A Hundred Hours of Night

by Anna Woltz

  I feel sick.

  Could it be true? Has my dad really been locked up in his own capsule all that time without me noticing?

  Bastiaan strokes his stubbly head. “Juno goes on like that for two pages. She pours out everything she can remember about your dad’s confessions. As if she wants to prove that what they had was really special.” He sighs. “But maybe she’s just making half of it up. That’s always possible.” He looks up from the screen and frowns. “Is it true that your mom sometimes goes a bit wild? That she cuts her paintings to ribbons and that your dad has to give her a sedative?”

  I can feel the cold barrel of the gun again.

  And at the same time I can picture the ragged pieces of canvas. Sometimes she just cuts away wildly, until all that’s left is scraps. But sometimes she slices the canvas into beautiful strips. I used to roll them up to make colorful bandages for my teddy bear. It’s not true, by the way, that it’s always my dad who has to give her sedatives. I’ve known for years where she keeps her pills.

  Seth finally comes out of the restaurant. He’s walking quickly.

  “Let’s go,” he says, but I don’t go anywhere. This journalist is talking about my life and I have to know what happens next.

  “Is it true that you suffer from OCD?” asks Bastiaan. He’s still speaking Dutch. “Juno says your dad is worried, but that the therapy hasn’t worked. She says your hands … ”

  I see his eyes wander and I hide my hands behind my back.

  He nods understandingly. “Your dad also told Juno how difficult it is to be tied down. To wake up every morning and to know you have a job and a mortgage and a wife and a daughter, and that you’ll never be free. That you’re a prisoner.”

  I know what this Bastiaan guy is doing, but suddenly I don’t care. I’ve had enough.

  “Seriously?” I say. “First that asshole says he’s floating all alone among the stars and then he complains about being tied down? And he’s supposed to be a math teacher? The man has a PhD in logic!” My voice is getting louder. “Does that loser really think he’ll never be free of me and my mom? Well, I can put his mind at rest. If he wants, he can be as free as a bird!”

  Seth takes hold of my arm.

  “Come on,” he whispers urgently. “I thought you didn’t want to speak to this guy?”

  I pull myself away.

  “Why is everyone allowed to talk except me?” I shout in English. “Why do I have to run away and hide while the rest of the world is ranting away on Twitter? While Juno is giving an interview?” My cat tail is whipping furiously back and forth. The headband with the ears is digging viciously into my scalp. “What the hell was that moron thinking? Wasn’t it enough to lust after some seventeen-year-old? Did he really have to talk to her as well?”

  “Emilia … ” says Jim.

  “Just let me lose it! What difference does it make anyway? Everyone already knows all about my wretched life.”

  “Sure, you can lose it,” says Jim quietly, “but wouldn’t it be better to do it without a journalist around?”

  “I don’t understand,” Abby says. “Who was lusting after a seventeen-year-old? Is lusting the same as fucking?”

  “Be quiet, Abby,” says Seth.

  Cars race past. Passersby just glance at us and then walk on. Maybe they think we’re doing some kind of performance piece, with all these costumes. I’m surrounded by a zombie, a witch, and a skeleton, but I know this isn’t a movie. This is real life.

  “So it’s all true? All the things Juno said?” asks Bastiaan. “She also said something about … ”

  “Just go away, man!” I yell as loud as I can. “Haven’t you heard enough already? I am really, really mad, just go write that in your newspaper. Emilia de Wit is yelling at the top of her lungs on a sidewalk in New York. She thinks the rest of the world needs to keep its mouth shut and that other people should mind their own business. If they have that much time on their hands, they can go help the hurricane victims!”

  I have never been so mad in my entire life. Until this point I was always a black hole. When I got angry, I imploded and thought I was going to die. But it’s different now. One day, I’m going to die. I know that. But not today. I have never felt so loudly, so luminously alive.

  “Is there perhaps something you’d like to say to Juno?” asks Bastiaan.

