‘We can do the dishes later.’
‘It’s on our list.’
‘It doesn’t say when.’ She had a look at the basin and called out to the Dad in the workshop that there was nowhere near enough water for that heap of dishes and could we please . . .
We could.
I grumbled, I complained, but I went after her anyway, because the mere thought of her being alone with the button-chewer . . .
At first we thought Oompah was just keeping quiet. Muulke pushed the curtain aside and poked her head through the window. For a moment it looked as if she had lost her head.
‘Miljaar!’
‘What?’
‘He’s gone.’
I did my best to hide my relief. ‘He’ll be back tomorrow,’ I said.
As there was nothing else to be done, Muulke inspected the grave without a name thoroughly. She felt the stone, had a good look at it, sniffed it.
‘There’s nothing on it.’
‘Told you so. Muulke?’
‘No letters, no numbers, nothing.’
‘Muulke.’
‘Yes?’
‘Why don’t we ever visit the Mam?’
Was it because of that lonely stone, which had no name on it, so that it could be anybody lying there? I suddenly felt the loss, sharp as a knife, deep inside me.
‘Because heaven is everywhere,’ Muulke said automatically.
That was another typical opposite-of-worry reply of the Dad’s: ‘Oh, leeveke, what would you want in a graveyard? Go and play and enjoy yourself.You can be sad the rest of your life. And there’s no need anyway.’
‘Why not?’ we’d ask.
‘Because the Mam is in heaven, and heaven is everywhere.’
Once a month, Oma Mei put on her best clothes, put an apron, a scourer and a short rake in a carry bag, and caught the bus at the station. The Mam lay in a cemetery in the Dad’s town, where she had lived with him and us until her death. I vaguely remembered us visiting the cemetery once, but that had been long ago. And every time we asked Oma Mei if we could come, our grandmother said that a cemetery meant standing about waiting, and that standing about waiting was something children were not good at.
‘But then why are we allowed to visit Opa Pei?’ I asked Muulke now.
Muulke shrugged. ‘Stop asking when you know the answer.’
‘I would really like to visit her sometime.’
‘You’ll be waiting till pigs can fly,’ said Muulke indifferently.
‘Can you remember the Mam?’
‘Everything.’
‘Like what?’
‘Come on, there’s nothing here for us.’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, stop nagging. You’re becoming like Jess.’
‘You don’t remember anything.’
‘She sang songs.’
‘All mothers do that.’
‘She ate with a knife and fork.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Muulke stalked away angrily.
‘You don’t remember a thing,’ I called after her. ‘Not a thing. Admit it, Muulke Boon.You don’t remember a thing.’
something to loosen
his tongue
For the first time in weeks and months, the angels seemed to be on my side, because the next day Oompah Hatsi was still absent.
And the following day.
And the day after that.
Muulke’s mood went down and down. She became grumpy and grumbly, like Oma Mei on her worst days, and she quarrelled constantly with Jess.
‘Sjiethoes!’
‘Sourpuss!’
‘Blabbermouth!’
‘Iepekriet!’
‘And now I’ve had enough of this!’ shouted Oma Mei when she dropped in one Sunday after mass. ‘If anyone shouts abuse again, I’ll personally wash out your mouth with soap.’
I was sure lots of grandmothers shouted this occasionally at their grandchildren, but our grandmother was the only one I knew of who would actually do it.
Muulke and Jess grumbled a bit more, but they knew better than to do it so that Oma Mei could hear.
My hopes lasted exactly three days.
‘He’s back,’ Muulke whispered on the fourth day. She poured out the dishwater.
My heart sank. ‘Are you sure?’ I said. ‘Perhaps you just think . . . ’ ‘You wish,’ she said meanly. ‘Come on.’
Oompah looked at us suspiciously from behind his little window. He was chewing on a lump of bread, and even from a distance I could see it was mouldy. It made me feel sick.
‘Can we come in?’ said Muulke.
Oompah waved his scissors threateningly.
Snip! Snip!
