12.
I moved out of Adriaan’s apartment that weekend. I could no longer see any reason to stay, there was nothing for me to do except leave. I went through the apartment and I gathered my things—piece by piece by piece I withdrew. There was more of me there than I thought, as I continued to fold my clothes and collect my papers, doubt surged up inside me. And once I had packed my bags and as I stood in the doorway with my suitcases, I felt doubt and also regret. I looked around the apartment where I had spent the past month, and was overcome at the idea of never returning. How had this happened? I was aware even then that I was acting on a feeling that might yet fade or otherwise mutate. But on some level it was too late. I turned to go and realized that I did not know where to leave the keys. The mailbox did not seem sufficiently secure, not when I did not know how long it would be before his return. And so after I had locked the door behind me, I put the keys at the bottom of my bag. I gave myself that.
* * *
—
It was an adjustment, moving back to my old apartment. I was somehow less at home there than I had been in Adriaan’s apartment. The place felt as if it belonged to a stranger, or a person I no longer recognized. The temporary nature of the accommodation was more glaring than before, it was as if the rooms had been hollowed out in my absence, as if the walls were now made of paper. Despite myself I was still waiting—for Adriaan to come back, at the very least for him to respond to the message I had sent, asking if we could speak.
I did not tell him that I had moved out of the apartment. Perhaps some part of me thought that if we spoke, if he explained the reasons behind his silence, I might go back to the apartment, unpack my bags as if nothing had happened, wait for his return. But he did not respond and for days the silence from Lisbon occupied me, like a fog in the brain. Eline’s email, when it arrived, briefly interrupted the monotony of that waiting. She invited me to dinner the following week. It would be herself and her brother, a small and simple gathering while the boys were with their father and her brother’s wife was out of town, she had invited Jana but unfortunately she was busy. Still, she hoped that I would join them. I replied to say that I would come, and that I was looking forward to it.
Her house, when I arrived, was lit throughout. The drapes were drawn back against the darkness, as if to declare that the residents of this home had nothing to hide. I stood outside and wondered what it would be like to live so exposed, to be so fearless. From the street, you could see directly into the ground level, and although there were no figures, the room was like a stage set, there was a great deal of intimate information in the details visible through the drapes, the large kitchen table and the clutter of children’s toys, a dog bowl and bed.
As it turned out, those items belonged not to Eline, but to the tenants who occupied the lower apartment. She lived in the top floors with her sons, who were of course too old for the toys I had seen through the window, had I thought even for a moment I would have realized my mistake. I would have realized that the woman I had met at the museum and at the café, the woman whose brother had only recently been assaulted to the point of hospitalization, could not be living in such an innocent way—that woman would lock the doors, close the drapes, switch on the security cameras, that woman was living in a state of considerable fear and anxiety.
But I didn’t think, or it didn’t occur to me, perhaps because I was at that point still unable or unwilling to reconcile the woman I had met with the situation she was in. Instead, I had in mind the family that occupied the ground-floor apartment, the aura of their happy chaos with me as I rang the doorbell expectantly, it was the kind of life I would have wanted Eline to have, the kind of life I would have wanted to have myself. I therefore experienced a small shock when a man opened the door and I saw beyond him the monochrome interior, cold and perfect, with not a single ornament out of place.
But it was the man himself who was most jarring—it was the brother, Anton de Rijk. And although I had come to this house with the clear understanding that I would be meeting him, I found that I was not prepared, I was still startled by his appearance. How was it that I had failed to imagine the extent of his injuries, how was it that I was surprised by the large and vivid scar across his forehead, still puffy and puckered at the edges? Or the fact that he was breathing heavily as he leaned against the door, as if struggling with a lung that had recently been punctured, a set of bruised and broken ribs? His face was faintly distorted, as if he had suffered nerve damage, some features crumpled, others that veered off. I remembered that he had been hospitalized, for over a week, Jana had said.
