A woman’s abiding desire for touch underlies a deeper sense of disaffection in Maartje Wortel’s short story “A Hunger to Soothe,” our selection for this week’s Translation Tuesday. When Gradda’s pious husband dies in an accident, the touch-starved widow seeks comfort in another way: she offers free lodging to a young man who can provide daily physical contact. Instead of finding fulfillment, however, Gradda uncovers an enduring disappointment in God—and an enduring insecurity over her own desirability. In subtle yet direct prose laden with emotional uncertainty (a subtext carried over artfully thanks to Jozef van der Voort’s superb translation), Wortel’s story captures the heartache and loneliness that can fester over a lifetime of self-doubt and thwarted intimacy. We’re honoured to showcase “A Hunger to Soothe” in dialogue with our Fall 2020 Dutch Literature Feature (graciously curated by International Booker Prize-winning translator Michele Hutchison).
Gradda knew very well that she didn’t exactly look like someone you’d want to touch, which was why she liked to touch other people. She tried not to be too blatant about it: she shook hands, just like everyone else; she gave the usual three kisses on the cheek; and on public transport she would brush her leg against other passengers’ legs—all for ever so slightly longer than was normal, but not long enough for anyone to get any odd ideas about her. Yet now, at the age of sixty-seven, she longed for more.
Gradda had no illusions that she would find someone, but she had enough money now Joop was dead. She could pay for it with her inheritance. She placed an advert. And then Sebastiaan came along. But before him, there’d been Joop.
She’d spent thirty-five years married to a sternly devout man named Joop, and strictly speaking, she was still married to him. When they’d first got to know each other, she’d been so incredulous that anyone would want to be with her that she’d said, I don’t mind what you do with other girls as long as I don’t find out about it. I don’t have to be the only one, as long as you make me feel like I am.
Joop had felt offended. He’d told her there was nobody else and there never would be. And even though it was probably the truth, in all those years Gradda never felt for a moment like she was the love of his life. Maybe that was God’s fault. She was often struck by a jealousy she couldn’t explain. It wasn’t her, but some invisible force that kept Joop in his place. She’d tried to understand her husband, she’d gone to church with him, she’d prayed with him before dinner and celebrated every Christian holiday, and yet God had never found her. She thought, If He’s so great—greater than mankind—then surely He can seek me out too? Surely it doesn’t have to be so hard?
Joop felt everyone bore their own individual responsibility towards the Almighty. He said, You need to conduct yourself according to His truth, the written word; you need to be ready to give your whole life over to the search for Him; but in the end, it’s He who decides whom He will touch.
Gradda had barely reacted to Joop’s words, but they’d left her blackened on the inside. That was how it felt—as if something in her had burned to ashes. What did it mean if not even He wanted to touch her? What was wrong with her?
Gradda and Joop had been dutifully intimate from time to time and had three children together; three boys who’d grown up into angular men and sometimes came to visit. They’d say, Hello, Mum, and she’d answer, Hello, son, no matter which of the three of them happened to come through the door. Names were for outsiders. The boys always helped her with jobs in and around the house—fixing the roof, a broken heater, the tiles on the bathroom floor. They drank coffee with lumps of sugar too, but they never talked. They had their own lives, which is what every mother wants for her child until it actually comes to it, because then what’s left is your own life. And in Gradda’s life, nobody touched her.
In the end, Joop—under God’s watchful eye, as the priest put it—had died in a silly accident. He’d slipped on the stairs, on an ordinary weekday, and landed badly. Nothing to be done for it. And yet he’d looked so peaceful, as if he’d made the decision himself: nothing you can do about it now. He didn’t suffer, the priest had told her, taking Gradda’s hands by way of consolation as they stood beside the coat rack in the hall of her house. The priest had shown patience and understanding, though Gradda could tell he was trying to leave. To draw the moment out, she’d said in a tremulous voice: I’m so worried I could have prevented it, I keep thinking it’s my fault he died, I’m so worried he might have suffered.
No, the priest had said. There’s no need to feel guilty. Jesus took on the sins of mankind. You’re free.
Gradda had been unaware that guilt was a sin, but she’d nodded and said, I hope he didn’t suffer.
She’d hoped the priest would tuck her hair behind her ear the way the boys used to, clumsily but tenderly, and that he would wrap his arms around her right there in the hall of her home, press his thick lips against her forehead, and say, Shhh. Hush now, girl. Shhh. Nothing more. The little gesture of someone promising everything will be all right. That everything is all right. Like how a parent hushes a child—‘shhhh’ being the reassuring sound of rushing blood that babies spend nine months listening to in the womb—so the child knows someone is there, come what may.
But no one was there.
