Shadow Sister

by Simone Vlugt

  I pick up the phone.

  The writer is an attractive but serious man of around forty-five who sits up very straight and has rather pointedly stacked up some copies of his new novel on a table. He is being interviewed in his home in Utrecht and I’ve taken the train there to do the photos afterwards.

  It’s a wonderful feeling, holding my camera again, setting up my equipment and working out the best composition. Photography is fantastic. The man facing me constructs a world with words, but I write with light. A good photo can say so much, and it’s often all about the details.

  I’ve got the newest digital camera on the market, with a super-fast shutter speed. I took some wonderful shots of fireworks with it, with long trails of light. Those photos are hanging in my studio now, in the exhibition space.

  As the writer straightens his pile of books and pulls down his jacket, I put up a circular silver screen to reflect the light. I move the pile of books into the frame to create depth in the photo and focus on his eyes.

  ‘I’m just going to click away,’ I announce. ‘Try to look as relaxed as possible.’

  For most people that’s a difficult request. As soon as a camera is pointed at them they stiffen and all spontaneity is lost. I chat away casually to relax the atmosphere, to reanimate his face. When did your book come out? How many is that now? You’ve written a lot, haven’t you? I don’t know where writers get so many ideas from. What’s your source of inspiration? Meanwhile I capture an unexpected smile with my camera.

  Not that an unnatural pose is the only problem I have to deal with when I’m taking pictures. I’ve been working for fifteen minutes before I spot that the writer’s fly is open. How could I have missed that? Of course I can use a close-up, but the magazine asked for a full-length shot.

  For form’s sake, I snap away as I try to work out the best way to solve this. I’ve got the impression that this man has quite a well-developed ego and that a direct approach won’t increase the chances of a successful shoot.

  ‘I think we’ve got a few good shots there. Lovely, but…’

  ‘But what?’ the writer asks.

  ‘Maybe it would be nice if you put that pile of books on your lap and read one.’

  Getting the book in the picture is always attractive for writers and the man immediately collects the books. I click away. Lovely, at least I’ve got that, despite it being an extremely traditional photograph. Not something I’d want to hand in, but there’s no alternative.

  I carry on for so long that the author takes a toilet break. When he returns his zips are closed and I take a few more shots of him. Shortly after that I’m leaving with a series of wonderful pictures: nonchalant, stylish and, most importantly, with all the author’s zips done up. In the train back to Rotterdam, I realise that during that hour I felt fully myself again.

  45.

  Sometimes a fear of forgetting Lydia takes hold of me. Not really forgetting, of course, but it’s as if the real Lydia keeps stepping backwards, leaving only a weak reflection behind. She’s been dead for two months now and I don’t want to say I’ve forgotten what her face looks like, or that the sound of her voice has faded in my memory, but the image of her has become blurred in my mind.

  The fact that we’re identical twins should give me a clear visualisation of her face, but it doesn’t. I catch myself staring in the mirror for minutes on end, my nose almost pressed to the glass, looking for her. The sun has given me a rash of freckles on my nose. Did she have those too? I don’t know, I never paid much attention. And that mole on her chin, was it on the right or the left?

  How can I have forgotten something like that when I’ve known her face for thirty years? What else am I going to forget?

  I put a large picture of her on my desk and throw myself into my work. I begin with two days of cleaning. I tackle all the shelves and drawers, carrying bags of old paperwork to the recycling bin. I take every commission I’m given, which means I regularly go off on jobs, and if I don’t have any work, I roam around with my camera.

  Summer is now in full swing in Rotterdam. They’ve built an artificial beach next to the River Maas again, where young and old lie sunning themselves or play ball games. I wander around, snapping away. The summer carnival is upon us too, a street party full of colours and music. My camera captures everything and forces me back into the world of the living.

  The pictures in the exhibition space in my studio need changing. I take all the frames down and spend a whole morning selecting new photos. I’m re-hanging them, my neck dripping with sweat, when someone comes in.