When we came closer, he started hissing. Breadcrumbs sprayed out of his mouth and got stuck in his beard. I jumped back.
‘I think we’d better go and get water,’ I said.
This time I had less trouble getting Muulke to come along.
‘He must go off foraging,’ she whispered with shining eyes. ‘That’s why he’s away all the time. He pinches things, because of course he doesn’t have any money. They took that away from him in the madhouse. They always do that. And then they hide the money in hollow trees. The gardens of madhouses are full of hollow trees.’
I didn’t bother asking where she’d got all that; it would just encourage her. So I merely shifted the tubs about till they were secure and then pumped them full of water.
‘You know what we should do?’ Muulke asked when I had finished.
‘I guess you’ll tell me anyway.’
We gripped the pram handle and started pushing. I could feel Oompah’s suspicious look on my back and had to stop myself from walking faster.
‘We must help him,’ she said.
The opening in the hedge had started to grow over again, and we had to push hard to get the pram through. Muulke kicked the thing and a splash of water hit my shoe.
‘Watch what you’re doing!’ I shouted.
‘Don’t make such a fuss. Think about how we can help Oompah Hatsi.’ She put on a virtuous expression.
Nine Open Arms came into view, and in the late evening sunlight the weathered, crooked bricks seemed to glow from the inside. Swallows tumbled through the red and purple evening sky.
‘You just want to keep him here,’ I said, ‘because you’re worried that he’ll disappear and you won’t have a tragical tragedy again.’
‘You can think what you like.’
‘And you know as well as I do that we can help him best by telling. So he will get into a decent home instead of sitting here in the hedge.’
‘No.’
‘Muulke, just listen . . . ’ ‘Did you ever find that letter from the Rotterdam Banking Society?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘Shall we ask Jess again if she wants to fetch water?’
‘If you think you can threaten me, Muulke Boon, you’re mistaken.’
Cutting three-quarters off the legs of an old chair in the small shed in the field next door, Muulke made a low stool.
‘So he won’t have to sit on the floor, that poor man . . . ’ ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said. ‘If you’re so concerned, you’ve no doubt thought about the fact that the poor man will need to eat something, apart from mouldy bread.’
‘The preserve jars,’ Muulke said instantly.
‘Are you out of your mind? Oma Mei will notice right away.’
‘No, she won’t,’ said Muulke. ‘She never goes into the cellar herself. The preserves are for winter. And if she does find out, we’ll simply say we dropped one and it broke.’
Already, I was scared stiff.
‘Just one,’ I said. ‘Remember, just one. No more.’
‘Of course,’ said Muulke. ‘I’m not crazy.’
She snatched two jars off the shelf.
‘What’re you doing?’ asked Jess.
‘Nothing for sjiethoezer,’ said Muulke. Nothing for chickens.
‘What do y
ou want with those preserve jars?’
‘Not telling.’
‘Then I’m going to tell Oma Mei.’
‘Are your straps tightened properly?’ Muulke asked sweetly.
Jess moved her torso. The leather and the buckles squeaked and creaked. She had probably meant it to sound triumphant, but it didn’t.
‘They’re for Oompah Hatsi,’ I said. ‘So he has something to eat.’
‘Are you going there now?’
I nodded.
‘I’m coming.’
‘Coming?’ I said in surprise.
‘It’s up to you,’ said Muulke. ‘As long as you don’t carry on like a sjiethoes.’
‘Look what we’ve got,’ said Muulke. ‘Look what we’ve brought for you! Nice? What would you like? Pears? Asparagus?’
She was talking in a tone I’d never heard from her before. Very softly, quietly.
Snip, Oompah’s scissors went again. Snip. But it sounded softer and less threatening.
‘I’ve got something else,’ said Muulke. She was sitting on the short grass by the hedge window, her arms around her knees. ‘Jess, could you get it, please?’
Jess, who had stayed at a safe distance, brought the little stool to me, and I passed it on to Muulke.
