Then we walked and/or rolled at a calm pace through the magnificent sculpture garden, although not without some impatience from certain quarters. Art may be beautiful and all, but not at the expense of the carnal appetites. The cry for food and drink kept getting louder. Ria and Antoine tried our patience for a while longer, only to unveil a lavish picnic spread in the park. Folding chairs, thermoses, wine coolers, cutlery, glasses, a tablecloth, all emerged from Stef’s minivan.
The white wine also led to a number of minor mishaps: Leonie tumbled backwards in her folding chair (minor scratches), I spilt ketchup on my beige suit (my own fault), and Evert, in one his frequent inattentive moments, pissed on his own shoes from his wheelchair. We gave his socks a solemn burial at the foot of a pine tree.
We got home at 6 p.m. but were too full to have more than a few bites of pudding. Cook was fit to be tied. That one still thinks we’re here to serve him.
Tuesday, 25 August
Mrs De Grave likes to darn her husband’s socks downstairs in the conversation lounge. She doesn’t much like to converse, however. In fact, she ignores all the other residents, except for Mr De Grave, as much as possible.
‘On the autism spectrum,’ one of the nurses said, by way of excusing her.
Instead of talking, she is one of the last women in the Netherlands who still darns her spouse’s socks. With grim determination.
‘For ten euros you can buy eight new pairs of socks at Blokker’s,’ Mrs Slothouwer snorted.
‘Blokker’s doesn’t sell socks,’ Mr De Grave said, defending his wife. His hearing isn’t the best any more, but he has an unerring ear for insults.
‘Well, at Zeeman’s then, what difference does it make?’ snapped Slothouwer.
‘My wife likes to make herself useful. What business is it of yours, what people do?’ De Grave asked spitefully.
Slothouwer walked off in a huff. She couldn’t resist wondering out loud how in the world anyone could tear so many holes in their socks.
‘He must have very long, filthy toenails.’
Every once in a while Mrs De Grave switches from darning socks to repairing nylons, which she stretches over a glass with a rubber band. That evokes warm, nostalgic feelings in the other ladies. They wouldn’t mind doing the same themselves, if only their hands didn’t tremble and shake so much. Mrs De Grave has a very steady hand for her age.
I still remember how my wife would panic at the sight of a ladder starting in her stockings, and go at it with a bottle of nail varnish. I have no idea how she got the varnish out again afterwards.
Tomorrow will be a novel experiment for our restaurant project: we’re going to McDonald’s. None of us have ever been to a McDonald’s. It may be a bit a shock for the regulars and the people behind the counter, to have eight old biddies peering at the menu. They do have a menu, don’t they? Actually, I don’t know what you can eat there, except for hamburgers. I did pick up a ready meal from the supermarket, in case the cuisine of the Mac disappoints.
Wednesday, 26 August
‘Men of the progressive or liberal persuasion are still having sex until well into their eighties, is what I’m reading here in the paper,’ Evert said, gazing at the circle of ladies and gentlemen respectably dunking their biscuits into their cups of tea. ‘Which of you is still having sex?’
Mrs Van Diemen choked on her biscuit and began coughing uncontrollably.
‘May I take that coughing to mean a wholehearted yes?’ asked Evert.
Van Diemen, red in the face, shook her head vehemently.
‘Ah, well, sex over sixty is still a bit taboo, isn’t it,’ Evert sighed.
‘Yes,’ Antoine concurred, ‘but I will admit that we still do it, occasionally.’ And he looked at his Ria, who smiled at him fondly but slightly flushed.
‘Well, something resembling it, anyway,’ said Antoine. ‘What about you, Evert, does one need two legs to have sex?’
This candid conversation about a rather unmentionable subject precipitated anxious faces that didn’t know where to look.
‘Certainly, but in my case, that second leg sits in the middle.’
The discomfort round the table now grew even more intense.
‘I once read that people who wear red trousers often own a boat,’ Mrs Bregman tried changing the subject.
