Monday, 26 October
Yesterday afternoon Evert, Leonie and I took a walk in the park. The sun was shining, the colours were dazzling. Leonie was the one pushing Evert’s wheelchair, not without some difficulty. Our ailing friend kept listing sideways: he’d fallen asleep just a few minutes into our stroll. We sat down on a bench in the sun, taking turns to push Evert back into an upright position whenever he threatened to slide out of his chair. A lost dog came along and started sniffing at our legs. There wasn’t much to say. Before starting back we woke Evert up. He gazed at us in surprise, looked round and then nodded his head a few times.
‘Phew, quite a walk, that was.’
Before we arrived home he’d dozed off again. He didn’t wake up until we reached his room. I fed him a few pieces of pear and then Leonie undressed him, assisted by a male nurse, who carefully carried him to his bed. Half sitting, half reclining, he sipped a little brandy. He was all out of jokes.
‘I’m going to sleep, see you in the morning.’ He seemed content.
I went downstairs for a cup of coffee and to watch the finals of The Great Dutch Bake-Off. Seated up close to the widescreen telly were Ria and Antoine. They haven’t missed a single episode. They felt terrible for every failed cake. It was touching to watch them from a distance. Afterwards they promised to bake me an illicit cake someday soon.
‘That’s an offer I can’t refuse, but what I’d really like is if you’d bake the most beautiful cake you’ve ever concocted for Evert’s funeral,’ I said. I believe that they began making preparations that same evening.
Tuesday, 27 October
The animal lovers in our home are simply overjoyed: China is giving the Netherlands two giant pandas. Although it does come with a catch or two:
They’re only on loan, or rather, for hire. At the rate of €1 million for the pair, which is quite a sum for two fat black-and-white layabouts.
Any eventual baby bears must be returned to China.
If the Netherlands isn’t being nice to China, by saying something about human rights over there, for example, we’ll have to send them back.
As far as I’m concerned, the Chinese can keep their gift, but I am rather alone in that opinion. It seems that the zoo stands to make a fortune, since the pandas will bring in so many more visitors. Here in the home there has been considerable interest as well. The Residents’ Committee has already received a request for next year’s daytrip to go to the ‘panda-zoo’.
A British granddad in Saudi Arabia has been condemned to a year in prison and 350 lashes. His grave transgression: making homemade wine. The police found the bottles in his vehicle. Saudi Arabia – isn’t that country our partner in the fight against Islamic extremism? How extreme is it, then, to flog an old man to death because he likes a little glass of wine now and again? When our King Willem Alexander, whom we used to call ‘Prince Pils’, was at that state dinner in honour of his visit to Saudi Arabia, he really should have made a point of uncorking a nice bottle of Beaujolais. If he had, I’d have changed from a hardened republican into a loyal monarchist. Although only for this particular king.
We are having our first meeting with Mr Van de Kerkhof, our new director, this afternoon.
Wednesday, 28 October
When I arrived at Evert’s flat this morning I found him panting heavily in his wheelchair, clad only in a dirty pair of underpants. His excrement-smeared pyjamas were on the floor next to the bed. He was trying to pull the soiled sheets off the bed, but didn’t have the strength. His emaciated body was shaking. I went to fetch the ever-helpful Sister Herwegen.
‘Oh, Mr Duiker … Were you lying half the night in …’
Evert nodded.
She went to work energetically. Half an hour later the bed was clean and Evert was sitting in his wheelchair in a clean pair of pyjamas. The flat smelled of cleaning products over a vague odour of urine and shit.
‘Feel better, Mr Duiker.’ The nurse left.
‘I believe I’ve just about reached rock bottom, Henk,’ Evert said to me when she was gone.
‘Yes, I’m afraid you may be right.’
‘I must put it off a little longer. Jan, his wife and children are coming on Sunday,’ my friend said.
