A dalt tot està tranquil

By Gerbrand Bakker, Gaietà Mestieri and Noemí Giner

En Helmer és un granger que, amb cinquanta-cinc anys i una vida marcada per la solitud, està a punt de prendre les regnes de la seva vida.

Gerbrand Bakker ens envolta dels pensaments d'un protagonista que tracta d'entendre el seu propi aïllament, i ho fa a través d'un llenguatge directe que ens diverteix, ens emociona i ens porta a preguntar-nos el perquè de les nostres pròpies decisions. Els constants viatges entre el passat i el present ens fan partícips d'una història que podria haver estat diferent.

• Language: Català
• Publisher: Rayo Verde Editorial
• Release date: Feb 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9788415539049

Book preview

títols

I

1

He pujat el pare a dalt. Primer l’he assegut en una cadira i he desmuntat el llit. Seia com un vedellet acabat de néixer abans que la mare el netegi a llepades; el cap trontollant incontroladament i la mirada perduda. He tret les mantes, els llençols i la funda del matalàs d’una tirada, he col·locat el matalàs i els travessers del llit contra la paret i he descargolat el capçal i el peu dels laterals. He procurat respirar per la boca tant com he pogut. L’habitació de dalt (la meva), ja l’havia buidada.

—Què fas? —m’ha preguntat.

—Canvies d’habitació —he dit.

—Em vull quedar aquí.

—No.

He deixat que conservés el seu llit. Fa més de deu anys que una meitat del llit queda freda cada nit, però encara està coronada per un coixí. Un cop a l’habitació de dalt, he tornat a muntar el llit, amb els peus cap a la finestra. He posat alces sota les potes i he fet el llit amb llençols nets i dues coixineres netes. Després he carregat el pare escales amunt. Tan bon punt l’he agafat de la cadira, m’ha clavat la mirada i no ha desviat els ulls fins que l’he deixat al llit i hem tingut les cares a tocar.

—Puc caminar tot sol —ha dit, a bones hores.

—No, no pots.

Per la finestra ha vist coses que no s’esperava.

—Estic molt amunt.

—Sí. Així pots mirar cap a fora i no només veus el cel.

Malgrat que érem en una altra habitació i que els llençols i les fundes de coixí eren nets, se sentia olor de resclosit. El pare feia olor de resclosit i de florit. He deixat ajustada una de les dues finestres. Fora feia fresca i hi havia silenci; al freixe tort del jardí només li queden unes quantes fulles arrugades a les branques més altes. Molt lluny, he vist tres ciclistes pel dic. Si m’hagués apartat, el pare també els hauria pogut veure. No m’he mogut d’on era.

—Fes venir el metge —ha dit el pare.

—No —he contestat. He fet mitja volta i he sortit de l’habitació.

Just abans que es tanqués la porta, ha cridat:

—Ovelles!

Al terra de la seva antiga habitació hi havia un rectangle de pols una mica més petit que el llit. He buidat l’habitació. Les dues cadires, les tauletes de nit i el tocador de la mare, els he posat a la sala. En un racó de l’habitació, he entaforat dos dits sota la moqueta. He recordat la veu de la mare dient «No l’encolis». Va ser fa una eternitat, quan el pare es disposava a agenollar-se amb un pot de cola a la mà esquerra i un pinzell a la dreta, i nosaltres estàvem mig estabornits per culpa dels vapors penetrants. «No ho encolis, que d’aquí deu anys vull canviar el terra». La part de sota de la moqueta se m’esmicolava entre els dits. L’he enrotllada i me l’he enduta cap a fora passant per la sala de munyir, i de cop, al mig del pati, no he sabut què n’havia de fer. He deixat que em caigués de les mans allà mateix. L’estrèpit inesperat ha espantat un parell de gralles que han fugit volant dels arbres que marquen el límit de la finca.

Al terra de l’habitació hi ha plaques d’aglomerat, amb la banda rugosa cap amunt. Després de passar l’aspiradora, he agafat una brotxa ampla i els he donat una mà de pintura base grisa sense haver-les fregat amb paper de vidre primer. Mentre feia l’última tira, davant de la porta, he vist les ovelles.

Ara sóc a la cuina esperant que la pintura s’assequi, i després podré despenjar aquell quadre depriment i fosc del ramat d’ovelles negres. Vol veure les seves ovelles, doncs au, clavaré un clau a la paret del costat de la finestra i hi penjaré el quadre. La porta de la cuina és oberta i la de l’habitació, també, així que des d’on sec veig el quadre per damunt del tocador i de les dues tauletes de nit, però és tan llòbrec i apagat que per molt que l’escodrinyo no hi aconsegueixo distingir cap ovella.

2

Plou i el fort vent ha fet caure les últimes fulles del freixe. El novembre ha deixat de ser límpid i plàcid. M’he quedat l’habitació dels pares. He pintat les parets i el sostre de blanc, i he donat la segona mà de pintura base a les plaques de conglomerat. He pujat les cadires, el tocador de la mare i les dues tauletes de nit. N’he posat una al costat del llit del pare, i la resta de mobles, a l’habitació buida que hi ha al costat. L’habitació d’en Henk.

Les vaques fa dos dies que no surten. A l’hora de la munyida estan inquietes.

Aquest matí el lleter ha hagut de frenar tan de sobte davant de la moqueta enrotllada (que encara és al mig del pati), que si la tapa rodona de la cisterna del camió hagués estat oberta, s’hauria vessat la meitat de la llet, com un sortidor. Quan he entrat a la sala de munyir, me l’he trobat renegant fluixet per a si mateix. Hi ha dos lleters; aquest era el més gran, el sorrut. Crec que deu tenir la meva edat, més o menys. Li queden un parell d’anys i ja es jubilarà.

