Which meant, of course, that any hope of finding a woman to share his life with was futile. He had no interest in boring women, and interesting women didn’t like nerds. So why was he thinking these thoughts in the first place? He’d made peace with his bachelorhood a long time ago and he certainly wasn’t looking to complicate his life.
It annoyed him that the image of the woman with the long gray curls kept popping into his mind. The subtle sway of her hips. The arch of her back when she had looked up at the gables. The way in which she had shielded her eyes from the sharp light, the little finger slightly raised above the rest of the slender hand.
Surely he had more important things to occupy his thoughts?
He went through the house with feather duster, vacuum cleaner and polisher, made sure that the water supply to the hydroponic system in the greenhouse was in order, watered his flowerbeds, pulled out a few weeds and tidied up. He swept the small patio and wiped down the outdoor furniture.
Eventually he gave it up as a bad job. Even while his hands were busy, his thoughts kept returning to all the unanswered questions that had been plaguing him since his conversation with Lieve. He made himself a cup of coffee and put the note with the names on the table in front of him.
Josefien Colijn. Cassandra—maybe Colijn. César—maybe Janssen. Tabia. Elijah.
No use trying to find out more about Tabia and Elijah. But Cassandra Colijn was a different story. Social media, he had realized yesterday in the Aula, held the answer.
Though he was registered on Facebook and Twitter, he did not use social media himself. He had liked the webpage of Ghent University and that was about it. It was just not his thing.
He entered Cassandra Colijn’s name. There was only one hit. A woman in Holland. He glanced briefly at the photograph. No, she was in her twenties. A daughter, maybe? But in Holland? He found a Cassandra Collin and a Cassandra Clare. Those were the only Cassandras whose last name began with C.
He fared no better on Twitter.
South African women took their husbands’ last names, he remembered. At her age she would surely have been married at least once. It was hopeless.
He was about to close Chrome, when he paused and went to LinkedIn. It was the only other social media platform where he was registered. He couldn’t quite remember why. Someone had pestered him on email to join, if he remembered correctly.
A number of Cassandras, but none from South Africa seemed a likely candidate.
A few Sandras showed up when he scrolled down. Cassies too. He typed Sandra Colijn in the search box. Thousands of Sandras, but no Colijn. He typed Cassie. No Colijn. Right at the bottom a Colijn. Caz.
He clicked on the link.
Caz Colijn. Stanford, South Africa. Translator. English to Afrikaans, Afrikaans to English. Editor and proofreader of fiction—Afrikaans and English. A BA degree in languages from a university in Potchefstroom and a string of diplomas for translation, editing, advanced language courses and so on. Mostly through Unisa. No photo. Numerous recommendations.
Should he send a request to join her network? No, rather not. Not now. First he had to consider whether he wanted to stir up another hornet’s nest. If it turned out to be her.
He went back to Facebook and then to Twitter, but there was no Caz Colijn. No photos. Except for a presence in her professional capacity on LindkedIn, the woman was as private as could be.
Could this Caz be Ammie’s daughter? As he had no idea how old she was or whether her full name was Cassandra, it was impossible to say. But it did seem significant that she was from South Africa.
In the course of his studies he had discovered that fact, background information and intuition often went hand in hand. Reliable information and extensive knowledge were at the top of the list, of course, but academic intuition and the odd stroke of luck sometimes played a significant role.
His intuition told him he had found the right Cassandra. But empirical evidence was all that counted. And that never came easily.
Luc closed the lid of his laptop and got up to make more coffee. He considered reading his book, but in the end he sat back down at his desk with a sigh and again studied the note with the names. As if it could make him any the wiser.
Fine. There was a Caz Colijn in South Africa, but was her real name Cassandra?
Josefien Colijn, if she was still alive, was probably also still in South Africa. He doubted that she would be using social media.
César Janssen might be dead, but at least he was Belgian. Would he have returned here, like Ammie? Left a trail?
