Summer Brother

by Jaap Robben

“Are you going to sort things out with the tenant? Or do I have to do it, after all?”

  “No, it’s okay,” I reply.

  Rita snarls at Rico. He runs himself round in a circle and settles in his corner with his nose between the bars of their cage.

  Emile’s curtains are edged in bluish light. “I’ve come for the rent.” I practise saying it to myself, then knock on his door and take a step back the way they do outside hotel rooms in films. The TV and a wall clock are still waiting on the back seat of his car, along with two removal boxes. The top one says LOUISE in thick black marker. “I’ve come for the rent!” I shout.

  The door to the caravan inches open. Emile’s eyes are puffy with sleep. “The rent?”

  “Next week’s rent.”

  “But this is only my third night.”

  “Were you asleep?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Rent’s always paid in advance. We collect on Wednesday.”

  “Oh.”

  “I told you that when you arrived.”

  I keep looking at him for as long as I can.

  “Don’t you have the money on you?”

  “Yes, yes I do. But …”

  “And you said I could see your fish tank, remember?”

  He presses his lips into a curve that falls short of a smile. “Oh, right. My aquarium.” Emile half closes the door. For a moment I think he’s going to reappear with a tank of sloshing water in his arms. But then he says “Come in. They’ve just been fed.”

  He has breathed all the air in the caravan in and out a few times. Or that’s what it smells like. The blue light from the aquarium casts a haze over everything.

  “What’s that buzzing noise?”

  “It’s the water pump.”

  There’s a tottery tower in the sink, knives and forks wedged between piled-up plates. He’s barely eaten his spaghetti.

  “Go on, get closer if you like.” Emile opens the hatch of a wall cupboard, takes out a bulging leather folder, and glances over his shoulder at me. I turn back to the aquarium quick as I can.

  “Doesn’t it make you want to piss?”

  “Sorry?”

  “The water bubbling non-stop like that.”

  “These days it makes me feel calm.” Little blue-red fish dart through the water, attacking the coloured flakes that spin around. An orange fish with leopard spots thinks he’s travelled miles, but he’s only swimming against the current of the water filter. A tiny worm of poo dangles from an invisible hole under his quivering tail fin. As soon as it floats loose, a blue-red stripy fish snaps it from under his pal’s nose. Only to spit it out again in bits. “They don’t like the taste of shit,” I say.

  “Sorry?”

  “Never mind.”

  Emile swivels his hips around the corner of the table and sits on the bench opposite me, wide enough to seat one and a half. Our knees touch under the table. He doesn’t say anything. The blue aquarium light shades his cheeks paler, carves deeper lines under his eyes. We both look at the water plants waving, the colours flashing past.

  “Beautiful,” I say, and point at all the fish at once.

  “Thank you,” he says, as if he painted them himself. “Sometimes I sit and watch them for hours and don’t even notice the time.”

  “Is that why you stay inside all day? Or do you just like the smell of your own sweat?”

  “No,” he chuckles. “It’s definitely not that. In the morning I tell myself I’m going to go out. But I never seem to make it through the door. Then evening falls and that’s that.” His hands are flat on the table. Fingernails neatly clipped, no scabs or scars. Could those hands press a pillow to a mother’s face?

  “Is it because of Louise?”

  Panic in his eyes. “How do you …? Is she …?” He tugs at the curtain, then sweeps aside the net curtain behind that. “How did she find me?” Without even taking a proper look, he turns back to me. “Does she want to talk?” I leave him dangling a little longer but he doesn’t let anything slip.

  “I saw her name on the box. In your car.”

  “On the box.” He peers out past the curtain again. “So she’s not here?”

  “Don’t you want her to find you?”

  “Gosh,” he hesitates. “Yes, of course I do. But I suspect it’s the last thing she wants.”

  “How come?”

  “Here.” He slides two fifties across the table at me. “The rent.”

  I’m almost out the door before I realize. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “Could you make it five twenties instead?”

