On the Bright Side

by Hendrik Groen

  ‘They specialize in osteoporosis there.’ He kept saying it faster – ost-prosis.

  ‘Doctor, you want me to drag myself all the way to Groningen in order to confirm something we already know: that I have brittle bones. These bones are eighty-six years old, you understand.’

  ‘You do have quite a good chance of having osteoporosis.’

  ‘I suspect – it’s just a guess – that after the doctor in Groningen finishes examining me, he’ll tell me to take it easy and try not to break any more bones. As I’m sure you’re about to recommend as well.’

  I was being very assertive, for me. But I was extremely indignant at the thought of such a waste of money and time. This wasn’t even like a Band-aid for a haemorrhage, it was like using a Band-aid to stop Niagara Falls.

  ‘You don’t have to have the test,’ the doctor said stoically.

  I have to come back on 2 December, and if all goes well the cast can come off then.

  As I left the examination room, the doctor said without a hint of irony, ‘Just be careful out there.’

  Tuesday, 17 November

  Perhaps Sister Morales was right after all; Mr Van de Kerkhof, MPA isn’t letting the grass grow under his feet, in any case. Our new director has only been here a month, and already he’s announced that in 2016 a small section of the home will have to close for ‘operational reasons’. Not only that: he has announced he is investigating whether the kitchen could eventually be replaced by outside catering. I will ask him next time if he’d like to bet me €1,000 on the outcome of that investigation.

  Kerkhof is making no secret of his intentions.

  ‘Such drive that man has,’ said Leonie. ‘He’s probably already got his sights on his next wrecking job.’ The mood at the hastily convoked Residents’ Committee meeting was grim and determined. We are not going to be led to the slaughter like a bunch of meek, decrepit old sheep by Whippersnapper Kerkhof, MPA, who is much fonder of cleaning house (restructuring and layoffs) than of old people.

  ‘He has thrown down the gauntlet,’ said Leonie, our own Joan of Arc. ‘He’s going to have to pay dearly for our wrinkled hides.’

  We’re trying to stay under the radar for the time being, but intend to contact the central Workplace Council and get in touch with a lawyer we know. We are going on the assumption that Kerkhof will underestimate us, and we plan to catch him unawares.

  Wednesday, 18 November

  Leonie has contacted the secretary of the sectoral Workplace Council. That sounds important, but I’d never heard of it before. She made an appointment on 9 December for a consultation.

  A mobility scooter was pulled over on the A12. The driver was drunk and had decided to switch from the bicycle path to the six-lane motorway to save time. The police told him, by way of a warning presumably, that although riding a mobility scooter does not require a driving licence it can be confiscated if you break the rules. Excuse me?

  So that you can then get back on your scooter without the driving licence you didn’t need in the first place? Or do the police suppose that most mobility scooter drivers also regularly get behind the wheel of an actual automobile?

  I did have to wonder, however, whether the scooter driver, even in his drunken state, hadn’t felt a qualm or two as cars doing 120 kilometres per hour on the motorway came whizzing past his lurching little three-wheeler?

  Saudi King Salman, our Islamic ally in the war against ISIS, is not a man who espouses simplicity. For his stay in Turkey for the G20 conference, he reserved 546 rooms at the Turkish Riviera’s most luxurious hotel. Salman had his luggage sent ahead in sixteen lorries and he’d brought sixty-five armoured Mercedes of his own, as well as hiring 400 Turkish rental cars, since you never know. In his defence: it wasn’t all just for the G20 conference. King Salman had also tacked on a little holiday.

  An important topic at the G20 summit was the environment, carbon emissions in particular. I would be curious to know what the Saudi King had to say about that.

  ‘Isn’t this king also the one who orders old people to be flogged?’ Graeme asked rhetorically.

  Yes, the same. And he may also not be averse to ordering a stoning, as long as it’s well deserved.

  ‘Seeing him among all those grey-suited world leaders, you have to admit he’s the only one wearing a lovely gold bed-sheet,’ said Graeme, studying the group photo in the newspaper, ‘but I don’t think that’s enough to build a solid friendship on, really.’

