The Twin (4 page)

'Old? Helmer, you're nowhere near old.' Ada, Teun and Ronald's mother, is sitting opposite me at the kitchen table. 'Your father, okay, he's old.'

Ada has heard things from her sons. Things about donkeys and 'wooden strips' in front of windows. She is curious. 'You know who else is old? Klaas van Baalen, who lives just outside Broek. He's your age and lives in complete squalor. He can't look after himself. Just the other day they took away his sheep, completely neglected, balls of wool and rattling bones.'

I had forgotten that Ada drinks her coffee black these days, and put it down to getting old.

Ada thought it was 'fantastic', all the things I'd done in the bedroom and the living room. The blue of the floors and the woodwork was 'just gorgeous' and she was especially impressed by the spaciousness. I
did
need to buy a duvet, in her opinion. Blankets,
no
, that really wasn't on any more, that was 'very, very old-fashioned' and sleeping under a duvet was 'much comfortabler'. ('Is that actually a word?' she wondered afterwards.) She wanted to know how much I had paid for the venetian blinds and considered getting rid of her own curtains at home ('those dust traps'). Had I just thrown away the chairs? No, wait, actually she already knew that, she suddenly remembered one of Teun and Ronald's stories, something about a 'carpet house'. She'd 'simply adore' it, just throwing things out, making space, instead of always hanging on to everything. She walked into the bedroom one more time. Why did I still sleep in a single bed? In a double I'd have 'room to stretch'. She gave me a mischievous look when she said that. And that duvet, 'you really should, you know', because then I could buy some nice blue duvet covers and that would make it even 'fresher' and more beautiful.

On her way to the kitchen she spread her arms to indicate the bare walls of the living room. Art. Why didn't I buy 'some art'?

Ada is still young, about thirty-five. Her husband is at least ten years older, maybe fifteen. She's bursting with energy. If she had her way, she'd come to my house to clean once a week instead of once a year, in April, as she does now. She's treasurer of the local Women's Institute, makes quilts, is a member of a reading group, supports her local community and is busy planting 'the most beautiful garden in all of Waterland'. She reminds me of Mother because she is almost as ugly, but in Ada's case the cause is a harelip that wasn't corrected all that neatly. Her boys are beautiful, with blond hair, long lashes and perfect mouths. She's not from round here, and maybe that's why she knows everything about everyone for miles around.

I pour us a second cup of coffee and suppress a yawn. I like Ada, but her enthusiasm and open-hearted chatter still overwhelm me, especially when I've just done the milking and fed the yearlings.

'So you've swapped bedrooms with your father. How is he? Can I pop up to see him?'

'Fine,' I say, then lie to her. 'No, he's asleep, don't disturb him.'

Ada drinks her coffee and eyes me over the rim of her mug. 'Old . . .' she says. 'What gave you that idea? You've got a handsome face, a nice full head of hair and not an ounce of fat on you.'

I turn red, I feel it and can't do a thing about it. Not just because Ada says I have a handsome face, but most of all because I've lied and my lie could be exposed at any moment by Father. He's not asleep.

'And you're blushing like a schoolboy!'

Ada is sitting in my old spot. That's where she always sits when she's here, so she can see her husband's farm through the side window and feel like she's keeping an eye on things, even though the farm is more than five hundred yards away. I'm sitting in Mother's place. The hooded crow has been perching on the same branch in the ash for more than a week now. St Nicholas came – but not to our house – and went. It's a Saturday, the sun is shining and there's no wind. A clear December morning with everything very bare and sharp. A day to feel homesick. Not for home, because that's where I am, but for days that were just like this, only long ago. Homesick isn't the right word, perhaps I should say wistful. Ada wouldn't understand. Not coming from here, she doesn't remember days long ago that were just like this, here.

'Have you ever seen a hooded crow around here?' I ask.

'What's a hooded crow look like?'

'There's one in the ash.'

She gets up and looks out of the front window. 'It's enormous,' she says.

