1
So mom is turning sixty-six! Greetings dad
For some time I stare at the message that has appeared on the screen of my iPhone.
I find the commanding exclamation point slightly disturbing and I wonder what the
deeper meaning behind the word ‘So’ is. When I put my phone aside, the message appears
once again. My father always sends his messages twice. I have no idea why he does this.
Deep in thought, I tap my pen on the table. Tim looks up in irritation, scratching his
chin. My roommate barely has any follicles, but this does not stop him from growing a beard.
His down is in its itchy flax phase, a red rash shining through the growth. Three days a week,
on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays, this young scientist sits opposite me in my room at the
Van Gogh Museum. He is researching the use of color in the later work of Vincent van Gogh.
“Don’t scratch, it will only make it worse. And put lotion on it twice a day. That
usually helps.”
“Since when are you an expert on beard growth?”
I wonder if I should explain the horrific details of the Brazilian wax to him, decide
against it and simply shrug my shoulders.
He looks at me, his hands firmly clasped to prevent another attack on his chin. “If
you’re going round the corner for a sandwich soon, could you bring me one?”
“I’m about to have lunch with my sister. Have I ever told you about Kiki?”
Tim shakes his head, his hand once again reaching for his chin.
“Don’t touch it!” I yell. “She lives in the United States and we don’t see enough of
each other. I’ve arranged to meet her at the Cobra Café at twelve thirty.”
Tim glances at the clock on the wall and says: “Then you should be going soon.”
“I’m going fifteen minutes later. My sister is always late, which makes it seem like
I’m always early. It’s silly, but that always bugs me. As if I’m very punctual, while she floats
through life like a butterfly.” I fall silent and wonder what he’s thinking. “Of course, now
you’re thinking that we have issues, because sisters always have issues, but we don’t.”
He frowns, puts his hands underneath his buttocks and ask: “Should that lotion be any
particular brand?”
In the end I get to the Cobra Café at quarter to one. I look around. An older couple, two
students, a single man, but no Kiki. More than half the tables are still empty, I eventually sit at
the window and suppress the urge to look at my watch. Not much later the door to the café
swings open and a tall, slim woman with a mop of fiery red curly hair confidently strides in.
She glances around and then heads straight for me. Everyone looks up. The man who sits
alone at a table practically sprains his neck to get a better look as my little sister sways past.
She almost knocks a few glasses off a table with her big bag, but no one gets mad. This is one
of Kiki’s many talents. It’s impossible to get mad at her.
“Sorry, the streetcar! A car broke down. And you’re not allowed to get out, right? You
have to sit there until you reach the next stop. Which was ten yards ahead. I really hate
streetcars.” She raises her hands to the sky in indignation.
She gives me a quick peck on the cheek, sits down, shakes her hair back again, briefly
giving the bald man behind her a luxurious red wig, calls for the waiter and orders two white
wines.
“Or did you want something stronger?” She doesn’t give me the opportunity to answer
and carries on in the same breath: “Why don’t you age? How do you do that?”
“There’s only six years between us, Kiki. It’s hardly a generation gap.”
“How are you?”
“Can’t complain…”
“Now you sound just like mom. She always says she can’t complain, and then bitches
about everything for half an hour. You have her skin, by the way. A thick skin. That somehow
always stays taut. Do you see these lines around my eyes, they’ve been there for a couple of
months now. Do you think I’ll get wrinkles early?”
Fortunately I don’t need to reply, because the waiter arrives with the wine. When he
puts the glasses on the table Kiki quizzes him at length on their selection of snacks and
eventually orders a plate of bitterballen with mustard.
“There’s nothing quite like the Dutch bitterbal, you know? Do you know what will
happen when I get back home? The Dutchies will jump me. Did I bring any licorice, dried
kale, stroopwafels, herring. What are they thinking? That I’m going to spend eight hours on a
plane with three herrings in my hand luggage?”
“Dutchies?”
“A club of Dutch friends. When you live abroad, you can really crave for a bitterbal or
some raw fish. But it’s pointless. Even if you could smuggle a herring in your bra, it just
tastes bland sitting on a bench in Central Park. You have to eat it here, preferably from a real
Amsterdam herring cart.”
“So why are you in the Netherlands anyway?” I ask.
“Oh, that’s a long story.”
She’s just settling herself down when her cell phone rings. She shrugs an apology. “I
have to take this.” And she walks to the exit while talking into the phone.
