by Jaap Robben
“Do you have any work?”
“Are you going to start on me now?” Dad checks his head’s not bleeding.
“What are Jean and Henri going to do to you?”
“Nothing, nothing at all. People are all talk when they want you to pay up. They might tighten the thumbscrews, but that’s it. Go too far and they’ll never see their money again.”
“Why don’t you just pay the rent?”
“That’s enough, Bry. And how do they know your brother’s here for a month?”
It takes a second or two but I answer without blinking. “I don’t know.”
“Who else could have told them?” His eyes burn into mine.
“Emile,” I say.
“The tenant?”
“Could be.”
“What does he know about it?”
“He asked.”
“Je-sus fuck-ing Christ.” It sounds like a hunk of rock crashing down a slope. He slips into his flip-flops, fishes his keys from his jeans pocket.
“Where are you going?”
“To work. You deaf?”
-
23
“Can I use your phone?”
“Uh,” Emile hesitates, surprised to see me standing in his kitchen. “I’d rather you waited outside till I invite you in.”
“Okay,” I reply. “But can I?”
“Is it an emergency?”
“No.” All his dirty dishes have been washed and put away. The aluminium counter is shining like never before.
“Do you want something to drink?” He gestures to me to sit down. “All I have is coffee.”
“No, I’m okay,” I say, hoping that might help appease him. “Can I make a call?”
“Hmm … the nature of your call is really none of my business. But I’m going to ask you anyway.”
“A girl.”
“A girl?” He slides the phone across the table toward me. “You can test to see if it’s working. Or if it’s only me no one picks up for.”
It weighs less than a remote control.
I look at him. “Would you mind leaving me alone for a bit?”
That little smile of his pops into place. “Of course not.” He looks around to see if he can leave things where they are, then grabs his keys and his puzzle book. “I’ll wait in the car.”
“It won’t take that long.”
“See how it goes.”
I start keying in the number of the home, but by accident I wind up in a list of sent messages. To Louise. The last one is only a question mark. Sent late last night. The one before that is a question mark too. Sent a few minutes earlier. The message before that says Call me. Please? E.
The further back I click, the longer they get. I know I don’t have the right, but I’m worried about you. The fish in the aquarium follow my every move with their tiny, glassy eyes.
Let me say sorry, please. Hear me out, just once. Don’t punish me this way. E.
No reply anywhere.
Hate me if you have to. But give me a chance to do right by you. Please. Let me have that at least. E.
Suddenly the caravan door opens. “Can you manage?”
From fright, I drop the phone in my lap. “The line’s busy.”
Emile wipes his feet.
“Wait! Not yet. Let me give it one more go.”
He turns around, thank goodness.
I key in the number again. “Hello, this is Selma’s uncle,” I repeat to myself. “I would like to speak to Selma please. I am Selma’s uncle.” The phone rings twice. My heart seems to be juddering instead of beating.
“Saint Francis Care Group. Esmée Dujardin speaking.”
“Hello,” I whisper.
“Pardon?”
“I am calling for Selma.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“I am her uncle. Could you ask Selma to come to the phone, please?” I try to talk louder, to sound like a grumpy uncle who’s in a hurry and wants to ask a quick question.
“Certainly. If you could just repeat your name for me?”
“Emile,” is the first thing that comes into my head.
“And your surname?”
“That is my surname.”
“Oh, I see … And your first name is …?”
“She lives on the first floor,” I interrupt.
“Yes, I know who Selma is. But I am afraid I can’t connect you unless you tell me your full name.”
“Maurice Emile.” Hesitant, but I don’t think she noticed.
“Maurice Emile. One moment please, just putting you on hold.” Beep … Beep … I’ve done it. “Selma, it’s me,” I practise. There’s a strange rushing sound in my ear. I look around the caravan. “Hello?” I ask, and hear my voice echo. Beep … Beep … Is someone listening in while I’m on hold? I focus on the sound when it comes again and realize it’s my own breathing. “Maurice Emile,” I repeat. Perhaps she’s putting me through to the rec room on Selma’s floor. Or someone is taking a mobile up to her. I’ll have to tell her what to say so she doesn’t give me away as a non-existent uncle. Tell her to say “Hello, Uncle Maurice.” Then make sure she’s alone before I let her know it’s me.
“Mr. Emile?”
“Yes,” I say, in my own voice by accident.
“Thank you for waiting. I’ve been through Selma’s list of contacts. But …” A tut, then a mouse click. “No, I don’t see a Maurice Emile … Could you be listed under another name?”
“As her uncle. Her mum’s brother. And Selma has black hair. Down to her shoulders. And she only needs to come to the phone for a minute.”
“I have several names listed here. Yours is not among them.”
“I don’t call often.”
“But your name is not on her list of contacts.”
“Well you should add it.” Ha! That’s a good one.
“I’m afraid that’s not how it works.”
“How come?”
“Only a parent or guardian can add a contact to Selma’s telephone list.”
“I told you, I’m her uncle. Just put her on, will you.”
“There’s no need to be so insistent, Mr. Emile …” Her voice remains irritatingly calm.
