‘There is no such thing.’
‘Sarah thinks there is.’
‘Okay. All right. Perhaps she did for—how long were they together?’
‘Three years.’
‘But then our grootvader comes here to slay the German dragon and the first Dutch girl he sees falls for him so hard that she still has the hots for him fifty years later. Some Mensch this mens must have been, our grandfather, eh? Let’s hope we pack his genes.’
‘And maybe his genes include a heart attack in our twenties.’
Daan shrugged. ‘When you go you go.’
‘Don’t joke about it.’
‘I’m joking?’
‘I’m serious.’
‘I can see, I can see! You’re serious, cousin-brother, you’re serious! Lighten up.’
‘Don’t tell me to lighten up. I hate that phrase, it’s so gormless. I don’t know what it will do to Sarah when she hears what happened.’
‘Hey hey! Wait, wait! You’re not going to tell her?’
‘But I have to.’
‘No no. It would be wrong.’
‘Wrong! Wrong not to tell her, you mean.’
‘You can’t be serious. What good would it do? Would it change anything for the better? No, only for the worse. She’s an old woman. Leave her alone.’
‘Geertrui was going to tell her. She thought it was the right thing to do.’
‘Geertrui is also an old woman. And it’s time you learned to say her name properly. She’s also a very ill old woman who is going to die soon. Half the time she hardly knows where she is or what she’s saying.’
‘But when she did know what she was saying, she wanted Sarah to know.’
‘Right. But she wanted to tell her herself. Face to face. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Look, all that is their business. Hers and Sarah’s. Old women’s business. The business of people who are equals. People from another time. Another age, even. Another generation anyway. Things have changed. It isn’t our business. Yours and mine. And it isn’t our business to make their old age worse for them than it is. Old age is bad enough even at the best, in my opinion.’
‘Well, what about what Geertrui says about lies poisoning the soul? Even just by hiding the truth. D’you want your soul to be poisoned?’
‘Souls! Who knows about souls? And she was talking about when the lie is your own, not when it’s someone else’s. We’d all be poisoned from birth if that were the case. For her the lie is inside her. She has lived it. It’s part of her life. So yes, if you want to say so, it could poison her. But for you and me, it’s outside. We’ve only heard about it. For us, it’s only information. It can’t harm us. Not unless we allow it to.’
‘It can. If I worry about it.’
‘That’s exactly what I mean! So don’t let it worry you.’
‘I can’t help it. I’m a worrier by nature.’
There were loud boy shouts and girl screams from the canal. Jacob got up and went to the window. A gang of tourists, twenty-somethings, in joky hats and rabid holiday clothes were playing silly fools with pedal boats. As he watched their hair-down mayhem a heron flew by at his eye level, following the line of the canal towards the railway station and the river, lazy beat of wings, legs like streamers, long neck doubled up, Concorde beak spearing the air. How lovely it must be, he thought, to see this old new everything-to-everybody city from a bird’s-eye three-storey height, as it had been to see it from a fish’s-eye boat level yesterday. Which reminded him of Ton. He wondered what Ton would say about Geertrui and Sarah. And what Hille too would say. He wished they were here now. But no, not both together. Too much to handle.
The domkoppen had started a race, pedalling like naughty children towards the sex district beyond the next bridge. Crying seagulls circled. In the old days there would have been sailing ships moored outside, their masts taller than the building. A two-engined KLM jet flew over on the approach to Schiphol. He would be flying back to England on Thursday. Two more days.
And suddenly he thought for the first time, surprising himself: I don’t want to go back. I want to stay here. There’s more for me here than there. And I can be more me here than I can be there.
He turned and glanced at Daan lounging on the sofa.
‘Meneer Smartass,’ he said.
Daan laughed. ‘Ja ja! But listen to your big brother, my worrier English cousin.’
‘You old men, you do like giving advice to us young ones.’
‘Hoi yoi! But, you want to be responsible for spoiling the last years of your grandmother’s life? Then go ahead, tell her the terrible secret. But no, you won’t. Not you. You aren’t a spoiler.’
‘Is that an insult or a compliment?’
‘As you want.’
He sat down again.
‘What does Tessel think?’
