by Jaap Robben
“Oh …”
“So my brother’s alone now. But he’s sleeping.”
“Are you sure he’ll be safe? No chance he might go wandering?”
“Can you keep an eye out? You won’t have to do anything. I walked him till he was dead beat.”
Emile shakes his head. “I don’t think it would be wise. Not after what your father said last night.”
“Dad will be away all morning. And Lucien’s sound asleep. Promise. We chucked your bottles in the bottle bank. And we even made it down to the stream. It wasn’t dangerous at all.” It’s only now I notice the coffee maker on the back seat of his car, next to the pendulum clock. There’s a pillow too, and a removal box with its flaps open.
“What are you doing?”
There’s another box waiting in the caravan. His aquarium is still on the table.
“I’m leaving.”
I kill the engine. “Leaving?”
Emile nods.
“Is it because of last night? I didn’t want him to say those things. I didn’t tell him what you said about Louise.”
“I know.”
“I promise you’ll get that money back.”
“That’s not the point.”
“But you can’t go. I like you being here. We can go for more walks if you want.”
“That’s nice of you, but my mind’s made up.”
I pick at the foam rubber in my helmet.
“And the fish? Are you leaving the aquarium behind?”
“No, that will be the last thing I pack.”
“So I’ll never see you again?”
“Of course you will.”
I know he’s lying but it feels good to believe him. We share a silence.
“Did you want to visit that girl of yours?”
“I promised her I would.”
Emile sighs. “I can wait a little longer.”
“For what?”
“For you. Till you get back.”
“And you’ll keep an eye on Lucien?”
“Only if you tell me exactly what to do.”
I feel like hugging him. I restart the engine and put on my helmet. “Just take a look every now and then. From here. Through the window. That’s all. And if he does come out, go over and put his hand on your shoulder, so he’ll follow you. Have you got any empty bottles left?”
Emile shakes his head. “And what about your father? I really don’t want any trouble.”
I rev up the engine before he can change his mind.
“I’ll be back before he is.” I hold up two fingers and spit between them in the grass. “See you later.”
-
51
Selma is standing by the entrance. “How did you know I was coming?” I look around reception, the chair behind the desk is empty. If we hurry, no one will know I’m here.
“Thee-crit,” she whispers.
“What?”
“In the toi-let.”
Nino is lurking nearby.
“Can’t he wait somewhere else?”
“Nino’s ma friend.”
“I’ve come specially to see you. Not him.”
I have a hard time believing he’s blind. Those angry eyes are drilling holes in my skull.
As we pass Lucien’s old room, I take a quick look inside. Henkelmann’s bed is empty, a kind of parking space between two bedside cabinets. But his luminous little Christmas tree is still glowing. “Did he die?”
Selma doesn’t seem to hear. The lift doors slide open, someone must have taught her how to work the buttons. Nino stops short at the threshold. “Come, come,” Selma says, and yanks him into the lift like a reluctant pony. The doors close. There are only two buttons but Selma hesitates. I press the top one quick, before the doors can open again.
Maybe Henkelmann’s not dead. Maybe they moved him to a quieter room to keep him out of death’s way. Or he made an unexpected recovery. But when we get out of the lift, there’s a card with his photo on the noticeboard. Strange hands pressing a guinea pig to his cheek. Almost identical to the photo of Lucien on the magnet board by his bed. Might even be the same guinea pig. Mathieu died just shy of his fortieth, the card says. He will be sadly missed.
Selma is impatient. I let her drag me over to the bathroom.
“Are we going to do belly-belly again?”
She’s already through the wide door. Nino follows.
“Can’t he wait outside?”
“Nope,” Selma says resolutely.
I press a sly heel on Nino’s toes so he can feel that I don’t want him there. He doesn’t get the message.
I squeeze the plastic square in my pocket, feel the rubber ring slide about inside its wrapper. When I promise to bring her a can of energy drink next time, she finally agrees to make Nino wait outside.
As soon as the door shuts behind him, I pull off my T-shirt. Selma keeps hers on. “Touch me,” she says. First she wants me to stroke her belly. I knead the cold skin above her hips. “Don’t.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Touch me here.” She steers my hands toward her navel. “Can you feel it?”
“Yes.” I say, and feel the softness of her skin. My fingers circle, brush the edge of her bra. “Not there, dafty. Down be-lo-ho.”
“Here?”
“Mebbe …”
“What about here?” I inch closer and hope we’ll soon be belly to belly.
“Feel it?” Her eyes are squeezed so tight that I can barely see her lashes. “It’s the-e-ere.”
Nino growls from the other side of the door.
“What is it? What do you want me to feel?”
The door handle wags up and down.
“Shhh,” she says, arches her back, curves her belly bigger. “Babies.”
“What?” My hands shoot back, as if I’ve been zapped by an electric fence. Selma looks frightened. Then she smiles—a wide, happy grin. “Dafty …”
“No!” I blurt out. “That’s not true!”
“Yes it is, dafty.” She twirls a half pirouette so that I can admire her.
“How can you have a baby in there?”
“Belly-belly. Twin babies.”
