Free Ten White Geese by Gerbrand Bakker Page A

through her mind. Now she sat with her legs dangling down the steep bank and stared at the fast-flowing stream, which fell quickly here. Growing on the steep bank opposite, little more than a metre away, were various kinds of ferns and many other plants she didn’t know by name. At some point a tree had fallen and come to rest across the stream like a mossy bridge. She found it difficult to tear herself away from the water; its rushing and bubbling were hypnotic, never-ending. Did this stream rise on the mountain?
    *
    That night she stared at the fire just as she had stared at the water. She had lit candles and put them on the windowsill. Nagging pain in her back. Before getting into the bath,she had eaten some bread with cheese and a sweet onion. Hot meals were too much trouble. Fruit and vegetables were healthy but, of course, things like that only applied to people who were healthy. She’d always found meat difficult. What, for Christ’s sake, was she going to do with the lamb Rhys Jones had threatened her with? She had thought about it while lying in the hot water, and about the garden. Despite failing to produce a sketch, she had already laid out paths in her imagination: the flower beds were in bloom and she had even built the rose arch. Now she stared at the fire without really seeing it. She had warmth, she had light. With cushions, the divan was a fine place to lie down. She hadn’t dressed again after her bath and had a soft blanket draped over her. A glass of wine on the coffee table next to
The Wind in the Willows
and the unread books.
    There was a sweet and spicy quality to the smell of the burning wood that made her think of the home-made
borstplaat
and
speculaas
her grandmother used to make and bring to their flat in the Rustenburgerstraat; her grandparents themselves; the pounding on the door when St Nicholas left a sack of presents; looking out through the misted window at the street – preferably in bad weather – and always amazed to see people walking there, with any luck catching a glimpse of a Black Peter on a bicycle; knowing that it was cold and wet outside and warm inside; chocolate milk and presents; the rustle and special smell of the wrapping paper; the laughter of grown-ups in a dimly lit living room; checking her own wish list, sometimes with a pencil to cross off the presents she’d received; knowing that it would all be over the moment the fluorescent lightin the kitchen flickered and turned on; the thumping on the stairs once she was in bed; the empty feeling of 6 December. That homesickness kept coming back. Maybe there was another word for it, maybe nostalgia was better. It had more to do with a time than a place.
    *
    The geese started to honk loudly. I need a stereo, she thought, struggling to her feet. She hurried downstairs, flicked on the outside light and ran down the path next to the house. ‘Hey!’ she shouted. ‘Fuck off!’ She grabbed a handful of crushed slate and threw it in the direction of the goose field, which was engulfed in darkness. ‘Go away! Go away!’ Another handful of slate. ‘Hey!’ A single stone rolled out of her hand, but the stream drowned the sound of its falling. The geese were quiet. She sank to her knees and looked up at the sky. Never before had she seen so many stars. Never before had she looked up at them naked on her knees in late November.

December

27
    Tidying up the garage, the husband dropped a cardboard box on his foot. The box contained books and papers belonging to his wife.
Academic year 2003–2004
was written on the side. He was trying to push it up onto a high shelf when a piece of tape came loose and he lost his grip. The box hit him on the chest and landed corner-first on his left foot. He was wearing flip-flops. He made it through the day – it was Sunday 6 December – by going easy on his foot and calling off the tidy-up, spending the whole afternoon in front of the TV with a glass of red wine: sport and more bloody sport.