“Yes!” I say.
“At this time of night? I think the French fry stand is already closed,” Marie says.
“At ten thirty on a Friday night? I don’t think so. Shall we go see?”
I hurry out of the room, pull on my coat and shoes, and look for the big umbrella in the hall.
“Will you be able to sleep if you eat fries this late?”
Daddy doesn’t reply and buttons up his coat. As we walk along the street together, he puts his arm around my shoulder, just so that we stay closer together and neither of us has to get wet. He never does it otherwise.
“Listen to the wind,” he says. “Isn’t it great?”
I can mainly hear the sound of cars on the road and the spatter of rain under their wheels, but I reply, “Yes, excellent.”
I order a large at the stand, which I’m not normally allowed to do, but Daddy doesn’t say anything, and I order mayonnaise too. The man standing behind the deep fryer swishes a big glob on top. Daddy gets tartar sauce with his.
“Doesn’t Marie want any fries?” I ask.
“No, Marie only likes healthy food, you know that, don’t you?” He winks at me.
I wink back and grin as though we’ve just shared the biggest secret in the world. Daddy gets the fries wrapped up and then we head back home. I’m allowed to carry the bag.
When we’re walking side by side, I say, “Daddy?”
“Yes, sweetheart?” he replies without looking at me.
I want to ask whether he just forgot this morning because he was tired, or if he changed his mind and decided the teacher was right. But then I think about how sad he might be, or angry even. He probably didn’t mean it in a bad way, so I say, “I think this has been the happiest night of my life.”
“Really?” he says.
“Really,” I say.
We carry on walking through the rain and I wish things could stay like this forever. We’d keep walking to the end of the world, across every country, without ever getting tired, without ever having to sleep or eat anything other than fries, or go to school or work or ever have to write essays about food. Just walk on and on, Daddy and me.
36
It’s my fault, that’s the only thing I’m sure of.
“But where did she go?” I ask. I picture the canal and a car containing Marie and Anne-Sophie sinking in it.
“She’s staying with her parents. Don’t panic, Mona. She just needs a few days’ rest.”
Daddy always acts like everything will be all right, it’s a horrible habit of his. Alexander asks what we’re going to eat. Typical Alexander, thinking about food. Does Daddy really think everything will be all right, or is he just putting on a brave face for us? Of course he doesn’t know how difficult I make things for Marie. I haven’t looked after Anne-Sophie as much in the past few days. Yesterday, Marie had to complain about the mess in my bedroom yet again. The morning before that, she was unhappy because I didn’t give her a kiss before I left for school, which proved I didn’t love her. Her voice shook when she said that and she looked really sad. I told her of course I loved her. And then there are all the things she doesn’t talk about, because Marie reminds us often of those: that she puts up with a lot without complaining, while there’s so much that bothers her, because she’s so self-effacing, putting everyone else first. And that’s the truth, I think, because she wants to spare our feelings.
Daddy cooks a tomato omelet. He puts the eggs on a dish towel instead of a placemat. Everyone takes a slice of bread, even though we already had sandwiches for lunch. Alexander dips his in his egg but it isn’t even a soft-boiled egg. He gets a bit on the table. Luckily we aren’t using a tablecloth tonight.
Daddy doesn’t touch his egg. He doesn’t look at us, just stares out the window. He sits there like he’s frozen to the spot. I haven’t seen him so unhappy for a long time. Not since my mommy died, I think. That’s quite a long time ago now. I’ve forgotten what her voice sounded like. Even the way she sounded when she was angry—I never thought I’d forget that.
I wipe my plate clean with a crust. I take a sip of water and choke. I start to cough really hard, so hard that my eyes almost—only almost—fill with tears, just from that, the coughing.
37
Marie and Anne-Sophie still haven’t come back. One thing is certain: we can’t go on like this. Daddy’s in his office. I ask Alexander which movie he wants to watch and put it on. I tell him not to bother Daddy unless there’s a real problem.