“Belly-belly? But you can’t have babies unless you do it. Without a condom.”
“No-ho. Babies are in here …” She jabs a finger next to her navel and giggles. “Cause of the bellies.”
“Did you do it with someone else? With Nino? Is that why he’s your friend?”
“No, dafty. With you.”
“Let go of me. There’s nothing in there. They would never let you have babies.”
“Would too!” she shouts, her voice shaky. “I can feel them.”
“Did you tell anyone else?”
“Everyone.”
“Everyone?”
She starts her list of everyone. “Nino. Computer lady. Thoo-bi-dah. The man that takes us walking …”
I’m not even listening. “Selma, we can only be together if no one see us.”
“Be kind,” she pleads. “Be kind.” I smell the shampoo in her hair, feel the warmth of her belly against mine, push her up against the toilet door.
“Plea-ease?”
“You’re a …” I don’t know what she is anymore. “I don’t think you can even have kids.”
Something hard raps the door. “Who’s in there?” Another rap. “Everything all right in there?”
Selma jumps.
“Can you come here a minute?” the voice outside calls, this time to someone else. “Look after Nino for me, will you?”
“Yeah, yeah … coming.” Squeaking shoes, mumbling. “Let me past, Nino.”
“Are you in there, Selma?”
“Yes,” she answers, so softly I can barely hear her.
&
nbsp; “Shhh,” I hiss.
“Selma? It’s me, Zoubida. Can you open the door, please?”
Silence.
“Are you alone, Selma?”
There’s no other way out. The cupboards are too small to hide in. “Everything’s fine.” I try to sound as stern as possible. “Selma’s not here.”
“I’m coming in. Now.” Jingling keys, fumbling at the lock.
“No, don’t come in!” But the door swings open.
Zoubida looks at me first. Then she sees Selma, her top pulled up over her bra. Selma looks scared, staring at the floor like her head is too heavy for her neck.
“I was on the toilet and she came bursting in. Like you, just now.”
“Keep your lies to yourself,” Zoubida snaps.
“I’m not lying.”
“Do you always pee with your shirt off?”
I look down at my bare belly.
“So it was you!”
“What was me?”
“Selma’s been talking about babies for days. Babies and a secret brother. You crossed my mind, but I didn’t think you were the kind to do something like this.”
Selma rubs her eyes with trembling fists, then falls against Zoubida. “You’re not allowed to do this, honey. You know that, don’t you? We had a deal, remember?”
“We didn’t do anything. She started it.”
“Shut your mouth!” Zoubida pulls Selma’s top into place and leads her into the corridor. “And put your shirt back on.”
“It was her idea.”
“Get over here. We have some talking to do.”
Selma is standing against the wall, still staring at the floor. The toes of her shoes point at each other. Tongues of velcro curl at the edges.
“She likes me too.”
“Of course she likes you.”
“She’s nineteen.”
“It’s different for girls like Selma. Surely I don’t have to explain that to you?”
“She’s not like other girls.”
“Well then, you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“No, I mean … she’s … Selma. She’s just Selma.”
“This is unacceptable behaviour. And that’s all there is to it.”
Residents the length of the corridor poke their heads out from behind their doors, none of them try to hide their curiosity. The swing doors at the far end fly open and Thibaut comes striding toward us.
“From now on, you stay away from Selma. Understood?”
“Say something,” I beg Selma. “Tell them.” A drop falls on the linoleum at her feet. Then a few drops more. They are not tears.
“Can you take Selma back to her room?” Zoubida asks Thibaut, over her shoulder. “She needs a clean pair of pants.”
“Of course.” Hiding her face in her hands, Selma lets herself be led off.
“I never want to see you anywhere near that girl again. Do I make myself clear?”
“But can’t we …”
“No,” she interrupts. “And don’t even think about coming back here for the time being.”
“But I didn’t …”
“No buts. One more word and I’ll tell your father.”
“You do that and I’ll tell everyone how you kill people here!” I am screaming at her now. “How you kill them with all the pills you give them. Henkelmann …”
“Now you listen here …” Zoubida says.
“Why should I listen? Lucien is never coming back here again.”
“Nino-o-o-o!” Selma turns and cries out to her friend, who is standing a little way down the corridor. She shrugs off Thibaut’s hand. He wants to go after her, but Zoubida signals to let her be.
Selma takes Nino’s face in her hands. Runs her thumbs below his eyes, then presses him to her while he glares at the ceiling. Nino stands there, motionless, speechless, and comforts her.
A minibus full of residents blasts its horn as I swerve through the gates and off the grounds. The pointer on my speedometer quivers its way to thirty. I ran all the way from Selma back to my scooter. Handlebars gripped tight, I lean into the wind and grit my teeth, willing myself to go faster. The road is a blur of tears but I don’t dare wipe my eyes.
The stretch through the woods feels far longer than it did on the way to see Selma.
Big trucks come thundering in the opposite direction, then a van. Then a pickup. Our pickup. The shock sends me veering to the sharp edge of the asphalt but I manage to steer back into the middle of the lane. Thank Christ Dad didn’t see me. At least I think he didn’t.
