June

by Gerbrand Bakker

  ‘And?’

  ‘And n-ow he’s on the t-rain and thinking, sh-it.’

  Toon smiles and looks over at the sofa where the three other guys are still slumped in front of the TV, feet up on the coffee table.

  Johan pulls the pack of Marlboros out of his back pocket and lights one. ‘He’ll c-ome some time. He has to come v-isit me some time, doesn’t he?’

  ‘We’ll wait till he does.’

  ‘Cut the crap, will you?’ shouts the third guy.

  Crap? Johan sucks in a lungful of smoke and then thinks of something, something from the afternoon. ‘A t-ree nursery,’ he whispers, leaning over the table. ‘Is that a lot of work?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Toon whispers, looking like he knows what he’s talking about. ‘You plant trees, let them grow, weed them occasionally, and then you sell them at a profit.’

  ‘Th-at’s all?’

  ‘Sure. Do you want to work at a tree nursery? It’s time you did something, Johan. You can’t spend your whole life sitting in the courtyard in your undies.’

  ‘Y-ou don’t m-ind that,’ he whispers.

  ‘Of course not. Beer? You’ve earned a beer.’ Toon stands up and gets two cold beers out of the fridge. He flicks off the tops and sits down again.

  Johan holds the bottle against his cheek before taking the first mouthful. ‘Toon,’ he whispers, ‘I’m not ug-ly, am I?’

  ‘Telephone!’ shouts one of the guys. ‘Toon! Telephone!’

  Toon looks up from the papers he was reading with a pen in his hand. ‘Johan, can you get that?’

  He stands up, puts his empty bottle on the table, takes the first steps with one hand on the tabletop. The hall door is still open and so is the outside door. The old-fashioned phone is on a rectangular side table. He picks it up.

  ‘Y-es?’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Jo-han.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Oh, Toon. Y-es, I’ll call him. Toon!’

  Toon is already in the doorway. ‘You have to say, “Good evening, this is the Link,”’ he says, taking the receiver from Johan.

  Johan’s legs feel very heavy. Although both doors are open, there’s not a breath of air in the hall. He sits down on the chair next to the table – the phone chair – and rubs his nose dry. ‘Do it y-our self then,’ he says quietly. On the wall opposite is a poster of a sunny island. With a beach, palm trees and a green sea. Next to the poster is a big pot plant. Judging by the sound of the TV, a police series has started.

  ‘Yes?’ Toon says. ‘Toon speaking.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Calm down. Take a deep breath.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Just say Toon for once. It can’t be that difficult.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘What? What’s happened?’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Cow shit?’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Johan asks.

  Toon waves for him to be quiet.

  ‘Y-es, b-ut . . .’

  ‘Johan, not now. Mother . . . calm down a little . . . Who are you talking to?’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘The baker? Which baker?’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Clean it off.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘No, you don’t have to go straight to the police. Talk to someone from the council first.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘I know it’s Saturday night. You can still –’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘The Kaan boys? Which ones?’

  Johan has long since stopped looking at the sea, the beach and the palm trees. He’s looking at Toon, who’s talking a little impatiently and tracing circles in the air with one hand. That means hurry up, at least Johan thinks it does. He’s a Kaan boy himself and the woman he just spoke to wanted to talk to Teun but there’s nobody called Teun here at all. Now Toon’s looking at him with a relieved expression and his hand has stopped going round in circles and started twisting back and forth instead. As if to say ‘that was a close one’ or ‘we got out of that by the skin of our teeth’. Or something else, he can’t think straight. Besides giving him heavy legs, the cold beer has also made him light-headed.

  ‘Mother. Wait. Did you see them at it?’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘So how do you know –’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘What’s the baker say?’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘He’s absolutely right about that. Tomorrow.’

