On the Bright Side

  ‘You just seemed the type who likes macaroons,’ I say, likewise every time.

  Grietje thinks that’s very funny. After twenty minutes or so, it’s time to go.

  ‘See you next time,’ I say.

  She nods and stares at the floor, thinking.

  ‘Yeah, see you later.’ She turns and picks up her magazine again. The same one she’s been reading since she’s been there.

  Thursday, 7 May

  Yesterday afternoon Stef unexpectedly appeared at my door.

  ‘Surprise! Come, let’s go.’

  One has to use extreme caution: old people and surprises aren’t a safe combination. We need time to prepare ourselves for the surprise. Mentally and physically. To be picked up on a random afternoon for an impromptu little trip can lead to stress. Not because we’re so busy, mind, but because when you’re old everything takes time, including getting used to the idea that you’re suddenly going to do something. Stef, Grietje’s nephew, happened to have a day off and thought to himself: ‘Why don’t I go and fetch my old friends in the care home and take them to see the tulips? I’ll just go and see who’s home and who wants to go.’

  We were all home, and after some hesitation, we were all game. Some had to change their clothes or finish their lunch first, others had to cancel a pedicure or, in my case, change a nappy, but forty-five minutes after Stef had rung our bells, we were ready to push off.

  The trip took us to the North-East Polder. We didn’t even know that was bulb-growing country, but Stef had thoroughly researched this tulip-route. Great expanses, larger than football pitches, filled with tulips – red, pink, purple, yellow and white. The oohs and ahs never died down. We stopped at a pick-your-own-tulip garden, but that was rather a stretch for us; all that bending … We only managed to gather two rather untidy bunches between us. It was also a bit of a tourist trap, as it turned out when we went to pay. The tulips were rather pricey, and even if you didn’t pick any, you still had to fork out the €1.50 entrance fee. Fortunately, to make up for our sense that we’d been had, Evert and Edward smuggled out at least €15 worth of stolen tulips in the basket under Evert’s wheelchair, which they produced once we were all back on the bus, and presented to Stef. The gesture was met with loud cheers.

  ‘Where have our standards and morals gone, friends? Your layer of civilized veneer is but gossamer thin,’ Evert said with a wicked grin.

  On the way home we made a quick stop for beer and wine, and were back in time for our potato dinner at 5:45 p.m. sharp.

  We were a bit dazed at having had such an unexpected holiday.

  Friday, 8 May

  In the St Jacob Nursing Home here in Amsterdam, university students can rent a vacant room for €350 in return for some community service, such as helping with errands, pouring coffee, accompanying a resident to church, and so on. It’s only ten hours per month, and the young people are even paid two-fifty an hour, not a fortune exactly, but better than nothing. But staff have been cut since the number of residents has declined and now the students sometimes have to do night duty. They don’t like that.

  Could this be in store for our home as well? We’ve had a number of unoccupied rooms for a while now. The conditions for accepting new residents are so stringent that they can’t find enough candidates. One foot in the grave, yet still too healthy for the nursing home; you don’t get too many who fit into that category. The student housing shortage would be a way to solve the vacancies here and a heaven-sent gift for our treasurer when he balances the books.

  Next Monday, at the Residents’ Committee’s first meeting with the director, we intend to bring it up with her. I am very much looking forward to it, but also a bit nervous. I can just imagine how the conversation will proceed:

  ‘Is there a move afoot, Mrs Stelwagen, to turn this old-age home into student housing a few years from now?’

  ‘Most astute of you, Mr Groen, that is indeed the plan. The board expects in the long run to see greater returns from students than from the elderly.’

  Saturday, 9 May

  I very much enjoyed sitting by the water’s edge yesterday. But I’d have preferred not to catch any fish, an unusual attitude for a fisherman, naturally. Nevertheless I caught three fish on my hook, the last one by accident; I was just reeling in my line because I wanted to sit in the sun a few metres further along, and oops, I had a shiny little fish flapping about at the end of my line. Once again Geert had to come to my rescue and pry the hook out of somewhere, I think its tail. I didn’t even dare look. After that, I proceeded to dangle my line without any bait. I was finally able to relax a bit. I was just as happy watching Geert, who actually produced the biggest fish of the afternoon when his float was pulled under as he took an apple out of his bag.

