Termination Shock [calibre 4.99.4]

“She’s here,” he observed. He’d guessed as much from the date, or some other detail in what was written there.

“Yes, I came over with her yesterday.”

“A secret.” For Hendrik read all the Dutch news and would have known months in advance of an official visit; he’d have been at the airport with a bushel of orange zinnias balanced on the crossbar of his walker.

“Yes.”

“Unusual.”

“These are unusual times, Father.”

“The hurricane?”

“A coincidence. An unlucky one—it fouled up all our plans! But it gave me a free day to come and see you!”

This weak effort to change the subject was batted away by Hendrik. “If it has nothing to do with the hurricane, then what causes you to speak of ‘unusual times’ in such a significant way? What in addition is unusual?”

Now Willem had to struggle with conflicting notions around secret-keeping.

For Willem even to preface what he was about to say with “Don’t tell anyone this” or “what I’m about to tell you is sensitive information” would earn him the verbal equivalent of a spanking from his father. Its secrecy was so patently obvious that to mention it would be implicitly to suggest that Hendrik was senile.

He turned away from his father’s glare and nodded toward the dark trees growing up out of the bayou. “How long before all that is underwater?” he asked.

There was a long silence, if you could call the singing of birds, the buzzing of cicadas, the stridor of frogs by that name.

“So it’s about that,” Hendrik said, with a finally something is going to be done about it air. “What is she going to do?”

“Well, it’s a constitutional monarchy, father, she has strictly limited—”

“Don’t give me that.”

Willem actually had to suppress a teenager-like eye roll. “It is, Father,” he insisted. “It’s not as though she has secret superpowers above and beyond what is stipulated in the Grondwet.”

“What’s the point of having her around then?”

They had come to an impasse. Not for the first time. Willem knew where this was going. If he kept pushing back, Father would crush him by telling the story about Opa and the samurai sword. Johannes, at the end, had been loyal to the queen. Not to the elected representatives in the States General, or the words of the Grondwet—the Dutch constitution.

And it wasn’t as if Hendrik were some kind of knuckle-dragging throwback. Or, come to think of it, maybe he was; but a lot of people in the Netherlands were too. So it was good in a way for Willem to be having this conversation here and now. Hendrik could serve as a stand-in for a large slice of the electorate back home.

He nodded toward the wall of trees and vines that rose up, just a few meters away, out of the more low-lying part of the property. “This is all going to be flooded. You know it.”

“Of course. I may not have a Ph.D. but I understand the greenhouse effect, I see the water rising with my own eyes.”

“Are you ready for it? Truly ready?”

“I’m ready to piss,” Hendrik said. “While I’m doing that, go up to the attic. Come down and tell me what you see.”

Hendrik only became irritated when Willem tried to assist him with his walker, so Willem left him to his own devices and went ahead of him into the house. He walked through the living room, noting with approval that it was rigged for flood conditions: the floors were tile, laid over a concrete floor slab, softened here and there with rugs that could be spirited away to higher ground when the water came. The hallway leading from there to the stairs was lined with framed mementoes: photographs, clippings, medals, pressed flowers, and so on. It all trended strongly royalist. A large part of what Queen Frederika and her predecessors did for a living was ritual commemoration of wars and tragedies. All the Dutch people who had suffered and died in camps had received letters, medals, and so on. Their remains had been collected from shallow makeshift graves where possible and put in proper cemeteries where kings and queens went and laid wreaths and gave speeches on special days. To organize such observances, to make sure they came off well and that no one was carelessly forgotten, was a part of Willem’s job. He didn’t handle the details personally, but he supervised the people who did. It was routine work that flowed along, day to day, like water in a canal, forgotten as soon as gone by. So it was always a little weird to visit a house like this one and see many such moments frozen in time and memorialized on someone’s wall. Even—especially—when that someone was your father. Some of the yellowed newspaper clippings, inevitably, showed younger versions of Willem, when he had more hair, posing on the steps of this or that palace with members of Dutch cabinets past, or with royals. He tried not to dwell on these.