  “You still don’t get it, do you? If I want to say something to Juno, then I’ll do just that! I don’t need your help. And those people on Twitter are all twisted and messed up. Let them go tell their wives that they want to set our house on fire and they want to castrate my dad. Why should I read all that stuff online if they’re not going to do it anyway?”

  “We’re leaving,” declares Seth. He pulls Abby along with him, but when he sees I’m not coming, he stops again.

  I look at Bastiaan. “Now do you get it?”

  “Well … ”

  “Fuck all those idiots in the Netherlands! I live in New York, and I just survived a hurricane. That is my story.” I’ve been shouting so loud that I’m hoarse, but my voice isn’t trembling anymore. “I’ve dyed my hair and I’m wearing a costume. You see? I’m celebrating Halloween! These clothes have been rotting away in a dress-up box for years, and I haven’t showered since Monday morning, so it looks like I’m doing okay with my OCD. I just flew to New York all on my own. That is my story.”

  He rubs his stubbly head. “So when did you … ”

  I glare at the sprout farmer and decide the conversation is over.

  “Just fuck off,” I say, and I start walking.

  We’ve split up. The zombie and the witch have taken a taxi home. Abby was so tired she could barely stand, and Jim’s finger felt as if he’d just sawed through it.

  Seth was already at the open taxi door when I shook my head.

  “You guys just go! No way I could sleep now anyway. I need to walk.”

  He looked at me and gave his sister the house keys and a twenty-dollar bill. Then he closed the yellow door and stayed behind with me on the sidewalk.

  And so now here we are, walking. It’s half past ten at night, but that’s not even bedtime for babies in New York. Cars stand in a line, honking their horns, cameras are flashing, the city is buzzing, and I feel like I could run a marathon. I could kick down fences, climb a building, or perform in one of those musicals where you have to sing and dance at the same time.

  I remember when I first read about supernovas. That’s what it’s called when a star explodes. It doesn’t quietly disintegrate; we’re talking about an extreme explosion that shines with the light of a billion suns. When I read the words, I tried to imagine what that must feel like: the light of a billion suns.

  And now I know.

  “Which newspaper does that journalist write for?” Seth suddenly asks.

  The sound of his voice makes me jump, because I’ve been acting as if he doesn’t exist for the past fifteen minutes. As if there’s not a skeleton walking along beside me, as if he can’t see my two faces, as if I don’t care what he thinks of me.

  “No idea.”

  “But he did tell you his name, didn’t he?” Seth stops. His face is the same color as the bones on his sweater. The muscles in his neck are taut. “If we can track down his boss, we can explain what happened. That the journalist was harassing you and that he didn’t have any right to interview you without your parents there. If we’re quick, we can make sure his article doesn’t … ”

  “Seth!” I look at him without blinking. “I don’t care. Let him write about me. I’m not scared anymore.”

  “Seriously?”

  “You have no idea,” I say slowly, “how wonderful it is not to keep my mouth shut for once.”

  He looks at me and I can see there are a thousand things he wants to say. But he doesn’t.

  The darkness is coming closer now. We walk past a brightly lit room of ATMs that’s packed with people. They’re lounging on the floor and perched on camping chairs, with laptops balanced on thei
r knees, and are surrounded by power strips and telephones and empty coffee cups. Two tourists are staring in at them. All that’s missing is a sign. “Homo sapiens, subspecies People of Darkness. Please do not knock on the glass.”

  “So we’re not going to do anything?” asks Seth. “We’re just going to let that guy do whatever he wants?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t regret it?”

  “No!”

  The billion suns are still burning away inside my stomach. I point at the fairy-tale tower with the eagles’ heads that I saw when I got off the bus on Friday. The tip of the tower is covered with golden scales of light now. “That’s my favorite building.”

  He doesn’t even look.

  “What is it with New York?” I cry. “I only have to look around, and I feel like I’m in love.” I stretch out my arms. “This is a hard, cold, unfair city—and still I’d give at least three fingers to live here.”