  ‘Gaddafi was our “friend” too for a while, or at least he was a friend of France. They allowed him to pitch his gigantic tent in the heart of Paris whenever he took a break from torturing people back home in Libya,’ said Leonie.

  Hey, that’s supposed to be my hobbyhorse!

  Thursday, 19 November

  I miss playing chess with Evert. It wasn’t about winning, it was about the pleasure we took in each other’s company, even if that sounds a bit naff. Sometimes, in order to make it a bit more difficult for myself, I’d sacrifice a rook ‘by accident’.

  Now I have been reduced to Rummikubbing. Where I used to trundle off to Evert’s sheltered flat at about 4 p.m., I now head over to Ria and Antoine’s, Graeme’s or Edward’s in the late afternoon. None of them play chess. Graeme does know how to play draughts, but not well enough to pull off a draw. I’m working my way through the Big Box of Games with Ria and Antoine: Snakes and Ladders, Risk, Yahtzee and Rummikub. Once a week I challenge Edward to a game of backgammon. For pennies.

  Geert doesn’t like board games; Leonie will occasionally join Ria, Antoine and me for a round.

  Yes, it’s a bit of a duffer’s existence. Evert used to provide a bit of spice to the proceedings. I miss him, but I gave him my word that I wouldn’t whine or fret.

  ‘The point of living is the zest for life,’ I once read somewhere, but right now the zest is hard to find.

  There seems to be a curious new vogue for terror-attack merchandise: the slogan Pray for Paris on baby bibs, dog jackets, golf balls, beer mugs, shower curtains and who knows what else. All available less than a week after the attack.

  The Residents’ Committee has decided not to cancel bingo, to show that we are not going to let terror have the last word.

  It was Mrs Slothouwer who thought that all activities should be called off out of respect for the victims. The fact that she never participates in any of those same activities has nothing to do with it, according to her.

  There are some residents who are genuinely terrified that the next target could well be an old people’s home.

  ‘We are so very vulnerable,’ sighed Mrs Schaap. She would like to see a permanent sentry stationed at the front door. And at every door in the Netherlands, why not? Where those hundreds of thousands of guards were supposed to come from, she couldn’t say.

  Friday, 20 November

  There are so many books being published for or about the elderly that it’s hard to keep up. It’s a growth area, apparently. I myself have the following books lying on my dresser: More Joy than Greyness, The Happy Granny, Cookbook for Seniors, The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared and two novels by Maarten’t Hart and Adriaan van Dis, both about their aged mothers. All second-hand, passed on to me by Graeme, and not yet read. I don’t really like to read about the elderly. The older I get, the more I find myself loathing old age and everything to do with it. I am rather enjoying the poetry collection titled The Old Are the Happiest; but it isn’t really about old people. I recently spotted a poster in town that said ‘OLD IS GREAT’, but it turned out it had to do with cheese.

  The last book I read: CV by Carel Helder. A splendid hotch-potch of a book, with nary an old person in it. And, the thing I seem to be more and more partial to: short chapters. Reading, you see, is becoming a bit of a problem. I tend to nod off, even if it’s a very good book. It isn’t a matter of burn-out; it’s more like a breakdown of the faculties, I’m afraid.

  Sister Morales has leaked another piece of news: th
e new director is shortly planning to have the porter replaced with cameras.

  ‘I thought you should know,’ she said in a whisper, in her lovely Spanish accent. ‘I saw it in Mr Kerkhof’s office. I “tidy up” in there,’ she added with a conspiratorial wink, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one could see or hear us.

  I’m rather in two minds about this informant, since I suspect she likes to tattle because she hates bosses. I shall give her the benefit of the doubt for now. There’s no need to be more Papist than the Pope, after all, and last time her information did turn out to be true. I hinted that it might be better to have these things in black and white.

  ‘Black and white?’ Morales didn’t understand.

  ‘On paper, I mean.’

  Oh, that was no problem.

  This corporate espionage does make me a bit jittery. Leonie was over the moon when I took her into my confidence. We decided not to involve the others for now.

