I know a woman who keeps returning to places that were and no longer are. Maybe she is trying to undo the passing of time by reactivating the senses connected to the past. To the places of her childhood, places she never understood. Or maybe she is backtracking and searching the path she took for shattered pieces which she hopes to glue together. One day, she may well have completed the statue she is making. It is to be solid, transfixed and unaffected by time. Then she will no longer feel the need to return. Or will she?
The little lady tells me, "one time, I sat there beneath that tree."
"What tree is that?"
"Pear."
"One time, I sat beneath that pear tree and there was a man. He threw a straw in the waves. Then he dived after it. He never returned. I waited and waited. I think he drowned. He looked sad."
"Maybe he was actually a fish. A mermaid of some sort. The moment his skin touched the water, his arms and legs became fins. And now he's with all the other fish in his family. You were lucky you know, this rare human fish never shows itself to us. You should keep it a secret.
"No," said the eight year old, "he wasn't wearing any shoes and his clothes were torn. He was black."
The Ugly Duckling. Or call it Swan. We like to emphathise the positive don't we? I wonder about the ugly duckling becoming a swan. Does this mean there is hope for every ugly child? But what if that child never becomes a swan? Will the chicken he meets keep biting him?
We forget that the ugly duckling is tested. He is made to survive winter. At one stage, he is even trapped in ice. But a farmer happens to notice him and breaks the ice. Dogs chase after the duckling. And a cat tells the duckling it's useless. It should either lay an egg, the way a chicken does, or purr the way the cat does. Otherwise it may as well disappear.
My son listens to the story and is in continual distress. He does not know the ending yet. I tell him he's not to worry, it will end well. He doesn't believe me. Clearly, if I don't tell him the ending, he won't sleep. I whisper to him - "the duck isn't a duck but is actually swan."
This doesn't calm hi, not even one bit. In fact, it makes it even worse. He obsesses over the question how on earth the swan egg got into the nest of a duck? Who laid that egg? He asks. For him, the story is not about justice or revenge ("see, I'm actually beautiful"). It's about the fact that the ugly duckling would have been perfectly fine if it had been where it belonged.
The first spring day. An 18-year-old girl on a bike. She has dark skin, jet-black curly hair that shines and bounces as her bike leaps over bumps. She is sending someone a text message. Her iPhone is in a case which has hearts on it. She is smiling.
Then she is hit by a car. It was turning right. It didn't see her. She didn't see it. Her bike disappears beneath the car. Her head hits a sign. The car hits that same sign, but not her head.
People who are sitting outside drinking lattes run to her. Women mainly. Men sit there gawkyeyed. The women are all wearing big sunglasses and speak to her. What is your name, they ask. And: are you okay? When she doesn't immediatley answer they ask the same questions, but louder. One woman helps her sit up, while another says the girl should stay flat. The girl is now speaking. And shaking. She thinks her leg hurts. She thinks her arm hurts. She thinks her head hurts. She isn't quite sure. Well lay down, be still, we'll call an ambulance. You'll be all right, they say. You really will.
The girl looks at her iPhone and then says she's worried about her laptop on the back of her bike.
There is a man standing there too, quietly, next to his car. He is eighty years old. He is Japanese. His hair is combed back. His eyes are yellowish. He has bruises on his lip and hands, but not from the crash. He too is shaking.
Does nobody see the man?
He is confused. After a while, he asks one of the ladies whether it is etiquette in our country to shake the girl's hand. To say he is sorry. That woman ignores him, she is too busy talking to the police.
Has anyone mentioned the girl was texting someone?
The man's car engine is still on. His door is smashed. When the medics arrive, they ask the girl to step into the ambulance. Recently, a woman was hit by a motorcycle. She fell on the back of her head. She seemed perfecty fine but died in the hospital from brain hamorrhage. Better to be safe than sorry.
