Todo está tranquilo arriba

Por Gerbrand Bakker, Gaietà Mestieri y Noemí Giner

Helmer es un granjero que, con cincuenta y cinco años y una vida marcada por la soledad, está a punto de tomar las riendas de su vida.

Gerbrand Bakker nos envuelve en los pensamientos de un protagonista que trata de entender su propio aislamiento a través de un lenguaje directo que nos divierte, emociona y nos lleva a preguntarnos el porqué de nuestras propias decisiones. Los constantes viajes entre el pasado y el presente nos hacen partícipes de una historia que podría haber sido diferente.

• Idioma: Español
• Editorial: Rayo Verde Editorial
• Fecha de lanzamiento: 27 feb 2012
• ISBN: 9788415539025

Vista previa del libro

títulos

I

1

He llevado a padre arriba. Tras sentarle en la silla, desmonté la cama. Se quedó en esa silla sentado como un ternero que acaba de nacer hace apenas unos minutos, antes de que la madre lo limpie a lametazos; la cabeza se le tambaleaba sin gobierno y su mirada no se fijaba en nada. He quitado las mantas, las sábanas y el muletón que cubría el colchón, que he apoyado en la pared junto con las lamas del somier, para a continuación desatornillar de los laterales el cabecero y los pies de la cama. En la medida de lo posible, intenté respirar por la boca. La habitación de arriba, mi habitación, ya la había vaciado.

—¿Qué haces? —preguntó.

—Vas a mudarte —le dije.

—Quiero quedarme aquí.

—No.

Podía conservar la cama. Aunque una de sus mitades llevaba fría ya más de diez años, ese lugar donde nadie duerme sigue estando coronado con una almohada. En el dormitorio de arriba volví a atornillar todos los elementos, con los pies de la cama dirigidos a la ventana. Debajo de las patas coloqué unos tacos. Puse sábanas y dos fundas de almohada limpias. Después subí a padre por la escalera. Desde el momento en que le levanté de la silla, se quedó mirándome fijamente y siguió mirándome hasta que le deposité sobre la cama, con nuestros rostros a punto de tocarse.

—Yo puedo andar muy bien solo —me advirtió, pero sólo entonces.

—No, no puedes —refuté.

Vio cosas por la ventana que no esperaba ver.

—Estoy en alto —dijo.

—Sí. Así, cuando mires por la ventana, podrás ver algo más que el cielo.

A pesar de que era otro sitio, de las sábanas y de las fundas de almohada cambiadas, el aire estaba muy cargado y olía a moho. Dejé entreabierta una de las dos ventanas. Fuera hacía un frío límpido y reinaba el silencio; sólo en las ramas superiores del torcido fresno del jardín delantero quedaban aún un par de arrugadas hojas. Muy a lo lejos vi a tres ciclistas que iban por el dique. Si me hubiera apartado un paso, él también habría podido verlos, pero me quedé donde estaba.

—Ve a buscar al doctor —dijo padre.

—No —respondí. Me di la vuelta y salí del dormitorio. Antes de que se cerrara la puerta, gritó:

—¡Las ovejas!

En su antiguo dormitorio quedó un rectángulo de polvo en el suelo cuyas dimensiones eran algo menores que las medidas de la cama. Vacié el dormitorio. Las dos sillas, las mesillas de noche y el tocador de madre los coloqué en el cuarto de estar. En un rincón de la habitación introduje dos dedos por debajo del linóleo. «¡No lo pegues!», oí decir a madre hace una eternidad, mientras padre quería hincar la rodilla justo en ese instante con un bote de cola en la mano izquierda y una brocha en la mano derecha, a la vez que nosotros estábamos a punto de caer aturdidos por los intensos vapores. «No lo pegues, porque dentro de diez años querré un linóleo nuevo». La parte inferior del revestimiento se me desmenuzó entre los dedos. Lo enrollé y lo saqué por el ordeñadero afuera donde, en medio de la finca, de repente no supe qué hacer con él. Lo solté y cayó al suelo en el lugar donde estaba. Un par de grajillas se asustaron por el choque inesperadamente sonoro y remontaron el vuelo, abandonando los árboles que jalonan la finca.