  He shoves his hands in his pockets and doesn’t say anything.

  “Stop being so difficult!” I yell at him. “As long as you hide away inside that capsule of yours, you’ll be unhappy. You understand that, don’t you? One thing’s for sure: You’ll never have any fun in there.”

  His eyes are dark. “Like you’re having so much fun out there.”

  “Today I am!”

  “Seriously? You thought today was fun?”

  I think about it and realize that I’ll never forget today. When I’m thirty and fifty and eighty, I’ll still remember the details. Waiting next to a power outlet in an icy-cold, drafty corridor. Checking my emails, surrounded by People of Darkness. The four of us eating in extreme hipster cool. Yelling as loud as I could and having no regrets.

  “So didn’t you think it was fun?” I ask. “Would you rather have gone to school? Would you have preferred to stay at home alone in your bedroom?”

  “That’s lame. When you put it like that … ”

  “But that’s how it is! You just don’t see it, through that fogged-up porthole of yours.”

  We cross the street and head into the City of Darkness. The dark is a little less overwhelming than yesterday. Police officers with lights are standing at the intersections, and there’s some kind of firework lying on the street that doesn’t go bang but gives off a fountain of red sparks. I’m glad they’ve realized that the streets are lethal here without stoplights.

  But then we pass Union Square and it’s suddenly just as dark as it was yesterday. No police, no red fireworks, nothing. Does Mayor Bloomberg think it’s good enough if just the residents to the north of Union Square survive? Are the people who live here more easily dispensable?

  “It’s totally dead down here.” Seth looks around. “The only people still here are the ones with nowhere else to go.”

  “Well, it just so happens there’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” I say.

  I hear him laugh quietly.

  “How could I forget? You’re having the time of your life.” He clears his throat. “But you’re right. I’m glad Abby and I aren’t staying with Bridget. If this has to happen, I want to be here to see it.”

  We walk slowly. Sometimes we stop and look up. There’s something magical about it, this metropolis in the dark. It’s cold and absolutely silent, except for the occasional siren in the distance. Dark as pitch, the houses stand out against the sky. Up on the flat roofs are wooden water towers: colossal cylinders on legs, looking ominous in the night.

  I breathe in so deeply that I feel the cold tingling in my belly and I can’t help but think about the things my dad said to Juno. About him being so lonely. About waking up every morning with the feeling that he’s tied down.

  I can imagine loneliness very well, but not being tied down forever. I’ve known for years that I’m going to move out as soon as I’ve done my final school examinations. I don’t have to live in the same house as them for the rest of my life. I try to imagine how I would feel if I knew that this would never stop. My life as it is now. That this was it. Exactly the same, until my death.

  “Where are your mom and dad staying, by the way?” Seth suddenly asks.

  I sigh. “With friends. They wanted to book a hotel, but everywhere’s full of movie stars who have escaped the darkness. So they’re staying with some famous sculptor. In the light, of course.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I’m going to stay with you guys.” He can’t see that I’m looking at him. “At least if you’ll let me … ”

  He kicks something.

  “Fine by me,” he says neutrally. “And I’m sure my mom won’t mind. She should finally be able to get a flight tomorrow.”

  Their mom. I’d been so busy thinking about my own mom and dad that I’d forgotten all about her. Then it hits me. The adults are suddenly closing in from every direction. My mom and dad are already in the city, and their mom will be here soon. In twenty-four hours everything will have changed.

  I clench my fists, because I don’t want this to stop. It’s crazy, but I want to live in our hurricane shelter with Seth and Abby and Jim forever. I want to count the hours of daylight and wonder if we have enough drinking water. I’m disgustingly filthy and the bacteria are crawling all over me, but I’m walking here with Seth and, as long as it’s dark, we belong together.

  I’m not scared anymore, I’d said, but that’s only true when Seth is looking out at me through his fogged-up porthole. When Jim is telling me about mortgage debt, and when I can sleep next to Abby at night. When the Netherlands is six thousand kilometers away. And when grown-ups keep their noses out of my life.

