On the Bright Side

by Hendrik Groen

  A kiwi fruit was found in the toilet.

  Stelwagen is not amused. She doesn’t know what to do about something as daft as pieces of fruit turning up where least expected, and it feels like a prank meant to undermine her authority. Especially since the residents have talked of nothing else for days.

  It does fascinate me enormously. Evert says he’ll present the mastermind with a basket of fruit if his or her cover is ever blown.

  Tuesday, 20 January

  Yesterday was Blue Monday. This, the third Monday of January, has been declared the most depressing day of the year. By whom? No idea. But the Old-But-Not-Dead do not ascribe to it. We had an exuberant members’ gathering hosted by Geert. It was the first time Geert had us round, and he had gone out of his way to put on a lavish spread. I think he must have enough alcohol left over to last until summer. He had bought so much of everything that, for instance, if we had stuck to beer all evening there would still have been plenty to go round. The same goes for the red, white and rosé, the soda water, squash, orange juice, jenever, eggnog and brandy. There was even a bottle of blackcurrant jenever. I didn’t even know that still existed. Plus heaps of food, as if we’d just come through the Hunger Winter of 1945. Everyone went home with a doggie-bag. Evert with an extra copious one, since he’s the only one who actually has a dog. His dog Mo is a prodigious omnivore. It doesn’t matter what you put in his dish, it all comes out the other end. Evert has offered to help Geert finish off any bottles that might go past their sell-by date.

  ‘Just so as not to waste it,’ he says with a grin. He, like Mo, isn’t picky, he’ll drink anything you put in front of him.

  Food, drink, laughter … We hardly had any time for serious discussion.

  We did manage to draw up two schedules, one for the restaurants-of-the-world plan, and one for the new Club outing line-up. The intention is to sally forth at least once a fortnight this year.

  We have set up a fund for impecunious members, to be dipped into as the need arises. No one raised any objection. I was appointed treasurer, and have taken it upon myself to put in the seed money, anonymously, of course. I am, after all, a man of some means. Club members may discreetly apply to me for monetary support. For it looks as if this could cost a pretty penny.

  ‘Make sure you’re in the red by the time you’re dead!’ is our first official club motto. We’re on the lookout for other appropriate slogans. And a club anthem. Yes, it was a rather raucous evening.

  We had warned Geert’s neighbours beforehand to expect a bit of noise. If that did occur, would they be so kind as to tell us first, before alerting management? Evert had insisted on being the one to ‘take care of it’. I don’t expect we’ll be hearing any complaints.

  Wednesday, 21 January

  The day of my little girl’s passing. A child’s little bike weaves half a metre too far to the right or left, on a steep hill by a canal. I was occupied marking students’ homework, and my wife was hanging out the washing. Each thought the other was watching her.

  Lifelong grief, lifelong senseless self-reproach.

  Thursday, 22 January

  Yesterday no errant fruit was found, and its absence was the subject of much speculation. Strange, really; for years not even a single unclaimed grape was ever seen, and nobody said a word about it. Now, after just one day of neither a rogue apple nor pear, people are already bereft. I hope it doesn’t remain an unsolved mystery for ever.

  Next Thursday is our first dinner excursion. Edward is choosing the restaurant. Evert is betting ten-to-one on Argentinean. Only he won’t make the bet with Edward.

  Mirrors have been installed in the corridors at certain dangerous corners and intersections after two scooter crashes in one week. Fortunately only minor scrapes and dents ensued. A traffic death in a care home would most definitely make it into the papers, and that’s to be avoided at all costs. So the director decided to boost safety with these convex traffic mirrors, although they don’t take into account the vagaries of the elderly. The mirrors have already led to several inadvertent accidents, even with no oncoming traffic in sight. Some of the oldies were so fixated at seeing themselves in the mirror, you see, that they ran straight into a wall. And the walls here sport a coat of the rough sanded beige paint that was so fashionable back in the 1970s. Which usually means a nasty abrasion or two. Forgive me for being a bit gruesome, but the sanded paint makes it hard to scrub blood off the wall. So one can see traces of accidents in a number of spots. Some of these distressing marks were painted over, only in a slightly different shade of beige.