I gaze after her. There’s six years between us. That doesn’t sound like much, but once
it seemed worlds apart. There were three miscarriages and a lot of grief between me and Kiki.
When I almost finished grade school, she was just skipping into the first grade. A lace dress,
two long red braids. When I graduated high school, she stood on that huge school yard in her
new jeans looking tiny with her big eyes.
Six years’ difference. Too much to share life’s joys and sorrows. Mom wished it could
be different. Something she feels the need to mention every single time.
“So where was I?” Kiki falls into her chair. “By the way, did you also get that message
from dad?”
“About mom turning sixty-six?”
“Yeah, that. She’ll have a big celebration, don’t you think? Doesn’t she always make a
big thing of the double numbers? So, the twenty-second…” She grabs her cell phone to save
the date.
“The twenty-third, right? Or am I mixed up?”
“No, you’re right. Oh, that’s too bad! I’ll be in Paris then and after that I’m flying on
to…” She doesn’t finish her sentence because we both get a new message at the same time.
But we’re not celebrating it! Greetings dad
We look at each other amazed.
“I’ll give him a call tonight. But tell me,” I say, “why are you in the Netherlands?”
“Do you want the short…”
“I’ll take the long version.”
“Ok, eighteen months ago, when I lost my job with that film producer in LA, I was
really messed up. You really need to have a job in that glamour world, otherwise you just
don’t have a life. So I went to New York because I heard through the grapevine that Jeff
Koons was looking for an assistant to an assistant to an assistant. That sounded interesting.”
Kiki laughs mockingly. “Of course it was rubbish, but the job title sounded good. So I applied
and I was hired.”
“Are we talking about the Jeff Koons?” How the hell is it possible that Kiki van de
Broek, born in the small village of Itteren near Maastricht, graduate of nothing at all, can fly
from LA to New York to be hired as Jeff Koons’ assistant to the third degree?
“A crap job, Noor, you have no idea. I didn’t tell you about it then, because I was so
embarrassed. I was at the bottom of the totem pole. My work involved something with a
broom. Koons was working on a new project and he was being very difficult and mysterious
about it. My contract was full of paragraphs about confidentiality and if I break it, then the
small print says he can dip me in concrete, cover me in gold stickers and put me on display at
the MoMA. I’d been working there for less than a week when I arrived late, got lost in that
huge building with too many doors that all look the same, and walked right into Koons’ inner
sanctum. And there was the man himself, in his studio, working on his secret project. It was a
whole lot of mannequins, like from Madame Tussauds, involved in some sort of orgy. So I
walk in and he shouts: “Who the fuck…”, his face purple with anger. I point to his project and
say: “Sex is soooooo overrated.” He stomps towards me, scares the hell out of me, and do you
know what he does next?”
I shake my head but feel the hairs on my arms stand up straight.
“He hugs me like I’m his long-lost sister. They still needed to come up with a name
for his project. Sex is soooooo overrated. He thought it was fantastic. Ever since then I just
can’t go wrong with Jeff.”
The waiter puts the plate of bitterballen on the table and Kiki orders two more wines,
even though my glass is still half-full.
“But anyway, that was all very well but he gave me the responsibility of getting the
project into museums. And that’s what I’ve been working on for the past year. Top secret of
course, because it’s quite controversial.” She gives me a meaningful look.
“Well yeah, it’s Koops!” I say. “That’s what you get. Trust him to be controversial. He
won’t treat us to a still life until he’s cold and stiff in his coffin.”
Kiki leans over and looks me in the eye. “Can you keep a secret?”
I nod, but also tell her that it might be better not to tell me.
“I had to work like a dog to persuade the first museum. Of course they’re all keen, but
no one wants to be first. Anything for art, but the new rich, you know, the Chinese and the
Russians, they do have to keep buying tickets. They’re so afraid of creating a scandal. ‘It’s not
a political statement, is it, because our museum does not lend itself to that,’ they all said. You
don’t want to know how many conversations I’ve had with that art bitch at the Stedelijk
Museum here. All that artsy-fartsy stuff, but when it comes down to it…”
“You’re making me curious,” I say.
“It’s secret, Noor. Very secret.” Suddenly she sweeps her hand above her head in a
graceful motion, says “uck-uck,” and lets her hand fall onto the table with a bang, causing a
bitterbal to roll off the plate and fall on the floor. “Your turn.”
