Shadow Sister

by Simone Vlugt

  ‘Here then?’ I’d ask.

  Elisa would close her eyes and shake her head, or she’d nod and smile. Usually she’d point out the places we could carry on unbothered.

  ‘Here is all right, those people like us to be here,’ she’d say then.

  That was the kind of comment I was used to. When we were babies, Elisa was calmer and more serious. She would lie calmly in the playpen and could spend so much time just looking around that you almost forgot about her. She’d often stare at a fixed point, her face screwed up in surprise; other times she’d chuckle with delight and reach her hands out towards nothing in particular.

  I believe she had imaginary friends even back then.

  49.

  I don’t spot them at first. It’s another sunny Monday morning, much too nice to spend trapped in the school building, and I park my car reluctantly. I still haven’t decided whether to tell my colleagues about the threatening letter, and I cross the car park thinking about it. It’s not until I enter the playground that I see the cameras; they flash in my face and a journalist comes up to me and shoves a microphone under my nose.

  ‘Mrs Salentijn, could I ask you something? According to our sources, a student held a knife to your throat last week, and at the weekend you received a threatening letter. Is that right?’

  I’m so flabbergasted I begin to stutter. ‘H-how do you…’

  Wrong! Of course I should have said, ‘No comment,’ and hurried inside. Instead, I’d admitted it right away, and the cameras begin to flash again. To my amazement, I think I see Thomas standing behind them. What is he doing here?

  I ignore the reporter, who fires a new round of questions at me, and walk towards Thomas. He gives me a sheepish smile, gets into his car and drives off.

  That prick! How could Elisa have been stupid enough to have told Thomas about it? I reach for my mobile to call her, but the reporter asks, ‘Could you tell us exactly what happened on the morning concerned? And have you ever been attacked by a student before?’

  ‘No comment,’ I snarl and move on. Clusters of students divide to let me pass and strike poses for the photographer. As I hurry up the steps to the main entrance, I glance back over my shoulder and see that the students are also under fire.

  With a deep sigh I go inside and prepare myself for the storm. And it hits.

  The staffroom falls silent as I enter, and then everyone starts at once. How in god’s name could I have been so stupid? They’d expected a bit more discretion from me. I’ve disappointed them. Hadn’t I stopped to think that this wasn’t just about me but about the entire school?

  I do my very best to make it clear that I haven’t blabbed, that I didn’t go looking for publicity in any way, that I’m just as surprised as they are, but it’s no use. Only one person seems to believe me and gives me a sympathetic look, the rest just keep on going.

  Jan van Osnabrugge walks into the fray and the attention turns to him. Jan lifts up his arms, like a Roman senator trying to calm a restless crowd.

  ‘Silence please! You’ve all noticed the commotion. Unfortunately we’ve drawn the attention of the media, but if we all ignore them, their interest will lessen. I’ve refused them entrance to the school building and staff are doing their best to keep the press away from the students. Go to your classes and try to avoid saying anything if the students ask questions. We need to avoid internal unrest at all costs.’

  We listen and nod. Quite a few of my colleagues continue to stare at me and I don’t have the strength to stare back at them. I look at Jan and nod clearly a couple of times to show that I completely agree with him, and that I’m a victim of this too. The result is a volley of scornful looks, grimly set mouths and whispering.

  The bell goes and we disperse. I go towards Jasmine and Luke, who are standing talking in a corner, but Jan stops me.

  ‘Lydia, I’d like to have a quick word with you,’ he says.

  ‘There’s not much to say, Jan,’ I answer. ‘We can cover it in one sentence. No, I didn’t go to the press. I was just as surprised as everyone else.’

  ‘Shocked would be a better word,’ Jan comments. ‘Have you any idea how I felt when I saw that photographer standing there?’

  My resignation makes way for anger and I look Jan in the eye. ‘Have you any idea how I felt when they all came rushing at me, Jan? Have you any idea how I felt when I found a threatening letter on my doormat on Saturday afternoon?’