  Stelwagen has no intention of removing the mirrors for now. To do so would mean admitting she’d made a bad decision.

  Friday, 23 January

  Yesterday was my annual check-up with the geriatrician. To my surprise my old doctor, Dr Jonge, had retired. He was about seventy, and so he knew his stuff. The new geriatrician doesn’t have his experience. She’s a woman of about forty, Dr Van Vlaanderen.

  ‘Just call me Emma.’

  I’m a bit old-fashioned sometimes. That’s permitted, if you’re eighty-five. I’d rather not call a doctor Emma, even if that really is her name.

  She seemed kind, with a willing ear, but I think I’d rather still have my old doctor. He was short and to the point, clear and witty. Dr Emma treated me rather like a deaf toddler. She talked just a bit too loud, in a Dick and Jane voice.

  ‘I’m not deaf, nor dumb either, Dr Emma,’ I thought of saying, but then I decided it was a bit too blunt for a first acquaintance. Another negative was that I had just been making a little headway with my old doctor on the subject of euthanasia, and now I’ll have to start all over again. I didn’t feel like broaching it this time.

  The numbers, by the way, aren’t very hopeful for getting a GP or geriatrician to help you there: only very few requests for euthanasia are granted. The end-of-life clinics do hardly any better: the clinics are true to their name in just 4 per cent of the cases. The Euthanasia Society seems to offer the best solution. One simply orders pills from the Internet, or so I’ve heard. That shouldn’t be too difficult, now that I am growing increasingly computer-savvy. At first I used the thing only as a typewriter, but now I know how to look up all kinds of things. I shall look into it shortly. After all, the decision is in my hands, and my hands only; that’s what I think. The greatest danger lies in gradually and imperceptibly – or precipitously – getting to a place where you are no longer capable of making the decision yourself. That’s what happened to Eefje. The point is to be prepared, and to have the pills on hand. Hidden in your home, someplace known only to yourself and perhaps a friend you can trust. If, heaven forbid, you are no longer in a state to take the pills yourself, then that friend may be able to give you a little (illegal) hand. As long as he or she has arranged for a watertight alibi, naturally.

  I am going to take care of it. First I’ll acquire the pills and then I’ll instruct Evert what to do. The right man for the job: heart of gold, and doesn’t give a hoot about the rules.

  Saturday, 24 January

  Yesterday afternoon, at teatime, the dining room was humming, and Mrs Lacroix rose to her feet. She has only been here a month, but in that short time has managed to make herself quite unpopular. All she had to do to earn her fellows’ scorn was to dress rather flamboyantly. Flowing dresses in bright floral patterns, shawls and hats, red lipstick and purple nail polish. She also has a rather posh accent.

  She started tapping her teaspoon against her cup until everyone looked up. She cleared her throat.

  ‘As everyone here knows by now, I am a performance artist.’ Whispering and muttering all around her. Many people had no idea what that was. ‘As such, for the past two weeks I have been creating a performance piece by leaving pieces of fruit in various locations. To symbolize estrangement. And to show that to give is better than to receive. And because it’s healthy, too.’

  The mutters now swelled to an indignant din.

  ‘You gave me the willies wi
th those apples of yours,’ was how Mrs Slothouwer gave expression to the general malaise. Many nodded in agreement.

  ‘Well, I thought it was very funny,’ said Leonie, our new Old-But-Not-Dead member, and I was proud of her. Two camps formed immediately: those in favour of performance art and those against. A minority, those of us not immediately scared off by the unfamiliar, was in favour, and the rest were against. Evert, unfortunately, wasn’t present to state his strong, uncompromising position in favour of errant fruit.

  Slowly the room calmed down again. With all the commotion, some residents had even forgotten to eat the biscuit that came with their tea.

  Mystery solved: a satisfying denouement.

  I lost the bet with Evert. The fruit caper was the work of a resident, not one of the employees. I owe him one book. A book about fruit salads, I should think, if such a thing exists. For his part, Evert, as promised, will buy Lacroix a fruit basket.

