Star

From Kortekade, which is surrounded by tall buildings and therefore drenched in shade, I turn right at the roundabout and onto Kralingseweg. There I skirt a corner of the Kralingse Bos forest, then keep cycling further east, towards the psychiatric institution where I’m completing my rotation. The morning sun shines at me head-on. A dripping oak tree lets the light seep through its rustling leaves.

For a few seconds I’m completely blinded. The first thing I see when my eyes recover from the light is the pink snout of the pig on the sign at pancake house Boshut de Big.

I arrive at the psychiatric institution. It’s built from the uninviting kind of grey extruded brick, with those gable-roofed greenhouses crammed in between. Apparently, that used to be beautiful.

I assess a patient together with the psychiatrist. It all starts with an overly penetrating look and a handshake that’s a bit too firm. What brought you here? “Well, I, you know, I was just on the bus on my way to see my family. My family had a party for me because I just got out of jail. Yeah, a lot has happened. I was abused by one of my aunts in the past. It all went wrong when I was twelve and I started doing drugs. I…” I glance sideways at the psychiatrist.

She interrupts him. “I understand that a lot has happened in your life. If I understand correctly, all of that has to do with the reason why you’ve ended up here. My colleague and I definitely want to know more about that, but a bit later in the conversation. What we’re curious about now is: what is the reason you’ve been admitted this time?”

A little later, she says to me: “A good psychiatrist reads between the lines. This man is having a manic episode. If you know that, you can apply the right conversational techniques. Ask closed questions. Be specific. Summarise if you don’t understand something. Remember: these people aren’t quite themselves when you’re speaking to them.”

In the evening before I go to sleep, I read some of Van der Heijden’s novel about the death of his son Tonio. I lie on my side in my underwear, like a Roman centurion on his chaise longue. Alleluia by Ukrainian composer Silvestrov blares from my Sonos speaker to heighten the already intense literary experience. The baritone – undoubtedly plucked from the Ukrainian countryside – fills the room with his sweet bass. Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!

I turn off the music, put down my book, and look out my window. There are characteristically few celestial bodies in the metropolitan night sky of Rotterdam. I remember that you have to look just next to the star in order to see it.