It’s a rather prim, excessively manicured park. But it does have masses and masses of flowers. Lovely flowers, even if they’re a bit late this year. The weather was fickle: rain-sun-rain-sun. Indoors-outdoors-in-out. It was nice and warm inside the greenhouses and if you filtered out the hordes of tourists, it was a beautiful spectacle.
But there’s a limit, even for flowers. Later, over white wine and appetizers, we asked ourselves: was cultivating the seven-hundredth species of tulip really necessary?
Grietje had done a clever job on the organizing. She has a helpful grandson, Stef, who drives a minivan. Stef was willing to take his gran and friends out for the day for the cost of the petrol. Decent bloke, interested in people and their stories. He seemed to enjoy our company. Made us feel quite pleased with ourselves.
At the end of the day Stef offered to play cab-driver for us again in the future. Notwithstanding the fact that we’d been sitting in a traffic jam for an hour. Grietje must have counted on a long return trip, for she pulled a round of French cheese, smoked salmon toasts and a bottle of wine from her cooler. I’ve never enjoyed being stuck in traffic as much as I did yesterday.
The delay meant that we were late for supper. Sighing deeply, the head cook was prepared to heat up some leftovers for us in the microwave. Acting as if she’d had to personally go without in order to save all that food for us.
Sunday, 14 April
What you might call a stellar day for our home yesterday: one stroke, one broken hip and one near-asphyxiation on a butter biscuit. The ambulance came and went three times in a single afternoon. This gave rise to so much fodder for conversation over tea and coffee that it was hard to keep up with it all. Even though I wasn’t closely acquainted with the victims, it does once again make one brutally aware of the facts: it doesn’t require a storm to fell an old tree. A puff of wind in the guise of a butter biscuit, for example, could be fatal. We all ought to live as if every day’s our last, but no, we’d rather waste our precious final hours on empty stuff and nonsense.
Mrs Sitta, seeing the toing and froing of ambulances, asked if bingo would be cancelled. ‘Those of us who are fit shouldn’t have to suffer on account of those who are not,’ she brazenly declared. You’d almost wish that at her next bingo game she would have a stroke, break a hip and choke to death on a biscuit.
On a happier note: I’m about to go and have a cup of tea with my friend Eefje, and I’m going to invite her to dinner with me tonight. I’ve reserved a table at a fairly posh restaurant.
Live as if today’s your last day.
Monday, 15 April
The dear old girl gladly accepted the invitation. She made herself look nice: a little lipstick and a touch of rouge. I must confess that I had showered specially before I went, and changed my clothes. Not an excessive luxury, in fact. I really must make a point of asking my geriatrician next time if there’s anything that can be done about the leaky part or if I’ll just have to resign myself to wearing nappies. Not so long ago I used to think that was when one lost one’s last shred of dignity, but I realize that I have now lowered the bar a bit. The frog in the cooking pot, that’s me.
Caught the minibus to the restaurant at seven, where we had an elegant and delicious meal that cost me half a month’s pension.
Eefje was thrilled, and greatly enjoyed the dinner. She let me treat her only on condition that I wouldn’t make a habit of paying for everything. ‘That’s a habit I wouldn’t be able to afford anyway,’ I answered truthfully.
It felt good to throw caution to the wind for once. I’d never thought it would be that easy. It definitely had to do with the person I was with.
Home in a taxi.
On parting, a kiss on both cheeks. I felt myself get all hot and bothered. Jesus, I’m eighty-three years old!
Tuesday, 16 April
The royalist frenzy is reaching fever pitch. The Residents’ Association has been strenuously debating how it should mark the occasion. The end result is that this year we can look forward to the same shop-bought orange Napoleons we always get on Queen’s Day; moreover, we can watch full Coronation Day coverage on the big screen in the Conversation Lounge.
The post-coronation cruise on the River IJ will happen practically down the street from the home, but it will be virtually impossible for the likes of us to attend. That unfortunate fact is greatly deplored in here. I don’t know the exact details, but I believe you’re supposed to get there by twelve noon in order to stand, hemmed in, for the next seven hours, ready for a fleeting glimpse of the new king and queen sailing by.
These past few years they’ve already put lots of extra safety measures into effect for the annual 30 April queen’s birthday celebration. They’ve divided the city into safety zones 1, 2 and 3. Depending on where you live, you aren’t even allowed to keep your car in your own locked garage on Queen’s Day. Even mobility scooters are banned. There was a great deal of indignation about that around here, as you might expect.
And in spite of all those security precautions, at the cost of €700,000 – not counting the police salaries – you’d still find everyone glued to the telly, anxiously waiting for another black Suzuki Swift to come tearing round the corner, like the one that tried to ram into the royal motorcade in 2009, killing eight surprised bystanders.
I wouldn’t mind having a look at the security plans for the coronation.
The Slothouwer sisters are quite sure: ‘Something’s going to happen. We don’t know what, but we feel it in our bones.’
One of the residents asserts that Kim Jong-un, that pudgy little gnome from North Korea, is capable of sending a rocket our way on 30 April. The bombing of the Boston marathon, which happened yesterday, hasn’t exactly calmed the jitters.