  ‘That way, when they’re cross-examined, they won’t spill the beans,’ Leonie said with a sneaky grin.

  Saturday, 21 November

  I have made a list of things I will henceforth no longer allow myself to get annoyed at. It’s going to be a matter of persistence, since these are things that have been irking me for many years. But I believe that at my age I should be able to rise above them.

  In no particular order:

  A cup handle too small for your finger.

  Dogs with bandannas round their necks.

  George Baker’s laugh.

  Teapots that leak when you pour.

  ‘The Winner Takes It All’ by ABBA.

  Minuscule illegible lettering on packaging.

  Packaging impossible to get open.

  Nordic walking.

  Tiny waste baskets (e.g. in a train compartment).

  People who boast that they’re real people-persons.

  There are many other irritants, of course, but these ten will do for now.

  Since Evert’s death I find myself drinking less. Every cloud has a silver lining. And the titbits I’m served at Ria and Antoine’s are also rather more refined than the hunks of liverwurst or cheese Evert used to serve with the brandy. Pieces so big that they required you to tear at them with your teeth.

  I miss my uncouth friend terribly.

  ‘Don’t mind me, I just have to dredge the boogers out of my nose,’ he would say just as you were about to help yourself, and out would come a huge red handkerchief, into which he’d blow his nose with a great deal of noise.

  ‘Bon appétit, Hendrik,’ he’d say when he was done.

  Sunday, 22 November

  ‘A woman is like chewing gum,’ Mr De Grave said to me under his breath. ‘After a while it loses its taste.’ He had looked round first to make sure his wife wasn’t back from the lavatory yet. She won’t leave him alone for a second. When she has to go to the loo, she’d like nothing better than to have him wait outside the door, but that is taking it a bit too far, even for her rather docile spouse.

  ‘She’s always on my tail, not literally of course, but it’s what she would really like, to be glued to my back.’ Mr De Grave gives a martyred impression. I had nothing to offer him. I can hardly advise him to give her a little push when they’re standing at the top of the stairs. He’s a prisoner until one of them dies.

  At that point Mrs De Grave had returned to the recreation room. Her eyes darted about. When they landed on her husband, she made a beeline for him.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Groen, but we have to go upstairs. Come, Bert.’

  Bert nodded and shuffled after her, leaning on his cane. She is going to make his life hell until she draws her last breath. I doubt she knows that she is a very stale piece of chewing gum.

  This afternoon I’m going out for a spin with Geert. It’s the first time we’ll need our gloves and winter coats. It was warm for November until just recently, but now the red-noses season is here.

  Monday, 23 November

  The cold yesterday seemed to work on Geert’s bladder a bit. Half an hour into our ride he suddenly had to pee urgently. We were in the heart of Het Twiske, the nature reserve on the edge of North Amsterdam. It does have some toilet facilities, so we drove in a hurry to the closest one, Geert wiggling from side to side on his motorized wheelchair. On reaching the little hut, Geert hobbled up the path as fast as his aged legs would allow. He yanked at the door, and began cursing and swearing: closed for autumn and winter. As if people won’t need to relieve themselves over the next six months.

  The need was so acute that Geert disappeared round the corner of the little building. At that moment the park ranger’s car came driving up. It stopped next to me, and two gentlemen got out, dressed in forest ranger costumes.

  ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. Nothing’s going on. Just a rather pressing need to go,’ I said as nonchalantly as I could. One of them promptly went to have a look round the corner of the building. A few moments later Geert, fuming, came back into view, trying to straighten his clothes and to close his flies under his bulky winter coat. The park ranger followed close behind. He took out a little notepad.

  ‘I am citing you for urinating in public.’

  ‘Public, public, I’m standing in a deserted park behind a lavatory that’s locked!’ Geert steamed.

  That was clearly of no concern to the custodian. He seemed to be the kind of man who’s very fond of the authority his uniform gives him. Luckily his colleague interceded.

  ‘Leave it, Ard. It’s fine.’

