Appelstroop

In front of the rented terraced house where mould on the interior walls clearly matters less than speculating with collateral, the parking space beside the pavement is occupied. Call it customary law. There is also market force. Rinse takes a deep breath in through the nose and holds the inhaled air. Proper heating and ventilation.

SlaeThis must be it.

A sigh full of irritation.

RinseYes, this is it. Drive on.

Slae drives on and, on Rinse’s instructions, makes a loop. There again is the street without parking spaces beside the pavement. There is also a tree from which resin drips and bird droppings can damage the paint just as well. Slae’s grey XJ fits easily under the branches and the leaves that are guilty of nothing.

SlaeHere?

RinseSecond choice. Migration stream in miniature. Never from fertile to barren.

Pleasantly struck by ingenuity, Slae smiles faintly. In the rear-view mirror Slae casts a glance at Qnaapje, who cannot remain forever mute and dumb on the back seat.

SlaeAnd where may we ring the bell? Helping with the lifting is the least we can do.

Rinse tilts his head to the left.

RinseThere. Forget it. Accepting a parcel for the neighbours — that is about the extent of the contact.

Slae looks from behind the wheel in her grey XJ with the engine idling to the right. It is confronting.

SlaeAnd you accept everything?

No reaction. A touch of throttle. It turns the corner. In the middle of the street and next to the car that actually says something, the hazard lights come on neatly. Slae waits for what is to come. Rinse unzips his bag. Qnaapje receives the modest set of keys. The middle mechanical finger that Graediva has not bent serves as a hanger.

RinseI’ll be right back.

Out of the grey XJ and over the threshold, Qnaapje is home. It goes up the stairs. A transmitter, a charger and a flat box full of scale parts go down the stairs with him.

Qnaapje remains behind with more or less green electricity from the socket. A horn sounds. Behind Slae’s grey XJ Rinse sees a sporty car.

Rinse, who knows the make and the model, recognises the excitement. It is also logical and natural that the driver reacts so aggressively and with large gestures to something as small as flashing hazard lights. It is bumper to bumper, so the transmitter, the charger and the flat box full of scale parts end up on the back seat.

SlaeCosy neighbourhood.

Rinse closes the door full of irritation. Rinse walks back and forth. The front door is closed now as well. Rinse sits in front again. Slae patiently pulls her white skirt, which is long enough to cover at least half of the upper legs, tight.

SlaeYou’re not staying here?

RinseGo, please.

In the rear-view mirror Slae carefully checks the light-pink lipstick, runs a little finger along the corners of the mouth, models a lilac artificial hairpiece and only then selects the D of drive. The hazard lights go off. Rinse settles a kind of limp body into the passenger seat. The eyes close. Little to no night’s rest is, just like the light from a torch, to blame for the closing of the eyes. No instructions.

SlaeMission?

RinseJust… away.

With two full fuel tanks the grey XJ sets off well prepared over cobbles and asphalt. The wheels are larger than standard in diameter and width. The damping and suspension adapted to them are pleasantly soft.

The gearbox has more gears than were on the original menu. The automatic up- and downshifting proceeds as smoothly as it is shock-free. The oversized brake discs with corresponding callipers decelerate reassuringly.

Old elements have been incorporated into the renewed interior. Call it atmosphere. The wiring harness has been replaced as well.

Switches feel solid. The locks and hinges are in line with that. No fewer than twelve cylinders in a modern block deliver almost silently the exhaust of former times.

Nothing takes away worries or discontent better than a balanced and solid mechanism. Rinse absorbs it like a symphony. Call it restomod.

For a moment it is good like this. It lasts relatively long.

SlaeThe television tower, sir.

Slae’s voice in the here and now betrays that heavy eyelids have already lost the battle against sleep some time ago. Rinse knows the television tower. Here and beyond the television tower Rinse does not want to be. It evokes memories.

RinseCan it go away?

Rinse gives a turn instruction. Why? In reverse chronological order and the other way around the answer comes down to the same thing: stupefying forces.

Call Rinse, for a change, Jonkje. Not yet five and already unnoticed on the run, he looked out for the television tower and the present under the guest bed. In Friesland no monsters.

Friesland came closer. Pake and Beppe were greeted by name as always, cheerfully. Jonkje only later discovered how he had been mistaken in the naming.

There was more. Jonkje could not see the difference between the one brown loaf and the other brown loaf on the kitchen table. The one cheese and the other cheese next to the one butter and the other butter were, according to them, really different as well.

Salt-free. It belonged to Pake’s diet. Pake was a fantasist and could swear magnificently.

Beppe often whistled Pake back, but that does not bring this story any closer to the rinse apple syrup. An unmistakable link. In a converted barn between the small kitchen and a flower shop Jonkje was born here in Appelscha.

On the little plot behind the flower shop he played for as long as was given. Jonkje could also help well. The old owner of the shared country house could explain exactly how everything grew.

Fruits, peas and other greens. There was thorough digging and picking at the right moment. Never just spit something out.

The old owner of the shared country house often welcomed Jonkje. Shaking hands properly was difficult; not that Jonkje did not want to, but the fingers on the giving hand were so thick and crooked that even a youthful little hand could get no grip on them. With the old woman who belonged with the old man it did not go much better.

A laborious life. Wealth was hidden in frugality. Treats were saved for visitors.

The biscuit tasted musty and the tea was simply foul. Jonkje was especially to give the warmest regards to heit and mem again. It is done.

The chain is longer. Another set table. Candy sugar belonged with the coffee the way the little flag on the label of the bottle of cream with gilded cap did.

Sugar sat deliciously clearly in the sugar bread. It was asked what a diet is. On a still innocent glance the green leaves belonged with the stems the way the yellow and the red belonged with the two familiar apples.

