‘Oh,’ said Mrs Veen, crestfallen. ‘And I don’t suppose you have any interest in it either?’
‘You suppose correctly.’
When I later asked who had given her my name, nobody seemed to know. The Head of Housekeeping thought it was standard procedure. She also informed me that there was growing interest in the transition ritual ‘from one’s own home into the care home’, for the last transition faced by the elderly – not counting the transition into the cemetery. Apparently the management passes on the particulars of residents and new arrivals alike to these commercial modern-day do-gooders.
It isn’t easy to find the right words for a moving eulogy for Evert. He casually alluded to it a few weeks ago.
‘Keep it short and try to get a few good jokes in, preferably some rude ones,’ was his advice.
Saturday, 7 November
It may sound like a cliché, but I can’t think of a better way of putting it: it was a splendid farewell. It seems that my friend, who had so skilfully cultivated his rough edges, had nevertheless managed to show many people his soft heart. For a funeral of an eighty-seven-year-old, there was quite a large crowd. Many of the residents attended, some of whom were moved to tears. I suspect only one or two of having come just to gloat about Evert’s demise. Quite a few of the staff also came, including, surprisingly, Mrs Stelwagen. Even though she no longer works here, Jan had given her permission to say a few words on behalf of the institution, and she kept it short but sweet. She said Evert was the most sympathetic troublemaker she’d ever encountered in her career. There’s a heart beating under that grey woollen suit after all. It was a compliment Evert wouldn’t have known what to do with.
Jan and Graeme spoke movingly and amusingly, and I believe I did as well.
Evert had arranged for a startling choice of music. ‘Hurt’ by Johnny Cash, ‘If Death Must Come One Day,’ by Zjef Vanuytsel, and ‘Kraaien’ (‘Crows’) by André Manuel. Shatteringly lovely. I didn’t realize I still had that many tears.
Jan went last. ‘My father asked me to tell you that he wished to take his last nightcap in the grave by himself. Those were his words. So this is where we take leave of him. I think we could all use a stiff drink ourselves now. Let us begin our Evert-less lives with an Irish coffee and a slice of the most scrumptious cake his friends Ria and Antoine have ever produced, and while doing so tell each other our best Evert stories.’
And that’s what we did.
Sunday, 8 November
In reaction to the attack on the Russian airplane that has crashed in Egypt, Geert remarked: ‘If I were still able to travel, I’d book myself a flight to Sharm el-Sheikh right now. It’s never been as well guarded, probably very cheap and nice and quiet.’
The ISIS bombs are a great worry to the residents. As far as I know, never in the history of the world has a home for the elderly been targeted for an assault, but still … Some of the residents think that the very fact that a care home has never been a target only increases the chances of its happening.
For the past several years, I would drop in on Evert at around 4 p.m., four or five times a week. I’d always have a cup of tea first, for form’s sake, followed by a stiff drink. So as not to waste any time, Evert would skip the tea and go straight for the booze. At about 6 p.m. we’d go down to dinner. Two hours of pleasant camaraderie – a nice, old-fashioned word that suits old geezers like us. Now he is no longer with us, I thought I’d have trouble filling those afternoon hours, but my Old-But-Not-Dead friends are looking out for me. And they’re keeping an eye on Leonie as well, that strong, quiet woman who did so much for Evert in her discreet and seemingly nonchalant way. Yesterday she came round in the late afternoon. She strode into the middle of my room and stood still.
‘Hold me, Hendrik – please?’
She wept quietly into my shoulder.
After a few minutes she took out her handkerchief. ‘Thank you. It just had to come out. Let’s go to Ria and Antoine’s now for a cup of pea soup, shall we?’
We have invitations from friends for the next two weeks at least, to distract us. We shall gratefully accept.
Monday, 9 November
Our only foreign resident is a Turk, Mr Mehmed Okcegulcik.