  -

  11

  I promised Dad I’d go and sit with Lucien, but I make sure I pass by Selma’s room first. “Brian!” she cheers as soon as she sees me. “Are you on a visit?”

  “If you like.”

  “You’re tall!” she shouts approvingly. Her compliments are always about things I can do nothing about, but they make me feel good anyway. For the first time I notice that her eyes are mostly green, with a fleck of brown in the right one.

  “You’ve got brown in your eyes.”

  “Oh,” she says and tries to rub it away. “Gone?”

  “No, no. It’s in your eye. And it looks really nice.”

  She rubs again. “Gone now?”

  I don’t really know what to say. She grabs me by the wrist and swings my arm wildly to and fro. “Pull,” she commands and leans away from me.

  “Do you want to water ski?” A determined frown and the tip of her tongue between her lips tell me that’s what she wants. “Hold on tight,” I say and haul her in a circle around the room. The way she’s leaning, I can see the crack between her breasts.

  “You’re strong!” she shouts. I take her round again.

  She falls back breathless on the bed but clings to my wrist so I’ve no choice but to sit down beside her. I poke her in the ribs and her laughter bounces around the room.

  “I hate tickles,” she gasps.

  Selma pulls a doll onto her lap, strokes it absently, and lets it fall.

  “You’re ve-ery tall,” she says and stands up.

  She goes on looking at me, so I say “Thank you.”

  Selma sways from side to side with her hands on her hips. “Nino’s very tall, too.”

  “Nino?”

  A ladybird flies in through the top window. It lands on the sill and starts crawling up the window pane.

  “Who’s Nino?”

  “Ladeeee-biiird!” Selma claps her hands. Before the bug can tuck its wings back under its spots, she tries to pick it off the glass. “C’mere you,” she mumbles, pressing her cheek to the pane. “Got her!” She brushes the ladybird into her cupped hand. “Look!” she beams, gazing at the crumpled little mess of black legs, spotted wing cases, and snotty insides. “For you.”

  “It’s dead.”

  “It’s not!” She jiggles the little corpse across the palm of her hand. Tries to stroke it back to life.

  “Her flying days are over.”

  “Ladybirdie?”

  “I think she really is dead.”

  “Isutmafault?” Panic clumps her words together.

  “What?”

  “Mafault?”

  “Maybe she was very old.”

  Selma starts to nod along. “Maybe she was ve-ery old.”

  “Give her to me.”

  But Selma has already wiped her hand on her jeans. “She was very old,” she says as if she’s explaining it to me. “I could tell easy.”

  We sit side by side on the edge of her bed. “I can’t stay long. My dad is getting things sorted for Lucien. He’s coming home with us.” Our hands are resting shyly next to each other. I want to take hold of hers but I don’t know what to do with it after that.

 
“Snip,” says Selma, brightening up all of a sudden.

  “What do you mean?”

  She points at my face. “Do you mean this?” I tug at my torn earlobe. Now that I’m touching it, her hands are itching to do the same. “Snip-snap.” She moves a little closer and fingers my earlobe softly, stroking the little hairs you can feel but not see. It’s the first time someone’s fingers have touched me like that. She traces the rim of my ear until her fingertip arrives back at my earlobe. It sends pinpricks through my body along the thinnest of electric wires.

  Selma sighs and lets go. Black grains of makeup clog her eyelashes. Her pupils are wide. We smile. A lawnmower is raising hell below the window, so we couldn’t hear each other even if we had something to say. Selma looks at my mouth like she wants to take a bite but doesn’t know where to start. She leans in slowly. I feel her breath. Hear her lips part. Then she presses her mouth next to mine. The corners touch for a second and Selma slides away from me.

  My tongue tingles. I’m already sorry it’s over.

  “Bry?” A shout from the belly of the building.

  “Shit. That’s my dad. I’ve got to go. Don’t tell anyone I was here with you.”