  I hang onto the frame to stop it falling from its hook, and glance over my shoulder. Behind me is a slender, well-dressed woman in her mid-forties. She smiles at me in a way that reminds me of someone.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she says.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ I let go of the frame, keeping my hands ready to catch it, but it stays up. I turn around with a smile. ‘Can I help you?’

  The woman hesitates and looks around her. ‘Actually I wanted to ask something, but am I disturbing you?’

  ‘Absolutely not. What did you want to know?’

  ‘It might sound a bit odd,’ the woman begins, ‘but I think you’re a friend of my daughter’s.’

  I take a good look at the woman and see that she’s nearer fifty than forty. She appeared much younger at first glance. Her hair has been highlighted in a natural way with different shades of blonde, and her make-up is lightweight but effective. She’s a beautiful woman and it’s not surprising she looks familiar. I don’t even have to ask who her daughter is.

  ‘Sylvie…’ I say at once.

  She smiles in surprise and holds out her hand. ‘Yes, that’s right. I’m Linda, Sylvie’s mother.’

  I shake her hand and introduce myself. ‘Elisa van Woerkom. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ She looks relieved. This reminds me that Sylvie hasn’t been in touch with her mother for years, and there are reasons for that. I’d better be careful. After all, I’ve no idea what Sylvie’s mother wants.

  I go to the kitchen and put on the kettle. Linda follows me.

  ‘We can sit here,’ I say, gesturing towards the kitchen table.

  Sylvie’s mother sits down and waits until I’ve finished making the tea and then she launches into her speech.

  ‘If you’re such a good friend of Sylvie’s, you’ll know that we haven’t been in touch for years. It hurts.’ Linda drops a sugar lump into her cup and stirs it. ‘Over the years I’ve tried everything to get back in touch with her, but she doesn’t want to know.’

  I remain silent.

  ‘Do you know what happened?’ Linda looks up at me with the same clear blue eyes as Sylvie.

  ‘Sylvie has told me a few things,’ I say.

  Linda purses her lips. She doesn’t seem to have much confidence in Sylvie, which diminishes my sympathy.

  ‘Might I ask what she told you?’ Linda says.

  I begin to wonder what I’m doing here with this woman. Can’t she just approach Sylvie? On the other hand, perhaps this is a good opportunity to reunite mother and daughter. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could orchestrate that? I get a sudden vision of them arm in arm with tears in their eyes, thanking me for my help.

  ‘Sylvie told me that her father abandoned her and she didn’t get on with your new boyfriend. She told me that he abused her and you didn’t want to believe her.’ I keep my voice as neutral as possible, but deep inside are the first stirrings of anger.

  Linda looks up from her tea.

  ‘That’s not true,’ she says.

  I make a vague gesture with my hand.

  ‘It’s not,’ Linda insists. ‘He’s not that kind of man, I wouldn’t have married him last year if he was.’

  In order to do something with my hands, I pick up my cup and take a sip.

  ‘I don’t know him,’ I say as Linda continues to stare at me. ‘But you do hear of women turning a blind eye to certain character t
raits in men. How many women were abused by their fathers while their mothers failed to notice? That doesn’t mean nothing happened.’

  ‘You’re right about that, but it’s really not true,’ Linda says. ‘You should know that Sylvie…what can I say…that she’s got an active imagination. When she was a teenager, for instance, she told everyone that her father was dying. Of course there are all kinds of psychological explanations for that, but she told her teacher that her father was dying of cancer, with tears in her eyes. To prevent her from mentioning it to me, she managed to convince her that I didn’t want to talk about it. She said I couldn’t handle the situation, that I never got out of bed and that she was doing all the housework. This earned her a lot of goodwill at school. Hadn’t done her homework? The teachers overlooked it. One mark too low to make the grade? The teachers would find her a couple of extra per cent. She wasn’t a very talented student and the exams were too difficult for her, but she got through.’

  I shrug. I don’t see what this has to do with her stepfather.

  ‘And just because she was a little creative with the truth at school means that she made up that story about being abused?’

