Craving Read online

  He sighed and she wanted to say: give me your washing, love, come here, let me do it. As though she knew she would never see him this hopeless again, that it had to happen now, otherwise the man would just disappear from her life with his soft coat, his shaven neck, and his piano.

  She began to speak to him very quietly, so that nobody would hear that she was helping him.

  ‘You need to take out all the really white things. They’ll discolour.’

  He looked at her but didn’t do anything. She felt it was an invasion of privacy to touch his washing but did it anyway. She pulled two white towels and a T-shirt out of the machine.

  ‘Anything else?’

  He slowly shook his head, no.

  ‘Go for the coloured wash option at forty degrees. Here. Forty is always good. Or is there any wool here?’ He shook his head again. ‘Do you have any detergent with you? Or do you want the stuff from here?’

  ‘From here?’

  ‘It’s horrible.’ She took a box of washing powder out of her bag. ‘Use mine then. Two scoops. In the drawer there. Right-hand compartment, left is for prewash.’

  He didn’t take the packet, so she filled the compartment with washing powder. She put her own softener in as well. He carried on watching her while she worked.

  Instead of thanking her, he said, ‘You’re good at that, helping me, you’ve got didactic skills, you should do something with that.’

  The way he was trying to turn the tables moved her. It made him even more helpless—a man unable to accept help.

  He stood up and went to sit on a bench against the wall. He left his book in his lap, and opened the newspaper. She didn’t tell him that he could simply give the owner an extra euro and he would put everything in the dryer and fold it up afterwards so that you didn’t need to sit here and wait. She sat down next to him and asked for a section of the paper.

  ‘Which part do you want?’

  She didn’t want to say that it didn’t matter, so she said, ‘Business please.’

  She remained silent and felt his body warmth, smelled a faint whiff of aftershave. She pretended to read the stock-market report and tilted her head slightly to be closer to him. She wanted to rest her head on his lap, on that woollen coat.

  She would have liked to have said, ‘If you want, I’ll stay home tonight.’ She would never have to go anywhere again. She thought about her friends and how she’d be happy to swap them all for a man with a piano.

  Even though she dried and folded her own washing that afternoon, she gave the owner a euro afterwards, along with her phone number, so that he’d call her the next time the helpless man came to do his laundry. She had loved him instantly, conclusively. So here he is, she thought, like a mother looking at her newborn baby, so here he is. There was nothing more to be done.

  That second time in the launderette, she deliberately hadn’t taken much washing with her.

  She nodded at her bag. ‘If it wasn’t so intimate,’ she said, ‘we could just put everything in one machine.’ She smiled at him girlishly, giving him the opportunity to play the conquering hero. He took her bag from her firmly and put her washing into his machine. Later on he’d say it had been his idea.

  The first time they arranged to do something together, he simply announced it to her, ‘We’re going out for dinner. I’m paying.’ It sounded like a gift. She was amused that he was ordering her around like that, and because she found it amusing, she didn’t mind being ordered around.

  He picked her up, he was wearing a suit. In the restaurant she tried to see what kind of body was hidden under the jacket. She loved his body before she’d even seen it. He told her about his divorce, which hadn’t officially come through yet. He didn’t have a piano. He loved the fact that she spoke Russian. He asked her to translate all the names of the dishes into Russian. She was much younger than him, but luckily there was one thing she could do that he couldn’t. Without the Russian, it would never have amounted to much.

  The first time they fucked, that evening, in his bed, in the small apartment above his practice, she looked at him, ‘with large, frightened eyes’, as he would later recall. It was fast. It hurt and she thought: if I don’t think of this as pain, it won’t matter if it hurts.

  He even asked her, ‘Am I hurting you?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘You look as though I am hurting you; that’s not good.’

  She would try not to look like that.

  ‘Why are you studying Russian?’ he asked her, and she told him how it had started: that she’d read an interview with someone who talked about a book by Vera Panova and called it ‘a friendly book about nice people.’ The words had made her feel extraordinarily calm, as though she’d only just noticed that she was restless. The calmness was so overwhelming that she could no longer think about anything except the calmness, and the calmness became an obsession and turned back into restlessness again. She’d searched feverishly for the book, but it didn’t seem to be translated into Dutch. One thing had led to another and now she was a third-year Russian student. As it turned out, the book had been translated into Dutch. They’d given the wrong title in the interview.

  He’d liked the story. Back then he didn’t know that the story would just fizzle out, that after three years she was still studying Russian because of that single line: ‘a friendly book about nice people.’ There should have been other reasons by now. She was like an old man who, after forty years of marriage, says something like: I married her because she had such beautiful hair.

  Hans took her to museums and art galleries. They drove for hours for tiny exhibitions. He took her to restaurants where she was the youngest customer. There they’d drink lots of different wines, one after another. It was a way of drinking she was unfamiliar with. Drinking had always been a straight road, downing a lot of the same thing like you were learning a new song. Carry on at a steady pace, until you got there, until you understood it and thought: actually this song’s not that difficult, did I really need all that time, all those glasses? The business with all those different wines was a confusing slalom through her head.

