FATHER, MOTHER,

Father, Mother,

Herman Adèr

Johannes van Kessel Publishing

In the Vrolikstraat

When I came to visit mother that afternoon, Marina, a Muslim woman was busy preparing pancakes. The seven women were sitting around the large table, eating her lavishly powder-sugared failures with relish. Not all the women still observed table manners as we know them; it was a group of happily munching, icing sugar-coated old ladies at that table. One thing, however, was obvious: it was finger-licking good!
The icing sugar did cause domestic ravage. Not only were all the ladies sprinkled with the stuff (except, of course, Mrs Leonidas who was sitting there, watching the goings-on with an amiable smile, in the meantime occasionally pricking a small bite on a little fork, putting it in her mouth and thoughtfully chewing it away.) it also lay like a white magic circle around the table. Some women, of course, were better dressed for the treat than others. Mother’s blue silk dress, for instance, was better suited because the sugar didn’t stick to it but slid off and fell to the floor.

Women wearing wool — even though it was summer, it could be cold at times — looked after the meal like ancient snowmen, icing sugar snowmen.

I observed the scene with satisfaction. I had noticed before that mother had become affected by the general loss of decorum in the Vrolik Home. That was all right. Recently, mother had had a lot of trouble with her dentures and I was glad that she could enjoy her food a little more again.

The troubles with her dentures started right after she had moved into the Vrolikstraat.
This is how it came about: One Tuesday morning I unexpectedly received a phone call from the head nurse, Thalia. That was unusual, because I had visited mother the day before.
“Something unpleasant happened,” Thalia said.
“Your mother’s dentures have been lost.”
“Lost?” I said, amazed. “How could that happen?”
She told me that a new volunteer had started. Her first assignment had been to thoroughly clean the old people’s dentures. Without consultation she had collected everyone’s dentures and put them to soak in a bowl of soap suds. But because top and bottom dentures became separated in the blue plastic bowl, it proved very hard to match the dentures afterwards. In addition, some bottom dentures had disappeared, possibly because Mrs Ersodan had removed them silently and hidden them in her secret hiding-place.1
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1. Even now, nobody, not even the nurses, can find out where she hides all the objects she has captured.

The dentures of the residents who had been living for some time in the Vrolikstraat had been marked neatly with their surname. This meant that, with a little effort, a complete set of dentures could be put together for them. But a number of dentures remained unidentifiable, among which, mother’s.

When Thalia reluctantly recounted all this to me, I first had to laugh, but after a while the seriousness of the situation became apparent to me. This way mother could not eat anything, not a bite! As soon as possible, new dentures would have to be fitted and in the meantime, she would have to be kept going with mush.

When I suggested this to Thalia, she thought it was a good plan. (“At least,

if you can get the insurance to pay for new dentures,” she added worriedly.)
And that is how it happened. Mr Hammersmit, a friendly blonde-haired technician who always serviced the nursing homes because he was so patient and gentle with the old people, carefully measured mother’s mouth. That done, in another three weeks mother finally received new dentures and didn’t have to be limited any longer to mush and soup.

Today she appeared to be eating effortlessly again, considering the amount of icing sugar-powdered pancakes she managed to polish of.

It was a beautiful summer’s day. When mother’s dress had been more or less cleaned of icing sugar, I suggested to take a ride in the Oosterpark.
“Yes! The park!” she said enthusiastically, “to the park!”
And that was what we did.

The entrance to the Vrolik Home was on the square that also housed the playground of the kindergarten. I steered her wheelchair over the exit along the playground, which was deserted at this time of day. Through the opened upper windows, we heard singing.
“Little children,” mother said.
“The little children,” I agreed and we stood still to listen. It was a song about Jip and Janneke, but I wasn’t able to hear it exactly.
After that, I pushed mother carefully further along. From Kastanjeplein it was only a short walk to the crossing at Oosterpark.

I smiled. In my mind I watched the two of us going there: A tall grey man pushing a wheelchair with a very old lady in it wearing a blue silk dress with white specks of icing sugar.

As we entered the park, a serene tranquillity came over us. Boys were playing football on the grass. We stopped and watched them. A lost ball rolled towards mother and stopped right in front of the wheelchair, as if staring back at us. Mother gave it a well-intended, gentle kick. That didn’t help, however. I put the brake on the wheelchair and kicked the ball towards the boys.

“Thanks a lot, Sir,” a boy in an orange sweater said and they resumed their game. Mother waved goodbye to the boys. I turned the wheelchair around and we returned to the statue of the Little Titans.
“The Little Titans,” I said, as I always did, “by Nescio, remember?” and I read to her the text engraved on the pedestal of the statue: ‘Boys we were — nice boys, however.’
“Oh, yes,” she said happily, but I was not certain she really recognized it. Anyway, it did not really matter.
There were various statues in Oosterpark: we wheeled past the Goat Rider; after that, I pushed the wheelchair over the bridge towards the rose garden.

Slowly and methodically I manoeuvred over the narrow paths between the flower beds. It was gorgeous, everything was in bloom and smelled delicious.

Then I drove mother to the Justus van Effen bench. I parked her in her wheelchair next to it and I sat down on the stone bench.

It was nice and warm. You could smell the scent of the roses in the rose garden. A small boy wobbled by on a little bike with sidewheels, followed by his dad, almost running to catch up with him. Across from us a man was sitting on a bench with his head in his hands, a paper bag on the ground by his feet with an empty beer bottle in it. When I looked aside I noticed that mother had fallen asleep in the sunshine. I felt content, almost happy. I closed my eyes and nodded off.

I woke up, because mother next to me sighed deeply and opened her eyes. She smiled. She must have had a dream about the past.
“Come on,” I said after a while. “Let’s go back home.” I got up and took the brake off

the wheelchair.