Karolien Berkvens
Garden
Zimmerman awakes realizing two things: yesterday night he forgot to set the alarm clock and there is something he overlooked. Something terrible.
It’s because of the policemen; in the hospital they assured him that they would take care of it, that nine out of ten times muggers aren’t interested in house keys and that he shouldn’t worry about his stolen wallet. And indeed, he hasn’t bothered about the lost key and cards.
Daniel left his key behind. Zimmerman’s bankcard is blocked, the insurance company will send him a new card and he never visits the library or Roggeveen Highschool anymore. But his driver’s license… His license — he still has one of those nice paper ones — is in his wallet, and his address is on it.
The dark eyed boy knows where Zimmerman lives and if he still has the key, he can enter the house unnoticed.
Why didn’t he realize this until now?
He gets out of bed, ignoring the stinging pain radiating from the wound on the back of his head. He walks over to the computer: not a moment to lose.
‘Hurry up,’ Zimmerman demands, pressing his finger on the power switch. The machine is always beeping and wheezing, as if it’s forced to do something unachievable.
‘Locksmith’ renders almost 400.000 search results. Zimmerman has never heard of the company names, he’s unfamiliar with the locksmith’s circuit.
He clicks on an ad guaranteeing 24-hour service. The sooner this mistake has been corrected, the sooner he can start working in the garden, solving the jigsaw puzzle, taking his strolls, living the rest of his life.
It’s incredible he has let a whole night pass. Yesterday night he was standing in the kitchen, near the backdoor and even then he was not thinking about his wallet, or his address, or his key. He was thinking about the garden.
Zimmerman lowers himself into his leather office chair. He’s a professional. He turns chaos into order using eight blocks of fifty minutes. Time is his religion.
Today, block one will be spent finding a locksmith and making an appointment. Zimmerman punches in the phone number. The boy could already be on his way to his house.
A cheerful woman’s voice answers: ‘A very good morning to you, this is The Lock Specialist. How can I help you?’
The phone lady’s voice and Zimmerman’s image of a locksmith do not match up, and he considers hanging up again. He looks at his computer screen, and suddenly doesn’t find The Lock Specialist such a trustworthy name anymore. But there’s no time to hesitate, and so he answers: ‘This is Zimmerman, I need a new lock.’
‘Well, you’ve called the right place, sir,’ the phone lady answers. ‘Is this because of burglary damages, have you locked yourself out or is it a preventive matter?’
See? Reserving an entire block for this chore was not so crazy at all.
‘I’d like a new lock,’ he says. ‘And it’s urgent.’
‘Could I please have your zip code and house number?’
Zimmerman tells her.
‘What kind of lock did you have in mind, sir?’ the phone lady asks spryly.
A cozy lock, what are you expecting, Zimmerman thinks. ‘A sturdy lock,’ he says.
‘We mainly work with mortise locks, rim locks and cylinder locks.’
‘Right.’
‘We have also developed a star ranking system to indicate burglary safety. Our locks rank from one to four stars,’ the lady tells him.
‘You know, ma’am, you’re the specialist and I would like a lasting, new lock and nothing else.’
The phone lady laughs. ‘I get it. I will send one of our best mechanics and you can work it out between the two of you.’
‘What time can somebody be here?’
‘One moment please, sir.’
Zimmerman hears music playing. A man’s voice shouting something about love and stars and truth and sorrow.
‘Thank you for your patience, sir. Our mechanic can be with you in about fifty to ninety minutes. Is that convenient for you?’
He was hoping for fifteen minutes.
‘Thank you for choosing The Lock Specialist, we’re simply the best in sturdy locks,’ the phone lady says, without awaiting his confirmation.
‘Glad to hear it,’ Zimmerman says.
‘Any questions?’
‘What’s your name?’
The phone lady is silent for a moment. ‘My name’s Debby,’ she says.