The girl's friends have now arrived. She is surrounded by the care of teens. They giggle nervously. Just look at her bike! It's all dented! That must have been a big fall.
The man talks quietly to the police. Have they ever seen a real Habsburger? he asks. He shows them a picture of his daughter with a Habsbuger. A real Habsburger! When the police leave he calls a taxi. He tells the taxi-driver he isn't feeling so well. He is far away from home.
That night, he dies of a brain hamoraage.
The great thing about a coastline is you don't have to worry about where you're going. You can walk and walk, and when you're fed up you simply turn around and walk back.
You can plant your gaze a few meters in front of your feet and you'll notice broken shells, piles of rotting seaweed that stink, sand flies hovering over them. And the millions of grains of sand that give way beneath your feet. You could count each and every one of those grains if you wanted to.
But you can also lift your chin, even very slightly and now you're looking at the horizon. What you'll notice is how everything blends to form a hazy hue of sensuous greys and pale yellows. The blackened sea evaporates into the light skies then merges with the coast where sand quietly turns to a pastel green. Then intensifies into browns.
It all makes sense. One thing leads to the next. At least in the distance it does.
Here's the thing. You want to pack your little boy's things because he's going on a holiday. With his dad, your ex. A word you hate to use. "His dad" is almost just as bad. And you want to pack his toothbrush and his cuddly toy and a pyjama and underwear and sunscreen and bandaid and candy and also an apple and a colouring book and matching socks. You really want to do all that. But it's all been taken care of, says his dad, when you call. And then you call again to ask what time they're actually leaving. You don't know all these things anymore.
And even though his dad has everything covered, you still pack something. A swimming trunk. And mosquito spray. And a bottle of dettol. Your mother always told you to take a bottle of dettol with you, wherever you go.
His dad rings the doorbell and your little boy is jumping up and down. How long is the flight, dad? Do I really want to know? Very long. It's far away. The sun is shining there. It's warm. You don't want to be reminded of how many hours it would take you to get there. You ask his dad whether he's put paracetomol in his bag, not in the suitcase, no in his handluggage. Your little boy's ears hurt sometimes, you know. It irritates dad, he isn't a fool now is he? And so he wants to leave. You kneel down and you squeeze your little boy's cheek. He squirms to release himself of your embrace.
"Have fun," you say. And you stop yourself from saying "I'll miss you." You can't say "I'll miss you." You can't cry. You've done that before and it made your little boy cry. You bight your tongue and your cheek and smile.
"Have fun," you say again. You look at his dad and tell him to say hello to everyone there, to all the friends. You are reminded of the life you had. And then you stand on your balcony watching them leave. Happy, is what they are. Happy.
Then you step back inside into the messy silence of your home, your little boy's toys are scattered all over the floor. And you take place in front of your laptop. You have work to do. You're so tired from working so hard. Ten days, you think. Ten days. And you have work to do. And then your neighbours come home and you can hear their cheery chatter in the hallway. Mom, dad and two kids. They'll be having dinner soon. You realize it's dark and you still only have that one light on. But still, there's work to do.
She's so lovely, isn't she? Always smiling and helpful and interested and witty and reasonable and attentive and sensible and. And. She's always helping others. Not really though, she isn't actually. But clearly it's what she'd want to be doing all the time. If it weren't for the fact that there simply aren't enough hours in a day and she has her own family to attend to, her friends, her job, her health, her looks. She's goodlooking, isn't she? It gets her a long way. And when she buys something big, something really, really big, say - a house - even then she's still smiling and nodding her way through the obscenities of society. Of discussing wood rot and curtains.
And so of course, one fine day, this ever-so friendly lady explodes. See, there's this table she bought and she felt she shouldn't waste the poor salesman's time for too long so she looked at a picture of a table that looked nice and got out her credit card. She had checked on a few things - whether the table was scratch proof and would they give it a good polishing and all? Perhaps the salesman hadn't registered her concerns because she was being too charming. Anyway, the table wasn't what she had hoped it would be. Not anything like it. And so after a few days, and yet another few days, she finally picks up the phone to ask this friendly salesman whether perhaps, well maybe...could he...?
