Friday, 10 July
Greece possibly leaving the EU, the Chinese stock market slump, a new tax plan, refugees on the high seas; it doesn’t make us eat one ginger biscuit less. The influence of the world outside our cocoon is largely limited to the seasons. The cocoon has started to show some cracks, however. Even the most introverted residents are starting to notice how many vacant rooms there are. It is rumoured that some people are being asked to move to another room, so that a whole section can be emptied. Can’t the Residents’ Committee do something about that?
The Residents’ Committee is meeting this afternoon to discuss it.
Mrs Hoensbroek just ate a chocolate still in its foil wrapper. Her tablemate looked on in astonishment, but waited until Hoensbroek had laboriously managed to work it all down to ask, ‘Why didn’t you take the wrapper off?’
‘Wrapper?’
‘Yes, you just ate the foil as well.’
‘Did I?’
Mrs Hoensbroek picked up another chocolate and studied it. Ah, indeed, it was wrapped in foil. She called the nurse over. Who told her not to worry.
Well, at least something of interest to report.
Omar Sharif is dead. Ria cut his picture out of the newspaper and pinned it to the noticeboard.
She said she’d seen Doctor Zhivago at least seven times, the last time just a couple of months earlier, on the telly.
‘I cried all seven times. A bit less every time, but still.’
Antoine gazed tenderly at his wife. He is still in love with her. If you really love someone, it’s OK for her to love Omar Sharif as well.
Saturday, 11 July
Many people prefer to watch the Youth News rather than the regular news. At least the Youth News always has something cheerful to report on: a newborn polar bear cub, a dog that plays the trumpet, the return of a parrot given up for dead. It’s often something to do with animals.
That’s the sort of thing they ought to show on the Eight O’Clock News. It should end on a positive note is the widely shared opinion, and I must agree. After the weather report, a little levity, to signal: come on, people, it isn’t all doom and gloom.
We were this close to having to bury our friend Antoine. Not that it wouldn’t have been a fitting end for him. ‘He died while eating,’ the obituary might have said. He’d been enjoying an illicit homemade tartlet with his eyes closed so as to savour it more fully, you understand. In this case, it meant that he couldn’t see the wasp he was biting into as well. A second later his eyes flew open wider than wide; he’d been stung in the cheek. Sister Herwegen, always on her toes, promptly came up with an old-fashioned antidote for wasp stings: a cut onion. His cheek nevertheless swelled up to worrisome proportions and the doctor was called in.
‘You are very lucky, Mr Travemundi, a few centimetres further in, and you could have been a goner,’ he said after a brief inspection of the puffed-up interior of Antoine’s mouth. Ria started to tremble – retroactively, since she had at first thought her husband was just putting it on.
‘Well,’ said Edward, chuckling, ‘I suppose that for the time being, at least, there’ll be no more of that la-di-dah with your eyes closed.’ Antoine’s appetite is temporarily spoilt. And every resident now inspects every biscuit from every angle before taking a cautious nibble. Mrs Hoensbroek has totally sworn off biccies. Actually, it’s all for the best. She tends to buy dresses that are one or two wishful sizes too small, XL instead of XXL, or even XXXL. Perhaps her clothes will start to feel a little less tight now. She doesn’t consider herself fat. She claims heavy bones and water retention are responsible for her girth. The daily cream cake and all the biscuits and chocolates with her coffee should certainly not have much to do with it.
The wasps, by the way, are very early this year.
Sunday, 12 July
‘It’s high time we began working on our international restaurant project again,’ Antoine said at our last-minute convocation of the Old-But-Not-Dead Club. ‘We’ll fall behind on the culinary front if we’re not careful. Does anyone have any ideas?’
Edward put his hand up. He volunteered to reserve somewhere for Tuesday evening.
I have again asked Evert when he is going to inform his Old-But-Not-Dead Club friends that his membership is soon to expire.
