“You’ll come and visit us,” said Martha.
“Absolutely,” said Jacob. “Who knows, maybe there’s a golden opportunity for you in the south of Spain too, and you can quit your stupid job.”
He put the cigarettes between his lips and struck an old-fashioned wooden lucifer. The stink of sulfur burned my eyes, and he blew a cloud of smoke right in my face. I made my excuses with a gesture and hurried home, half-choking.
And as I lie here in the dark, unable to sleep, I realize that my gesture was also a wave of goodbye, because I’m afraid — no, I’m quite certain — that I’ll never see either of them again.
The Man on the Jetty
by Murat Isik
Bijlmer
Some call us Amsterdam’s deplorables. Others claim there are only junkies and dealers left in the Bijlmer, our neighborhood. That’s a bit of an exaggeration, though it’s true that we live in a godforsaken part of town mainly inhabited by those who can’t find anywhere else to settle. It’s also true that the storage rooms in the Bijlmer’s apartment buildings’ basements have devolved into the exclusive domain of the city’s addicts.
Saleem and I knew we had to watch out, not just for the junkies, but especially for those lost souls who might loom up from out of nowhere and surround us. So we were on our guard the moment we set foot in the stairwells, and we stayed alert as we slipped through the narrow streets after dark. And ever since a guy whipped out his dick in the elevator and scared the shit out of me, I knew I had to get out of the Bijlmer, the sooner the better.
One day, Saleem and I were on our way home. His uncle was visiting, and he’d brought with him a wrestling video featuring our hero, the Ultimate Warrior. As we chattered excitedly about the mythical man with the painted face who’d stolen our hearts, I spotted something in the distance I’d never seen before: an object shimmering like mercury streaked along the bike path, like Marvel’s Silver Surfer cruising from planet to planet on his cosmic surfboard. When I looked more closely, I realized to my disappointment that it was just an ordinary mortal on a racing bike. He approached us at dizzying speed, and — with his mirrored sunglasses, Spandex shirt and shorts, and futuristic bicycle — he was the closest thing to a professional cyclist the Bijlmer had ever seen. When he was thirty yards off, he began to slow down. He braked to a stop beside us and looked us up and down inquisitively. “Hey, boys,” he said, his tone friendly. “I saw you walking and thought, I bet those kids can help me.”
He removed his shades, and I stiffened at the sight of his eyes. Those steel-blue eyes. It was him! This was the same guy who, a few months earlier, breathing heavily and staring at me full of sick desire, had pulled his prick from his pants in the elevator. Did he recognize me too? I looked around, trying to decide which way we should run.
“I think I’m lost,” he said, smiling.
You are definitely lost, I thought. I elbowed Saleem, telling him without words to keep walking, but he just stood there, not taking the hint.
“Where you trying to get, mister?” asked Saleem politely.
The man eyed us, grinning. Anyone who saw him would have taken his expression as sympathetic, filled with warmth and humanity. But I knew the dark desires that hid behind it.
“I’m looking for the Hoogoord Apartments, but these buildings all look the same.” He began rubbing his upper thigh. And then I saw it: he had a huge boner, though he was totally casual about it, like it was built into his bike clothes and he always pedaled around the city that way. We had to get out of there. We had to get out of there right away! I poked Saleem again, harder. Pretty soon the guy would recognize me, and then he’d grab for me or...
“Hoogoord?” asked Saleem.
The man nodded patiently, and his grin broadened as my friend spoke.
“It’s in the Bullewijk,” said Saleem.
“Is that far from here?” the man asked sweetly, but I could tell he was faking, just waiting for the right moment to pounce. His hand slid to the inside of his leg, as if he wanted to call our attention to his wiener.
But Saleem was oblivious. “Not so far, not with a bike like that.”
I shoved him so hard he almost fell down.
“What’s your problem?” he demanded. “Why are you pushing me?”
I fought to keep my voice from trembling. “We have to go,” I said, loudly and clearly. “Your uncle... he’s waiting for us.”
The man looked right at me now, and it was as if an icy hand crept under my shirt and slid up my back.
“Metin, would you let me tell the man how to get to Hoogoord, please?” said Saleem, his voice overly articulate, as if to prove he wasn’t just some street rat. “My uncle can wait an extra minute.”
I pulled him close, put my mouth to his ear, and whispered, “He’s the guy I told you about, from the elevator!”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded, and said through clenched teeth, “Look at his shorts, dammit!”
And Saleem’s gaze finally dropped to the guy’s woody, still big as ever, probably stimulated by our innocence. Saleem’s breath quickened. “Shit,” he muttered, “we gotta get out of here.”
“I’ll go first,” I whispered. “You follow me.”
The man looked like he was about to dismount from his bike. “Something wrong, boys?”
“No,” I said flatly. “We have to go.”
“Yeah, we have to go,” repeated Saleem, his voice shaking. “And you” — for a second I worried my friend was about to panic — “you want to go that way.” He pointed back in the direction from which we’d come.
“That way?” the man asked.
I was sick with tension.
“Yeah, yeah,” Saleem stammered. He leaned into me and whispered, “Should we run?”
“Wait,” I said, though I didn’t know what we were waiting for. Maybe I didn’t want to throw the situation off balance. Maybe I was afraid the guy would lunge for us if we freaked out. “Just take it slow,” I said, barely audibly, and started off for Saleem’s building. “Come on,” I said, loudly now, “your uncle’s waiting for us.”
Saleem eyed the man nervously. “Sorry, mister, we gotta go.” But he stayed where he was, as if he needed the man’s permission to give up his role of helpful guide to the Bijlmer.
“Hey, fellas, what’s your problem?” The man suddenly grinned again. “You never seen a cock before?” He picked it up with his free hand, like he wanted to show us it was in good working order. “It’s a penis. Your daddy’s got one just like it. There’s nothing wrong with a penis, is there?”
Saleem took off, running like I’d never seen him run before. I set off after him, yet I could barely keep up.
“Hey, wait!” the man called after us. “You’re not upset, are you?” Next thing I knew, he was biking alongside me, totally relaxed, like he was cheering on a marathoner. “Boys, why are you running away?”
“Leave us alone!” Saleem shouted. “Leave us alone, you pervert!”
“What did I do wrong?” the man said. “I was just asking for directions.”
I sprinted as fast as I could go, but he stayed right beside me on his bike. “Hey, you look familiar, kid.” He stared at me intently. “Didn’t we share a pleasant moment in the elevator?” I tried to go faster. “Yeah, you’re the kid from the elevator!” His breathing suddenly grew heavier. “And now you’re running away.” He raised a hand. “Come on, kid, can’t we just talk for a minute? I’ve got a Nintendo at home with like a hundred games.”