She found herself missing them more frequently, more intensely, more obsessively: the little things that would make her feel she wasn’t alone. I need to do something about this, she found herself thinking one day. She’d been for a haircut, and once the hairdresser had finished washing, towelling, and blow-drying her hair, she’d asked him to do it all over again. He’d done it, but his heart hadn’t been in it. She’d seen a mixture of envy and pity in his eyes. That was when she placed the advert in the left-wing news magazine. She’d thought hard about what sort of reader might be open to her offer and the readers of this particular magazine seemed likely candidates; after all, they were used to thinking, to uncovering hidden messages. They’d be able to read the white between her words. She was looking for a young man (she wasn’t sure if young men read this particular magazine, but she had to try, she couldn’t face another farewell) who wanted to move in to the top floor of her home. She lived in a big house in a small village, not far from the city; ideal for students who liked a bit of peace and quiet. The rooms upstairs were spacious, clean, and bright. The young man wouldn’t have to pay anything. All he’d have to do was come downstairs for two hours a day, sit next to her on the sofa, and stroke her. That was her request. She described what she wanted in as much detail as possible, despite the high advertising costs. No sex. She didn’t want a toyboy, but a well-mannered boy who would touch her. A sort of caregiver, really. A boy who worked with his hands; that’s what was called for.
She had three responses before the week was out. Despite expressly asking for young men, one of the replies was from a girl. The subject line of her email was just three exclamation marks, and she wrote that she was good with people and in urgent need of accommodation. She also wrote that she had soft hands: well looked after, with no rough skin. The bit about rough skin gave Gradda pause for thought, and she briefly imagined being stroked by male hands that were cracked and dry—callused farmer’s hands—as opposed to this girl’s soft hands. But in the end she went with the boy named Sebastiaan. Sebastiaan left the subject line of his email blank, which made him seem good-natured from the off. As if granting her wish was no problem at all—not even worth mentioning. Sebastiaan wrote that he was a second-year archaeology student. He dug things up and examined their value. He described himself as having a good eye, and the good eye won out over the soft hands.
Sebastiaan came round on a Monday morning. He had a goatee, a small backpack, bright blue eyes, and ruddy cheeks. Gradda let him in, showed him the rooms, and placed a cup of coffee with two lumps of sugar in front of him on the kitchen table, just like she did with her sons.
So, said Sebastiaan, once he’d sat down. Is there a contract or anything?
Gradda hadn’t considered a contract; she didn’t see their agreement in business terms, exactly. It was more like a daily exercise in personal care. She wanted to be stroked as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Nature’s way.
The agreement seems clear to me, she said. Her face started turning red too, though there was no reason for it. Sebastiaan would be getting more than he gave.
Do you like the rooms?
They’re great, said Sebastiaan. Better than your description, Mrs . . . Madam. Nice and rustic.
Wonderful. And call me Gradda. Please.
Gradda thought of what the priest had said to her: she was free, so she ought to act like it. Sebastiaan ought to be free too. No formalities.
He nodded. Gradda took a sip of her coffee and said, The rooms are yours.
Don’t you want to know if I can do it first? If it’s what you’re expecting? He rubbed his hands together, folded them, and blew hot air through his bunched fingers. Lovely hands; long fingers. No calluses.
Are you cold? Gradda asked.
I’m warming up. You know, for the work.
Don’t you want any coffee? She pointed at the cup on the table in front of him.
Oh yes, said Sebastiaan.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Gradda knew she needed to answer his question. Sebastiaan was waiting for something, as he’d finish his coffee otherwise.
Do you have much experience? she asked.
With girls, he said. There’ve been plenty of girls. None of them ever complained. I’m patient. You learn to be patient when you dig things up; you have to learn to cope with digging for weeks on end and finding nothing. You wait for something, and nothing comes.
I know what you mean, said Gradda. But then, to keep things businesslike—for Sebastiaan’s sake—she added, Let’s have a trial run.
He nodded. They went into the living room and Gradda lay down on the sofa, a little awkwardly, with two cushions under her head. She wasn’t very flexible these days. Not like Sebastiaan’s girls, that was for sure. The student stood beside the sofa and leaned over her. He looked quite a bit taller from below.
I could also move my hands over you without touching you. It’s about energy. A special technique that lets you feel the warmth even better than through actual touch. Skin often dissipates the heat.
Give it a try, said Gradda.
Sebastiaan knelt down beside the sofa and blew into his cupped hands again, like he was collecting his breath to scatter over her. Gradda felt her body gradually relax. She closed her eyes and waited.
You can start, she said.
I already have, he replied.
It took a little while before Gradda felt it—felt him. Maybe a minute or so. But then there it was, passing through her whole body, and something tingled in her brain like when she listened to certain pieces of classical music. As promised, the boy didn’t touch her. His hands glided over her body like a metal detector, but she felt them moving, felt his warmth creeping into her, and she could hear the rush of her blood, up close and louder than ever before, like a deafening and endless ‘shhhh’. It was like being very near to someone. It felt good and bewildering all at once, and then she realised: This is all me.
Probably.
Because apart from Sebastiaan, she was still alone.
If God existed, if there really was a heaven, then Joop would be looking down at her. Not just glancing over his shoulder, but properly looking. Now wasn’t the time to think about that; it was a barrier to her enjoyment. That was precisely the problem with the idea of heaven and the invisible eye watching all things: it blocked all pleasure, and had nothing to do with freedom. From now on, she decided, she was going to enjoy everything in life. No more excuses.
