Tirza

For the Vossius Gymnasium he made his bike with a lamppost and he wondered why we wanted to talk with him, what Tirza could have done.

He ran through the school with the briefcase against itself. There was almost no one more. Uneasy he felt, as always when he the role of father in the public had to fulfill. He played that role ideally as no one could see him.

At the coffee machine were three boys. 'Please excuse me, I find the local of Mrs Of Excavating,' said ship's steward. A small and rather dingy boy with an earring pointed out to him that he could come and while he walked up to the first floor, the briefcase still pressed against, he realized that he was reviewed and that he was ridiculous. Not ridiculous as man, it was to live with. But ridiculous as a father. A ridiculous father, that he was. Someone also always a deep unease had felt when he was in the school yard, when his children are still on the Amsterdam Montessori School, and he is in the middle of the other fathers and mothers had waited to retrieve them. Other parents chatted with each other, knew each other, wanted to get to know each other better. But he had to be hidden behind a tree. And if he is a baby heard Tirza declare: 'Look, there is your father', he had the tendency to look behind them, as if they had about someone.

The door of local nine was closed. He knocked soft, and waited a few seconds. When he was still a times harder. 'come within,' he heard.

He opened the door.

The local was empty, it smelled of sweat and chewing gum. An air that he could not remind you of his own school time. But what he could remember them? Little. The tool shop of his parents in Geldermalsen, which granted him better for the spirit.

Mrs of mining was at her desk.

On the board was something about them and their.

A chair had they already put ready for him.

Mrs of mining was a woman of final fifty, well conserved, sensibly dressed without too frumpy to come about.

They shook hands, smiling, not lavish friendly but inviting, at least inviting for a call.

They had already met a few times on older evenings. Mrs of mining inquired after his work and they called the names of a few recently published Dutch novels that he had not read. Apparently she was forgotten that he foreign fiction did. It forgets that often. As politely as possible he reminded her that he was fiction translated writer and then immediately she said: 'Tirza, let us also about her.'

'Yes,' he said, 'is not doing well? Are there problems?'

"I wanted to correct at questions. There are problems, Mr ship's steward?'

He outlined the briefcase, which he had in his lap time account, on the ground.

'Problems? No. Not that i know. Yes, they are now in the puberty, she is in the puberty, she is fourteen, but problems, no. She goes to celloles, that they will find nice, they sit on swimming, she has a good few girlfriends. I have the impression that a cheerful child is Tirza, she is a bit closed, but that…'

He made his meaning not. He took the briefcase and continued to be in his lap without having to know why. He was looking for something he did not only more what.

'Yes?' asked Mrs brunt. 'What did you say?'

I am also '. Closed.'

She smiled, but according to a ship's steward not wholeheartedly. Why should they?

'Is nothing you noticed?'

He shook his head and nip lightly into his briefcase. What would need to be struck him? He had overlooked something? He could not invent anything.

'No'.

'Dan i will have to say,' said Mrs brunt. 'Our is something seen and although perhaps it is, we have decided, in the light of our experience in the past with other pupils, also to warn you.'

He continued his briefcase should get back on the ground.

'Yes?'

He thought to drugs, or dealing with false elements, all he had no idea what for false elements that would be. Were there any false elements in the south of Amsterdam? There was on the Vossius Gymnasium thing as false elements?

Mrs of mining tapped gently with a ballpoint pen on her desk. 'We think,' she said, while they got on with taps, 'dat Tirza is to develop an eating disorder.'

Ship's steward smiled but only from nervousness. The word alone. Eating disorder. In a manuscript he had there with a pencil a line below. And then in the margin: 'consult with the translator.'

Ship's steward had as its views on what ugly words were.

'And on what basis you this presumption?'

The teacher was with tap. 'We have our experiences,' she said. 'If said, there are symptoms, there is a pattern of behavior that we know of.' She lifted her hand on and showed him in her lap fall as if they wanted to say: 'nothing I can do, that is the way it is.'

'us?'

'My and some of my colleagues.'

He nodded.

'True' he said after a short and fairly tense silence, 'and now?'

'It is not directly our responsibility to take action in such cases. That responsibility lies with the parents but we do believe that it is our responsibility to inform the parents. I have done on this.'

The parents, that he was. She had about him.

They looked at him. Apparently she was thoroughly discussed, because they remained silent. And they did not seem willing to say something more.

'And now?' asked ship's steward.

'Is there really is nothing you noticed?' She could clearly not believe. But it was nothing noticed. Yes, there was anything but it went on to the conclusions which it covenant.

'Eat them for example? And what if I ask you? How many? When?'

He kuchte.

'They has never eaten many, if not, they baby is a small eater. We are in the family almost all small eaters. I, her sister nowadays they do not eat more as much as in the past, my wife, all small eaters. But I will ensure.'

Mrs of mining leaned back. Her look was skeptical. 'Are you not of the opinion that they graat lean is? For a girl of fourteen?'

'Graat Lean.' He had never thought about it. Now he went to do so. Consider, dealing, in deepening of course thoroughly.

'and your wife, what is it?'

My wife is…' He kicked his legs on each other. My wife is an artist, as you know. She is much in her studio. Very much. To work. Painting, drawing…'

Mrs of mining stared him discouraging, he found. In fact without any hope. So they stared at him. Without hope. If on a funeral. When looked at its watch.

'Well,' she said, 'I have informed you. It is now up to you.'

He took his briefcase, he stood up.

'It is now up to me. Yes, of course. But what do I have to do?' he asked for her he hand shook. 'What is expected of me?' It sounded as though he waited a job description and perhaps that is so.

'What is expected from you? Well, you agree with Tirza talk. That to begin.'

'Over the eating disorder?' The Word was difficult, it stood against him. Deep Inside he believed that Mrs of Mining is digested.

'Yes,' said Mrs Of Excavating, 'over the eating disorder. If she has. And if not, then it can also do no harm to talk to her.'

'I talk much with her. My youngest daughter and I talked a lot.' ship's steward felt that he did not have to leave to how he was proposed here as a silent, absent father. He had to its correct.

'and which I ask you? Available to talk you?'

'Available? The last time a lot about Tolstoy. His rejection of the art of the literature, perhaps you know that fascinating essay by him, is unfortunately the only available in German, Was ist Art? In which he sums up the art as "eitle Kurzweil müßiger Men".'

Ship's steward was a bit harder to talk. He was always excited when he began. Eitle Kurzweil müßiger man.

'Daarover you talk with a girl of fourteen?'

He nodded and spent his briefcase from one hand to the other. He opened the lock but he was looking for nothing. He did it without reason. 'They is a very talented as you know. High-high gifted.'