“I think we’re a bit too old for this.”
“Your turn!”
Resigned, I repeat the ritual, softly mumble “uck-uck,” but do slam my hand down
hard on the table. A few people look up at the disturbance.
Reassured by this childish secret pact that Kiki just couldn’t get enough of when she
was eight, she leans forwards again and whispers: “The gangbang consists of the world
leaders. The prime ministers, fucking each other, are watched by Chinese dissidents behind
bars, environmental activists, humanitarians, ecologists, members of the Mars expedition, you
name it. The leader of the country hosting the exposition does not join in but watches. That
way the gangbang is constantly changing. Classic Koons. Can you picture it?” She leans back
and looks at me with a frown.
“It sounds like an art statement. Only the video images are missing, but that’s probably
just as well.”
“By now I’ve landed London, Paris and Berlin. Amsterdam gets the premiere.
Stedelijk Museum, here I come!” Kiki cackles as if in anticipation of the spectacle this
exposition will provide. She pops a bitterbal into her mouth, burns her tongue, takes a big
gulp of wine and says: “By the way, I was at home for a quick cup of coffee yesterday. Weird
that mom didn’t say anything about her birthday, but she is really not amused that you went to
work in Amsterdam. She just doesn’t get your fascination for that guy with the ginger hair and
the chopped-off ear.”
I want to reply, but her cell phone starts to emit piercing beeps.
“Sorry, selfie time.”
I watch in amazement as she styles her hair at lightning speed, puts the glass of wine
to her pouting lips and takes a photo of herself.
“I do that every day at exactly ten past one.”
“But why…”
“Why? Never ask yourself why, Noor. Why not?”
Kiki continues as if nothing has happened. “Mom can’t stop going on about your
plans. She can’t wait. She’s convinced that she’ll be a grandmother by the end of the year.
Which will make me an aunt. Hurray!”
I sip my wine and ponder a good answer when she puts her hand up in apology. “Hang
on, email from the master himself. I have to reply to this right away.”
As her fingers fly over the tiny keyboard, my thoughts turn to home. To my mother,
who I would make very happy with a fertilized egg. Not to mention Ewald. My childhood
sweetheart. During our prom he pulled me into the history homeroom and whispered into my
ear that I was the love of his life. I was eighteen. Had just graduated high school and was on
my way to study Art History in Leiden. My life was yet to begin, but Ewald said he would
wait for me. And he did, every weekend. After graduating university, I went back to Itteren,
the village where I grew up, the village Ewald loves so much and that is so nicely within
cycling distance of Maastricht, where he works as policy officer. Soccer training on Tuesday
nights, grocery shopping together on Saturdays and going to my parents’ around five on
Sundays.
“Or are you pregnant already?”
That remark jolts me back to earth. “Ewald wants children and mom wants to be a
grandmother. For the past year those two have had one goal in life and I’m the one who has to
make it reality. Sure, I want kids, but not yet. I don’t see myself as a mother yet, I’m just not
ready. And I couldn’t refuse the offer to come and work at the Van Gogh Museum. It’s
supposed to be for two years and then I can go back to the Bonnefanten Museum back in
Maastricht. What’s two years? But Ewald was so disappointed that I almost considered not
coming.” I sigh and look outside to organize my thoughts. “You know, he pictured it all very
differently. He’s ready for the next step in his life. A step that includes children. Standing at
the sidelines on Saturday mornings to cheer on Ewald junior and working behind the bar as a
volunteer at the soccer club every other week. I had to promise him that we would try for a
family in two years. Go for it one hundred percent. Of course he hopes that I’ll get pregnant
really quickly and come back sooner, but that’s not going to happen, because I’m still on the
pill. But he doesn’t know that.”
“Wow, that’s ehh…”
I grab Kiki’s hand. “I don’t get turned on by the ginger guy with his dramatic ear, but I
did graduate in the man’s work. A job as curator at the Van Gogh Museum is a once in a
lifetime opportunity. Ewald wants to be a daddy and live around the corner from my parents
in Itteren for the rest of his life, but I don’t know if that’s what I want.”
“Hold on, Noor, something’s off here. Weren’t you the perfect daughter?”
“It’s time you took on that role for a change.”
“Great plan. I’m sure the project Sex is soooooo overrated will really score me
brownie points back home.”
A soft beep makes us both grab our cell phones.