No. Is his answer. Which is when she gets angry. Not simply angry, but really very angry. Does she at least feel relieved? Does it help to scream "well then I'm just going to chop the designer table up into tiny pieces and feed it to my husband and you can just drop dead for all I care." No. In fact, she feels worse than ever.
A little heart pops up on the right side of my screen. Soon it will disappear under the mountain of new activity by other friends. My Friends. Why do I click?
It's a heart, that's why. And so I click. And so I read:
"Thanks everyone, as many of you know, we have buried our son the mosr beautiful boy in the world this weekend so it was not much of a birthday."
Who is the man who wrote this? He has the same last name as the friend who commented with a heart. Is it her brother? I go to his wall. He has 126 friends. He has uploaded a lot of photos. They all show him smiling radiantly. A friendly young man. He sails, he surfs, he swims, he cuddles seals, he travels. Sunny places. Warm. Most of the time he's doing all that with a brunette. She smiles a lot too. One picture shows a toddler. He is spoon-feeding the boy. And smiling at him.
A woman sweeps her balcony. There are no leaves on the trees, it is Winter. She glances over to an adjacent house, the house without curtains. The lady who lives there often sits in front of her laptop, eats a sandwich while working. Sometimes she dances and puts on music really loud. It's always dramatic music. Or she sits in a chair next to the window and drinks a cup of coffee early in the morning. And sometimes there's a man. They unashamedly embrace, unaware of the rest of the world. Or simply not caring.
Today, the lady is in front of her laptop again. She is not working though. Her head rests on her arms, face down. The woman studies the lady and recognizes the jerky movements that reveal she is sobbing. The lady then sits up and drops her face in her hands.
The woman slips on her jacket and runs out. She counts windows and doorbells and floors. Number 12, 3rd floor. It takes a while for the lady to answer.
"Hello?" says the lady through the intercom. Her voice contains the careful tingle of hope.
"It's your neighbour," says the woman. "I was wondering... if you happen to have any... any sugar?" God does she sound pathetic.
"Sugar?"
"Yes sugar."
"I think so." The lady opens the door. She is smiling radiantly. "I thought this only happens in sitcoms," she says and laughs. The woman studies the lady's face which has smudges of mascara on it. So she was right then, the lady was crying.
"Are you all right?" asks the woman.
The lady turns to her, still smiling.
"Why do you ask?"
The woman glances at the window and the lady instantly understands.
"Well," she says, and after a while, "I never knew having to admit defeat is so hard." Still, she smiles. She bites her lip, but smiles.
The woman nods. Her mother once warned her she shouldn't give up on school and trot off to do weird soul-searching stuff in India. The woman is now almost fifty and is still soul-searching. She also lives in the same tiny studio she lived in when she was twenty. Moreover, she is no longer in touch with her mother.
A guy stops me on the streets. I thought he wanted to ask the way.
"Thank you sister," he says. He explains that he is from Iraq. Then he speaks of how he is a refugee and had applied for a permit but the Dutch government hasn't granted it. They are stricter on Iraqis now, he says.
"Yes, I heard on the news!" and instantly I feel really smart. He talks and talks and I'm getting cold and impatient. He says he is now roaming the streets and needs to be registered at an existing address in order to access the salvation army's resources and anyway it's cold and he has a friend in the North who he'd like to see and who can help him out, but...
Yet again I feel smart, "speak no more, you need money, do you? It's an expensive dare."
He nods, yes a trainticket costs about 26 euros sister.
I have just bought a pair of shoes. And so I quickly open my wallet which has 16 euros in it and give it all to him. That's how relieved I am he isn't asking me for my address to register himself. Otherwise I'd have had to lie. "I know the problem, I don't have a house either..." or something of the sort.