So the fun is already rather spoiled in advance by all the worried wimps in here.
I look back with nostalgia on the relaxed royal processions of yore, when no one would even think of checking the one-and-a-half-metre orange raisin bread baked by the Orange Society of Woerden for explosives.
I don’t know how I’ll get through 30 April as a covert republican.
Wednesday, 17 April
I’m nervous about tomorrow. Will they like my cookery class?
The gentlemen and ladies are definitely speculating about what I have in store for them; one by one they’ve come to me fishing for hints. Speaking of fish: we finally have some new fish swimming in the tanks made famous by the great cake-assassination caper. A note posted on the wall states that this is the last time the management will be purchasing new fish. Another calamity, and the tanks will be gone for good. You should never say that sort of thing to Evert, our own house anarchist. His eyes promptly started gleaming. I made him solemnly swear he would leave the fish alone. He swore ‘on me mum’ that he would. His mum is twenty-five years in her grave.
Now Evert is trying to think of something else. A raid on houseplants doesn’t appeal to him very much. The lift is a possible target …
Tonight on the telly, an interview with the future king and queen. I noticed that the best viewing spots are already reserved downstairs. There are slips of paper marked with residents’ names on the front-row chairs. Like hotel guests staking out lounge chairs round the swimming pool with their towels at eight in the morning. I think I’ll tip Evert off about those reserved seats. That might just be the disruptive deed he’s looking for, falling right into his lap.
Some of the ladies will put on their fanciest frocks to watch the interview with Prince Willem and Princess Máxima. Out of respect. Their fancy frocks aren’t always that fetching. They’re on the whole rather old and threadbare. The residents tend to take thriftiness to great lengths. They think it’s a waste to buy new clothes, since there’s a good chance they’ll die before the clothes have seen their day. They’d rather walk around in faded dresses, with laddered stockings and gaping holes in their shoes.
I am not wholly guilt-free myself. I don’t like spending money on clothes either.
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nbsp; Thursday, 18 April
I really liked the blue colour of it. Máxima’s blouse was the thing that interested me most about the entire interview. A number of my fellow viewers were primarily fascinated by the crown princess’s bandaged finger. Had she caught it in a door? Infection? Hangnail?
The royalty experts in the studio afterwards had nothing to say about the finger. Lots of pompous blather, on the other hand, dissecting the couple’s trite answers.
The Boston marathon attack led Mr Schipper to change his mind yesterday about going to watch the Amsterdam marathon, even though his grandson is taking part. The incorrigible Evert calculated Schipper’s chances of landing his Canta upside down in a ditch to be considerably greater than sustaining an injury at the marathon, and told him he would therefore be well advised to get rid of his vehicle. Evert happened to know someone who was in the market for a second-hand Canta.
I must make the rounds of the other Old But Not Dead members, and tell them to wear something comfortable. Preferably nothing baggy or loose that might catch fire. I’ll leave out that last bit.
Friday, 19 April
It was a great success. In no small part due to the excellent wine that was generously poured at the end of the meal preparation. The chef was what a chef should be: fat and jolly. But strict, as well. You weren’t allowed to make a mess of it, as Evert did butchering an aubergine. At that point Rémi – that was the chef’s name – told him to behave. Food is not to be fooled with. You’re allowed to have fun, but not make fun of it.
With utmost concentration we caramelized, we blanched, we wokked and we sauced. And then we feasted on the outcome. Rémi declared himself proud of us, and treated us to a snifter of brandy with the coffee. The lady with whom I’d made the arrangements came to make sure there were no casualties, and sat and had a glass with us.
All too soon the minibus was tooting its horn at the door. As it turned out, we’d been at it for five whole hours. On the way home I graciously accepted the ovations, and nobody seemed to have a problem with the cost.
I don’t see any of us trying to produce the same meal at home. Graeme seemed to be the only one to remember much of it, but since it was almost impossible to understand what he was saying, it’s hard to tell.
As we walked in, Mrs Stelwagen watched our rowdy entrance with a dour look on her face. Normally she goes home by seven o’clock. The interest shown by the other residents, who had just feasted on stewed endive, must have rankled as well. The more sympathetic among them were eager to know what we’d had to eat; the curmudgeons wanted to know what this extravagance had cost.
Shortly thereafter Stelwagen left without a word.
Saturday, 20 April
Mrs Hoogendijk thought it was an outrage: the newly refurbished Rijksmuseum won’t let you in on a mobility scooter. She had been planning to scoot past Rembrandt’s Night Watch on her Canta, ‘but that’s impossible now, I suppose’. The spokesman for the museum pointed out, quite rightly, that a mobility scooter is a vehicle, and not a walking aid. The new displays include quite a number of glass cases and loose objects, he explained. If you were to let old people zoom through there on their mobility scooters, you might as well post an insurance assessor in every gallery, together with a security guard and someone to clean up the mess, since most scooter operators are terrible drivers, worse even than Andrea Bocelli.
Yesterday I finally received the results of some tests that were done when I went to see the geriatrician. Good news: no new ailments.
The accompanying note from the doctor: ‘Take comfort in the fact that there are more ailments you don’t have than ones you do. I would like to see you again in six months.’
