by Jaap Robben
“Whatever they’ve come for, I’m not here,” Dad whispers fiercely.
“What about me?”
“Go and talk to them. Tell them I left. Now!”
Yves removes his shades. Examines the back of the pickup. Sees Lucien’s bed in front of the caravan.
“Dad’s not here,” I call over. He turns and looks at me.
“Do you live here full-time?” he asks in a friendly voice.
“How come?”
“Just asking.”
“None of your business.”
“All right, less of your lip. And who sleeps in this bed?”
“No one.”
“Then what’s it doing here?”
“Did my mum call you?”
“I’d like a few words with your dad. Get him for me, will you?”
“Told you, he’s not here.”
“Is that right?”
“Yup.”
“Well that’s funny. Because the gents across the way told me he’s home.”
“Then they’re lying.”
Yves hooks his thumbs through his belt loops and kicks a hunk of rubble sticking out of the ground. “What’s his truck doing here?”
“Dad decided to walk.”
“Maurice!” he calls. “We need to talk. I’ve had another call about you.” Without asking he mounts the step and tries to push past me. “Bugger off!” I shout in his face. A tiny spit bubble lands on his cheek.
“Watch your mouth, sonny.”
“You can’t come in here unless we say so.”
Yves stays exactly where he is, much too close. He’s put his shades back on. I stare at my reflection in the lenses and inhale his chewing-gum breath. His forehead is shiny from the heat. He purses his lips, runs the tip of his tongue between two teeth, and takes a step back. “Tell your father I dropped by.” He tries to peer through the window above Lucien’s bed. “On second thoughts, don’t bother.”
“Why not?”
“Maurice! I’m assuming you heard me.”
As soon as their car is through the gate, Dad emerges from the caravan.
Henri and Jean appear at the entrance to the garage. I expect them to come over to see us. But they don’t. They just stand there. Looking.
“Trust those fuckers to tell the cops I’m home.”
Dad starts banging on about Yves and who might have called him. “It wouldn’t be that fucking tenant would it?”
“Why would he do that?”
“God knows what kind of information he’s managed to worm out of you.” Dad glares at Emile’s caravan like he wants it to burst into flames.
-
48
I finger the little plastic square around the condom in my pocket. The deeper the sharp ridges dig under my nail, the calmer I become. I’m stuck in the car with Lucien until Dad gets back. He’s gone inside to track Santos down. Lucien is dozing and I check to see if his seat belt is fastened. There’s no way he can loosen it himself. If I run at top speed, Dad won’t even know I’ve been to see Selma.
“Now!” I say it out loud to give myself courage. “Back in a bit.” But before I’m halfway across the car park, Dad comes marching out the main entrance. In even more of a state than when he went in. I act like I was on my way to meet him. “And?” I ask, cool as I can.
“That mother of yours …” he growls and shakes his head. “Thanks to her, our man Santos is sending an inspector over. And if I don’t play ball, no cash.” In the car he slams the steering wheel with his fists and stares into space. Then the engine roars.
It’s dark by the time we lurch into the yard. We’ve been driving around for hours and I didn’t dare ask why. Until the pointer on the fuel gauge slid into the red zone.
I help Lucien out of the truck. His hair leaves greasy streaks on the passenger window. Dad is first to notice the plastic bag in the middle of the outdoor bed. “What’s this?”
“Beats me.”
It’s a bag of empty bottles. “Is this some kind of joke?” Dad pulls out a piece of paper, turns it over, and starts reading. I stare at my name in block capitals on the other side. Dad shoots me a look, his pupils sharp as darts.
I want to snatch the note from his hands but he scrunches it into a ball. He storms inside and grabs a torch. “Come with me, you.”
“Why? The bottles are for Lucien.”
He grabs me by the elbow. “You’re always up for a chat with the tenant, right?”
Dad bundles me in front of him. I try to trip, but he holds me up as he propels me along.