He opened his laptop again and searched the name César Ronald Bruno Janssen. Moments later he drew a sharp breath.
More than four hundred and fifty thousand hits. Verdorie, couldn’t César have had a less familiar last name?
Most articles were about Pierre Jules César, the astronomer who had discovered helium, among other things. And then there was Ronald Janssen, the murderer who had confessed to three, but was suspected of fifteen murders, dating back to 1991, as well as twenty rape counts since 2001.
But he had been born in 1971. At best he could be related to the César Luc was looking for. Which was irrelevant.
If there was any information about César Ronald Bruno Janssen among this multitude of hits, it was going to be a near impossible task to find it.
César was probably older than Ammie. Though Luc doubted that Twitter or Facebook was an option, he gave it a try. Who was to say a man in his eighties couldn’t tweet?
There was a César Janssen after all. His profile was not visible but, judging by the few photos, he was young. There was also a Ronald Janssen in Holland—evidently a dog lover, who believed Sinterklaas’s assistant, Zwarte Piet, should remain black, despite the debate about racist implications that was currently raging. This Ronald appeared to be in his forties, at most.
Out of sheer desperation he entered “Josefien Colijn” on Facebook. Nothing. He erased Josefien and left Colijn. Cassandra Colijn, the same one from before, the one who was too young, and lived in Holland. Geertje Colijn, a housewife from Beverwijk in North Holland. Looked to be in her late sixties or even older. Tieneke Colijn, from Ghent, as it happened, could also be in her sixties, but the photo was blurred. The rest had Colijn as a first, not as a last name.
Geertje, he saw, had had a birthday on March 23. No one called Josefien had congratulated her.
The settings on Tieneke’s Facebook page were private. A few links shared by friends were all he could see. While he was looking, a new message appeared. A picture of a floral bouquet, with the message: Just heard of your mother’s passing. Sincere condolences. Please inform us of the funeral arrangements.
Okay, that was one time in your life when you didn’t deserve to get inquiries from strangers. He closed the page.
It was a lovely day he was spending indoors, poking his nose into other people’s tragedies. There were better ways to enjoy his last free weekend before the start of the academic year.
Yet he didn’t get up immediately. If Tieneke Colijn was in her sixties, her recently deceased mother had probably been in her late eighties. Could she have known the Colijn family who had emigrated to South Africa so many years ago?
He brought himself up short and got to his feet. Too late now, the old lady had passed on.
Ammie
Leuven
For the umpteenth time Ammie wished Luc had never visited her. Since then everything felt more muddled than before.
As if it wasn’t bad enough that she was haunted by the Congo, Jacq and Tobias’s ghosts had also risen again.
She kept dreaming of them. Dapper Jacq, dressed to the nines. The gray goatee trimmed just so. Every hair in its place. The tailored suit perfectly dry-cleaned, the tie precisely knotted. A weakness for Italian shoes.
And then there was Tobias, with the unkempt hair and bushy beard.
Overweight in faded denims and plaid work shirts. His big hands, rough and knobbly, that betrayed how he earned his bread.
Tobias had been a skilled cabinet-maker, but not a brilliant one, while Jacq had been a renowned professor, an expert in his field.
Initially she had admired Jacq’s intellect and could listen to him for hours. But to Tobias she could talk. Jacq was a gentle, careful lover. Tobias was passionate and enthusiastic.
But there was one quality the two of them shared. Neither had a drop of malice in their nature. Both were men with integrity. That was the difference between them and César. Probably between them and herself as well.
Combined, Tobias and Jacq represented the qualities she had loved in Elijah. When Elijah was on his way to a meeting, he was always impeccably dressed. At home he spent his time in khaki shorts and sandals. She could both listen and talk to him. Sometimes their lovemaking was gentle, sometimes passionate.
But Elijah was more than just a combination of Jacq and Tobias. He had a deep-rooted kind of wisdom that had nothing to do with academic knowledge. He was without pretension, yet a fully rounded person. There was something noble about him. He loved her with all his being, not just when it suited him.
