“It’s okay, Dad, we can walk. The way Mom’s wrapped me up I’d survive the Niagara Falls.”
But Mr. Rozenberg wouldn’t budge. “Far too dangerous,” he said. “Especially with that road by the tennis courts. You know what happened to Uncle Henk.”
“I’m not allowed to do anything,” Splinter said when the car pulled up outside school, his shoulders sagging. “And he’s right, I can’t do anything. A little arm wrestling will crush me. I’ll never be able to join the navy.”
Jack-assing was out of the question, quoting Ma Rozenberg. I thought she spoiled the fun. I mean, Splinter wanted so much. Why deny such a one the rare moments that make life worth living?
So when I spent the afternoon racing along a country lane in a go-kart borrowed off our neighbors (they were on holiday and technically speaking hadn’t given me permission, but hadn’t refused it either) and he timidly asked if he could have a go, I couldn’t refuse. I ran home to fetch rope and cushions. I tied his hands to the wheel, his legs to the frame and his torso to the seat, so that he couldn’t blow it by tumbling out. Everywhere his body touched the kart I stuffed cushions.
Splinter stepped on it and off he went. His body jerked about like a dummy. For an instant I was afraid I’d made the biggest mistake of my life, that he’d be catapulted out of the kart and shatter into a million crystals. But it held. His screaming laughter rang out above the throbbing petrol engine and over the fields.
It was a moment I’ll never forget. Splinter was ecstatic, and you know what? I got tears in my eyes. Call me a sissy, I don’t give a fuck. For the first time in my life I felt something other than indifference going through my veins. It felt like I’d done something that mattered. I might not know what I looked like, but I’d given somebody a spark of happiness. Whenever I think back to Splinter, that’s how I see him: tied up in his kart and covered in cushions, his face illuminated by a watery spring sun reflecting off the visor of his helmet. He was one of a kind, trust me. He even had it in him to blow up the sun.
Finally, he got back, and I was applauding like a madman. “Wow Schumacher! You were fucking faster than the speed of light, you freak!”
When I yanked the helmet off his head he threw me a dazed smile. “That was by far the sickest thing I’ve ever done.”
“You did it!”
“Yeah, only it didn’t all go right,” he said calmly.
“What’s that, man, you—”
“Seriously. Have a look at my neck; something’s not quite right.”
Suddenly I got scared. I did as he asked. Initially everything seemed fine; then I saw. Just above his collarbone and the neck of his T-shirt. A tiny star.
“Fuck.”
“It was a pebble, I think. I heard it bounce off.” He frowned and turned his head from left to right as if he’d pulled a muscle. Then we heard a crack. His eyes widened and my heart sank. The star had gotten bigger and small veins had appeared in the glass.
“Freeze,” I said as I began to untie the ropes with trembling hands. I choked back panic, cursing myself. What was I thinking? I should never have let him have a go on that thing. But Splinter disagreed and took my hand, forcing me to look him in the eyes. He wouldn’t have missed it for the world, he said, and would be eternally grateful, no matter what.
I rushed him to the ER. The attending doctor didn’t know glass, so after a phone call he summoned us to his car. I thought he was taking us to the Amphia hospital. Instead we pulled up in front of Auto Glass.
“Sweet Jesus on a stick,” the mechanic said at the sight of Splinter. “We’ve had someone come in with a glass mannequin before, but we turned them away.”
The operation was done in no time, although I was shitting bricks as I watched the mechanic’s rough hands seal the star-shaped crack. He polished Splinter’s neck with something that sounded like a dentist’s drill. The man did a first rate job: it didn’t leave a trace. When the mechanic broached the issue of money, Splinter explained that he wasn’t entitled to any healthcare insurance and that his parents would kill him if they found out what happened.
The mechanic shrugged and said: “Oh, bloody hell.” In fact I believe he was genuinely touched. “You spend your whole life waiting for a chance to resuscitate someone and save a life. And then you come along.”
“Don’t even think about heart massage,” Splinter said.