  Ard clearly thought the law should be upheld, but reluctantly conceded to the other man, apparently his superior.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’

  ‘The same to you, gentlemen.’

  And they were gone. I thought it was funny. Geert did not.

  ‘I got my shoes wet too, goddamn it.’

  ‘Buck up, Geert, at least we’ve had a bit of excitement.’

  Then he too had to chuckle.

  Tuesday, 24 November

  The pork chop Cook served us yesterday had a small splinter of bone in it. It broke one of the last three molars I still possess. I carefully pried the piece of bone and half of a molar out of my mouth.

  ‘What is that?’ asked Ria.

  ‘This is a piece of bone, and this is a piece of my molar,’ I said despondently.

  The word went round: Mr Groen just broke a tooth.

  ‘You should sue the cook!’ Mrs Slothouwer said, seated at a table behind me.

  The conversation turned to missing teeth.

  ‘I can still remember what it felt like,’ said Ria, ‘when your milk tooth was just hanging on by a thread after you’d been working at it with your tongue for days. It hurt in a nice sort of way. You didn’t dare give it that final pull.’

  Antoine disclosed that he’d once swallowed a tooth by accident.

  ‘I’ve swallowed five front teeth and two molars,’ Mr Dickhout bragged. He likes to turn everything into a competition.

  ‘Anything you can do, I can do better, eh, Dickhout,’ said Geert.

  ‘Yes, so what?’

  ‘Once the tooth was out, the hole always seemed so huge when you felt it with your tongue,’ Ria said to bring the conversation back to a safer place. There were vehement nods of agreement.

  Yes, yes, never a dull moment here.

  The weather is most depressing: grey, wet, cold and blustery. I nevertheless make myself go outside every day, either for a little stroll or for a ride. Whenever I find myself hesitating, I glance at a little yellow sticky neatly framed above the dresser. In an untidy scribble it says: ‘NO WHINING, GROEN, ACTION!!!!’

  I found the note in a drawer last week. Once, when I’d cancelled an appointment for reasons of constipation, Evert had posted it on my toilet seat. The greatest hazard for the old is laziness. It makes the body grind to a halt. And then you might as well forget about starting over. I rarely regret the things I reluctantly make myself do. Even a
fter struggling against wind and rain, I can tell myself smugly when I get home: I’m glad I did it. That’s crucial: reminding yourself beforehand how you’ll feel about it afterwards.

  Wednesday, 25 November

  ‘We’re a bit old-fashioned here, but that’s allowed, since most of us are in our late eighties, and we’re still rather fond of Zwarte Piet (Black Pete), even if some people now feel it’s racist,’ Antoine said.

  ‘Zwarte Piet is a smashing fellow. If I were black I’d be bursting with pride about him,’ Geert declared.

  ‘Age discrimination is really a much more serious problem,’ Graeme suggested, ‘because I’d like to see a very young Sinterklaas for a change, accompanied by a couple of doddering, grey-haired Black Piets.’

  ‘But wouldn’t Sinterklaas then have a black beard?’ asked Ria.

  ‘In which case he may have to get frisked before setting out on his ride across the rooftops,’ Graeme hypothesized.

  ‘Well, with all those suspicious unclaimed packages, it’s going to be a shambles anyway. The fear of bombs is taking on hysterical proportions. Soon all packages, whether or not they’re gifts, will be outlawed.’

  This was at an Old-But-Not-Dead Club meeting; the members putting their own unique stamp on society’s conundrums. There was a great deal of laughter.

  We had one serious item on the agenda: should we try to find a new member to replace Evert, and if so, who?

  All agreed that we’d welcome some fresh blood, even if only to save our Club from having to be disbanded some day for want of members. But we are going to take our time. At the next meeting, after Sinterklaas (St Nicholas’ Day), each member can propose someone new, but it’s not compulsory. Then we’ll try out the candidates for a few weeks without telling them they’ve been nominated, and then we’ll put it to a vote. All rather involved, but that’s on purpose, because it’s a critical choice. Besides, it will keep us occupied. The older you are, the truer the adage that rest leads to rust.