He’d taken on the tint of unvarnished garden furniture. ‘It’s my blood,’ he complained. ‘It’s not good.’ He was wearing three sweaters and a ski jacket and had a wool cap pulled down far over his ears. All you could see was his moustache and a pair of rheumy eyes. He wasn’t the only one who’d been feeling poorly. Christof’s grandmother had died, even though she must have expected to see the daffodils come up one last time. But March arrived too late for her, and she remained behind in February. February is a real bastard. The day they put old Louise Maandag in the ground the heating in the church was turned up high; the east wind cut through your clothes like a scythe. The people actually kept their coats on inside to save up a little heat for the procession to the grave. The church was filled to the rafters. A dead Maandag always receives a lot of attention, because so many people are dependent on them in one way or another. Nieuwenhuis gave it everything he had, he sprinkled his water and swayed his incense with the holiest of holies he had in him.