He remained there, his body propped against the door, I was aware that I was staring. He nodded, as if I had confirmed something, either about himself or about myself. No doubt in the wake of the assault he had grown used to people staring. His face was a version of Eline’s face in the way that a photographic negative is a version of the photograph itself. I thought this would have been the case even before the assault, he had none of her beauty, on some level his features simply registered as a coarsened version of hers. And yet they had a quality that was in some way primal, as if his was the originating mold. If it was lacking in beauty his face nonetheless had some dark charisma, it was memorable in a way that Eline’s was not. As I stood before him, I could feel myself forgetting what Eline looked like, I began only to recollect her face as a distant echo of his.
With some visible effort he at last pushed himself upright and stepped aside, bidding me enter. You’re Eline’s friend, he said, and I nodded and said hello. He turned and I saw that he moved with the aid of a cane, an ornate and lacquered instrument that was old-fashioned, entirely unlike the rubber and aluminum braces that are more common now. The effect was to make his injuries seem more inherent to his character, less temporary and more integral. As I followed him through the well-appointed foyer with its large mirrors and neutral hues, I saw that he was walking with a marked limp, dragging one leg heavily behind him. He wore expensive dress shoes, polished to a meticulous gleam, I wondered if he did that himself or if someone else did, a butler or a manservant, a figure as anachronistic as his cane. The sole on the side that dragged was thicker, the shoe had been outfitted with a lift, and I thought then that the limp must have been part of a long-standing condition, predating the attack.
I followed him until we at last reached a large and airy kitchen, where Eline stood at the counter. She looked up and made a sound of annoyance, You should have told me, I didn’t hear the bell, she said. She smiled apologetically at me, as her brother made his way to the kitchen table. He sat down, leaning back into his chair and gazing at her. I watched in fascination as he pushed his tongue out of his mouth, so that it lolled against his lips, a gesture that was at once obscene and playful. She made a sound of quiet exasperation and then turned to me. Welcome, she said. You met my brother, Anton.
Yes, I said, although he had not in fact introduced himself. I thought it was surprising that Eline had not opened the door herself, she did not exactly fuss over her brother (no doubt he was the type of man who would have batted away such ministrations), but she treated him with visible concern. He reached for the bottle of wine that sat on the table, I saw that it was already near empty. Eline resumed chopping some herbs, she glanced at him several times before she abruptly asked, Are you supposed to be drinking on those painkillers? I thought the doctor said not. He ignored her, I was still standing in the middle of the kitchen, perhaps it was not too late to quietly back out of the room and leave the house unnoticed.
Sit down, Anton suddenly said to me, as if he had intuited the thought. He gestured with his wineglass to the chair beside him. I would rather have joined Eline behind the counter, but he was not a man whose injunctions were easily ignored. I sat down obediently. He exchanged glances with Eline, then reached for an empty glass and poured me some wine.
Anton is in a bad mood, Eline said. She said this in a manner that was enti
rely matter-of-fact, as if it were neither unusual nor particularly serious. A deal gone bad? she asked. She was no longer really paying attention, she had turned back to the stove. He shrugged and watched me as he sipped from his glass. Just trying to clean up the mess made in my absence, he said. That idiot Vincent let go of some good firsts for next to nothing, and the inventory’s in total disarray. I work in books, he added to me, by way of explanation. Anton has a beautiful shop in the Old Town, Eline said.
Yes, I said automatically, I’ve been there. I felt Anton’s eyes slide toward me. Did you buy anything? he asked casually. Yes, I said. In fact I spent more than I intended. I was looking for a gift for someone. I laughed, too loud and nervously. He nodded. Most of the sales are online, of course, he said. But the storefront is more important than you might think. Just the other day, a man walked in and asked for forty meters.
Eline looked up. Forty meters of what?
Leather and gilt, he said. Old-fashioned. Classic.
Ah, she said. An interior designer.