  ‘A what?’ Jan queries, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘An anonymous letter. A genuine threat, in cut-out letters,’ I say.

  Colleagues are standing around us eavesdropping. Jasmine and Luke join me.

  ‘Come on, we’ll discuss this in my office.’ Jan grabs me by the elbow, but I pull free.

  ‘No, let’s discuss it here. Of course we don’t want any internal unrest, but I’d rather that everyone knew what was happening to me. On Saturday afternoon I bumped into Bilal and his friends in town. I was able to shake them off by jumping on a bus and asking the driver to shut the doors on them. When I got home there was an anonymous letter on the mat. YOU ARE A WHORE. I WILL KILL YOU, it said. I took it to the police station because I was terrified. Jan, this can’t go on. This is not an isolated incident, something has to be done about this.’

  ‘I see.’ Jan strokes his chin. ‘I can’t blame you for reporting it. It’s gone quite far, indeed. Where is the letter now? Can I see it?’

  ‘I’m not trying to press charges, I just reported it and the police have got the letter. It’s going to be checked for fingerprints,’ I answer.

  ‘So if it goes well, they’ll be arriving soon at the school to take Bilal’s fingerprints. The press will love that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  ‘Hang on! You’re sorry? Why in god’s name? What could you have done about it?’ Luke butts in. ‘The school should be sorry that this has happened to you and that it can’t give you better protection. Let’s talk about that!’

  There are a few mutters of agreement around the room, but I’m not sure from whom.

  ‘There’s something to be said for that,’ Jan responds. ‘And if I’d known about this anonymous letter earlier, Lydia, I would have come along to the police with you. Don’t think I’m blaming you, because I’m not. I just don’t understand why you had to get the press involved. What did you think you’d achieve by that?’ He gives me a look of incomprehension and I stare back, speechless.

  ‘I didn’t get the press involved! Why would I?!’

  ‘I’m asking myself the same question,’ Jan says as he turns around and leaves the staffroom.

  50.

  I haven’t even entered the classroom when I realise that I’m not going to be able to do much teaching. The clamour and arguing meets me in the corridor and as I stand in the doorway, I see that the class has divided itself into two camps – Funda’s and Ismael’s.

  Funda is supported by her gang of female friends, Ismael is being egged on by a group of jeering boys. That’s half of the class, the other half is made up of silent but interested spectators, standing on chairs to get a better view. The children have clearly missed the fact that there are journalists outside the school, or they’re not interested because they’re wrapped up in their own problems.

  ‘I’m going to tell your dad, Ismael! And when he hears what you’ve been saying, he’s going to break your legs!’ Funda threatens shrilly.

  Ismael’s reply is lost in the boys’ gibing. I pull my students apart and raise my voice, ‘All right, what’s going on here?’

  ‘Miss, Miss! Do you know what Ismael said to Funda? You have to hear!’ The girls press around me, their eyes wide with scandal. ‘He really can’t say that, Miss! You have to do something about it!’

  ‘Quiet,’ I say, my hand raised in the air. ‘What is going on? Funda, tell me what the problem is.’

  ‘I was just walking across the playground with Rose and Naima,’ Funda cries out. ‘And when we went past the boys, Ismael shoute
d, “Hey, look at that tasty slut!” And it’s not the first time. He’s been saying it to me all day and I’m sick of it!’

  She goes to punch Ismael who nimbly avoids the attack and sticks up his middle finger. His friends laugh and the girls hiss back.

  I sigh. A headache is on its way, complete with rolling drums and waving banners. I’m surrounded by accusing brown eyes and high voices that reverberate inside my skull.

  ‘Anyone who doesn’t shut up and go back to their seat in the next minute is going to get thirty lines,’ I say, without raising my voice.

  My words are lost in the tumult, so I put up a chalk and write in large capitals on the blackboard. WRITE THE FOLLOWING LINES.