But we’re not celebrating it! Greetings dad
2
As I stand in front of my bed, I wriggle out of my pants, and then let myself fall backwards.
It’s the only way to get into bed; my bedroom is the size of a broom closet. It just holds a
single matrass and the narrow space between bed and wall offers just enough room for my
little rolling bag. An old friend tipped me on this ‘living space’, although there were so many
steps that it hardly qualified as a friendly favour anymore. You shouldn’t look a gift horse in
the mouth and I certainly won’t, but this room is a pretty low point. One hundred euros a
month. Breakfast, lunch and dinner have to be elsewhere, so it all adds up to a really
expensive place. It’s only temporary, I originally cried, but by now I’ve been here for two
months. I’m almost getting used to it, which, of course, is hardly a good thing.
I can’t get to sleep and restlessly toss and turn in bed. Bits of this afternoon’s
conversation float through my head. Ewald and his longing to have children, Kiki and her
world leader gangbang project. My little sister. I can still picture her, so cute and sweet. After
she left the lace dresses and braids behind, a rebel emerged who was a real handful for my
mom. Kiki paid little attention to the criticism, the arguments and the disapproving looks of
my parents. She went to Utrecht to study Dutch Literature, switched to Law, dropped out after
less than a year and left to earn some money abroad with a range of curious jobs. The
Netherlands are too small for her. She needs the world to be her play ground. During her rare
visits to the Netherlands, she occasionally comes home to visit the family. She’ll storm in and
storm back out just as quickly. And so now she’s the personal assistant to Jeff Koons – and
judging by the hotel where she’s staying, she now earns a lot more than the meager wages of
someone who is supposedly at the bottom of the totem pole. Just before I drop off to sleep, I
suddenly bolt upright in bed. I’ve forgotten to call my father.
“Ok, does everyone have coffee? Then we can begin.” Paul looks around questioningly.
Fascinated, I study his lined face. It seemse he’s getting one new wrinkle every week.
I feel sorry for Paul de Jong, the temporary managing director at the Van Gogh Museum. Ad
interim, his business card proclaims. He’s not supposed to stay too long. I had my original
interview with Erik, the director and mastodon of the Van Gogh. A week later he was dead. A
coronary was the official version; kinky sex with a heroin hooker was the unofficial buzz not
much later. And now Paul has to take care of business until a replacement is found. De Jong
started his career as founder of the long-playing record museum and the growing number of
grooves in his face testify that the Van Gogh is too much for him.
“I’ve sent you all the agenda for this meeting. We especially need to focus on point
five, which concerns sponsoring. And then there’s this: Eleanor has had to cancel her trip to
the Museum Show in London. Noor, how about you going in her place? The theme is Looted
Art, but there is much more to do. A convention like this offers a great opportunity to meet
interesting people. I do have to tell you that it’s short notice. It starts on Monday and the
convention takes two days. Can you do that?”
I quickly glance at my day planner. Purely for form; I want to buy some time. Next
Tuesday, Ewald and I will have been together for eighteen years. Before I can stop the words,
I hear myself say that I would be honored to go. The rest of the meeting passes in a blur. The
panic in my head is nearly violent. Six months ago, Ewald booked us a table at Toine
Hermsen’s.
The rest of the morning, I move from one meeting to the next. My cold sweat is a
constant reminder of the misery I have called down upon myself. It doesn’t occur to me to go
to Paul and inform him that I made a mistake, that I have to miss out on London. When I
finally settle down at my desk around one, I get a message from Kiki.
Drinks at the end of the afternoon? I need to ask you something. XX Kiki
My day planner shows me that my last meeting is at four. I reply that I’ll be at Café
Inside Out around five.
“Tim,” I whisper. He is completely focused on his reading, bent forward so far that his
nose is almost touching the paper.
“Tim!”
He looks up with a frown.
“I’m going to London for a convention. Paul is sending me in Eleanor’s place, but I
really shouldn’t go! I can’t go…”
“Why shouldn’t you be able to go?” he interrupts. “There’s not much that can go
wrong, unless you oversleep and arrive late.” He gives me an encouraging nod and focuses his
attention back on the text on his desk.
“It’s my eighteenth anniversary with Ewald when I’m in London. We were supposed
to go to Toine Hermsen’s.”
“Isn’t he the famous fashion designer?”
“A food designer. It’s pretty hard to get a reservation at his restaurant.”