La meva nova habitació està totalment buida, excepte pel llit. Pintaré el fustam; els sòcols, les finestres i la porta. Potser del mateix color que el terra, encara no m’he decidit. Tinc al cap posar-hi un to blau grisós; el color del llac IJssel un dia d’estiu amenaçat per núvols foscos carregats de trons a la llunyania.

Devia ser cap a finals de juliol o començament d’agost que van passar per aquí dos nois en canoa. No és gaire habitual; les rutes de canoa oficials no passen per davant de la meva granja, aquí només hi vénen els que tenen ganes d’explorar. Duien el tors nu, feia calor, els músculs dels braços i les espatlles lluïen sota els rajos del sol. Jo era al costat de la casa, sense que em veiessin, mirant com intentaven bloquejar-se el pas l’un a l’altre. Els rems xipollejaven entre els nenúfars grocs de l’aigua. La canoa del davant va quedar entravessada i la punta es va enganxar a la vora. El noi va mirar cap a la meva granja.

—Mira —va dir al seu company, un xic pèl-roig i pigat amb les espatlles cremades pel sol—. En aquesta granja sembla que no passi el temps; aquí, al costat de la carretereta, tant podria ser 1967 com 1930.

El pèl-roig va observar atentament la meva granja, els arbres i el tros on hi havia els ases.

Vaig dreçar les orelles.

—Sí —va dir, al cap de molta estona—. Són antiquats, aquests ases.

El noi de la canoa del davant es va separar de la vora i va tornar a enfocar la proa en la direcció que seguien. Va dir alguna cosa a l’altre. No vaig sentir què, perquè una gamba roja va començar a esvalotar. Una gamba roja que anava tard; normalment, cap a finals de juny ja han desaparegut totes. El noi pèl-roig va seguir l’altre lentament, sense apartar la mirada dels meus dos ases. Jo no podia anar enlloc; per aquell costat de la casa no hi havia res en què pogués ocupar-me. Em vaig quedar immòbil, aguantant la respiració.

Em va veure. Vaig pensar que diria alguna cosa a l’altre noi; havia entreobert els llavis i girava el cap. Però no va dir res. Va mirar i em va deixar passar inadvertit pel seu company. Poc després van girar cap al canal d’Opperwouder i els nenúfars van surar fins a ajuntar-se de nou. Vaig sortir al camí per seguir-los amb la vista. Al cap d’uns quants minuts ja no en sentia les veus. Em vaig girar i vaig intentar mirar-me casa meva amb els seus ulls.

—1967 —vaig dir en veu baixa, i vaig remenar el cap. Per què aquest any, justament? Un dels nois havia dit l’any; l’altre, el de les pigues i les espatlles, m’havia vist. Aquell dia feia molta calor, a mitja tarda. Gairebé havia arribat l’hora de recollir les vaques. Em sentia les cames inesperadament feixugues, i la tarda era indolent i buida.

3

Pujar un rellotge de peu escales amunt és una feinada infernal.

Faig servir taulons llargs i llisos, teles i trossos de porexpan. A la caixa del rellotge tot dringa i belluga. El tic-tac de les agulles em feia sortir de polleguera, però em costava aturar-lo cada nit. A mitja escala he de descansar uns quants minuts. Potser a ell també el farà parar boig, allà dalt; però sempre pot tranquil·litzar-se amb el seu quadre de les ovelles.

—El rellotge? —pregunta quan entro a l’habitació.

—Sí, el rellotge —el col·loco just darrere la porta, estiro els pesos i dono una empenteta al pèndol. L’habitació s’omple de seguida de temps que fa tic-tac lentament. Quan la porta sigui tancada, el pare podrà veure quina hora és.

Dóna una ullada a l’esfera i diu:

—Tinc gana.

—Jo també tinc gana, de vegades —replico. El rellotge continua fent tic-tac tranquil·lament.

—Les cortines estan tancades —diu aleshores.

Vaig cap a la finestra i les obro. Ja no plou i el vent ha amainat. L’aigua de la sèquia està alta i vessa per damunt de la presa.

—He d’anar al molí —em dic per a mi mateix i per al vidre. Potser també ho dic per al pare.

—Què?

—No res.

Ajusto la finestra fixant-la amb el ganxo i penso en l’espai que ha quedat buit a la sala.

A la cuina em preparo unes llesques de pa amb mantega i formatge. Les engoleixo a cuita corrents per la impaciència. Encara no s’ha acabat de fer el cafè que ja m’he plantat al menjador. Estic sol, ho hauré de fer sol. Arrossego el sofà sobre una de les teles que he fet servir per al rellotge. El tragino pel passadís fins a la recuina, i després trec les dues butaques per la porta principal i les deixo al costat de la carretera. També porto a la recuina la resta de mobles. Per poder moure el bufet, no tinc més remei que buidar-lo del tot. En acabat, per fi puc ficar els dits sota la moqueta. Aquesta era més cara, no s’esmicola entre les meves mans. Mentre l’enrotllo em plantejo guardar-ne un tros; que no podria fer servei per a alguna cosa? No se m’acut res. El rotlle és massa feixuc per carregar-lo a pes de braços, o sigui que l’arrossego pel camí de grava i pel pontet en direcció a la carretera. Quan torno veig el telèfon al passadís. Truco a l’ajuntament per dir que tinc residus voluminosos per recollir. El cafè fumeja sobre la placa que el manté calent.

De camí cap al molí veig una cosa que fa dies que veig i m’inquieta: una ocellada que, en lloc de viatjar de nord a sud, es mou dispersa en totes direccions i no deixa de fer giragonses. Només se sent el soroll de batre d’ales. La bandada està formada per garses de mar, cornelles i gavians. Això és el que té d’estrany: mai no havia vist aquestes tres espècies volant juntes. Té un no sé què de sinistre. O potser sí que ho havia vist abans i mai no m’havia inquietat d’aquesta manera? Després d’observar-los una estona més, m’adono que hi ha quatre espècies d’ocells: entre els grans gavians argentats també volen gavines comunes, que són força més petites. Passen rabents les unes al costat de les altres, no hi ha grups separats, és com si estiguessin confuses.

