After eating at long tables in the gym, they rode bikes, ran or rode scooters in a disorderly rush to the swimming pool. Not a single teacher called out ‘let your food settle first’. Johan went looking for Jan, shouted, ‘Wait for me!’ a couple of times, and was relieved to find that his big brother really was waiting for him at the entrance, together with Peter Breebaart. Jan still looked miserable, his anger was still eating away at him. Silently they held up their season tickets at the ticket office. ‘Ah, if it’s not the Kaan boys again,’ said the ticket lady with the black hair. She was smoking a cigarette. That made Jan even crosser. It wasn’t his fault that there were three boys and one girl in his family and that they were all called Kaan. There wasn’t anything he could do about it. He gave the woman a dirty look. ‘Now, now,’ she said, stubbing out her cigarette. ‘The Kaan boys are moody today.’
Johan wanted to go into a cubicle with Jan. Jan pushed him out of the way and went into one with Peter. Inside they quickly turned the lock.
‘Dickheads,’ said Johan, two cubicles down.
They changed and came out of their cubicles at exactly the same time, hanging their swimming bags, clothes and sandals up in the big changing room with the hooks. Then Jan and Peter crossed the imaginary line that divided the swimming pool grounds in half, indicated by a white sign with the words Experienced swimmers only past this point. Now they’d got rid of Johan, who had swimming lessons in zone two and wasn’t allowed to cross the line. Music was coming out of the funnel-shaped speakers on the ticket booth. The ticket lady had turned on the radio.
They hadn’t even bothered writing numbers on the temperature sign next to the sweet counter, just a drawing of the sun with a Dutch flag to mark the special occasion. The swimming instructor was already holding the long white pole with the hook on the end. Backstroke. Jan preferred swimming on his back to swimming face down. At least then you didn’t feel all that water pressing against your chest – in zone three it was at least a couple of metres deep. Deep water that, as he’d found out recently, could also turn inside out. And ever since Johan had asked the pool attendant if there was a bogeyman in the swimming pool and the pool attendant had just laughed, Jan couldn’t help thinking about that sometimes too.
‘Diving!’ shouted the swimming instructor.
They climbed out of the pool and lined up in position. Jan turned his head slightly. The ticket lady had turned the radio up and the song he’d heard earlier in the morning was playing. He sang along under his breath. Johan screamed something at him from zone two and he looked up and saw him waving. He didn’t wave back, of course. Peter nudged him. ‘See who can go furthest?’
Underwater, Jan realised that he hadn’t had enough to eat. He wondered if there’d be pancakes or French toast when he got home. He thought it was Saturday. Normally they had swimming lessons on Saturday mornings. Klaas isn’t here either, it suddenly occurred to him. No, he thought afterwards, it’s Tuesday today. And it’s not morning, it’s afternoon. Because he wasn’t thinking about the competition at all, he surfaced at least half a length past Peter.
He swam to the duckboards that separated zone three from zone four and pulled himself up to get his elbows on the wood, resting his chin on one arm and looking up at the diving board. Teun, the year-six boy with the yellow swimming trunks, bounced up higher than he was tall. Jan didn’t know what he’d done to deserve that hand earlier in the day. It was as if Teun wanted to protect him. But who from? The photographers? The Queen herself? It seemed like he was doing his best to bounce in time with the music until he pulled up his knees, wrapped his arms around them, did a somersault and plunged into the water with his body almost perfectly straight, not pressing his arms against his sides, but holding them out a little and bent slightly at the elbows. Did he already have his C? Jan stayed dangling there for a while, though it was quite tiring as the duckboards were fairly high up. He stared at Teun, who climbed up out of the pool and waited for a few other kids, mostly older than him, to finish their clumsy jumps. Again he got up to an incredible height and even from this distance Jan could see his hamstrings appearing and disappearing again, and that one knee pulled up in front of the other, and then both feet landing together again on the end of the diving board. This jump wasn’t as beautiful. Teun hit the water a bit crooked and sent thousands of orange water fleas flying up into the air. Jan shook the water out of his hair and lowered himself back down into the water. He wanted a pair of yellow swimming trunks too.
