Tommy Wieringa - Joe Speedboat

‘Hey, Frankie, how much do you weigh anyway?’ he asked when I got up to him.

A year earlier I had weighed a little over fifty kilos, and I hadn’t put on much weight since. I held up five fingers and saw his lips moving along with his thoughts. He seemed to be calculating something.

‘Fifty kilos, right?’ he said. ‘How much difference can it make? You feel like taking a little spin in the plane?’

My eyes grew big in horror. And I still had to shit real bad. It made my stomach hurt.

‘Not a long ride,’ Joe said. ‘Just a little spin, to get the feel of it.’

Between that moment on Poolseweg and the moment when he climbed into the cockpit in front of me, all swaddled up like a samurai, a little more than sixty minutes went by. I could have used each of them to change my mind. Like when he took me home first, where sunlight fell through the windows like fire, and stood at the back window for a while looking out at the dishevelled General Cemetery where his father was buried — all that time I could have said no.

I hoisted myself out of the cart and grabbed the edge of the table. Like a drugged chimp with one short leg I lumbered across the room, holding onto chairs, tables and cabinets. Joe turned around and looked at me in dumb amazement.

‘Hey, man, you can walk?’

If walking was what you’d call it. I crossed from the dresser to the toilet door and disappeared behind. I pulled the door closed hard after me and sat down on the pot with my trousers still fastened. I had to go so bad that I broke out in a sweat. I clenched my teeth and wormed my way madly out of my trousers while my intestines did their best to rid themselves of their freight. Sometimes you have to go so bad and you can still keep it up for a long time, but as soon as you get close to a toilet you need superhuman willpower to keep it all in. It seems like intestines know when there’s a toilet around.

Just in time. I couldn’t do anything to muffle the dull, heavy farts.

‘Well, well!’ Joe said from the other side of the door.

That door was nothing more than a framework of slats with lily-covered wallpaper, so the voice of my intestines was as clear to him as it was to me. A second wave came rolling out.

‘Man-oh-man!’

I felt like dying. Just like with Engel and that urinal. Maybe that’s the way women feel at the gynaecologist’s, butt up in the air and legs wide while a cold ice-cream scoop grubs around inside them.

When I came back into the room, I didn’t look at him. The light lifted the ramshackle objects in my house and examined them from all sides — wear, poverty and age had nowhere to hide. I gimped my way over to the dresser beside the bed to wrap myself up for the flight.

‘If I had a dog that smelled like that,’ Joe muttered, ‘I’d take it out and shoot it.’

We went to his house to fetch a bike and, for better or worse, lugged my suddenly-six-times bulkier corpus onto the baggage carrier.

‘OK,’ Joe panted, ‘and now don’t move.’

He seized the handlebars and tossed his left leg over the crossbar. Standing with his right foot on the pedal he used his full weight to get us rolling. At the end of the street Joe stood on the pedals and accelerated, but made it only three-quarters of the way up the long slope to the dyke before he had to hop off. I almost flew off the baggage carrier.

All things considered, the whole operation had already cost so much effort that I wished there was some way I could get out of it. It was so damned cold that it turned your face hard and sullen, the wind whipped tears from my eyes that I couldn’t wipe away because I had to hold onto Joe. Like a warm, heaving animal he fought his way upwind along the dyke to the spot where he’d stashed his plane. My legs with those black leather circus shoes at the ends of them dangled alongside the baggage carrier, I couldn’t rest them on the frame and so I had to sit the whole damn way with my full weight resting on my nuts.

Halfway between Lomark and Westerveld we coasted down off the dyke and onto Gemeenschapspolderweg. Along that road were three isolated farms. The wind was finally behind us. To the left and right the black fields lay fallow, ploughed for the winter into frozen furrows with frost on their backs. We cycled up a private road, gravel chirped beneath the wheels. At the end of the road was the farm that belonged to Dirty Rinus. So this was where the plane had been hidden all this time! I saw no trace of Rinus himself or his brown Opel Ascona. In the yard stood a wheelbarrow, its handgrips the only things not encrusted with a layer of dried manure and straw, otherwise the thing seemed covered with it. Joe rode to the shed all the way at the back and leaned me, bike and all, against the wall.

‘Wait here for a minute,’ he said, as though I had any choice.

He disappeared through a little stable door. It wasn’t hard to figure out why he’d parked the plane at Dirty Rinus’s; Rinus didn’t give a shit — the one thing he had plenty of — about anything. Sitting there against the brick wall like a sack of potatoes, I could see into one of the stalls where a row of Belgian Blue cattle stared back in despond. They were up to their knees in manure. Along their bellies I could see horizontal scars. Caesarean sections: Belgian blues are mutants with a birth canal that’s way too narrow; their calves have to be cut out from the side.

I was cold and my balls ached. Somewhere a pair of doors slid open, followed a moment later by the strangled cough of an engine that had been standing still for a while. After the first few tries it caught. I recognized the sound: a 100hp Subaru engine. Joe let it idle for a few minutes to warm up the oil and water.

Until that moment I could have changed my mind. We would have gone back home, Joe would have shrugged in puzzlement but forgotten it quickly enough, and I would have been relieved not to have to go through with it. But once the plane came around the corner, it was too late.

I don’t think I had fully realized that I was going flying. Only when I saw that sky-blue monster appear again after a whole year did a wave of fear and excitement go coursing through me. Joe circled around the yard and turned the plane with its nose toward the pasture. Then he turned off the engine, stepped out onto the wing and climbed down.

‘Like a charm,’ he said, sounding pleased.

He went around behind me, put his arms under my armpits and locked his fingers across my chest. He pulled me off the baggage carrier like a drowning man. His breath brushed my face, I could smell Mahfouz’s cooking.

‘Help out a little here,’ he grunted, ‘you’re too heavy for me.’

I hung in his arms like a baby learning to walk. With my good hand I grabbed hold of the wing and nodded to him to let go. It was the first time we’d ever stood beside each other. I was more than a year older than Joe, but a head shorter.

‘Let’s see, how are we going to do this?’ Joe said.

He found a ladder with liquid-manure spatters on it and leaned it against the side of the plane. He himself stepped up onto the wing and into the belly of the machine, then held his hand out to me.

‘If you just. . yeah, the first rung, then I can give you. . give me your hand. . now put your foot up, your foot! One more. . hold on. .’

And so I arrived breathlessly in the plane’s rattan bucket seat. Joe pushed the ladder away and sat down in front of me, half on the metal superstructure because there was only one chair. Together on a bicycle built for one.

‘Can you see all right?’

My head stuck up just above the edge of the cockpit.

‘Here we go, Frankie.’

He turned the key in the ignition and started the engine. We taxied through the open gate and into the pasture, a strip of frozen grassland stretched out before us. Joe put the plane into neutral and pulled on the handbrake. Then he opened the throttle the whole way. Thunder rolled, a frozen hurricane roared around our ears. I was chilled to the bone.