El molí és un molinet Bosman de ferro. En un costat de la cua hi diu «Bosman Piershil»; a l’altre costat es pot llegir «Núm. 40832» i «Ned Oct». Abans pensava que volia dir octubre, ara sé que són les inicials de la patent. Aquest molinet que serveix per dessecar busca el vent per si sol quan la cua està perpendicular al ramell, i no para de girar i treure aigua fins que plegues la cua en una guia que hi ha, de manera que quedi paral·lela al ramell. Ara el que faig és desplegar la cua amb l’ajuda d’una barra que en penja. És un molinet esvelt i molt bonic, té un aire americà. Justament per això, i perquè té una base de formigó a la sèquia, i perquè ens agradava molt l’olor de greix, en Henk i jo veníem sovint aquí, a l’estiu. Era un lloc diferent. Cada any venia un senyor de la casa Bosman a fer una revisió del molí, i fins i tot ara, que fa anys que no ve ningú de la casa Bosman, encara funciona perfectament. Em quedo una estona mirant l’aigua que s’esborrifa al canal.

Torno fent marrada i compto les ovelles. Encara hi són totes. Vint-i-tres, i el marrà. Les ovelles tenen les anques vermelles, d’aquí a poc temps trauré el marrà. Primer s’escapen de mi, i quan m’acosto més a la tanca, comencen a seguir-me. M’aturo a la porta. A uns deu metres de distància, s’aturen, formen una filera i em miren totes; al mig hi ha el marrà, amb el seu cap quadrat. Em fa sentir incòmode.

Al pati, veig la moqueta, feta malbé per la pluja, i decideixo treure-la, també.

Poc abans d’anar a munyir, rastello una mica la grava del jardí del davant. Comença a fer-se fosc. Els nens dels veïns, en Teun i en Ronald, s’han ficat sota la moqueta (la més cara). L’han desenrotllada a mitges i l’han estesa sobre dues cadires. Fa un parell de dies es van presentar a la porta principal cap a les set de la tarda. Van sostenir en alt uns fanalets fets amb unes remolatxes que havien buidat per dins, i van cantar una cançoneta desafinant de mala manera. Els seus caparrons emocionats es van tornar encara més vermells amb la llum suau de les remolatxes. Els vaig recompensar amb un Mars. Ara tenen una llanterna cada un.

—Ei, Helmer! —criden per un forat que han fet (amb un ganivet?) a la moqueta—. Això és casa nostra!

—Quina casa tan bonica! —crido jo, repenjat al rastell.

—I també tenim llum!

—Ja ho veig.

—Hi ha una inundació!

—L’aigua ja torna a baixar —els tranquil·litzo.

—Dormirem aquí.

—No ho crec —dic jo.

—Jo crec que sí —diu en Ronald, el petit.

—No, senyor.

—Anirem a casa —sento que li diu en Teun, fluixet—. Aquí no tenim res per menjar.

Miro cap a dalt, a la finestra de l’habitació del pare.

Està a les fosques.

4

—Enguany vull celebrar sant Nicolau —diu.

—Sant Nicolau? —en aquesta casa no s’ha celebrat el dia de sant Nicolau des que va morir la mare—. Per què?

—És una festa tan maca.

—I com vols que ho fem?

—Doncs com sempre.

—Com sempre? Per celebrar sant Nicolau s’han de comprar regals.

—Sí.

—Sí. I com penses comprar regals, tu?

—Els has de comprar tu.

—Els meus també?

—Sí.

—Però aleshores ja sabré què em toca.

No vull parlar tanta estona amb ell; només treure el cap i anarme’n de seguida. El tic-tac del rellotge de peu omple l’habitació. Un bloc de llum de sol de la forma de la finestra il·lumina el vidre de l’armari, i el llum es reflecteix al quadre de les ovelles, que ara és força menys llòbrec. És un quadre estrany. De vegades hi sembla hivern, d’altres, estiu o tardor.

Quan faig per tancar la porta, crida:

—Set.

—Jo també tinc set, de vegades —tanco la porta amb força darrere meu i baixo les escales.

L’únic que ha tornat al menjador és el sofà. He trobat una tela gran a la lleixa de baix de l’armari encastat de la meva habitació. Potser la mare havia volgut fer-se un vestit amb aquesta tela, tot i que crec que és una mica massa gran per a això. Queda bé sobre el sofà. El terra té el to gris de la pintura base. Quan la porta de l’habitació està oberta, el color s’estén fins passat el llindar, que està pintat del mateix color. Tots els sòcols, finestres i portes també estan pintats igual. El bufet és en un altre lloc, la prestatgeria baixa és a dalt. He llençat a la pila de fems totes les plantes que poden florir. No en quedaven gaires. Quan vagi a comprar pintura, també he de mirar persianes de làmines o enrotllables; les cortines de color verd fosc de l’habitació i la sala m’impedeixen respirar, i tinc la sensació que no només és perquè fa anys que no les espolsa ningú. He portat cap a dalt la resta de coses de l’armari encastat de l’habitació i he baixat la meva roba.

Per aquí hi ha gats. Gats espantadissos i esquívols. De vegades n’hi ha dos o tres, i un parell de mesos més tard, són nou o deu. Alguns van coixos o són escuats, uns altres (de fet, la majoria) semblen malalts. No hi ha manera de portar-ne el compte; no et sorprèn veure’n deu, ni tampoc veure’n dos. El pare solucionava el problema ficant la gatada en un sac de jute; després hi afegia una pedra i llençava el sac a la sèquia. Fa temps, al sac també hi ficava un drap vell que havia xopat amb un líquid que tenia a l’armariet dels verins. No sé pas què devia ser, aquell líquid. Cloroform? Però d’on podria haver tret una ampolla de cloroform? Que potser es podia comprar com si res, fa trenta anys? L’armari de color gris platejat amb una calavera i dos ossos creuats que hi ha penjat al cobert fa temps que ja no conté cap verí, això dels verins ja no es porta. Jo el faig servir per guardar-hi la pintura.

