The Discomfort of Evening

by Marieke Lucas Rijneveld

  Today there was a mishap at school too. Luckily no one noticed except the teacher. She gave me a pair of knickers from the lost property box – there are things in there that everyone’s stopped looking for, so they are properly lost. Red letters on the knickers say COOL. I feel anything but cool.

  ‘Are you cross?’ I asked the teacher when she gave me the knickers.

  ‘Of course I’m not cross. These things just happen,’ she said.

  Anything can happen, I think then, but nothing can be prevented. The plan about death and a rescuer, Mum and Dad who don’t lie on top of each other any more, Obbe who is growing out of his clothes faster than Mum can learn the washing labels off by heart, and the way not just his body is growing but also his cruelty; the ticking insects in my belly which make me rock on top of my teddy bear and get out of bed exhausted, or why we don’t have crunchy peanut butter any more, why the sweets tin has grown a mouth with Mum’s voice in it that says, ‘Are you sure you want to do that?’ or why Dad’s arm has become like a traffic barrier: it descends on you whether you wait your turn or not; or the Jewish people in the basement that no one talks about, just like Matthies. Are they still alive?

  One of the toads suddenly moves forward. I hold it back with my hand so that it doesn’t tumble off the desk. Do they have silos in their minds? I rest my head back on my hands so that I can look at them close up and say, ‘You know what it is, dear toads? You need to use your strengths. If you can’t swim as well as a frog and you can’t jump as high, you have to be better at other things. You’re really good at sitting, for example. A frog can’t compete with you on that. So still that you look like lumps of mud. And you’re good at digging, I have to give you that. The whole winter we think that you’ve disappeared but you’re just sitting in the earth under our feet. We people are always visible, even when we want to be invisible. Apart from that we can do everything you can do – swim, jump, dig – but we don’t find those things as important because we mainly want to do things we can’t do, things we have to spend ages learning at school, while I’d rather be able to swim, or dig myself into the mud and let two seasons go by. But maybe the most important difference between you and me is that you don’t have any parents any more or you don’t see them. How does that go? Did they say one day, “Bye bye, chubby-cheeked kid, you can cope without us now, we’re off.” Is that how it went? Or did you go paddling one lovely summer’s day in July and they floated away from you on a lily-pad, further and further until they were out of sight? Did it hurt? Does it still hurt? It might sound crazy, but I miss my parents even though I see them every day. Maybe it’s just like the things we want to learn because we can’t do them yet: we miss everything we don’t have. Mum and Dad are there, but at the same time they aren’t.’ I take a deep breath and think about Mum, who is probably downstairs reading the Reformist magazine. You can only take it out of its plastic on Thursdays and no sooner. Her knees together and a mug of aniseed milk in her hand. Dad scrolling through teletext for milk prices. If they’re good, he goes to make himself a sandwich in the kitchen and Mum gets nervous again about possible crumbs, as though she’s from pest control. If the milk prices are disappointing, he goes outside and walks away from us along the dike. Every time I think it’s the last time we’ll see him. Then I’ll hang his overalls on the peg in the hall next to Matthies’s coat – Death has its own coat hook here. But the worst thing is the endless silence. As soon as the television’s off all you can hear is the ticking of the cuckoo clock on the wall. The thing is, they’re not drifting away from us but we’re drifting away from them.

  ‘Promise me this will stay between us, dear toads, but sometimes I wish I had different parents. Do you understand that?’ I continue. ‘Parents like Belle’s who are as soft as shortbread just out of the oven and give her lots of cuddles when she’s sad, frightened or even very happy. Parents that chase away all the ghosts from under your bed, from inside your head, and run through a summary of the week with you every weekend like Dieuwertje Blok does on TV, so you don’t forget everything you achieved that week, all the things you tripped up on before scrabbling to your feet again. Parents that see you when you’re talking to them – even though I find it terrifying to look people in the eye, as though other people’s eyeballs are two lovely marbles you can continuously win or lose. Belle’s parents go on exotic holidays and make tea for her when she comes home from school. They’ve got hundreds of different sorts including aniseed and fennel, my favourite tea. Sometimes they drink it sitting on the floor because that’s more comfortable than sitting in a chair. And they horse around with each other without it turning into fighting. And they say sorry as often as they’re nasty to each other.