“Don’t hit him,” I groan. “He hasn’t done anything. All we did was take Lucien for a walk.”
I think I see Emile’s curtains twitch when Dad shines his torch on them, but it’s only shadows retreating into the folds. Instead of barging into the caravan, he stops outside the door. “You are going to back me up,” he says, tugging my T-shirt straight, his voice so low I can barely hear him. “It’s time you and me had a little chat with your pal.”
Hesitantly, Emile opens the door of his own accord. “Is something wrong? There’s no rent due, as far as I’m aware.”
“We’ve come to see you,” Dad says. His sudden friendliness gives me the creeps. “Or is Brian the only one welcome around here?”
“No, not at all. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting anyone at this time of night.”
Dad sends me over to the table. A dark wave rolls through the aquarium as we sit ourselves down. Fish eyes twinkle among the plants.
“Something to drink?”
“We’ve already had coffee. Isn’t that right, Bry?”
“For Brian there’s …” Emile holds up a can of energy drink.
“Brian’s not thirsty.”
“Oh.” Emile hesitates and puts the can back in the fridge.
“What was it you took over to Henri and Jean’s little shindig last night?”
“Pernod.”
“I’ll have some of that.”
Emile looks for a glass.
“Are your fish asleep?” Dad shoves past me, puts his nose to the tank, and raps it with his knuckles. “Little buggers must be worn out, all that swimming around.”
Before Emile can answer, Dad straightens up and looms over the kitchen counter. “Now isn’t this a fancy little glass.”
“Just had my nightcap.” Emile’s smile twitches into place. “It’s a glass I’m rather fond of.”
“Ooh, I’ll bet, I’ll bet,” Dad says and makes a show of picking it up by the stem, between finger and thumb. “Always extra careful with pretty things, aren’t we, Bry?” He pings a fingernail against the rim. “Crystal, am I right?”
“It’s a family heirloom. Belonged to my grandfather. A gift from my grandmother when they got married.”
“Oh my,” Dad says. “An heirloom. First thing you take with you when you make a hasty getaway.”
“Would you mind if I offered you another glass?”
“This’ll do just fine.”
Much too fast, Dad slides the glass to the edge of the table. “Fill her up, why don’t you.”
Emile hesitates, then slowly begins to pour.
“Speed up, man.” Dad gives the bottle a nudge. As much Pernod glugs onto the table as ends up in the glass. “That’s more like it. A bit of hospitality.” He bends and slurps the puddle from the table. “Not having one yourself?”
Emile sits down across from us. I try to catch his eye but he’s staring straight ahead. The reflection from his watch face quivers on the ceiling.
“Well?” Dad asks.
“Pardon?”
“No hassle from Jean or Brown Henri?”
“Uhm. No.”
Dad weighs up what Emile has said.
“Why would there be any hassle?”
The glass is almost empty.
“Things got a little out of hand after you left last night,” Dad says.
“What happened?”
“How can I put this? You’ve got a few tongues wagging.” His hands flit invisible rumours through the air.
Emile looks at me like he wants a translation. I start nodding.
“I warned you to stay away from those two,” Dad says.
“They invited me over. I saw no harm in that.”
“No harm, eh?” He twirls the empty glass by the stem. The cut crystal sends coloured chips spinning across the tabletop.
“That’s right.”
“Okay, let me be very frank with you.” Dad shifts in his seat. “Something’s started smouldering in those tiny minds of theirs. Get my drift? They egg each other on, those two.”
“What did they say? That wasn’t the impression they gave last night.”
“Listen.” Dad hunches over the table. “You’re a man alone. Holed up here in your sweaty little lair, curtains drawn. Money’s no problem, yet here you are renting a caravan in the arse end of nowhere. And every time I drive off, they see you getting pally with Brian here. It all starts to add up.”
Emile swallows. “I paid what you asked. I don’t owe anyone an explanation.”