  He asked her things, constantly: What are you thinking about now? What’s going on? What did you feel? What does that look like?

  At first it overwhelmed her. Often she would open her mouth and not say a single thing, afraid to put her thoughts into words. Until every answer seemed acceptable to him. Not a single thought was considered strange. It was new, as though she was speaking Dutch for the first time.

  He bought her complicated clothes: blouses with horizontal pleats. He said everything suited her. And she thought: I could be anybody, but this is who I’ve become. She studied less and less.

  It was nice when he accompanied her to her father and stepmother’s. They got along well, he took over, she could just sit back and watch. He had never met her mother. He didn’t go to the birthday gatherings she attended.

  ‘I don’t like parties, you mustn’t take it personally.’ Not that she did.

  By the time they’d been together for six months, she had grown too fat for the blouse with the horizontal pleats. He didn’t mind, of course. He knew all her Russian songs by now too.

  The evening she knows her mother is going to die, she is on her own and eats Caramac and Toffee Cups in bed. These are the sweets she eats when he’s not looking because she’d rather conceal her childish taste. She knows he is going to leave her. He can no longer bear how satisfied she is. He never needed to pursue her. She was simply there one day and he could have her. For a while things went well, he had just got divorced, and for a time he liked things that were unambiguous. A year of that was enough.

  But now there’s a sick mother; things like that excite him. It’ll keep him occupied for a while. She won’t die that fast. Perhaps while that happens, they’ll be able to salvage something. Coco doesn’t know how, all she knows is that there’s still time and that’s the main thing.

  In two days’ time they’re going ou
t for dinner with her father and stepmother. Coco pictures herself telling them. She is already looking forward to it.

  In her mind she hears Hans asking her, ‘What exactly is it that you’re looking forward to?’ But this time she doesn’t feel like answering.

  #

  Elisabeth has to drop in at the framer’s on her way to the hairdresser’s. It’s still early, only Martin is there. One day the shaking just got too bad. She was standing at the big worktable in the middle—her table—she put her brush down, waited and then picked it up again. It was all right for a while after that. Then one day she ended up standing there waiting for the shaking to stop. The first time she took a sick day it felt like a longer wait, that’s all.

  ‘Elisabeth!’ Martin says. He smiles and comes towards her, but she holds out both hands, holds them aloft in front of him.

  ‘As soon as I’ve got something for the shaking,’ she says, ‘I’ll come back.’ They both watch her fingers trembling.

  ‘They’re just like little fishes,’ Elisabeth says.

  Martin takes hold of her hands and says, ‘Good to see you.’

  ‘I’m not crazy, Martin, I know I’m not getting any better, but there’s stuff that can suppress it.’

  ‘That would be good,’ Martin says, ‘that would be fantastic.’

  ‘You don’t believe me.’

  ‘We could really use your help,’ Martin says, ‘it’s the fair next week.’

  ‘You don’t think they can suppress it?’

  ‘Elisabeth, that would be fantastic—we need you.’

  ‘Well, don’t count on it.’

  Martin smiles.

  ‘Why are you smiling?’

  ‘Do you want a coffee?’

  ‘I can’t stop, I’m on my way to the hairdresser’s.’

  ‘Do you want much off?’ the hairdresser asks.

  ‘Add a few layers,’ Elisabeth says, ‘I’m letting it grow.’

  ‘You’re letting it grow again?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says.

  ‘That’ll take a while.’

  ‘In two years it will have grown out.’

  ‘Yes,’ the hairdresser says, ‘in two years.’ They look in the mirror. He tilts his head to the side.

  ‘What did the doctor say?’

  ‘That I should tell people.’

  ‘And are you?’

  ‘I find it difficult.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll start with a wash.’

  ‘I’ve just washed it.’

  ‘Why did you go and do that?’

  ‘Yeah, silly.’

  ‘I’ll have to wet it.’ He rolls the sink under her head. ‘How’s the shop?’

  ‘Busy, you know. Art fair next weekend.’

  ‘And are you managing?’

  ‘Not at the moment, you know.’

  ‘No, not at the moment.’

  ‘I shake.’

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘Otherwise I’d be able to.’

  He turns on the showerhead, ‘Is that too hot?’

  ‘No.’ She always says no.

  ‘Are they still treating you?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’ The shower goes off. Water runs down her neck.

  ‘Finished the treatment?’

  ‘Just having a break.’

  ‘Just having a break, right.’ The shampoo bottle is almost empty.

  ‘Just enough,’ the hairdresser says. He stands behind her and massages her head. ‘Do they give a time frame?’

  ‘You mustn’t say anything, all right?’

  ‘No. OK.’

  ‘Is it getting thinner?’

  ‘Can’t really say, no.’

  ‘Could be weeks, could be months. That’s it, really.’

  ‘But not years?’