‘When they ask me about it, not before,’ he replied. I must have looked puzzled. ‘When people start noticing of their own accord that something’s not right with me, that’ll be soon enough to confirm it. Until then, there’s no reason for anyone to know I’m dying. I’d rather not have to face the blubbering and lamentation, or chums who don’t know what to do or say.’
It took me a night to think it over, but Evert is right: it’s often best to put off announcing the bad news as long as possible. Especially if the victim in question, in this case Evert, won’t exactly be overjoyed if his nearest and dearest start mourning his departure while he’s still alive.
I see now that I am the one chosen to share the preliminary awareness of his impending death. For even Evert needs someone to confide in and exchange black humour with. He knows I won’t indulge in weeping and lamentation.
‘You can blubber in your own good time, Groen. Not while I’m alive.’
I think Leonie can tell he is doing poorly. She tends to stay close, and looks after him discreetly but tenderly, almost intimately. And Evert allows himself to be coddled and seems even to be enjoying it in his own oafish way. She’s allowed to straighten his jacket, to brush crumbs from his cheek. Whereas Evert disparagingly refers to most elderly women as ‘old biddies’, his name for Leonie is ‘pet’. That’s how he expresses his fondness for her.
Monday, 13 July
‘You’ve got to hand it to that El Chapo chap,’ Mr Pot remarked. The fact that the drug lord was responsible for bumping off quite a few people is less significant in Pot’s books than his escape from one of Mexico’s highest-security prisons.
‘Through a tunnel one and a half kilometres long! They even had a motorbike waiting for him down there so he wouldn’t have to walk the whole way.’ Pot was all hopped up about it. He grew even more excited when someone else mentioned that, back in 2001, Chapo had escaped prison in a laundry basket.
‘I don’t suppose that in Mexico they’d ever heard of the chest of books Hugo Grotius hid in to escape from prison,’ said Graeme, ‘otherwise that enormously heavy laundry basket of dirty underwear would have set off some alarm bells.’
Tuesday, 14 July
No, no, we definitely should not view the vacancies as a prelude to the home’s closing, but as a step of a much broader process of optimization and transition.
‘What does that optimization and transition look like, then?’ Leonie demanded.
These matters were still subject to a more narrow decision-making process by the board, as long as they were still ‘under discussion’, the director could not, to her great regret, give us any further information. Although, naturally, she would like nothing better than to be allowed at this time to discuss these matters with the Residents’ Committee.
‘I do get the sense, nevertheless, that this committee is not being taken entirely seriously, I feel like we’re being kept dangling,’ said Leonie curtly.
‘Oh, no, not at all,’ Stelwagen insisted, with a condescending smile. ‘Fortunately, I did manage to get two other very important matters resolved by the board,’ she went on, informing us that our proposals for a residents’ art exhibition and a high tea had both received board approval.
Leonie could not help remarking that those two requests were on quite a different level to whether or not the institution would close for good.
‘You’re absolutely right about that. But he who doesn’t appreciate the small things …’
Fingernails on a blackboard. Stelwagen is like an arrogant tyrant and a patronizing nursery school teacher all rolled into one.
The permission for the art exhibition was actually a bit of a con, since it was granted six weeks ago.
Eugenie has been busy at work on her paintings and Stelwagen can count on her support until the end of time. The art show won’t cost the institution a thing except for the wall hooks to hang the paintings. The maintenance department did make a big fuss about those hooks at first, citing the strict no-holes-in-the-walls policy. Stelwagen then stepped in personally, magnanimously declaring that with the director’s consent, the prevailing no-holes policy may be waived in exceptional circumstances.
The high tea, however, does come with a few stringent conditions attached. We are not allowed to go near any electrical appliances or slicers. (To prevent anyone finding a piece of finger sticking out of their cream cake.) And we’re not allowed to serve hot drinks. Not an unreasonable restriction, but an unnecessary one, since it is already in effect. The high tea project must be ‘cost neutral’; the director therefore suggested charging a small monetary contribution. We were completely against it at first, but during a brief adjournment, Leonie helped us to see it differently.