En el suelo del dormitorio hay láminas de cartón piedra, con el lado áspero hacia arriba. Tras haber pasado rápidamente la aspiradora por la habitación, apliqué a las láminas la primera capa de pintura gris con un brocha grande y plana sin haberlas lijado antes. Cuando estaba pintando la última franja, ya cerca de la puerta, vi las ovejas.

Ahora estoy sentado en la cocina, esperando a que se seque la pintura. Hasta que no se seque, no podré quitar de la pared el tétrico cuadro de una pareja de ovejas negras. Le gustaría ver sus ovejas, así que clavaré un clavo en la pared junto a la ventana para colgarle allí el cuadro. La puerta de la cocina está abierta y la puerta de la habitación también está abierta, así que puedo distinguir el cuadro colgado encima del tocador y las dos mesillas de noche desde el lugar donde estoy sentado, pero es tanta y tan opaca la oscuridad que soy incapaz de vislumbrar ninguna oveja por mucho que fuerce la vista.

2

Llueve y el fuerte viento ha arrancado las últimas hojas del fresno. Noviembre ya no tiene ese frío tan límpido y no es tan silencioso. El dormitorio paterno es ahora mi dormitorio. He pintado de blanco las paredes y el techo, y a las láminas de cartón piedra les he dado una segunda mano de pintura. He llevado arriba las sillas, el tocador de madre y las dos mesillas de noche. He colocado una mesilla junto a la cama de padre y el resto de los trastos los he guardado en la habitación vacía que hay junto a su dormitorio: el dormitorio de Henk.

Las vacas llevan ya dos días dentro, sin salir. Están intranquilas durante el ordeño.

Si la tapa redonda en la parte superior del camión cisterna hubiera estado abierta, la mitad de la leche habría salido disparada esta mañana, como si se tratara de un géiser, por el enorme frenazo que dio el conductor ante el linóleo enrollado que todavía sigue en medio de la finca. Le encontré blasfemando entre dientes cuando entré en el ordeñadero. Hay dos camioneros que transportan la leche, y éste era el viejo, el huraño. Creo que debe de tener más o menos mi edad. Un par de años más conduciendo y se jubilará.

Mi nuevo dormitorio está totalmente vacío, a excepción de la cama. Le daré una mano de pintura a las maderas: los zócalos, las ventanas y la puerta. Quizá utilice el mismo color que en el suelo, pero todavía no me he decidido. Estoy pensando en el azul grisáceo, el color del lago IJssel un día de verano amenazado por los grises cúmulos a lo lejos.

Pasaron dos jóvenes en canoa por aquí, debe de haber sido finales de julio o principios de agosto. No suele darse, pues las rutas de canoa oficiales no pasan por mi granja. Por aquí sólo vienen los canoeros que quieren ir más lejos. Llevaban los torsos desnudos, hacía calor y los músculos de brazos y hombros resplandecían a la luz del sol. Yo me encontraba en un lateral de la parte delantera de la casa, sin ser visto, y observaba cómo intentaban abordarse entre sí, con las palas chapoteando entre los nenúfares amarillos que sobrenadaban en el agua. La canoa que iba por delante se quedó atravesada en el canal y clavó la punta en la orilla. El muchacho miró hacia donde yo estaba. «Mira», le dijo al otro, un chaval bermejo con pecas y hombros enrojecidos por el sol, «esta granja es atemporal, está aquí ahora, junto a este caminito, pero igual podría haber estado en 1967 o 1930».

El muchacho bermejo se quedó mirando con atención la granja, los árboles y el terreno donde estaban entonces los burros. Agucé el oído. «Sí —dijo al cabo de un buen rato—, esos burros sí que son anticuados».

El muchacho de la canoa más adelantada se apartó de la orilla y volvió a virar la proa en dirección a la corriente. Le dijo algo al otro chico; algo que no pude llegar a oír, porque un archibebe empezó a armar jaleo. Un archibebe tardío, pues a finales de julio ya han desaparecido casi siempre todos. El muchacho bermejo le siguió despacio, sin apartar la mirada de mis dos burros. Yo no tenía ninguna escapatoria, no había nada en el desangelado lateral de la parte delantera de la casa con lo que pudiera ocuparme. Me quedé allí inmóvil y contuve la respiración.