  Johan can’t stay where he is any longer. His legs are itching, he can’t stop wracking his brain about which women he’s seen today except for his mother and Klaas’s wife, and he also saw the Piccaninny with the bucket full of cow shit, and although he remembers climbing up a ladder and talking to his mother, he now thinks about his mother properly for the first time today, that she’s up on the straw, and the bucket full of thrashing fish. Did somebody remember to tip them back in the ditch? He stands up and walks outside, where it’s still refusing to rain. But it does feel a little cooler than the hall. ‘Jesus H. Christ!’ he screams into the silent street. ‘It’s hot!’ He limps over to the other side of the road, sits down in the gutter and stares back at the building he lives in. The sign over the door says THE LINK; the neon light above it has already flicked on. He takes off his T-shirt. He’s tired, very tired.

  A little later Toon comes out too. He crosses without looking left or right and sits down next to him.

  ‘Do you think Jan will e-ver come to v-isit me?’ Johan asks.

  ‘Ah, Johan.’ Toon wraps an arm around his shoulders.

  ‘Sh-all we go to the s-tation?’

  ‘Later. Maybe.’

  A woman comes past with a dog. She frowns at them, or so Johan thinks. ‘What you looking at?’ he says. ‘Bitch.’

  Sitting

  Strange perhaps, but he can’t stop thinking about those French beans. After getting home and parking in front of the garage, he walks into the kitchen for a glass of water, then immediately heads back out to crawl through the branches of the first chestnut he cut down. It’s not easy, sometimes he has to hang almost upside down to pick a few beans. It’s not very solid, chestnut wood, and a few branches crack under his weight. When he thinks he’s picked himself a decent meal, plenty for two people, he calls it a day. He wipes the sweat from his face and puts the colander of beans in the scullery. Rekel is sitting on the tiles by the side door, making a show of yawning while doing his best not to look at his master. ‘You want to eat!’ Zeeger says. ‘I completely forgot.’ He scoops two mugs of dry feed into the bowl and moves into the kitchen to let the dog eat in peace.

  He turns on the TV and goes over to stand at the sliding doors. ‘Why doesn’t it rain?’ he asks himself out loud. He turns the TV off again. As he makes his way through the scullery on his way out, the dog growls quietly. In the garage he’s welcomed by the same guy who was reporting from the beach this morning, saying exactly the same things. When they hand over to Jan Visser, the weatherman, he realises that it’s a repeat. ‘Tomorrow, listeners, we’ll have a completely different take on the world.’ Good, thinks Zeeger. He picks up a couple of Christmas trees off the pile in the corner and inspects them. They’re still unpainted. He puts them on his workbench and picks up the tin of green paint. When he’s about to flick off the lid, he changes his mind and hangs the screwdriver back up on the tool wall. Tomorrow’s better, when Anna’s back and will call him in for coffee around ten. Maybe she’ll feel like going to the car boot sale in Sint Maartenszee next week; she can sell something herself too. The fishing rods are standing in another corner, he’s already tidied them away after everyone left them lying on and near the bridge. He emptied the bucket as well; there were alr
eady two fish floating belly up. Rekel comes into the garage slowly, his head hanging. ‘Come on, boy,’ says Zeeger. ‘We’ll go and sit by the ditch for a while.’

  The dog sits obediently next to the deckchair he’s set down between two willows. Zeeger thinks about the grave and decides that tomorrow – no, Monday – he’ll buy a sack of gravel to really finish it off. Light-coloured gravel. And maybe a new shrub? There was a conifer once, a conifer that was supposed to stay small, but after about four years it had already plunged a few of the neighbouring graves into shadow. He removed it just in time, before the roots went too deep. No, no shrub. But fresh gravel, definitely. I have to ask Klaas if he’ll strip the chestnuts. I’m not up to that any more. Not three big trees in one go. ‘Come down, woman!’ he shouts. ‘It’s light! Your kitchen isn’t dark any more!’ He’s startled the dog, which stands up and crosses the bridge, then wavers in the barn doorway at the border of light and dark. Something’s moving behind the tilting window in the farmhouse roof. The curtain slides aside a little and Dieke’s face appears. She waves to him. Zeeger waves back. She can’t sleep, of course, after a day like today. He wonders whether he’ll be able to sleep himself later: another night alone. Maybe she’ll come down off the straw. Everyone’s gone, the job’s been taken care of. She must get hungry and thirsty sooner or later? Dieke slides the curtains shut again. When he looks back at the barn, Rekel’s gone. Has it got something to do with Soestdijk too? he wonders.

