The Twin Read online

“What were you talking about in the car?”

  “Henk said, ‘Slow down,’ when he saw a car coming from the other direction. I did, but only slightly. My driving instructor was a real macho and he’d told me that you had to force the other traffic to make room. ‘You have to impose your will,’ he said, ‘through the way you act and the look in your eye.’ “ She slides back and forth on the wooden bench. “But she was more imposing.”

  “What was the last thing he said?”

  “‘Dear oh dear.’”

  “‘Dear oh dear’?”

  “Yes. As if to say, silly goose, you can tell you just got your license.”

  I can hear him saying it, it fitted the Henk-and-Helmer pattern perfectly.

  “That driving instructor tried to impose his will on me too by the way he looked at me. He wore a toupee. Of course I never took him up on it.”

  “Of course not,” I say.

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “No.”

  “Your father’s insurance did pay for the Simca, didn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  I’m leaning against a cold church wall, but I see myself standing on Schellingwoude Bridge. That’s because I feel forgotten. I felt forgotten then too. Riet was the almost-wife, I was just the brother. Now she’s the one who is remembering things and telling her story. No one’s asked me a thing.

  The ducks that jumped out of the water are quacking away on the other side of the church, maybe in front of the closed gate. So many people sit on the grass under the poplars in summer - cyclists from Amsterdam, canoeists, children from the sailing school in Broek - that they are completely fearless. They’ll do anything for a piece of bread. Now and then a car drives past. It sounds as if one brakes, then pulls away again.

  “Do you come here often?” asks Riet.

  “Birthdays and the anniversaries of their deaths. Four times a year.”

  “I could have come as well, of course. At first I didn’t because I’d been sent away and I thought to myself: you needn’t think you’ll ever see me again. Childish. Later I didn’t come because I had Wien, and my children, and I didn’t want to be reminded of those days. I wanted to become a new person.”

  “You can never become a new person.”

  “Of course you can.”

  Now the irritation is itching in my shoulders and I almost rub myself against the church wall like an old, moth-eaten sheep in the summertime.

  Does she want something? What does she want? Does she want me to kiss her? Am I supposed to act as if I’m Henk? Does she want me to tell her she’s still a beautiful woman? Am I supposed to ask her to marry me? Does she want me to forgive her?

  She’s still beautiful. She’s not one of the hundreds of thousands of ageing women who walk around in the same blouse and knee-length trousers, with chemically tamed hair, a premature stoop and sagging eyes. In summer they cycle past the farm with their husbands, always wobbling a little on their solid, reliable-yet-inexpensive bicycles. No matter how different their blouses and jackets, they’re always the same blouses and jackets.

  Riet is almost as tall as I am and her face is a less firm, slightly sagging version of the face she had as a girl. In it I can very clearly see the Riet who was long ago half hidden by Henk’s head in the pub in Monnickendam. Who, even then, I saw thinking, God, he’s got a twin brother, there’s someone just like him, how am I supposed to deal with that? In the eighteen months before Henk died, she didn’t deal with it. In her awkwardness she kept a quiet distance, avoided looking at me and made sure the two of us were almost never alone together.

  On December 5th, 1966 her Saint Nicholas gift for me was accompanied by the traditional poem, but she had written something so trite and impersonal that I found it hard to keep back the tears of self-pity that welled up. Like an upset child, I read it out loud for the others with the parcel on my lap. Father noticed and - since he finds Saint Nicholas such a nice occasion - he rubbed it in a little by winking at Riet and telling her that I was used to grander things and was learning how to write poems full of long, difficult words “down there in Amsterdam.” He’s never had a clue. Riet looked at her feet.

  “I’m starting to get cold,” she says.

  “Let’s go home then.”

  She looks at the headstone once more. In her face I see the question I had expected to hear much sooner. “Where’s your father buried?”

  “He was cremated.” The freezing air cools my hot face. “And scattered.”

