The Twin (23 page)

'Am I a kind of Henk now?' Henk had spent a couple of nights in his own room, but tonight it apparently got colder again and he slipped into bed with me for the second time. He was asleep for a while, but woke up and asked me if he is 'a kind of Henk'. I was already awake. I was lying on my side looking at the light that comes into the room through the venetian blinds. I was listening. Someone just rode past on a bike, a few ducks landed on the canal, the coots yapped quietly. Father said something, maybe in his sleep, maybe staring into the dark like me, at his curtains, behind which the hooded crow was dozing on its usual branch. I wasn't entirely relaxed in the first place, but now I feel even more tension entering my body. I know what he's getting at but I don't answer.

'Well?' he says. 'Am I a kind of Henk?'

'What do you mean?' I ask cagily.

'Your brother. Am I like your brother now?'

Something is going badly wrong here. When did this start? 'No,' I say.

He is quiet for a moment. Then he says, 'I think your father's brave.'

My shoulder blades are itching with annoyance. The selfishness of the boy: talking when he feels like talking, even if it's the middle of the night. I have to get up to milk, he stays in bed and gets up around eight to do the yearlings. If he gets up at all.

'You could just as well call him a coward,' I say.

'How's that?'

'You wouldn't understand.'

'Oh.'

'Go to sleep,' I say. I'm still lying on my side, but feel like turning over. I stare at the slats of the blinds, but see Ada's head appearing around the corner of the kitchen door. There is a mischievous look on her face and she says 'in a big bed you've got room to stretch'. Then she gives me a meaningful look, which still looks funny now, with that harelip. 'Two pillows, Helmer, two pillows.' When I think he's fallen asleep again, I roll onto my back and rub away the itch. I look at the dark frame next to the door. I wish I was
in
the frame and thinking of here.

'If you ask me I am,' he says, half asleep. 'A kind of Henk.'

God almighty, I think.

A little later he's asleep and I think about the ditch and the sheep. One of the sheep took too long and yesterday I removed two dead lambs. Was that the sheep that fell in the water? I try to remember what I thought or saw, what happened to me in the black minutes between drowning and regaining consciousness. Or was it seconds? Was it like that for Henk too? Or was he already unconscious when the car hit the water? I notice that my hands are clasped together over my stomach. As if I'm laid out. I'd like to lie on my right side, but that's where Henk is, so I turn back onto my left. Outside it is totally silent.

*

How does he do it? Asking Father how the dying is going, as if he's asking him if he'd like some more gravy on his potatoes? And how does Father do it? Answering 'fine', as if looking on contentedly while he pours the gravy?

The magnolia is in flower. Like a glacé cherry on a cowpat. Its large flowers are neither white nor red, but pink with a white edge. If the labourer's cottage was still standing, the top branches would be up to the dormer window. April has come and spring has gone away again. It's sunny but cold, and at night the temperature falls below zero. But still the magnolia is in flower. None of it makes any difference to a tree and the frost doesn't seem to have damaged the flowers. A very long time ago, maybe in the days when the farmhand was still living there, a night frost froze all the flowers. Two days later they turned brown, as if they had been scorched by a fire, and the petals, which normally fall from the branches one at a time, didn't fall. It's incredibly clear: from Father's bedroom you can see the lighthouse on Marken. The wind is blowing from the north or north-east. From Denmark.

'When your mother died,' says Father, 'you were the only one left.' He is lying on his side because I've told him not to lie on his back all the time. The piece of paper with the poem is next to the bed, halfway under the bedside cabinet, blank side up. 'And now everyone's gone. I would have liked another chat with the livestock dealer, even if he hardly ever said anything.'

'He must be in New Zealand by now,' I say, more to myself than to Father.

'Life is such a mess. Ada hasn't been here for weeks because she watched you through a pair of binoculars, and you watched her. And why doesn't Teun come any more? Teun is a nice boy. What are you playing at, Helmer?'

'Me?'

'Yes, you.'

I look out of the window. 'The ash is in bud,' I say.

'How many lambs?' No matter what happens, he doesn't want to lose count.

'Fourteen.'

'From?'

'Ten.'