Tyres screech behind me. The pickup bumps onto the verge, then turns and gives chase, like a monster set on flattening me. I pray for a track that peels off into the woods. Faster, faster. But thirty’s as fast as my scooter can go.
Dad is alongside me now, yelling something I can’t understand. Eyes on the road. Keep your eyes on the road. I glance to the side, can’t help myself. All the anger inside him is burning in his stare. The pickup shoots ahead of me.
“Da-a-ad!” I yell after him. “I had to go,” I lie to myself. “I went to get more medicine but they wouldn’t give it to me.” The tremor and catch in my breath makes it feel like I’m not alone inside my helmet. “I went to get Lucien’s money. I was trying to help you.”
If I can turn onto the firebreak and cut through the woods, I might still make it home before he does.
-
52
The pickup is parked outside Emile’s caravan. I race over there. Lucien is slumped on the grass beneath the window. No sign of Dad. I jump off the scooter and pull the helmet from my head.
Raised voices inside. Dad and Emile.
“And I’m supposed to believe that?”
“Ask Brian when he gets back.”
Lucien’s forehead is grazed where he keeps banging it against the side of the caravan. I try to pull him away but he won’t budge. It’s like he has to hurt himself.
“I only touched your son to make sure he didn’t come to any harm. He wanted to see the aquarium.”
“Yeah?” Dad’s laugh mixes mockery with rage. “Told you that, did he? ‘Please mister, can I see your aquarium?’”
“Be thankful I was looking out for him. It’s more than I’ve ever seen you do.”
Lucien’s forehead is bleeding. With every thud of his head, blood smears the caravan. “Don’t do that,” I plead with him. I’d rather he hurt me than hurt himself. But he won’t let me hold him.
“What kind of father are you anyway?”
“Stay out of my life. And stay away from my boys.”
“Then take care of them. Why do you think Brian wants to talk to me? You’re a worthless father.”
“The fucking nerve …”
“Don’t touch me!” Emile shouts, but I hear a scuffle inside. “Let go, let go!”
“Keep your hands off my boys. Or you’re a dead man.”
“That’s the last time you threaten me,” Emile says. “I’m leaving. This minute.”
“You’re going nowhere.”
A stomp. The crack of wood. “No, not …” There’s panic in Emile’s pleading. A crash and the heavy slosh of water. I burst through the door as Emile’s back slams into the table. It’s already hanging off the wall. No aquarium, only flickering blue light.
Dad’s fist comes down hard.
“No!” I shout. Emile paws at Dad’s face, tries to fend him off. “Leave Emile alone.”
“Outside, you!” Dad bellows. “Take care of your brother.”
I grab the rinsed-out bottle from the counter. I want to hurt Dad now. Cut him down, force him to his knees. Make him let go of Emile. I shut my eyes and swing the bottle. I’ll keep pounding until he begs me to stop, until he gets up and throws his arms around me. But he doesn’t. Dad grabs me, shoves me
back. Only his nose is bleeding. Emile’s hair is dark and sticky, blood dripping from his ear, head hanging to one side. Did I do this?
Everything goes quiet.
Even the bleeding seems to stop for a moment. Only the fish move, flapping in the puddle of glass and water on the floor. Emile’s hair turns blacker, blood seeps into his shirt.
“Lose the bottle! Now!” Dad barks. “You’ve killed him.”
“No!”
“Oh fuck … Bry. For fuck’s sake, Bry!”
“I didn’t do anything,” I stammer. “It wasn’t me.” I let the broken bottle drop. Suddenly Henri is with us in the caravan.
“What is this, Maurice?”
Dad swallows, shakes his head. “Nothing. A spat that got out of hand.” He tugs at Emile. “It’s all over now. Go! Keep out of it!” Emile’s blood stains Dad’s shirt.
“Out of my fucking way!” Henri shoves Dad aside. His shoes splat fish on the wet floor.
“He’s going to die,” I sob. “I know he is.” Henri kneels over Emile, presses two fingers to his throat.
“Still alive.” Henri shifts Emile carefully until he is lying on his back. His eyes roll back in his head. “We have to get him to a hospital.”
“No,” Dad says. “We can’t.”
Jean arrives. He and Henri carry Emile outside. His head is hanging back like his throat’s been slit. Lucien’s legs jerk as he scrambles around on the grass. Jean and Henri try to lay Emile on the seat of our pickup, but his body leaves no room behind the wheel.
“The back of his car,” Henri orders. He digs a hand into Emile’s trouser pocket and pulls out his car keys. Now it dawns on Dad that something has to be done.
“Yes, get him into the car,” he says. “We need to get that guy out of here.”
“Open the back door!” Henri shouts at me.
“No, no,” Dad interferes. “The bloodstains will show.”
“Shut up, Maurice!” Henri lowers his backside onto the back seat, drags Emile behind him into the car. I run round and open the door on the other side. A removal box is booted out, then comes the tuneless ding-dong of the clock, then the coffee maker. Henri comes crawling out after them. Emile fills the back seat, his knees jolt and shake.