B007P4V3G4 EBOK (6 page)

One of the old codgers has begun to remember his long-gone
years of boyhood. He has picked up a stone and a nasty sneer has
appeared around the toothless hole that is his mouth. His arm is
already drawn back, its purpose to take aim. Fortunately, the
doctor sees this just in time.

'Don't do that, Mr Willems. No throwing. We're going to tackle
this quite differently.'

He draws up his figure and calls out in a voice full of yielding
kindheartedness: 'Come on down out of that tree, Mr Koopman,
please. You know your chair's in the sunlounge - course you do.
That chair's yours by right. You're entitled to it after a life of hard
work. You have a cosy home here, you do, together with the other
gentlemen, haven't you?'

This seems to fill Dirk with mirth once more. He's sprawled out
on his branch and he roars with laughter. Though he makes do
with gestures, these convey the insults well, nevertheless. In a
calculated mime he brings his paw to his nose, pinches it shut and
pulls a very disgusted face. Perhaps Mr Koopman wants to
indicate by this that it always stinks so in the home. And he begins
to scratch himself at length too. From time to time, he also holds
up something as if he wants to look at it as closely as possible in
the best light and this could well be a louse or a flea. That's
nonsense, of course. Malevolent insinuations - quite preposterous.
There are no infestations in the home. The ladies who collectively
bear responsibility for proper order in the home watch over this.

'Come out of that tree, Mr Koopman.'

The doctor's voice is a little more severe again. And he's really
put out. Gratitude's out of fashion, apparently. All old hat. It is
quite simply the duty of society to give proper care to people
who, because of their advanced age, are not capable of taking care
of themselves. Mr Koopman there on that branch is taking the
Michael a bit. It is of course nice that, his senile condition
notwithstanding, he develops so much initiative still, but there are
indeed limits. Mr Koopman is still quite capable of having a grasp
of his own behaviour and knowing what is allowed and what isn't.
Small naughtiness is part of things in the home. But this is not just
naughty any more.

And yet the doctor decides to leave things at the word naughty, for this is quite current in the home. Highly functional when the
gents need to be called to order.

'You're being a little bit naughty, Mr Koopman. You know,
don't you, that in that case we have to do things in your own
interest which are not pleasant for any of us. You are very
naughty if you continue to sit in that tree. And honestly there's no
nasty smell in the home. As for creepie-crawlies, that's just plain
nonsense. Now you come quickly out of that tree and you'll have
a lovely cup of coffee. It's your birthday, after all!'

Now Mr Koopman roars with laughter very exaggeratedly
indeed. He lays it on thick, unsavourily so. It's not nice of him to
make the doctor's good intentions look so ridiculous. And now'
he's tapping his fingers against his forehead to make even plainer
what's wrong with the doctor.

The good old orderly, meanwhile, has tried to drive the other
gentlemen back to the sunlounge.

'Now just you go back inside then. No good will come of Dirk.
You wait and see. He'll be off to an asylum.'

But it doesn't do much good. Understandably so, too. It's very
nice in the home; that's not the point. But it is very dull, too. And
even though old people no longer have such a need for excitement,
when the opportunity does present itself to really relish things like
in the old days, it's very nice indeed.

So the gents continue to stand around the tree and the orderly
ends up picking up the broom stick from the ground again.

'We're not getting anywhere like this,' the doctor says. 'The
best thing is for me to ring the proper authorities. Then they can
fetch him out of that tree. It would be too dangerous, too, for him
to come down under his own steam. He might break a leg, or
worse. He's a great age, after all.'

In desperation, the good old orderly begins to poke about in the
tree once more. It doesn't help a jot, of course. Dirk doesn't even
take any notice of it. He has climbed up one branch higher and
makes the craziest gestures to his fellow inhabitants. Dirty gestures
too. Ones as if he's got hold of his sex and is masturbating
passionately. Then he points at Mrs Wolf, looking exceptionally
lewdly as he does so.

The doctor comes back into the garden. Because it has begun to
rain lightly, he has put on his coat.

'The fire brigade has been called. The gentlemen are coming as
soon as possible.' But the good old orderly shows no joy.