  ‘That’s a nice way of putting it – creative with the truth.’ Linda smiles, but it’s not a happy smile. ‘That’s what she always was. Her father didn’t abandon her in the way she’s had you believe. Martin made quite reasonable efforts to stay in touch with her. He phoned, wrote letters, sent presents, came round to visit, but Sylvie just didn’t want to know. He’d left the house and she felt so terribly abandoned that he could never make it up to her. Sylvie’s like that – inflexible. You’re either for her or against her. In her eyes, Martin was against her, so she banished him from her life. When I met my new husband she needed a bit of time to get used to him because we’d spent a long period with just the two of us. But it went well initially. They liked each other and Sylvie accepted him as her second father. Now in retrospect, I realise that he wasn’t so much a father figure to her as.’ Linda hesitates, and after a couple of seconds of indecision continues, ‘She was in love with him. At the time I wasn’t aware of it, but now I am. He was handsome, a bit younger than me. Too old for Sylvie, of course, but adolescent girls always see those things differently. I didn’t think there was anything strange about the fact that she was always hanging around his neck and wanted them to do everything together. Why should I? I was just happy that things were going so well between them, despite my impression that Bert sometimes felt a bit uncomfortable. Sylvie is not good with boundaries. She follows her feelings without considering the consequences.’ Again she hesitates, and her reluctance begins to make her story seem credible.

  She finds her voice again. ‘Sylvie was in love with Bert. He maintained that she tried to seduce him and not the other way round, that he held her away from him and that she began to take her clothes off and tried to kiss him. When he pushed her away, she fell and became furious. After that there was this story that Bert had tried to abuse her.’

  I sit holding my cup, unable to drink. My head spins with all this information. What is true and what is not? That’s always the problem when you hear things from both sides. The different versions are coloured with personal truths and conclusions.

  ‘I don’t know what to think,’ I say to Linda.

  ‘I can imagine,’ she responds.

  ‘Why are you telling me all of this?’

  ‘She’s my daughter. I miss her. She was fifteen when this all happened, still a child. Heavens, does she want this to come between us for the rest of our lives? I don’t blame her anymore, and neither does Bert. She was confused, her own worst enemy. We want to start again, but there’s no way she’ll see us. This afternoon I went to her house, she wasn’t in but her upstairs neighbour was just leaving. We chatted a while and I learned that Sylvie had a good friend who worked at the photography studio on Karel Doorman Street, so I decided to come and see you. I don’t know why.’ Linda’s voice doesn’t sound like she’s expecting to have convinced me and she’s right.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind talking to her,’ I say slowly, ‘but I’ve no reason to think that Sylvie lied. Nor do I have any reason to think you’re lying, but I know Sylvie. I only met you half an hour ago and I don’t know Bert at all. I’d rather not get involved, is that all right?’

  Linda nods dejectedly. ‘Of course I understand. But honestly, Bert is not the kind of man who would abuse a young girl. He was working for the vice squad at the time. Every day he was confronted with the effects of abuse. Sometimes he came home in pieces and spent the entire evening cursing whatever bastard had done that. Victim statements gave him nightmares. He was protective of me and Sylvie because he knows what a dangerous world we live in. And to think he’d abuse his step-daughter? No…’

  I want to agree with her, but they are only words. I wasn’t there, I don’t know Bert.

  Linda gets a card from her bag and pushes it towards me. ‘If you ever change your mind.’ I study the card and cold tea floods over the edge of my cup, onto my hand and my sleeve.

  ‘Linda Ykema,’ I say in astonishment.

  ‘Yes, you can always call me.’

  I look at Linda wide-eyed and my heart begins to pound. My mind has difficulty accepting this news.

  ‘Is Bert your husband’s full name?’ I enquire.

  Linda gives me a funny look. ‘No, it’s Hubert.’

  46.

  Linda has left and I don’t stir from the kitchen table.

  This truth.

  Bert Ykema.

  The policeman whose service weapon went missing. Why is Sylvie the link with the missing pistol? I can’t think of a single reason for her to have wanted to kill Lydia. Lydia teased her sometimes, but that’s no reason to kill someone.