Él me vio. Creí que iría a decirle algo al otro muchacho, se le separaron los labios y giró la cabeza. Pero no dijo nada. Me miró y no llamó la atención de su amigo sobre mí. Un poco más tarde torcieron por el canal de Opperwoud y el nenúfar amarillo disperso volvió a juntarse flotando. Al cabo de un par de minutos ya no conseguí oír sus voces. Me di la vuelta e intenté observar con sus ojos el lugar donde yo estaba. «1967», dije en voz baja, meneando la cabeza. ¿Por qué precisamente ese año? Uno de los chicos lo había mencionado; el otro, el de las pecas y los hombros, lo había visto. Ese día hacía mucho calor, en pleno mediodía, y ya era casi la hora de ir por las vacas. Sentí de repente que me pesaban las piernas y ese momento devino irreal y vacío.

3

Es una tarea infernal tener que arrastrar escaleras arriba un reloj de pie. Utilizo tablas largas y lisas, alfombras y trozos de gomaespuma. Todo tintinea y retumba dentro del armazón. El tictac del reloj me ponía frenético, pero me resultaba difícil pararlo todas las noches. En mitad de la escalera tengo que descansar durante unos minutos. Quizá él también se ponga frenético al oírlo arriba, aunque siempre tendrá su cuadro de las ovejas para tranquilizarse, naturalmente.

—¿El reloj? —pregunta cuando entro en el dormitorio.

—Sí, el reloj. —Lo coloco justo detrás de la puerta, subo las pesas y le doy un empujón al péndulo. El dormitorio se llena de inmediato con tiempo, que se escapa despacio en su tictac. Cuando la puerta esté cerrada, padre podrá ver la hora que es.

Después de echarle un vistazo a la esfera, dice:

—Tengo hambre.

—Yo también tengo hambre de vez en cuando —le respondo. El reloj sigue sonando tranquilamente.

—Las cortinas están corridas —dice él entonces.

Me dirijo a la ventana y descorro las cortinas. Ya ha dejado de llover y el viento ha empezado a amainar. El agua de la acequia está alta y rebosa de la presa.

—Tengo que ir al molino —me digo a mí mismo y al cristal. Tal vez se lo diga también a padre.

—¿Qué?

—Nada. —Dejo entornada la ventana, enganchada en la aldabilla, y pienso en la zona que ha quedado vacía en el cuarto de estar.

En la cocina unto un par de rodajas de pan y las cubro con queso. Me zampo el pan, casi no puedo esperar. Mientras el café está saliendo por el aparato, yo ya estoy en el cuarto de estar. Estoy solo, así que tendré que hacerlo solo. Deslizo el sofá sobre una de las alfombras que he utilizado para el reloj y lo arrastro por el pasillo hasta la recocina. Saco afuera las dos poltronas, por la puerta principal, y las dejo al borde del camino. El resto de los trastos los llevo también a la recocina. El aparador tengo que vaciarlo primero por completo antes de poder moverlo. Entonces, por fin, puedo introducir los dedos por debajo del linóleo. Éste era más caro; no se me desmigaja nada entre las manos. Mientras lo enrollo, pienso en la posibilidad de conservar un pedazo, ¿podría emplearlo para algo? No se me ocurre nada. El rollo pesa demasiado para levantarlo, así que lo arrastro por el sendero de guijarros y el puente hasta la carretera. Cuando regreso, veo el teléfono en el pasillo. Llamo al Ayuntamiento para decirles que tengo trastos viejos. El café está humeando en la placa.

De camino al molino veo lo que ya había visto los días anteriores, y que me preocupa. Una bandada de pájaros que no vuela de norte a sur, sino que va dispersándose en todas las direcciones del viento, girando una y otra vez. Sólo se oye el batir de sus alas. El grueso de la bandada lo conforman pájaros ostreros, grajos y gaviotas. Eso es lo extraño, porque nunca antes había visto volar estas tres especies de aves juntas. Transmite algo aciago. ¿O ya lo había visto en alguna otra ocasión sin que me produjera esa sensación de inquietud? Si me fijo mejor, veo que son cuatro especies, pues entre las grandes gaviotas argénteas vuelan también gaviotas reidoras, que son un poco más pequeñas. Surcan los cielos mezcladas, sin constituir unidades específicas; es como si estuvieran confundidas.