That evening we ate at my place. “The two of you are having a little too much fun for my taste,” Mom said as she was serving dinner. Splinter and I looked at each other and bit our lips. He’d promised to carve me up if I told anyone where he’d been repaired; that indignity was just too great. We’d been plagued by erratic laughter all afternoon. My parents were cool with it, just glad that I wasn’t a complete sociopath.
“Say, Splinter,” Dad said, “what do you want to be when you grow up?”
“A mirror,” I said before Splinter had a chance to open his mouth.
“Look!” Mom said. “You don’t joke about that. You ought to know.”
“Oh, but he’s right you know,” Splinter said innocently. “Sounds cool to me, hanging in a department store, nicely framed. Any other job and I’ll break anyway.”
I sang: “Auto Glass repair, Auto Glass replace...”
We roared with laughter. Mom shook her head and said: “Hopeless. Sometimes I just don’t get the two of you.”
No, she didn’t get the two of us. The reason is simple, and it’s something that parents just don’t understand. When Jord Hendriks & Co. take the piss out of you, it’s a drag. When the world treats you like a sickness, it’s embarrassing. But when your parents treat you like you’re made of glass, it leaves permanent damage. Splinter and I needed each other. We needed to take the piss out of each other, to have a good laugh at ourselves. If you weren’t laughing, you’d be crying.
That spring Splinter got miserable. I don’t know if the go-kart incident had anything to do with it or whether it was just puberty. The sudden change caught me off-guard. He’d always been upbeat. Overnight, his eyes glazed over. Sometimes I worried that he might follow in the footsteps of that cousin of his, the one who’d gone looking for happiness within.
“What’s the point of it all?” he said as we were lying by the canal; me with my hands locked behind my head, my elbows up in the air; him with his arms half-stretched alongside his body as he couldn’t bend them any further. I knew what Splinter meant: everything. The murmuring water, the dragonflies, the brilliant sunshine. He meant life.
We’d played Ghost Ship for a while; me the ghost, he the ship. It was a game we’d sometimes do. Splinter would undress and lie down in the canal. In the reflecting water he was virtually invisible. I would stand beside an old fisherman who’d nodded off and stare into space. Splinter would then tug at the bait to wake them. First they would see their reflection in the water, then me, then not me in the water. They thought they were seeing a ghost. Next thing I would point like a zombie at the canal, as Splinter rose from the water and hauled himself ashore, groaning The Grudge-style.
They always run off screaming. It’s the way to get hold of rods and bait.
“My grandpa took me to the sea once,” Splinter said. “My parents went nuts when they found out. I never stayed at grandpa’s again. But you know, I had the time of my life. That’s what they didn’t get. We stayed until after sunset to see the sun sink into the sea. Did you know that the sun actually sinks into the sea? I’d kill to see that again.”
“Then I know where you ought to go,” I said. “Mom and Dad sometimes rent this cottage in Portugal. There’s no place where the sun sinks into the sea like over there.”
Splinter didn’t say a thing; didn’t have to. We were both thinking the same thing. He’d never get to see that sun and that sea. Sure, there was danger in any wobbly cobblestone, smashed tennis ball, or sweeping branch. But what about his parents? If you ask me, they were the biggest threat of all. The uneasy atmosphere was so strong you could taste it. You
could hear the awkward silences. Mr. and Mrs. Rozenberg were blind to their son’s dreams. In their effort to protect him, they neglected his happiness. I understood that they were afraid to say good-bye, but fearing his death they forgot to let him live.
That’s when I got the idea.
“You wanna chase that sun?”
He sat up and looked at me. “To... Portugal, you mean?”
I grinned. “You and me, buddy.”
“My parents...”
“Fuck your parents. Wanna see that sun or what?”
“As in... running away?”
“Nah, we’ll be back.”
His eyes began to shine. “Can we go out to sea if we do?”
“Whatever you like, man. It’s your party!”
Splinter laughed. “Fuck. Let’s do it.”
More was said, but that was the gist of it. I drew up the plan: “Tomorrow. Go to school, but skip class and wait behind the bike shed so your parents won’t know you’re gone until late afternoon. It will give us a head start. Leave your books at home and take some clothes. I’ll take care of the rest.”