She felt her body rapidly cooling off. When she opened her eyes and turned her head, she saw Sebastiaan kneeling beside her. He was looking at her with his bright blue eyes, his hands resting on his legs.
So, um . . . Sebastiaan said softly. Did you feel anything?
Gradda, said Gradda.
What?
You were going to call me Madam again. I’m Gradda.
Right, sorry. Did you feel anything, Gradda?
Oh yes, she said.
But?
No, no buts. I felt it. It’s a very special technique. The rooms are yours, if you want them.
She sat up slowly, looked at the clock, and realised he hadn’t even spent ten minutes with her. She’d have to mention that to him, but not now. He’d be leaving soon, catching the bus out to some bare patch of ground where he would use his hands, his senses, and his good eye to unearth ancient artefacts.
It was very good, said Gradda. Don’t worry.
She’d said that a lot in the past, but the truth was she meant it this time.
I’m just going to wash my hands, said Sebastiaan. He stood up and went into the kitchen. He had a chubby backside; it went well with his ruddy cheeks. Gradda felt more or less happy, though she didn’t see why anyone would need to wash their hands when they hadn’t touched anything. She heard the tap running, a bar of soap falling on the floor. She heard the student washing his hands, or rather scrubbing them. That was what it sounded like.
Sebastiaan came back into the room holding a towel.
Well, he said. Good grief.
He stifled a yawn.
I’m shattered.
He flopped down on to the sofa beside her.
From ten minutes’ work? Gradda asked. She couldn’t leave it alone. It had always rankled with her, the fact that no one ever does their best for other people. Not even if you pay them to. She hoped she wouldn’t scare the student off by bringing it up, like she’d scared off just about everyone else in her life. She should have kept her mouth shut. The boy really had done his honest best, and besides, she knew what he meant. She was exhausted too; it felt like her body was weighed down by all the years she’d lived. As if someone was telling her to get some rest. And that was Sebastiaan’s doing, she had to admit.
Precisely, he said. Time is a relative concept.
His demeanour hadn’t changed, thank heavens. The red patches on his cheeks were still the same blotchy shape.
If anything, it was too long. The truth is I’m giving the whole of myself to you. Ten minutes is a long time for that. Did you want anything more? Was anything missing?
No, said Gradda. Nothing was missing.
She repeated it, as if she needed to get used to the idea that she suddenly had everything. And then she started to cry. By God, she’d never cried like this before. Crying had always been something other people did; she’d never understood why you would wear yourself out like that when it didn’t solve anything. But now she was sobbing, her whole body was shaking, she couldn’t help it.
Sebastiaan edged towards her, his hip came to rest against hers, and he stroked her hair. His hand glided from her forehead to her chin, over her face. She would have enjoyed this before Sebastiaan’s special technique, but now his hand annoyed her, in the middle of her face like that. It was too present. She gripped his wrist and said, Don’t. Leave me alone for a bit.
Sebastiaan lowered his hand, but he didn’t move from the sofa. After an uncomfortable pause, he said, But, um . . . this floor is mine now, right?
Gradda sniffed. Yes, she said. That’s right, it’s yours. Sorry.
And she got up and went back downstairs. She sat down in the armchair by the fireplace in her own home on the ground floor. She could hear the student moving back and forth above her head. And this was only the first day. She wasn’t sure if she’d made a mistake inviting him in. It felt good and bad all at once. She walked over to the mantelpiece, picked up the framed photo of Joop, and looked at it for a long time. She stroked the glass.
You can’t do anything about it, she said. Not you, and not me. Nobody can.
Gradda thought of all the times she’d missed something or someone. She’d never worked out exactly what it was she’d been yearning for.
Dear Joop, she said, still holding the photo. Dear, dear Joop. She swallowed her tears and didn’t dare say out loud what she was thinking: that it was all God’s fault. Instead, she carried the picture to her bedroom, drew the curtains, lay down on the left side of the bed, and closed her eyes. Weary, but free. Free of all sins. As Gradda tried to lull herself to sleep, she heard the student talking on the phone upstairs. Probably to his girlfriend. Gradda couldn’t make out everything he said, but it sounded warm, gentle, soothing. The boy was reassuring someone. He said, It’s all OK, honey. This lady is nothing for anyone to worry about.
Nothing at all. That was a promise, he was certain of it.
Translated from the Dutch by Jozef van der Voort
Maartje Wortel was born in 1982 in Eemnes, the Netherlands, and was thrown out of the Journalism School in Utrecht for making too much up. She has since developed into one of the most distinctive literary voices of her generation. Her debut short-story collection Dit is jouw huis was awarded the 2010 Anton Wachter prize, and her novel Ijstijd won the 2014 BNG Bank Literature Prize. Her most recent collection, Er moet iets gebeuren, was nominated for the Fintro and ECI Literature Prizes, and three of the stories in it were recently published in English under the title Something Has To Happen (also translated by Jozef van der Voort).
Jozef van der Voort is a literary and academic translator working from Dutch and German into English. He was named runner-up in the 2014 Harvill Secker Young Translators’ Prize and won second prize in the 2020 Geisteswissenschaften International Non-Fiction Translation competition.
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