“I want to speak to Selma.”
“Mr. Emile, I am going to end this conversation. And to file a report, because I’m afraid I don’t tru—” I press all the keys at once and a frantic orchestra of beeps blares from the phone. Call ended, the green screen says. One minute forty-nine.
The door opens immediately.
“Wasn’t Selma there?”
I shake my head. Then I realize I haven’t told him her name.
“Were you listening in?”
“It was hard not to. You were practically yelling down the phone.”
Emile sits down across from me.
“I thought you were going to wait in the car?”
“Even there I could hear you.” He wipes a greasy print from the screen. “Do you know her from school?”
The coffee rings on the tabletop look like they’ve been drawn with Spirograph. I trace them with my finger.
“I know her through Lucien.”
“Do you mean she …” Emile looks at me in surprise. “Is she a patient like your brother?”
“No, no,” I say, determined to look back at him until I win. “I saw her a few times at the home. Her sister lives there.”
“Ah, I see.” A little smile. “Of course. And are you two an item? Or whatever they call it these days?”
I shrug.
“You can try again another time, if you want. What is it you like about her?”
“Don’t know. I just do.”
“Well, that’s none of my business anyway. Does she ever come here?”
“No, she lives …” I almost put my foot in it. “A long way away.”
-
24
“How long were you in there with the tenant?”
I jump. “Not long.” I had Selma on my mind as I walked back to the caravan, and didn’t notice the pickup parked outside.
“Cosy little chat?” The cigarette between Dad’s lips bounces up and down when he talks.
“Just normal.”
“Normal?”
“He told me he was a teacher. English.”
“Go over there a lot, do you?”
“No. First time. I bump into him now and again.”
“That’s odd.”
“What is?”
“I never bump into him.”
“He likes me, I think.”
Dad looks at me like I’ve dried myself off with one of Emile’s used towels and he can smell it on me. “From now on, stay out of his way.”
“But wasn’t I supposed to sort out the rent?”
“Sort out your brother. That’s enough to be going on with.”
“Why?”
“Be nice to the tenant, like. But any problems and you wait for me.”
“I need his help to get Lucien out of bed.”
“Keep him away from your brother. If something needs doing, wait till I get back.”
“But that can take all day.”
“Is that right?” It looks more like he’s chewing on his cigarette than smoking it. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”
I shrug and he thumps me on the shoulder.
“Well then, take a look what I wangled for you!” Petrol slops in the little tank he lifts off the back of the pickup. “You can finally give that scooter of yours a go.”
-
25
“I have to go out for a bit.” I ride a toy car along his arm, up his neck, behind his ear, through his black hair, and onto his forehead. I keep going until he hiccups with laughter. He keeps nudging my hand with his cheek so I’ll stroke him.
“Back soon.” I arrange the blanket so the cord won’t show, in case Dad returns before I do. One last check—I slide two fingers between the cord and each of his ankles.
“Have an extra drink.” Lucien sucks a vacuum in the beaker. “A bit more?” He twists his mouth away. His wrist pulls on the clear plastic cable tie I looped through a hole in the pallet just to be sure. “As long as you don’t turn over, it won’t hurt.” I tied a sock around his wrist to cushion the plastic. “I’ll be back before you know it,” I assure him and leave the door open to let in some air. “Sorry, bro.”
The saddle is so hot I can barely sit on it. I push my scooter through the grass, which is almost up to my knees in places. I’ll be back soon, I’ll be back soon. It’s like a chant in my head. I slam my full weight down on the pedal and turn the right grip toward me. The scooter roars and roars again. It works! The pointer on the fuel gauge says the tank is half full. “Selma, Selma,” I whisper. “It’s all going to work out.”
I want to feel the wind in my hair but it’s a long drive to the home and I don’t want anyone to notice me. The helmet is an old one of Dad’s, the foam rubber lining crumbles to powder when you press it. At least the visor is dark enough to hide my eyes. The kickstand rattles along with the sputtering of the engine. I check the money in my pocket one more time, enough to get me home if I run out of petrol. The cans of energy drink in my back pockets dig into my bum. It’s much too warm, but I zip up my jacket anyway. One last look over my shoulder at the curtains hanging limply in Lucien’s window.
The first stretch is a bumpy ride across the grass, and I have to stick my legs out to keep my balance. Once I’m through the gate, I turn the accelerator all the way. After following the main road for what seems like ages, I turn off along the stony river, past the electricity pylons and the sawmill. At the concrete steps up to the bridge, I have to get off and push but it’s much easier than I thought it would be.
I overtake an accelerating truck hauling a trailer stacked with tree trunks and find myself on a road I barely know, all dips and rises. Trees crowd in on both sides, sweating resin. I can’t see beyond the next bend. The spruces look dead up to head height, their broken branches like the antlers of deer hiding in the woods.