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ said Muulke. ‘So you can sit comfortably. Would you like to sit nice and comfortably?’ She got up halfway and let herself down onto the stool. ‘Ah, lovely. I’m so glad to sit down!’
She sounded like Oma Mei; her voice had gone a little croaky.
Oompah watched her every move carefully. The scissors no longer snip-snipped. Suddenly he beckoned.
‘He’s remembered who we are,’ said Muulke. ‘Come on.’
Jess stayed by the pram.
More branches had been sewn together, in meticulous cross-stitches. The floor of the hollow was now covered in a layer of straw and a small rug. And in a corner lay a large jute sack. Muulke immediately started crawling towards it.
‘Don’t,’ I said.
She opened it right away. ‘Look!’
Inside the sack was a small box, a bundle of rags, the damaged shade of a standard lamp, a cup, knives and spoons, and a fox fur, one of those things fashionable ladies wore round their neck. Whether they would do that with this fox was an open question, though: it was a moth-eaten beast with beads where its eyes had once been. It grinned through crumbling teeth.
‘Nicked the lot, I bet,’ Muulke whispered in my ear.
While the button-chewer, with greedy hands, was removing the lid of a conserve jar, I kept an eye on Jess through the little window.
Oompah slurped up the jar’s contents – pears in syrup. The juice dripped through his filthy beard and he made loud smacking sounds. I could hardly hide my disgust, but Muulke looked as if she’d captured some exotic animal.
‘Nice, Oompah? Did you like it?’
Oompah picked up his scissors and snipped once.
‘Do tell me you liked it,’ Muulke cajoled.
Oompah snipped twice with his scissors.
She frowned. ‘Why won’t he say something?’
‘How should I know.’
‘He did say something before.’
‘When before?’
‘When we were fighting. He said my name then. Oompah, say my name again.’
Oompah grinned.
‘Perhaps he only says something when he absolutely has to,’ I said.
Oompah snipped again.
‘He’s saying something now,’ said Jess. She’d come a bit closer.
‘What did you say?’ asked Muulke.
‘That he is saying something now,’ said Jess, all the while keeping a nervous eye on the button-chewer.
‘If he is, he’s doing it awfully quietly,’ said Muulke.
‘He talks with his scissors,’ said Jess.
Muulke looked at her stupidly.
‘One snip for yes,’ said Jess. ‘And two snips for no.’
Muulke was about to tap on her forehead with her finger, but she stopped.Thoughtfully she stared at Jess, then at Oompah.
‘Is that right, Oompah?’
The button-chewer stared at the ceiling. The hand holding the scissors went up slowly.
Snip.
‘Or is it all kwatsj?’
Snip. Snip.
‘Jess, you’re a genius!’ Muulke exclaimed.
That Saturday night,Theodoor Guillaume Anna Theresa Rutten was born, and according to Oma Mei he was a story that almost didn’t begin. Holding him by his feet, our grandmother had plunged him by turns into deep tubs of cold and hot water, but he’d stared at her stubbornly while his head went a deeper and deeper blue. Just when everybody thought he was about to be off to heaven, he’d started yelling, and he would keep on doing that for the next three days.
That Sunday we went to see him, wearing our Sunday best dresses. Aunt Nettie was in bed. She had her hair undone, which made us a bit shy, because we had only ever seen her with her hair in a bun. We ate plum tart and looked jealously at the tightly swaddled little baby.
All day long, visitors came and went. Our grandmother said we should go home, but we didn’t much feel like that. Years seemed to have passed by the time she finally packed up her knitting and her bag of clothes and said goodbye to Hettie. Outside, she gave the saddle of the bike a regretful little tap and then, finally, she walked with us out of the town.
We fluttered about her like butterflies; we squabbled about who could carry her bag, and kept a careful eye on her. As if she wasn’t our solid, stocky grandmother (with feet so wide she could only wear men’s shoes), but a feather or a leaf in the wind.
When I saw the untidy black-and-orange roof of Nine Open Arms appear in the distance, I sighed with relief.