His black eyes glimmer briefly on looking at the money, perhaps from disbelief or from joy. But it is only very briefly.
I bike away feeling increasingly foolish. He is probably just a drug-addict who has figured out what to say.
I decide I don't care. It's not the truth that matters. It's about wanting to believe that the stories people tell you are true.
The car I borrowed gave up on me. I had left my celphone at home. I had gone to the beach. And then to the inlet for cargo ships. They loom up on the horizon and disappear into mainland, a canal swallows them, takes them away. It had been a crisp and sunny day.
Now suddenly it was dark and cold.
I asked two angry-white-men on Harley Davidsons whether I could use their phone. They were clad in black leathers. Heavy-set, scarred faces. We talked for a while. A polite conversation one has with strangers.
"Bye," I said, after the care was fixed, "nice to meet you. And thank you."
"No problem, glad to be of help."
"Not that we're ever entirely helpless in this country are we?"
After that, I went and did some groceries. On entering the supermarket an angry looking woman brushed by me. She was in black too, heave-set and scarred. She stared at the floor, and walked straight out in a determinate pace. Which is when I noticed the french-bread sticking out of her pocket. One of the cashiers noticed too. She jumped up and ran after her.
Stop that thief!
Leave it, is what I thought. Why would you care about a loaf of bread? She's hungry.
The man in the suit, yesterday. Drinks, suits, chit-chat, that kind of an event. A friendly, get to know eachother type thing. Then the man in the suit stepped forward, was introduced to us. He was the evening's speaker. It took me a while to notice there was more to him than man-in-suit. He was young, much younger than he presented himself as being. I found that unfortunate for him. We have a whole life ahead of us to be old. His hair was parted. And he started off just fine. Ease off the nerves with a little joke or two, politely refer to the previous speaker. Right, so now you have us listening to you, introduce yourself.
He was a pastor, he said. AND, a business man. He pauzed for a moment. Perhaps he was used to people falling over backward in awe. Then he went on to answer how this was possible. Probably just as possible as being a lawyer and writing bestselling novels, I thought. After a few minutes he seemed to be talking about nothing in particular, himself maybe, and for the sole purpose of talking. He didn't give us anything to think about.
When he finished a woman asked him his definition of God. He lashed out at her by mimicking her the way a bully in school would.
"What my definition of God is? Well, first of all we should all learn to read properly. The Bible, that is to say. And listen. Do you know how to listen?"
The woman stood her ground, she told him her question had been sincere. She was honestly interested. He said a whole lot more but never answered her question. Perhaps he didn't have a definition. Perhaps he was still developing one. There's nothing wrong with that. In fact, it would have been quite intelligent.
But as the saying goes: wisdom comes with age.
A friend calls another friend. The one friend had been wondering who to call.
So many friends, yet noone to bloody well call.
This thought made him more depressed than he already was. Was he desperate enough to bother his parents? For godssake, he thought. That would mean admitting failure. Yes mum and dad, I am past fourty mum and dad, and still I feel like crying like the baby I've always been. All right?
Wine, more wine.
Music, more music.
Silence. No not silence! He doesn't believe a word all those happy people say. That he should practice being silent.
"Are you by any chance in a bar right now?" he texts his friend.
"Almost, I'm meeting up with the team," the friend texts back.
Oh no, not the team. It's his friend's team and not his. Even though he can drink way more than them. Way more.
Suddenly, the friend who is going out with his team calls. He hardly ever calls. "Where are you?" he asks.
Where the bloody well do you think I am? "Home."
"I'm outside."
Well good for you.
"I've been kicked out."
"What?? No way, really?" You didn't tell her did you?
"I told her. I told her about Julia."
"Fuck." I told you not to, didn't I? You don't want to be like me, do you?
"But listen, what was that you were saying?"
I was saying I feel like crap. "You're going out drinking are you?"
"Yes. You can come if you like."
"No, no, I need to get loads of work done."