  They are the magic words. The threat buzzes through the room and before I know it, everyone is back in their place. I’d prefer to just get on with the lesson, but I know that it’s not practical. The children are all worked up, they won’t be able to concentrate. I look at them sitting at their desks giving each other dirty looks and then glancing over at me. There’s nothing for it, we’ll have to address this. I could talk to the two ringleaders, but it would be better to discuss this as a class. The problem isn’t just between Funda and Ismael.

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘What happened exactly, Funda?’

  ‘Ismael insults me every day. He calls me “chickie” and “slut” and other things and if he does it again…’ She throws daggers at Ismael who responds with an air kiss. His friends laugh, but not as loudly as before.

  I give Ismael a stern look until the smile slides from his face.

  ‘Why did you insult Funda, Ismael? You’ve got a sister, haven’t you? How would you like it if a group of boys called her a slut?’

  Ismael looks at me for a couple of seconds and produces an apologetic grin. ‘Aw, Miss, it’s just street talk. I’m not insulting Funda. That’s how we talk to each other. We’re always hustling chicks.’

  ‘According to the Koran, women deserve respect,’ Funda calls out. ‘And if Ismael calls me that one more time, I’m going to tell my brother. You know what will happen then.’ She juts out her chin and looks around the class; there are nods. Clearly Funda’s brother has quite a reputation.

  I rest my arms on the table and lean towards the class. ‘You know what, I don’t understand you lot. There’s so much trouble in the world, in the Netherlands, in Rotterdam. There are so many problems between white people and immigrants, between Muslims and non-Muslims. You’re all Muslims. What’s the world coming to when you fly at each other’s throats? What does that achieve?’

  There’s a moment of silence in the classroom.

  ‘Miss, you’re right.’ Yussef says. Yussef has stayed back a year and is older than the rest. He’s been a calming influence over the other students right from the start. ‘It’s not right to say those kinds of things. Women deserve respect. The Koran says that, it’s true. Women are the bearers of new life, they’re important.’

  He doesn’t address Ismael, but it’s clear who he’s talking to. I smile at him. Thank you, Yussef, dear Yussef, my beacon in this stormy class.

  Everyone is nodding now. Ismael gazes around, sees his support dwindling and backs down, giving Funda a crooked smile.

  ‘I was just messing, Funda. It won’t happen again, all right?’

  Funda nods.

  ‘Fine.’ I come out from behind my desk with a smile and stand in front of the board. ‘Then I propose that we look at spelling for the rest of the lesson.’

  51.

  ‘Were they at it again?’ Jasmine is waiting for me in the corridor at the end of the morning and a single glance at my face tells all.

  It’s nice to share these things with a colleague, particularly with Jasmine. I can discuss every trifle with her because she teaches the same children and has to deal with the same problems, big and small.

  We enter the staffroom discussing the many Ismaels in this school and join the queue for the coffee machine.

  When it’s our turn, we fill our cups with coffee and sit down at the long table in the middle. ‘What a shame you’d already taken that anonymous letter to the police. I’d have liked to have seen it,’ Jasmine says.

  ‘Who knows, perhaps I’ll get another one!’

  ‘I hope not, but why didn’t you bring it to school first? Of course I believe that you got one, but some people have their doubts.’

  I’ve just taken a salami sandwich out of my lunchbox, but Jasmine’s words ruin my appetite. ‘What? Do they think I made it up? But that’s ridiculous. Why would I do that?’

  Jasmine lays a calming hand on my arm. ‘Not everyone thinks that, and I certainly don’t. But there are a few colleagues who doubt you received a letter.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask, hearing my voice shake. ‘Why on earth would I make something like that up? To have a reason to go to the police? If I’d wanted to go nothing would have stopped me – I already had reason enough!’

  ‘I know that,’ Jasmine placates, ‘and deep down the others do too. The problem is that everybody is afraid of losing their job. There are going to be redundancies, especially now the press have got wind of this. It won’t do anything for the school’s reputation.’

  ‘I’m not out to drag the school’s name through the mud, but if I don’t get any support here, what do you expect? I can’t just drop this, can I?’

  ‘Cut the comedy, won’t you,’ a voice says behind me.