I couldn’t think of anything consoling to say except a rather helpless ‘Chin up!’ I made him a cup of coffee, only half of which he managed to get down. Then I found that I could assist him a bit by using my good hand, as he hauled himself painfully out of his chair and into his bed.
‘Hendrik, my good friend, allow me to recover my breath a bit, in order to demolish you at Snakes and Ladders later this afternoon,’ he said with a thin smile. Five minutes later he was asleep. I sat in the chair by his bed for a while, trying to read the newspaper. When Geert arrived two hours later to relieve me, I had already forgotten what I had read.
Thursday, 29 October
Not that I really care, but I think it is telling that at the start of his first meeting with the Residents’ Committee, our new director did not inquire about the cast on my arm. Not that I don’t get enough sympathy here, but wouldn’t you expect someone leading a caregiving institution to make a show of caring about his residents?
The rest of the meeting was also conducted in a frosty, business-like manner. We inquired about the situation regarding the vacancies, the eventual dismissal of the porter and outsourcing of the food preparation, as well as the prospective closing of our institution.
Mr Van de Kerkhof was unable to provide any information about these matters at this time. He wished, rather, to confine himself in our discussion to what he saw as the ‘core business’ of the Residents’ Committee, namely, the activities, clubs and outings.
‘Actually, at this juncture we consider our home’s continued operation rather more important than bingo, and we sincerely hope that the management shares our concern,’ Leonie said flatly, as if she were ordering a loaf of bread at the bakery.
No, of course, Kerkhof agreed with her completely, but within the institution, everyone had their own distinct responsibilities.
‘The Residents’ Committee would like to be involved in more than just marginal affairs,’ I heard myself say.
‘I will certainly take that into account wherever possible,’ our new boss retorted stiffly. That should lead to some interesting confrontations.
Talking it over afterwards in Ria and Antoine’s room over a glass of wine, we all heartily agreed: in less than an hour, the fellow had managed to motivate us into standing firm and not allowing ourselves to be kicked around.
We started dusting off our networking options: who amongst us still had some press or law connections? Graeme, Ria and Leonie have volunteered to visit old acquaintances who may be of some use to us. We will be keeping it under our hats, naturally. Kerkhof must be kept in the dark for as long as possible, in the misapprehension that he’ll be able to drive his docile herd to the slaughter without a struggle. Stelwagen, what a sweetheart you were, compared to this butcher!
Friday, 30 October
This morning Evert seemed to be doing slightly better.
‘Got through the night without soiling myself anyway, Henkie.’
‘My nose did detect that fact.’
‘Those new bung-plugger pills are already helping.’
His solid food now consists mainly of pills. His liquid intake is limited to small sips of some kind of astronaut-diet concoction, fortified in the late afternoon with one or two nips of whisky or brandy.
Some concerns are being raised on another front: with regard to our Christmas market trip, are we hiring a good coach, with an experienced driver? The trepidation was set off by the news of a bus accident in France. Not the accident itself, you understand, but the fact that thirty old people were killed in it. Pensioners on holiday. Funny, isn’t it, that spontaneous sense of solidarity with accident victims? The first question, always, is, were there any Dutch victims? Such a relief when there aren’t. Oh well, just foreigners, then, that’s lu
cky! But then when it turns out that the victims were fellow senior citizens, suddenly the accident takes on far more harrowing proportions.
The bus driver lost control of the wheel. I can’t quite picture how that happens, losing control of the wheel. As if the steering wheel could suddenly break loose and have a life of its own.
The English fellow sentenced to 350 lashes for wine possession has been granted clemency thanks to the intervention of Britain’s Foreign Minister. There was some discussion amongst the residents whether it was the cane or the whip he would now not be flogged with. I believe he’d already served that year in the clink.
Saturday, 31 October
Yesterday Evert presented me with a beautiful book: Old People Are the Happiest People, the collected poems of Anton Korteweg.
‘A farewell present. Chosen for the title. You do like poetry, don’t you?’