‘Come on, we’re not finished yet,’ the swimming instructor shouted.
Jan swam calmly over to the side of the pool. Peter was already up on dry land. He looked up at the big clock. Time was passing fast enough. Soon he’d buy a liquorice shoelace or a marshmallow. The ticket lady was nodding her head in time to the music. She was the mother of the boy with the yellow swimming trunks. They lined up again and waited for the swimming instructor’s signal. Behind the windbreak that separated the swimming pool from the fields beyond, a few lambs started bleating.
Jan had left Johan behind in one of the changing cubicles. A little later he left Peter behind, halfway through the village where he lived. By then they’d finished the liquorice shoelace he’d bought with the ten-cent coin in the front pocket of his checked swimming bag. ‘It’ll turn your teeth black,’ the ticket lady had said. The look he gave her in reply was just as dirty as when he’d arrived at the swimming pool. He rode through the village, making up words with as many ‘r’s in them as possible. Here and there, flags and pennants were still flapping in the wind; at the garage a man was standing on a ladder to take the flag out of the flag holder. It reminded him of that big bunch of flowers and he remembered that he was cross and sulking.
‘Jan!’
Who was calling him, now that he was almost home? Without realising it, he had almost reached the Braks’ big white house, which was just before his own. Only now did he really look around and ahead. What was the baker’s grey van doing there?
‘Jan!’
He braked, put one foot on the ground and looked back. Uncle Aris, Peter Breebaart’s father, was following him on his bike. I wasn’t supposed to eat at Auntie Tinie’s, was I? he thought. Wait, the baker’s van is parked right across the road, in front of the labourer’s cottage. But they were away. The baker was sitting at the wheel. Not properly, his legs were dangling down to the side, Jan could see that from the feet poking out under the door, which was wide open. The baker looked up: maybe he’d heard Uncle Aris calling too. First Jan felt like he was looking straight through him, but then he raised a hand very slowly and held his head a little crooked. Just like earlier that day. Then it had meant, I’m sorry. Except now the hand had gone up differently and his face, definitely from this distance, seemed even redder than usual. The wind was blowing on the right side of Jan’s face, the roadside elms were rustling. The sun was shining down on the road at an angle, but not now, because a cloud had drifted over. Jan kept his eyes fixed on the baker, mainly because he had no idea what he was going to do next, or what he was doing there in the first place. Since the baker had seemed to be waving to him, he too stuck his hand up in the air. They were both holding up a hand and Jan felt that this situation could go on for quite a long time, maybe the whole afternoon.
‘Come with me,’ said Uncle Aris.
‘Where?’ asked Jan.
‘To see Auntie Tinie.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ll find out later.’
‘But I’m almost home.’
‘I know.’
‘What’s the baker doing there?’
‘Come on.’ Uncle Aris laid a hand on his shoulder.
He turned his bike around. The checked swimming bag slipped down off his shoulders. He looked back one last time. The van door was closed. Uncle Aris didn’t say anything.
‘I can say “r”,’ said Jan.
‘That’s
clever of you. Say it then.’
‘I just did.’
‘Do it again.’
‘Rrrrrrr,’ said Jan.
‘Excellent,’ said Uncle Aris, staring straight ahead. ‘That’s a real “r”.’
Jan couldn’t be bothered any more. He felt like his ‘r’ had become completely meaningless. They turned left to ride back towards the village. Into a headwind.
‘Hi,’ he said to Auntie Tinie and Peter. But mainly to Johan. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Johan said. ‘Eating.’ He had his right elbow on the round kitchen table and was holding a spoon that was way too big in his right hand. His other arm was resting next to his body. He was sitting crooked and staring at Uncle Aris with big eyes. Jan looked away, ashamed that he had left Johan behind at the swimming pool and realising now, from the size of the spoon and how crookedly he was sitting, that he was still little. He was also ashamed of his sulking and his ‘r’. Auntie Tinie hugged him and kissed him as if it was the last chance she would ever have to hug or kiss him. She ruffled his swimming-pool hair. Then, after putting a bowl of Bambix on the table in front of him, she absent-mindedly smoothed it down again. She didn’t sit down. Uncle Aris did, but didn’t eat anything.