La primavera passada el vaig veure anant amunt i avall pel cobert arrossegant els peus i traginant platets de llet. No li vaig preguntar res, però vaig sospirar profundament, prou fort perquè em sentís. Al cap d’un parell de dies, els gatets ja hi estaven tan acostumats que tots bevien alhora d’un sol platet. Els va agafar i els va ficar en un sac.

No era un sac de jute, perquè ja no en tenim. Era una saca de paper on hi havia hagut pinso. Va lligar la bossa al parafang de darrere de l’Opel Kadett amb un cordill que devia fer un metre de llarg.

Fa set anys li van fer la revisió per prorrogar-li el carnet de conduir. Ja li fallava tot i no va passar la revisió. Des d’aleshores no pot conduir, però va entrar al cotxe igualment. Els arbres que delimiten la finca verdejaven, i al voltant de les soques florien narcisos. Em vaig quedar a les portes del cobert, observant-lo. Va engegar el cotxe i immediatament va sortir disparat endavant amb un sotrac, de manera que va quedar clavat a la cadira i, després, va picar amb el front contra el volant. Aleshores va fer marxa enrere sense mirar per damunt de l’espatlla ni pel retrovisor. Es va passar una estona repetint el mateix moviment: endavant, embragar (el canvi de marxes gemegava) i endarrere, girant una mica el volant. Endavant i endarrere, endavant i endarrere, fins al punt que entre els arbres surava un nuvolet de gas del tub d’escapament. Va tornar a sortir del cotxe, va obrir molt serenament la saca i va voler llençar-la als fems. Va haver de recollir la bossa de terra fins a tres vegades; els seus braços ja no tenien força per fer moviments vigorosos.

—Les coses ben endreçades fan més goig —va dir quan va entrar al cobert.

Es va fregar el front i va fer el seu gest típic de «llestos» amb les mans; tenia un so aspre.

Vaig trigar una mica a moure’m de lloc. Després vaig acostar-me als fems a poc a poc. La saca no era al damunt de tot, havia caigut una mica, i no només per culpa de la gravetat, sinó també pels moviments de l’interior. Se sentien un grinyol molt fluixet i unes esgarrapades gairebé inaudibles. El pare havia fet una cosa mal feta i jo podia rectificar-la. M’hi vaig negar. Em vaig girar i em vaig allunyar dels fems fins que vaig deixar de sentir aquells sorollets, i no m’hi vaig tornar a atansar fins que van desaparèixer el sorollet i el moviment.

Vol celebrar sant Nicolau, perquè «és una festa tan maca».

5

No sé ben bé què passa, però ara, des d’una branca del freixe pelat, m’observa una cornella emmantellada. Mai no n’havia vist cap, aquí. És molt bonica, i em posa una mica nerviós, amb prou feines aconsegueixo empassar-me el menjar. M’assec en un altre lloc, mirant cap a la finestra lateral. Al voltant de la taula hi ha quatre cadires, i puc seure on vulgui, perquè les altres tres no les fa servir ningú.

Sempre sec al lloc de la mare, a la cadira que hi ha més a prop del marbre. El pare seia al seu davant, d’esquena al finestral. En Henk seia d’esquena a la finestra lateral i, si les portes estaven obertes, podia mirar cap al menjador. Jo seia d’esquena a la porta de la cuina, i sovint només veia la silueta d’en Henk per culpa de la llum que entrava per la finestra que tenia al darrere. M’era igual; davant meu seia una còpia meva, i jo coneixia perfectament el meu aspecte. Ara he acabat venint a parar al meu antic lloc de la taula de la cuina, i no m’agrada. M’aixeco, faig lliscar el plat cap a l’altre costat de la taula amb una empenta i m’assec al lloc d’en Henk. Ara torno a estar al camp visual de la cornella, que gira una mica el cap per veure’m millor. Aquesta manera de mirar em fa pensar en les ovelles que se’m van quedar observant, totes vint-i-quatre, fa un parell de dies. En aquell moment em va fer la sensació que eren els meus iguals, que ja no eren animals que em miraven. És una sensació que no havia tingut mai, ni tan sols amb els dos ases. I ara aquesta cornella emmantellada tan estranya.

Enretiro la cadira, recorro el passadís cap a la porta principal i surto al camí de grava.

—Kssst! —faig. La cornella inclina una mica el cap i mou una pota—. Fuig! —crido, i miro encorregut al meu voltant. Pagès estranyot de mitjana edat escridassa alguna cosa invisible davant de la porta oberta.

La cornella m’observa despectivament. Tanco d’una revolada. Quan torna el silenci al passadís, sento que el pare diu alguna cosa, a dalt. Obro la porta de l’escala.

—Què dius? —crido.

—Una cornella emmantellada —crida.

—Sí, i què?

—Per què la fas fora?

Sord no ho

Reviews for A dalt tot està tranquil

[emhromp2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I loved this book. It is so well written. Nothing really spectacular happens in this book. But that's the beauty of it. What struck me most, is how Bakker knows how to describe the ordinary. Brilliant!The story is about a farmer and his old, dying, father. He has a hate-love relationship with his father, who more or less forced him to take over the farm after his twin brother died.