He sighs. 'No one could tell you and Henk apart, not the barber, not your teacher, not your grandparents. Even I had to look closely sometimes. Only your mother and Jaap always knew who was who. Jaap always knew that you were Helmer and Henk was Henk. How did he know that? What did he see that I or other people didn't see? I never trusted him.' He's lying on the edge of the bed. His nails haven't been cut for a long time, a claw-like hand hangs down next to the bed. He moves his fingers, as if reaching for the poem. I'm surprised that so many words can come out of such a worn-out person. With the bed up on blocks, his searching fingertips will never reach the ground. Then he rolls onto his back. His arm follows the movement of his body and falls next to him on the blankets like a dry branch. He's panting slightly. 'I don't know what went on in the labourer's cottage, but I was glad he left,' he says, almost inaudibly.

'What?'

'Kissing,' he sighs. 'Men don't kiss.'

Until this instant I hadn't noticed the ticking of the grandfather clock. It's ticking irregularly, slowly. It's been a long time since I raised the weights. 'He . . .' Then I let it be, I let him be. I stand up and open the glass door of the clock. After I've raised the weights, the ticking is as good as ever.

'You never said anything,' Father says. 'You never said you didn't want to.'

'You didn't have much choice.' I walk back to the window and follow the line of the dyke until I can see the lighthouse again.

'No.'

I clear my throat. 'I didn't have much choice either.'

He doesn't answer that. He's still panting.

'And now Henk is here.' A car drives along the dyke, very slowly. The windows catch the sunlight so that it looks as if the sun is shining from inside the car. The chariot of the sun god. 'I'm not sure that's such a good idea,' I reply.

'No, maybe not,' says Father.

The chariot corners and changes back to a car. I turn around.

Father's eyelids droop, but his eyeballs are still moving. 'I . . .' he says. Then it's quiet for a long time. 'I have almost no body any more.'

I knew it. I knew he had read the poem.

'What's your name actually?'

'Greta.'

'I'm Helmer van Wonderen.'

She gives me an insolent look. 'Yes, I know that.'

'What's your surname?'

'What's it matter? I'm only the driver.'

'Fine,' I say. 'Whatever.'

Greta bends over and unscrews the milk hose. She's wearing trainers, but doesn't raise her feet to avoid the last bit of milk that runs out of the tank and hose.

'How's your boy going?' she asks.

'My boy?'

'Your helper.'

'Henk?'

'How would I know what he's called?'

'Why do you ask?'

'No reason.'

'It seems like a strange question to me.'

'Yeah?' She's finished and walks over to the cab. She climbs up. The young tanker driver always leapt up like a cat, pulling the door open as he leapt. Greta clambers, pants, grabs hold and hauls herself up. She has to pull the door twice before it shuts properly. I can't see her any more, but imagine her sliding her fat arse back and forth to make herself comfortable before setting to work on the gear stick, clutch and accelerator. After it's been quiet for a while in the milking parlour, I start to hose out the tank and wash off the tiles.

*

There's someone in the field. Near the Bosman windmill. I stand at the causeway gate and watch him approach the farm. He gets bigger and bigger and smaller and smaller at the same time. It's Ronald.

'It's all wet there,' he says after reaching me.

'That's the idea,' I say.

I can hardly remember the last time it rained and yesterday evening I saw on TV that there have been dune and heath fires because of the drought, but still the field near the windmill has got boggy. This isn't dune or heath here, it's peat meadow.

'What for?'

'For the birds, Ronald. They like that, wet land.'

'Oh, right.' He stays standing on the other side of the gate.

'Aren't you going to climb over the gate?'

'Yeah.' He looks around. 'Nice weather, isn't it?'

'It's like summer.'

'Yes. But it's only April.'

'How's your mother's garden?'

'What about it?'

'Is it looking good?'

'Uh-huh. Where's Henk?'

'Henk's gone to Monnickendam to get some cigarettes.'

'By bike?'

'Yep.'

'Smoking's bad, isn't it?'

'Smoking is very bad. But enjoyable.'

'Why didn't he take the car?'

'Because he doesn't have a licence.'

'Is he scared?'

'No. He's only just eighteen.'

'How old are you?'

'Old.'

'What did you do with Henk's head?' He's still standing on the other side of the gate.

'What do you mean, Ronald?'

'The stitches.'

'I took them out.'

'Doesn't a doctor have to do that?'

'No, it's easy.'