‘Yes, and people wearing pointy shoes are more likely to be musicians,’ Mr Verlaat declared.
‘Maybe it’s just that the men in here are not progressive or liberal,’ Evert cut short this fascinating conversation.
‘Who’d like another cup of tea?’ asked the nurse.
Thursday, 27 August
It wasn’t busy. There were more cheerful boys and girls in blue tartan McDonald’s shirts and matching snazzy caps than there were customers. They did not look surprised when we entered, but maybe that is part of their job description: never look surprised, not even when eight elderly customers come tottering in. Antoine was a bit confused: he asked one of the girls for the menu.
‘The menu’s on the wall, sir.’
Luckily it was printed in big letters.
It took us a while to get the hang of it. Then we ordered: two Happy Meals, two big McChickens, two boxes of Chicken McNuggets, three different McSalads, and something to do with McFish.
‘And two bottles of your house wine,’ Evert shouted to Graeme and Leonie, who were giving our orders at the counter.
Many a restaurant could learn a thing or two from this establishment, namely the speed at which everything came out: the food was delivered to our table within five minutes. We did have to unwrap it ourselves, resulting in a formidable mountain of plastic and cardboard, which we had to clear ourselves, since there were no waiters. We must have tossed out a cheeseburger with the rubbish as well, because we couldn’t find it anywhere. The Happy Meals netted two toy watches, at least, we thought they were toys, but they turned out to be real. A real watch for a meal that cost just €3.99! How do they do it?
‘I got my first watch when I turned eighteen,’ said Ria, ‘and it cost a week’s salary.’
‘Yes, the times have changed, especially when it comes to watches,’ said her husband.
Just to make sure, Evert went to inquire if we really couldn’t buy any wine.
‘You must have some under the counter, young lady, surely? I’ll pay good money for it, I assure you.’
The girl shook her head a bit anxiously.
The food, actually, wasn’t at all bad. Food that appeals to children is also quite palatable to the elderly. Sweet and salty. The double-burger did present a bit of a problem. Geert tried to stuff the whole thing into his mouth, but managed to get only half in. When he tried to pull it out again, his false teeth got stuck in the bun, and he had ketchup running down his chin. The few other people who were there looked up from their burgers, startled by the uproarious laughter coming from our little corner.
For dessert we tried various milkshakes and the first McFlurries of our lives. I don’t think McDonald’s often sees patrons lingering there for as long and convivially as we did. And all of that for under a tenner. It was Evert who finally put an end to it. He said he was having withdrawal symptoms, and invited us back to his place for an alcoholic nightcap.
McDonald’s reports that 2.36 billion McDonald’s hamburgers are consumed every year. Made from one million cows.
Friday, 28 August
It came as rather a shock: Stelwagen is leaving. Now I know why she looked so distracted at our last meeting: in her heart she was already out the door. It also explains why she was being so amenable; she wanted to leave a pleasing last impression, and as it is, she won’t be the one saddled with any negative consequences. She is getting exactly what she wants: her own personal fiefdom, consisting of fifteen or so old people’s homes, sorry, care centres. This home is too small for her now.
The residents received a short announcement.
Starting on 1 November, Mrs E. H. Stelwagen, MA, has accepted a post as Director
of Regional Sector West 1. She will be leaving your care centre on that date. The board is presently engaged in deliberations about finding a replacement.
We thank Mrs Stelwagen for the inspiring and professional manner in which she has led this institution for the past five years, and wish her great success in her continuing career within our organization.
The Chairman of the Board of Directors.
It did affect me, in spite of everything. One finds oneself, strangely enough, having fond feelings for the enemy. Notwithstanding her bureaucratic attitude and managerial arrogance, she was just like her crisp pastel business suits: neat, correct and joyless. Whenever something went wrong, she would smoothly pin the blame on one of her underlings. But lurking somewhere deep inside, there was also something of a mother who only wants the best for her aged children.