"It'll pass," the team-drinking-friend says, "you need this. This is who you are."
What? feeling like crap is who I am?
"The things around us change faster than we do," he says, "eventually we do too. Eventually."
That's true. That's so fucking true isn't it. "I suppose."
"So are you coming out then?"
"Nah. You go out, have fun. If you need a bed, you know where to find me."
"Thanks mate."
"Yeah, thanks mate."
"When I was 4, you threw my favourite underpants away."
I could pretend I had no idea what he was talking about. But I did know. Sure I knew. I could, for example, have said, "oh really? oh well. Haha, that must have been funny..." Cough.
Instead, I chose to sit down in front of my little boy, who was on the floor taking off his pants to go to bed. Something, no idea what, had triggered a memory.
He had been 3, actually. And like many toddler boys, he was simply too lazy to go to the toilet. We were about to board an airplane. I had said, "I want you to pee before we go." He refused. "But don't pee in your pants then, okay?" Of course not mummy. Five minutes later, he wet his pants. I was out of spare undies. Goddammit. So then take the bloody thing off and well I'll just uhm throw the goddamn thing away because at least your trousers are still somewhat dry and why the hell and I told you and for chrissake... and so on.
It was worse than he remembered. I had pulled his pants down in front of everyone. So learn then the hard way then, if you must. And now, I hated myself all over again.
"I remember that yes. I remember being angry and I remember it wasn't your fault. I was tired and toddlers can be really tough to deal with sometimes. But that's no excuse. It was wrong of me. How about we buy new favourite underpants tomorrow? Would you like that?"
He nodded.
"So we're all right then?"
He nodded again and went on with his business of doing the things 5-year olds generally do.
Later, I asked him as casually as possible, "is there anything else you remember me doing that was mean?" He didn't react. But after I told him his bedtime story, he put his little arm around me the way he always does while he and I wait for him to fall asleep.
Motherhood means holding your breath and crossing your fingers. For years on end
New years go by with increased speed. As does the moment it comes, that new year. Gone in a flash. Happy new year, my friend! Let it be a better year than last. Let it be cancer-free. Let it be opportunity-filled. Let it be worriless, fearless, endless in time.
Happiness.
We used to have time. Now we have pain.
She is always busy. A friend once asked why she fidgets so much.
"Well," she said, "as soon as I sit still, I fall asleep."
She is doing perfectly fine this Christmas. There is so much to do. Buy a tree, decorate it, lights, candles, food, cards, Christmas dinners to prepare for herself, for her kids. School can always use a hand, she is good at making herself feel useful. She is good at her work too. Meetings, there are so many meetings. So many new and exciting plans. And then there's all the invitations for drinks. The gift-shopping for family. She likes that it gets dark early, it's perfectly logical she opens a bottle of wine at 4.30pm.
Christmas isn't so bad, she thinks, it isn't so bad at all. She is even able to listen to Christmas carols without feeling teary.
Two days before Christmas she wakes up alone and she can't get herself to do anything. Not even to take a shower, nor to buy presents or call a friend. So she sits still. First she falls asleep. The nightmares last about two hours. After which she sits again. She listens to music. And she knows she shouldn't but she can't help herself: she looks at pictures.
Then, she cries.
How typical of me to show up at the wrong address. Here's this meeting I've mentally been preparing for. It's an important meeting and not even because it's about money. There will be four people listening to me because I asked them to. I wrote them a letter saying, "dear sirs and madams, keep your money if you must, but I do not agree with your opinion of my novels."This pushed a button that started a formal procedure. They organized a hearing for me.
I am on time, I truly am. But at the wrong fucking place. Somehow, my brain hasn't registered the address. It wasn't "Prinsengracht 89", it was "Nieuwe Prinsengracht 89." These addresses are about two miles apart. It's pissing down by the way. So much for the bronzing powder. Why on earth do I need bronzing powder anyway? I know why: because I will not succumb to the wrongful idea that writers need to look pale for them to be viewed as literary writers. I am me. I have a fake tan.