He held out his hand. I squeezed it and his knuckles clinked. The only thing that made my smile waver was the touch of his maimed teaspoon finger.
Jord Hendriks entered the Boys room just before the first period bell. The door to the rear cubicle was outside the range of the mirror where he began fixing his hair, and he didn’t notice that it was ajar. I had taken off my t-shirt so the reflection wouldn’t betray me and tiptoed up to him until I was close enough to smell his shampoo. Jord was bleating some rap crap, with no rhythm or melody, ruffling his hair. Without a moment’s hesitation I grabbed his left pinky and planted my other hand firmly on his hip—just for fun.
Jord actually squealed; it was almost comical. He jerked and knocked the pot of gel to the floor. “Jesus!”
He turned round, red as a brick. I’d scared the shit out of the poor kid. His eyes fell on my half-naked body and he said: “What the fuck are you doing, faggot?”
“Looks crystal clear to me,” I said. “Holding up a mirror.” And with that I neatly broke his pinky. The crack sounded satisfying, but no more satisfying than the touch of his body against my skin had been.
We boarded the train in Roosendaal and changed in Antwerp for the high-speed Thalys to Paris. Flying wasn’t an option, because then we could be traced. Out on the streets, we had nothing to fear. I was world-famous, but nobody knew what I looked like. Folks like Splinter were rare, but hey, looks don’t kill. We paid for the train tickets with the Progressive Parish’s credit card, which I’d swiped from Dad’s wallet. I also withdrew the maximum amount with his debit card, before he could find out and have everything blocked.
As soon as we crossed the border, Splinter’s reservations vanished. He gazed out the window for hours with a running commentary on everything he saw: grain silos, different colored number plates, how the cows looked different in France. We played cards for fifty euro notes.
At the Gare du Nord we ate slices of pizza and considered what was up next. Splinter said he wanted to go all the way. He wanted adventure. He dumped his woollen jumper in the trash and swapped it for a t-shirt from a kiosk that read: Live Dangerously.
It was late when we hitched a ride. A scrawny Frenchman with dark glasses and an express delivery van stopped for us. Through the open window he said: “Where to, boys? You name it and I’ll take you.”
“How about Spain?”
He promised to take us to the border. Cities gave way to sloping fields. I wondered if my parents had found the note on my pillow. Don’t worry, I’ll be back. When you tell your parents “don’t worry” it’s a sure thing that they will, but luckily mine were fairly level-headed. No doubt Splinter’s parents would have warned the police the minute he hadn’t come home from school anyway, and my parents can put two and two together.
For the first time it dawned on me that I hadn’t just done it for Splinter. Running away, I mean. It was an adventure, but it was also something bigger than that. Splinter was looking for the sea. I was looking for myself.
When I woke up we were north of Bordeaux and it was dark.
We spent the night by the side of a gravel path, not far from the motorway. Wild blueberries grew along the shoulder. Splinter was exhausted and fell asleep in the truck; the delivery man and I sat outside watching shadows drift across the farmland. He talked about his job, about his wife and kids, and then said that he wanted to blow me for his pains. I let him do it. I leaned on my elbows, my head thrown back. I watched the world upside-down and in this position I listened to the crickets until I came. It wasn’t how I’d always imagined it would be. It meant more. It meant nothing.
When he sat up I told him that it was my turn. First he didn’t get my drift, and when he did, he protested. But my fingers had already found his belt buckle and soon my lips pressed against the warmth within.
“Er... hang on... what you’re doing now can get me in big trouble.”
I looked at him like he was nuts and said: “What you were doing earlier can get you in big trouble too.”
The delivery man groaned and grunted and tugged at my hair when he came, which hurt. His sperm tasted like tears and made me sad, but I still swallowed. And all this time the driver never mentioned the fact that the moonlight fell right through me. Perhaps he hadn’t even noticed.
