Friday, 19 June
I have made a reservation at Hotel de Goudfazant for Sunday. Not a hotel, as the name suggests, but a restaurant. Evert was pleased, although he wishes it could have been today.
‘Well, well! I just read that the first Syrian refugee has washed up on our shores, on the island of Texel. Dead, so for that one no bed, bath or bread. It even rhymes!’ Ghastly Bakker guffawed at his own wit.
With the best will in the world, I just can’t understand some people. They’re indifferent to hundreds of refugees drowning in the Mediterranean, yet they’ll shed tears over a ladybird with a broken leg. Great tragedy is impossible to comprehend, it seems, whereas small tragedies can be mended.
The tragic story of Mouaz: fled from Syria to Jordan, then set out for the promised land of England via Algeria, Libya, Italy and France. After nearly five months on the road, he arrives in Calais and sees the white cliffs of Dover on the other side. It must be possible to swim that last leg, Mouaz thinks to himself. Three weeks later his body washes ashore on Texel. And what do some of our fellow residents say? It’s your own bloody fault, mate, tough luck.
‘It could have been your son,’ I said in response to Bakker’s reaction.
‘Me? How could I have a black son?’
Where even to begin with such sheer stupidity?
Saturday, 20 June
A girl of about six playing hide and seek with her little friends in the park yelled, ‘The King’s hat, on one leg.’ That was the cue for the other kids to hop on one leg and put their hands on their heads. The one who got there last was ‘It’. I was sitting on my bench watching them and was moved nearly to tears. I have become a sentimental old coot. Perhaps he was always in there somewhere, and is only coming out now. I don’t mind, it feels good, actually, those rather over-the-top emotions. My bench overlooks a playground for little kids. There’s always something to see. I wish I could hand out sweets to the children, but I don’t dare. People are so suspicious these days. Some things really were far better in the old days.
I am still just managing to make it to my park benches, although painfully and with difficulty. If I grow even less steady on my legs, I shall have to stop going to the park on foot, and ride my mobility scooter to my bench instead. Then I can always take a very short walk from there.
In early July I’m to accompany Evert to Uden for a few days, to stay with his son Jan and daughter-in-law Ester. After the success of our first visit, it has become an annual tradition. The division of roles requires me to thaw out the dour Ester with my most engaging grandpa-charms, while all Evert has to do is not push the boundaries with his jokes or create a mess. We were there almost a week the first time; this time it’s down to four days. That’s best for everyone. I look forward to Wiiing with Evert’s grandson and granddaughter. Last year Evert surprised everyone by being extraordinarily good at Wii baseball. When we’d finally had enough of his showing off, we switched to ski jumping. You need two legs for that sport.
Evert has decided he’ll wait to tell his son about being terminally ill until the day of our departure. That’s quite soon enough, he thinks.
Sunday, 21 June
There were no outright cheers, but Mr Bakker died suddenly yesterday.
‘I hope Slothouwer’s next,’ Graeme heard Mrs Smit mutter under her breath.
‘I did not hear that,’ he told her pleasantly. She jumped in alarm, apologizing profusely.
‘There’s no need, I totally understand. But when you’re whispering something to yourself, you should try to keep it down, just to be on the safe side. Especially when Mrs Slothouwer is about.’
Bakker’s death is no loss. It’s not often one encounters so much negativity in one person, although to be honest, his tirades did sometimes make me laugh. He had a rich repertoire of impressive invective. The only one Bakker could sort of get along with was Mrs Slothouwer. Now she’s the last one left to deliver spiteful commentary on just about everything that goes on in here. Maybe she’ll control herself a bit more now. Her life can’t have been such a bed of roses either.
‘What was your childhood like?’ I once asked her, without any malice.
‘None of your business,’ was the answer.
Dining out tonight. The Old-But-Not-Dead are obligated to keep each other active and on our toes. At our next general meeting I’ll propose that we add keeping each other on our toes to the rules and regulations. It is often easier to get someone else moving than yourself. Also, you tend to be more amenable to another’s suggestion. If a friend proposes an activity of some sort, you think, ‘Ah, why not?’ Whereas if you’d thought of it yourself, you’d be more inclined to think, ‘Ah, why should I?’
Monday, 22 June
The first veal cheek of my life was delicious, and my first smoked duck was also divine. You’re never too old to try something new, even if many old people don’t seem to think so. There’s nothing tastier than a meatball if you never choose anything but meatballs.
Now, the mention of that veal cheek may give the impression that we had dinner in some snooty dining establishment, but that’s not the case. Hotel de Goudfazant is located in an old factory along the Ij River. Not posh at all, the floor is barely swept. Normal, cheerful youngsters serve you. All incredibly friendly and patient. Patience is already a virtue, but when it comes to dealing with the aged, you’re talking about double helpings.
When the young man came to take our drink orders, Geert was in the loo, which took him fifteen minutes, and a little later, when we were ready to order from the menu, Ria had disappeared. She got lost on her way to the coatrack to retrieve her handkerchief from her coat pocket. She was brought back to our table on the arm of a handsome young fellow. Then Leonie declared herself eager to get lost too, but we were hungry, so we forbade it.
