Riet is almost as tall as I am and her face is a less firm, slightly sagging version of the face she had as a girl. In it I can very clearly see the Riet who was long ago half hidden by Henk’s head in the pub in Monnickendam. Who, even then, I saw thinking, God, he’s got a twin brother, there’s someone just like him, how am I supposed to deal with that? In the eighteen months before Henk died, she didn’t deal with it. In her awkwardness she kept a quiet distance, avoided looking at me and made sure the two of us were almost never alone together.
On December 5th, 1966 her Saint Nicholas gift for me was accompanied by the traditional poem, but she had written something so trite and impersonal that I found it hard to keep back the tears of self-pity that welled up. Like an upset child, I read it out loud for the others with the parcel on my lap. Father noticed and — since he finds Saint Nicholas such a nice occasion — he rubbed it in a little by winking at Riet and telling her that I was used to grander things and was learning how to write poems full of long, difficult words “down there in Amsterdam.” He’s never had a clue. Riet looked at her feet.
“I’m starting to get cold,” she says.
“Let’s go home then.”
She looks at the headstone once more. In her face I see the question I had expected to hear much sooner. “Where’s your father buried?”
“He was cremated.” The freezing air cools my hot face. “And scattered.”
There is only one duck standing by the gate. The other one has been run over, steam rising from its warm body. That’s how it goes, one minute you’re alive and kicking and longing for a piece of bread, the next you’re stone dead. Riet shudders as she steps over the dead duck. I nudge it to the side of the road with my foot. The remaining duck waddles to the water quacking loudly. When we pass the school on the way back, one of the classes is singing: fifteen or so children’s faces turned to look up at their teacher in total concentration. I don’t know the song they are singing and stop for a moment to listen. Riet walks on without a glance. I almost have to run to catch up with her before the bend in the road.
When Riet stayed for dinner we had to get a chair out of Father and Mother’s bedroom. We put it next to Mother’s chair, on the long side of the kitchen table. Consciously or unconsciously Riet has now moved her chair a little to one side before sitting down, almost to the corner of the table. The kitchen clock buzzes. “It’s so quiet here,” she says.
We’re drinking tea. It’s almost time to take her back. Is she imagining lively scenes? Children or grandchildren? Highchairs, different wallpaper, a modern kitchen?
“You were the oldest, weren’t you?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“It was only later, when he was dead and I’d gone away, that I wondered why. .”
“Yes?”
“Why I chose Henk. I mean, why do things happen the way they do?”
“Henk chose you.” She’s annoying me again. Surely now, forty years later, she’s not going to pretend she had it all under control?
She looks at me and picks up her teacup. A respectable, porcelain teacup. “And later still, I thought, why was Henk the farmer? If you were the oldest?”
“I went skating with Mother and the hand while Henk did the yearlings.”
“Huh?”
“Somehow Henk always took the lead. He was quicker than I was and I have an idea he was better with the animals, even though we always did the work together. Father saw that and Henk was his boy, almost from the beginning.”
“But didn’t you want to be a farmer?”
“I don’t know. I always just let things happen.” Now that she’s finally asked me something, I notice how reluctant I am to answer. I force myself to go on. “At any rate I never said anything. I never complained.”
“And when he died you had no choice.”
“No, I had no choice.”
“The hand was gone by then?”
“Yes. Six months before.”
“And?”
“What?”
“How did you like it?”
God almighty. It’s as if she’s asked me how my life has been. Calling me to account for the life she should have led with Henk. Next she’ll ask to see the books. None of it’s any of her business, especially not the way I feel about things. Why is she here? What does she hope to find? “Fine,” I snap.
She sets her teacup down carefully on the saucer. “That’s good,” she says. Slowly her eyes fill up again and she turns her head away. For a long time she looks out of the side window at Ada and Wim’s farm. Then she sighs deeply and stands up. Apparently she’s finished here.
We’re about to get into the Opel Kadett when Ronald comes running into the yard. “Wait!” he shouts.
We wait.
“I’ve come to show you my hand,” he says, without looking at Riet.
“Show me then,” I say.
“Can’t you see it?”
“Up close.”
Ronald almost shoves his hand in my face. The skin on the side, under his little finger, is pink, pale and tight.
“Does it still hurt?”
“Nah,” he shrugs. “We took the bandage off “cause the cold’s good for it.”
“Did your mother say that?”
“Yes.” For a moment he looks past me at the other side of the car, where Riet is standing waiting. “Who’s that?” he asks.
“That’s Riet.”
“Where’s she from?”
“Brabant.”
“Brabbend?”
“Brabant. A long way from here.”
“What’s she here for?”
“Ask her, she won’t bite.”
He looks at me with doggy eyes.
“I used to come here very often,” says Riet. “And now I’ve come to have a look around.”
“Oh,” says Ronald, staring at my stomach.
“I was going to marry Mr. van Wonderen’s brother.”
“Huh?”
“That’s me,” I say.
“Do you have a brother?” he asks in astonishment.
“No, not any more.”
“Oh.”
“But now I’m going home. On the train.”
“Are you taking her?”
“Yes,” I say. “To the ferry in Amsterdam.”
“Is she going to come back another time?”
“I don’t know. Are you going to come back another time?”
“Maybe,” says Riet. She gets into the car and closes the door.
“We’re going,” I tell Ronald.
“Okay,” he says. He turns around and walks off. When he’s almost at the causeway, he turns around. He’s going to copy Teun, I can see it coming. “Where’s your father?” he screams.
“Upstairs,” I say, pointing at the sky with one finger.
23
“Upstairs,” Riet says when we’re parked in front of the chip stand.
“Yeah,” I say.
“What a joy to be a child.”
“Yeah.”
“He must have died fairly recently?”
“Yes, not so long ago.”
We’ve been parked in front of the chip stand for a good while now. The sun hasn’t gone down yet, but it must be getting close. I can’t see it, the train station is in the way. It’s much busier than it was this morning. People are going home in both directions. If the ferries weren’t operating and the Rhine barges and tour boats weren’t sailing, the water of the IJ would be perfectly smooth. In the distance I see tall buildings in a place I remember as empty. It frightens me, the other side. This side frightens me less, because I know exactly which roads to take to get away as quickly as possible. Riet shows no signs of wanting to get out. Even the bag on her lap isn’t standard for women of her age. Although the double-fisted way she’s holding it is.