To celebrate the fact that I don’t have lung cancer, I lit up an extra cigar. ‘They’ prefer that you don’t smoke right outside the front door, but I don’t give a tinker’s cuss. I don’t like the residents’ smoking room, where you’re forced to breathe in all that second-hand smoke. Most unhealthy. The only place employees are allowed to smoke now is in the bicycle shed.
Sunday, 21 April
Last night a hearse drove up to the door. Or rather, drove round to the back, for there is a back entrance that is reserved for the discreet removal of the dead. Mrs Tuinman was the lucky one this time. She’d had quite enough of life for a while now, so they tell me. I hardly knew her myself.
There is a whole protocol for the disposal of a deceased resident. Edward once tried to obtain a copy, but was told it wasn’t ‘public information’. That only made him more curious, of course. I know he’s been trying to find another way to get hold of it. He has been trying to tease details from a nurse he’s friendly with, but she isn’t allowed to talk. I have pinned my hopes on Anja. She laughed when I asked her, and told me she would do her best.
Openness is in short supply in here. The most commonplace matters are deemed confidential. The cause of death, for instance. The staff are not allowed to give out any information whatsoever about the inmates. Not even if someone has a cold or is visiting his daughter.
Evert has been mailing his letters for a while in black-edged mourning envelopes, without affixing a postage stamp. Because, Evert reasons, not only will the surcharge be waived, out of respect; you can also count on your letter arriving on time.
Until the day he sent his tax forms in one of those mourning envelopes.
But it could be worse: his brother used to drive a second-hand hearse, complete with a home-made coffin, so that he could park in no-parking zones.
Over coffee Eefje remarked that she would love it if on the eve of the coronation Prince Willem-Alexander announced, ‘Who needs this. I’ve changed my mind!’
‘Did he say that?’ three or four people asked, appalled. Many inmates are hard of hearing, and most are only half listening.
Monday, 22 April
Evert was off to hospital this morning. ‘They’re letting me stay overnight,’ he casually told me yesterday when he came over to ask me to look after Mo for a couple of days.
He wouldn’t tell me what was the matter. ‘Nothing special, a few tests.’
‘What kind of tests?’
‘Henkie, I really don’t feel like going over all the medical details with you right now. My leg is giving me trouble, all right? They’re going to see if they can do anything about it.’
I’m not allowed to ring him tonight, either. To make sure of it, he didn’t give me his room number (‘I don’t know it exactly’), did not sign up for a telephone in his room, and left his mobile at home. It couldn’t be clearer: do not disturb.
I’m feeling uneasy about this.
Tuesday, 23 April
With his master in hospital, Evert’s dog is a bit out of sorts too. As I was putting on his leash to take him out for a walk, he deposited a huge, rather elongated poo on the welcome mat. And then gazed at me with those big, sad, innocent, old-dog eyes. It took me twenty minutes to get the stinky mess out of the coir mat. I left it outside in the end because I couldn’t get rid of the smell.
Evert is coming home late this afternoon. He telephoned an hour ago to tell me he’ll be able to let Mo out himself tonight. ‘Yes, all’s well, nothing special to report.’ I couldn’t get more than that out of him.
I recently watched an episode of Krasse Knarren on the telly, a kind of Big Brother, only with a group of geriatric Dutch celebrities interned in a house that’s supposed to make them feel younger by reminding them of the good old days. A few days later I happened to catch a programme about an old people’s choir. Next Saturday there’s a film about a rebellion in a nursing home. We’re everywhere.
Still, it’s not as if these programmes are representative of the Dutch elderly. The oldest Krasse Knar participant was sixty-nine. The residents in here are well into their eighties, on average.
Care homes have over the past few years seen an unprecedented influx of old crocks who are no longer able to live on their own. You need a Condition 3 designation (or something like it) to qualify for
immediate admittance. Condition 3 means you’re no longer capable of boiling an egg, and usually you’re on your way to the locked ward. Condition 2 puts you on the waiting list, which can take years. By which time you may not need it any more. Those lists tend to sort themselves out.
In the seventies and eighties, happy and healthy couples just turning seventy would move into an old-people’s home to enjoy a long, comfortable old age. Now it’s mainly old crocks who could drop dead at any moment.
Wednesday, 24 April
‘A day and a half in hospital and not a drop to drink, or very nearly. I need to fill the tank.’ When I looked in on Evert at half-past seven to see how he was, he’d already had a couple. He didn’t reveal much, except that he’d had to resort to taking quick nips from a ‘water’ bottle when nobody was looking.
When you’re young, you can’t wait to grow up. As an adult, until about the age of sixty, you want above all to stay young. But when you’re as old as the hills, you’ve got nothing left to strive for. That is the essence of the emptiness of life in here. There are no more goals. No exams to pass, no career ladders to climb, no children to raise. We are too old, even, to babysit the grandchildren.
In this stimulating environment, it isn’t always easy to set yourself a modest goal or two. When I look around I see only passive resignation in people’s eyes. It’s the eyes of people with nothing to do but go from cup of coffee to cup of tea and back again.
The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen, 83¼ Years Old Page 11