‘You can go after pudding, pet,’ said Evert.
We are usually amongst the first to arrive in a restaurant, being reluctant to give up the Dutch golden rule of ‘dinner at six’. But because we do everything so very slowly, we’re also often the last to leave.
Of course we aren’t the only old people who go to restaurants, but it’s usually just a couple, or as part of a much larger family gathering: Opa and Oma, their children and grandchildren, celebrating someone’s birthday or an anniversary. They tend to sit there looking a bit lost, waiting for one of the children or grandkids to make an attempt to draw them into the conversation. A conversation they have trouble following because of the ambient noise, and anyway, what the others are talking about is often way over their heads. They’re sitting there, but they don’t really belong, not really.
You seldom see a whole contingent of eight doddering oldsters trooping into a restaurant. We belong together, although we often have trouble understanding each other. The acoustics are a problem. It’s even worse for the other guests, since we are so loud that they can even hear us in the kitchen. Fortunately we are past caring or being embarrassed, and what we talk about is rarely offensive, even if Evert does tend to come out with the occasional piece of toilet humour while we’re eating. This is met with fond slaps or kicks under the table from several quarters, until he stops.
Tuesday, 23 June
I already miss old Bakker. OAPs are the new taxation plan’s biggest losers, the Prime Minister has admitted to the man who represents us in parliament, Mr Krol of the 50Plus party. A newspaper report like that would have sent Bakker into a complete tailspin. He wouldn’t have known who to start on: should he execrate Prime Minister Rutte, ‘who always screws us’, or reserve his best invective for ‘that pancake-eating poofter of the 50Plus Party’? Bakker possessed an astounding repertory of profanities to describe our homosexual friends. I often found myself laughing at these in the most politically incorrect way.
‘What a horror-summer,’ I heard someone say even though summer is only two days old. With a temperature of 14 degrees and pouring rain, it hasn’t been particularly toasty these past few days, that’s true. The weath
er is mainly observed through the window here. A little stroll outside, to experience it in person, is the most one can be expected to do. As for me, I like to set out on my mobility scooter in the summer rain and get drenched to the skin; the others think I’m crazy. If the director could think of a way to forbid it, she would definitely consider it. A rather sorry sight, that, a dripping wet old codger in his motorized chair.
‘Do you really think that’s sensible, Mr Groen?’ she once asked me, frowning dubiously at the trail of water I was leaving in the hall.
‘Oh, a little rain won’t do me any harm.’
‘You don’t exactly look … presentable,’ she said with faint disapproval in her voice.
‘What, or who, am I supposed to present, then?’ I asked with feigned nonchalance.
That question did stump her somewhat.
The Women’s World Cup doesn’t get much traction here.
‘You’re just watching a game of rubbish men’s football, and there’s quite enough of that on the telly already, but still, it’s nice there’s women’s football as well,’ was the verdict from an unexpected quarter, namely Ria. When someone asked what she could possibly know about it, she was able to name fourteen players on the Netherlands Women’s Team, causing some jaws to drop. Tonight Ria is going to watch the Netherlands vs Japan match. I knew Ria was a big football fan; I’m also sure she’d have had a better shot at managing Ajax than Frank de Boer.
Wednesday, 24 June
‘Did someone in here just fart?’
Mrs Slothouwer isn’t shy about asking that question. Then she’ll look round with a sneer on her face, ostensibly in search of the embarrassed culprit. Everyone at the table will then turn and stare at Mrs Langeveld.
‘She has a disorder that makes her rather gassy,’ Sister Herwegen once explained.
‘As if that’s any excuse,’ Slothouwer had said as soon as the nurse was out of earshot.
That disorder, combined with her rather unappetizing dining habits, means that Mrs Langeveld usually sits all by herself at mealtimes. No one ever joins her, and if she sits down with another group, they’ll get up one by one and move to another table. The odour she produces is rather strong, I have to admit. Although it’s tragic to see how she is made to suffer by such a minor affliction, I too, can rarely make myself sit down at her table. Only when I have a stuffy nose.
The Dutch table tennis champions Li Jiao and Li Jie have won gold and silver respectively at the European games. It’s possible that ‘we here’ are too stuck in the past. Chinese or African atheletes competing on behalf of the Netherlands takes some getting used to. Another thing that takes some getting used to, actually, is the European Games being held in Baku. Nobody realized that Baku was in Europe. Or that Baku even existed.
Thursday, 25 June
Yesterday Evert went to the internist, to go over treatment options. Metastases have been discovered in the liver and lungs. The doctor, substituting for Evert’s own internist, nevertheless suggested another operation, to remove a portion of the intestine.
‘Save yourself the trouble of explaining why an eighty-six-year-old should subject himself to an exorbitant and pointless operation, because I won’t have it. Save your energy for prescribing painkillers and pep pills for me, the strongest there are, please.’ Evert must have put on a convincing show, because the doctor didn’t argue.
‘He’s told me I have another three months or so in an acceptable state, and then it’s downhill for me very fast,’ Evert said matter-of-factly.
I finally agreed to visit the cemetery in North Amsterdam with him ‘to choose a nice little spot’. We’ll have a look one day when the sun is out and the tombstones will look so much more jolly.