“If you had to pick within one second. What would it be? Harmsen or London? One
second. Now!”
“London.”
“Ok, done.”
“But it’s…”
“I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
“Yes, but…”
“No, enough now. Jesus, why can women whine on and on about a decision they’ve
already made. Done, flip the switch, carry on breathing.”
“It’s Hermsen, not Harmsen,” I mumble softly, because I do want to make that point.
Kiki is on time for a change. She sits at a table in a corner.
“I’ve already ordered,” she says, and blinks her eyes at the waiter who puts a bowl of
olives on the table. The young man gives her a big grin and I wonder yet again why Kiki
alone was given all the relaxed genes. A more even distribution would have been fair. She
gets the great hair, I get the ability to flirt, she gets the adventurous spirit, I get the green eyes.
But apparently there is no such thing as a greater power keeping an eye on the fair distribution
of genes. That I have to make do with common dirty-blond hair and dime-a-dozen light blue
eyes is one thing, but I’m really jealous of my little sister’s laisser-faire attitude.
“You know what I just did?” I say.
She shakes her head and the fiery red locks dance around her face.
“This morning, I agreed to take someone’s place at a convention in London on the day
Ewald and I celebrate our eighteenth anniversary and were supposed to go out for a fancy
dinner.”
“Let me guess. Toine Hermsen?”
I nod.
“Well, then why doesn’t he go with his ideal mother-in-law? Makes a good present for
her double numbers. Then they can enjoy a mouthwatering composition of duck liver mousse
with port foam on a bed of raspberry and truffle jus and have a nice conversation about diaper
rash.”
“I feel so bad about this, Kiki! Eighteen years together and then I bail on him.”
“Do you still love him? I mean, after eighteen years…”
“Yes, of course!” I interrupt. “What did you think?”
“He just needs to get used to the fact that you’re here and he’s there. It will be ok.”
“You’re absolutely right.” I raise my glass to her.
“Crazy really, we never see each other and now we’re drinking wine in a café together
for the second day in a row. By the way, I’ll be in London for a few days too next week. I’m
using a friend’s house, so you can stay with me if you want?”
The idea seems very appealing and I’m about to tell her so when I see a man get up a
few tables over. He says goodbye to an older gentleman and they shake hands. I take another
look. Isn’t that Joost van der Voort? Before he walks out, his gaze sweeps the room. Suddenly
he stops, as if he recognizes me, and then walks towards me with uncertain steps.
“Noor?”
“Joost?”
“And I’m Kiki!” I hear my sister cry enthusiastically.
I get up, we hug, stand back and then fall into each other’s arms again. He towers
above me just the way he used to, but he has gained some width.
“Joost?” I say when I finally untangle myself from his embrace. Repeating his name is
not very useful, but I just don’t know what to say.
“Let me guess, you’re Joost.” My sister looks at him with a smile. “I’m Kiki,” she says
again. “Have a seat.”
“Am I interrupting you?”
“Not at all, I asked my sister out for a drink because I’m organizing a gangbang, but
feel free to have a drink with us.”
A mocking grin appears on his face. “Exciting, but I’m afraid I have to decline your
kind offer because I have to get to a meeting.”
He turns to me again. “How are you?”
I quickly tell him about my new job at the Van Gogh Museum and say: “I talked to
Antoine a few years ago. You remember, that curly-headed guy who graduated cum laude?
He said you were abroad.”
“True, I was abroad for years, I taught at various universities and was involved in a
couple of interesting digs.”
“Dusty,” Kiki remarks.
“So Archeology won out over Art History?” I ask, ignoring my sister’s remark.
“I combined the two. I did a lot of fieldwork and I thought that was amazing and I’ve
seen a lot of the world and was a guest lecturer on the Roman Empire, but I suddenly started
to long for solid ground beneath my feet. It was time to put down roots somewhere.”
“And you chose the Netherlands?”
“Yes, a few things just came together. I was asked to teach at the University of
Amsterdam and at the same time the Rijksmuseum asked me to take on an advisory role.
Those two jobs keep me occupied four days a week, which leaves me with time for the series
of books I’m writing on Roman emperors. The first part on Emperor Augustus comes out next
year.”
Kiki nods in approval. “He was a really horny little guy, I’ve heard.”
