat, her gloves.

‘We have to go,’ says Röell.

The Queen looks up. Just like yesterday, Jezuolda Kwanten is very close by; the woman who belongs to the Order of the Sisters of Charity has her eyes trained on her. For a moment she’s distracted and wonders what exactly the sister thinks of the description ‘high-spirited’. The brass band is irrepressible, they’ve probably been instructed to play as loudly as they can during disembarkation. Kwanten stares shamelessly, studying closely, counting the crow’s feet, registering lines, while out of nowhere ‘Blom’s Breadery’ pops into her head. She draws on her cigarette.

‘Have you read something unpleasant?’ Jezuolda Kwanten asks.

‘You must stay very close to me today,’ she says.

‘It would be my pleasure, ma’am,’ says Jezuolda Kwanten.

There’s a knocking on the saloon door and Van der Hoeven enters. ‘They’re waiting for you,’ he says in his warm young voice. ‘Dierx is very enthusiastic.’

‘Van der Hoeven,’ the Queen says, ‘could you take Röell’s place today?’

‘But…’ says Röell.

‘Of course, ma’am.’

‘Röell has the programme.’

‘I have it too,’ says Van der Hoeven.

‘And, Röell, could you please use the formal “you” when speaking to me from now on, and most definitely in company? Then I’ll use it when speaking to you too.’ She stubs out her cigarette and pulls on her leather gloves, trying to suppress thoughts of the little girl’s cheek. She is the first to leave the saloon. The island air is fresh; she takes a deep breath and braces herself for a whole day of music, pensioners, schoolchildren, the handicapped, fluttering tricolours and, above all, the stench of fish. Van der Hoeven puts up an umbrella and the Queen notices that he has beautiful hands, hands that match his voice. She feels like touching those hands. Not now, later perhaps, in the car. Jezuolda Kwanten hums softly. Did Röell stay behind in the saloon? The Queen thinks of the pygmy goats, and the mayor of Texel approaches her, glowing with delight. When he welcomes her warmly by taking her hand in both of his, the new day has officially begun.

Wednesday 18 June.