31
“The day before yesterday he stayed in bed all day.”
“See.”
“What?”
“That he does that, just lying in bed. He didn’t say a word either, I suppose.”
“Sometimes he talks a lot, but when he stayed in bed he didn’t say a thing.”
“No, it’s like he’s in a kind of coma.”
“You can say that again.”
“As if he turns himself off.”
“Yesterday he did the yearlings and put a new mudguard on Father’s old bike.”
“Good.”
“But he refused to muck out the donkey shed.”
“Did he?”
“Yes. He said he doesn’t want anything to do with donkeys.”
“I can understand that.”
“I can’t. Everyone loves my donkeys.”
“He’s scared.”
“Why, for God’s sake? The kids from next door lie down under them in the shed.”
“Henk got kicked by donkey when he was little.”
“No!”
“Yes. Wien had bought a miniature donkey as a treat for the girls. We used to keep it on the lawn between the pig sheds. For some reason Henk crawled around it on all fours and it lashed out at him. Got him on the side of the head. He was in hospital for a week.”
“Is that how he got that scar?”
“Yes. He was four or five.”
“And the donkey?”
“Sold it the next day. “’Just turn it into a big pot of glue,’ Wien told the dealer.” Riet is quiet for a moment. “What’s he doing now?”
“I don’t know, he’s out the back.” I’m quiet as well. “He wants money.”
“What for?”
“The work he does.”
“You know I never even thought of that?”
“Me neither.”
“Don’t give him any.”
“Why not? He’s working, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but you’re feeding him and putting a roof over his head. You’re not rolling in it either, are you?”
“Riet, I’ve hardly spent anything my whole life. My father didn’t either.”
“Get him to do some of the cooking too.”
“Yeah?”
“He’s a decent cook. What do you actually make of him?”
“He seems like a nice kid. Touchy though.”
“Yes, he’s touchy all right. Is he . . . aggressive?”
“Aggressive? Not at all. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. When he’s settled in a bit, shall I come too? Then I can do some of the women’s work for a while. Cooking, washing . . .”
High time to end this telephone conversation. I try to say, “No, we’ll manage” as conclusively as possible. For a while now I’ve been gazing restlessly at the wallpaper.
“I’ll ring again next week.”
“Fine.”
“Bye, Helmer.”
“Bye, Riet.” I hang up.
I once went to Heiloo, to the Marian shrine. Mother wanted to see it, even though she didn’t have a Catholic bone in her body. I drove her there on a weekday in May, about twenty years ago. “To Jesus through Mary” was written on the front wall in big letters (a mosaic, I think). Why am I suddenly remembering this? Riet is confusing me. I stop staring at the wallpaper and walk into the kitchen. Outside it’s February. Hail, sleet and the odd bit of sun.