  There is only one duck standing by the gate. The other one has been run over, steam rising from its warm body. That’s how it goes, one minute you’re alive and kicking and longing for a piece of bread, the next you’re stone dead. Riet shudders as she steps over the dead duck. I nudge it to the side of the road with my foot. The remaining duck waddles to the water quacking loudly. When we pass the school on the way back, one of the classes is singing: fifteen or so children’s faces turned to look up at their teacher in total concentration. I don’t know the song they are singing and stop for a moment to listen. Riet walks on without a glance. I almost have to run to catch up with her before the bend in the road.

  When Riet stayed for dinner we had to get a chair out of Father and Mother’s bedroom. We put it next to Mother’s chair, on the long side of the kitchen table. Consciously or unconsciously Riet has now moved her chair a little to one side before sitting down, almost to the corner of the table. The kitchen clock buzzes. “It’s so quiet here,” she says.

  We’re drinking tea. It’s almost time to take her back. Is she imagining lively scenes? Children or grandchildren? Highchairs, different wallpaper, a modern kitchen?

  “You were the oldest, weren’t you?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “It was only later, when he was dead and I’d gone away, that I wondered why . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Why I chose Henk. I mean, why do things happen the way they do?”

  “Henk chose you.” She’s annoying me again. Surely now, forty years later, she’s not going to pretend she had it all under control?

  She looks at me and picks up her teacup. A respectable, porcelain teacup. “And later still, I thought, why was Henk the farmer? If you were the oldest?”

  “I went skating with Mother and the hand while Henk did the yearlings.”

  “Huh?”

  “Somehow Henk always took the lead. He was quicker than I was and I have an idea he was better with the animals, even though we always did the work together. Father saw that and Henk was his boy, almost from the beginning.”

  “But didn’t you want to be a farmer?”

  “I don’t know. I always just let things happen.” Now that she’s finally asked me something, I notice how reluctant I am to answer. I force myself to go on. “At any rate I never said anything. I never complained.”

  “And when he died you had no choice.”

  “No, I had no choice.”

  “The hand was gone by then?”

  “Yes. Six months before.”

  “And?”

  “What?”

  “How did you like it?”

  God almighty. It’s as if she’s asked me how my life has been. Calling me to account for the life she should have led with Henk. Next she’ll ask to see the books. None of it’s any of her business, especially not the way I feel about things. Why is she here? What does she hope to find? “Fine,” I snap.

  She sets her teacup down carefully on the saucer. “That’s good,” she says. Slowly her eyes fill up again and she turns her head away. For a long time she looks out of the side window at Ada and Wim’s farm. Then she sighs deeply and stands up. Apparently she’s finished here.

  We’re about to get into the Opel Kadett when Ronald comes running into the yard. “Wait!” he shouts.

  We wait.

  “I’ve come to show you my hand,” he says, without looking at Riet.

  “Show me then,” I say.


  “Can’t you see it?”

  “Up close.”

  Ronald almost shoves his hand in my face. The skin on the side, under his little finger, is pink, pale and tight.

  “Does it still hurt?”

  “Nah,” he shrugs. “We took the bandage off “cause the cold’s good for it.”

  “Did your mother say that?”

  “Yes.” For a moment he looks past me at the other side of the car, where Riet is standing waiting. “Who’s that?” he asks.

  “That’s Riet.”

  “Where’s she from?”

  “Brabant.”

  “Brabbend?”

  “Brabant. A long way from here.”

  “What’s she here for?”

  “Ask her, she won’t bite.”

  He looks at me with doggy eyes.

  “I used to come here very often,” says Riet. “And now I’ve come to have a look around.”

  “Oh,” says Ronald, staring at my stomach.

  “I was going to marry Mr. van Wonderen’s brother.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s me,” I say.

  “Do you have a brother?” he asks in astonishment.

  “No, not any more.”

  “Oh.”

  “But now I’m going home. On the train.”

  “Are you taking her?”

  “Yes,” I say. “To the ferry in Amsterdam.”