  ‘You’ve got one, Geert.’

  ‘I’ll be damned.’

  A few moments later, a gorgeous fish at least 25 centimetres long was thrashing about on the bank.

  I asked Geert what kind of fish it was.

  ‘A silvery one,’ my fishing chum replied.

  I’m not sure if I’ll go fishing with Geert again very soon.

  Sunday, 10 May

  The temperature rose a smidgen above the twenty degree mark for the first time this year, and I overheard someone say, ‘It always gets so terribly muggy here in the Netherlands.’

  ‘Yes, in Spain it’s different,’ said Mr Pot, ‘that’s a much more pleasant sort of heat.’ Pot was in Torremolinos just once in his life, back when Franco was still in power, and Pot could not rule out that that was the reason the heat wasn’t as oppressive then.

  I’ve grown more aware lately of a loss of sensation in my hands and feet. Especially when it’s cold. The blood isn’t reaching the old body’s extremities. Either the arteries are clogged, or the pump just isn’t putting enough effort into it any more. I’ll have the doctor check it, just for form’s sake, but I’m afraid there isn’t much to do about it except to add it to the long list of ailments I already have.

  Until recently, I always thought having to wear nappies was crossing the line from a life of dignity to a life of shame. A reason to seriously consider ending it all. I have been wearing a nappy for more than a year now. It isn’t something one ever gets used to, but I have moved the goalposts. That’s what tends to happen: after a while, every new ailment eventually leads to acceptance. And then you cling even more tightly to the small pleasures that remain.

  The day after tomorrow we dine in a Swiss restaurant. Evert has made the arrangements, and told us about it this morning. If you ask me, it’s his way of making himself feel a bit better.

  Monday, 11 May

  I read somewhere that everyone makes 500 choices or so in a day. When I looked it up on the Internet, it turns out it’s actually 500 million. Of those, only a few are conscious choices, but still …

  It seems to me that since everything is already decided and arranged for us in here, we hardly have any choices to make. It’s probably just a question of definition. If you consider the decision to stir your coffee clockwise or counter-clockwise to be a choice, then the number of choices increases exponentially, but their importance does not.

  It promises to be a beautiful summery day. This afternoon Ria, Antoine and I are going to try an ice cream parlour that’s just opened. We may not sample all twenty-eight flavours on this first visit, but we’ll have tasted all of them by the end of the summer, and then we’ll decide which was the ice cream of the year. A great project. Here you have another point of agreement between little children and old people: we all scream for ice cream.

  ‘I can’t eat another bite,’ you often hear people here say after they’ve managed to work down the last potato with a great deal of huffing and puffing. Wasting food is a sin, after all. Upon which the same diner will proceed to devour, with no problem and much gusto, an enormous hot fudge sundae.

  Mrs Smit’s freezer compartment is full of strawberry cornettos from Aldi. She eats at least one a day. But not when sh
e has company, because she doesn’t like to share.

  Tuesday, 12 May

  At 15:00 on the dot Mrs Stelwagen came waltzing in. Impeccably dressed as always. Amiable as always. After shaking everyone’s hand, she sat down at the table her secretary had set up.

  ‘Welcome, everyone. I am extremely happy that, after more than a year, this care home once again has a Residents’ Committee. And not an inconsequential one either, if I may say so.’

  ‘We thank you for your kind words. As the representative body for the residents, we suggest you take up the gavel first. After all, you are most in the know about what’s going on. Next time the Residents’ Committee will appoint the chair. That way we can take turns.’ Leonie looked round the circle. If you’d listened carefully, you’d have heard our jaws drop. This hadn’t come up in our preliminary discussions. Leonie had seized the initiative in order to make sure that the director would not always be chairing the meetings going forward. I thought I detected a slight pursing of Stelwagen’s lips.