‘She doesn’t like any of this. She wishes Geertrui had kept it to herself. It’s upset her. She loved her father—I mean Dirk. She’s a Wesseling, not a Todd, she says. She knew nothing of Jacob. Dirk brought her up, and did it well. I liked him very much too. She’s his daughter, she says, not Jacob’s. She tries to put the whole thing out of her mind. But she can’t, of course. When Geertrui has gone … perhaps then.’
‘So she thinks I shouldn’t have been told.’
‘She thinks it’s a mistake. And she wants nothing to do with any of this. She hates that we will talk about it. And now she fears what it might do to you. She didn’t want you to come here. But on Sunday, she got to like you. She keeps talking about you.’ He smiled. ‘I think perhaps she sees in you the son she wishes I was.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish.’
‘As you want.’
Now he did not know what to say. There was too much, and none of it was getting through to the front of his head, where he always felt the words for his thoughts were formed. His stomach was in a tight knot.
After a long silence Daan said, ‘I want to make a call,’ and went to the phone in the kitchen.
Jacob didn’t move. His body still dwelt on his last minutes with Geertrui. While episodes from her story played in his head like scenes in a film. Making it more disturbing, young Geertrui was Hille, her Jacob was himself.
He knew there was danger of a mouse mood if this went on, but did not know how to stop it.
Daan came back.
‘We could talk about this all night, it won’t take us anywhere. What we both need right now is to take our minds off the subject.’
Daan’s energy gave Jacob a jolt. He knew Daan was right.
‘Sorry, I’m being a bore.’
‘No. It’s okay. I understand. We need some food. I’ve called Ton. He’s coming over for a meal. We might go to a movie later. Why don’t you play some music or something while I prepare some stuff.’
‘I’ve a better idea. You and Ton have been buying me food and drinks and doing things for me all the time. My turn now. I’ll make the meal.’
‘You can cook?’
‘Don’t sound so surprised. You like veal?’
‘Does a Dutchman like veal! Come on!’
‘Okay, then I need escalopes of veal, prosciutto, the crudo kind, fresh sage, tomatoes, good olive oil, white wine vinegar, garlic, lots of fresh basil. Let’s see, what else? Oh yes, stuff for a green salad, pasta, and fresh bread sticks.’
‘Italian. Good. Some I have, some we must buy.’
‘Not we. I must buy. And what about ice cream for afters?’
‘You’ll be in big with Ton. He looooves ice cream.’
‘I’m already in big with Ton without the ice cream. Lead the way, MacDuff.’
‘Mijn hele leven zocht ik jou,’ Daan sang with exaggerated lacrimoso as they made for the stairs, ‘om—eindelijk gevonden—te weten wat eenzaam is.’
‘All right, all right, don’t rub it in.’
Spaghetti, the thin capellini kind, dressed with a salsa of chopped tomatoes mixed with lashings of fresh basil, olive oil, a dribble o
f wine vinegar, crushed garlic, a dash of salt and pepper and a sprinkling of sugar, all returned to the pot when the spaghetti was cooked to make sure everything was hot.
Flushed with the success of his cooking so far and from the wine, which he was drinking too quickly, Jacob felt mischievous.
He said to Ton with mock innocence, ‘Daan took me to see the painting of Titus the other day.’
Ton and Daan exchanged grins across the table.
‘Daan told me,’ Ton said. ‘You liked it?’
‘Quite nice. A bit brown though.’
‘But he’s so pretty, don’t you think?’
‘Daan said Titus looks like me.’
‘Didn’t you think so too?’
‘I wouldn’t say I’m pretty.’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘Daan also told me that they’d found lipstick on Titus’s mouth, like someone had kissed him.’
Daan was chuckling in to his pasta. Ton returned Jacob’s innocent stare.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I heard that.’
‘But they haven’t caught the culprit?’
‘Haven’t they?’
‘They have no idea who did it. So Daan says. But, it’s odd, I think he knows.’
‘Daan!’ Ton said. ‘You never told me.’
‘No no!’ Daan said, grinning in to his wine. ‘I know nothing about it.’
‘What a vandal,’ Jacob said. ‘Why would anybody do such a thing?’
‘It’s a mystery, I agree,’ Ton said.