  ‘No, not years.’

  ‘Does Coco know now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She was upset all right.’

  ‘Course.’ He turns the shower on again and rinses the shampoo off.

  ‘She’s getting big, isn’t she?’

  ‘Twenty-three now.’

  ‘I meant “heavy”, “large”, “fat.”’

  ‘Yes, well, she just keeps on growing.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Fat people shouldn’t wear their hair so short.’

  ‘I said that too, but she wants it short.’

  ‘That short?’

  ‘Maybe not that short.’ The hairdresser gets a towel and dries her hair.

  ‘Why do hairdressers always cut shorter than you want?’

  ‘Otherwise I get the feeling I haven’t really done anything.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘You can sit up now. Does Wilbert know already?’

  ‘I don’t know. Coco will tell him. He doesn’t come here anymore, does he?’

  ‘Not for a long time. Used to see him in the bar here sometimes, but that was years ago too.’

  ‘Doesn’t drink anymore, does he,’ Elisabeth says.

  ‘Cause of that woman of his, isn’t it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maybe better that way.’

  ‘Hmm.’ She shrugs.

  #

  The drinks have been ordered already. Coco’s father and stepmother (who prefers to be called Miriam) are still holding the large menu cards. Hans has put his menu down, his fingers on two different dishes. He wants the prawn chow mein, but with sole and a different sauce.

  It suddenly occurs to Coco that it would be odd to wait until the starters with her news. She has already waited until Wednesday, until they are here, until they have taken off their coats, until they have sat down, but now she’s got this far, her perfect timing seems banal.

  ‘I think I’ll have the ti pan sole,’ her father says.

  ‘Mum’s ill,’ Coco says.

  ‘Ill?’ Miriam asks. ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘Bumped into her on the Overtoom.’

  ‘What’s she got then?’ her father asks.

  ‘Seriously,’ Coco says. ‘I mean she’s seriously ill.’

  Her father and stepmother put down their menus.

  ‘What is it, dear?’ Miriam asks.

  ‘Cancer.’

  ‘What kind of cancer?’ her father asks.

  ‘Kidney, I think. Is that possible?’

  Miriam says, ‘Gosh, sweetie, and you’re telling us this now? When did you hear?’

  ‘Monday.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call us?’

  ‘I’m telling you now, aren’t I?’

  ‘Is she going to die?’ her father asks.

  ‘I think so,’ Coco says. Hans is sitting silently next to her like a new recruit, patiently waiting for his turn to speak.

  ‘Did she say that?’

  ‘Not in so many words, but they aren’t treating her anymore.’

  ‘And you’ve been carrying that around since Monday?’ Miriam says. ‘Why didn’t you call?’ The waitress approaches. Miriam puts up her hand, like a traffic officer stopping a car. The waitress immediately slows down.

  ‘Could you just give us a moment,’ Miriam whispers.

  ‘Shall we give the Indonesian rice table a go?’ Coco asks. ‘Seems like a nice idea to have the rice table for once.’

  ‘Of course, sweetie,’ Miriam says.

  ‘Fine,’ her father says. Everyone is looking at Hans now.

  ‘Actually, I was really looking forward to that sauce I had last time and then with the sole, seemed like such a good combination.’

  ‘We don’t have to…’

  ‘Let’s just have the rice table,’ Miriam says.

  ‘It’s for two or for four people,’ her father reads out.

  ‘What nonsense,’ Hans says, ‘if you can make a rice table for two, you can make it for three as well.’ He raises his hand.

  ‘Miss? Miss?’

  The waitress comes to their table.

  ‘We’d like a
rice table for three people… and…’

  ‘Rice table is for two or for four people.’

  ‘Then we’d like one and a half rice tables.’

  ‘It’s only possible for two or four people.’

  Coco says, ‘We’ll take it for four, it’ll get eaten.’

  ‘No, this is nonsense,’ Hans says. ‘Chinese is always too much.’

  ‘We’ll take the portion for two,’ Coco says.

  Hans gives the waitress a stern look and asks, ‘But why can’t you make a three-person rice table?’

  The young waitress blushes and repeats, ‘It’s only possible for two or for four.’

  ‘But you do understand that this is nonsense,’ Hans says, ‘you can just adjust the quantities, can’t you? I’d understand completely if you didn’t want to do a rice table for one, but three is different. You just make a two-person portion a bit bigger, don’t you?’

  The waitress says, ‘I’ll go and ask.’

  ‘Is this really necessary?’ Coco asks.

  ‘She’s talking nonsense,’ Hans says, ‘isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Miriam, who can’t stop smiling, ‘of course it should possible for three people.’

  An older waitress comes to their table.

  ‘You’d like the rice table?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Hans, ‘we’d like the rice table for three people.’

  ‘I’ll ask the chef what he can do.’ The waitress goes to take the menus.

  ‘And then,’ Hans says, ‘I’d like the chow mein number 35, but with the sole, and the oyster sauce from number 42. Is that possible?’