I said I did.
‘I don’t. Although, these are all right, because they don’t rhyme. I’ve leafed through it, it’s really your kind of thing.’
He advised me to read a couple of the poems every day in his memory, and if someday I found myself down in the dumps, to take the dedication on the flyleaf to heart.
I opened the book.
‘No, not yet. When I’m dead.’
‘It’s a nice hefty book, anyway,’ I said.
‘Over 600 poems, so if you read two a day, you’ll get through another year before you even know it.’
The residents are feeling a bit more empathy for the refugees than before. That’s thanks to Bibihal Uzbeki, from Afghanistan, who at 105 may be the world’s oldest refugee. She arrived in Croatia after a twenty-day journey, having hitchhiked a good portion of the way carried on her fellow travellers’ backs.
‘We had problems many times,’ Bibihal reported.
Rather cautiously put, methinks.
‘I would never think of it, having my son carry me on his back,’ said Mrs Quint, ‘not even from here to the front door.’
‘Is your son a weakling, then, or are you that heavy?’ Slothouwer asked.
Mrs Quint almost choked with outrage.
A little while later, Geert bumped into Mrs Slothouwer’s chair just as she was sipping her tea.
‘Oh, I do apologize!’
‘You again!’ Slothouwer glared at Geert, furious.
‘No, that was me, last time,’ Graeme said with a friendly nod.
‘Maybe it happens because you’re always so mean to other people?’ asked Geert.
Slothouwer stood up and disappeared to her room.
‘Ha! Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ Mrs Quint noted with some satisfaction.
I know that besides his regular collection of medicines, Evert has another stash of pills somewhere. With the help of The Euthanasia Society and son Jan, he has stocked up on pentobarbital. Euthanasia pills. He confided it to me the other day.
‘Just so you know, Hendrik. So that I won’t have to bother anyone else when the time comes.’
Sunday, 1 November
9 p.m.
As if to emphasize the sadness of this day, North Amsterdam was shrouded in a stubborn mist all day. According to Ria, 10 kilometres to the south it was bright and sunny. It had to be so.
This morning I went to see Evert. He said he would stay in bed, and wanted nothing but a cup of tea. That was all. There was nothing left to talk about. I suggested a game of draughts, but he shook his head.
‘I’m going back to sleep. Just stay and sit with me for a few minutes, and then when I’m asleep you can go downstairs and get back to your skirt-chasing,’ he said with one of his last grins.
When he’d fallen asleep, I took his hand in mine. I could feel the bones and arteries. Two hours later Jan, his wife and the kids arrived. We gently woke Evert up. He was confused at first upon seeing such a large group standing round his bed. Slowly he regained his grip on reality.
‘Hey, Groen, still here? Don’t you have anything better to do than sit here holding my hand?’
I left him to be alone with his family. A good hour later they were at my door to say goodbye. Wet cheeks. I got hugs from all four of them.
Jan said, ‘My dad’s sleeping now, but he asked if you wouldn’t mind popping in at the cocktail hour. Just pop in – sounds nice and breezy, doesn’t it?’
‘Of course.’
Jan was the last to walk out the door, and he turned back briefly: ‘See you tomorrow.’
I went to him at 5 p.m. He was still asleep. He woke up an hour later. Shortly afterwards he said, ‘There’s a few dregs of good cognac left over there in the cabinet, Henk. Why don’t you fill the glasses one more time? Pour yourself a big one, a small one for me.’
We clinked our glasses.
‘To a happy end, dear old chum,’ he said, ‘and many thanks for your very entertaining friendship these past few years. I have enjoyed your company very much.’
I wanted to reply with something equally nice, but my mouth couldn’t seem to make a sound. I had tears in my eyes.
‘Don’t worry about me, please; I’m actually looking forward to the peace and quiet. You’re going to be around a while longer, so try and make the best of it,’ he consoled me. ‘Here’s to some Dutch courage! You can have the remains of my liquor reserve. There are one or two nice little bottles left.’