'Oh.' He looks a bit unhappy and puts one foot on the bottom bar of the gate.

I take him under the arms and help him over the gate.

'I'm going home now,' he says.

'Fine.'

'Just going to see the donkeys first.' He crosses the yard to the donkey paddock. The donkeys are over near the cottage and come trotting when they see him at the gate. Ronald sticks his arms through the bars and rubs them both under the chin at the same time. When he tires of it they stay there for a while using the top bar of the gate to scratch their own chins. Slowly Ronald walks to the road, kicking stones along in front of him. Not once does he turn back to look at me.

Not much has changed when I see Henk come riding up. I'm still standing at the causeway gate and the donkeys are still standing at their gate. They start braying and shaking their heads when they see Henk. He ignores them. He rides straight at me, brakes and stretches a hand out towards my head. I step aside, just like he pulled back when he'd been to the hairdresser's – how long ago now? – and felt my hand moving towards his shaven head.

He puffs a little, leans Father's bike against the gate and takes off his coat. He drapes the coat over the gate, then pulls a new packet of cigarettes out of an inside pocket. 'It's boiling,' he says, pulling the cellophane off the pack, flicking the lid up and taking a cigarette. The lighter appears from his back pocket. He lights the cigarette and inhales deeply, selfishly. The way everything about him is selfish. 'Boiling,' he says again. 'And it's not even summer.'

'No,' I say, 'It's not summer by a long shot.'

After we've eaten, Henk goes upstairs with a plate. I clear the table and start washing up. He comes back down – plateless – just when I'm wiping the last knife. He has the gall to say, 'He's not dead yet.'

I turn to face him, still holding the shining clean knife in my right hand and with the damp tea towel over one shoulder. 'Henk,' I say. 'Shut your trap.'

'Goodness,' he says.

I yank open the cutlery drawer and throw in the knife. I drape the tea towel over the back of a chair and walk into the scullery.

'Where you going?' he calls out after me.

I don't answer. In the shed the cows are calmly chewing the cud. It's quiet in the sheep shed as well. One sheep has started in the afternoon and isn't making any progress. I roll up a sleeve, make my hand as narrow as possible and feel my way round a warm tangle of legs, bodies and heads. There are three: this is the first sheep with triplets. Number eighteen. In a few minutes I've got them out. One is dead. A dead lamb is always a shame, but triplets almost invariably mean that at least one of them will need bottle-feeding. With just two sheep left to go, it's looking unlikely this year. Ronald has already complained, he loves mucking around with bottles and teats. His father doesn't have sheep. I lift the two remaining lambs into the lambing pen, then pull the gate open a little to herd the sheep through to the other side. I lay the dead lamb outside the sheep shed next to a dead lamb from yesterday. I'll have to call the incinerator tomorrow morning. Twenty-nine from eighteen. It could be better.

Coming back into the house, I go straight to the bathroom. I leave the taps running until the boiler is empty. I dry myself and wrap the towel around my waist. It's quiet in the house. Henk isn't watching TV. He's sitting at the kitchen table with his back to the side window. The curtain is drawn. He's smoking. The table is completely bare except for the butt-filled ashtray. I walk into the living room.

'Where are you going?' he asks.

'I'm going to bed.'

'Oh,' he exclaims indignantly, 'I'll go to bed too then.'

'Your own bed,' I say.

'Upstairs?'

'That's right, upstairs, that's where your bed is.'

'But . . .'

'But what?' I've reached the bedroom door.

'Nothing. Nothing at all.'

I close my bedroom door and go over to stand in front of the map of Denmark. 'Helsingør,' I say. 'Stenstrup, Esrum, Blistrup, Tisvildeleje.' Five names spoken slowly are not enough tonight. I do a few extra islands. 'Samsø, Ærø, Anholt, Møn.' The big bed is ready for me. When I pull back the duvet, I smell Henk. I lie down and tug the light cord above my head. It's dark. I hear him enter the living room. I hear him walking up to the bedroom door. He breathes in front of the closed door, I breathe here in bed. Then he walks away from the door. A few seconds later the TV goes on. Cigarette smoke drifts into the bedroom through the cracks. He rips open a bag of crisps. An hour later the TV goes off. He stamps upstairs and slams the door of the new room behind him. He doesn't think of Father, he doesn't think of me. He is young and thinks only of himself.