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that!
    But Mr Koopman is making some of those funny noises that
aren't human at all, and ones you wouldn't expect from senile
gentlemen either. Not squeaking. Not groaning. Not growling.
They're creepy.
    'I think he's having me on,' the orderly says.
    'There's no gratitude in the man. Never been any either.'
    And she starts to get angry.

    She walks back to the little table.
    'If you don't get out of bed now and come and eat, I'll take the
lot away again. Then you won't be having a thing. Then I'll tie
you down to your bed. Then I'll teach you to stay in bed. Then
you won't be getting out all week. Then you won't be allowed to
chew your baccy either.'
    With senile gents you never can tell what arguments they're
susceptible to. And Mr Koopman is highly addicted to his baccy.
Now indeed he does get out of bed. There's something not quite
right, all the same. Mr Koopman is still quite nimble on his pins.
Yet never bouncy. And now he's suddenly making all those little
hops. Like a pierrot loosening up his muscles with jumps, and
exercising. It doesn't suit his age, and it isn't human at all, for that
matter. With a few of those hops he has reached the sunlounge.
Now he looks outside with an expression on his face as if
everything to be seen in that garden is perfectly new to him.
    'Come over here, Dirk,' the orderly calls out. Her voice is tender
now. She is truly worried. There's also something the matter with
Mr Koopman's pyjamas. They're blue, aren't they? But all of a
sudden they seem a bit brownish. A bit hairy, for that matter. The
coat of a monkey. The orderly doesn't even want to look at Mr
Koopman's feet. Those aren't feet any more. They're paws.
    Now the orderly is sure that it's ingratitude, that Mr Koopman's
not satisfied with his breakfast. And she is very hurt. It's pure
devilment of the old bugger. He has turned round in the sunlounge
now. And he looks at the breakfast. But what a mug he's got: enough
to give you the willies. Those small, vicious, beady little eyes. That's
not the gaze of an old gentleman whose birthday it is. And certainly
not when a festive breakfast is standing ready for him. Those old gents
are not accustomed to that much, though the home isn't bad either.
    That's it. She has taken her decision. She assumes a dignified
attitude and wags her index finger. This she only will do when she
means it very seriously indeed.
    'But I won't have the mickey taken. To bed with you. You'll
never get out of it again.' (Her voice has turned shrill and it cracks
occasionally.) 'You'll be leaving this place. To an asylum, that's
where you'll go. Then you'll be singing a different tune.' And
meanwhile, she has walked over to the sunlounge to grab Mr
Koopman by the scruff of his neck and put him back in his bed. As
a punishment. But it's already too late for this. Mr Koopman has
already turned into a monkey. He has already acquired a tail.

    With a few big leaps, Mr Koopman disappears through the
sunlounge door into the garden. It's surprising to see the way old
gentlemen are able to climb trees when they change into monkeys.
    In no time, Mr Koopman is sitting on the lowest branch of the
chestnut tree. It's still the first of September. A most splendid day
indeed. A day for miracles to happen. A day to make people jolly.
And Mr Koopman seems to be happy as well. Though it is an odd
way of celebrating your birthday. He sits on his branch of the tree
and has his tail in his little monkey-fist. He's got a pondering
expression in his eyes as if he's very struck and moved by
something happening far away and outside of the world. And now
his reflectiveness has changed to jollity. He points his finger at the
other gentlemen in the sunlounge and roars with laughter. And yet
there's nothing extraordinary to be seen about the gentlemen of
the home. Certainly not something that's odd or ridiculous.
    The good old orderly has burst into tears. There is no one to
comfort her.