‘Asking for a contribution from participants will bring its own natural selection. All the sour skinflints will drop out, and only the bons vivants will be left.’
Upon which the proposal to collect a modest contribution from the high tea-totallers was passed by unanimous consent.
Wednesday, 15 July
Yesterday it was the turn of Restaurant Mount Everest to receive the Old-But-Not-Dead Club.
The Nepalese hostess spent a great deal of time on us, which wasn’t such a problem, since we were the only patrons. It was extremely enjoyable, as usual: if you’re in good company, not much can go wrong. Even if the Nepalese wine did turn out to be rather disappointing. The beer from Nepal was quite palatable, however. We ordered a few mystery specialities and gave the old taste buds a thorough workout. Mindful eating isn’t an easy thing to do. At home I often catch myself barely tasting what I’m eating. You put something in your mouth while looking round and listening to your table companions, you rearrange your napkin, chew mechanically and then you swallow. It’s a good thing you look down and see what’s on your plate, otherwise you wouldn’t even know what it was that you ate a minute ago.
But when we eat out, it’s not like that. Ria and Antoine are strict with us, and make sure, with expert questions and remarks, that we don’t just thoughtlessly stuff our faces, but pay close attention to what we are tasting.
During the meal I was watching Evert out of the corner of my eye. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, but hardly ate a thing. He’s lost a lot of weight.
Farmers will soon have their own TV channel, a twenty-four-hour broadcast, no less, with documentaries and profiles of farmers and growers. Interesting. That news item led several people here to argue that what’s needed is a twenty-four-hour channel for the elderly. It would bring us fascinating profiles and documentaries about old age.
Why don’t you just gaze at all the elderly profiles around you, I was going to suggest, but decided it wouldn’t be nice. In hindsight, I realized I was being far too well-behaved again, for a change.
Thursday, 16 July
Jan is picking us up for a pleasant weekend in Uden at 10 a.m. tomorrow morning. I’m looking forward to Wii-ing with his kids. Last year I beat them at tennis on several occasions, and even at ski jumping once, but in the intervening year I haven’t had an opportunity to practise, and they have. I also expect that my young opponents may have let their jolly grandpa-guest win now and then, and trust that they’ll do so again, preferably as discreetly as possible.
It might be a better idea to postpone our stay once more, since it is going to be very hot. It’s like trying to cross a busy street. You stand there waiting for an opening. Suddenly there’s a chance you could make it to the other side, but you decide: don’t risk it, best wait a bit. Then, if it’s taking forever and you’re starting to run out of patience, you cross just when it’s far more dangerous than the time you let the opportunity pass you by. You’re always moving the goal posts.
Not to mention my elderly brothers and sisters who, when they cross the street, tend to rely on respect for their advanced age. I have yet to see the stubborn and rather deaf Mr De Grave do anything but point his cane to the other side just before stepping out, looking neither left nor right. He walks at an angle, with the traffic, to give the cars a chance to swerve round him. One time he even caused a small pile-up behind him, to which he remained completely oblivious. It happened very close to here, and a short time later the police came to ‘ask a few questions’.
‘No idea what you’re talking about, Mr Officer,’ Mr De Grave said, ‘it must have been another bloke with a hat and cane.’
Even within these walls De Grave has caused a number of accidents with his completely unpredictable changes of course. It’s never his fault, naturally. His wife, Rietje, is the opposite: she cops to everything immediately, even if she’s not in the least to blame. It does in a sense balance out their relationship. But I wouldn’t be surprised if, in her heart of hearts, she sometimes wishes she could very slowly strangle him to death.
Tuesday, 21 July
The overnight visit was not a success. Worse than that, it was a pileup of minor and major miseries.