‘If you’re planning to stop by once in a while, I’ll have them put a bench at the foot of my grave,’ he offered. I told him I’m not really one of those grave-sitters. He quite understood.
‘But I’d consider it an honour if you chose to be buried near me when the time comes,’ he said.
I have been sleeping poorly ever since knowing about my friend’s impending death. The doctor gave me some sleeping pills, but they only seem to work during the daylight hours, so I’ve flushed them down the toilet. I do a great deal of reading at night.
Evert has given me back my little list of last requests. He had promised to make a few arrangements for me when I died.
‘Forgive me, old chum, but I don’t think I’ll be able to do it.’ His voice sounded a bit croaky.
‘Oh go ahead, wimp out on me as usual, you gutless old git. And what does one have to do to get a drink around here?’ I just managed to get out.
‘Oi, now you’ve gone too far, Groen, that’s supposed to be my line.’
Friday, 26 June
Besides billiards, there is another sport that is popular here: shuffleboard. Not every player has a competitive mentality. There are ladies and gentlemen who just muck about a bit, some of the pucks barely making it to the end of the board; and there are some who play as if their lives depended on it. It can even lead to minor scuffles.
‘You bumped the table,’ Mr Pot barked at Mrs Van Diemen.
‘But it was by accident.’
‘If you hadn’t, the four would definitely have gone in.’
Pot demanded a chance to do it over, but Van Diemen objected, upon which Pot stomped away in a fury.
Mr Helder lobs with great force but rather inaccurately. Recently a puck sailed off the board and slammed into a biscuit tin on a table across the room.
‘If it hadn’t been for that tin, I’d have been a goner,’ Slothouwer declared. She was sitting near the biscuits. ‘Or I’d have needed stitches.’
Since that near-death experience, players are only allowed to aim towards the wall.
In billiards, too, there are considerable differences in the way the game is played. Some players are happy for their cue just to strike any ball; others are good for a whole set. Dickhout is the home’s billiards champion, and he thinks it gives him star status. He doesn’t whip off his shirt after the winning carambole, but almost.
During an informal gathering of the Residents’ Committee yesterday, Graeme suggested it might be a good idea to have a boules court in the private garden. We are going to request one from the director. We will need a magnet on a string, just like old Frenchmen, to pick up the balls. Having to bend down and straighten up again would slow down the game too much.
Mr Helder is banned. One doesn’t want to make the front page with a fatal boules accident. I predict the director will first want to know who would be held responsible in the case of a mishap, and whether boules victims are covered by insurance.
Saturday, 27 June
I found out this morning that we have a resident who has his head in the clouds. It is our Turkish friend, Mr Okcegulcik. His is a hobby that is well suited to life in an old-age home, preferably if you live on one of the higher floors. For Okcegulcik is a member of the Cloud Appreciation Society, an international club for cloud aficionados. He scans the sky daily for unusual cloud formations. Blankly staring out the window is a common pastime here, but Okcegulcik has made a virtue of necessity: he peers at the clouds and photographs them. This morning he came in waving a newspaper article. For the first time since 1951, a new cloud has been officially identified: the bubble cloud, or the Asperitas. There were pictures of bubble clouds that looked a bit like undulating ocean waves. He proudly showed us his own pictures of a fantastic bubble cloud. ‘16 May 2012’ was written on the back. I went with him to his room to admire his wall of cloudy skies photographs.
Most of the residents are not interested in Mr Okcegulcik’s hobby.
‘Sodding clouds. I’d rather have sun,’ is the predominant feeling. These people would rather sit staring blankly out the window with the awning down. From now on I intend to pay more attention when I’m looking out. It would be something, wouldn’t it, if I saw a bubble cloud before I died.
Edward gave me a copy of the h
andbook Staying Young and Growing Old, by a professor of geriatrics, Prof. Olde Rikkert.
There’s a dedication from Edward on the flyleaf: ‘For my friend Hendrik As a fellow founder of the Old-But-Not-Dead Club you have made my life so much more enjoyable for which many thanks Your Edward’.
That ‘Your Edward’ moved me, and the fact that Edward doesn’t seem to believe in commas or full stops, as well as the postscript: ‘No need to stop by to tell me you shouldn’t have but do stop by for a drink.’
Sunday, 28 June
Suppose you alone had a telephone that allowed you to hear the first thing your interlocutor said after hanging up, would you want to use it? Would you want to know what they said?
The reason this occurs to me is that there are some residents who will sweetly say goodbye to their sons (in-law) and daughters (in-law) and then, upon hanging up the phone, promptly start complaining.
‘No, don’t worry, I quite understand. We’ll just skip it this time. No problem,’ I heard Mrs Van Dam chirp, and one second later, after putting down the receiver: ‘Going out of their way for their aged mother is just too much effort.’
I have also heard: ‘bastard’, ‘nail in my coffin’, ‘hypocritical witch’, ‘I’ll disinherit him’, ‘I’d rather die’, ‘nasty scumbag’ and ‘I could strangle her’. I wouldn’t mind seeing the look on those children’s faces if they’d overheard what was said.