‘Maybe she—’
‘Or he, who knows?’ Ton said.
‘Or he—Really?’
‘Why not?’
‘Okay. Well, maybe he or she was mad. Off his noddle. D’you think? I mean, kissing a painting!’
Daan said, ‘Catholics kiss crucifixes sometimes. Orthodox people kiss their icons. I’ve seen people kissing flags—patriots, football fans. And sportsmen kiss trophies they’ve won.’
‘Like at Wimbledon,’ Ton said.
‘Are they all mad?’
‘You mean,’ Jacob said, ‘that someone admired the painting so much, or something, she—or he—kissed it like it was a holy relic or a trophy or something?’
Ton said, ‘Well, it is quite a compliment, don’t you agree, for a picture to be kissed? If someone loves it so much, why not? Instead of the poor picture hanging there, night and day on the wall of a museum, so neat and clean and shiny with its new varnish. No one allowed to touch it. People … what’s the word?—[to Daan] schuifelend—you know, like this.’
He got up and demonstrated.
‘Shuffling?’ Jacob said.
‘Shuffling,’ Ton said, sitting down again. ‘Shuffling by, most of them not giving poor Titus even one quick glance. Not one. The poor boy hanging there, his head down, with his pretty, sad smile, pretending not to mind. Think how lonely he must feel. So someone took pity. Someone showed he—’
‘Or she,’ Jacob said.
‘Ach yes! Or she! Showed he cared.’
‘And,’ Daan said, aping Ton’s tone, ‘they dared the risk of being caught. If they had been, imagine the fuss. Mijn god, het Rijksmuseum! Hoi yoi yoi! Such courage!’
‘There!’ Ton said, raising his hands in supplication. ‘Not mad at all.’
‘I get it,’ Jacob said. ‘A lover’s protest.’
‘Could be,’ Ton said. ‘Against the, how shall we say?—the mausoleumisation—is there such a word?’
‘There is now,’ Jacob said.
‘Okay, a protest against the mausoleumisation of art.’
‘I hope he enjoyed himself,’ Jacob said.
‘Or herself,’ Ton said.
‘Sure,’ Jacob said. ‘I forgot. Him or—’
‘And,’ Ton said.
‘And?’ Jacob said.
Daan couldn’t help laughing out loud.
‘Him and her,’ Ton said. ‘Could be …?’
‘Oh, I see what you mean,’ Jacob said. ‘Two of them did it.’
Ton shrugged.
Daan said, ‘Enough, enough! Call the chef. I want my veal.’
Escalopes of veal, each dressed with a leaf or two of fresh sage and a slice of prosciutto crudo skewered on top, gently and briefly fried, taken from the pan while still tender and juicy. Served with a green salad, which Daan had dressed while Jacob looked after the veal. And, of course, more of the wine, an Orvieto Daan had chosen.
‘Who taught you to cook like this?’ Ton asked, tucking in with relish.
Daan said, ‘Let me guess. Your grandmother Sarah.’
‘Right,’ Jacob said.
‘Now how would I know that!’ Daan teased.
‘Which reminds me,’ Jacob said. ‘When I was out with Ton yesterday, we had this talk about marriage, and he said I should ask you about your view of love and sex and stuff.’
Daan said something in Dutch to Ton, who laughed and gave an apologetic shrug.
‘Come on,’ Jacob said, ‘spill the beans.’
‘Spill the what!’ Daan said.
‘Beans.’
‘Beans? Why beans?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just what we say.’
‘Honger maakt rauwe bonen zoet,’ Ton said.
‘Not the same,’ Daan said.
‘Except the beans.’
Jacob said, ‘What did he say?’
Ton said, ‘Hunger makes raw beans taste sweet.’
‘Well anyway,’ Jacob said, ‘spilt or sweet, Daan, don’t avoid the subject.’
‘It’s too boring,’ Daan said.
‘Boring!’ Jacob said. ‘Love and sex boring! It might be boring to an old man like you, who’s almost past it, but to a young man like me, who’s hardly got started yet, it’s anything but boring.’
Ton said, ‘For Daan marriage is finished.’
‘Finished? Didn’t know he’d started.’