[brenzi_3 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Unlike his twin brother Henk, Helmer Wunderer could never seem to measure up in the eyes of his father. So when his brother meets and falls for a local girl, he turns to the hired hand, that his father has recently fired, for friendship and comfort and to assuage his overwhelming loneliness. Then tragedy strikes the family and Helmer’s education at the university in Amsterdam is cut short as he is forced to help run the farm. Fifty years later, the story opens with Helmer carrying his elderly, invalid father to an upstairs bedroom so that he can revamp the downstairs and finally, make this house his own. Quite unexpectedly, he receives a letter from his brother’s old flame, and after a visit she convinces him to take her eighteen year old son on as a farm hand. He arrives with a chip on his shoulder and very little interest in doing any actual work. But in time, his attitude changes, and therein lies the main crux of this story.That’s what the story is about. This is what the story did. Gerbrand Bakker, through powerful storytelling, slyly draws the reader into the lives of these characters living on this rural farm in Holland. Using spare prose, he dragged me along, quite willingly, through a taut psychological narrative, filled with an underlying rage. I truly felt an incredible sense of place where I could feel the winter chill and smell the first signs of spring.But it’s the wonderful prose that illuminates this sparse novel:Coming home doesn’t really help. Coming home after you’ve been somewhere very different is always strange. Is that because everything at home is the way you left it? Whereas you yourself have experienced things, no matter how insignificant, and grown older, even if just by a couple of hours? I see the farm through his eyes: a wet building wet surroundings, with bare, dripping trees, frost-burnt grass, meager stalks of kale, empty fields and a light in an upstairs room. Did I turn on the light or did Father manage it by himself?” (Page 156)A wonderful novel with the bonus at the end of assuring the reader that a long-held belief in future happiness can arrive unexpectedly even late in life. Highly recommended.

[gold_gato-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A lifelong bachelor farmer deals with sudden changes in his life, and it becomes quickly obvious he is not a man who would be called a change agent. Bitter but patient, the protagonist in this story lives his life amid the vagaries of Dutch weather, always yearning to see Denmark, symbol of his need for breaking the bonds of a life he never wanted.

Drizzle isn't much more than mist with delusions of grandeur...

Spare. Modest. Melancholy. Affirming. Clear. Concise. This is a book that made me frequently turn back the pages to get a better feel for Helmer, who grows into a new man by the time he sorts out his world. Farm life is portrayed through the winter and spring, and I became completely absorbed in the simple but straightforward sentence structure, as I woke up each day to time my reading with the farmer's early morning feeding of his donkeys and milking of the cows.

The English translation by David Colmer is spot-on...I felt the drizzle on my face and the warm breath of the sheep on my neck. And that, my friend, is writing.

Book Season = Winter (don't know what we want)

[lynnb_64 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I loved this sparsely written story of Helmut, a middle-aged man forced, by life's circumstances, into a life of farming and caring for his aging father. The writing is absolutely beautiful; both the style and the setting express a longing barely articulated by Helmut himself.Helmut lost his twin brother to an accident when they were young men, As a result, Helmut gave up his university studies to work on the family farm. And life went on...as the story opens, Helmut is middle-aged; his mother has been deceased for several years and his father is weakening daily. And Helmut begins to think about his life.Wonderful.

[vancouverdeb · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The Twin is a spare and beautifully written tale of a man in his mid -fifties reluctantly living on an isolated small farm in The Netherlands, while also looking after his dying father. Identical twins Helmer and Henk were almost inseparable as children. As time goes on, Helmer plans to leave the farm for university in Amsterdam. Henk , clearly his father's favourite child,intends to carry on farming with his father .Riet, Henk's fiance, is a part of that future.When a tragic accident kills Henk, Helmer regretfully returns home to the farm to take Henk's place. Father and son have a difficult relationship, to say the least.As the story opens, Helmer is in his mid -fifties, still resentfully carrying on as a farmer and looking after his now bedridden elderly father. Helmer decides to make a few changes, moving his father to an upstairs room as well as doing some redecorating of the house. The plot, which moves along slowly, picks up when Helmer's dead twin's former fiance , Riet, contacts Helmer for the first time since Henk's death. Riet,now the widow of another man, asks Helmer if she can send her teen-aged son, also named Henk ,to live with Helmer and his father. Apparently young Henk has been struggling emotionally and Riet thinks that Helmer's assistance will be of help to young Henk.The intrusion and change that young Henk brings to the household shakes up Helmer's plodding and solitary life . Helmer and his father continue to have difficult relationship.This is a fascinating read, rich with symbolism, reflection and fraught with loneliness. So subtly is the story told that an undercurrent of the plot that had puzzled me finally gelled as I closed the pages of the book.A memorable read.4.5 stars.

[thebookjunky · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A spare quiet story of an ordinary man, a farmer who feels he was put into his way of life by external circumstances that he no control over. His twin brother died when they were young men, so he ended up taking over the family farm, although he had planned to become educated at a university, and had only recently started his studies. Now it is 35 years later. His father is dying and lives, neglected, in the same house with only his son for company, who seems to hate him in a quiet sort of benign way. For awhile, much of the book, there is a dark undercurrent but it gradually eases, I suppose as he finally very slowly starts to find his way around his own life.

[robindawson · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book is unlikely to be popular. There is no action, little obvious drama, no intrigues. The atmosphere is grey, rather melancholy, dark and damp - almost soggy. The narrator is a stoic ageing dairy farmer (Helmer) who plods about the farm and lives a very narrow, restrained life - but don't let that put you off this novel. It's very good. The simple prose is quite engaging, and beneath the calm exterior there are strong emotional undercurrents. After decades of tedium as a slave to his cruel father Helmer at last starts to take control of his life and break free from his father, the farm, and the ghosts that haunt him. There’s a strong sense of place and nature, and being a donkey fanatic I just loved the important role given to the donkeys. A worthy winner of the Impac award.

