Free The Twin by Gerbrand Bakker

next to the donkey shed. Strange.
     
I've got cold from sitting still. When I take off my clothes in the scullery, I do it slowly, to get even colder. I shiver in the bathroom until the water has warmed up. I wash my hair and clasp my hands together behind my neck to make a bowl that I empty again and again, splashing hot water over my shoulders and down my back. I dry myself off and walk to the living room, where I turn off the lights and turn up the fire. I stand up straight and study myself in the mirror in the light coming from the bedroom. This is my house now. I can stand naked in front of the mirror whenever I like. The warmth from the fire glows on my penis, the muscles in my bum and legs feel heavy and strong. It's as if I can feel the farmhand's hands on my bum again. The sensation is so real that I can't help putting my own hands there to make the imagined hands disappear. Riet's letter is on the mantelpiece. I take it to the bedroom and read it yet again in bed (under the second duvet cover, which I have washed in the meantime). Before turning off the light I look up at the map of Denmark. That's three sheep hanging there, I think, rolling onto my left side and pulling my knees up in the dark.
     

17
A second letter has arrived:
     
Dear Helmer,
     
Brabant is horrible. I don't know if you've ever been here, but take it from me: it's terrible. Nothing but pigs and sociable people, but their kind of sociable is nothing like what we used to have at home in North Holland. Carnival, for instance, can you imagine? Can you see me dressed up in funny clothes, a clown suit with a mask on? And everyone keeps on smiling the whole time, as if they've got anything to smile about.
     
Our two daughters are Brabant born and bred, but because they're our daughters, and I get on with them really well, it doesn't matter so much. They're both very warm and they both have nice husbands and young children (yes, I'm a grandmother!). They live a stone's throw away so I can drop by whenever I feel like it.
     
Our son (I've only just noticed that I've written 'our', although Wien has been dead now for almost a year) doesn't fit in quite so well in Brabant. I don't know why, maybe it's because he takes after me more than Wien. After Wien's death I sold up and now I live in the village, together with my son. That's strange: husband dies, you move, and then all you've got is time on your hands.
     
I'm writing this letter because you haven't written back or called. I'm curious about how life has treated you. I don't even know if you're married, but I suspect not, because just before my mother died, she told me you weren't. Yes, you can see that I tried to keep up with you as best I could. And there's something I'd like to ask you, but I'd rather not do that in a letter. Won't you write or call?
     
I'll just say it straight out: I would like very much to drop by. To see you, but also to see the farm I visited so often (and where I, if things had gone differently, would now live). But then the problem with your father (which I wrote about in my last letter) needs to be resolved.
     
Hoping to hear from you,
     
Love,
     
Riet
     
This time there is an address on the back of the envelope. The name of the village doesn't ring any bells. I don't understand what she wants from me. Like the previous letter, this one is muddled. The first time it was 'best wishes, Riet', now it's 'love'. It's as if she's trying to arouse my curiosity. Is the thing she wants to ask me about, which she also mentioned in her first letter, simply whether she's allowed to drop by? Or is it something else. The sentence 'and where I, if things had gone differently, would now live' (in brackets, of all things, as a passing comment) annoys me. I interpret the end of her letter as meaning that I have to inform her that Father is dead, otherwise she won't come.
     
A fitful thaw has begun. Now and then the temperature creeps above freezing. It's misty with occasional rain,