Even the most hopeless technophobes can be taught to work digitally, as long as the reward involves sex or vanity.
I am still getting used to it. I had assumed this entire magazine would be filled with attractive men in leather, or tough policemen handing out tickets to effeminate types, but that clever little Tio Lelieveld seems to be aiming for Mister Tasty Universe, or something along those lines. Have you seen him on our senior citizens’ channel, Facebook? There he is, awkwardly cuddling in a latex onesie, trying to look seductive. He can carry it, with that figure of his, but it immediately turns into something rather camp. Leather at least gave him that slight extra edge, if you understand what I mean. I have a dislike of feminine men. Not Tio, of course. He’s a sweetheart. With his blessing, I regularly travel first class with the Dutch Railways, and unlike on an airplane, I am allowed to occupy two seats. You just have to be on the route where he happens to be the chief conductor. That doesn’t bother me. I’ll ride along. If necessary, we’ll pass Veenendaal–De Klomp three times in one day.
It is all because of my vicious partner. We have grown older, and we respond to it differently. She insists on having that blaring television on all day while running one load of laundry after another. Go sit that chicken backside of yours on the spinning centrifuge for a while, maybe it will bring some life back into you, I often shout, but then again, you can aim for conflict, but once you’re both on a state pension, you don’t immediately push a relationship to the brink. You might be the first to become dependent.
It does mean getting up terribly early. It is still night when Tio starts his shift. He often looks a bit worn, but a sharp railway uniform does a lot to compensate. Always with one of those cups of coffee in his hand, of course. Not for me. Back when I worked with the naval women’s service, I used to start the day with half a litre of Grolsch. Now I carry my own thermos with chamomile tea. Keeps me calm. At home as well. Fuel for my vicious partner, who will then start singing Corry Brokken at full volume: You cultivate your thinning hair and drench it in too much perfume… and I’ll serve you chamomile tea.
As if I ever did sports, let alone tennis. And if she ever made me chamomile tea, I would drop dead on the spot. I always make it myself. And flirting? I give instructions. Or rather, I used to. Now that I have discovered that three quarters of humanity prefers submission to having to think for themselves, I’ve lost all interest.
Sitting in the train, watching the green strip called the Netherlands slide past the window while Tio earns a little extra in the restroom, I amuse myself by making our publisher Van der Kamp miserable via WhatsApp. “Sold anything today?” Within seconds I see the two blue ticks, and then I stare at those bouncing dots for ten minutes while he types. Then, as always, it suddenly stops. I’ve known that man for so long. I know exactly what happens. He starts swearing, rereads his message, realises he will never find a columnist as cheap as me, and decides not to press send. On a day when he is facing fifty empty pages, he might even send a heart. A shut-the-fuck-up heart, as I call it.
I have my small pleasures. They get me through the day.
Steven, honorary member of the editorial team, is good with phones, and he was impressed with my new one. He immediately grabbed it from my hands and started swiping through images I had never seen before. Left to right, up and down, and back again. Magical, what these midlifers can do with such a device. Started young with those little Nokias, back when they were used almost exclusively for cheating. Even the most hopeless technophobes can be taught to work with computers, as long as the reward involves sex.
I am very capable on a desktop myself. That’s how I met my vicious partner. I fell for her handle @zeikwijf1948. Looking back, one might have made different choices.
My smartphone is for calling. No one answers, but at least they see that old Boissevin thought of them. Watching Steven flick through those screens, I became boastful and started talking about AI. I had heard so many people around me do it that I could now hold such a conversation myself, without the slightest idea what I was talking about. Steven seemed to know all about it. He posts highly intelligent photos of himself on Instagram, and manages to look fifteen years younger than he is.
“AI is quite fun,” he said, while adding another button to my phone without asking permission. “Look,” he said, “this is really something for you. You type a sentence, and an image appears.” I didn’t touch the phone for days, afraid he had installed a virus after I had made a remark about those fifteen years.
This morning, I tried it. I typed: two attractive women, entirely dressed in black leather, composing a shopping list together in perfect harmony. And what appeared was the image on the left page. If you ask me, it won’t take long before AI becomes a threat to the planet. As far as I’m concerned, it already is.
Madame Boissevin
Part of the Madame Boissevin archive →