  Soon after the party, Anna wanted to go to Soestdijk. She was irritable. ‘While we still can,’ she said. ‘Soon they’ll turn it into a hotel.’ One morning, ten or so days ago, they’d climbed into the car, although he actually found driving increasingly difficult and didn’t want to make long journeys any more. The drive went smoothly, but at the entrance they ran into a hitch. The woman at the counter asked them for their tickets. ‘Tickets?’ said Anna. ‘That’s what we want to buy.’ It turned out that wasn’t possible, you needed to order and pay for the tickets on the internet. ‘Internet?’ said Anna. ‘Do you know how old we are?’ They had to wait and, just before the first tour was due to start, they were allowed in after all, as a few people hadn’t showed up. It was quite a walk from the entrance to the palace and Anna had linked arms with him. He noticed that the guide annoyed her: she spoke with a German accent, as if she was entering into her role just a little too much. Anna was indifferent to the old rooms and grew a little nervous on their way to Bernhard’s study. There was nothing there. The room was empty. ‘But, why?’ she asked the guide. ‘Well,’ the answer went, ‘just as in ordinary families, things are shared out among the next of kin after a bereavement.’ ‘Terrible,’ Anna said quietly, so quietly only he could hear. A tear appeared in her eye at the sight of how run-down it was, how drab and decrepit, even the dining room, where furniture had been left in place, original and simple. ‘They sat in here,’ Anna said, running her fingers over a damaged sideboard. ‘No touching!’ the guide exclaimed. ‘Zeeger, they sat in here,’ Anna repeated, ‘back then too.’ Finally, Juliana’s study, also empty. But with new carpet on the floor. It was good that Anna was standing close to him because when the guide told them that this was where the old Queen had been laid out, her knees went weak and she leant heavily on him. ‘Terrible,’ she said again. ‘Did that poor old woman spend her last years in these run-down rooms?’ After that they did a circuit of the garden. ‘There’s nothing left,’ Anna said when they reached the greenhouses. ‘All empty.’ There were sweet peas growing in front of the greenhouses. It was a brisk day, drizzling. The next day it warmed up and it hasn’t cooled off since.

  Rekel comes out of the barn yowling, and when he lies down next to the deckchair the yowling gives way to whimpering. ‘What’s the matter?’ Zeeger asks. ‘Has she chased you off?’ A slight ripple passes through the dead-still ditchwater, the top of the ancient pear tree rustles. Zeeger turns his head. He can’t see if it’s already formed minuscule little pears, but in four or five months they’ll be ripe, even if it’s not always easy to tell with stewing pears: they’re that hard. And green. It’s only after hours of simmering at the lowest setting that they change colour. It’s a Gieser Wildeman, the tastiest stewing pear there is. If only it was October already.

  Flirting

  The young guy in the light-blue T-shirt is the last to board the 8.38 to Den Helder. It’s a double-decker, the kind that sings, something you hear best in the vestibule. It’s not very busy, but there are at least two people in each of the four-seat sections. He puts his bag in the baggage rack and chooses the spot next to a girl reading a newspaper. Opposite her is a man with ginger hair. He has his bag on the seat next to him and is staring out the window. His forehead is burnt. The young guy feels that the T-shirt he put on just before leaving for the train station is already wet. The air conditioning doesn’t seem to be working properly. He’s jealous of the girl next to him, not a trace of sweat on her nose. The ginger-haired guy seems to be feeling the heat too, though. He runs a hand over the back of his neck and looks at him. A little too long. Then he moves his lips as if he’s saying ‘fucking hot’, but in that very same moment the conductor announces ‘Anna Paulowna’ over the PA. When the doors open, a very brief draught passes through the carriage. Nobody gets on. The young guy slumps down on his seat, making sure to end up with his legs spread. He pushes his long blond hair back behind one ear. He can smell himself: fresh sweat and deodorant. Nice. Maybe the man can smell him too.