  ‘What I was wondering, friends, was whether you toads can actually cry or do you go swimming when you feel sad? We’ve got tears in us but perhaps you seek comfort outside yourselves, so you can sink away in it. But more on your strengths, that’s where I started. Of course you have to know what you want to make use of and how you want to do that. I know you’re good at catching flies and at mating. I think that last one’s a funny business but you do it all the time. And if something you like doing stops then there’s something going on. Have you got toad flu? Are you homesick or are you just being difficult? I know I might be asking too much but if you start the mating season, Mum and Dad might get going too. Sometimes someone has to lead by example, the way I always have to set a good example for Hanna, even though the other way round works better. Or are you just mainly kissing now? Belle says there are four bases: kissing, fumbling, more fumbling and mating. I can’t talk about it, I haven’t even been able to bat yet. Even though I understand you have to start slowly. It’s just we don’t have much time. Mum didn’t even eat her rye bread and cheese yesterday and Dad is constantly threatening to leave. You should know that they never kiss either. Never. Well, just at twelve o’clock on New Year’s Eve. Then Mum leans cautiously towards Dad, holds his head briefly like a greasy apple fritter, and presses her lips to his skin without making a kissing sound. Look, I don’t know what love is, but I do know it makes you jump high, that it makes you able to swim more lengths, that it makes you visible. The cows are often in love – then they jump on each other’s backs, even females on females. So we have to do something about the love here on the farm. But to be honest, dear esteemed toads, I think we’ve dug ourselves in, even though it’s summer. We’re buried deep in the mud and no one is going to get us out. Do you actually have a god? A god who forgives and a god who remembers? I don’t know what kind of god we have. Maybe He’s on holiday, or He’s dug himself in. Whatever it is, He’s not exactly on the case. And all these questions, toads. How many fit inside your little heads? I’m no good at maths but I’m guessing about ten. You have to think that if your little heads fit about a hundred times inside mine, how many questions there are in me and how many answers that haven’t been ticked off yet. I’m going to put you back in the bucket now. I’m sorry about this but I can’t set you free. I’d miss you, because who would watch over me when I sleep? I promise to take you to the lake one day. Then we’ll float away together on a lily-pad, and maybe, only maybe, I’ll even dare to take off my coat. Even though it will feel uncomfortable for a while, but according to the pastor, discomfort is good. In discomfort we are real.’

  14

  There’s exactly twelve hours between the morning and evening milkings. It’s Saturday, which means Dad goes back to bed after the first round – you can hear the floor creaking until it’s quiet again upstairs. We’re not allowed to take our places around the kitchen table until about eleven, when he feels like breakfast. It’s been laid since eight o’clock, and sometimes I walk in hungry circles around it in the hope that Dad will hear my impatience vibrating up through the ceiling. Sometimes I secretly smuggle a slice of gingerbread upstairs and break it in two. One half used to be for Hanna but now it’s for my toads. When Dad finally comes to the table – first he has to shave himself so that he’s n
eat and tidy for the Lord’s Day – there’s still a bit of shaving foam on his neck and collar. It’s already past eleven and Dad’s bread is still waiting on his plate. I’ve already walked around the kitchen table four times and Mum has already spread a slice of wholemeal with butter, and put some brawn and a blob of ketchup on top, the way Dad likes it.

  The open sandwich reminds me of the run-over hedgehog I saw next to the road yesterday on the way home from school. It was a sorry sight: that flattened body with its innards a bit further up on the verge and its eyes pecked out, must have been by a crow. There were two black holes you could push your fingers through. It lay on a side road through the fields where very few cars or tractors pass. Maybe it was the hedgehog’s own choice, maybe he’d been waiting for days for the wrong moment to cross. I squatted down next to the hedgehog sadly and whispered, ‘Lord have mercy on us and be near. We are united in this place to say farewell to Hedgehog, who was so mercilessly taken from us. We return this broken life and lay it in Thy hands. Receive Hedgehog and grant him the peace he could not find. Be to all of us a merciful and loving God so that we may live with death. Amen.’ After that, I picked a few handfuls of grass and laid them over the hedgehog. I didn’t look back as I cycled away.