  I turn around and see Nora, her eyes glittering, her mouth pulled into a small strip.

  ‘Pardon?’ I say with raised eyebrows.

  Nora takes up position on the other side of the table and glares at me. ‘As if none of us have ever had to handle something similar. If every teacher went to the police at the drop of a hat, we’d have to shut down the school. But you, you’re a rich kid, you’d be all right waiting at home for another job to come along.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ I cry out. ‘I don’t want another job.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ Nora bites back. ‘It’s always the same with you and your big mouth. It’s attention seeking! You never stop to think that there are people in this school who depend on their jobs for survival.’

  I give her a scornful look. ‘I don’t care what you think, Nora. It’s a waste of energy discussing things with people like you.’

  Nora opens her mouth to reply, but I don’t give her the chance. I grab my stuff and leave the staffroom before I say something indefensible. Jasmine comes after me.

  ‘Don’t take it to heart, she’s crazy. Shall we go for a drink after school?’

  I shake my head. I’ve had it up to here with this whole school.

  At three o’clock when I get into a car that feels like an oven, I wouldn’t be surprised if my head actually exploded. When Valerie and I arrive home, I check the doormat right away but there’s nothing there. No letters, no anonymous letters. In contrast, there are twelve messages flashing on my answering machine and when I play them back, they all turn out to be from the press.

  ‘Good afternoon, this is the Rotterdam Daily News. Is it correct that…?’

  ‘Mrs Salentijn, The Times would like to interview you. Would you call us back?’

  ‘This is a message from RTL 4, we’d like to check a few facts…’

  It doesn’t stop, and just when I’ve listened to all the messages with growing astonishment, the telephone goes again. I look at the display – it’s my sister.

  ‘Elisa!’ I snap. ‘Why did you tell Thomas what happened? I told you in confidence. There were journalists waiting for me at school this morning!’

  ‘I didn’t tell Thomas anything. Only that you had a few problems at school, but I didn’t say what they were,’ Elisa retorts.

  ‘Well, he was there waiting for me with his camera! How do you explain that?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Elisa shouts in the same tone. ‘I didn’t tell him. Calm down, will you?’

  ‘Who else did you tell?’ I ask. It’s not meant to be an acc
usation, but it comes across as one, I realise. Elisa takes it the wrong way.

  ‘If I remember correctly, we talked to Mum and Dad about it yesterday,’ she says coolly. ‘Perhaps you should start by asking them why they called the press.’

  I’m silent for a while as I look at the answering machine with all its insistent requests. I delete them with a single press of a button. I wish I could do the same with the unsettling feeling I’m getting. Someone told the press, but who?

  ‘Please don’t take it the wrong way, but did you really not tell anyone else? Could anyone have overheard one of our phone calls?’ I ask.

  ‘Sylvie knows about it,’ Elisa says. ‘She came by when you were at mine, remember? But she only knew about the threats in the classroom. I didn’t tell her anything about a letter. I couldn’t have either, I didn’t even speak to her this weekend.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I say in exhaustion.

  ‘Perhaps it came from the police,’ Elisa proposes. ‘You know how those balls get set rolling. And good god, the whole school knew about it too!’

  That’s true, it’s probably impossible to find out who blabbed. ‘Sorry that I started shouting at you.’

  ‘You’re stressed, I understand that.’

  Her generosity makes me feel guilty, but I’m too tired to talk about it further. ‘If you don’t mind, I’m going to hang up. I’ve got a thumping headache and all I want to do is sink into a hot bath,’ I sigh.

  ‘Enjoy it.’

  52.

  As soon as I’ve climbed into my bubbles, the telephone rings again. Not just once, but four times within a quarter of an hour. Valerie is in her room playing with her cuddly toys and her imaginary friend and comes to the bathroom.

  ‘Mummy, the telephone keeps ringing,’ she says.

  ‘I can hear it, darling,’ I say. ‘Just let it ring. Mummy doesn’t feel like talking.’

  She disappears back into her bedroom. I smile as I hear her playing with her Barbies.