So I enter the building, fifteen minutes late. I have never biked so fast in my entire life.
By now snot is dripping down my nose, my shirt is drenched from sweat and most likely I smell too. I am purple and slime has collected in the corners of my mouth, has formed a lining on my teeth.
I barge into the meeting room and know I must look like a wet feverish fury. They, the officials, are not amused. I try, really I do, to crack a joke about how I had a lovely coffee with this woman on the Prinsengracht 89 and kept wondering when the hearing was going to start.. Thank god they smile. Only briefly though as there is no time to waste. The hearing starts immediately. The chairman says what he is meant to say and then it is my turn to say what I want to say. "All right then," is what I think. "I will do this while sniffing and panting and smelling and sliming."
And so I do. I read to them the piece I wrote which states why I feel my writing is worthwhile. I make sure not to be angry, not to be insulted, not to attack other writers or them. Simply to explain what my personal view is on writing, and what my purpose is with it. Sweat drips from my face, I keep wiping it away with my sleeve. I hear my own voice. It is calm, I am actually making my point. It is happening.
When I leave the hearing I feel like something magnificent has happened. I have said exactly what I needed to say and in a way that is true to me. It's still pouring down, and that's fine too.
There was once a man who felt it was time for a change. He wasn't sure what exactly, just change. Any change. He changed his hair. He grew a beard. He changed newspapers. He changed jobs. He changed the way he spoke.
Next he changed wives. With that came a change in friends. He changed where he lived.
One day he walked his new dog through the park. He saw another man he knew from the past, that past which was no longer a part of his present.
"You look great!" he said to that man of the past.
"Really? I could hardly feel any worse."
"That's annoying isn't it? When you feel bad but everyone tells you how good you look."
The man of the past doesn't seem to register this comment. He states, "it's the disappointment. It eats away at me."
"Ehm. I'm not entirely sure what you mean?"
"Oh. I thought you must have heard." He kicks a stone. "She left."
"Ouch, really? That sucks."
"It really hurts. And the kids aren't taking it well either. The eldest is absorbing my grief."
He grinds his teeth and then gives the changed man a steely look.
"I could have accepted she had an affaire and all. But she should have told me and addressed the problems. This way it came as a complete surprise. She dumped it on me, then got up and left."
The man of the past is still looking at the changed man. His gaze cuts right through the changed man's expression of sympathy that now feels inappropriate.
"It's the disappointment," the man of the past repeats. Finally the muscles under his jaw soften. His eyes are damp when he says, "I am just so incredibly disappointed."
The amount of people we see but immediately forget. Then remember all over again the next day as we pay for our groceries. We're thinking about whether to buy sour dough bread or whole grain and looking at the texture of all those loafs on all those shelves, not at the person handing them to us. We smile and say thank-you but as we leave the store, we leave that person behind.
A man stands outside the grocery store, every single day. He sells a magazine that only homeless people are allowed to sell. A lot of people give him money and tell him to keep the magazine. It's fine by him. Or maybe it's not. Who's to know, when nobody asks. One day, a young lady in a white lammy coat speaks to him. She has jet-black hair which she wears in a tight ponytail. Clearly she has just come from work. She asks him why he is doing this. And shouldn't he be considering a proper job. And this is too easy, she says, isn't it? Who could expect to make anything out of life by taking the easy way out? She, for one, has worked so hard at becoming who she is. What does he do with the money he earns anyway? She hopes he isn't going to spend it on drugs or alcohol. He says it's for a bed at the shelter. She says she doesn't believe him. Housing for the homeless is free.
The man falls silent in confusion. He is holding her umbrella for her.
Two weeks later he is noticeably thinner. He looks more like how he was a few years ago. Worn, torn by life, hollow-eyed and high. He had fattened up over time, cut his hair, learned to make conversation, or at least tried to. He always says 'hello how are you?' and he even smiles. He never remembers a face.
