Tuesday, 10 February
Stelwagen did not disappoint me. The day after the alarming report in Het Parool, there was an announcement from the management on the noticeboard saying, in so many words, that we could all sleep in peace.
‘There is no immediate plan for your home to be demolished in the near future.’
That ‘in the near future’ did raise some questions. ‘That’s not saying much. What’s it supposed to mean: “in the near future”? To me, the “near future” is a week, but to a mountain, it’s a million years,’ said Mr Pot. He’d probably read that bit somewhere, about the mountain.
After a discussion over coffee with a few Club members, Leonie was deputized to waylay Stelwagen with her most innocent smile, and ask her when the ‘major renovations’, which were announced two years ago, will finally start. We haven’t heard a word about it since. Demolition on the heels of a major renovation: it doesn’t seem very logical to us.
‘Oh, Mrs Stelwagen, I do hope the renovation plans haven’t been cancelled because of …’ Leonie, the woman with the trusting, guileless eyes, thought she’d say something along those lines.
Wednesday, 11 February
Tomorrow the Old-But-Not-Dead have another dinner date. Geert is the organizer. It is his first time, and he was too impatient to wait, even though we’d had a dinner out just twelve days earlier. He seems a bit nervous; he is usually the picture of unflappability. We are gathering in the entrance hall at half five.
I have now studied the papers of The Euthanasia Society. I see that there are a few problems remaining. In the first place, euthanasia pills aren’t legally available, and it seems they’re not easy to obtain via the Internet either. Legal euthanasia is done by a series of injections. For that I will need a euthanasia declaration signed by a doctor. I don’t have great faith in my own doctor. Perhaps The Euthanasia Society will provide the physician; I will have to check that out. I suppose I’ll go ahead and order the booklet, A Self-Determined Death with Dignity. For a nice, peaceful death, €9.50 isn’t too much to pay.
I’ll also have to find someone to be my healthcare proxy. That’s the problem with having no family. All I have is a few very old friends whom I’d rather not saddle with the burden of my euthanasia and last wishes. I wonder if The Euthanasia Society could provide me with someone who’ll be my deputized proxy, for a small fee.
I may talk a good game about self-determination, but putting your money where your mouth is, that’s another matter. It’s making me feel a bit on edge.
‘Know what? You could just put it off for a bit,’ my trusty old procrastinator whispered in my ear.
Mrs Van Dam asked me this afternoon if I would play Rummikub with her. In a panicked reflex I said Rummikub always gives me a migraine. But then I felt so ashamed about being such a wimp that I added, ‘No, just joking. I don’t really like Rummikub. You should ask someone else. Why don’t you try Mr Duiker?’ I was already snickering inwardly at the thought.
But apparently Van Dam wasn’t as desperate as that. She looked as if she’d rather be buried alive than play a game of Rubbikub with Evert.
Mrs Van Dam loves board games, but nobody will play with her. She is afflicted with Parkinson’s disease, and the pieces or counters are always sent flying in all directions as a result. She spends more time under the table picking up the pieces than at play. A sad case. I once played klaberjass with her, but that was really an exercise in patience. In the time it took for her to more or less arrange eight cards in her hand, you had more than enough time to finish a cup of coffee. And then she often couldn’t help turning over two or three cards at a time. It does give her opponent a bit of an edge.
She is very despondent. Rummikub, Scrabble and card games were practically the only activities that still gave her life meaning, but she can’t get anyone to play with her any more. ‘Frustration, then?’ she pleaded recently, unaware of the sad irony of her words.
Thursday, 12 February
Mr Bakker and Mr Pot are worse than the two cantankerous old geezers in The Muppets. Everything’s going to the dogs; gangland murders are the only thing that has them rubbing their hands in glee. They have therefore had a splendid time these past few weeks. There have been so many mob killings in a row that it’s almost impossible to keep up with them all. Criminals won’t get much pity in here. No matter how sweet the bumped-off crook may have been to his mother.