Where else could Jonkje have thought that Rinse’s factory must stand somewhere along the Vaart. A voice told Jonkje that he should spread the apple syrup on thickly, because it would be healthy since there is iron in it. Chewing and swallowing, Jonkje wondered why everything in reality still has to be so different.

Because everything is the same, and the opposite is often true, there is a chance that one day one comes to insight. Something in Jonkje proved that something can be there without being able to see or touch it. Jonkje could not grasp it.

It made him quiet. Not yet five and already inverted questions about everything that occurs. An odd one out, with a kind of detachment as a result.

After heit’s studies came work and another move. No Appelscha. Slae knows the history behind the tin of rinse apple syrup only half.

Rinse’s eyes are bloodshot. Only just in Friesland, where it can also be warm, the grey XJ in the here and now, after indicating direction, pulls out at the first opportunity.

SlaeSorry.

Salt in a thin layer of moisture gets a wipe before it can start to stick. Rinse blames fatigue, the unexpected being woken, and his fresh wound.

RinseIt doesn’t matter.

SlaeI wanted to show you our project behind the little plot. There is time. What can I make you happy with, sir?

RinseThe factory. If it has to go somewhere, then it is the factory.

Slae accepts the mission and pulls her white skirt, which is long enough to cover at least half of the upper legs, quite tight. The full history behind the tin of rinse apple syrup may reveal itself, but knowing the falling silent after even the slightest pressing, that does not have to happen at once.

Rinse, who does know what Slae wants from him, starts talking before time can make the fallen silence uncomfortably long. On the way and on the way to the factory Rinse therefore tells more or less spontaneously about the feeding of my supercomputer.

RinseIt ate all available holy scriptures, annual reports and law books. There is clearly an insatiable hunger for a single supreme being, a monopoly and a dictatorship. It is in me, that simple thing. It sucks. The chewing into ones and zeros around Vincuit became a weapon. Added to that is that spat-out data on their own solve nothing, Slae.

SlaeIs that why you did nothing more?

Our mindfucking slayer and dissector as well runs ahead of the timeline by pointing to the doing nothing. Our passenger in a kind of social hunger strike has difficulty with that. Still it continues.

RinseIt wants to be seen. That was it.

There then is the falling silent. Rinse thinks about the water in the Vaart that still looks black because of the bottom. Rinse shares a secret that belongs to Jonkje.

RinseThere was nothing more phenomenal than a dead calm and a float in the ripple-free reflecting separation between above and below. I am still afraid of fish. I did not dare take them off the hook, but it was about the little line to the invisible.

Rinse sees the rippling and the going under again before him.

RinseBite. Sensation. Not knowing what is underneath. Wanting to know what is underneath. I pulled the line tight. It pulled back, Slae. A bent rod, and sliding over the grass… Sliding to the water’s edge, wanting to scream for help.

For a moment Rinse as Jonkje is again in resistance against fear.

RinseI can’t get the words out, I notice. In experience an enormous thrashing thing on the hook. Crossing the road in desperation with rod and all, and knocking on the kitchen window.

Rinse hears again the passer-by on the bicycle who shouted something about being an animal abuser. It goes deeper.

RinsePanic. I no longer know how long it lasted and who took the hook out of the mouth, but it was no longer thrashing. A bucket on the pebbles. An animal abuser, Slae. In experience an almost countless number of eyes and shouting cyclists along the Vaart. I did not dare the cold-blooded…

Rinse does not like to think back to it.

RinseA grave dug with the hands under the conifers, Slae. I had something to hide. For the first time in my life shame had really got a good hold of me.

Rinse thinks back to the empty grave.

RinseSomeone must have seen that the fish was buried under the conifers. A little hole. An empty grave after the stay, Slae. I mention your name regularly to strengthen the suggestion of a bond, Slae. I assume the session has already begun.

Struck by ingenuity, Slae smiles faintly.

SlaeYou are twisting things. At the top of the report comes the mention that you like to take over leading roles. That says something, sir. For the time being we are not yet past the doing nothing.

Rinse too can produce a faint smile.

RinseProjection. Lapdogs in branded clothing. Does that also say something? I mean that I overloaded the qubits with my thoughts, based on my experience. That is quite a limitation. Smash a lamp and there are a few shards. Break the light and there is an abundance of colours. Prism. So many angles of incidence and exits.

SlaeNo worries. After your departure our supercomputer was allowed to play with multiple thoughts. Jealous?

Rinse’s reaction reveals as little as possible.

RinseIt is fine like this. It wants to be seen. My conclusion was and is that manifestation knows no boundaries. The stupefying tries everything out. Unlimited cruelties, Slae. Accidents, tortures, diseases. Looking at how everything can break. A testing ground full of links that do not matter a damn. Eye to eye nothing remains of what we are. Bicycles may be stolen, start-ups mainly embezzle investments already made, and the internet may become infected. Thrashing, Slae. It is in everything. Shall I continue? It no longer matters to me whether I am useful or guilty. It just does.

Slae does not underestimate Rinse’s conclusion.

RinseA prison. In the future it goes ever harder towards total dependence, Slae. Never from machine to handwork. The stupefying forces behind progress make escape impossible. The small inseparable screens continuously prove that wanting to be seen is universal. I have started serving out my time. Put that mention at the bottom of the report.

SlaeWith or without your consent I will make total indifference of that. It is a beginning, sir.

Rinse reacts sourly.

RinseFine.

On the steering wheel in the grey XJ Slae’s right thumb moves over a spot where the leather has become smooth. The transverse grip above the automatic gearbox does not escape friction either. Wood inlay shines polished by nature. None of this asks any questions.