  ‘It has always been customary for the director to run these meetings,’ she said after a brief silence.

  ‘But in order to delegate the tasks and duties more fairly, and so to relieve you of some of the burden, we are proposing to rotate the chairmanship,’ said Leonie. We all nodded innocently.

  ‘Well … I suppose I can accept that proposal,’ Stelwagen said. The noncommittal little smile was already back.

  After the meeting I complimented Leonie at length on her quick-witted, astute intervention. Not having the director always in control was a great tactical move for our side. When I wondered how she’d thought of it, it turned out that Leonie has an impressive background in the care sector.

  ‘I was a professional committee member for many years,’ she said, ‘and after a seventeen-year sabbatical, I’m in the mood again.’

  That promises to be good.

  After that initial confrontation, the meeting proceeded in a most friendly and civil fashion. The Residents’ Committee inquired about the possibility of a monthly high tea for and by the residents, and whether a space could be found to hold an exhibition of committee member Mrs Lacroix’s artwork. Stelwagen said these were ‘very interesting ideas’ and that she would bring them to the board.

  I predict that’s what we can expect: we come with proposals, Stelwagen hears us out willingly, shows enthusiasm for our ideas and then says she needs to ‘examine them more closely’ or ‘bring them before the board’. It’s her way of stalling. I don’t for a minute think that she needs the approval of the board for the high tea idea, or for an art exhibition. The Residents’ Committee will have to keep up the pressure and hold her feet to the fire. Stelwagen will remain largely passive, and whenever possible put off what we ask her to do. She is a leader in the traditional conservative mould, convinced she knows better than anyone else what’s good for the residents. It promises to be a long, tough, subtle fight. Only: we are in a hurry, whereas she has time on her side.

  We’d saved the most important topic for last. I inquired, as nonchalantly as I could, about the vacant rooms. What was happening with those?

  ‘I am still in discussion with the board about that.’

  ‘Could we hear about the results of your discussions at our next meeting?’

  Stelwagen was certainly going to do her very best, but she couldn’t make any promises. Leonie made sure that all our points made it into the minutes.

  It was decided that we would meet four times a year. The next meeting is set for August. We don’t intend to stay quiet that long, however. The request for the high tea will be sent out in a couple of weeks, to test the waters.

  Wednesday, 13 May

  The restaurant wasn’t Swiss, but the dish was: cheese fondue. The minibus dropped us off at Het Blaauwhooft, a popular Amsterdam café that finished first place in Het Parool’s cheese fondue competition. When I asked the impressively large bartender about it, he said a prize like that can have unexpected consequences.

  ‘It’s left me with fondue-arm.’

  ‘A fondue-arm?’

  ‘Yeah, from stirring the cheese.’

  It turned out he was the owner. Nice chap. He told us he’d been serving prodigious quantities of fondue for a long time, but never to a group of such respectable advanced age. We all had to drink to that. The first bottle of wine was on the house.

  The cheese fondue was absolutely delicious and the wine flowed abundantly.

  There was one problem: the loo was up a few stairs. That’s quite a challenge for most of the members of our club, and an insurmountable obstacle for Evert. But patrons and staff joined forces to heave the doddering amongst us up the steps.

  ‘One of the services we provide,’ the owner said with a grin.

  For Evert, however, another solution had to be found. One of the regulars, who lived up the street, invited him to use his own home’s facilities. As for me, I had fortunately remembered to put on a clean nappy before setting out.

  ‘I’d love to go back another time, but not with a bladder infection,’ Leonie puffed, recovering from her trip to the ladies’.

  Still, it’s important not to let practical considerations such as daunting toilet facilities stop you from venturing out. Experience has taught us that sad lesson: once old people stop doing something, they are unlikely ever to do it again.