'It's been sitting there watching my every move for days now.'

'Nice,' says Ada. She couldn't care less. She turns and sits down again. When she talks it's as if she's got a ball of cotton wool in her mouth. That must be something to do with having had a cleft palate. 'What was that about the donkeys?'

'They left the gate open.'

'I'll tell them not to do it again.'

'I already have.'

'Has the doctor been back?'

'Yep.'

'What did he say?'

'Old. He's just old. Old and forgetful. He's been saying funny things lately as well.'

'Like what?'

'Ah, just things. About the old days. Sometimes I have no idea what he's on about.' I make a vague gesture at my forehead.

'And now?'

'And now what?' I put my coffee down and try to rub the warmth out of my forehead with my left hand. Left – to get my hand between Ada and me.

'Should I drop in now and then? I'd be happy to help look after him a little.'

'No, I can manage. It's almost winter, I've only got the milking to do.'

'All right.' She's finished her coffee and slumps a little on her chair. She stares out of the side window. 'No, Klaas van Baalen, he's old. You can look after yourself just fine.' She keeps staring, she's thinking. Maybe she's wondering why Father is in bed upstairs and why I have painted the floors bluish grey. 'He never even talks to anyone,' she adds, 'he's shy and lonely, and now that they've taken his sheep away he doesn't have anything any more.' She shivers. 'Terrible.'

'Yes,' I say. That is terrible.

'Why didn't you ever get married, Helmer?'

'Huh?'

'Married?'

'You need a woman for that,' I say.

'Yes, but why haven't you got one?'

'Ah . . .'

'That brother of yours, he had a girlfriend, didn't he? Weren't they going to get married?' If Ada really is thirty-five, she was born the year Henk died. 1967.

'Yes,' I say. 'Riet.'

'Henk and Riet,' says Ada. 'That has a nice ring to it.'

'Yes,' I say.

'So he had a girlfriend and you didn't?'

'No.'

'Strange.'

'Ah, things are like that sometimes.' I hear the scullery door open. Before anyone appears at the kitchen door, we both know who is coming in.

'Don't yell like that,' Ada calls out.

Teun and Ronald come into the kitchen together and take up positions on either side of their mother, their shoulders drooping. 'Hi, Helmer,' says Teun. Ronald doesn't say anything, he just stares at the packet of cake on the table.

'What are you two here for?' asks Ada.

'Dad wants you to come home,' says Teun.

'Why?'

Teun thinks for a moment. 'I don't know.'

'Do you not know or have you forgotten?'

'Forgotten,' says Ronald.

'We'd better go then,' says Ada. She stands up. 'Have you seen Helmer's new room yet?'

'No,' says Teun.

'Go and have a look.' She follows the boys into the living room.

Teun and Ronald try to outdo each other shouting 'Oh' and 'Ah' because they think I'll like it. They're right. I also like sitting here in the kitchen while people are walking around and talking in the living room.

They go out through the front door. Halfway up the gravel path, Ada turns around. 'I completely forgot to tell you that the Koper boy, you know, from Buitenweeren Road . . .'

'Shoot, Jarno, shoot!' shouts Ronald. A football hero. He himself plays in the E or F team.

'That's right, Jarno, he's going to Denmark to farm. Or did you already know that?'

'No,' I say, 'I hadn't heard that.'

'Jutland, I think. There's room to breathe up there. Will you say hello to your father?'

'I will,' I say, closing the front door.

I stand in the doorway of my bedroom and look at the woollen blankets on my single bed. The top blanket has frayed edges. I turn around and look at the bare walls in the living room. Some art.

'Helmer!' the old man upstairs bellows.

I lie down on the fabric-covered sofa and close my eyes. Denmark.