“That’s what you think. But once people get an idea stuck in their head just you try and get it out again.” His knee bumps mine under the table. “What do you think, Bry?”
I don’t want to nod, but I do.
“In a bind like that, it can be useful to have some help around.”
“Help?”
“Someone to keep their ear to the ground.” Dad pulls an invisible fuse from the side of his head. “To suck the filthy air out of their little fantasies. Before they really start to fester.”
Emile fiddles with the clasp on his watch.
“Wouldn’t it be better if I had a word with them myself?”
“You’re right. That wouldn’t be better.”
“Last night they seemed perfectly fine.”
“Let us take care of things for you.”
“I’m sorry, but this is complete nonsense …” Emile stammers. “Brian?”
“Leave my son out of this.”
Dad grabbles in his breast pocket. Takes out a screw and stands it on the table.
“It’s time I found somewhere else.”
“No, no.” Dad gestures to Emile not to get up, though he hasn’t even tried to. “No need for that.”
“Don’t leave,” I blurt out and shake my head.
“I’m sorry, Brian. But I think it’s best if I go.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Dad says. “We’re going to help you.”
Dad presses the tip of his index finger on the point of the screw. He stares at it, presses harder, then raises his hand until the screw falls of its own accord and clatters onto the floor.
“Are we agreed?” He holds out his hand to Emile, who doesn’t move a muscle. “Well?” Dad asks, a pinpoint of blood glistening on his fingertip. “Deal?”
Emile puts a hesitant palm to his.
“That’s more like it,” Dad says. “Soft hands you have.” When Emile tries to pull back, Dad holds on tight. “Let’s say a hundred euros to start with.”
Emile tries to twist free, but Dad has him by the wrist. “A hundred.” The friendly threat in his eyes holds steady. “A week.”
“Okay,” Emile caves in.
Dad loosens his grip but doesn’t let go. “How about you fetch it now?”
-
49
Tiredness burns behind my eyes. Lucien has been rocking and humming, begging for my attention since the sun came up. I’m not bothered. Today I’m going to see Selma. I’m already dressed but it’s only seven, too early to leave.
To keep Lucien occupied, I brush his teeth in bed. He bites down hard on the plastic bristles. I put a toy car in each of his hands. “Come on then, let’s get you up.” Even putting on his shoes is easier these days.
Every few steps he flexes his knees, like an old man doing his morning exercises. While I hunt for my flip-flops, he fiddles with the socket by the doorpost. Before I know it, he’s pulled the socket out of the wall, along with a length of wire.
“Hey, leave that alone!” I whack it out of his hands. “Go outside. Rico’s waiting.”
But Lucien remains obsessed with his latest discovery.
“Moo-wah-wah is outside. He’s waiting for you.”
While I try to jam the socket back in place, Lucien makes his way into the living room. Dad is sleeping in a chair, face as pale as the soles of his bare feet. Lucien slaps himself on the back of the head with the ball of his hand. Dad struggles to open his eyes, coughs, and dozes off again.
“We’re going to go feffe,” I whisper.
“Moo-wah-wah!” Lucien shouts.
“Yes, Rico’s coming too.”
I have to make sure Lucien is worn out so he’ll sleep the rest of the morning. There’s no way I can count on Dad to look after him.
By now, Lucien knows the way to the bottle bank. He practically leads me there. Even so, I take the wheelbarrow along in case he suddenly refuses to take another step. The bag of bottles Emile gave us clink in the tub. Emile is awake too. The hatchback on his car is open. I want to go over and see him, but with Dad still around I don’t dare.
Rico trots along a few yards ahead of Lucien, then stops so we can catch up. And when Lucien stops to gaze at something in the air, Rico sits and waits.
Our stash disappears down the hole quicker than I expected. “All done,” I say once he’s rammed in the final bottle.
“Feffe! Feffe!” he nags.
“All done, I told you.”
He pulls himself up on the filthy mouth of the bottle bank. “Feffe!” he shouts inside.