I do, however, worry about the board’s wording regarding a successor. Those deliberations about finding a replacement don’t bode well. It would not surprise me if they appointed some tyrant charged with shutting the place down with as little fanfare as possible. The board would call that a ‘transition manager’.
Saturday, 29 August
Stelwagen’s departure is the topic of the day. Not that the inmates are going to miss her very much; it’s the fear of what’s next that is on everyone’s mind.
‘You know what you’ve got, and you don’t know what you’re getting,’ is the predominant train of thought.
‘It’s not as if we have a finger in the pie in the sky,’ Mrs Schansleh reasoned, applying one of her homemade proverbs.
Evert is already plotting a fitting send-off prank, provided he is granted the time on earth to carry it out. He’s afraid that Stelwagen will forget him all too quickly otherwise.
We have suddenly become great fans of track and field. Last year only a few people here had heard of the athlete Dafne Schippers, but today twenty people were gathered round the telly to watch the World Championship 200 metre final in Peking. And most of them pretended to be knowledgeable about it too. Some of these ‘experts’ were certain she would win; other pundits were convinced she would not. So we’re always left with at least a couple who can say, ‘See, didn’t I tell you?’ Happily, it was the optimists who won out this time. ‘Our Dafne’ ran a fantastic race.
‘Although she’s no Fanny Blankers-Koen, naturally,’ the everything-was-better-back-in-the-old-days brigade declared.
‘Good people,’ said Graeme, ‘not that it makes any difference, but our Fanny, if she had run her personal best, would have finished almost 30 metres behind Dafne.’ Graeme is more of a maths and statistics kind of fellow, and not so much the nostalgic poppycock type.
Mrs Smit was given a second-hand camera by her granddaughter. There’s nothing wrong with that, but the granddaughter has also taught her how to use it, and now she’s photographing her tea- and coffee-sipping companions all day long. Some of them get so unnerved by it that, for instance, an entire plate of biscuits is swept on to the floor. Only to have Smit, like a genuine paparazzo, snap a picture of the mishap. Then she spends the rest of the day showing everyone photos of the smashed biscuits.
Sunday, 30 August
Last Friday we, the members of the Residents’ Association, received pats on the back for our first high tea. It was a great success.
The preparations began at 2 p.m. Stelwagen had ordered Cook out of his kitchen, which he did with unconcealed reluctance. Ria and Antoine directed the kitchen troops: Graeme, Evert, Geert, Leonie, Eugenie, Edward and myself. We, the humble slicers and spreaders, spent an hour and a half following their directions meticulously. No messing about, either: the bread slices, for example, had to be carefully severed from their crusts and then halved into exact triangles. ‘No right-angles, OK?’ Ria said sternly. At 3 p.m. sharp we rolled two kitchen carts into the dining room laden with scones, cream cheese and salmon sandwiches, patés, savoury pastries, strawberries and cream, chocolates and biscuits. Aged jaws dropped at the sight of such abundance. Only those who had signed up and paid a small €3 contribution were allowed to dig in.
‘Ridiculous, so over the top,’ Slothouwer, at the too-stingy-to-participate table, was heard sniping just a bit too loud. Evert started rolling towards Slothouwer, brandishing the whipped cream dispenser. Slothouwer suddenly needed to go to the lavatory.
Stelwagen came to have a look. She took half a scone, dispensing benign smiles at everyone. Evert had mischievous designs on her business suit, but Leonie slammed the brake down on his wheelchair just in time. When he looked round, she pinched his cheek. Instead of swearing, Evert blushed.
Half an hour later it was all gone. The floor and tables were strewn with crumbs and cake remnants, but aside from that you saw only contented faces with the odd dollop of cream cheese. The organizing committee received a generous accolade. And a request from a Catholic resident: could we have the high tea on a Thursday next time, since Friday was a fast day and she couldn’t eat meat?
‘Well, then just don’t spread paté on your apple pie,’ was Edward’s ready solution. Edward is allergic to religion.