Two months later he is dead.
We get so wrapped up, don't we? In contemplations about the next step, or is it too late? Am I good enough? How do I stay true to myself in a world that's full of lies? And suddenly there's a chance to do this or that, and so we get up and go. Just do it, is what we think. Kick some serious ass. No guts no glory. Yes I can.
Can I really? Maybe not. Sure I can!
Yet we also talk of ego and being too eager and wanting too much and therefore learning to let go and flow and the glorious path of least resistance. Then why is everything so difficult, dammit? In comes the no-guts-no-glory thing all over again. And oh yes: it gets harder before it gets easier, doesn't it?
In fact, none of it makes any sense.
What does make sense is this: to have a 5-yr-old boy tell you that his friend drew something for him. He takes out a small oval-shaped piece of yellow paper. On it: two dots for eyes, one dot for a nose and a stripe as a smile. He says, "my friend made this for me so I can look at it and think of you and dad and then feel happy."
An hour later I hear that another friend of his has broken a finger. He takes immediate action and draws the biggest "most beautiful drawing ever" for that friend. He has only barely learned to write his own name. With admirable concentration he tries to write his friend's name. The other way around. He instructs me to add "how terrible that you broke your finger." And he signs it with grave earnesty and care.
Consider for a moment the last time you did something similar for a friend.
Don't dwell on this too long though. On with it: no pain no gain, remember?
There once was a little boy who turned into a man. It wasn't an effort, it wasn't a plan. It happened one day, just like that. He looked in the mirror and cried: who is that? His eyes told the story of who he is now, while the child he was remained hidden somehow.
Nervous and tense, afraid of the dark, he had roamed his way through life's park. Groping at help, his mother's hand; affection and peace, a holy command. And oh those nights, alone in his room, the realm of demons, the presence of doom.
Mother, dear mother, may I sleep with you? In the arms of your safety and your love so true?
No my son, you cannot I say. Nights are for rest, a salvage for day.
He wandered the corridors, night after night, fleeing the dreams, the weight of his fright. And still he wanders, every night, in thoughts of wisdom and visions of light. One day, is what he thinks, he'll have time to rest, life itself is simply a test. He tells his own son now to be strong! nights are short and never take long. Shorter still as years go by, enjoy them now, for your time will fly. Your fears will fade, as do the monsters you create. You will forget then forgive, believe me you will; so blossom and bloom, dance and fulfill!
But his son still cries and will not give up. Please, dear god, shut him up!
I need my sleep, don't you see? You foolish boy stop bothering me! Go back to your room, leave me alone, just build yourself a heart of stone.
An elderly lady opens the door to the house a younger lady once lived in. It is a big and stately house. The younger lady apologizes, she just wanted to pick something up.
"Do come in," says the older lady, "please?"
And so the young lady stands there, absorbing the memories of what once was and no longer is. Is she doing all right for herself? She doubts it, the very moment she steps into her past, she seriously doubts it.
The elderly lady looks even older than before. Her hair needs a cut and a colour, grey roots are visible. It needs a conditioner too. She has withered, it seems. Every part of her body turns inwards, towards her heart.
"So how are you?" She asks the younger lady.
"I'm doing okay," says the younger lady, "much better now thank you." She has no right to speak of loss. And when she asks after the older lady's well-being, she knows she is to take off her coat for a moment.
The older lady's son died recently. And she hasn't seen her grandchildren since the funeral.
"And it's best not to hope that I ever will, do I? What can one do?" Then she says, "nobody knows how it really is. We all understand it's awful to lose a son. But it's a million times worse, it really is. The same goes for divorce. Who knows? Who really knows what it's like? Everyone looks for who's to blame while there's only one truth: it's equally as painful for both inidviduals. Both suffer the same disillusions. When I divorced I felt failure. How was I not able to get this right?"
