Ringgg

My old-fashioned doorbell will hang a little, the annoying ringtone penetrates your bones and makes me have goosebumps. The sound suits my old house. I live in a cozy old-fashioned neighborhood where everyone knows each other and the children play safely and happily in each other's gardens. The children happily populate the alleys. These alleys are the roads from the residents.

I open the door and two boys from the neighborhood are standing on my doorstep. Of course I know them from seeing them, but at the moment I just cannot remember their names. One is about eight years old, a handsome boy, his companion is a little younger.

‘Does Ymke live here?’

‘Yes, she does.’

‘Does she play outside?’

‘No, Ymke is gone and when she comes home it's already too late.’

‘Does her friend live beside you?’

I realize that my daughter and the girl next door played with the two boys.  The question overwhelmed  me, so I've responded immediately without thinking first.

‘Yes, that's Ymke's girlfriend!’

I close the door and as I walk into the living room I don’t feel good about it. I decide to call my neighborlady.

‘Hey, it is me, a second ago there were two boys at the door to play with Ymke and they also asked for Rachel, so soon they will come to you too.’

‘Yes, this week they have been here to play with her.’

‘Oh, what did you do?’

‘I thought it was a bit strange, so I stayed with all of them.’

So my neighbor had, just like I did, no good feelings about it. A good idea that she stayed with them, during their playing together. What on earth two tough guys of six and eight are intending with two girls aged four? I'm not sure what to think about it, but I do not get it anyway. To feel even worse I have to admit that the boys are tinted. Their parents have a different hometown from mine, from a Mediterranean country, with Mediterranean views, Mediterranean values, not according to Polderland values. As if that is important, in my mind. I do not know if that matters, but it bothers me that these thoughts are catching me.

When it is dark I get my daughter from the school care. I have cleaned my house when Ymke was gone and I love the shiny black tables and polished wooden floor. In my limited living room it creates light and space. In the small kitchen adjacent to my lovely outdoorplace, I know that all the preparations are made for supper. As usual, I take plenty of time for her. She throws her crafts on the table as she clatters about what she did. I listen when we're together on the couch.

When she has told all her stories and has calmed down I can not but ask the pressing question.

‘Honey, do you ever play with such and such?’

She replies in the affirmative.

‘What do you do with them when you are playing?’

‘That's a secret.’

‘Tell me?’

‘No, it's secret.’

Unfortunately, strange thoughts occur to me. Do loverboys of eight years exist?

‘Honey, you can tell mom anything.’

‘No, I promised it.’

‘But we don’t have secrets for each other.’

She still refuses.

I decide in desperation to a bribe action. Not pedagogically correct.

‘Ymke, do you want an ice cream?’

She does.

‘Then I will exchange with your secret.’

‘Okay, Mommy.’

‘What do you do when you play with the boys?’

‘If they go fishing, I always have to dig out scary animals from their fishingnet.’

Relieved, I see in my mind how the family honor by the two boys being tainted. These young boys were brought up so that they have been bothered by the sense of honor. A sense of honor which forbids little girls to get dirty. A sense of honor which prohibits the weaker sex to show its strength…

©MG20110405NL