Zimmerman grabs a pen and jolts down her name on a notepad. Should his new lock be picked after all for any reason, he’ll know who to blame.
Two blocks later Zimmerman has a new lock and peace settles over him. He may be an old man, but he’s not stupid. They won’t get him again.
Placated, he has been watching a discrete young man expertly replacing the lock. The man didn’t mind Zimmerman standing next to him and never looked at his nose. Contrary to what they told him at the hospital, it looks more hideous than it did yesterday.
Such a man is allowed to call himself a specialist.
He slides his new key into his new lock. Open and closed. He’s the only person who has the right to do this. It’s his front door, his lock.
Relieved of the pressing matter with the lock, Zimmerman starts working on his next chore. He has already put the garden shears on the kitchen table. After block five, it will all be over and done.
Completely against habit, he starts shearing a random bush.
Lucy had often walked through their little garden as if it were part of a palace and she the royal gardener.
‘We could make a little pond here,’ she told him once, dreamily, pointing at the corner next to the backdoor.
‘A pond?’ he asked, alarmed. ‘Where? We don’t have any space for that, and besides, it will attract all kinds of vermin.’
‘I’m talking about a pond, Loet, not a swimming pool.’
He had shaken his head, but Lucy didn’t listen to his objections. She dropped to her knees and, using her tiny hands, resolutely started pulling weeds out of the ground.
He crouched beside her to help. For about two hours, they had silently worked together side by side. Sometimes she would give him directions or ask him to hold open the garbage bag for her, so she could throw in the pile of weeds, leaves and sticks.
At the end of the afternoon a satisfied smile appeared on her face. She looked girly, with her stray hairs and red cheeks. She pulled off her working boots and walked inside.
‘It’s only half past four,’ Zimmerman called out surprised, when she came walking out holding two glasses of white wine.
She shrugged. ‘I think we earned it,’ Lucy said and handed him a glass.
Zimmerman took a sip and put the wine away. ‘I think it’s very early,’ he said.
Lucy sat down her glass beside his and put her arms around him. She smelled of grass. Her index finger traced the frown on his brow and she kissed him. He relaxed, wrapping his arms around her waist.
‘I guess it’s too early for dancing as well?’ she asked, moving her hips.
‘Way too early for dancing,’ Zimmerman said.
He had been reminded of the dancing lessons his parents had made him take when he was fifteen years old. Because his dancing partner, his dad’s boss’s daughter, had sprained her ankle after the second lesson, Zimmerman had been forced to practice with the teacher. She had been unable to remember his name and always called him Klaas.
‘Come on, Loet,’ Lucy insisted. ‘It’s been ages since we danced.’
‘We’re in the garden.’
‘So what?’
‘There’s no music out here.’
‘You can pretend.’
Lucy started humming and slid her hand into Zimmerman’s. Her other hand she put on his shoulder.
His dancing teacher would have thought it terrible, him being led by a woman.
They were reeling through the garden, Lucy cleverly avoiding the garbage bag and the rake and him trying to surrender to her rhythm. She was pressing her body against his, sometimes closing her eyes.
‘What do you think, shall we drink that wine?’ he asked after Lucy had stopped humming for a while and they were almost standing still.
‘Just a little spin,’ she said.
‘I think that’s more Daniel’s thing,’ Zimmerman said, but this time his reluctance was only an act.
They took each other’s hands and both hung backwards. They started spinning, taking short, quick steps.
‘Faster!’ Lucy yelled. She screamed and squeezed his hands tight.
Wantonly they circled through the garden, until they were dizzy and Zimmerman grabbed his wife.
He has ripped two whole bushes from the ground without noticing. He is surrounded by sticks and leaves.
His face is wet. He’s panting.
There’s nothing left of the garden.
Translation: Arjaan and Thijs van Nimwegen
Karolien Berkvens (1986) studied Theatre at the University of Amsterdam and is the author of several plays. She lives and works in Berlin. Zimmerman’s hour is her debute novel.