“Where are you going?” he asks with a finger in his mouth.
“I’ll be back soon.”
I get my bike and ride to Marie’s parents’ house. It’s way, way too big for just two people. They probably want Marie to live with them, and Anne-Sophie. Unless they have a problem with crying, of course. Or maybe she’d cry less in such a beautiful house. Or maybe Marie is happier there and that makes the baby happier too. I bike so fast the air hurts my throat.
When I ring the doorbell, my legs are shaking. It’s like the time I had a fever. Marie’s dad opens the door. The cardiologist is a very large man with a wide mustache and a bald head. He and his wife rarely come to our house, only if there’s a party or something. I ask very politely whether it’s possible to speak to Marie for a moment. He lets me in without saying much. Marie is upstairs, second door on the right. I can hear Anne-Sophie making little sounds in the room next to the hall, but I walk to the stairs and go up. The second on the right, this must be it. I listen at the door, nothing. Then I knock three times.
“Yes.”
“It’s Mona,” I say as I open the door, so as not to frighten her.
Marie is sitting on her bed smoking a cigarette. The ashtray is made of copper and is full of butts. She’s dressed, she’s not in a nightie or a robe, which is a good sign, but then maybe not, because it might mean she feels better here than at our house. I look at her, hoping she’ll be the first to speak, but she just stares at me and then at the ashtray when she taps her cigarette into it.
“We miss you,” I say very quietly.
“That’s sweet.”
I’m glad she’s talking. Has she been crying? It’s hard to tell. “Daddy keeps saying how sweet you are.” I’m lying, but I think it’s all right to lie now. It’s for a good cause.
“Oh.”
“Yes, and me and Alexander think so too.” Then she smiles, a small smile. “We wondered when you were coming back.”
Marie looks out the window. “Did Daddy send you?”
“No, he doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Hmm,” she says. That doesn’t sound as hopeful. And she doesn’t answer my question.
“A little vacation at your parents’ house can work wonders.” I smile at her.
“Oh, so you think I’m on vacation here?”
“That’s not what I mean, but you know, after all the tiredness with the baby and everything.” Marie says nothing again. “I got a nine out of ten for my talk about gorillas. Now there’s not much homework at the moment.” She doesn’t respond. “I can help out a lot with Anne-Sophie.”
“I didn’t ask you to help, did I?”
“No, of course not, but I like to. I like to help. Because I love Anne-Sophie.” Marie stubs out her cigarette and lights a new one immediately. “And you too, of course.” She looks outside. “Will you both come back and celebrate my birthday at home with all of us? It’s only fifteen more days.”
“Mona, I—” And then she just sighs. The cigarette burns away in the ashtray. “I really don’t know what I want to do at the moment.” She doesn’t look at me as she says this.
“But you are coming back, aren’t you? One day, I mean, soon. But soon could also be in three weeks’ time, for example. When you’re fully rested. Not that it’s restful here, you’re not on vacation, I mean—”
“Oh, Mona, love.”
That’s what she says. It’s all she says. And I look at her and I don’t know what else I can do and then I do it. I hadn’t
planned it, but my head felt like it was bursting open and—I don’t know. I take her cigarette from the ashtray and put it out on my left arm. It happens faster than I can think.
“Mona!” Marie screams. “Have you lost your mind?”
I hear footsteps on the stairs. It feels very hot and now it begins to burn, really burn.
“See? Now I’ve had my punishment, won’t you both please come home?”
I begin to cry—from pain or fear that she’ll stay here, I’m not sure which.
PART TWO
1991
1
The whole morning is out there already. The wind is almost gale-force, and here, in bed, everything is still. The air is thick, time lost. I should get up, right now in fact, but sometimes it’s hard to get started. A strip of sunlight slips into the room between the wall and the blinds—the ones I bought are too narrow. It shines on my right big toe as though the toe is emitting light, like in E.T., only in a downward direction.