  Sunday, 25 January

  I visit Grietje in the locked ward on a regular basis. She always greets me with great joy, although she no longer knows who I am.

  ‘How very nice of you to look me up. And on such a nice day, too. Lovely.’

  She is genuinely happy to have a visitor, and that’s the reason I often stop in on the nursing floor. She has become the woman with dementia she had hoped to become: cheerful and carefree. Sometimes I catch her gazing at me a little longer, with an almost invisible little smile at the corners of her mouth, and a quick, friendly nod. As if she’s thinking: I’m sure I know that bloke from somewhere … There’s an entire life still buried somewhere inside that head. She can’t access it any more, but I cherish the little piece of that life I was privileged to share with her.

  We chat a bit. The same old small talk mostly, since she doesn’t remember a thing about my previous visits, and tomorrow she won’t remember today. After fifteen minutes I’ve run out of things to say and take my leave. Then she’ll usually say, ‘I’m so sorry you have to go, but never mind. I have so much to do.’ Then she waves goodbye.

  It’s Grietje’s fellow patients who make the visit difficult. Many of them are anxious, angry, sad, confused, or all of the above. Or they haven’t any emotions at all, and just sit there huddled in a chair. When they can no longer even sit, they lie in bed, turned every so often by caring hands to prevent bedsores.

  I can’t bear having to see the humiliation of it, and the helplessness.

  Monday, 26 January

  In France it is against the law to name your pig Napoleon. In the American state of Alabama you’re not permitted to drive a car blindfolded. In our care home you are not allowed to keep an insect hotel on your balcony. The first two prohibitions are hearsay; the third one was recently issued by the management of our institution.

  You can purchase these contraptions, made of wood, cork, straw and other natural materials, in the home improvement shop. They’re meant to attract all sorts of flying or crawling bugs. Yes, there are people who find insects fascinating. Mrs Bregman is one of them. She bought an insect hotel last summer, and installed it on her balcony. According to some of her neighbours, all sorts of flies, mosquitos and wasps would come flying out of that rooming house and into their own windows. Stelwagen was flooded with complaints.

  The home’s rulebook had all kinds of restrictions against pets, but the sheltering of insects hadn’t yet been considered. It required a separate ban, and, lo, last week said ban appeared on the noticeboard. Bregman had to put her hotel up for sale, and Stelwagen promptly bought it from her, in order to nip any eventual unrest in the bud. Billed to her expense account, naturally. We also learned that there’s to be only one bird feeder per balcony. ‘On account of the bird droppings.’

  Saturday’s newspaper had an article about a care home in Rijssen. The nurses and patients there run the place by themselves, in accordance with the residents’ wishes wherever possible. The story didn’t say if the management, board of directors and supervisory board had been scrapped altogether, or if they just operated in the shadows.

  People who will voluntarily give up their own jobs are few and far between. I don’t see our Mrs Stelwagen declaring herself superfluous any time soon.

  Tuesday, 27 January

  Feta cheese and Nana Mouskouri. That was about all people here could think of when the subject of the Greek elections came up. And two dead Greeks: Zorba and Demis Roussos, the latter only because he died very recently.

  ‘Nana Mouskouri may be dead too, for all I know. That leaves only feta, and I don’t care for it myself,’ was how Mrs Van Diemen summed up the significance of Greece.

  And today, as if the devil had a hand in it, we learn that a Greek F16 fighter jet has crashed in Spain.

  ‘Ten dead,’ Mrs Duits read to the assembled.

  ‘Was it a passenger fighter jet?’ someone wanted to know.

  ‘Probably a question of poor maintenance,’ Mr Bakker supposed.

  No, there were very few reasons to keep Greece in the EU. That was enough to lay the matter to rest.

  It is high time for something exciting to happen. It’s lucky our restaurant project is to be launched on Thursday, because the walls are beginning to close in on me. I have been going for my daily walk, and take my mobility scooter out for a spin several times a week, but those are just short lulls in the daily inertia.

  My friend Evert is also less cheerful these days. I don’t know the reason. There is no point asking him.

  ‘Henk, if there was anything wrong, I wouldn’t have any desire to talk about it with you.’