Peter was eating. The corners of his mouth were still black from the liquorice shoelace and he stared at the Kaan brothers. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ he asked his mother.
‘Shh,’ said Auntie Tinie. ‘Be quiet.’
Jan looked at the bowl of cereal in front of him. Whenever he ate at Auntie Tinie’s, he always got something yummy. He loved Bambix. He knew it was baby cereal, but he didn’t care, it tasted a lot better than the Brinta they had at home. Auntie Tinie’s fried rice was a lot better than his mother’s too, with lots of tomato paste and meat out of a tin you had to open by turning a key. He didn’t feel like Bambix now. It wasn’t even teatime yet. Uncle Aris and Auntie Tinie looked at each other. Johan was still sitting slumped on his chair. Peter had emptied his bowl and was about to say something. He opened his mouth, but thought better of it and leant back. Jan stared at his lukewarm cereal. It was quiet in the kitchen, the orange clock was ticking.
Then there was a sound. Auntie Tinie turned to face the window, both hands pressed to her chest. An ambulance drove past. Uncle Aris brushed something off the plastic tablecloth with a large hand. The sound faded quickly.
Peter couldn’t resist any longer. ‘What is it?’
Johan started crying. ‘I want to go home!’ he bawled.
Jan stuck a finger in the cereal. Almost cold and way too thick by now, anyway.
That evening Peter, Jan and Johan sat in a brand-new bath in a brand-new bathroom. There was something wrong with the tub: it didn’t seem to have been finished properly. The enamel was rough, very finely rough, but they didn’t realise until they got out again. Auntie Tinie rubbed them with a soapy flannel as if she was scrubbing potatoes, and washed their hair twice. Jan and Johan didn’t say a word; they liked Auntie Tinie. Peter whinged and moaned, and kept on shouting ‘Ow!’ After that it started to burn, sting and itch.
They had to stay the night. They wanted to know why, but got no answer. Nobody mentioned the Queen, it was as if she hadn’t even been to visit. They went to bed. Jan and Peter in one bed together and Johan in the other bed crossways at the foot of theirs. Peter soon fell asleep and Jan pushed him out onto the floor. He did that often, especially when Peter stayed at their house. He found it annoying, having someone next to him in bed like that, snoring contentedly or smacking their lips, while he couldn’t get to sleep because someone was next to him. Peter didn’t even wake up. Jan sat up straight and scratched his arms and legs. They kept on burning. He tore off the blanket and threw it on top of Peter. He pulled the sheet up to his chin, it was light and thin.
‘Jan?’
‘Yeah?’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m itchy.’
‘Me too.’
It was almost completely dark in the bedroom. Outside, it was still light. There were even birds singing. The curtains were thick and heavy. Johan started to cry softly. Jan’s head started to get itchy too; his hair was way too clean, his scalp rubbed dry by Auntie Tinie’s strong fingers. The phone rang, four times.
‘Johan?’
No sound from the other bed.
‘Come here.’ Jan heard Johan climb out of bed and, because his eyes were already used to the darkness, he saw him step carefully over Peter. He held the sheet up. Johan slid in next to him and sniffed loudly two or three times.
‘Something terrible’s happened,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ said Jan. ‘Maybe with Hanne.’
‘Where’s Klaas?’
‘I don’t know. Home, I guess.’
Johan scratched his neck.
‘The baker,’ said Jan.
‘What about him?’
‘He’s got something to do with it.’
‘With what?’
‘He didn’t look right.’
When they woke up the next morning, Peter was in the other bed. Jan and Johan stared at him until he woke up. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and looked around with surprise. ‘How’d I get here?’ he asked. An hour later he had to go to school while Jan and Johan were allowed to stay at Auntie Tinie’s. Peter shouted that it wasn’t fair. His mother gave him a whack.