El molino es un molino Bosman de hierro. «Bosman Piershil», puede leerse en un lado de la férrea barra de la cola. «Nº 40832» y «Ned Oct»[1] aparecen al otro lado. Octubre, creía yo antes; patente, sé ahora. El desaguador busca el viento por sí solo cuando la cola se halla perpendicular a las aspas y sigue girando y moliendo hasta que pliegas la cola a lo largo de un poste guía, de manera que queda paralelo a las aspas. Ahora precisamente despliego la cola con la ayuda de una barra que cuelga de la misma. Es un molino esbelto y fabuloso, que tiene algo de estadounidense. Justo por ello, y porque en la acequia se ha construido una cimentación de hormigón, y porque nos gustaba tanto el olor a grasa, antes Henk y yo solíamos venir aquí a menudo, en verano. Era muy distinto entonces. Cada año llegaba un hombre de Bosman a revisar el molino, e incluso ahora sigue girando perfectamente, aunque ya lleve años sin venir ningún hombre de Bosman. Me quedo un rato mirando el agua que se abomba en el canal.

Regreso dando un rodeo y cuento las ovejas. Siguen estando todas allí, las veintitrés más el carnero. Los traseros de las ovejas están rojos, dentro de poco tendré que llevarme el carnero. Primero me rehúyen y, cuando llego cerca de la valla de la presa, empiezan a seguirme. Me detengo junto a la valla. A unos diez metros de distancia hacen un alto ellas también. Están en fila y todas me miran; en el centro, el carnero con su cabeza cuadrada. Me produce una sensación desagradable.

En la finca veo el linóleo empapado por la lluvia y decido llevármelo también a la carretera.

Poco antes de ponerme a ordeñar, rastrillo la grava del jardín delantero. Ya está oscureciendo. Los dos chicos de al lado, Teun y Ronald, están debajo del linóleo —el linóleo caro— que han desenrollado un poco y han colocado sobre dos sillas. Hace unos días se presentaron ante la puerta de casa a eso de las siete de la tarde. Mantenían en alto sus remolachas azucareras rojas ahuecadas y cantaron desafinando una cancioncilla. Los rostros acalorados se iban haciendo más rojos por la tenue luz procedente de las remolachas. Los recompensé con un Mars. Ahora los dos llevan una linterna.

—¡Hola, Helmer! —gritaron a través de un agujero que habían hecho en el linóleo, ¿tal vez con un cuchillo?—. ¡Ésta es nuestra casa!

—¡Una casa fabulosa! —grité yo también, apoyado en el rastrillo.

—¡Y también tenemos luz!

—Ya lo veo.

—¡Y también ha habido aquí una inundación!

—El nivel del agua ya está descendiendo —los tranquilicé.

—Vamos a dormir aquí.

—No lo creo —les digo.

—Yo sí lo creo —dice Ronald, el más pequeño.

—Va a ser que no.

—Vámonos ya a casa —oigo que Teun le dice a su hermanito en voz baja—. Aquí no tenemos nada para comer.

Miro arriba, hacia la ventana del dormitorio de padre. Está oscuro.

4

—Quiero celebrar San Nicolás —me dice.

—¿San Nicolás? —Desde la muerte de madre en esta casa ya no se volvió a celebrar ningún San Nicolás—. ¿Por qué?

—Es divertido.

—¿Y cómo te imaginas la celebración?

—Bueno —dice—, pues normal.

—¿Normal? Si quieres celebrar San Nicolás, tendrás que comprar regalos.

—Sí.

—Sí. ¿Cómo piensas comprar los regalos?

—Tendrás que ser tú quien vaya a comprarlos.

—¿También para mí?

—Sí.