‘Can’t we just call you Okkie? I can’t remember the rest of it,’ Mrs Van Diemen had asked soon after his arrival. No problem, said Mr Okcegulcik, so he has been Mr Okkie ever since. Okkie’s a nice bloke, with just the right amount of self-mockery. He has publicly and gravely declared that he is not a terrorist, even if he does hail from Turkey. I’m willing to take his word for it, but I have overheard some doubtfulness from certain quarters.
‘Easy for him to say, but with Muslims, one can never be completely sure,’ said Mr Pot, who, sadly, has already forgotten about his intention to boycott the conversation lounge. Staying alone in his room was a bit too quiet for him.
‘Mr Okkie isn’t Muslim, he’s Russian-Orthodox,’ Ria objected.
According to Pot they are just about the same thing.
Mr Okkie occasionally joins us at the Old-But-Not-Dead table. Yesterday I had a serious conversation with him about loss, in the wake of Evert’s death. Okkie lost his wife and daughter within a short space of time. His two sons have returned to Turkey, they live in Istanbul, but he himself doesn’t feel like going back to his village in Anatolia, and he finds Istanbul far too crowded.
‘I like living here. Nice people and no worries. I speak to one of my sons every other day. I talk to them more often now than when they lived in the Netherlands.’
Okkie worked as a welder in the shipyards here in North Amsterdam for over thirty years. Upon his retirement he went on living in Amsterdam with his wife and daughter.
He has been a widower for two years. His daughter took over caring for her father when her mother died, but she too died half a year later. He had been on the waiting list for a place in a home for the aged for several years, and got lucky. He was offered a room in here just before the new, stricter standards went into effect.
‘It’s a clever mick who’ll ever get me to leave,’ he said yesterday.
‘Clever dick you mean,’ I said, laughing.
‘I don’t care who never gets me to leave,’ Okkie twinkled back.
The Old-But-Not-Dead Club could consider offering Evert’s spot to Mr Okkie. Then we could present ourselves as a multicultural organization. I shall give it some thought.
Tuesday, 10 November
The National Health Council has issued a new list of what you should and shouldn’t eat in order to stay healthy. There’s lots that’s off-limits: alcohol, red meat, sugar and sausage have been banned. Deep-fried food already had a bad reputation. It’s a good thing Evert no longer needs to get all in a stew about it, because he used to overindulge in everything on the list with great gusto.
As far as sugar goes, Mrs Hoensbroek is the uncontested champion here: six heaped spoonfuls or more in her coffee or tea.
‘If you don’t start reducing your sugar intake, you’ll never make it to the age you are now,’ a nurse told her. Huh? You could hear the brains creaking. Did that make sense?
Personally, I have decided to keep eating and drinking the old way. Alcohol, red meat, sugar, sausage and fried bitterballen have brought me to this juncture; I am not going to abandon them now. With some reluctance I will have to concur just this once with Mr Pot, who at least a couple of times a day will say, ‘It’ll wait until after I’m gone.’
Sister Morales, the little schemer who would sometimes try to badmouth Stelwagen in the past, now has it in for our new director, Mr Van de Kerkhof. At teatime she leaned over to me.
‘Did you know that Mr Kerkhof is planning to close the entire home within the next two years? I thought the Residents’ Committee should know.’
I asked her how she had got hold of that information, but she wouldn’t say.
I don’t know what to do with this. Is Morales a well-informed source or a compulsive liar?
Thi
s evening the Club is going out to dinner. It will do us good in these sombre times.
Wednesday, 11 November
Mrs Slothouwer thought that with the demise of her archenemy Evert, she was now free to resume tormenting people and spewing her malicious gossip and spite undisturbed.
‘Have you washed today, Mrs Smit?’ she asked in a loud voice.
Mrs Smit looked up skittishly.
‘I did, you can ask the nurse.’
‘Well, not very well in that case, because you’re a bit smelly.’
The next instant a small pitcher of milk happened to spill – right on to Slothouwer’s lap.