Denmark. Jutland, Zealand, Funen, Bornholm, the Great Belt, the Little Belt, Odense. Ada has got me thinking. Rolling hills, lots of room, heathland. Jarno Koper is a farm boy who has had enough here. Dark-haired, he must be about twenty-five. When I speak to him – which is hardly ever – he always says things like 'slush and muck here'. He's leaving, he's brave enough to go to Denmark. An old country: if I'm not mistaken the
mark
in the name is something Germanic, I'll check in the dictionary. I get up off the sofa and look behind me. The low bookcase with the rural novels Mother used to read is no longer there. I'll have to go upstairs.

'Helmer!'

'Yeah, yeah,' I mumble, pulling the dictionary out from between the rural novels. I sit on Henk's bed with my knees touching the bookcase. I'll have to rearrange things in here, there's almost no space to move and the dressing table is pushed up against the door of the built-in wardrobe. The stuff in the wardrobe is mine. The kind of things you want to keep or can't bring yourself to get rid of, but never actually need. There's
mark
. From German
Mark
and Goth
marka
, borderland. The dirty Germans – that bit of land on the edge of
our
empire,
that
bit of land where the Danes live. It also means a landmark, a boundary or a tract of land held in common by German peasants. Is that how Marken came to be called Marken?

'Helmer!'

I clap the dictionary shut, slide it back between the rural novels and walk to the door. Mother could read for hours in the evenings. 'Romantic soul,' Father would sometimes mutter when heading off to the bedroom hours before her. It always sounded nasty.

I shit twice a day. First, just after milking, the second time after coffee. On very rare occasions I get an urge to go again later in the day, usually in the evening, but I always ignore it.

If I think of it, I carry Father downstairs to put him on the toilet. I shut the door and wait in front of it like a faithful dog – dogs are supposed to be faithful but I wouldn't know, we've never had dogs here – until he shouts 'ready'. He has to go when I put him on the toilet. That can be once every two days; sometimes four days go by. He hardly pisses either, now and then I find a splash of urine in the bedpan. I empty it and rinse it out with boiling water. I don't know how and when that thing came into the house, but it is handy.

'What is it?' I ask as I go into Father's bedroom.

'Nothing,' he says.

'What are you calling me for then?' I walk over to a straight-backed chair with armrests next to the window, under the sheep painting, and turn it around. I try to avoid breathing through my nose.

'Get the doctor.'

'No.'

'I want to get out of bed.'

It's not something I would normally let myself be drawn into, but right now his wish suits me fine. I fold back the blankets and the sheet. The fumes that rise from the warm bed leave me gasping. I slide my arms under his body, pick him up and carry him over to the chair. His bony hands grab hold of the armrests. I pull the covers off the bed and take the sheets downstairs. I stuff them into the washing machine with a load of whites and set the temperature to ninety degrees. Then I take a bucket from the cupboard under the sink and fill it with lukewarm water. I fetch a towel and flannel from the linen cupboard and go back upstairs. Father is drooped forward in the chair. Apparently unable to support his own weight with his arms, he must have slid forward slowly and saved himself from falling by grabbing the chair legs. I put the bucket down and push him upright. First I take off his pyjama jacket, that's not too difficult. The grey hairs on his sunken chest are lying flat on his skin. I go around behind him and lift him with one arm under his arm and around his chest. I use my free hand to slide the pyjama trousers off his bum. The trousers are stained. Then he's sitting naked on the chair. His penis is clamped between his legs. Compared to his body and the skin on his arms and legs, it is remarkably large and smooth.

'Was Ada here?' he asks, finding it hard to keep his head up.

'Yes.'

'Why didn't she come upstairs?'

'She didn't feel like it.'

'Did she say that?'

'Yes, she said that.' I look from Father to the bucket and from the bucket to the floor, which is covered with darkblue carpet, and from the floor to the flannel lying on the stripped bed. I'm not getting anywhere like this. I go back downstairs and move a plastic stool from the kitchen to the bathroom.

'Cold,' he says.

I hold one hand under the spout and turn the hot water on a little more. I haven't planned things properly: I'm still fully dressed and now it's too late; if I let go, he'll fall. We don't want that, a falling father, here on the tiled floor. The stool is up against the wall, in a corner, so I can keep him upright with one arm. He raises an arm to protect his head from the jet of water, just as I'm turning off the taps.