Eight people have signed up to help next time. We’ll make them each take an exam to qualify.
Monday, 31 August
Yesterday afternoon was the opening of Eugenie Lacroix’s art exhibition. Our artist in residence preferred using the term ‘vernissage’, but that mostly brought on puzzled faces.
‘Does that mean I have to do something?’ Mrs Duits asked anxiously.
The Residents’ Committee had furnished the tables with alcoholic beverages, cheese and sausages at a time normally reserved for tea and biscuits. This created some confusion. Mrs Duits accidentally dunked a piece of salami in her tea.
‘It’s because of that vernie-stage. I’m all in a muddle.’
Eugenie had the maintenance department hang twenty of her pieces in the conversation lounge and the downstairs corridors. She didn’t give them an easy time of it. After thirty changes and adjustments, everything was finally in the right place ‘as far as lighting and placement’. She had chosen Sunday afternoon for the opening event because it was the busiest time of the week for visitors. She led people round on guided tours to explain the artist’s intended meaning of each work. The explications were certainly not unwarranted.
‘Why does that woman have a pony on her lap?’ asked Mr Pot.
‘It isn’t a pony, it’s a cat,’ said Eugenie, cut to the quick at such lack of finesse.
Stelwagen also made an appearance. At one point she was standing next to me, staring at something that was supposed to be a self-portrait.
‘So have you begun your farewell tour yet?’ I asked.
‘Not yet, Mr Groen, I have plenty of time left. Are you sorry I am leaving?’
The question took me somewhat by surprise, and I had to think.
‘In actual fact, I feel sorrier for you, than for us,’ I said.
‘How do you mean?’
‘I wish you had a bit more love for the job, and a bit less ambition. I believe that’s what makes one happy, you see. I’m speaking from personal experience, since I was headmaster of a school for most of my working life. You are the headmistress of a care home. There are similarities.’
She thought it over.
‘You may be right.’ Then she walked away and – uncharacteristically – did not say goodbye.
Tuesday, 1 September
The poem ‘Insomnia’ by J. C. Bloem rings true to me of late. I don’t sleep well because I am afraid of approaching death. Not my own, but that of my best friend. Every time I see Evert I become more aware that, in the not-too-distant future, I will never see him again. An anticipated death is worse than an unexpected one.
It doesn’t seem to bother Evert as much. His eyes still twinkle. He devours life every day, and relishes it.
When I complimented him on this, he said that I should follow his example, since he’d had enough of looking at my worried face the whole goddamn day. I didn’t know
what to say.
‘Touché!’ Evert added. It sounded funny, coming from him.
Then I quoted the first four lines of ‘Insomnia’ to him.
‘A bit naff, isn’t it, three lines in a row starting with “and”?’ was his reaction.
There you go, Bloem, put that in your pipe and smoke it.
And then we heard, from the table next to us – putting death into perspective, as it were: ‘Yes, you see, I’m no longer able to hold my pee in. Well, that’s the beginning of the end, isn’t it.’
‘Beginning of what end?’ asked Evert, twisting round in his seat. The ladies were embarrassed into sheepish silence.
‘Oh, no need to stop talking. You are sitting at the sickness-and-death table.’
It has taken no time at all for the table demarcation to become established. The happy result is that we don’t have to constantly hear the many physical tribulations affecting the care home’s inmates. Talking about it doesn’t help, but the temptation to do so is contagious. It makes everyone eager to air his or her own affliction, thereby increasing the torrent of complaints. No, pretending everything’s fine most of the time makes it much more pleasant for everyone.
Wednesday, 2 September
Next Saturday is my birthday. I am racking my brain for an original way to celebrate. People appear to have high expectations.
‘What kind of super-duper plan have you come up with for your Satur-birthday?’ asked Ria.
Now there’s an expression you don’t often hear these days: ‘super-duper’. I should have complimented her on her ‘waggish way with words’ – now that would have been a snappy linguistic comeback.