'He can stay in that tree till his death, as far as I'm concerned.
Filthy old goat. That man's nothing but trouble. Contrary. Always.
Never co-operates when he has to be washed and dressed. Keeps
himself rigid, he does. Effing and blinding and wants to bite you
on top of it all. If they were all like that! His pestering drives you
round the twist. Last week he took a turd from a potty and
plastered the stairs with it. Just imagine the work you're left with
to get that clean again. And you won't get a char here. Not on
their nelly, thank you. They think it's too dirty here. They're far
too much a lady for that, nowadays.'

For the umpteenth time, she begins to poke about in the tree,
quite out of control. Nerves all frazzled. And talk? All the time!

'D'you hear me, you old scumbag? You're not pestering me into
an early grave. Two women he's pestered to their graves. And his
five children went without their nosh. Drank like a fish. And work?
Not on your life. And now we've got him here, in the home. And
now it's suddenly Mr skunk. Mister. Because he's
senile, now he's 'Mister'. Well, up yours matey.'

And it's still raining. Not that hard yet, but it gets you wet even
so.

The doctor, who remains a medical man in all circumstances and
who keeps watch on health matters, says in a fatherly manner: 'The
gentlemen had better go inside. This weather's nasty. Bouts of flu
on top of all this and we'd be in an even greater pickle.'

He addresses the old gentleman in the tree once more.

'You're not some stroppy brat, Mr Koopman, are you? The fire
brigade will be arriving soon and then you'll be taken from the
tree like a naughty child. Mrs Wolf doesn't mean what she says,
honest. You're still most welcome in the home. Why not come
down quietly. See, you can step on to my shoulder just like so.
Then you can't fall and injure yourself.'

For a good while now, Mr Koopman has had a chestnut, still in
its shell, in his hand. He looks at it intently. As if that chestnut is
connected with problems you can solve by taking a good look at
them on a Sunday morning while you're sitting in a tree. From
time to time, he casts furtive glances at the doctor as if he, too, is
involved in the problem. He seems to have quietened down a bit,
the way he's sitting there with that chestnut. Maybe he's got
hungry and the prospect of a tasty breakfast tempts him a little
more now than when he had just got out of bed.

Moreover, it can no longer be pleasant there in that tree. It's beginning to rain harder and harder. What, in that tree, looks a bit
like a monkey's coat is, in the end, a pair of common-or-garden
pyjamas. Mr Koopman must be soaked through.

What's to become of you if you fall i117 You'll have to stay in
bed all day then, won't you? People of your age just are susceptible.
There are certain things you can't do.' The doctor has crouched:
too late.

Perhaps it was the case that the problem connected with the
chestnut had begun to bore Mr Koopman. And does it not speak
of wisdom when we cast problems for which we do not know the
solution far away from us? Perhaps, too, the old man in the tree
was fed up to the back teeth with the doctor's continual chatter. In
any case, he has thrown the chestnut with remarkable force. The
doctor has been struck full in the face.

Well now: we are and continue to be human beings. And this
applies likewise, to a great degree even, to people who have
completed medical school.

Moreover, it hurts when you get one of those green chestnuts
with those prickly spines in your face. And that's why it's obvious
that the doctor has become a little angry. He's quite pale with rage
and his calm control has gone. Quite gone. To top it all, Mr
Koopman has burst into peals of laughter again. And the old
gentlemen, too, are enjoying themselves visibly. The capacity for
Schadenfreude is one mankind retains to a very great age.

The angry doctor has picked up the same stone Mr Willems had
wanted to throw up in to the branches earlier on.

'You rotten little pipsqueak. You bloody well think you can do
anything you please.'

Scientifically directed no great span, and the stone
with which the doctor had wished to repay Mr Koopman in his
own coin fails even to reach the bottom branch of the tree.

And Mr Koopman does nothing but laugh. It surely is clear that
he's just needling them all and taking the mickey out of the lot of
them on a grand scale. Yet, the doctor's deed has not been without
its effect.

The old codgers who have so little already, for that matter, are
quite prepared to add some splendour in their own way to this
festive, first September morning. There's no one to stop them, as it
happens, for the doctor has angrily left the patch of lawn, and the
good old orderly, who never forgets her duty, is in the kitchen
making a lunchtime pot of tea.