He could only speak in the language of his mood board, it was really quite extraordinary. Tobacco. Royal blue. Plush. Traditional. I asked him if he was interested in a particular author, or a particular genre. But no. These books aren’t for reading, he explained. They’re for—creating a look, an atmosphere. Anton waved a hand before his face as if to evoke a delicate perfume. He dropped his hand. Of course, we were happy to oblige. Forty meters of books is a great many books, tens of thousands of euros’ worth of books. And he truly didn’t care in the least what was inside them, a kind of Jay Gatsby if you see what I mean.
Goodness, murmured Eline, I could see that she had lost interest in the story.
But that’s not all, he added hurriedly. That’s not the end. She looked up, he had her attention again. We sold him a lot of worthless junk, subscription editions, encyclopedias, remaindered monographs, that kind of thing—the prices only very slightly inflated, of course. He grinned, so that we knew the opposite was true, and I saw Eline glance at me, perturbed. And the point is, she murmured.
The point is, the point is—you’re always hastening toward the denouement, Eline, he said irritably. It’s very tedious of you.
Yes, I know, she said, her hands resting on the countertop. She looked at me with a smile. Anton loves to tell stories. He loves—digressions. He takes longer to tell a story than anyone I know. Although it’s true the digressions generally do have a point, at least eventually. She paused and looked back at her twin. Go on, then.
He gave an elaborate sigh and leaned forward, propping his hands on his cane. It was clear now that the cane and the limp were not the result of the assault, but something he had been born with or lived with for some time. In that light, his flamboyance seemed different, a manifestation of his vulnerability, and also his resilience. I felt ashamed of the assumptions I had made about this man, with his expensive shoes and his pressed shirts, I remembered how fondly Eline had spoken of him, it was more than familial loyalty, her twin had saved her during the breakup of her marriage, he had been an uncle and a father to her sons.
He continued to address Eline, but his gaze was on me, his body turned in my direction, as if he had detected the shift in my sympathy. Last week, I went to Lars and Lotte’s new house for the first time. Of course, they bought the house nearly a year ago, but we generally meet in restaurants or bars, Lotte doesn’t like to cook. But this time, they invited me to the house, given the circumstances, they thought I would be more comfortable there.
There was a hard edge to his voice, and Eline frowned and then said, But they were right, Anton. It is far more comfortable for you to be there.
I don’t mind people staring.
It’s not a question of people staring. Anyway, I always prefer to eat at someone’s home, that’s why—and she looked at me apologetically—we’re here tonight.
Let me finish my story.
Of course.
I was very conscious of the fact that I was being invited to their new home for the first time. Miriam was away so I limped—it was the first time he had referred to his physical impediments, from the corner of my eye I thought I saw Eline flinch—over to the fancy deli and bought a bottle of wine and some chocolates, I don’t know, usually it’s Miriam who handles these things, but as I’ve said, she was away.
Eline was looking at him with an expression that was troubled, and I wondered where Miriam was now.
So I arrive, with my chocolates and my bottle of wine, neither of which seems entirely right. Even from the outside the house is tremendous. Enormous, a nineteenth-century townhouse but with glass cubes affixed to the façade in random places, almost likes postmodern growths. Inside, the house is even more impressive, it’s one of those new smart houses, with solar panels and a self-watering green roof to regulate the temperature, an atrium through the middle of the house, everything synced up to an iPad, I have no idea how they got the permits to do such things.
Eline was bringing bowls of soup to the table. Anton barely paused as he picked up his spoon, took a mouthful of soup, and reached for some bread. She set her own bowl down and sat across the table from him. She looked at me. Cheers, she said drily. He nodded in acknowledgment of the food, eating with extraordinary gusto and speed, and then continued.