  “Is she going to come back another time?”

  “I don’t know. Are you going to come back another time?”

  “Maybe,” says Riet. She gets into the car and closes the door.

  “We’re going,” I tell Ronald.

  “Okay,” he says. He turns around and walks off. When he’s almost at the causeway, he turns around. He’s going to copy Teun, I can see it coming. “Where’s your father?” he screams.

  “Upstairs,” I say, pointing at the sky with one finger.

  23

  “Upstairs,” Riet says when we’re parked in front of the chip stand.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “What a joy to be a child.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He must have died fairly recently?”

  “Yes, not so long ago.”

  We’ve been parked in front of the chip stand for a good while now. The sun hasn’t gone down yet, but it must be getting close. I can’t see it, the train station is in the way. It’s much busier than it was this morning. People are going home in both directions. If the ferries weren’t operating and the Rhine barges and tour boats weren’t sailing, the water of the IJ would be perfectly smooth. In the distance I see tall buildings in a place I remember as empty. It frightens me, the other side. This side frightens me less, because I know exactly which roads to take to get away as quickly as possible. Riet shows no signs of wanting to get out. Even the bag on her lap isn’t standard for women of her age. Although the double-fisted way she’s holding it is.

  “Henk is a bit of a problem,” says Riet.

  Is?

  “He doesn’t do anything. He’s been hanging round the house for six months now. He hasn’t even got any friends.”

  Doesn’t? Hasn’t?

  “Sometimes he just lies in bed and then suddenly he’s gone. I have no idea what he gets up to.”

  “Riet, what are you talking about?”

  “Henk.”

  “Which Henk?”

  “My son.”

  “Is your son called Henk?”

  “Yes. Didn’t you know that?”

  “How would I?”

  “Lying in bed like that, that’s what gets to me the most.”

  “Henk? You called your son Henk?”

  “Why not?”

  “What did your husband think of that?”

  “Nothing. Wien thought it was a good name. There was a Henk in his family too. Short and snappy, that’s what he said.”

  A passing cyclist bumps the wing mirror. He half turns to raise a hand in apology.

  “I was thinking, couldn’t he come and stay with you for a while? Working, I mean.”

  Is this what she wanted to ask me? “With me?”

  “Yes. You’ve got animals. Cows, sheep, chickens. I think animals would be good for him. And you’re alone, maybe you could make use of someone. As a farmhand.”

  As a farmhand. She forgot to mention the donkeys.

  “It will do him good. Working. Getting up early, going to bed early, regularity. Fresh air, although he gets enough of that at home, of course.”

  “Really?” I say, “With all those pigs?”

  “That’s true,” Riet says. “It smells better here.”

  “What’s he think about it himself?”

  “He doesn’t know about it.”

  “When did you come up with this?”

  “Oh, about a month ago.”

  There’s no reflected sunlight visible anywhere any more, not on the water, not in the windows of the tall buildings. It’s getting dark quickly and the sky over the train station is turning orange. Riet lets go of her bag to open the passenger door.

  “Will you think about it?” she asks.

  “Of course,” I say.

  Glancing over her shoulder to check for pedestrians, she opens the door. She hesitates. “I’ve lost him,” she says. “When he looks at me, it’s as if he’s looking at a stranger.” She leans to the right, ready to get out of the car. Cold air streams in. Then she leans back to the left and kisses me on the cheek. “Thank you,” she says.

  I watch her go. During the interrogation Ronald subjected her to through me, I felt like I would be seeing her more often. Now I think I will never see her again. Dragging her leg slightly and not looking back, she disappears among the pedestrians and cyclists. She is crossing the harbor, soon she’ll be on the other side, walking among hundreds of people who will all be traveling in different directions. Thousands of people taking different trains that will carry them all over the country. There won’t be anything to see outside, it’s dark. What will she do? Read? Sit there quietly and think? Talk to the people opposite her? I don’t know. Before starting the car, I rub my hand over my cheek and look at my fingers.