My speculative take on this: the older, the more reactionary.
It’s sad, but the residents can also be very mean to one another. Some of them refuse to look at us Old-But-Not-Dead chaps, or exchange pleasantries with us. And why? Envy is the only reason I can come up with. Envy because they’ve been left out of something. Behind our backs, spurred on by Pot and Bakker, the gossip runs rampant.
We, the Club members, have agreed not to react. It isn’t always easy in practice, but it’s quite effective. It leads to strict separation at mealtimes between the envious and the Old-But-Not-Dead. In between the two camps sit the neutral parties, who behave in a normal, friendly manner towards us, and so are regarded as traitors by the sourpusses who, at age eighty, still can’t stand seeing other people happy. Whereas we are all, in the end, in the same, slowly sinking boat, where harmony and fellowship would make so much more sense.
Friday, 13 February
At 6 p.m. we were dropped off in Albert Cuyp Street. Empty cardboard boxes and sheets of plastic drifted across the deserted market. The driver of a street sweeper pretended to make a beeline for our procession of elderly citizens. Edward pretended to be given such a turn that he fell down in the street. He can be very convincing, and is admirably limber for a man in his eighties. The driver, alarmed, jumped down from his vehicle. ‘Oh, sorry, so sorry! I meant it as a joke. Are you hurt, sir?’
‘Hoist with your own petard, friend,’ said Edward, getting up with a laugh. We had to explain it three times to the street cleaner before he finally understood that Edward had taken the mickey out of him. Then he couldn’t stop laughing.
We ate in Barra, a tapas bar, and I must say we did the Spanish cuisine proud.
We were presented with a choice of tasty morsels – delicious ham, of course, and tortillas, fish, shellfish, lamb, grilled vegetables. Served by the owner himself, a very friendly devotee of his own cuisine. He also had a lot of patience for old people.
‘Oh how I regret spending my whole life on meat, potatoes and veg,’ said Leonie. ‘We’ve deprived ourselves, haven’t we dearie, for eighty years,’ she mused, caressing Evert’s cheek. Upon which Evert choked on his Fundador, spraying the Spanish brandy all over Leonie’s dress. She took it in her stride, seizing the opportunity to slap Evert lengthily and assiduously on the back.
Leonie does it on purpose. She knows Evert can’t bear being fussed over. Touching to behold.
After an entire bottle of Fundador, we tottered outside even less steadily than when we came in. The worry of falling was left behind in the empty bottle, and if you’re not worried, you tend not to fall as easily.
Graeme howled at the moon.
Saturday, 14 February
I am to play Cupid on Leonie’s behalf. She has bought Evert a cat calendar for Valentine’s Day and wants me to deliver it to him anonymously.
‘Yes, Henk, I know, it’s a very tacky calendar, and I bought it at discount, since we’re already a month into the year.’
‘You do like to tease our ornery friend, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I’m having fun!’
‘I shall deliver it for you with pleasure.’
A great many of the latest breakthroughs are coming too late for the inmates here to enjoy. Some aren’t too pleased about that. Take the onion that doesn’t make you cry, for example. Mrs Smit was visibly annoyed. Indeed, she was downright furious. ‘For seventy years I’ve been bawling my head off over every onion, and now, now that I’m no longer allowed to cook my own food, they come up with a new bloody onion.’
‘So? Nobody’
s stopping you from dicing up some onions,’ Mr Dickhout suggested.
‘What for?’
‘No idea. Maybe try some minced onion in your coffee.’
Her anger about the new and improved onion speaks volumes about the emptiness of her existence.
Could it be genetic – that some people are predisposed to getting angry about all kinds of things? It does seem to be the case. On the other hand, there are people who take everything with a smile. That’s much more pleasant, for their own sake as well as for the sake of others. Although the smiling people tend to make the people in the anger category seethe. Which makes the others smile. And so on.