[labfs39 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Translated from the Dutch by David Colmer, [The Twin] is the story of a middle-aged man in limbo. Helmer spends his days tending to his invalid father and to his father’s dairy farm. His entire life is a direct consequence, he feels, of the death of his brother thirty years before. Forced at that time to leave university and take care of the farm, Helmer nurses a grudge against his father for favoring his brother, Henk, and a conflicting sense of guilt and anger toward his dead brother. The book begins with a change, Helmer moving his father upstairs, and this small change leads to another and another until Helmer is able to make the biggest change of all.Although I appreciated the deft way in which the author, Gerbrand Bakker, depicts the quiet angst of an emotionally frustrated man, I was not drawn into the story the way I usually am with a well-written book. Perhaps I was unable to empathize adequately with Helmer, being younger, female, and more decisive. Or perhaps the quiet, slow moving book was simply not meshing with my reading mood. The result is that although I could appreciate the book, I couldn’t like it. I have no doubt, however, that others will find it compelling.

[dsc73277 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

There may be a bright blue sky on the colour, but for me this book was redolent only of cold, grey, miserable days. I don't want to read about an ageing man struggling to wash his octagenarian father and to put him on the lavatory. That is probably a failing on my part, after all this is very much a part of day to day reality for many many people who find themselves caring for elderly parents, and as such it is probably something that literature should draw to our attention. Whether it is equally necessary for literature to be obsessed my male characters studying their private parts is less clear to me, though again that probably just reflects my prudishness and, to be fair, whilst there are two or three mentions of this nature they are only brief. I probably have a very old fashioned sense of what should or should appear in a work of fiction, preferring attention to focus on either big issues, big drama or gentle entertainment rather than on the mundane realities of our lives and the bodies in which we live them.The Financial Times said that 'The Twin' "could so easily be a bleak tale of regret" but thanks to the writer's skill it actually contained much "humour". I am afraid that for me it was very much "a bleak tale of regret". J. M. Coetzee also used the word "humour" in connection with this book, which suggests two things to me, one that humour is indeed subjective, and two that I have probably been right in my previous assumptions that I would not enjoy the writing of J. M. Coetzee.Why do serious reviewers lavish such high praise on some of the most desolate novels ever written? Have they been spending time with the many music critics who heap adulation on compositions that sound like an accident in a blacksmith's workshop? In the case of this particular book a more appropriate musical analogy would be to a string quartet with minimalist tendencies.This one just wasn't for me.

[jveezer · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I suppose this was my first experience with Dutch Literature (Does the Diary of Anne Frank count?). I really liked this book and thank Powell's Books for helping me discover it through their Indiespensible subscription club. Their are many facets to the book: the togetherness of being a twin, the loneliness of surviving your twin, what happens when you just drift along with life without at least occasionally paddling against the current...Bakker does a great job of portraying the mundane in life without boring the reader. In fact, he kept my interest as I wondered if anything would happen or read a chapter where nothing much did.

[csmartinsp · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I started to read this book for the most absurd reason: I was for sentimental reasons interested in the garden plants that are commonly grown in Frisia (I know, how improbable) and learning in an interview the writer is a gardener by profession and mistakenly understanding in the same interview that the place of the book was Frisia, I decided to take a look at it. I was immediately captivated by its sober language. I had never read a book written by a Dutch (this was actually another reason I wanted to read this one) and I suspect that his nationality has a lot of influence in Mr. Bakker's writing style. I found it a wonderful change to the more florid tradition of British literature that I love so much, but sometimes can be a little overbearing (I'll not mention all those Booker prize winners). The book place is not Frisia indeed, but the countryside near Amsterdam, and Bakker is quite understandably tired of thinking of garden plants so he hardly ever mentions any member of the vegetable kingdom. To my surprise and delight, he does mention a lot of birds, I strongly suspect him to be a fellow bird-watcher, but these are only minor details. More importantly, this is a beautifully written book with a subtly universal story. Superficially it tells the story of a man called Helmer, who is a farmer. He is middle-aged and has lived a very boring life, very different than the one he would have chosen to live had he had a choice. He is taking care of his father's property and literally waiting for the old man to die. Helmer had an identical twin who died when he was a young man, hence the title of the book.Under the surface, however, it is a story about that universal experience of coming of age and growing to become full human beings that we all must face, which is the instance (or the many such instances we will go through in our lives) when we will choose (or be forced) to become what we wish to (must) become instead of the son/daughter our parents wanted or dreamed us to be, much to their chagrin, but quite often also to our own. This is a subtle and painful point that Bakker catches so well. Helmer's twin was the perfect son is father loved and for whom he had great expectations. Helmer himself oscillates between resentment and love of his brother, often himself thinking of his brother as a better version of himself. However the twin dies, and his father will have to replace him with Helmer, the son he has, not the son he wished he had. The power of this book is the universality of this experience, in other words, we all have a twin brother who died about the time we reached adulthood and we will all have to face for many years the consequences of our twin's death and learn to overcome the natural resentment against our parents' nostalgic attitude towards their beloved dead son/daughter and their often resentful attitude towards who we have become and for some of us their inability to love us the way we are. The beauty of "The Twin" lies in great part in the unraveling process of coming-of-age of a man at the age of fifty, because, even if we often forget it, we will go on growing and evolving all through our lives and that process that begins as we are born may have very different speeds at different times of our lives but only stops completely on that final day. With the approaching dead of his father, Helmer finds his own growth accelerating considerably. In this sense Mr. Bakker is a genius because it is truly difficult to come up with a compelling story of coming-of-age beyond the age of 20, as you'll find in the literature dedicated to such subject. This is a rare gem indeed. To finish I would like to thank the author for having made the courageous and politically incorrect choice of writing a closeted book. I know that Mr. Bakker is an out-of-the-closet kind of man and the story of Helmer is really about the difficulty most gay men face of not having their sexuality accepted by their families. This is obvious for anyone who can read between the lines, after all Helmer's twin had a girlfriend, but Helmer only has a few "fishy" male friends, highly suspicious. However is by making this point so subtle that the book gains most of its strength (this is my way of avoiding to use the word universality again). I'm sure Bakker's bank account is at least as happy as I am about that choice, after all had the subject of the book been more explicit, not only I, but most of its reader's would have been unable to identify with it. For anyone willing to criticize this choice, I'll remind you that a gay men is 99.9...% (I'm unsure how many 9 should go here, but quite a lot I'd guess) the same as any other man, and only the prejudices of our society turn such a small detail as sexual orientation into such a big deal. After all I'm sure it shouldn't be so different to have to hear your parents regretting how you did not become a doctor as to hear them regret how you didn't marry that nice girlfriend you had in high school, if you exclude the shameful virulence homophobic attitudes can reach.