“No! Don’t stick your hand in. There’s broken glass down there.” Suddenly, he’s off again, walking without my help. Up toward the road. “Careful!” I hurry after him. The tub of the wheelbarrow echoes every bump and pothole. “Trucks come past here, you know.” We cross the asphalt together.
On the other side, his hand reaches for my shoulder again and his eyes light up as he sees the stream, a good ten yards below us. Rico is already bounding down through the trees. Lucien wants to follow. His leg presses against the rusty barbed wire and I remember Emile’s warnings. Rico barks up at us.
“Okay, but hold on tight.”
As we stagger from tree to tree, I’m glad I put on his proper shoes. My flip-flops keep losing their grip on the ferns and mossy stones. Not to mention the loose slates somebody tipped down the slope.
Rico has already plunged into the stream. He leaps out of the water in high arcs, barks at us to get a move on, and goes chasing after a dragonfly.
Lucien heads straight for the water too. “Wait, let me go first. Then I can catch you.” The bitter cold swirls around my legs. I try to find my footing on the uneven bed while keeping Lucien on the bank. It takes too long and I can feel him wanting to fall forward. “No, don’t. Sit down first.” I tug him to his knees, pull one leg then the other over the edge of a flat stone so that his feet are dangling. His shoes fill with water and his face contorts. “Cold, eh?” I ease him off the stone until we are standing face to face in the stream. The water reaches to just above his knees. Normally I have to fight to control Lucien’s hands, but now he is clinging to me. He kicks to shake off the cold, while Rico dives and splashes all around us.
Lucien tries to sit on the water. His nappy dips below the surface a couple of times. I can tell by his breathing that he’s scared, but his hips sway like there’s fun to be had. Then again, he might just be trying to shake the cold from his bum.
Suddenly his full weight is hanging from my arms. “Easy does it, I can’t hold you up
like this.” He tugs hard at my shoulder and we fall. Underwater I can still feel his arms, the clawing of his nails, the soles of his shoes. I surface with the taste of the stream in my mouth. Water churns all around me. “Don’t drown!” I call out to him and graze my knee on something sharp. Thank Christ, I manage to get him back on his feet. “Are you okay?”
Lucien is okay.
“We have to get back to the caravan.” I feel like I’ve pushed him to a cliff edge in his wheelchair and then let go. “This wasn’t such a bright idea.” His hands crab their way up my wet back. He clamps his body to mine, a hug that pins my arms to my sides. “Don’t hurt me,” I shout fiercely and wriggle my arms free. Lucien lays his head on my shoulder. I can hear his teeth grinding much too close to my ear. “No biting!”
He shivers, he drips, he pants. I put my shaky arms around him. Feel his spine beneath his wet shirt, the knotted bones stacking up as he straightens his neck. To be sure, I nestle my fingers in the hair on the back of his head so I can rein him in if need be. “In case you can’t help biting after all,” I whisper. Rico has climbed onto the bank and is shaking himself off among the ferns.
I run my free hand over Lucien’s back. He lets me stroke the hollow of his neck and his weary head clunks against mine. I hold him tighter and his breath comes more easily.
There we stand.
Anyone passing on the road could look down through the trees and see two boys knee-deep in a stream. And it would look like they were hugging.
“You are my brother,” I tell him. “We are brothers.”
-
50
Lucien is fast asleep, beaker of water by his head. Dad drove off without saying where to. He didn’t even notice our sopping wet clothes. Lucien’s shoes are drying in the grass. The rest of his things lie dripping on the dog cage.
There’s still enough petrol in the tank to get me to Selma and back. I start the engine, clamp my helmet between my knees, and bump the scooter across the grass to Emile’s caravan. “Hiya!” Emile comes out. I want to say something about last night but I don’t know what. “Hiya!” I say again and rev the engine a few times to make it clear I’m not hanging around. “I have to head off for a bit.”