Wednesday evening they went home. Klaas was already there. Or still there. They gathered in the hall, in front of Hanne’s bedroom. Anna opened the door and they went in one by one. There was a small coffin under the cracked window, as if the coffin had been positioned there deliberately to catch the light for as long as possible. Tinus sauntered in through the open door as well. He sniffed at the coffin and was about to jump up against it. ‘Get,’ said Zeeger, pushing the dog aside with one foot.
Hanging on the wall opposite the windows was a cloth of coarse material attached by rings to two bamboo rods, one at the top and one at the bottom. Grandma Kaan had made it. There were three Piccaninnies black as black on it, a fire with a pot, a few palm trees, a straw hut. The Piccaninnies were made of pieces of material and two of them had rings in their ears. The third Piccaninny only had one ring. The fire was made of pointy bits of yellow material, the trees from strips of green cloth. The roof of the straw hut was real straw and the poles holding up the cooking pot were satay sticks. There was a big orangey-red sun in one of the top corners, exactly the same kind of sun as the one shining in through the bedroom window at just that moment. The wall hanging had been there for a very long time. Klaas, Jan and Johan had reached the age of two in a bed under the three Piccaninnies black as black. No matter what happened outside, whether it was stormy or hailing, still or misty, nothing in the bedroom, nothing in the whole house was safer than Grandmother Kaan’s homemade wall hanging.
‘Go on,’ said Anna. She pushed her three sons towards the coffin. Jan mainly kept his eyes on Klaas and Johan because he was frightened by the strange yellow dress Hanne was wearing. Bought by the district nurse who, when she got to the children’s clothing shop in Schagen, didn’t know what exactly Anna Kaan had meant by ‘something smart’. Klaas and Johan couldn’t keep it up long either. Klaas stared out the window. Johan cleared his throat and looked up at Zeeger.
‘Was it the bogeyman?’ he asked.
‘No, Johan,’ said Anna, ‘it wasn’t the bogeyman.’
Tinus started whimpering. Zeeger grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him out of the room. They stayed standing there for a while longer. Jan didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help looking at Hanne’s fingers: no plasters, not even any cuts or scratches. The real sun was going down. Behind them the sun was fixed in the same spot and the leaves of the palm trees were still blowing in the same direction.
Later, Klaas, Jan and Johan wen
t to the kitchen, where their four grandparents were sitting round the table. It was quiet; someone had finally turned off the radio. That must have been Grandma Kaan: she didn’t like radio, TV or anything that wasn’t calm and quiet. They were addressing each other by their first names and to the boys that sounded very strange. Grandpa Kooijman saying ‘Neeltje’ to Grandma Kaan and Grandpa Kaan calling Grandma Kooijman ‘Hannie’. Hannie and Neeltje. Hanne. The first girl and both grandmothers’ names covered. Even stranger was the baker coming to visit later that evening, when Jan and Johan were about to go upstairs to bed. The baker, on Wednesday evening, without any bread.
It wasn’t until the following Monday, two days after the funeral, that they went back to school. In no time Jan’s hand was up in the air.
‘Do you have to go to the toilet?’ the teacher asked.
‘No, sir. I want to tell you something.’
‘Yes?’
‘No, sir, just you.’
‘Come to the front.’
Jan stood up and set out for the blackboard. He felt important; everyone was staring at him. He looked at the butcher’s son and the baker’s daughter to make sure they’d noticed him walking up to tell the teacher something very important. The baker’s daughter looked down, which Jan misinterpreted, because even after six days he still didn’t know what exactly had happened. Hanne was playing with Tinus, that was about all they’d been told. He’d show them. Presenting flowers to the Queen, so what! When he got to the front, the teacher looked at him expectantly. Jan gestured for him to come closer. The teacher bent down towards him.
‘My little sister’s dead.’ He whispered conspiratorially, almost proudly. Loudly as well, so the whole class, and especially the two flower-presenters could hear. ‘Did you know that?’
‘Yes, Jan,’ said the teacher. ‘I knew that.’ He laid a hand on top of Jan’s head. ‘And it’s a terrible thing. Go back and sit down again now.’
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