  Let’s imagine that Linda’s story is true, and Sylvie does reinvent reality in ways that are advantageous to her, what else might she have lied about?

  I massage my temples, but no revelations come to me. The only way I can find out more is to talk to Sylvie, ask a few questions and see what comes of it.

  I get up, pull on a denim jacket and get my bag and soon I’m on my way to the Essenburg Canal. It’s going to be a difficult conversation, but we have to have it. What am I actually going to say? The truth is the best. I’ll tell her that her mother turned up and told me her version of events. But how am I going to bring up the gun? If Sylvie did shoot Lydia, wouldn’t she pull a gun on me just as easily? Perhaps I should go to the police.

  Sylvie is the best friend I’ve ever had. This has to be a mistake. Sylvie hasn’t been lying to me, it must be her mother. Lydia must have known Sylvie’s stepfather somehow, I refuse to believe that Sylvie has anything to do with this.

  I cycle so fast that I’m out of breath. It’s a long cycle to the Essenburg Canal and I don’t want to arrive panting and with a pounding heart.

  Sylvie lives right at the end of the Essenburg Canal. When I arrive I stop to catch my breath. I ring the doorbell. No one comes. I look at my watch, it’s half past five – too early. She’s probably still at work or on her way home.

  I get out my mobile and dial Sylvie’s number. It rings for a while before she picks up.

  ‘Sylvie here.’

  ‘Hi, it’s Elisa. I’m outside your door. Are you almost home?’

  ‘Oh Elisa, I’ve got a dinner date,’ Sylvie says. ‘I’m going to Cafe Flor with a colleague.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Have a good time then. I’ll talk to you later.’

  ‘Okay! See you.’

  I hang up, take a step backwards and look in through the windows of Sylvie’s apartment. Might one of her neighbours have a key? These are the kind of buildings you lock yourself out of accidentally if you let the front door close after you. It’s worth a try.

  I ring the upstairs neighbour’s bell and soon the front door opens. ‘Yes?’ somebody shouts down the stairs.

  I climb the stairs and halfway up I meet a skinny woman with very short, bleached ha
ir.

  ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘I’m a friend of Sylvie’s but she’s not in. I’ve left my house keys in her flat. Do you happen to have her spare key, so that I could go in and pick them up?’

  The neighbour studies me.

  ‘You must be the one with the photography studio,’ the woman says. ‘I’m Nanda.’ She offers me her hand and I shake it.

  ‘She’s never given me a key, but I do have one. From the previous occupants,’ Nanda says with a guilty expression. ‘I’ve never given it back, silly, isn’t it? I’ll go and fetch it.’

  Nanda goes upstairs and I wait in front of Sylvie’s door. As soon as she comes down, I hold out my hand and Nanda hands over the key, but not without hesitation. She remains close behind me. It would seem odd if I sent her away now, so I just accept her presence.

  I go inside. Nanda waits in the doorway with her arms folded. I proceed further, uneasy now that I’m breaking and entering into Sylvie’s home.

  ‘Strange, they’re not on the table. I’ll check in the kitchen.’

  I go into the kitchen and pull open the drawer she keeps her bits and bobs in. There are a few keys in it and I put one in my trouser pocket just in case. I hear footsteps coming into the sitting room and get my own set of keys from my bag. Just as Nanda comes in, I turn around and hold them up, smiling.

  ‘Found them!’

  ‘Great.’ Nanda nods at me and looks at the key in my hand, the one she’s had all this time. I put it into my pocket and say, ‘I’ll give the key back to Sylvie and explain how I got it. Thanks for your help.’

  Nanda nods but doesn’t dare ask for the key back. I’d hoped she wouldn’t, but if that failed I still had the key from the kitchen drawer.

  I follow Nanda into the hall and say goodbye. As I descend the stairs, I hear her go upstairs and, a few seconds later, she locks her front door. For form’s sake, I open the outside door and let it slam shut again. Then I go back upstairs and open Sylvie’s door.