  The moment you stop riding your bike, driving a car, going out, moving, grooming yourself, taking the bus or visiting friends, it means giving that activity up for good. Although there are exceptions: I knew someone who got rid of his car when he turned eighty, regretted it and bought another car the following year. A month later, to prove how wrong that decision had been, he crashed into a delivery van that had the right of way, and totalled his brand-new car.

  At 11:30 p.m. we tumbled out of the minibus to our front door. Almost all the lights were out.

  ‘Long live Evert’s Swiss restaurant,’ whooped Antoine, slurring a bit. A cheer of agreement went up. In a few of the rooms the lights came on, and curtains were parted slightly.

  Thursday, 14 May

  Yesterday, on my ten-minute stroll (plus time out for a rest), I ran into my old neighbour, Antje. She was walking along the bicycle path, carrying half a loaf of bread.

  ‘Antje, how nice to see you. How are you?’

  She looked at me pensively. ‘Oh, fine. I’ve just been to the baker’s.’

  I asked her what she was doing so far from home.

  ‘I thought to myself, why don’t I go to the baker’s and have a nice little walk,’ she said.

  ‘But don’t you still live in Amsterdam-West?’ I asked.

  Yes, she was still there.

  The distressing truth hit me: Antje had walked all the way from Amsterdam-West, at least an hour and a half away, and wanted to get home, but had no idea where that was. I don’t think she knew exactly who I was, either.

  ‘Don’t you remember me? I’m your old neighbour. I lived next door to you for twenty years.’

  ‘Yes, yes, the neighbour.’ She gave me an empty little smile. ‘Normally I take the car, but the weather was nice, so I thought, why don’t I take a walk,’ Antje said.

  I asked her how long she’d had a car again.

  ‘Oh, well, a while now.’

  I invited her in for a cup of tea, and we walked back to the home arm in arm. She held on to me tightly. When we reached the lounge she collapsed in a chair, with a sigh of fatigue. A phone rang in her coat pocket. She did not respond.

  ‘Don’t you want to answer it, madam?’ asked the carer who had brought her a cup of tea. Antje looked at her pocket, baffled.

  ‘Shall I answer it?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, by all means.’ By the time I’d retrieved the mobile from her pocket, it had stopped ringing. I asked the carer to assist me, since I don’t know my way round these modern telephones.

  ‘Someone has been trying to reach you twelve times, madam.’

  ‘That’ll be my son, he does
n’t like me going out alone,’ said Antje.

  ‘Shall I ring him for you?’ I suggested. She nodded.

  Twenty minutes later her son Bert arrived in a car to pick her up. He said he was glad to see me again. With a friendly nod, Antje took her leave, and obediently climbed in.

  Bert promised to come back for tea on Saturday afternoon.

  ‘To catch up.’

  Today is Ascension Day. Evert is stopping by this afternoon. We’ll raise our glasses to the Good Lord Jesus’ safe ascent.

  Friday, 15 May

  Evert was quiet and uncharacteristically calm. My best mate wasn’t feeling well; I could see he was in pain, although he pooh-poohed it when I mentioned it.

  ‘Hendrik, chum, may I just sing a brilliant ditty for you?’ And Evert sang, off-key and as harsh as a crow:

  It’s always something, is it not

  Sometimes it rains

  And sometimes it’s too hot.

  ‘In spite of these profound words by the great philosopher Duiker, I nevertheless worry about you, Evert.’

  ‘Come on, Groen, you old pessimist. The worst thing that can happen is that you snuff it.’

  He said it with a laugh, but he was bluffing; I knew it. Evert is honest and trustworthy, except when it’s about his own wellbeing. Then he’s a terrible actor and an even worse liar, depriving me of the opportunity to console him or show that I care.

  Saturday, 16 May

  Geert bought eighty-four packets of Cup-a-Soup at the minimart. For every three packets you buy, you get one free Artis Zoo stamp. Twenty-eight stamps fill two stamp booklets, which gets you one free ticket to the zoo. And enough soup to last 252 days.

  ‘Come on, Henk,’ Geert growled on Thursday, ‘tomorrow we’re going to Artis.’