And so the gentlemen go in search of stones and anything else
that can be thrown. The stoning of Mr Koopman commences.

An end comes to this (in fact unworthy) performance when the
doctor re-appears on the patch of grass. He's in the company of an
older gentleman with a briefcase and spectacles with golden
frames. He's a government official who has come to take a look at
what actually is going on and what might be done. 'So one of
your elderly folk is in that tree,' the official says. 'And how, in fact,
did he get into that tree? Using a ladder, I bet.'

The doctor has little taste for providing a detailed report. 'It's
irrelevant how Mr Koopman got into that tree. The only thing is
to make him come out of it again as soon as possible. You do
understand me, I hope. It's really a matter of a human life here. The
man could catch a cold and this is frequently fatal at that age.
Have you come all on your own?'

A pertinent question indeed. Though the official has a large
briefcase on him, it doesn't really look like he's sufficiently equipped
to bring Mr Koopman back into the home where he belongs. The
official takes a step forward and now he's able to take a really
good-look-in the tree.

I thought this was about an elderly gentleman. But it's about a
monkey. That's a monkey sitting in that tree there. An elderly
gentleman hasn't got a tail.'

The doctor, who has regained some of his calm, is really
somewhat at a loss with the case.

'Mr Koopman does indeed look a bit upset today, but a
monkey? Honestly, Sir. He's no monkey. He's Mr Koopman. I
know my own people,

The official, too, is in a bad mood. He, too, would have liked to
have spent this Sunday morning in a more congenial manner.
Though, in general, officials have much respect for people who
have studied, the doctor now found little understanding and no
patient ear at all.

'That's a monkey. It stays a monkey. That's the way I'll have it
in my report.'

The doctor makes one more feeble attempt. He says in a
confidential tone: 'Mr Koopman's condition has indeed deteriorated
somewhat of late. And we will keep a closer eye on him from now
on. But don't call him a monkey, please. The elderly find little
understanding as it is. We must try to understand, with a little
love.'

But the official with the briefcase has become angry. Hardly a
flexible man. That much is quite clear. He says: 'You can't fool me.
Even if you are a doctor a hundred times over. If you want to keep
monkeys that's your business but don't bother the authorities with
it and certainly not on a Sunday. If that's Mr Koopman sitting
there in that tree then, whatever the case, he belongs in the jungle
of Africa, or otherwise in Artis zoo. I can't set the fire brigade on
to this. They don't come out for such murky little affairs. Good
day to you, Mr-doctor-sir.'

And with his briefcase pressed very stiffly to his side, he leaves
the lawn. The old codgers, too, have left, one by one. And so the
doctor is standing under the tree again now, alone. And it rains
and rains. It's pouring.

By and by, the doctor is beginning to feel ridiculous out here in
this garden. It's already one o'clock, for that matter, and his wife is
waiting with lunch. In the end, he goes into the house. The old
folk are sitting in the sunlounge there, guzzling the bread fingers
with sugar comfits which the good old orderly has prepared with
loving hand. She encourages them to eat.

'Come on, Mr Willems, have another bite.'

But she isn't cheerful at all. She's on the verge of tears, if anything.

'It's perhaps better if we simply left Mr Koopman sitting in that
tree, Mrs Wolf,' the doctor says. 'We're doing no good by
continuing to concern ourselves with him. He's abusing the attention he's getting a bit. It's often the same with the elderly as with
children. You shouldn't hold it against them, for it isn't done
consciously. But you shouldn't encourage them in it either.'

'He's not coming back here, all the same,' the good old orderly
shouts, quite thrown back into a tizzy again.

But the doctor has disappeared in the meantime.

'I won't have the old sod back here any more,' she says, just like
that, to no one in particular. Yet, she walks over to the sunlounge
door the doctor has closed behind him. She opens it ajar. Why?
Because she's all at sixes and sevens. Then you do things and you
don't even know you're doing them. For that matter, she hasn't
even cleared away the festive breakfast though she never leaves
food standing about normally.