  I place a slice of bread on my plate and cover the entire surface very carefully in chocolate sprinkles. My stomach rumbles.

  ‘Is Dad still in bed?’ I ask.

  ‘He didn’t even go back to bed,’ Mum says. ‘I felt the covers – cold.’

  She leans over the table and spoons the skin off Dad’s cold coffee. She likes skins. I watch the limp brown milk sheet disappear into her mouth and a shiver runs down my spine. Obbe’s chair opposite me is empty too. He must be on his computer or with his chickens. Obbe and I each have twenty chickens: white Leghorns, Orpingtons, Wyandottes and a few laying hens. We often pretend to be two successful companies – his is called The Peck About and mine is called The Little Bantam. Once a year we have chicks, little yellow candyflosses on legs. Most of them are raised by the mother who keeps them warm under her wings, but sometimes the mother rejects them, not knowing what her wings are for. The thing is, they can’t fly with them – their bodies are too fat and heavy to stay aloft. That’s why we put their chicks in an aquarium filled with sawdust in the shed and hang the calves’ heat lamps above it. Sometimes I take one upstairs to the attic and let it sleep in my armpit. I wrap a piece of kitchen paper around its bum so I don’t get covered in shit. Obbe and I sell our eggs – a box of twelve costs one euro – to the chip man on the square. He makes the most delicious mayonnaise from them or boils the eggs for Russian salad. Obbe used to spend a lot of time with his chickens. He could spend hours sitting on an upturned milk pail watching one of his red hens take a dust bath. Now he spends less and less time there. Sometimes he even forgets to feed them and they fly up against the mesh of their run hungrily. I think he does it deliberately. He has started hating everything, so he probably hates the chip man and his mayonnaise too. That’s why I often give them bread and gather the eggs from the laying house and secretly put them in my box. I hope he’s finally cleaning out the run. Dad threatened to sell them if he didn’t do it very soon. Particularly in this hot weather, there are tons of maggots and chicken lice. You can watch them walking along your bare arms, little brown bodies with six legs, before pinching them dead between your fingers.

  Hanna has come to the table too in the meantime. It’s taken her just a few seconds to scoff the whole bowl of strawberries. Waiting makes us nervous because we don’t know what’s coming next – where’s Dad? Has he finally plucked up the courage to cycle off for good? Without a skirt guard though, because the cover broke when his bike blew over after church. Or did Dad collapse among the cows only to be trampled? I turn my attention to the strawberries. I’ll go fetch some new ones from the vegetable plot: Dad loves them, and he likes to eat them covered in a thick layer of castor-sugar.

  ‘Have you already looked in the cowshed?’

  ‘He knows we have breakfast at this time,’ Mum says, putting Dad’s mug in the microwave.

  ‘Maybe he’s gone to fetch some silage grass from Janssen’s?’

  ‘He never does that on a Saturday. Let’s just begin without him.’

  But none of us makes a move to start eating. It feels strange without Dad. And who’s going to thank God ‘for need and for abundance’?

  ‘I’ll go and have a look,’ I say, shunting my chair back and accidently knocking against Matthies’s. It wobbles a little and then falls backwards onto the floor. The crash vibrates in my ears. I want to quickly set it upright again but my mother grabs my arm.

  ‘Don’t touch it.’ She looks at the chair-back as though my brother has fallen again, always falling in our minds, again and again. I leave the chair and stare at it as though it’s a dead person. Now she’s eaten all the strawberries, Hanna starts on her fingernails. Sometimes there are bloody bits of cuticle between her teeth. A silence follows the crash, no one breathes. And then all bodily functions slowly return: feeling, smelling, hearing and moving.

