June

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‘We’re almost in Slootdorp,’ the driver says. ‘That’s where the next mayor takes over.’

She looks out. Fields stretching away in broad bands on either side. Squat farmhouses with red-tiled roofs. Thank goodness it’s not raining. Her view to the right is partly blocked by C. E. B. Röell, who is reading papers presumably related to their next destination. She takes off her gloves, lays them on her lap and flicks open the ashtray. Röell starts to huff. Ignore it. They’re not even halfway yet, but it already feels like they’ve been on the road for most of the day. Once she’s lit her cigarette and is drawing on it deeply, she sees the driver’s eyes shining in the rear-view mirror. She knows that he would love to light up too, and if Röell weren’t in the car, he would.

After a fairly early start in Soestdijk, the morning had been dedicated to the former island of Wieringen, where they made the unforgivable misjudgement of starting her itinerary by presenting her with a table covered with shrimp. At half past ten in the morning. Although the inappropriateness had actually begun even earlier, when the mayor had his own daughters present the flowers while his wife pretended she couldn’t see the little children standing on the dyke around the harbour. After that, more schoolchildren and old-age pensioners — the inevitable schoolchildren and old-age pensioners. Still, it’s just a Tuesday, a normal working day. In the town hall, a special council meeting was held in her honour. Most of the mayor’s speech passed her by, thinking ahead as she was to this evening and the Piet Hein, and when she took a distracted sip of her coffee it tasted more or less like the mayor’s words. The woman who had been commissioned to make a bronze bust of her was there too.

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