Now that Theodoor Rutten had safely arrived in the world, Oma Mei turned her good eye back on us – and the swivel-eye that forecast trouble.
‘Where are you off to?’
‘To fetch water.’
‘All three of you?’
‘It’s easier that way.’
Oma Mei cast an eye at the tubs.
‘Do you think we’re fish?’
‘But . . . ’
‘We’ve still got plenty of water. If you’re bored, I’ve got several more things for you to do.’
I didn’t really mind. I didn’t care how often Muulke said Oompah was our old neighbour, he was still a madman. I kept secretly hoping that Oma Mei would find out about him, and that would almost certainly have happened if only Oompah hadn’t learned to practically turn himself into a stone.
‘Because he has escaped, of course,’ said Muulke. ‘The madhouse keepers are looking for him. That’s why he keeps quiet.’
‘Where on earth did you get that idea from?’ I asked.
‘He said so himself,’ said Muulke.
I didn’t take her words very seriously. Oompah may have been able to communicate with his scissors, but that didn’t mean he actually spoke. Whenever Muulke became too curious, he stared up at the roof of his hedge home and muttered something incomprehensible.
‘He has to learn how to talk again,’ said Muulke.
‘He can stay silent as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Do you want him to stay mad forever? If we can teach him to talk again, he’ll automatically become normal. That poor man . . . ’ ‘Saint Muulke!’ I pronounced.
She took no notice. ‘We’ll have to give him something.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Something to loosen his tongue.’
‘What?’
‘Brandy or something. Alcohol, iepekriet.’
There were times when I knew exactly how Oma Mei felt.
‘I believe you are going seriously round the bend, Muulke Boon,’ I said. Have you forgotten that the last time he drank he ended up in the madhouse?’
‘But he was talking then,’ said Muulke.
‘If you dare, I’ll tell Oma Mei everything. And I won’t care what you te
ll her.’
‘Do you even believe that yourself?’ Muulke glared at me, but I didn’t lower my eyes. This time I was not giving in. Enough was enough.
Suddenly she fluttered her eyelids, pouted her doll’s mouth and smiled. ‘Only joking!’ She threw her arms around me. ‘Where in heaven’s name would we get brandy anyway? Oma Mei won’t even allow a glass of beer into the house.’
It was midnight. Next to me, Jess moved her leg restlessly over the bare wood of her bed. The lamb’s wool blanket had half-slipped off. I straightened it. In her sleep, she looked even more like a little bird than usual. She was lying on her side, with her shoulders pulled up high and her chin against her chest. Her small, sharp nose was like a beak. I very carefully put my hand on her shoulder and walked two fingers over her nightdress, down to her wreckbone. I found it right away. One vertebra, just a little smaller than the rest, sticking out just a little. Feeling Jess’s wreckbone was like coming home. Especially in the dark. Especially in the middle of the night.
discovered
And then things began to go wrong.
We came very close to causing a tragical tragedy ourselves.
On the first warm evening that season, we ate under the linden tree. Oma Mei had ordered the table put outside. She had made four fruit pies, which she’d sent to the bakery to be baked, as she did quite often to make some extra money. This time it had been for a wedding, but the bridegroom had run away.
‘This cigar is a fast burner,’ said Sjeer. ‘Two puffs and your nose catches fire.’
Piet and Krit were sitting opposite him and were pulling their cigars apart. The table was covered in tobacco leaves, fillers, knives and moulds, and Oma Mei hadn’t objected.
‘It looks as if the whole lot has exploded,’ said Muulke.
‘All will be well,’ said the Dad, but his own cigar was like a badly stuffed sausage: plump in the middle and empty at the ends.
My sisters and I were sitting on the grass. We’d eaten so much fruit pie that it had made us feel exhausted. Muulke lay on her back, her knees turned to the left and her head to the right. She looked as if she’d fallen to pieces.
‘Shall we play Threatened Treasure?’ suggested Jess.
Nine Open Arms Page 9