My toes are horribly ugly, the big toes as well as the little ones: too short, too wide, too curly. I’ve heard I’ve got my mother’s toes. I don’t know if that’s true. Strange how even people who are important to you crumble into pictures, into a few memories I’m not even sure are mine. Maybe it’s only that one photo that makes me think this—I’ve got it in a box somewhere—or the story they told me. We know very little about how reliable our memories are.
I hate feet. I stay as far away from them as possible. Getting a freshly washed toddler’s foot into a sandal is just about doable, but once they’re eight or older, I begin to find it difficult. And don’t get me started on adults poking their bare feet in my direction.
I’ve got more of them, irrational dislikes. Filling up the car with gas, for example, especially if the mechanism isn’t working, which is usually the case, that little clip so you don’t have to keep pressing the handle. Or parking in parking garages. Pumping up bike tires, transferring money, licking stamps and envelope flaps. People who use air quotes when they’re talking. Dogs that pant heavily in the summer with their tongues hanging out of their mouths. Drivers that honk their horns when they know it won’t help. People who smack their lips when eating and deny it when you complain. People who are total perfectionists, but deny it. The sound of vacuum cleaners, and the smell. The smile I gave that woman with the perfect eyebrows, fully aware she’d said something very unkind about me two weeks ago. Sly digs, very thick winter coats, expectations that aren’t met, and sometimes expectations that are. People who are crazy about sports (admittedly, only because I’d like to be one). Questions there’s no answer to. Not being able to forget what you really want to forget. Drizzle, boring books in German, toilet seat covers in cheerful colors. Vests, people who suddenly hang up on you, jokers, gossips, know-it-alls, bodybuilders, doubters, tailgaters, grinding discs, waiting times, line jumpers, people who get aggressive toward line jumpers, cowardice packaged as given-the-circumstances-this-is-the-best-option, exotic fruits you don’t know how to eat. Saying goodbye. Vomiting, both the sound and the smell, tiaras, noisy wall clocks, drafts, draft guards, bicycle clips, packed rooms with cramped seating, uniforms, platitudes, stories about skin conditions, hand dryers, bracelets, toe rings, debt collectors, forms, useful gifts, squeaking windshield wipers, bike thieves, salt-of-the-earth types, women who always know what they want, cheapskates, frosting on cakes, Earl Grey tea, and lime tea. Not daring to be angry when you actually know you have a right to be, even if briefly. Goldfish from the fair when you were a kid and the fact that they always died. Not being able to cry even though you think it will help. The expressions children are easily pleased and every man to his trade. My own hesitancy, my fits of sneezing, my helplessness, my big dreams (sometimes), my own weaknesses, my need for stability and love, a lot of love. Fanny packs, men in cutoff pants, registered mail, which I never pick up on principle. And I hate principles, they release you from the need to reflect, and I don’t think existence is meant to be like that. What I do think: you are also determined by all the things you’re not, just like everything you’ve lost.
I get up, go to the bathroom, and look in the mirror. My hair’s unfortunate, there’s no better word for it. I shower for a long time; water rinses everything away: sleep, dreams, anxious thoughts, the things I can’t do. I’m twenty-four and I feel like I’ve been sleep-deprived all my life in some way or other.
As I eat a soft-boiled egg, I put on a CD. The music sounds so lonely, I think, maybe also because it’s playing softly on the stereo hidden away in the corner. I go back and turn it off. A person should know what they can handle on a given day. Then the phone rings. I see “Home” on the little screen of my new phone—that’s what I’ve labeled Dad and Marie. I have to pick up, I think. I stare at the phone and don’t pick up. I really have to pick up, I think. Immediately. I take a step closer, reach out my arm, then it stops. I sit down again. I drink my coffee black, like a hero. I turn the corners of my mouth up into a smile. Scientists claim that it’s impossible to think about unpleasant or bad things while you’re physically smiling, even if it’s not a genuine smile.
