On My Way to the RIJKS Museum
Neeman A Sobhan
We
really must do something…you know… culturally...” “What, culturally
commendable, uplifting, meaningful?” I help Taimoor, my younger
son, along his drift as I lift my head from the laundry basket
where I am playing matchmaker to a dozen bachelor socks, belonging
both to my culturally minded 18-year-old and his elder brother
Nader whose flat in Amsterdam we are currently enjoying, and
which, I am intermittently and surreptitiously re-organising
while he is at work.
“Yeah!
Enough of this lazing around.” Lazing around? Moi? I have been
up and out since daybreak, have made friends with the Pakistani
dry cleaner up the street with whom I have left a year's supply
of my elder son's mouldy clothes and linens, done a brisk walk
around the neighbourhood, bought eggs at the El Noer Arab grocer
around the corner and some Dutch bread at the bakers. “Yup!
Enough of this lazing about. Let's do something, cultural, even
touristy.”
Taimoor
proclaims, decisively taking off his ear plugs, putting down
his book, and swinging his legs off his brother's leather sofa
revealing the scotch tape I have been looking for with which
I am going to put curry spice labels on Nader's brand new spice
jars to hang on the brand new spice rack which I bought at the
local Ikea yesterday. I know that the neatly marked 'Coriander
(Dhoniya)' or 'Cardamom (elaichi)' jars will remain untouched
till my next visit, but at least the Bengali aspect of my job
as visiting mom will be done.
“We
could visit Anne Frank's house.” I mutter from the depths of
the floor level kitchen cupboard where I am making friends with
the landlady's leftover cleaning products which only speak Dutch,
I mean, what the Helsinki does vies mean, or schoon or zich
voorstellen in relation to detergents, ummm…actually in relation
to anything? I see no family resemblance to English in these
toothsome Dutch duds, which normally make me squeal in comprehension
when faced with stuff like de werkgever. Ah! That one I had
deciphered immediately. Don't you see? Werkgever: Work-giver:
Employer. Cool! In fact, I was so lulled by the pidgin simplicity
of Wat is uw naam and Dank u, I thought this language was just
a baby talk variant of English, no different from the special
'mother tongue' I had indulged in not that long ago with my
zoon (son).
“Anne
Frank Huis? Maybe. Or, perhaps the Van Gogh Museum?” Taimoor
counters.
“Or
Rembrandt-huis?” You don't have to be the Flying Dutchman to
guess that mother's partiality veers towards famous people's
habitats rather than to art galleries and museums.
“Or
the Rijk's Museum?”
“Or a canal tour?”
“Or hey, how about a tour of the Heineken brewery?”
“Rijks Museum it is.” Thus spake the Mater hastily, as she puts
aside the hefty consonants of a Nederlander Mr. Muscles back
into the cupboard.
An
hour later mother and son are ready to leave the apartment,
arm in arm and at their chummiest. Then, as soon as the door
bangs shut behind us, we turn to face each other, and our smiles
vanish while sweat breaks out. Well, it is hot in the stairwell,
but additionally, we have left the keys hanging inside the door:
we are locked out. As soon as the initial tidal wave of panic
subsides, the shouting match starts. “I thought you had the
keys.” “But you always lock up.” “Yes, but just a moment ago
I specifically asked you to do it.” “You were not clear.” “Well,
if you would…” Back and forth. Suddenly, a young lady clatters
down from upstairs and appears from the gloom, angel-like, asking
if she can be of help.
Marta
introduces herself as Nader's co-landlady. She is Dutch, speaks
excellent English and has already assessed our situation from
overhearing our exchange. But she cannot guess the full tragedy
of my situation: not only are we homeless, worse, I may never
live this incident down with my elder son. I can hear Nader's
teasing: Offo! Mummy! Can't take you anywhere!
No,
definitely, he must not know and we must gain access to the
flat by hook or by crook or both most likely. Marta promises
to help, and gets all her hooks ready: ladders, rods, coat hangers
and pliers, while Taimoor climbs crook-like onto the first floor
balcony. It's a narrow affair with a French door opening on
to it, but now locked from inside and closed tighter than the
Vestal Virgins, if you will excuse my Surinamese. The balcony
is flanked on both sides by two large windows whose panes, thank
God, have been left open at an angle sufficient to permit air,
though not enough to get a locked-out visiting relative's arm
to snake in and grope for the handle of the French door.
Still,
Marta and I stand below the balcony and direct Taimoor as he
stands with one leg on the wrought iron railing, his arm stuck
inside the window, blindly hitting at the door handle which
he can't see, with a rod. Meanwhile passers-by of various race
and nationality stop and in various languages express their
curiosity and sympathy. I have found a stick on the pavement
with which to point and guide my gatecrasher. The cell phone
rings just as Taimoor gets the handle up a notch and a cheer
goes up among the lookers-on. It's Nader calling to find out
what we are up to. “Oh!” I freeze for a second. “Oh! Just this
and that, nothing much.” The handle moves another fraction of
a millimetre. Cheers. “What is that noise? Where are you two?
What about your plan for Rijks?” “Its good, its good.” I say
distractedly while mentally saying 'Bit more to the left, and
down', my eyes following every tension in Taimoor's arm. “What's
with you, Mummy, are you guys going or not?” “We are...actually
on the way.” Well, technically it is true, I silence the god
of small lies. “Listen, as soon as we are finished with the
door… I mean the museum, we will meet you for lunch.” I quickly
switch the phone off. Lying is worse than standing in the sun;
I'm drenched in sweat.
“So
close and yet so far.” Taimoor shakes his head sadly after half
an hour of valiant effort. Suddenly a rotund, pink-faced Dutch
worker from across the street walks up and suggests taking off
the window hinges, permitting more room for the arm to manoeuvre.
He joins my son on the narrow balcony and starts to unscrew
the hinge. The cell rings again. It's my husband from Roma,
keeping tabs on his wife and younger son. This time I know my
lines better so I don't give the poor man a chance to suspect
foul play “What are we up to?” I attack: “What makes you think
we are up to something?” He chuckles and repartees. “Correction,
why aren't you up to something? You and Taimoor can't be left
to yourselves without getting into some mischief.” Oh! Another
time, another place, and I wouldn't let that pass. Right now
I'm close to tears. “For your information we are going to the
Rijks museum.” “Well, that's pretty staid for the two of you!”
I look at my precious son at a precarious angle helping a beefy
but kind stranger to break into his brother's flat, while his
errant mother stands below with skirt hitched around her knees,
maniacally waving a stick and shouting advice. I manage a sigh:
“Yeah! We are feeling a bit staid today.”
Soon,
Nales, the kindly Dutch worker, has our problem nailed as he
finally wedges the window that extra bit and, reaching for the
handle, untwists it to open sesame and applause! I hug Marta,
who has been with us throughout the operation and when I try
to repay Nales, he won't hear of it. I offer him a beer, but
the man, who could easily be a walking ad for Heinken, doesn't
touch the stuff. After everybody disperses, Taimoor and I leave
to meet Nader for lunch since it's too late for the Rijks. Once
we have ordered lunch, I break the news to him casually, gently,
like folding the whipped cream into a soufflé: “By the
way, this morning, it was quite amusing really, we had a slight
problem with the keys, which, of course we sorted out. Mmm…
this chicken is good.” Nader wades through my verbal soufflé
and explodes: “You two managed to get locked out! Offo Mummy!
Can't take you anywhere!”
Next
week: Going Dutch