Sunday, 15 February
Yesterday I delivered Leonie’s Valentine’s gift to Evert. He looked startled at first, and when he’d unwrapped it he said, ‘’Fess up, Henk, it’s from Leonie, isn’t it?’
‘My lips are sealed.’
‘What am I supposed to do about that woman?’
‘If, and I repeat, if it’s from Leonie, what does it matter? She’s a lovely girl, isn’t she?’
‘That’s the problem, Hendrik Groen!’
I told him I didn’t understand, but he wouldn’t say any more.
I just don’t get Evert these days.
‘Feeling all right, old chum?’ I’ve asked him several times now. He just says he’s ‘tolerable’ and refuses to divulge any other information.
‘Are your toes on your good leg turning black, then?’
‘My good leg? I only have one leg, Henk. And I sometimes ask myself what they’ve done with the other leg. What do you think they do with those amputated parts? Maybe they donate them to the zoo, for the lions? That would be a hilarious sight, a lion with my leg in its mouth. And as long as we’re on the subject of bones …’ Evert went on with a gleam in his eyes, ‘The Duke of York and the Earl of Oxford both died at Agincourt. The English King wanted to take his noble friends back to England, but realized they would start to smell rather badly on the long voyage home. So they boiled the corpses until they fell apart, and brought only the bones back home. Neatly done, eh?’
And after that story, what was I supposed to do, return to discussing his mental state?
Actually, Evert is extremely well read, although he doesn’t show it often. His knowledge of the Battle of Agincourt proves it.
Monday, 16 February
One in four old people who break one or more hips die within the year. That number seems high to me, but it’s in the newspaper, so there is room for doubt. What is undeniable is that a hip fracture is an inconvenience, and here comes the Wolk Company with just the ticket: the hip-airbag, for falling oldies. It’s provided with movement sensors that detect a fall as it happens, prompting the airbag to inflate. I expect it’s a bit like a swimming ring.
When I see the way many of the elderly collapse heavily into their chairs, I hope that airbag has been through some thorough testing and fine-tuning, because otherwise we’ll have great numbers of old people pinned into their armchairs by their deployed airbags, or, even more embarrassing, stuck fast on the loo.
Besides, there are a few other wrinkles. The folded airbag mustn’t show a bulge under your clothes, since any reasonably vain oldster would rather break a hip than walk round all day looking pear-shaped. In view of the danger of falling out of bed, it has to be comfortable enough to sleep in as well. Although you could just as well put an inflatable mattress next to your bed, of course, or sleep in a bed with side rails. But if they manage to iron out these bugs, I think the hip-airbag is a great solution, especially for people with epilepsy. It’s supposed to become available in 2016.
The article suggested another use for the airbag as well: tipsy café patrons. I would suggest making it absolutely mandatory for all epileptic geriatric pub-crawlers.
Tuesday, 17 February
‘I can’t really complain,’ is the frequent reply to the question of how someone is, ‘but I am bothered by my …’ and then you get a whole litany of woes. I get it, that people feel the need, every now and then, to vent their aches and pains; after all, there are enough afflicted old people hobbling along the corridors here. I would only plead for a set time and place for it, from ten until eleven, for example, in a screened-off corner of the conversation lounge.
Actually, isn’t what I just wrote a complaint about complaining?
I’m quite well myself, as a matter of fact. For the past two years, time has been kind to me. I do tend to forget quite a bit, but that’s easy to live with once you get used to it. What you forgot can’t have been all that important anyway. I also find myself getting slower, although, compared to the average resident, I still belong in the fast lane. I would guess that the average speed in our corridors is about 2 kilometres per hour. I can easily make 4 kph on a short distance. I am truly the cheetah of the geriatric world. If I were really tech-savvy I’d put one of those grinning little suns here 6, but if you have to resort to little yellow balls to explain that something’s supposed to be funny, then the joke’s already on you.
Early this morning Edward realized that the Old-But-Not-Dead Club has been in existence for exactly two years. He immediately decided to knock on everyone’s door to tell us we can’t possibly let the date go by unnoticed. A general meeting is called for teatime today.
