“Calm down!” he ordered, and for one moment I thought he was about to hit me in the face. He didn’t, but he studied me with unconcealed contempt. “I can’t think if you keep on like that.” He went on staring at me, and I realized that, in addition to contempt, there was also a certain interest glimmering in his gaze. He surely believed I had gone mad. Alzheimer’s, if he was lucky. Then he’d have no trouble getting me out of the building.
I lowered my voice a bit. “Please, can you look in the attic? I’ll never get any sleep.”
He glanced up at the ceiling above the stairwell.
“There’s a hatch,” I said.
“I know,” he sighed, and he reached for its metal handle. When he pulled on it, flakes of white paint and clouds of dust rained down on us. The hatch, I knew, hadn’t been opened in years. The folding aluminum ladder above it was a cheap model. The previous owner hadn’t wanted to spend a lot of money on a mechanism that would rarely, if ever, be used. It rattled coldly as it unfolded. When it was fully extended, it left little room for us on the landing. Its feet settled barely two inches from the topmost step of the stairwell. It was an unsteady contraption he would have to climb, thanks to the fears of a hysterical tenant, so early in the morning that he hadn’t yet taken his medication.
I watched him furtively as he leaned one hand against the wall, the other pressed to his chest. He was panting, just a little. I was so close beside him that there was no need to shout, but I did so all the same. “Do you hear that? Do you? Rats!” I shoved him roughly, and he jerked away from my touch.
“Jesus, would you calm the fuck down?” Any vestige of politeness was gone now, and he stared at me in fury. “If you don’t relax, there’s nothing I can do.”
“Sorry,” I gasped, trying to look frightened.
He shook his head and examined the ladder. He raised a foot to the bottom tread and tested its strength. “Wobbly,” he muttered. “Hold it steady, would you?”
I ducked beneath the ladder and grabbed onto it with both hands. The owner groaned a bit and slowly began to climb. He was so close to me now that I feared he would hear my heart pulsing against my ribs. I had to wait for the exact right moment — this was what it all came down to. He had to be as high as possible, to make his fall as long as possible.
When he reached the top tread and raised his right foot to feel for a next one, I took a deep breath and shrieked gibberish at him as loudly as I could while shaking the ladder violently. He struggled to hold on, but I shoved my hands between the treads and beat against his chest. He swallowed a cry and lost his balance. I went on screaming as he fell. He hit his head and tumbled backward down the steps before landing with a heavy thump on the bare wooden floor in front of his own apartment door, one flight below.
I stopped shouting and, panting heavily, peered down at him.
His door opened, and his wife appeared. She saw him and then, astonished, looked up at me. “What—?”
“He fell,” I whispered. “Is he dead?”
She dropped to her knees and touched his throat. Then she rose, both hands covering her mouth.
“Dead?” I asked again.
She nodded, her face etched with horror.
“Go back inside,” I said. “I’ll call the police.”
Not waiting to calm down, I dialed the emergency number and used the same overexcited, frightened tone with which I had talked to the owner. After hanging up, I went to stand at my window. I drew a deep breath and was not dissatisfied to note the profound serenity that came over me. The clock on the sill told me that it was three minutes after six. Eleven minutes had gone by since the last time I had stood there.
The park was still dark, though daylight was already peeking out between the treetops. In the distance, a siren sounded. I waited, and it seemed as though — if I paid close enough attention — I could see the night hide itself beneath the benches beside the trees. As if, right before my eyes, it disappeared behind the walls of the park.
Soul Mates
by Christine Otten
Tuindorp Oostzaan
They were on our doorstep at ten after six this morning. I know the exact time because a fraction of a second before the bell rang — one short, two longs — I woke up and looked at my iPhone. 6:10. It was just getting light. I knew it was the cops. I mean, you just know. I heard Mom’s bedroom door creak, her footsteps on the stairs, the murmur of voices. So I splashed some water on my face, sprayed my pits with Axe, and got dressed. I was calm. At times like this, my emotions just sort of freeze. I grabbed the Prada jacket Miriam gave me, slipped my bare feet into my Pumas, and went down. I’m a good boy, I am. I tried to ignore Mom’s expression; if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s that exhausted, disappointed look she gets in her eyes. Can’t I ever have a moment’s peace? Instead, I focused on the crew-cut heads of the two detectives standing in the doorway, their hands deep in the pockets of their ugly, cheap H&M jackets, and said, cheerfully as I could manage, “Good morning, gentlemen, and what can we do for you today?”
You could see them thinking, This is one polite Algerian. You always gotta stay a step ahead of them. Be the strongest, the smartest, don’t let them figure you out, and most important: keep your anger under control. I learned that at kickboxing. Not too long ago, I got pulled over on my moped on the Meteorenweg because I was supposedly driving too fast. I was heading to the Mandarijnenstraat to deliver six frikandels, three croquettes, a deep-fried bami slice, a couple of kebabs, and fifteen euros worth of french fries with mayo. I guess they were having a party. So, anyway, I was in a hurry, nobody wants soggy fries and lukewarm frikandels. I don’t understand how anyone can stomach that disgusting haram shit in the first place, but whatever, not ours to reason why. The point is, I got pulled over. Must have been the cop’s first week on the job. “Sir, you’re driving much too fast.” We both knew it was bullshit, I wasn’t doing more than fifteen miles an hour, twenty tops, we both knew the only reason he flagged me down is I look like a Moroccan — a Marrow Khan in Tuindorp Oostzaan, I’m a poet and I don’t know it! — but whatever. He whips out his little citation book to write me up, and I say, “I’m terribly sorry, officer, but my grandma is sick, she’s in really bad shape, and I don’t want her to be alone, that’s why I’m in a rush.”
When he hears me talking in complete sentences without a hint of an accent, his eyes practically pop out of his head. “Oh?” he says.
“She lives right around the corner here, on the Zonneplein.” Which is 100 percent true: Mom’s mother lives on the Zonneplein, upstairs from a Turkish grocery.
So the cop waves me on, and that’s the end of it. Which is why I say: you have to stay a step ahead of them. Don’t give ’em the chance to fuck with you.
Anyway, I had a good idea why the detectives were at our door. See, the Chink’s been missing for five days now and the Mercury’s been shuttered, although the old gook normally opens up at noon ’cause he don’t miss a chance to cash in on the lunch trade. He didn’t tell me he was gonna be gone: no e-mail, no text, nothing.