  ‘Ticket?’ He opens his eyes. The conductor is looking at him impatiently. He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, gets his ticket out and hands it to the conductor. The girl next to him shows a monthly pass. The man looks through his wallet, starts to blush and looks up apologetically. ‘I don’t have a ticket,’ he says. ‘I completely forgot.’

  ‘No problem,’ says the conductor. ‘Off-peak discount?’

  He shows her his card.

  She writes out a ticket and charges him two forty. Apparently she’s in a good mood this evening. Then she gives his card a closer appraisal. ‘This is almost expired,’ she says.

  ‘I know,’ the man says. ‘Thanks.’

  As the conductor strolls off, the young guy gives the man a conspiratorial glance. The man turns away and puts his wallet back in the front pocket of his rucksack. Evidently he really had forgotten. The girl has to get off at Den Helder South. He flops his legs to one side to let her pass, then slides over to the window so that he’s directly opposite the man. He spreads his legs again and slides back and forth a little until he’s happy with the bulge of his crotch. He looks out: wiry grass, small horses in the dunes, grey sky over the bunkers. He feels that the man is looking at him, waits, then turns his head to look straight ahead. And keeps staring until he’s forced the man to look away.

  ‘Den Helder, this train terminates here. Please remember to take all of your belongings with you when you get off the train.’

  He stands up, bumping his knee against the man’s. ‘Sorry,’ he says.

  ‘No problem,’ says the man.

  He stretches to get his bag out of the rack and feels his T-shirt creeping up. He’s also aware of the sweat patches. The man can’t go anywhere until he’s got his bag down. The young guy gets off in front of him and saunters along the platform. There’s no harm in having a bit of fun. He knows the man is just behind him, he can feel his eyes on his blond hair, moving down to his bum, his legs.

  Walking through the train station building, he sees her waiting. She comes towards him. He puts his bag down on the ground, wraps a hand around the back of her neck and pulls her face towards his. She closes her eyes and opens her mouth. He kisses her long and hard without closing his eyes. Looking past her ear, he sees the man cut across the Middenweg and walk onto the deserted Julianaplein on his way to the Spoorstraat. He’s not in any kind of hurry. He turns back once. The young man smiles and pulls the girl closer. ‘I want you,’ he says, but sees himself
: his six-pack, his damp neck, his hands on her breasts and belly.

  Swearing

  ‘Oh, fucking hell.’ The Dutch Navy Museum employee is standing with his hands on his hips and his head tilted back to look up at the side of the Tonijn. Someone had noticed something strange and called the museum and, since it was after closing time, a message had ended up on the answering machine. He’s in the habit of checking the answering machine on Saturday evenings; people often ring up enquiring about opening hours on Sundays or requesting other information. Plus he doesn’t mind having something to do. In the summer he likes to take an evening walk around the grounds, which have been open to the public since the opening of Cape Holland. His wife often comes with him. This is something new, something that’s never happened before. How did they get that writing up there anyway? They must have done it from the top, it’s at least six metres from the ground to the bottom of the black submarine. They must have used ropes, but the letters are so neat he can’t imagine anyone daubing them on while hanging upside down. It must have been a right performance, with all kinds of climbing gear, done after the five o’clock closing.

  OH, YEAH? YEAH! No obscenities fortunately, but the lettering is enormous. Someone is approaching from behind, from the direction of town. He looks over his shoulder. A man with a small rucksack, striking red hair. He looks a bit sad. Sad and pissed off. The man stops and looks up.

  ‘‘‘Oh, yeah? Yeah!”?’ asks the man.

  ‘Makes a change from “Fuck you” or “Eat shit”,’ says the employee.

  ‘How’d they manage that?’

  ‘I haven’t got the foggiest. Maybe the fire brigade did it, with a ladder truck, because they were bored.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No, of course not.’