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waist, in the chair by the window. His dirty pyjamas are in a pile next to one of the chair legs. I make the bed with clean sheets from the cupboard. Then I lay him on the bed and dress him in clean pyjamas. My wet clothes make it awkward and it's cold in the bedroom. I put the two pillows against the headboard and pull the blankets up over him.
     
'I wish I was dead,' he says softly.
     
'Now you're nice and clean?' I ask.
     
'It's that crow,' he says, pointing with a trembling finger.
     
'What about it?'
     
'It's waiting for me.'
     
'No, it's not.'
     
'Yes, it is.'
     
'Whatever,' I say.
     
Father wouldn't hear a word about central heating. Mother disagreed, but her vote didn't count. There are two oil heaters: one in the kitchen and one in the living room. Now he can feel the consequences, upstairs. In the old days, when there was a frost outside, he'd leave the heater on low at night with their bedroom door ajar. When Henk and I woke up we couldn't see outside, so exuberantly had the ice flowers blossomed on the window.
     
Our hot water comes from a boiler. I haven't wasted all that much on Father, so there's nothing stopping me. I can't remember the last time I showered in the middle of the day. Now I smell like menthol myself. I feel young and strong, but when I take hold of my penis, I feel strangely useless and empty. I can't help comparing it to Father's. Mine is larger and that conclusion alone is enough to make it grow. Just when I'm wondering what that signifies, the doorbell rings. I feel my balls shrink in my hand. Almost no one rings the bell here, at first I don't even realise what it is. I turn off the taps and await developments. I can feel an artery throbbing in my throat, the water dripping on the tiled floor sounds like thunder. All quiet. I dry myself slowly and pull on a pair of underpants. My clothes are in the bedroom. I open the bathroom door and don't see anyone standing in front of the rectangular frosted pane in the front door. Before going into the living room, I peer around the doorpost to see whether there is anyone at the window. No one. I walk to the bedroom where the blinds are closed. Pulling on dry clothes, I again notice the frayed edges of the blankets. Once I'm dressed, I walk to the hall and open the front door. The road is empty. The hooded crow stares at me.
     
According to the handbook it makes a loud 'krraa, krraa', but I haven't heard it do that once.
     
All afternoon I hear the sound of the bell, echoing through the empty hall. I go to count the sheep and, although there are only twenty-three of them, I have to start again three times. A few days ago I separated the ram from the ewes and returned it to the farmer who lends me one every year. I've hung up the ram harness in the barn. It's only in the afternoon, when it's already dark and I've started milking the cows, that I think of the motionless figure I recently saw in front of the farm.
     

10
The other tanker driver, the young smiling one, is in the milking parlour.
     
'Ah, Helmer,' he says when I come in. I generally stay away from the milking parlour when the old, gruff one is there. He's leaning with one hand on the edge of the storage tank and keeps looking from the inside of the tank to the hose at his feet. I'd like to greet him by name but whenever I see him I forget what he's called, and end up nodding hello.
     
'Arie's dead,' he says. Even news like this doesn't dim his smile.
     
'Dead? How?'
     
'Heart attack.'
     
'When?'
     
'Day before yesterday. At home.'
     
'Just the other day it occurred to me that he'd be retiring in a few years.'
     
'Yeah, he wanted to stop at sixty.'
     
'How old was he?'
     
'Fifty-eight.'
     
'Fifty-eight.'
     
'Way too young.' The tank is empty. He unscrews the hose and the last bit of milk runs down the drain. Then he winds the hose around the reel on the back of the tanker. 'Way too young,' he repeats. He comes back to stand in front of me with his legs apart and his