On Sunday someone would come to my house for the first time, so I spent a good part of my Liberation Day vacuuming, cleaning and banishing books with titles like Cannibalism and Human Sacrifice to the bedroom. The guinea pigs were teased, the houseplants were resuscitated and some quicklime was added to the darkest corners for good measure. After a few hours of cleaning up and censoring, my home was ready for Funda, but the best part was that I had time left, because I love waiting for visitors. I often find that even more enjoyable than the visit itself, as a calmness comes over me that I can normally only obtain by taking a pill.
I looked at my phone. My guest could be there any moment. I felt my shoulders loosen, enjoying the smell of cleaning product.
After ten minutes I texted him where he was.
“We agreed to meet next week, right?” he wrote back.
My house immediately changed from a serene waiting room into the old familiar sweatshop in which one deadline after another had to be met.
“I’d just go for a walk,” my best friend said after I shared my emotions with him over the phone. “Being on the road always calms you down.”
I stretched and let the hours drift by like pennies
“But being on the road is also a hassle,” I whined. “And I had prepared myself to have visitors today. Can’t you just come over tonight? Otherwise I would have cleaned for nothing!” After some nagging – plus the offer that I would pay for the babysitter – he finally relented.
“I can only do it for an hour, right,” he said. “I also have to prepare a presentation.”
I breathed with relief. Peace was back, because I was allowed to wait again.
I stretched and let the hours drift by like elm pennies. The light in the living room slowly changed color, one shade followed the other until a silence arose in which I seemed to dissolve.
And suddenly there was that memory of how, as a child, I always loved picking up speed on my bike until I could put my feet on the bar and the thing almost seemed to move on its own.
I heard the pedals rattling, nothing more was necessary, everything happened automatically. As I lay stretched out on my couch, I simultaneously zoomed across the asphalt.
I closed my eyes with satisfaction. For a moment there was the same carelessness as before. The sun was setting, and I rushed happily through the wings of time.
Ellen Deckwitz writes an exchange column here with Marcel van Roosmalen.
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