Gliding Flight. Anne-Gine Goemans

letter to you goes pitiful slow. There are always orderings from people. Remove goose poop. Sit the babies.

      But I will not harass you further on. You have formidable problems! Your website says in Lapland almost all geese lesser white-fronted murdered by hunters. Another scandal that must be terminated. The sky is high. Fortunately human beings cannot be everywhere.

      I want to write you that in my country this year many ten thousands geese were murdered, and in America 500,000 geese were murdered !!!!! With gas!!!! For the traffic of air!!!! Perhaps you are familiar with Captain Sullenberger. The formidable chauffeur of flight 1549 that emergency landed on the Hudson with geese in the machinery. Then the Americans said, O the geese must die. There are too many of them in the air. There are too few Sullys. O, then we will lead them to the chamber of gas.

      I say to you, I am not per se against the chamber of gas. My father was earlier owner of a gas tank. The gas tank was in our barn. See in your mind a rolling garbage pail with a gas tube. The gas tank was the final destination of pigeons. Pigeons are the cause of enormous overburdening. One day in my youth I hid myself from Tony in the gas tank. It was for the joke, but my father died of fright. The gas tank disappeared.

      For you I have at the moment two questions. The easy one is whether you donate a name to your geese as an instrument of listening? Birdie, Tarzan, Chippie? Book for dog says: choose two-syllable name. For the master, two syllables are suitable for the calling away in the woods. What do you say? What do you think of: Tuf-ted! Buf-ted!

      A new question on which I crack my head. It is about how to school the ordering ‘fly’. I want to make the geese fly up with silent accessory. That is, not with a screaming voice. I want to correspond the ordering ‘fly’ so they listen at great distance. Stick does not work. Do you know a silent accessory?

      Uncle Fred was calling him. He sounded excited. He was standing at the table, bending down over a cardboard box.

      ‘Take a look at this,’ he said, but his salt-and-pepper curls blocked the view. Gieles heard a peeping sound. Uncle Fred straightened himself, and then he saw them. Two goose chicks. More down than feathers and two weeks old at the most. They were as big as drinking cups.

      ‘I have no idea how they got here.’

      He peered at the little creatures through his reading glasses. ‘All at once there they were, in the yard.’

      Gieles picked up the smallest chick, who peeped anxiously. He could feel its heart muscle beating wildly against the palm of his hand.

      ‘Someone who knows we have geese probably threw them over the fence. But who?’ Uncle Fred wondered.

      Gieles stroked the yellow breast with one finger. He knew that geese don’t like to be stroked on the back. The chick stopped peeping.

      Uncle Fred picked up the other chick, who began hissing angrily.

      ‘So small and already so fierce,’ he said, and carefully examined the creature. ‘Hey, tough guy, take it easy.’

      ‘They’re hungry,’ said Gieles. ‘We should get that special bird feed for them.’

      He was thinking about Gravitation. A picture of him with the goose chicks would drive her wild.

      ‘Oh, no. Not that. These birds have got to go. Your father will never approve.’ He resolutely put the chick back in the box.

      ‘But where are they supposed to go?’ asked Gieles indignantly.

      Uncle Fred put his reading glasses on top of his curly head. ‘We’ve got to get rid of them. Two more geese, right next to the runway? Impossible.’

      Gieles could feel the little goose pooping in his hand. It was a small watery dollop.

      ‘It could cost your father his job.’

      ‘But he doesn’t have to know about it,’ said Gieles, fully aware that Uncle Fred couldn’t say no.

      Throwing one arm into the air in a theatrical gesture, Uncle Fred hobbled over to the kitchen counter. He leaned his crutch against the counter top, filled the dishpan with water, and began washing the dishes restlessly. ‘I don’t know, Gieles. They get so dependent on you. How do you see this working out?’

      Gieles shrugged. ‘I’ll just keep them in my room until they get stronger, and in a couple of weeks we’ll take them away. Just like we did with that jay.’

      Uncle Fred turned around and wiped his hands on his pants. He gave Gieles a look of despair. ‘Then I’m out of the loop,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen any chicks.’

      ‘You haven’t seen any chicks,’ Gieles repeated, picking up the box.

      He took the goslings up to the attic and spent the whole afternoon outfitting his bedroom up for them. The dish from an old rabbit hutch would serve as their toilet. The fox tail fur hat became their new sleeping quarters. Gieles put the hat next to his bed. He slid the goose toilet under his desk along with a saucer of water, fresh grass and some pieces of apple. Then he put the chicks in the dish.

      ‘This is where you guys poop and pee. And that’s your food.’ He pointed to the saucer. ‘And this,’ he bent down and held up the hat, ‘this is where you sleep.’

      He wondered whether the smell of the fox fur would frighten them. The chicks looked at each other uncomfortably. The bigger of the two started pattering through the dish. Sniffing curiously, the chick began to follow the electrical wires that ran along the wall. Gieles pulled all the plugs out of their sockets. Then he closed the attic window.

      That evening he was kept awake by peeping. The big chick slept in the dish from the rabbit hutch, but the little one was restless. It wandered forlornly through the room as if it were looking for its mother. Gieles was reminded of the neighbour who had taken his geese to bed with him for so many years. His father claimed that no woman would have him because the man always smelled of goose poop.

      One night couldn’t hurt. Just one night, to get a little peace and quiet. Gieles put the chick in the fur hat, which he placed next to his pillow. He laid his hand in the hat and felt the chick seek out his warmth and nestle up to his fingers. The peeping died away.

      Gieles closed his eyes. Gravitation had been on line this afternoon, and he had solemnly promised to mail her photos of the chicks. He fantasised about the provocative images he hoped she would send him as a reward.

      -

      8

      At one-thirty Gieles left for his get-together with Super Waling. When he reached the woods in exile he bumped into the old lady with the restored eyes. She had been picking mint and she began to talk to him, so that he was forced to get off his bike.

      ‘How nice to see you again,’ she said. She was wearing a comical straw hat decorated with fake flowers. ‘We’re going home later. To do the laundry and pick up medicine for Johan, things like that. But we’ll be back soon. We love it around here.’

      Gieles had never heard anyone say they loved it here. He smiled at her and the woman laughed sweetly, and they both said goodbye. He biked down a straight road in the shadow of a row of poplars. Last night, as the chick slept contentedly in the palm of his hand, his curiosity had won out over his embarrassment. He would keep his date with Super Waling. There was something else that led him to make this decision, but Gieles couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

      He could see Super Waling in the distance, a colourful dot against the background of a black polder landscape. Gieles could still make a U-turn. The chances that Super Waling could see him were small. He slowed down. The dot gradually grew bigger until he saw the colour. Red.

      He couldn’t bike any slower or he’d fall over. He wanted to turn around. The idea of being spotted with the fattest man around was suddenly unbearable. He put on his brakes and got off. But the dot became a life buoy that waved at him. Biking away would be cruel. The buoy rolled up to him and came to a stop right next to his front wheel.

      It seemed as if Super