  “Bry!” Closer this time.

  “Bye,” I say to Selma.

  A little smile appears on her lips.

  I dash into the corridor. Dad is halfway up the stairs, but he doesn’t notice me until the automatic doors swing open. “What’s up?” I shout.

  “Fuck’s sake, Bry, where the hell were you?”

  “I needed a piss.”

  “Up here? There are toilets outside Lucien’s room.”

  “Someone was in there.”

  “Left me to load up on my own as usual.”

  A girl in a wheelchair sails past us, working a lever with her chin. “Hello mister,” she says in an unexpectedly clear voice. Her mouth would be impossible to kiss even if you wanted to.

  “Come on, let’s get home and set things up. The truck’s already full.”

  “Can we stop by Lucien?”

  “You’ll be seeing enough of him over the next few weeks.”

  “Just for a minute?”

  Henkelmann is staring at his luminous little Christmas tree. He tenses as soon as we enter the room. It looks like he’s holding his breath, but his chest still swells and sinks. He has the eyes of a crocodile before it strikes. Dad walks over to Lucien’s bed. My brother’s legs are pulled up in front of him and his face is turned to the window.

  “Do you remember this guy?”

  Dad shakes his head.

  “It’s Henkelmann, the one who always bit himself.”

  “Your mum was better with names.”

  I tap Henkelmann’s forearm, like hitting a random letter on a keyboard.

  “I know a game he likes.”

  “Leave the guy alone, Bry. I thought you wanted to say hello to your brother?”

  I walk over to his bed. Lucien is asleep. Molars grinding. Eyelids and fingers twitching, like our dogs when they dream. “Are we taking him home with us now?”

  “Oh no. Our little prince will be arriving by taxi.”

  “Taxi?”

  “One of those minibuses. They’re dropping him off tomorrow around noon.”

  “You’re coming home,” I say, and hope he’ll open his eyes for a second.

  “Let him sleep,” Dad whispers.

  As we’re leaving, I hear the velcro around Henkelmann’s wrists creak. “You want to play our game, don’t you?”

  “Leave him be.”

  “But Henkelmann likes our little game. Watch.” I place a fingertip between his eyebrows, run it down to the tip of his nose and let it fly off like a ski jumper. A tremor in his chin.

  “You wanted to bite, eh …?”

  “Leave it, Bry.”

  My teasing finger circles above his face. Snap! The wet of his mouth hits my hand and I fall back. My neck slams into the shelf on the wall. Henkelmann shudders and roars.

  “Huh,” Dad says. “Some game.”

  “He’s not normally that quick. Have you been practising with Thibaut?”

  Henkelmann holds his breath again, hoping for another go.

  “Uh-uh.” I try to rub the pain from my neck. “That’s enough for one day.”

  -

  12

  The back of our truck is groaning under the weight of a huge bed, mattress wrapped in see-through plastic.

  “Bra-yun. Braaaa-yun!”

  Dad’s round the driver’s side hunting for his keys. Luckily he hasn’t heard her blaring my name.

  “Bra-yun!” Selma is leading a parade of two. A boy trails behind her, his hand on her shoulder. “Quicker, Nino. Quicker.” The boy is working hard to keep up. I signal her to stop shouting. “Bra-yuuuun!” she cheers, like I’m a prize she’s won.

  Dad sniggers. “What’s with the welcome committee?”

  “Open up.” I rattle the handle on my side.

  “Easy does it, pal. No need to wreck the door.”

  “Bra-yun!”

  “One of the locals by the look of her.”

  “Could be. How should I know?”

  “Look!” Selma points at her face. She’s all made up, a mask drawn by a kid who can’t colour inside the lines.

  Dad winks.

  “Oh, yeah …” I act like it’s just dawned on me. “That’s Selma. She comes to see Lucien sometimes. Now open the door.” Dad jangles his keys.

  “I’m Lucien’s brother,” I tell Selma.