Wednesday, 18 February
Allowing the Old-But-Not-Dead Club’s second anniversary to pass without fanfare would have shown scant respect, so something had to be organized without delay. All the members showed up for the hastily called meeting yesterday afternoon. Not thinking it through, we had convened in the conversation lounge, which happened to be filled with a great many uninvited co-residents. Just about half of the home’s entire population, crowding as close to our table as they could, were all ears. A few of them went so far as to sit down at our table, announcing they wanted to join the Club. That was not the idea. Our little society is strictly closed, you can only join if you’re nominated, and even then you have to be voted in by unanimous consent. We now have eight members, and that’s the maximum, because the minivan doesn’t hold any more than that. Only if one of the Old-But-Not-Dead members unexpectedly dies will there be room for a new member.
We escaped to Antoine and Ria’s room in the end. There it was decided to postpone the celebration by one day, to give us a chance to organize a proper blowout in Evert’s flat. Antoine and Ria were given the culinary leadership role, and, after a brief tête-à-tête, they gave each of us an assignment. All members are asked for a small contribution in the form of a dish, or perhaps a song or dance of our choice.
I am tasked with providing a cold appetizer: pears in blue-cheese sauce. They’ve given me the recipe, which is so simple that even I will be able to make it. I do have to go to the posh greengrocer’s some distance away for it, since the supermarket only has rock-hard pears for sale. I’ll also dig up my old magic kit from the back of my wardrobe, and prepare a trick or two.
A very long time ago I was ‘The Great Magician’ at children’s parties. Have I mentioned that?
Thursday, 19 February
The pears have been bought. The posh greengrocer lives up to his nickname and charges a very posh price for his fruit. What an old Dutch skinflint I am; I did have to swallow a few times when the time came to pay.
Speaking of money: it turns out that the sale of REAAL Insurance Corporation to some jovial Chinese businessmen has run into a little snag with regard to its parent company’s bookkeeping. Even though the Central Bank of the Netherlands had done some thorough vetting of the company, they seem to have missed a huge skeleton in the closet: a debt of a cool €700 million had been ‘overlooked’. You can hardly blame those Central Bank officers or accountants, with their measly six-figure salaries, for that little oversight, can you? It seems the Chinese lost no time spotting that skeleton.
We did not get round to telling the kitchen about missing tomorrow’s dinner until yesterday.
‘That really is very little notice,’
Mrs De Roos grouched. She glared at us as if the potatoes had already been peeled and the meat was already stewing. ‘Ah well, I shall see what I can do at this late stage.’
As head of housekeeping, she likes to give herself airs.
We’re gathering at 6 p.m. this evening at Evert’s for the gala dinner. Edward has fabricated a small banner for over the door that says ‘OLD-BUT-NOT-DEAD LIVES!’ I am going to take a little nap beforehand, so that I’ll last longer.
Friday, 20 February
I woke up late this morning at half past nine, feeling very satisfied, although I did have a bit of a hangover. It was a splendid celebration. The Old-But-Not-Dead members have decided to make these feasts a yearly event; we can’t afford to wait five years, as is the custom, because of the risk that one or more of us will be dead by then. So it’s official: instead of a five-year anniversary, there will be an annual feast.
Evert proposed that we should likewise observe the Chinese New Year with a copious meal from now on. Unfortunately, he had the date wrong; the Chinese New Year was … yesterday. The Year of the Goat has already begun.
‘I love goat. In the form of saté skewers,’ Geert suddenly blurted out. Geert is a man of few words; he plays it close to his chest.
A festive evening like the one we just had uses so much energy that I am forced to tap the reserves, and need at least a day to get over it. Today I am taking it easy.
Which I shall do by stirring the old bod as little as possible; I’ll confine myself to nodding off in front of the telly or the wireless. That’s how I’ll get through the day. There are inmates here who get through entire years that way, until they nod off for good.