The younger woman plants a kiss on the older woman's cheek. She has to get to work. But she stays close to her for a moment, holds on to her briefly, before she leaves.
"Just a second!" hollers the baker's assistant from the back.
"Take your time," says the client.
The assistant emerges, she is fixing her apron.
"It's so bloody cold in here, I needed an extra sweater."
The client says, "you're right. It is cold in here," and "how are you otherwise?"
The assistant's cheeks are flushed.
"Fine," she says and doesn't seem to believe herself. "Fine. So what can I do for you this morning?"
"Two blueberry muffins please."
"All right then, two muffins."
There's a short silence after which the assistant asks, "and how are you?"
"Fine."
"It's easier that way isn't it?"
"It certainly is."
"So it's been a bad year for you too then?"
"Yes, yes it has been."
"Well I'm happy a new year is coming up soon, we can finally close off on this one."
"You'd hope so. But you know the saying, don't you? Things get worse before they get better."
"At least it's insightful."
"It is."
In the brief moment of silence after the assistant has put the muffins in a bag and on the counter, they finally look at each other and smile.
"Not anything related to health, I hope?" asks the client as she reaches out for the bag and therefore has an excuse to look away.
"Oh no, thank god no. A lot of friends have had health-issues though. We're at that age when things get serious."
"So it's true then, things could always be worse."
"Yes, count those blessings, right? Anything else for you today?"
"A carton of milk please.
"At least I have a job, these days you're lucky to have a job."
"At least you have a job. Well then, have a nice day."
"You too."
"You better not be lying," says a mother to her six-year-old who claims to have had only one cookie, "because if there's one thing I detest, and I mean absolutely hate, it's when people lie."
The six-year-old has already left the room. And so it's not the boy she's talking to, is it? It's the friend, who stands there feeling crucified. Granted, yes, maybe the friend did once claim she hated it when people were unfaithful. And truth be said, the friend hadn't been all too faithful. She had gone to Paris for a weekend with a different friend, but said she had gone with her brother. She didn't want to hurt any feelings. These things never remain secret though.
So all right, the friend thinks, I'll be truthful then.
"You're not telling him you hate lies are you? You're telling me," she asks.
The mother turns to her, abruptly and wide-eyed, "what? Oh no, no, no, don't be silly, not at all. Ha ha. You're funny. Always imagining things aren't you?"
The six-year-old returns. He is now really excited. He says "mummy, mummy come see! Santa bought me a skateboard. How did he know I wanted a skateboard?"
"I told you! Santa is a very wise man," says the mother, "he knows everything, he knows exactly who's been naughty. And you know what? Last night I heard Rudolph on our roof! Didn't you hear?"
"Wow," says the friend, "so Rudolph landed on your roof. You must have been very, very good."
The two girls run around the opera house on high heeled shoes that are too big for them. They wear black velvety and satin dresses, they fiddle with their hair, they put on pink lip-gloss.
As the dark engulfs us and the red curtain opens - the one the girls marveled at - I fell into the pitfalls of time.
There I sat, a little girl who watched men in blue leotards jump across the stage, studied the costumes and maidens in pastel colored dresses. I gasped when suddenly thousands of white tutus swirled across a misty stage and they looked like swans.
"We aren't supposed to have binoculars here so don't drop them," my father said. Which is exactly what I did. A woman far beneath me screamed and for a moment the commotion disturbed the ballet. She thought the ceiling was coming down. It lasted only a minute or so. During the break my father said I was to apologize to the traumatized lady. I didn't want to. But he made me tell her it slipped out of my hands, which wasn't true. He laughed, she laughed with him, and all was fine. For them.
The girls play with the bottle of apple juice they are sharing. They drop it. The bottle breaks on the floor and juice splashes all over suede shoes. "I'm so sorry," I tell the lady who's shoes are ruined, "it slipped out of my hands." And yet again all was fine. For them.