‘You did it on purpose!’ she fumed at Geert.
Geert looked at her evenly and then said, ‘I am the new Evert.’
‘So am I, actually,’ I said, putting up my hand.
Two more Everts came forward: Edward and Leonie.
Mrs Slothouwer slunk off to her room and did not come back.
Yesterday we had a delicious Mexican meal. Lots of beans, corn, mince and Mexican pancakes, called ‘wraps’. All of us, even the ladies, had a Corona beer to go with it.
‘This is the second beer I’ve had in my life,’ said Ria.
You could tell from her expression that there would not be a third one.
We all drank a toast to our departed friend.
It was a great deal quieter without Evert, and the conversation was rather more polite. With Evert, it tended to veer into piss-poo-shit territory. He would have taken the presence of a dish of kidney beans as an excuse to bring up the subject of flatulence. Although he certainly wouldn’t have used the word flatulence. If others had used that word, he’d have accused them of being foul-mouthed.
Thursday, 12 November
Graeme has opened a temporary betting shop. What’s the occasion? The Lower House has a committee overseeing our intelligence services. This committee has acquired the nickname ‘Hush Council’ because the members are required to keep their deliberations secret. The committee is composed of the faction leaders of ten different political parties. At least one of them has leaked information to the press. But which one? We all tend to have our favourite suspect. You hope it’s that one politician you just can’t stand, but deep in your heart you’re afraid it’s your political soulmate who did it. Our fellow residents aren’t generally all that interested in politics, but in this case they haven’t been shy about pointing the finger: it must be that one, or the other.
In the interests of this new party game, Graeme decided it would be fun to bet on one’s favourite stoolpigeon. The opportunity was initially reserved for Old-But-Not-Dead members only, but now it has been opened to all. The take will be divided among those who correctly guessed the actual traitor. The stake is €2. Should the parliamentary committee charged with investigating the Hush Council fail to come up with a culprit, you get your money back. If one of the gamblers should meet an untimely end, his stake will be forfeited. For Mr Pot that was enough reason not to participate.
‘Dead or not, I want my money back.’
Sorry, Pot, rules are rules.
Some of the inmates here are quite fond of snitching themselves. They’ll tell on their neighbours for a minor infraction, such as cooking in one’s room, or putting hooks in the wall.
‘Yes, nurse, I don’t know, the room next door smells of fried eggs …’
‘I was in the corridor and heard a loud banging, sister. It was almost as if someone were hammering a nail into the wall …’
It’s always the same disingenuous residents who complain. No, I am not going to say who they are.
Friday, 13 November
To those who are superstitious: be especially on your guard today. Friday the 13th!
Talking of superstition: Ne Win, Burma’s military leader, had new banknotes printed in 1987 in denominations divisible by nine because an astrologer had told him that nine was his lucky number.
Yesterday I went to visit Grietje. One of the nurses was telling me about a care home in Weesp that’s been turned into a neighbourly dementia village, with streets, squares and gardens. The demented residents can bring their own former front doors from home; there is a supermarket where they can buy soda and liquorice, and a café where sentimental old songs are sung. I asked if they also have an old black-and-white television showing Swiebertje, Steptoe and Son and The Generation Game all day? She didn’t know.
I think it would be great if they brought back old series with the original cast, if the actors are still living. An old-as-the-hills Harold pushing a rollator, chased by a wheelchair-bound Steptoe, would be something to see – but alas, they’re both dead.
Some Christian schools in the Veluwe are boycotting the Sinterklaasjournaal because of the fiendish ‘white wives’ story in the latest broadcast. A headmaster in Voorthuizen: ‘The Bible tells us that the Lord God is distressed by those who call attention to witchcraft.’ Well, I know of quite a few things the Lord God and his headmasters ought to get far more distressed about than the Sinterklaasjournaal. If I had to choose between the Book of God and the Book of Sinterklaas, I know which one I would pick. There’s too much unpleasant bunk in that Bible.