—Entonces ya no será una sorpresa. —No quiero perder tanto tiempo hablando con él. Quiero echar un vistazo y luego largarme rápido. El tictac del reloj de pie llena la habitación. Una mancha en forma de ventana de luz solar ilumina el vidrio del armazón y la luz se refleja en el cuadro de las ovejas que ahora tiene un aspecto algo menos tétrico. Es un cuadro extraño. Unas veces parece que es invierno, otras parece verano u otoño.

Cuando quiero cerrar la puerta, grita:

—¡Tengo sed!

—Yo también tengo sed de vez en cuando. —Cierro la puerta de golpe a mis espaldas y desciendo por la escalera.

Lo único que regresa al cuarto de estar es el sofá. En la balda inferior del armario empotrado de mi dormitorio he encontrado un retal grande de tela. Tal vez sea el retal con el que madre quería hacerse un vestido, aunque para un vestido me parece un poco demasiado desmesurado. Queda muy bien sobre el sofá. El color de base del suelo es gris; cuando la puerta que da al dormitorio está abierta, el color continúa inconsútil por encima del dintel, que está pintado de la misma manera. También todos los zócalos, las jambas de las ventanas y las puertas tienen el mismo color de base. El aparador se encuentra en otro lugar y la librería baja está arriba. He tirado al estercolero todas las plantas que dan flor. No han quedado muchas. Cuando vaya a comprar pintura, tengo que mirar también si encuentro persianas de luxaflex o gradalux, porque las pesadas cortinas verde oscuro del dormitorio y del cuarto de estar me producen sensación de sofoco y tengo la ligera impresión de que no se debe sólo a los años que llevan sin sacudirse. He trasladado arriba el resto del contenido que había en el armario empotrado del dormitorio, y mi ropa la he colocado abajo.

Por aquí merodean los gatos. Gatos asustadizos que salen corriendo. A veces son dos o tres, un par de meses después se convierten en nueve o diez. Algunos están cojos o les falta la cola, otros (en realidad la mayoría) tienen moquillo. No hay manera de preverlo, por tanto no te sorprende en absoluto ya sean diez o sean dos. Padre solucionaba el problema de los gatos metiendo un nido en un saco de yute, le introducía después una piedra y tiraba el saco a la acequia. Hace tiempo solía meter también en el saco un trapo viejo que empapaba con un fluido que había en el armario del veneno. No sé de qué líquido se trataba. ¿Cloroformo? Pero ¿de dónde sacaba él un frasco de cloroformo? ¿Hace treinta años podría comprarse sin más? El armarito gris plateado con la calavera y una cruz de huesos está colgado en el granero y ya lleva años sin contener veneno alguno; el veneno está pasado de moda. Ahora es el lugar donde guardo la pintura.

La primavera anterior le vi deambulando por el granero con platitos de leche. No le pregunté nada, sólo emití un profundo suspiro, con la suficiente profundidad para que pudiera oírlo. Al cabo de un par de días había conseguido que todos los gatos jóvenes se reunieran al mismo tiempo junto al platito de leche. Los cogió y los metió en un saco. Esta vez no era un saco de yute, pues ya no tenemos ese tipo de sacos; se trataba de uno de esos sacos ecológicos de papel que había contenido comida. Lo ató al parachoques trasero del Opel Kadett con una cuerda de aproximadamente un metro de largo.

Hace siete años tuvo que hacer una prueba para renovarse el permiso de conducir. Su precariedad le impidió pasar la prueba. Desde entonces ya no puede conducir. Sin embargo, ese día se subió al coche. Los árboles que jalonan la finca se mostraban como una niebla verde y alrededor de los troncos florecían los narcisos. Yo estaba junto a las puertas del granero y me quedé mirando. Arrancó el coche y, de inmediato, salió disparado un breve trecho hacia delante, viéndose impulsado contra el asiento para, a continuación, golpearse la frente contra el volante. Después condujo marcha atrás, sin mirar por encima del hombro ni por el espejo retrovisor. Siguió así durante un tiempo: hacia delante, cambio de marcha —la caja de cambios rechinaba— y marcha atrás, girando entre tanto muy ligeramente el volante. Arriba y abajo y a un lado y a otro, hasta que una nube de gases procedentes del tubo de escape empezó a surgir entre los árboles. Volvió a salir del coche, desató con mucha calma el saco de papel y quiso tirarlo al estercolero, aunque para conseguirlo hubo de recogerlo antes hasta tres veces del suelo, pues sus brazos ya no tenían la fuerza para ejecutar un poderoso movimiento oscilatorio. «Un lugar para cada cosa y cada cosa en su lugar», dijo cuando entró en el granero. Se secó el sudor de la frente y se palmeó las manos en el típico ademán de misión cumplida, produciendo un sonido rasposo.

