Christmas 2009. My grandchild of almost three wants to know more about the chiming of a clock and how it could speed up the arrival of Christmas. We wait for an old ‘repeater’ to strike seven times, and count them. I then explain to her that this clock is called a repeater and would strike again in two minutes’ time. She suddenly disappears, and I think this isn’t really interesting to her. But she returns with a container and places it in front of the clock.
‘What are you doing, Arabella?’
‘I’m catching Time, Opapa!’ And indeed the seven new strikes are carefully caught in flight and stored in the container. She then generously offers me some time in the future when needed.
Around this time last year, I was in South Australia visiting James Currie and his family. Jim is one of my oldest friends, and has been the sound designer on most of my films. We trust and love one another like brothers and have been on the movie trail in many different countries. When New Year’s Eve arrived, we drank a toast, looked out over the dark ocean and made plans for the New Year.
The celebration certainly didn’t live up to expectations. A month later, I was told I had limited time and wouldn’t see Easter. But I’m still here, watching the Christmas celebrations with amusement. I always feel even more of an outsider during Christmas. Partly because of childhood memories, partly because of a certain absurd character called Father Christmas. An elderly man with a cottonwool beard who brings goodwill and presents to bewildered children and then promotes rampant consumerism, which instead of peace and goodwill, celebrates ignorance and greed. I don’t put this very well, but my fellow non-believers will certainly understand what I am trying to say.
On the nightly news it is reported that the people this year have spent $3 billion on Christmas goodies. ‘A disappointing result compared with last year,’ says the newsman. Please, Father Christmas, could I have three snowflakes, five raindrops and … if possible one large passing cloud. Thank you so much. In Vietnam they made a small treaty – no killings, please, during Christmas Day.
Angeline and Jaap are flying to Australia from Holland. Due to bad weather they’re delayed and I’m given a bit more time to put the house in order. Wish I could order my thoughts and my emotions as well. I feel uncertain and trapped. There’s something happening somewhere of relative importance to my life. Nearby, people are having dinner. Their voices are growing louder as more alcohol is consumed. Their laughter has little joy; it echoes through the streets and hurts my nerves. I should be pleased – and of course I am – that I’m still here – that Christmas will be shared with people of my own blood, that I exist – yet I feel alone and hurt. I’m searching for a ray of light, a loving hand, a sense of future. Christmas was always a difficult time. I get homesick without knowing where home is.
My sister and brother-in-law are still asleep after the long journey. I’m preparing a little lunch for us all and Kyra is assembling the children’s stove that Father Christmas and Company left for Arabella. The little girl is thrilled and prepares us all instant meals via the utensils that came with the stove. In the afternoon we sleep some more and then get ready to have dinner at my friends Asher and Luba Bilu’s place, nearby along the ocean. Suzi decides to join us. A wonderful Indian meal cooked by their friend Kabita from Kolkata is waiting for us.
My phone rings several times and various text messages from all over keep me busy during dinner. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to keep my phone on in case the hospital rings.’ It’s a warm and wonderful evening. We laugh and joke. It doesn’t occur to me at all that it’s amazing to have part of my own family sharing this meal. I’d never thought this could happen. Is this our last supper?
I tell Suzi that I feel a bit strange. As if an invisible curtain surrounds me and follows me wherever I go. When I stretch my arms I can almost touch the curtain, which has become a wall of stone still invisible and further away from me.
Asher proclaims that a woman in Rome has ‘gone down’ on the Pope. Apparently there was a newsflash where a woman jumped a barricade and brought His Holiness down before any of the security people could stop her. I say, ‘We all have metaphysical needs,’ and the phone rings. It’s now 11.35pm, time to go home. ‘Is that Paul?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Good evening.’ It’s a female voice and I wonder who is ringing at this hour. ‘Hope you had a good Christmas. This is Julie from the Austin Hospital. Can you come to Emergency as soon as possible? We think we have the right liver for a transplant.’ My first thoughts are, ‘This can’t be happening now, they’ve made a mistake, for heavens sake!’ Then meekly I hear myself say, ‘Yes, I’ll be there. Thank you.’ After seven months of waiting and living with the mobile phone as a lifeline, and time slowly eating away hope and future, something enormous is about to happen. For a while we all sit in bewilderment. Angeline, Jaap and Suzi drive me to the hospital. We stop at my apartment first and I fill a bag with essentials. Later it is discovered that none of the items gathered are useful or made any sense.
I’m writing this now in the hospital. I’ve already gone through the routine of X-rays and tests. Now I can only hope with all my heart – with all my might – that all this is going to succeed. After the initial shock, I’m at peace. This is the only chance I have. Don’t know for how long I could have continued. My instinct had told me already – not long, dear friend. You’re rolling down the hill, closing up; the end of the show is nigh. Surrender with grace and dignity.
An anaesthetist from South Africa appears. He tells me what is going to happen. There is no more doubt now: I’m in for a liver transplant. I sign a form and then a tall doctor called Saskia guides me into the operating theatre. ‘Saskia was Rembrandt’s wife,’ I say. ‘Yes, that’s right. That’s how I got my name – I’m Dutch.’ I touch her hand, ‘May Rembrandt be with us.’