  ‘No, my good chum, of course, talking about yourself … What a silly idea!’ I retorted, in a cautious attempt to get him to open up. ‘It’s just that you’ve been a bit of a bore, lately.’

  He growled something along the lines of ‘I suppose,’ and then, resorting to his usual diversionary tactic – ‘What shall I pour for you, Henkie?’ – changed the subject.

  After that we played a game of chess and pretended there was nothing wrong.

  Wednesday, 28 January

  My remark to Evert that he was a bit of a bore may have rankled a bit after all, because at dinnertime he was back on top form.

  He asked the server in an unnecessarily loud voice if this ‘hamburger’ was the kind that had maggots in it, pointing to the meatball next to his mash.

  That made the others look up.

  ‘What do you mean, Mr Duiker?’

  ‘Well,’ said Evert, ‘I read in the paper that Jumbo supermarkets have now started selling insect burgers.’ Pulling a crumpled piece of newspaper from his pocket, he read: ‘ “The burgers contain fourteen per cent buffalo worms, freeze-dried larvae of the buffalo dung beetle, which is comparable to the mealworm.” I thought I tasted something of the sort in this hamburger. A bit bitter. Quite tasty, really.’ And, without waiting for a response, he went on chewing contentedly. The same contentment, however, had fled from the other diners who overheard the conversation.

  Somebody picked up a meatball with fork and spoon, holding it at a safe distance, as if it were still moving. A lady who had just taken a big bite of her burger stopped chewing, although it was clear she was reluctant to spit it out. She just sat there frozen for a while with her mouth half open.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ people at the neighbouring tables began inquiring. In short: utter consternation, which ended in the cook having to come out in person to announce that this was perfectly ordinary mince, without worms.

  But the damage was done. Quite a few half-eaten hamburgers were left untouched on the plates. Only those who had ordered the stew instead polished off their plates with exaggerated gusto. ‘Mmmm, delicious brisket, I must say.’ People in here rarely pass up the chance to make others green with envy, as the occasion presents itself.

  After dinner Cook had a few words with Evert, who wore an expression of beatific innocence. I had to compliment him later: ‘That’s more like you, old chum.’

  Thursday, 29 January

&nb
sp; Departure time: 17:00 hours this afternoon. It will take some time to get there.

  That’s all we know. I am skipping lunch just to be on the safe side. I’m not a big eater, but an enthusiastic one. My sense of taste is still excellent, I am happy to report. I have contemporaries who can barely tell the difference between a pickle and a strawberry.

  For them, there goes one of the joys that shouldn’t, in principle, have anything to do with age: deriving pleasure from eating and drinking. It is astonishing to me that people who have little left except the enjoyment of food and drink, are still not very discriminating when it comes to eating. Stale bread, cheap chocolate, bad coffee, reheated leftovers, bone-dry cake, sour wine; anything goes. We’ve all been through the war but, my God, what completely unnecessary deprivation! ‘You should spend your money freely on the few things that you’re still able to enjoy!’ I’d like to shout at them.

  The Old-But-Not-Dead Club motto concerning money: spend it but don’t squander it.

  Friday, 30 January

  The waiter wore a tartan skirt, there were bagpipes displayed on the walls and hundreds of whisky bottles lined up everywhere. Guess which cuisine we had the honour of sampling last night?

  An exceptional repast in the Scottish restaurant-whisky bar, Highlander. We did have to travel to Alkmaar for it, but that only made it all the more fun. Edwin, Edward’s nephew, was our designated driver. He enjoys transporting us in his passenger van. All he asks for in return is a full tank of petrol every once in a while.

  The restaurant owner, a man with a broad Scottish accent and a potbelly full of whisky, had a warm welcome for his aged guests. We entrusted him with the decision of what we should eat. It was delicious, but I couldn’t really tell what was Scottish about it. At our next restaurant, the organizer should provide us with a little explanation of the specialities of the cuisine in question. The only Scottish dish I know of is haggis, but I don’t think we had it yesterday. I just looked it up, and saw that it’s made of mutton heart, lung and liver, and some lard to bind it together. I don’t know if it was a missed chance or not.