[kidzdoc_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The Twin, the first adult novel by Bakker, was originally published in The Netherlands in 2006, and was awarded the Golden Dog-Ear, a prize for the best-selling literary debut in the Netherlands. It will also be made into a film.Helmer von Wonderen, the narrator of this novel, has worked on his family's farm outside of Amsterdam since his twin, Herk, died suddenly at age 19. Helmer is now 55, and is also responsible for the care of his elderly father, who always viewed him as inferior to Herk and made him give up his university studies when Herk died. Helmer has never married or dated in that time, and truly leads a life of quiet desperation.Helmer receives a letter from his brother's former fiancee Riet, the first contact they have had since his brother's tragic death. She is recently widowed, and asks if her wayward teenage son can work with him on the farm. As he has done his entire life, Helmer reluctantly agrees to take on the boy, but wonders if Riet has a plan for him, as well.The book primarily revolves around the three male characters Helmer, his father and Herk, and is filled with deep but subtle resentment, loneliness, loss and mourning. It is a simply but beautifully told story, as evidenced by the opening paragraph:"I've put father upstairs. I had to park him on a chair first to take the bed apart. He sat there like a calf that's just a couple of minutes old, before it's been licked clean: with a directionless, wobbly head and eyes that drift over things."Highly recommended.

[oldblack-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Wow. What a great book. Thanks jeniwren for recommending this author and for reserving Bakker's "The Detour" for me in Bookmooch - which triggered me to chase this book. I found it in my local library (!). It's a story about a man, Helmer, who's around my age and, like me, is living a life which has been thrust upon him rather than chosen. His father is still alive (just). Helmer has already become somewhat resigned to a rather solitary life and is preparing for his father's imminent death. Hmmmm....reading a bit like the story of my life in some ways, so I suppose that's one reason I was so taken with this book. Despite that, I think there are many more objective reasons why this book would rank highly. Bakker has a wonderful sense of humour and a deep understanding of human nature; male especially. I also enjoyed reading about Dutch rural life and I learned quite a bit (e.g. pollarding, hooded crows, mangold, and Dutch burial practices). Jenny, I could hug you! Lucky for you you're a long way away :-)

[5eva5 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I never thought that a story about a middle-aged man living on a farm with his dying father could be a page-turner, but here it is! Mainly it's Bakker's voice (and Colmer's fantastic translation) that pulls the reader into Helmer's world as he walks around the farm, remembering the past, not really regretting but definitely questioning the events that derailed his planned life and turned him into his twin's substitute. At the same time, the past comes back in form of Riet and of his father's former farmhand to lessen the hurt. Although Helmer tries to be a simple man, he is clearly a complicated soul whose thoughts tell the reader of his emotional life even though he doesn't always see it himself. I can only describe it as a lyrical story, even though I would usually use the word "lyrical" to describe something written in a more poetic language and this is written in "normal" prose, but still gives an almost dreamlike and yet engaging feeling.

[presto_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Helmer runs his farm situated in the Dutch Platteland while also caring for his dying father. Now in his sixties Helmer, lost his twin brother when they were in their teens, his brother being his father's favoured son and the one destined to take on the farm. Helmer sought an academic future, but at the loss of his brother his father gave him no choice but to take on the farm.Helmer relates the time spent caring for his distant father and the farm, his association with his neighbours and their two young boys, the period he takes on a young lad to help around the farm ,and as he looks back to his friendship with a young farmhand in his father employ. We follow Helmer as he moves from being a man who had no choice to approaching the possibility of being his own master.The Twin is a beautiful story about a basically lonely man. There are no great dramas here, no cliff-hangers, with perhaps the exception of one brief episode, it is simply a gentle yet captivating tale; a most enjoyable read.

[lit_chick_2 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

“I’ve been doing things by halves for so long now. For so long, I’ve had just half a body. No more shoulder to shoulder, no more chest to chest, no more taking each other’s presence for granted. Soon I’ll go and do the milking. Tomorrow morning I’ll milk again. And the rest of the week, of course, and the next week. But it’s no longer enough. I don’t think I can go on hiding behind the cows and letting things happen. Like an idiot.” (212)The Twin, set in the Dutch Platteland, is a meditative novel, sparsely but beautifully written. Helmer, middle-aged twin brother of Henk, oversees the family farm, with only his elderly, bedridden father for company. Henk, always the preferred son, died tragically at eighteen years old; and Helmer subsequently stepped into his dead brother’s shoes, but at great personal cost. His relationship with his father, fractured by tragedy, remains fraught with resentment and contradiction. Unexpectedly, Helmer receives a letter from Henk’s former fiancé, Riet. Her motives for reconnecting are not entirely clear, but for the first time since Henk’s death some forty years earlier, change is breathed into Helmer’s life.Bakker’s gift, I think, is in the spare and deceptively simple prose, which he uses to explore stirring and complex relationships. His language creates such an intimate sense of place, that I could not help but be drawn in:“Back on the street, I smell the wood fire from the smokehouse. I buy a pound of eel, which the fishmonger rolls up in old newspaper and puts in a plastic bag. Then I carry on along the waterfront. There’s a gallery near the English Corner. The soapstone statues on the shelves along the wall are beautiful, especially to the touch, but I am still thinking of a painting. I head back to the middle of town.” (64)Highly recommended!