His hands trembled as he smoked a cigarette and let me have a drag too. It was disgusting. Then he gathered up his stuff, pulled a drowsy Splinter out of the truck, and sped off. We had to walk all the way back to the motorway.
Three days later we reached our destination in Portugal. The second night we’d spent in a haystack and the third outdoors near a gas station. The truck driver had warned us about scorpions, but we didn’t see any.
Our destination was called Espelho de Agua, because legend has it that the sun and the sea are at their most beautiful there. At least one person knew the legend, and that was me. At least one person knew it was true. Espelho de Agua is on the west coast of the Algarve, and it smells of almond blossom, eucalyptus, and thyme, a heady scent that fills the air and reminded me of the times I’d been there with my parents. It’s a shame Splinter had no sense of smell. It adds so much.
We bought figs and freshly baked bolinhas at the market and wandered the village streets for a while. An old glassblower who was smoking in front of his shop fell to his knees and cried at the sight of Splinter. I smiled. That’s what the reunion of Geppetto and Pinocchio must have been like. When the man touched his glass face and arms, Splinter glittered with pride. The glassblower spoke just as much English as we did Portuguese—that is, not a word—but he insisted on showing us round his workshop. It was so jam-packed with all manner of glass objects that I felt like a stilt-walker in a room full of air bubbles.
Geppetto found it hard to let go and watched us till we got to the end of the street. He had caught a glimpse of a miracle. Tomorrow he’d think that it had all been a dream.
You didn’t see the sea until the very end.
The narrow path wound through a sweltering pine forest, and then all of a sudden it was there, calm and infallible and bright green, until it blurred and merged with the horizon. At first Splinter smiled, so delighted that I thought his face would split in two. Then his smile faded, leaving only awe. I saw the sun’s glare on the water reflected in his face.
“It’s bigger,” he said, as simple as that. “Bigger.”
We found a spot on the orange cliffs, far from the children playing football and sunbathing tourists. I fashioned our clothes and backpacks into a little bed on the barren soil. Then I stripped naked and lay down. After a moment’s hesitation Splinter followed my lead. Not because of the heat or to get a tan, but because he could. Given the chance to be free, you take it. Splinter was here now, shrugging off the last constraints of home.
I tan quickly. Whichever way I lie, the front and back always tan simultaneously.
�
�I read somewhere there’s birds flying more than 6,000 miles non-stop across the Pacific,” Splinter said, staring at the horizon. “From Alaska all the way down to the warm islands at the equator. They don’t take time to rest, eat or drink. They just fly on, for nine days. They know exactly where they’re going. I bet I could do the same. In a rowing boat, I mean, if I hit the right current. No one can go without food as long as me. Besides, I know the way. I know all about the sea.”
“Yeah, and half-way there you’ll be swallowed by a blue whale,” I said without opening my eyes.
“I always wondered why Geppetto was looking for Pinocchio at sea, when the whale gobbled him up,” Splinter said. “It doesn’t make sense. The movie never explains.”
“Send a complaint to Disney. Oh, and apply for a role in the sequel while you’re at it.”
Somewhere, a seagull cried.
Splinter rose on one elbow and said: “That glassblower was the first person in the world who ever thought I was beautiful.”
“That’s because he was senile.”
“Fuck off. Seriously. I’ve never kissed anyone, you know. How can a girl ever like me?”
“Try a glassblower,” I joked.
But Splinter was serious. “Look at me. Nobody finds me attractive. And I can’t blame them.”
I glanced over his body and shrugged. His body was all right, nothing special. There was only one problem. It was made of glass.
“Surely there must be some glass girls?”
“Have you seen any? Besides, I’m not hot for glass. I fancy skin.”
A grin appeared on my face. “You know, I’ve always wondered. Can you...?” I simulated jerking off with my hand.
“Oh sure,” Splinter said promptly. “I’m made of glass, but I’m anatomically correct. Good thing I can’t exert much pressure, so there’s no need to worry about squeezing something.”
I roared with laughter and rolled onto my stomach. Something stirred; fucking puberty. I thought about asking what he squirted, cum or molten glass. I didn’t—some things are better left to the imagination.
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