'I'm going to wash you,' I say.

He says nothing.

I lay the flannel on his knee and squirt a good squeeze of bath gel on it. It's called Badedas and smells of menthol. It's not easy, with one hand. I start to wash him. Again he reminds me of a newborn calf, smooth and slippery, jerky. I want to run the flannel over his bum and to do that I have to lift him with one arm the way I did to take off his pyjama trousers, except that now I'm standing in front of him instead of behind him. I'm glad I didn't plan it properly and that I still have my clothes on, otherwise my naked torso would be pressed against his gaunt, naked chest. After running the flannel over his bum a couple of times, I feel his balls against my fingertips through the wet material. I lower him back onto the stool. God almighty, his penis is getting hard. I should really rinse out the flannel, but I use one foot to push his legs apart and quickly wipe his groin, making his penis get even harder. I throw away the flannel and turn on the taps.

'Cold,' he complains again.

'It's your own fault,' I say.

Slowly his penis sinks back down between his legs. After rinsing him off, I wonder whether I need to wash his hair – 'still a fine head of hair' Ada would say. No, enough's enough. I dry him off. He manages to stand on his own two feet for a moment.

Poised in the doorway of his bedroom like an old-fashioned bridegroom, I realise I've done things the wrong way round. I still have to make the bed. I put Father, with the wet towel wrapped around his waist, in the chair by the window. His dirty pyjamas are in a pile next to one of the chair legs. I make the bed with clean sheets from the cupboard. Then I lay him on the bed and dress him in clean pyjamas. My wet clothes make it awkward and it's cold in the bedroom. I put the two pillows against the headboard and pull the blankets up over him.

'I wish I was dead,' he says softly.

'Now you're nice and clean?' I ask.

'It's that crow,' he says, pointing with a trembling finger.

'What about it?'

'It's waiting for me.'

'No, it's not.'

'Yes, it is.'

'Whatever,' I say.

Father wouldn't hear a word about central heating. Mother disagreed, but her vote didn't count. There are two oil heaters: one in the kitchen and one in the living room. Now he can feel the consequences, upstairs. In the old days, when there was a frost outside, he'd leave the heater on low at night with their bedroom door ajar. When Henk and I woke up we couldn't see outside, so exuberantly had the ice flowers blossomed on the window.

Our hot water comes from a boiler. I haven't wasted all that much on Father, so there's nothing stopping me. I can't remember the last time I showered in the middle of the day. Now I smell like menthol myself. I feel young and strong, but when I take hold of my penis, I feel strangely useless and empty. I can't help comparing it to Father's. Mine is larger and that conclusion alone is enough to make it grow. Just when I'm wondering what that signifies, the doorbell rings. I feel my balls shrink in my hand. Almost no one rings the bell here, at first I don't even realise what it is. I turn off the taps and await developments. I can feel an artery throbbing in my throat, the water dripping on the tiled floor sounds like thunder. All quiet. I dry myself slowly and pull on a pair of underpants. My clothes are in the bedroom. I open the bathroom door and don't see anyone standing in front of the rectangular frosted pane in the front door. Before going into the living room, I peer around the doorpost to see whether there is anyone at the window. No one. I walk to the bedroom where the blinds are closed. Pulling on dry clothes, I again notice the frayed edges of the blankets. Once I'm dressed, I walk to the hall and open the front door. The road is empty. The hooded crow stares at me.

According to the handbook it makes a loud 'krraa, krraa', but I haven't heard it do that once.

All afternoon I hear the sound of the bell, echoing through the empty hall. I go to count the sheep and, although there are only twenty-three of them, I have to start again three times. A few days ago I separated the ram from the ewes and returned it to the farmer who lends me one every year. I've hung up the ram harness in the barn. It's only in the afternoon, when it's already dark and I've started milking the cows, that I think of the motionless figure I recently saw in front of the farm.