‘Meaningless. For many years now,’ Daan said.
‘Not where I come from,’ Jacob said. ‘They’re always banging on about it. Politicians and people. The importance of family life. The dreadful divorce rate. Tut tut.’
‘And here,’ Ton said.
‘The last struggles of a drowning man,’ Daan said.
‘So?’ Jacob said.
Daan put his fork down. ‘You want the lecture?’ He took a drink of wine. ‘Okay, here’s the lecture. Then it’s enough maybe. Yes? Agreed?’
Jacob said, ‘Dunno what I’m going to hear yet.’
‘No. But it will be enough. Then the ice cream. That’s the bargain.’
‘What a dictator you are. Thank heaven you’re not a politician.’
‘Or a husband,’ Ton said.
‘You want it or not?’ Daan said.
‘Okay, yes,’ Jacob said.
Daan wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘You’ve heard all the arguments. You’d have to be brain dead not to. Marriage belongs to an out-of-date social system, a different way of life from now. There’s nothing absoluut about it. It’s only a way of controlling the population. It’s about property and land rights. [To Ton] Overerving—?’
‘Inheritance,’ Ton said.
‘Inheritance. The purity of the … shit!—[to Ton] geslacht?’
‘Let me think … [to Jacob] Lineage?’
‘Line,’ Jacob said. ‘The family line.’
‘Yes,’ Daan said, ‘the family line. Only if the woman was pure when the man married her and she became his possession was he sure his children were his. And only if he was the only one who fucked her could he still call her his. Marriage is about the protection of the genes and about ownership. You’ve heard all this before. Yes? Well, it doesn’t matter now. It’s of no importance. Except to a few dinosaurs, like royal families and monomaniacal multimillionaires, and to people with a vested interest, like priests and lawyers and politicians.’
‘And not to them any more, to judge by their actions,’ Ton said. ‘Look at your British royals. What a mess, eh? What a hypocrisy!’
They la
ughed.
Daan went on, ‘As for eternal love, loving the same person for ever, living with the same person for ever. Can you think of anything which is more obviously untrue? It’s an illusion.’
‘Sarah and Geertrui don’t think so,’ Jacob said.
‘Ha!’ Daan mocked. ‘And look at them. What are they in love with, our two grootmoeders? Not who. What. You think our English grandfather was so wonderful as they both say? You think he was so perfect? You think he was this big romantic hero Geertrui makes him? No no. Of course not. Come real, Jakob.’
‘Get real is what you mean. Another gormless phrase.’
‘Gormless?’ Ton said.
‘I dunno,’ Jacob said irritably. ‘Stupid, naff, silly.’
‘Come real, get real, who cares!’ Daan said. ‘Geertrui’s Jacob is an illusion. Verbeelding. Fantasy.’
Jacob was rattled. ‘I don’t believe you. Maybe she sees him through rosy spectacles now, after all these years. Sarah too. But something big happened between them then. Something true. Something existed which wasn’t a fantasy. They haven’t made it up. You can’t deny that.’
‘Yes. Then. For how long. A few weeks? But if he had lived?’
‘That’s an if. Nobody can know.’
‘Great! Okay! That’s how it was. For both of them, a big love. And Jacob a great guy. Well, he must have been. We’re his grandsons and we’re great guys, yes?’
They laughed.
Daan went on, ‘And yes, nobody knows how it would be between them now. That’s my point. You’re agreeing with me. Nobody knows, because what we know is that it was more likely not to be a big thing between them any longer after all these years. There’s no absoluut. No for ever. So don’t pretend there is. Don’t make rules about it. Or laws based on it. If people want to say for ever to each other, okay, let them. It’s up to them. But for me, no. Just like there are no rules about love. Who you love. How many people you can love. Like love is some kind of commodity in … [to Ton] eindig?’
‘Eindig, eindig …’
‘Shit! This is so boring to do in English. Why don’t you speak Dutch, little brother?’
Ton had got up and gone to the bookshelves. Daan poured more wine. Ton came back, flipping the pages of a Dutch/English dictionary.
‘Eindig,’ he said, reading. ‘Finite.’
‘Finite?’ Daan said. ‘Okay, finite … What the hell was I saying?’