Free The Twin by Gerbrand Bakker Page A

but most of the day it stays below zero. There's a layer of water on the ice, but at the same time the yellowish-white frozen edges in the ditches keep widening. The mist is strange; with mist you expect warm air. I can forget about my Monnickendam– Watergang circuit, I've already put away my skates. The donkeys stay indoors. The chickens are hardly laying. The frost flowers in Father's bedroom have slid off the window, there's a pool of water on the windowsill. He ate the apple. I don't know how he managed it. He must have been very hungry.
     
Twenty cows. A pre-war tie stall barn. A few calves and a handful of yearlings. Twenty-three sheep. No, twenty. I'm not even a smallholder. But the paintwork is in good condition and the tiles on the roof are straight.
     
*
     
In the afternoon the young tanker driver arrives. I don't go into the milking parlour. I watch him through the round window, which was moved from the outside wall to the wall between the milking parlour and the scullery when the milking parlour was built. With the doors to the shed, hall and milking parlour shut, it's dark in the scullery, the only light comes in through that same round window. Mist seems to be streaming along the sides of the enormous tanker and into the building. The driver keeps smiling, despite the pitiful amount of milk flowing into his tanker through the hose from my tank. I've forgotten his name again and the harder I try to dredge it up, the further it sinks. There's an O in it, I know that much. He sticks a little finger in his nose; I actually feel like turning away. He doesn't look like he's waiting for me, he doesn't seem to care whether I come to make small talk or not.
     
Is it enough to have the paintwork in good condition and the roof tiles straight? The willows neatly pollarded and the donkeys warm and well fed in their shed?
     
Of course I am curious about Riet. Of course I want something to happen. I want to know what has become of the beautiful girl with long blonde hair – the young woman who was going to marry my brother. I want to hear what she has to say, I want to see the look in her eyes. I wait until the young driver has leapt up to his cab, as lithe as ever, before going into the parlour to spray the storage tank clean. The hot water drives the cold mist back outside.
     
After milking I go into the vegetable garden to pick some kale. It's had more than enough frost. I straighten up and look through the kitchen window into my own house. The lights are on in the kitchen and the living room. In the distance – I can see it because all the doors are open – the new bed is like a throne in a palace. It's Christmas Eve and in seven days the new year will start.
     

II

18
'There's no such thing as a pig farmer.'
     
'What do you mean?'
     
'Pig keepers, maybe, but you can't call them farmers.'
     
'Why not?'
     
'Did that husband of yours have land?'
     
'Yes.'
     
'How many acres?'
     
'A bit between the sheds and another bit around the side.'
     
'That's what I mean. A farmer has land and he does something with that land. Pig keepers keep pigs in sheds for slaughter. That's got nothing to do with farming . . .'
     
'The clothesline was on one bit of land and the silage clamp was on the other.'
     
'. . . it's all about money.' I'm standing in the hall and looking out of the kitchen window. It's raining. The fitful thaw has finally set in and any ditches with ice left in them are now steaming. Funnily enough it was sunny all day yesterday and the temperature dropped below zero again last night. I have no idea what Riet is looking out at. The telephone conversation isn't going well. Riet (who answered using the name of her deceased husband) mentioned pig farmers and I couldn't help myself. I feel like hanging up.
     
'Come on, Helmer, let's change the subject.'
     
'Yes,' I say.
     
'Would it be all right if I dropped by?'
     
'That's what I'm calling about.'
     
'How . . . is your father . . .'
     
'Dead.' I'll