  But tomorrow I’m going to see my dad again. And when I think about that, I’m actually scared to death.

  When I open my eyes the next morning, Abby is looking at me.

  “Are you still mad at me?” she whispers. “Because of that message on Twitter?”

  I groan. In a few hours’ time, I’ll see my dad again. I wish I hadn’t woken up.

  “Remember, you told me to memorize your last name,” Abby says miserably. “And I wanted everyone to know who you were!”

  “It’s okay.” I sigh. “People are allowed to know who I am.”

  We eat chili con carne for breakfast. There’s one clean pot left, and we use it to heat up the contents of two cans. The heat of the stove is welcome, as the apartment’s getting colder by the day. The man with the wild eyes in Union Square was right: It’s going to freeze.

  I wear rubber gloves at breakfast. Abby doesn’t. We both notice but don’t say anything. We’ve become a machine with cogs that fit together perfectly. I give the others some wipes to clean off the rest of the face paint. After four pees, we throw a big bucket of water from the bathtub down the toilet. We fill our bags with chips, chargers, and the last bottle of mineral water, and we head north.

  We walk quickly to keep warm, puffing clouds of steam into the morning air. I don’t tell the others how scared I am, but I don’t have to. When one cog’s stiff with nerves, the others feel it. I know I can’t put it off any longer. I have to see my mom and dad today. They’re here now, and anyway I’ve had enough. I don’t want to hide anymore.

  So, as soon as I have a signal, I arrange a meeting. By text message, of course. My mom and dad want to see me at the Frick Collection at one p.m. Nora Quinn clearly doesn’t waste any time: By the end of the day she’ll not only be able to check off her daughter, but also the most beautiful museum in the city.

  “What now?” Abby asks me. “You don’t need to be there until one … ”

  I don’t have to think about it. “The bookstore. I need Wi-Fi.”

  The others nod.

  Inside the warm bookstore, we plunk down in our own aisle. I start Googling right away, because I have to find out if there’s anything online about a shrieking Emilia de Wit. When I look up, the others are staring at me. Abby knows all about my dad now too. After yesterday evening, I could hardly keep it a secret.

  I find Bastiaan Breedveld’s article str
aightaway. There’s a link to Abby’s photo on Twitter, and at first I can’t look at anything else. A skeleton, a bright green witch, and a cat are all looking into the camera with great big confident grins.

  And that superconfident cat is me.

  The last time I saw an expression like that on my face was in my passport: I look like I’m really excited about the rest of my life. But the photo on Twitter isn’t from four years ago—it’s from yesterday evening. Fourteen hours ago, I looked like that.

  “Is it a disaster?” asks Seth.

  I finally stop staring at myself and start reading the article.

  Okay, so I’m yelling on a sidewalk in New York. Bastiaan makes a big deal out of the passersby who stop to stare and the honking yellow cabs. There’s plenty of cursing from me, and a few of the quotes aren’t right. But for the first time in my life I’m not invisible anymore.

  All my classmates and my teachers—and Juno—are going to read this. While they were at school, I was celebrating Halloween with my American friends. I have an opinion, I’m stamping my feet in the best city on Earth, and Bastiaan says my cat costume is “elegant.”

  “What did he write? What did he write?” Abby asks impatiently.

  I hold up my cell phone and show them the photo. “That’s how I want to be.”

  “Well, that’s how you are,” says Jim. “I’m sometimes a bit less green, but you always look like that, don’t you?”

  “Not all the time,” says Seth. “But often enough.”

  I look down at my hand. All that’s left of my nasty cut is a long, thin scab.

  So my dad’s going to have to read online what his daughter was yelling about him on the street yesterday. About him lusting after a seventeen-year-old. I have no idea what I’m going to say when I see him.

  And then I sigh, because the solution is perfectly simple. I just have to yell at him, “Hello? What you did is way, way worse!” And I can scream that a hundred times, for a few years, until I’m eighteen and can leave home.