  She tilts her head.

  “And Lucien is coming home, so we won’t be back here.”

  Selma doesn’t understand. Now that Dad is looking at her too, I notice there’s something not right about her eyes. Every S that comes out of her mouth sounds thicker, tongue wet against her teeth. She’s a girl you can’t cuddle because she’ll leave a stain and everyone will know what you’ve been up to.

  “Kithy, kithy,” she whispers, way too loud. “Kithy, kithy.”

  “Shut your face.”

  Selma bats her black eyelashes.

  Dad climbs into the pickup.

  “Look at me.” I grab her hand for a second. “Lucien’s coming home tomorrow, so I won’t be here for a while.” The roar of the engine jolts us apart.

  “I’ll come back soon,” I promise. “For you.”

  Selma turns on her heels. The boy is still attached and traipses off behind her.

  Dad blasts the horn twice, short and sharp. All the residents toddling around the grounds look in our direction. Except Selma. Hands over her ears, she stamps up the wheelchair ramp to the main entrance.

  To my relief, Dad doesn’t say anything about her on the drive back. There’s a plastic bag on my lap and a weird-looking toilet seat at my feet. A huge pack of nappies is wedged between us on the seat.

  I flip down the sun flap to look at myself in the mirror. As casually as possible, I examine my lips. They don’t look any different.

  For once I’m happy to hear Dad droning on about loading the truck single-handed.

  -

  13

  “Catch!” A sausage pillow flies in my direction. “And take this inside too, while you’re at it.”

  He hands me a green ring binder with LUCIEN on the spine in block capitals. I flip it open and leaf through random pages, glance at a table. “What’s this for?”

  “Instruction manual. For if he malfunctions. What pills to give him and when, what he likes and doesn’t like, phone numbers at the home. That kind of thing.”

  “How did you get that bed onto the truck?”

  “A couple of lads from the home helped out. Retards, like, but strong …” He clicks his tongue in admiration. “You should’ve seen the muscles on them.”

  “So you didn’
t load the truck all by yourself?”

  Dad hands me a bag. “Sure you can manage? Or is it too heavy for you?”

  The bag is nearly full to the top with boxes and bottles of pills.

  “Does Lucien have to take all these?”

  Dad’s already inside the caravan. I follow him in, lugging the stuff he’s given me. “Where should I put it?”

  “Your room.”

  “What do you mean my room?”

  “Where else?”

  “Uh … your room maybe?”

  “Bry …” he says, and that’s that.

  Lucien’s things look out of place among mine. It’s hard to imagine that my brother will actually be here soon. Sharing this room with me.

  “Can’t he sleep over by the TV?” I ask Dad as he comes in with the pack of nappies and a bedpan.

  “And who’d keep an eye on him there?”

  “We would. The two of us.”

  He tosses the nappies on my bed.

  “Clear a shelf in your cupboard for those, will you?”

  “Would you look at this!” Dad has rolled an extension cord outside. The bed is still on the truck and he’s lying on it, remote control in hand. A little motor under the mattress is humming away. “Fit for a king!” He lowers the top half of the bed while the foot end is still up in the air. “You got to give this a go.” He budges up. I put one foot on the back wheel and heave myself onto the truck. “Not with those mucky feet.” He kicks me in the shins. “Shoes off. There’s a fifty-euro deposit on this thing, man. It’s all got to go back spick and span.”

  “But it’s covered in plastic.”

  “Yeah, well we’re keeping the plastic clean too.”

  I lie down beside him. “Here.” He hands me the remote and points at the top button. “Go on, press.” Dad closes his eyes. The hairs on his forearm tickle mine. I press the button and the motor beneath us starts to hum. “Ah, this is the life,” Dad groans as I fold us double. “Now pick something else from the menu.”

  First I leave our legs up in the air, then switch it round. I close my eyes and imagine it’s Selma I’m lying next to.

  I fold us double again.