  While milking I rest my head on the cows’ warm flanks more often than usual, even when the teat cups are attached and the milk is being sucked into the tubes in a soothing rhythm. I will never stand in a white-tiled milking pit wearing a plastic apron while ten or twelve cows are milked simultaneously; there will never be a big free stall barn here where you spread sawdust instead of straw; here the gutter cleaner will always shuttle back and forth slowly and the muck heap will always grow a little every day until I spread the manure with my ramshackle muck-spreader; a woman will never work in the kitchen here every day, or hang out the washing two or three times a week on the clothesline on the strip of grass next to the vegetable garden. Here, my head moves in time to the breathing of the cows, it is safe and secure. But also empty.

  I think of electricity cables hanging low with the weight of hundreds of swallows. I think of Denmark, but for the first time without Jarno Koper. I think of a farmhand who saw the swallows in Denmark.

  “Old junk!” Father says indignantly when I take him something to eat after milking.

  “You disputing it?” I ask, pointing at the grandfather clock, the photos on the wall and him.

  “That crow’s back in the ash.”

  “I saw it.”

  “How was it?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “You don’t know yet?”

  “No.”

  “What were you two doing in the new room?”

  “Talking.”

  “About what?”

  “Couldn’t you hear us?”

  “No.”

  It’s been a long time since he’s asked so many questions. Riet is on his mind, he might have spent the whole day thinking about the old days. I picture him lying here quiet as a mouse, breathing out when there’s talking on the other side of his door, and straining his ea
rs when things get said further away. Is he lonely? I shake my head, I don’t want to think about things like that. All the same, the day suddenly feels like a competition with one player in concealment: Riet versus the Van Wonderens.

  I draw the curtains. “Oh, one thing,” I say as casually as I can, “you were cremated. And scattered.”

  He has to laugh. “You went to the cemetery.”

  “Yes. And your name was missing.” Have I ever joked like this with him before? I stare at the pattern on the curtains, unable to remember any occasions.

  He suddenly gets serious. “I’m dirty.”

  “Maybe you are.”

  “Where was I scattered?”

  “I don’t know. In the fields, behind the chicken coop, under the ash.”

  I let go of the folds of the curtain and turn around. His eyes are still wet from laughter. I think. He badly needs a shave. The white pillowcase is grayish.

  “What did she come for?”

  “Because.” I walk to the door. When I turn off the light, a better answer occurs to me. “No,” I say, “not because. She came for a job interview.”

  Smiling, I go downstairs.

  24

  I am the last Van Wonderen. There are many others, of course, but not in our branch of the family. I used to see the name Kees van Wonderen in the sports pages: a footballer. Feyenoord, I think. Once there was a photo of him as well. I thought I looked like him, although he could have been a good thirty years younger than me. Grandfather Van Wonderen had four sisters. They all married and they all had children. Father had, or has, quite a few aunts. I have, or had, just as many great aunts and even more second cousins. None of them was called Van Wonderen. I don’t know them. Father was an only child. Henk - named after my Van Wonderen grandfather - is dead. I’m not married. After me, we’ll die out.

  It’s raining. The second freeze was short-lived and I read in the newspaper that at least three skaters drowned. I walked to Big Lake with my skates in my hand and discovered that it was only half frozen. I didn’t try the ice-I don’t want us to die out just yet. Two days ago the young tanker driver had a big round bandage over his left eye. He was doing some painting at home and got a splinter in his eye while sanding a window frame. The smile on his face was still there, if a little crooked. I left the milking parlor sooner than I’d intended; seeing him like that brought a lump to my throat and I was afraid he’d hear it if I stayed talking. Yesterday the livestock dealer drove into the yard. He stood in the kitchen rubbing one foot over the other for a while, then left without doing any business. The vet came to look at a sick heifer. He emptied two enormous hypodermics into her rump and said she’d get better. I separated her from the rest.