Suddenly, I hit a road that looks familiar. The stream glinting up at me from the bottom of the slope is the same one that runs through our turf. The air seems to part and let me through. I lean forward in the saddle and all I can see is the trembling pointer on my speedometer and the asphalt ahead. The wind cools my knuckles, but my palms are sweaty. A car blasts its horn—I shouldn’t even be on this road. Selma, Selma, Selma. I see us swimming in the stream. Our hands searching for each other underwater as she presses herself to me, the unexpected warmth of her belly against mine.
I’m worried someone will catch me if I drive up to the main entrance, so I leave my scooter in the cover of the rhododendron bushes by the bins. A shiver shoots up my back all the way to my damp forehead. Even my ears are slick with sweat. Through the branches, I can see the grey walls of the home. Now I’m not here to see Lucien, it looks like a whole different building.
“Selma?” I try again.
She is sitting no more than three feet from the television, staring intently at the screen. Selma’s sharing now—there’s a new bed opposite hers, another girl’s posters on the walls.
With a tiara on her head and in clothes I’ve never seen her wear before, she could almost be someone else. Smaller than my thoughts had made her. I’m looking forward to her eyes, though she could still be angry with me.
“Selma?” Her neck has dipped between her shoulders. She doesn’t want to miss a moment of the film. A clip-on earring sparkles beside her cheek. Her mouth mumbles along with the princess and hangs open whenever the prince speaks. Prince and princess say goodbye, tilt their heads and suck their mouths together. Selma edges closer to the screen and the credits roll. “The end,” I say and tap her on the shoulder. “Did you like it?” Selma looks up, startled. “I’ve come back. For you.”
She stands up so abruptly that she drops the remote control.
“Don’t be scared,” I stammer and pick it up off the floor. Selma retreats to a corner of her bed, gathers her dolls and hugs them to her chest. She puts her other hand over her eyes. “Don’t be scared,” I say softly. “I’ve come to say I’m sorry.”
As gently as I can, I pull her hand aside. She fends me off with her elbow.
“I didn’t want to be nasty to you the other day in the car park but I had to. Dad was there and he can’t know that we … Do you understand? I tried to call, but they wouldn’t let me talk to you.”
There’s a click from the video recorder, and the tape whines its way back to the start.
“Look.” I hold up a can of energy drink and sit down beside her on the bed. “A present.”
Two fingers in front of her face scissor open.
“Do you want me to open it?” Her eyes follow my movements. A hiss escapes the opening and I rush the can to my lips to slurp the froth. “Oops.”
Selma gives a little giggle. The tip of her tongue appears between the tight line of her lips. “For me?” She points a finger between her breasts. “No sharing?”
“Look!” I pull the other can from my inside pocket. “This one’s for you.”
Dolls tumble from her lap, their arms outstretched toward her. “No sharing,” she says, shaking her head.
“It’s all yours.”
Selma squeezes dents in the can, froth fizzes over the rim.
“Are you still angry?” I ask.
After a couple of greedy swallows, a burp explodes from her throat. It makes us both laugh. “Look.” She points excitedly around the room and for the first time I notice the decorations. Selma points at each balloon in turn. “Look! Loo
k! Look!” The number 19 is written on them with magic marker. A fourth balloon has shrivelled into a little granny tit. “That one’s nearly dead,” she says and bops it with her hand.
“So you’re nineteen now?”
She nods proudly, bobbing her chin three times.
“Really?”
“I really am,” she says.
“I don’t believe you,” I say to tease her. “If you ask me, those streamers are for the new girl.”
“I rea-ully a-ham!” She seems to see the fun in our bickering. “Want to see?”
“See what?”
With both hands she slides a belt bag from her hip to her lap. Her shirt bunches as she turns and I glimpse a patch of bare skin. I move a little closer.
Selma pulls out a plastic pouch and removes a few crumpled pieces of paper, which she unfolds and lays out on her bed. A photo of an old woman and Selma, cheering and throwing her arms in the air.
“Is that your gran?”
Another photo shows Selma on one of those horses that hobble up and down beside a supermarket copy machine when you drop a coin in the slot. Her bent knees are sticking out above the horse’s head.
She tips her belt bag upside down and shakes furiously. It rains silver paper without peppermints, strands of dust, and a pen that writes in four colours. On the front, Minnie Mouse does a pirouette while a shamefaced Mickey spies on her from behind a wall. Selma pokes around in the empty corners, then swings the bag to one side. “Do you want to see?” she sighs.
“What are you looking for?”
“Promise?”
“What do you want me to promise?”
“Not to grab it!” she orders, wagging a finger at me.
“Okay.”
“Thee-crit.”
“Is it a secret?”
“Shhhh.” Her fingers grabble among her things. An armband made of knotted string. Something shiny, which she hides under her pillow.
“Can I see it?”
“It was Gran’s. Very precious.”
“Look.” She holds up a piece of paper. Before I can read it, that’s disappeared under her pillow too. Next up is a season ticket for the swimming pool. “Look!” she cheers. “Told you.” The passport photo is from a few years ago. No straight fringe but the same palm-tree ponytail. One of her eyes looks off to the side, more noticeable in the photo than in real life. Selma Lena Lenoir. The ticket has expired. Beside the photo is her date of birth, I do the arithmetic in my head. “Ha! You really are nineteen!”