I already wasn’t feeling that well when we departed. My stomach and intestines were rumbling. I didn’t want to be a spoilsport, however; the weekend trip had already been postponed once, and I hoped it would blow over. It did not blow over, it just blew. Upon arrival in Uden, I was in urgent need of a shower. Fouled my diaper in the car, and some of it had run out the sides. I could have died of embarrassment. Ester, Evert’s daughter-in-law, did her best to conceal her disgust as she got rid of my diaper and tossed my pants and underpants into the washing machine.
The entire house is polished to a T, everything tidied up and shoes have to be left at the front door. That’s the kind of housekeeper Ester is.
‘Not to worry, Mr Groen, it can happen to anyone.’
I muttered my apologies for the fourth time.
That same Friday night I again failed to make it to the loo in time. There I was at 3 a.m., trying to clean up the poo as best I could, when Jan knocked on the door. Was anything the matter? He helped me without saying a word. When everything was sort of clean again, he put his arm round my shoulders.
‘It’s not easy, sometimes, is it?’
No, it’s not easy sometimes.
The following afternoon, as Evert and I sat sweltering under a parasol, my friend asked me when I thought would be a good time to tell them about ‘it’.
‘There isn’t a good time,’ I said after giving it some thought for a while.
‘Then I’ll just put it off a while longer, as I’ve done with the Old-But-Not-Dead gang,’ said Evert.
I remarked that there might not be another opportunity to inform them of it in person. He sees his son, daughter-in-law and grandchildren only once every four or five weeks. I suggested that he tell them that evening after supper. We were quiet for a while.
‘Well then, after pudding, I suppose,’ said Evert, ‘otherwise it’s a waste of the strawberries. Then we’ll still have Sunday to get a bit used to the idea, together.’
I could tell that he dreaded it enormously.
We spent the rest of Saturday unable to do much except sit in the garden in the shade. I had swallowed a good handful of anti-diarrhoea pills, but still did not dare stray too far from the loo. Even playing Wii with the children, which I’d been so looking forward to, seemed to me too dangerous an undertaking. We were all doing our best to act cheerful, but even a lunchtime libation did not do much to lighten the rather depressed mood.
The meal passed in relative silence. After the strawberries, I saw Evert looking at me. I nodded. He coughed a few times.
‘My dear family, I am sorry to have to inform you that I am going to die quite soon. I have cancer.’
For a moment it was as if a film had been put on pause. Then Evert’s grandchildren began to cry. Jan said nothing, and grabbed his f
ather’s hand. Ester put her arms round both of her children. I sat there mute. Jan asked about the medical details. Evert told them that the doctor, with some hesitation, had said that they were ‘running out of treatment options’.
‘He wanted to try a few things to buy some more time, but I told him I’d had enough. Once the body is finished, it’s finished. If that’s the case, I’m not interested in prolonging the agony.’
They took turns hugging Evert. He let them, possibly for the first time in his life.
‘And now I wouldn’t mind a nice nip of brandy,’ he concluded.
To complete a weekend of disasters, when we got home Sunday afternoon, Mo’s back legs suddenly crumpled as he was getting out of the car. He managed to get back on his feet half an hour later, after Evert had jammed a few aspirins down his throat. The emergency vet on call couldn’t come because he was out on an emergency.
Wednesday, 22 July
Couldn’t he just take a cab and bring the dog in?
In simple but pointed wording, Evert explained to the vet’s assistant that in this case it would be a lot simpler for the doctor to come to the patient.
That morning Mo hadn’t clambered out of his basket. He was looking even sadder than usual, and even refused a biscuit.
Once the vet arrived, it turned out that Mo had also wet his basket.
‘How old is Mo?’ asked the doctor, after peering here and tapping there.
Evert reckoned he was about sixteen.
‘That’s a ripe old age, for a dog.’
‘That’s why he lives in a sheltered basket, doctor.’
The vet pronounced a diagnosis in Latin, wrote a prescription and gave Mo an injection.
‘I haven’t much of a clue about what you just said; I just want to know if there’s anything that can be done about it,’ said Evert.
On the Bright Side Page 19