[msf59 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Helmer is attending school in Amsterdam and is suddenly called home, when his twin brother abruptly dies. Home is a small farm in the Dutch countryside, a life Helmer was never comfortable with.Thirty-five years later, Helmer is still at the farm, caring for a dying father, maintaining the livestock, including a pair of precocious donkeys and leading a simple, lonely life. Things begin to change, when a teenager arrives, the son of his brother’s ex-fiance. Now in his mid-50s, Helmer finally begins to awaken.This is a languid tale, simply told, capturing the mundane lifestyle of a middle-aged man, dealing with bitter isolation and second chances. It’s reminiscent of [Out Stealing Horses], although darker in its tone and themes. This debut novel may not be for everyone, but I enjoyed its quiet beauty.

[aramissciant · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The first thing that comes to mind is how beautiful this debut novel is. The prose is deceptively simple (I hope it's not just the translation), but it's so powerful in describing the loneliness and slowly revealing the weight and pain and scars of past toxic relations. That being said, I think the author does not wallow too much in past resentments but rather reveals them to elucidate the changes in Henk's attitude. The low-key but hopeful ending had me almost in tears because I do want to believe --differently from Henk's opinion-- that you CAN "become a new person". Or at least try. Take a first step, however late, to try to be happier. Loved it.

[jerrycolonna · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A gorgeous, lyrical, spare and sparse novel whose power is subtle. Reading it is like, laying in the grass, watching a still pond so lovely as to make you weep.

[jerhogan · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Slow-moving story of a Dutch Farmer and his family and friends. Not amazing but OK.

[womansheart_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

It's the other twin, and the life-that-might-have-been, which haunt this excellent Dutch novelThis is a spellbinding book, written by Gerbrand Bakker, and a finalist for the Best Translated Book Award for 2009 (or 2010) The protagonist is one of a pair of twins. One twin, Henk, who plans to run the family farm, dies in his late teens or early twenties, the other twin, Helmer, lives on and although he is a university student is forced to leave his studies behind him and take on the responsibilities of running the family farm. As his father ages and become more feeble his daily care falls to Helmer, also. I became interested in reading this book as it is one of the acclaimed books, written in a language foreign to me, that has been beautifully translated into English by David Colmer, who has done a stellar job. The low key life of this man unfolds in such a way that it draws the reader in and piques and holds our interest. Even the cover illustration for the book, with the grazing cattle almost appearing to walk on the mirror-like surface of the water and the reflected sky add to the subtle impact which is offered by the author's story and is maintained throughout the book.The countryside of Holland itself and a lone, persistent crow both figure prominently as key elements of the unfolding story of the twin. There is some anticipation that something may happen, but, the reader is only guessing at what that might be, which creates some lovely tension. Helmer's life does offer a profound example of boerenleven, a Dutch noun derived from boeren (farmers) + leven (life, living). It means the country life, or the way of life of a farmer or agricultural employee. It seems somewhat to be a life of quiet desperation, though thinking back on the novel, there seems to be a bit of redemption also. This is a book that I would recommend to readers looking for the fresh experience of reading a well written novel, translated capably and beautifully into the English language.

[fglass_5 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This novel has a subtle message of one man's rage.

[blacksheepdances · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

“Everything is different when you have a coffin in your living room”These are the kinds of sentences that fill The Twin: subtle, understated and crackling. This beautifully written novel shines with its character depiction of Helmer, a man who has made no choices in his life other than selecting the chickens for the farm. His home, the larger farm animals, his furniture and even his work clothes were passed on: choices that belonged to others.However, the impending death of his father leads him to finally and uncomfortably assert his own will by moving the furniture, painting, and throwing out years worth of family relics. With this new and clean space, he finds that the things he can’t get rid of become more prominent. The house’s newly vacated space feels hollow, a reflection of the state of his heart and mind. He’s aware of his emptiness, and it’s illustrated when he buys a map to hang as “art” for his walls. The lack of anything attractive on the walls of his house makes the single picture lost and the emptiness all the more obvious. All he can do is look at the map and memorize the places he’d like to someday visit, an urge that seems impossible with all the burdens laid upon him since his teens.He spends his days managing the meager farm, tending carelessly to his father and reeling from the thirty year loss of his twin brother Henk. For a time he allows a wayward teen to help as a farmhand, bringing new dynamics to his empty space. The complexity of the novel isn’t simply the missing twin, that sort of story has been written countless times before. Rather, the theme is based on identity of self, not in relation to anyone else (his father or brother) but in the form of his own destiny. He appears to make no strides towards the independence he aspires to, and the contrast between his thoughts and actions creates a tension that is sometimes funny and sometimes brutal. Self-determination is an entirely unknown concept to Helmer, and throughout the novel you question if he ever can achieve it. Some could read a geo-political message in this, but I’d rather leave that out and focus on the beautiful writing and the descriptions that make you pause: in reference to an old log, “even a dead thing can be beautiful.” A symbolism that is repeated throughout the novel is of a solitary hooded crow that stalks Helmer through the windows and around the yard, silently glaring. Since crows generally represent sadness or death, I thought it was appropriate in many ways. Yet the way Bakker concludes the story, and accounts for the crow's presence, was still an unexpected surprise.

[copperskye · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Helmer is a reluctant farmer. As a young man, Helmer heads off to college while his twin brother, Henk, works at home and plans to eventually take over the family farm. But Henk dies tragically and Helmer is forced to return home. And this is where he has stayed, living out his bleak, lonely life - perfectly matched to the flat Dutch countryside.Now in his fifties, Helmer cares for the farm and his ailing father, with whom he has never gotten along. As their relationship further sours and as his father’s health deteriorates, his brother’s fiancé contacts him to ask if her troubled son can come and work with him. Feelings of anger, loss, and longing permeate the narrative from page one and yet it is written and translated (from the Dutch) with a light, almost humorous touch. Altogether, The Twin is a beautifully written, marvelously spare, and ultimately uplifting book.