We clinked again. When the glasses were empty, he asked me to leave him with two glasses of water on his bedside table, and his pill box.
‘And now bugger off, you.’ He swallowed.
We hugged. For the first and last time. Two skinny old chaps who loved each other in their own old-chap way.
‘Leonie will be coming along shortly to say goodbye, so you can leave the door off the latch,’ Evert said.
That was an hour ago.
Now he is alone.
Monday, 2 November
At 10 a.m. this morning I warned the head nurse that Mr Duiker wasn’t answering his door. Evert had planned it that way. I went in with her. He was lying there perfectly decently, except that his mouth had fallen open. He was wearing the good suit that Leonie had recently helped him buy. He was freshly shaved, his hair neatly combed. He still looked like Evert, but the real Evert had departed. For parts unknown.
Next I went round to our Old-But-Not-Dead friends one by one, to tell them that Evert, sadly, had to give up his Club membership. These were the same words Evert himself had used a few days ago.
‘Hendrik, I am sorry that I’ll have to end my Old-But-Not-Dead membership very soon. Will you please thank the rest of the Club on my behalf, for having tolerated me as a member for so long? Do give my apologies for leaving the party prematurely.’
He had never in his life been a member of any organization for as long a period as he’d been in the Old-But-Not-Dead Club, he told me proudly.
When I knocked on Leonie’s door and she opened it, I could tell that she already knew. We just held each other tight for a very long time.
Tonight we are assembling at Ria and Antoine’s.
Tuesday, 3 November
On the flyleaf of Old People are the Happiest People, my farewell gift from Evert, it says, in rather clumsy cursive writing:
Hendrik, friend,
Read, laugh, and love someone
’Cause what’s gone is gone
Try to keep having fun
As long as there’s life
Evert
P.S. For my very first stab at doggerel, not too bad, is it?
Wednesday, 4 November
The funeral is on Friday. At 3 p.m.; Evert wasn’t a morning person. There’s nothing left to do. He arranged it all splendidly while he was alive: the undertaker, the coffin, the cemetery, the card, the music and the strict prohibition against coffee and cake. Instead we’re having Irish Coffee and pie.
The Old-But-Not-Dead members gathered on Monday evening for some support and to exchange memories. Jan was our special guest. The libations were supplied by our drinks specialist: the deceased himse
lf. He had entrusted a number of bottles to Ria and Antoine, for safekeeping until this occasion. Food was never his strong suit. Whenever Evert was responsible for providing something hot and edible, you wouldn’t get much, save perhaps a fire emergency. He cherished that reputation in order to get out of his culinary obligations whenever he was able.
We cried some, and laughed a great deal.
Jan, Graeme and I are to speak at the funeral. His granddaughter will play a little waltz on her accordion. Ria and Antoine are baking the most beautiful cake of their lives, and Geert and Edward will see to it that, come the spring, 200 tulips and daffodils will bloom on his grave.
Thursday, 5 November
Yesterday I had a transition rituals guide at my door.
‘First of all, please accept my sincere condolences on the passing of your friend. My name is Anita Veen, and I’m from the training school for transition rituals guides, The Moment.’
I said I had never heard of it, and asked her how she had found me. The care home had given her my name.
‘Surely Mr Duiker, even without any official religious affiliation, must have given some sign that he’d appreciate some kind of remembrance moment?’ She put a folder down on the table entitled Inspiration Creativity Spirituality.
‘You’re lucky that you did not speak to the deceased while he was still alive.’
Mrs Veen looked rather taken aback.
‘If you had accosted Mr Duiker while he was alive to ask him if he’d like a remembrance moment from a rituals guide, you would probably have been a candidate for a remembrance moment yourself. Mr Duiker was not, to put it mildly, very fond of spiritual quackery.’