  ‘It’s just a chair,’ I say then.

  Mum has let go of me and is clutching a jar of peanut butter.

  ‘You really come from another planet,’ she whispers.

  I look at the floor. Mum only knows Planet Earth. I know all eight planets, and know that up to now life’s only be found on Earth. My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nachos. Mum never serves us nachos but the sentence is a useful way to remember all the planets. If I’m nervous about something or have to wait too long at the traffic light near school, I repeat the line up to ten times inside my head. The line also makes me insignificant. We are all just nachos in an enormous bowl.

  ‘What on earth is going to become of you?’ Mum complains. Her other hand is now clutching the jar of Duo Penotti. Since Matthies’s death none of us has eaten it, much too afraid we won’t be able to keep the white chocolate bit white, that the colours will get muddled up until it becomes just one black hole.

  ‘We will become Big Friendly People, Mum, and of course this chair isn’t just a chair. I’m sorry.’

  Mum nods approvingly. ‘Where has that man got to?’ Again she presses the start button on the microwave. She doesn’t put me back in the solar system, but lets me float. Am I really different from the others?

  I quickly open the back door and go out into the farmyard, crossing it towards the cowsheds. I take a deep breath and exhale as hard as I can. I repeat this a few times and see that the sky above me is beginning to turn grey. It’s a perfect day to escape to the other side. There I’ll be in charge of what I do when and I’ll be able to eat breakfast whenever I want, but the closer I get to the cowsheds, the slower I begin to walk. I try to skip the half-tiles in the yard. Otherwise you’ll get really ill and you’ll get the shits or start vomiting. And everyone will see. Everyone in the village, all your classmates. I shake my head to get rid of the thoughts and notice that the hatch to the feed silo, which is next to the milking shed, has been left open. There’s an enormous pile of feed pellets under it. Dad is always warning us about rats. ‘If you spill anything they’ll start with the feed and move on to your toes. They’ll chew right through the soles of your shoes.’ The stream of pellets is getting thinner, and most have already fallen out. I run my hands through the pellets for a moment. They feel cool and pleasant as they slide through my fingers. Then I close the hatch and secure it to the side with a rope.

  Suddenly I’m reminded of the rope hanging in the middle of the barn that used to have a blue space hopper attached to it as a diversion for the cows. But one day the space hopper was burst by a new cow that still had horns. The rope was left hanging. Sometimes we nailed the leaves from a walnut tree to it, or one of Obbe’s Hitzone albums that Dad had confiscated dangled there, its shiny back helping keep away the shit flies, just like the walnut leaves. Now I picture Dad’s head hanging there instead of the space hopper. Mum often speaks for Dad. Who knows, m
aybe that was the case that night when I hid behind the rabbit shed. There are so many ropes in the countryside, but not one of them has a set job. He’s not standing on top of the silo in any case.

  Through the door to the cowshed, I see Obbe standing in the feed section. He’s forking silage grass in an elegant curve in to the cows, sweat on his face like the morning dew on the shed windows. The cows are restless, whipping their tails from left to right. Some of the tails are matted with dried-up dung. Every now and then we cut it out of the hairs with a hoof knife, more for the way it looks than for the cows themselves. With every elegant toss, Obbe’s biceps bulge. He’s getting stronger. My eyes dart to the dozens of backs of the cows, to the corners of the shed and the rope in the middle. Then the back door opens and Dad appears. He looks different, as though someone has left the latch open in his head, like a feed silo. The top press studs of his overalls are open, showing his tanned chest. Mum finds that inappropriate – what if a milk customer should see him like that? I think she’s worried the milk customer would go off without any milk but with Dad instead. Milk costs one euro a litre. Dad is made up of about fifty litres. That’s partly the reason Sunday is Mum’s favourite day, because no one can spend or accept money on the Lord’s Day. On that day we’re only allowed to breathe and partake of the bare essentials, and that’s just the love of God’s word and Mum’s vegetable soup.