I thought, I knew they were doing well, but I didn’t realize they were doing this well. And I wasn’t surprised they hadn’t invited anyone over yet, Lotte nervously explained that the house wasn’t finished, she said they would have a housewarming party as soon as they had fully moved in, and then suddenly added something about buying the house because it had such a good space for entertaining, they would be able to host fund-raisers and charity events. I nodded, they were clearly embarrassed by the incontrovertible evidence of their wealth, which had crossed over from the merely excessive to the truly obscene, without any of us really noticing.
But we all knew they were doing well, Eline said. She turned to me. Lars is a property developer, he’s responsible for those new apartments around the old train station. I nodded, those buildings had contributed to the rise of prices in Jana’s neighborhood and represented some of the fiercest gentrification in the city. I thought that Lars would have been a controversial figure in some circles, and I wondered if this was why he had kept so quiet about the expansion of his considerable fortune. Eline had used the word responsible, although that didn’t necessarily imply any particular judgment on her part, she had spoken neutrally enough.
Yes, Anton said. I knew they were doing well. He turned to address me and said by way of explanation, The money is from Lotte, who is as stupid and bourgeois as her name. But Lars is different, he’s a cunning animal and he’s turned all that nice old money into a real fortune. He laughed. You know, those buildings he’s put up are a total monstrosity, from an aesthetic point of view as well as a moral one.
I haven’t seen them, Eline said.
Haven’t you? Anton asked.
She looked away. Jana had first met Eline close to the site of the assault, if she had ventured so far into the neighborhood she would have seen the buildings, at least peripherally. I thought it likely Anton did not know that she had made the trip to the neighborhood, and I wondered what else she had not told him, what other secrets there might be between them.
Anyway, Anton continued, this house, it was a far cry from the monstrosities he’s built his fortune on, when it’s a question of his own living environment, he knows how to feather his nest. I thought it was a strange phrase, old-fashioned and a little affected, in the manner of his cane. He pressed on. Despite a certain initial coyness in their manner, I quickly realized that they were actually quite excited to be showing off their home, they dragged me from room to room, showing me the vast expanses of marble, the custom light fittings, the restored tile on the fireplace, I assure you once they hit their stride they were perfectly sanguine about hauling a crippl
e up and down the stairs.
Anton, Eline said in protest.
Well, I am, he said. With me, Lars and Lotte can wallow in their privilege without shame, Lotte can talk about the wallpaper and the finishes, it doesn’t matter how idiotic she appears because she’s only doing it before me, the cripple. I’m not exactly subhuman, but we all know where we stand in the pecking order, I’m several notches lower than the likes of them. Particularly in my current condition, such things simply don’t happen to people like Lars and Lotte.
But it might just as easily have—
Never mind, Anton said. Never mind, that isn’t the point. Let me finish. So Lars and Lotte are dragging me all over the house, the kitchen, the pantry, the guest room, even into their bedroom for Christ’s sake, with the king-sized bed and the Frette linens and the foul stench of bourgeois sex, which is of course the most perverse sex of all, when Lotte opens a final door and says in a voice of particularly shy triumph—oh, I do like Lotte, it’s not her fault she’s so stupid—And this is the library.
Oh no.
I blinked. Anton gave Eline something of a stern look and then turned back to me and hurried on.
She ushered me into the room, it’s impossible to know if she was truly proud of the room or if she simply imagined I would like the room because of my profession. But in any case I was truly gobsmacked, my jaw dropped open, before me were the meters and meters of books that had been requested by that idiotic interior designer, the encyclopedias and the remaindered monographs, the whole moronic collection that we had sold to that fool at triple, quadruple, quintuple the value, neatly arranged on the built-in shelves. I started laughing, I stood in the middle of the library and I laughed and laughed and after a moment Lotte became quite worried, and asked whatever on earth was the matter. I recovered enough self-control to assure her that it was only that I was overwhelmed with delight, never in my life had I been in such a beautiful library. She wasn’t immediately convinced, I’m known for a certain amount of irony, I could see she was wondering if I was making fun of her.
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