His only failing was that he was so incredibly naive. That he believed in the goodness of humankind and God. That he could not see that some people were evil to the core and that God didn’t give a damn about the human race.
For that he had paid a heavy price. And so had she.
He almost had her convinced that everything would work out for the good. Especially after Patrice Lumumba became prime minister. And look what had happened.
If there were a God who cared about his creatures, he would have allowed Elijah to realize his potential. Patrice as well. Or He would at least have seen to it that the child she carried was Elijah’s.
And then Lieve wondered why she wanted nothing to do with God or the church.
Fourteen
Tuesday, September 23
Caz
Ghent
Protestant churches are in short supply in Belgium, Tieneke told Caz, as it is chiefly a Catholic country. The church Tieneke and Fien belonged to, where Fien’s memorial service would be held, was beautiful from the outside, with stained-glass windows, but inside it was without ornamentation and not very big either.
There was another Protestant church in Ghent, Tieneke said, the Rabot Church, but she and Fien hadn’t liked it when they returned to Ghent years ago and were looking for a spiritual home.
Fien disliked the fact that there were a number of black congregants, and especially that the church was in partnership with a church in Sharpeville. Evidently, anti-apartheid sentiments in the congregation had run high before 1994. Caz could imagine that it would have bothered Fien. She had been apolitical, but a racist.
The sober lifestyle advocated by the church they did join must have fitted her like a glove. To Fien, it was not just a case of cleanliness being next to godliness. Sobriety bordering on stinginess was the pinnacle of virtue and piety.
Years ago, Caz’s engagement ring had been a bone of contention. Extravagant and wasteful, Fien proclaimed when Caz proudly showed it to her. Ironic, if one took into account the barter agreement involving diamonds she herself had entered into.
The church was virtually empty. Only she and Tieneke, the minister, the undertakers, the notary and seven women of Tieneke’s age attended the service. Fien had survived all her contemporaries. The hymn they sang sounded thin, as if the domed ceiling were absorbing the sound, instead of amplifying it.
Caz could follow most of the service. With dry eyes she listened to the minister’s version of Josefien Colijn, the devout, humble Christian.
There was no sign anywhere of a sob or a tear.
After the sermon Tieneke thanked various people and said a few words about Josefien. She spoke about the good mother she had been and the good wife to Hans Colijn in earlier years. She made no mention of Caz, who was relieved rather than affronted.
After the service coffee and refreshments were served in a smaller reception room, but with so few mourners it was soon over.
When everyone had left, Tieneke came up to Caz. “The notary has some time to spare, as the service was so short. He has just asked me to come to his office for the reading of the will. Would you like to go home and pack? I can give you the key. You can take a bus.”
“I’ve just about finished packing. I’ll come with you and take a walk while you speak to the notary. You can text me when you’ve finished.”
“Fine. It’s close to Sint-Baafsplein and a number of other tourist attractions.”
When she got Tieneke’s message, Caz was sitting at a restaurant overlooking a fountain, with the impressive St Bavo’s cathedral to her left. She had just ordered a beer. Actually she was longing for a glass of wine, but a single glass cost as much as an entire bottle in the supermarket. It wasn’t Fien’s kind of tight-fistedness that held her back, but the fact that from the next day she would have to pay for her board. Her budget had taken a turn for the worse.
She sent Tieneke a message that she was at ’t Vosken, and realized the damn battery had to be charged again. It had become a daily nuisance.
From the way Tieneke came walking round the corner, Caz could see she was impatient.
“I want to get home,” she protested, sitting down opposite Caz.
The waiter appeared at once.
Tieneke looked at Caz’s almost full glass and chewed on her lower lip. “Kriek, please,” she decided, her cheeks slightly flushed.
“Kriek?” Caz asked.