Joost winks at her and continues. “In the end ,I came back to my home country. The
time was right. I also recently came out of a dysfunctional relationship with a gorgeous Greek
lady. In the end I’m still just as unhappy in love as I was as a student. You hope for some
progress, but I’m not getting anywhere in that area.”
“Dusty, but with self-knowledge.” Kiki nods again.
“Noor, can we get together soon to catch up properly?”
He gives me his business card, asks for my cell phone number, which he quickly
scribbles on a coaster, plants a friendly kiss on my cheek and says he’ll call me as soon as
possible.
I watch him walk out of the café. “So weird, I completely lost track of him, haven’t
seen him in years. He’s brilliant, a real genius. Studied Archeology first, then took Art History
and wrote his dissertation on the Rijksmuseum. If there’s anyone who knows that place inside
out, it’s him. His dissertation was so good that a publisher called him with a request to publish
it as a book. We were really close. Always together. We really helped each other through our
exams. He hasn’t changed a bit.”
“So you know each other from Leiden. Why did you decide to go and study there? I
never really understood.”
“Do you remember Annabelle?”
“Yeah, you two were BFF’s.”
“She wanted to study Law in Leiden. We were going to get a house together. Of
course mom and dad were totally against it, because what was wrong with Maastricht? I
didn’t back down. Annabelle changed her mind at the last minute. I had moved heaven and
earth, had proclaimed to the world that I had to go to Leiden. I couldn’t go back. I was so
scared on my own.”
“What a story. I had no idea.”
“Fortunately I bumped into Joost in the very first week. We were together a lot from
then on. Real college buddies. Isn’t it crazy that I would bump into him here in Amsterdam
now?”
“Amsterdam is still a village, in the end you bump into everyone here. And that’s
something I wanted to talk to you about. It’s going to be a lot of work to organize that
exhibition properly. The Stedelijk Museum has its demands, Koons has his own ideas about
how the world turns and I have to make it all come together.” She wriggles her eyebrows at
me. “I’ve decided to set up my base camp here in Amsterdam. It’s to my advantage to be
closely involved in all the preparations. If things run smoothly here, then the other cities will
fall in line without any hassle. So I’m looking for a place to live. The rent isn’t really an issue,
but I can’t find anything. Do you know of a place?”
I shake my head. “At the moment I’m renting a matrass in a closet. Truly miserable,
but finding a place to live in Amsterdam is hopeless.”
“Then I’ll tap into some other sources. If I manage to find something, you’re always
welcome to crash on my couch.”
It’s a friendly gesture, but I still feel like a total loser. Which of us is the eldest sister
here?
3
On the train home the next day, I count the stations where we stop. I get more and more
nervous as Maastricht comes closer. In a few hours I have to tell Ewald that I’ll be in London
on our day.
I’m not expecting it as I get off the train, but he is waiting for me at the station with a
ridiculously large bouquet of roses. He is beaming and I see the tender looks in the eyes of the
other passengers when Ewald throws his arms around me.
“God, I’ve missed you so much.” His voice is muffled. The thorns prick my back and
a few rose petals float to the ground. “Here, these are for you.” He pushes the bouquet into my
hands and takes the rolling bag from me.
That Friday night Ewald sings as he cooks for me, kisses my neck as I reach for the
plates in the cupboard, and tells me he can’t live without me. I can’t force myself to tell him.
Saturday afternoon in the dairy section at the supermarket I doubt whether to explain to him
that he can still have a good time without me on the fifteenth, but in the end I hold my tongue.
On Sunday morning Ewald gets up early to make us breakfast, which we eat in bed. After his
shower Ewald is in the mood for sex – and so am I actually – and I keep the sad news to
myself because I assume it will not exactly increase his sex drive.
In the end I tell him when we go to my parents’ house for dinner…
I send Ewald a text message just before I get on the plane at the crack of dawn.
I’ll call you tomorrow!
I don’t assume I’ll get an enthusiastic reaction back from him, Ewald was too furious for that.
And so was my mother. As I yank the seatbelt across my plane seat, I decide to flip the switch
for the next few days. I want to enjoy this convention and not be intimidated by the
overwhelming feeling of guilt that gnaws at me, even though I feel I do deserve to beat myself
up a bit.
I look at the air hostess who goes over the safety instructions with exaggerated arm
gestures, and wonder how she has arranged things at home. Would she turn down a trip to
Mumbai with extra nights and the opportunity to shop if her boyfriend had made reservations
for two at a fancy Michelin-star restaurant months in advance? Probably. I close my eyes and
hope to catch an hour or two of sleep.