I live in an apartment on a narrow alleyway, which means that life on the other side of the street is very close to mine. There’s a man sitting reading a book behind one window, his fat calico cat on his feet. Either he’s reading slowly or he’s fallen asleep, the book’s been open to the same page for so long. The man with black curly hair is up on the roof, and that woman who always wears beige is sitting at the table with her two children. I can’t see what they’re eating or how much they’re talking, but it looks like a happy scene from here, a real family, like my younger brother will have soon. It’s a funny feeling—I’m still so young and he’s going to be the first of us.
I have to go outside, I think. It’s Saturday, springtime, the sun is shining, and they say exercise is good for you, and fresh air and so on. I put on the coat I’m still not sure I should have bought, and leave. I walk along empty streets, past water that’s the color of rocks, trees, sun, past squares and people sitting on benches chattering. And then, in the middle of the busy shopping street, I stop in my tracks, just like that, on the slippery cobblestones, feet together, arms close to my body, for at least eleven minutes. If you stop, no one can see that you’re lost.
2
A dingy café filled with old men. A confusion of clumsily painted pictures on the wall, sad-looking drawings, pasty figurines on racks, mirrors, tapestries, all of them featuring clowns. The manager is a collect-o-maniac, either that or he wishes he worked in a circus, also possible.
Marcus Meereman is late. This is normal, of course, considering that he’s one of the most important theater producers in the Low Countries. I almost died when I got a phone call from one of his employees to say he was looking for a new dramaturge and did I want to talk to him. So flattering. I’ve been working for my present company for only two years.
Twenty minutes after the agreed-upon time, he wanders in, orders a vodka-orange at the bar, and only then does he look around. I raise my hand as though I’m a schoolkid who wants to ask a question. He doesn’t apologize for being late, just asks whether I want another drink. I shake my head, take another sip of my chamomile tea, and realize how frumpy it must look, beside his vodka-orange. Job interviews in bars only mean extra stress.
Marcus is a very tall man with strong shoulders; dark, shoulder-length hair; deep-set blue eyes. He’s got a scar above his right eyebrow, which makes him look a bit tough; he’s wearing an eccentric jacket and pointy shoes; he’s got a ridiculous amount of charisma. He sits down opposite me, runs two fingers along his nose, and says, “Well, Mona, I’ve heard good things about you.”
I smile with everything I’ve got. I don’t ask who he heard this from, I seriously can’t think of anyone who could have said it.
“And what’s a dramaturge to you, then?”
“Hmm,” I say, “no one knows. Not even us dramaturges.” I grin, Marcus looks at me impassiv
ely; he’s expecting a real answer, it seems. “The director is responsible for the acting and the actors, and the dramaturge the text, and in an ideal situation, the two come up with a concept for the production together, which they oversee and fine-tune in consultation with each other to get the best results.” Marcus takes a big sip and says nothing. “Naturally, the director’s is by far the most important role.” This sounds gauche, I can’t help thinking. I scratch my head, even though I don’t have an itch. “Perhaps the greatest skill is knowing when to remain silent. Constantly trying to prove you’ve read difficult books is just exhausting.” His expression remains guarded. I hope he’s not expecting more than this.
“We’re going to do Chekhov next. We’re not doing just one of his plays, I want to make a collage of different texts, which is why we’ll rehearse for five months, much longer than normal. There are five actors.”
“Sounds fantastic.”
“We begin in three weeks. Can you make yourself available? And get up to speed very quickly?”
“If I explain things to my director, I suspect he won’t want to deny me this opportunity. Our next production isn’t for another three months, there’s still time to look for a replacement.”
“What does that say about your sense of loyalty? Just leaving like that?”
“Nothing. It just means I’d jump at the chance to work with you.”
This makes me sound like a real ass-kisser, but it’s the truth.
“Does this interest you, such a big production? Of course, in this case, the dramaturge will have a greater responsibility than usual. I expect a lot of input from you: finding texts, translating and adapting them, helping me think about the composition of the show.”
“The more the better. It’s not my goal to be intellectual wallpaper.”
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