Saturday, 14 November
Yesterday morning everyone was up in arms about silly white witches on the telly, and then last night five attacks took place in Paris with more than 120 slain. Can you think of a greater and more ghastly contrast? The bafflement and indignation exceed all description.
One resident said, with tears in her eyes, ‘You see: Friday the 13th.’
We were huddled round the telly all night. All the experts and eyewitnesses notwithstanding, television is rather useless, since in light of the horrific news there’s really not much to say: five bloody assaults, 120 dead (provisional toll). Heartrending. The whole of Europe is united in grief – for a while, anyway. A few days from now the differences will start bubbling up to the surface once more over what should be done about terrorism, and who’s directly or indirectly to blame.
Sunday, 15 November
Some residents got stuck in the lift yesterday. It had stopped for no apparent reason between the fourth and fifth floors. A minor panic broke out.
It took a while for it to occur to the people in the lift that there might be an alarm button somewhere; then it took a bit longer for that button to be discovered behind Mr Dickhout’s broad backside, but once the alarm was raised, a member of the staff came rushing to the scene.
An anxious ‘Help!’ was heard.
‘Please stay calm. Who’s in the lift?’ the nurse called.
‘We’re standing, and I can’t stand on my feet that long.’
‘Neither can I.’
‘Then why don’t you sit down?’
‘On the floor?’
‘Can’t you sit on your walker?’
‘No, I only have my cane.’
‘If your legs give out, just sit down on the floor.’
‘Then I won’t be able to get up again.’
‘We’ll deal with that later. How many of you are there?’
The count was four people, two rollators and one cane.
I had the pleasure of being in the front row for the spectacle, since I had been about to take the lift down.
It took a long time for someone from maintenance to arrive. Meanwhile the victims received encouragement from both the fourth floor beneath them and the fifth floor above.
‘Someone will be coming to get you out any moment now.’
‘Mrs Duits says she’s going to faint,’ someone shouted anxiously.
She was advised not to, from all sides.
‘Is it any moment now yet?’
‘Let’s just hope there isn’t a fire,’ said one of the gawkers who had gathered, pointing to the sign ‘DO NOT USE THE LIFT IN CASE OF FIRE’.
Finally the head of maintenance showed up, with a sandwich in his hand. He disappeared inside the machine room, and manually lowered the lift a metre or so, upon which the door c
ould be opened with a special key.
The spectators shamelessly thronged forward to see how bad the situation was in there, so that it took a while before the four victims, with much theatrical groaning, could be assisted out. As if they were mineworkers stuck deep under the ground for two weeks. Mrs Duits looked as if she was about to faint again. Mr Schoute pretended he had to shield his eyes against the brightness of the light. He meant it as a joke, only nobody got it. The whole thing took twenty minutes, but provided fodder for many hours of chin-wagging.
A pleasant side effect: it did distract us a bit from the Paris attacks.
Monday, 16 November
At noon there was a minute of silence for the Paris attack victims.
Mrs Bregman turned the Dutch flag into the French flag for the occasion by rotating it on to its side and adjusting the proportions with needle and thread. She tied the flag to the radiator and then hung it out the window, which means the window has to stay open a crack.
‘It’s a bit cold, but I felt I had to do something, even if it’s just a gesture.’
A lovely small gesture. Who knows? Millions of small gestures could, one day, add up together to overcome the power of bombs.
This morning I had to go to the hospital for a check-up for my arm. The doctor gazed at the cast and the X-rays.
‘Looking quite good, Mr … uh … Groen.’
‘Only quite?’
‘The fracture is healing nicely for someone your age, but I’m afraid there are signs of osteoporosis.’
‘Osteoporosis?’
‘Indeed, osteoporosis, loss of bone.’
He proposed having my bone density checked.
‘You’ll have to pop over to Groningen for it,’ he informed me, as if it was just round the corner.
‘Pop over to Groningen …?’ I repeated.