“Cherry beer,” Tieneke answered tersely, wiping the sweat from her brow with a linen handkerchief.
Beer? Tieneke? Caz suppressed a smile. Only two hours after Fien’s funeral, and the new Tieneke had made her appearance.
“It was a nice service, don’t you think?” Tieneke remarked.
“Very nice.” Full of lies, unless the minister hadn’t known Fien at all. But she would rather not say it.
The waiter placed a goblet filled with deep-red beer in front of Tieneke.
She took a substantial sip. “Don’t look at me like that, the alcohol content is very low.” Caz noticed the slightly flushed cheeks again, as if the liquor was reflected in Tieneke’s face.
“May I have a sip?” Caz knew she was being deliberately annoying. It had been drummed into their heads during childhood that tasting another person’s food or drink was unhygienic.
Surprisingly, Tieneke nodded.
The beer was lovely. Not nearly as sweet as Caz had expected. “Wow, I think I’ve found a new favorite.” She wiped the rim of the glass with a napkin and pushed the glass across to Tieneke.
“Refreshing on a hot day,” Tieneke nodded.
“Did everything go according to plan at the notary’s office?”
“I saw to it that Mother’s affairs were in order a long time ago. It was just a formality. Once he was satisfied that you have no claim against the estate, the man wanted to reminisce about the old days. His grandfather and Mother’s father had known each other. His father assisted us when Mother inherited the house from my grandmother.”
The house Tieneke lived in at present, Caz assumed. The fact that Tieneke had said “my grandmother” didn’t go by unnoticed. Caz vaguely remembered there had been grandparents in Belgium. Also that Fien had taken a trip to Ghent to visit her parents when Caz was in high school.
What Caz found more interesting was Tieneke’s remark about the claim. Was that why she had wanted to make certain Caz knew she wasn’t Fien’s biological child? So that there could be no claim? Well, well, well.
Tieneke dug in her handbag and produced an envelope. “This is for you.”
Caz’s eyebrows shot up.
“It’s the key to a safe-deposit box and the details of
the bank where it is kept. Apparently Mother gave it to the notary for safekeeping years ago. Don’t get too excited. It only contains two awful African curios. A horrid mask and figurine. The things have been a nuisance since Ammie started nagging about them. You can take over now. I don’t want to be bothered.”
Thanks for nothing. African kitsch was her share of the inheritance. A consolation prize for being unable to stake a claim against the estate. Yet, many years ago her birth mother had held those objects in her hands. Fled through large parts of Africa with the artefacts and a number of diamonds in a canvas bag, and her daughter in her belly.
“Do you happen to know why Ammie brought them along from the Congo?” Caz asked pensively.
Tieneke frowned. “I remember Mother saying Ammie believed they would protect her. Or something like that. Superstitious nonsense.”
Maybe it worked. Ammie had survived, after all. Pregnant or not. “Anyway, thanks, I guess.” Caz put the envelope in her handbag. “Where’s this bank where they are kept?”
“Pretoria. Silverton.”
Pretoria. A lot of help that was. When would she ever get there?
“You’re going to Doel tomorrow?”
Caz nodded. “I see on the internet I have to change trains a number of times. I wouldn’t have managed with my big suitcase.”
“Well, at least we have trains, and they run on time.”
Caz knew it would be no good pointing out that her words weren’t meant as a criticism of the Belgian transport system. She allowed the jab to pass. After all, Tieneke wasn’t wrong. South Africa’s rail service had just about ground to a halt.
The waiter interrupted to ask whether they would like to order anything else. Tieneke shook her head. When the bill arrived, she made no effort to reach for her wallet. Not that Caz minded, but hell. Most of the inheritance that Tieneke came into today originated from the diamonds Ammie had brought from the Congo. Caz had no doubt about it. Hans had been a good baker but a poor businessman.
On the other hand, he appeared to have been quite skilled at selling illicit diamonds without being caught. Every person has his own talents, it seemed.
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