Pasó algo de tiempo antes de que me moviera de donde estaba. Me encaminé despacio al estercolero. El saco no se encontraba arriba del todo. Se había hundido un poco, pero no sólo debido a la fuerza de la gravedad, sino al movimiento que había dentro. Se percibía un gimoteo muy quedo y unos arañazos apenas audibles. Padre había hecho algo mal y me dejaba a mí que lo solucionara. No me daba la gana. Me di la vuelta y me alejé del estercolero hasta que ya no oí nada más; y me quedé allí hasta que ya no hubo más ruidos o movimientos.

Y ahora quiere celebrar San Nicolás porque es «divertido».

5

No tengo ni idea de lo que está pasando, pero ahora me mira fijamente una corneja cenicienta que hay posada sobre una rama sin hojas del fresno. Nunca había visto aquí una corneja cenicienta. Es fabulosa, y me pone bastante nervioso; apenas puedo tragar saliva. Voy a sentarme en otro sitio para mirar por la ventana lateral. Hay cuatro sillas alrededor de la mesa, así que puedo sentarme donde quiera, pues las otras tres no se utilizan.

Siempre me siento en el lugar donde se sentaba madre, en la silla más cercana a la encimera. Padre se sentaba frente a ella, dándole la espalda a la ventana principal. Henk le daba la espalda a la ventana lateral y, si las puertas estaban abiertas, podía mirar dentro de la casa. Yo estaba sentado dándole la espalda a la puerta de la cocina y, a menudo, lo único que veía era la silueta de Henk difuminada por la luz que entraba a través de la ventana que había a sus espaldas. No importaba, frente a mí se encontraba sentada mi réplica y conocía muy bien su aspecto. Así que he vuelto a tomar asiento en mi antiguo lugar, pero no me agrada. Me levanto, desplazo el plato al otro lado de la mesa con un pequeño empujón y me siento en la silla de Henk. Ahora vuelvo a ser visible para la corneja cenicienta, que gira algo la cabeza para poder verme mejor. Su mirada me recuerda a la de las ovejas, cuyos cuarenta y ocho ojos se clavaron en mí hace un par de días. Entonces tuve la sensación de que las ovejas eran mis iguales, que ya no eran animales quienes me miraban. Ni siquiera con mis dos burros he experimentado nunca esa sensación. Y ahora, esa extraña corneja cenicienta.

Corro la silla hacia atrás, voy por el pasillo hasta la puerta de entrada y salgo al sendero de guijarros. «¡Chsss!», emito. La corneja mantiene la cabeza un poco inclinada y mueve una pata. «¡Largo!», grito, y sólo entonces miro sorprendido a mi alrededor. Granjero raro y de cierta edad grita a algo invisible ante la puerta abierta de su casa.

La corneja cenicienta me mira con desdén. Cierro la puerta de golpe. Cuando el silencio vuelve a reinar en el pasillo, oigo que padre dice algo, arriba. Abro la puerta de la escalera.

—¿Qué dices? —le grito.

—¡Una corneja cenicienta! —grita él.

—Sí, ¿y qué? —vuelvo a gritarle yo.

—¿Por qué la ahuyentas? —Sordo, en cualquier caso, sí que no está.

Cierro la puerta de la escalera y vuelvo a sentarme

Comentarios para Todo está tranquilo arriba

[emhromp2 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

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 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

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 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

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 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

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 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

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 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

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 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

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 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

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 · Calificación: 2 de 5 estrellas]

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.

[csmartinsp · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

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.

[jveezer · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

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.

[kidzdoc_1 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

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 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

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 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

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 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

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 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

“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 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

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 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

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 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

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 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

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

[fglass_5 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

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

[blacksheepdances · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

“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 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

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.

[womansheart_1 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

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.