In the taxi on the way to the convention I send Kiki a text to let her know I’ll be at her
door at about eight tonight. Straight away I receive a text back to say that she’s happy I’m
coming.
I join the long line outside the Olympia Hall where the convention is taking place. All
visitors must be provided with bags & badges. When I finally walk through the large hall,
decked out as a real conventioneer with my name tag and plastic bag full of flyers, I feel lost
and duck into the first coffee corner I see.
“Noor?” I suddenly hear a familiar voice behind me. I turn round and see Pieter, my
former colleague at the Bonnefanten Museum standing at a table. Excitedly I walk up to him.
He kisses both my cheeks and asks how on earth I came to be here.
“I’m standing in for a colleague.”
“There are a lot of interesting speakers this year. Have you filled your dance card
yet?”
“This colleague had already registered for a number of things, so those are on my list.
There’s a lecture on Nazi Art in five minutes, art the way Hitler liked it. And tomorrow I
definitely want to attend the lecture by Dupieu.”
“The Looted Art professor?”
I nod. “I’m eager to hear him speak. This topic is really hot lately. Museums have a
responsibility to critically examine the art they possess. They have an obligation.”
“Absolutely, it’s awful how the Nazis went to work and impounded, sold or destroyed
art.”
“Yes, we can’t imagine how it must feel when everything you hold dear is taken away
from you.”
“I’m curious what you’ll think of this Dupieu. He is both admired and mocked.
Speaking of admiration, we really miss you, you know that? I started a pool. Will Noor return
in two years? Yes/No.”
Pieter is specialized in minimal art and setting up pools. From football results to
betting on the number of visitors on Friday the thirteenth. I’m not exactly flattered to now be
the subject of his out of control hobby as well.
“And? Is anyone expecting me to come back?”
“Well, of course we’re all hoping you will, but there’s only one person betting on it.”
“Who’s that?”
“Clara, in the cafeteria. You know, that woman with the tic. I don’t think she’s quite
right in the head.” He blinks his eyes a few times and pulls the corner of his mouth down. “I
think the Bonnefanten gets a subsidy to employ that woman. Oh well, if you can’t get it for
the art, you might as well rake it in some other way.” Pieter gulps down his coffee. “I’ve got
to run! Shall we bet I’ll be late?”
Not much later I report to a dim room shaped like a miniature arena. Most of the chairs
are already taken. I take one of the last seats, next to a fat gentleman whose breath rattles in
his throat. In front of a large white screen stands a small man of my age with brilliantine in his
hair and a black suit. It’s supposed to make him look like a hip man of the moment, but he
looks more like some dark religious fanatic who specializes in early Christian iconography. I
check with the man next to me that this is indeed the workshop on Nazi Art.
“Ja, ja, entartete Kunst,” he says in a thick German accent.
For two hours I try my hardest to concentrate. The speaker lets the words flow from
his mouth in a stultifying monotonous stream. He has illustrations to support his story, but he
keeps stabbing at the remote control too impatiently, regularly causing the wrong image to
pop up. The conventioneer beside me rattles as if he could drop dead at any moment and my
stomach is just as bad because my biological clock refuses to take the one hour time
difference into account. Two hours later I leave the room with a head full of information and a
sick feeling of hunger.
“Well, that could have been more interesting,” remarks a man with a French accent as
we walk outside.
“You got that right.”
“Van Gogh,” he says as he looks at the badge that is bobbing up and down too wildly
on my left breast because my breathing is too fast. “Fantastic museum. You Dutch people
have something to be proud of.”
I nod and take a good look at him, almost rudely. Dark hair, amazing green eyes, some
stubble – but without the itchy red spots –, crisp shirt and faded jeans. I realize I’m staring
unashamedly and want to apologize, but he cuts me off.
“No problem. If you studied Art History like I did, you’ve been taught to look,” he
says kindly.
I get what he means. It was pounded into us in our first year. Look, describe, and don’t
judge too quickly. Don’t immediately try to place things within the right time. Don’t label
things, just look and describe what you see.
In spite of his reassuring words I feel caught out and I stammer that I expect more
from the lecture of Professor Dupieu.
“You can count on it. I work with him in Paris.” He takes another look at my badge
and then says in a comical accent: “Noor van de Broek, Van Gogh Museum, I’ll save you a
seat.”