‘Whitsun, too?’
‘We don’t do Whitsun.’
‘Sunday’s on then. Chow mein would be delicious.’
‘All right, just don’t cancel again because you’re so beat. Like last Sunday, when we were supposed to go into town.’
‘Oh yeah, that watch … we’ll have to make another date.’
In his quick, springy way, his shoulders hunched just a tad, he headed to the door, and said goodbye with his variable salutation, which this time sounded something like: ‘Oi.’
‘Have fun Saturday,’ I called after him. I don’t know if he heard it, as he was already passing through the kitchen on the way to the front door. How extraordinary: Tonio was going to drop by for the third time in the space of a week. The previous day he had laid out his future plans, but it was like he had something else to tell us. I hadn’t forgotten how proud of a new girlfriend I used to be. With the ongoing conquest still in full swing, I already wanted to show her off, not only to my friends but to my parents, too — even if only in words for the time being, and if at all possible with a picture as well.
9
After Tonio had left, Miriam called me to the kitchen. She stood at the open fridge. ‘Check this out.’
The shelves, the vegetable drawer, the door compartments — every nook and cranny was jammed with cartons of ice tea and fruit juice in all possible flavours. There was a litre of Lipton Ice in the freezer, in case the young lady liked hers extra cold. Neither of us knew that Tonio had done all this shopping. It amounted to half a week’s allowance spent on fruit juice and iced tea.
‘Tonio knows how to look after his models,’ I said.
‘It won’t be out of concern for lack of vitamins at his parents,’ Miriam replied. ‘I’ll take them with me next week along with his clean washing.’
In the corner of the living room, next to the glass display case containing Tonio’s rock collection, I saw two more styrofoam reflector sheets. A strong nicotine smell hung in the air. On the floor, a saucer with stubbed-out cigarette butts; I emptied it into the waste bin. So the girl — still nameless — was a smoker.
I came across the grainy white sheets elsewhere in the house. They gazed at me like monochrome paintings, telling me no more about the photo session than that they reflected sunlight or lamplight onto the model.
‘What are we supposed to do with all that styrofoam?’ Miriam asked.
‘Leave it,’ I said, ‘he can clean it up himself on Sunday.’
10
Before dinner, I went up to my office on the third floor — not to work, but to raise the awning on the back balcony. It had rained a few nights ago, and the irregular tick-tick and drumming of the rain on the open canvas had kept me awake for hours.
The electric button, to the left of the French doors, seemed to falter — until I noticed that the awning was already up, neatly rolled into its aluminium frame.
Wait a sec. I knew for sure I hadn’t raised it before we left for the Amsterdamse Bos — intentionally, to protect the parquet floor from the profuse sunlight that streamed in at that hour. I could have raised the awning and drawn the curtains, of course, but in order to air out the room I left the balcony doors wide open, and experience had taught me that the curtains would billow upwards, and on their way down sweep stuff from the nearby desk. The last time that happened, I had incited Miriam’s ire by accusing her cats of being the cause of the destruction.
All these deliberations were still clear in my mind — even now, three days later, in the back seat of the police van. It was not a matter of forgetfulness. I had left the curtains open, lowered the awning, and fastened the doors by their hooks on the balcony wall. Now, upon returning, I found the curtains still open, but the doors were closed tight and the awning raised.
Tonio? We had a deaclass="underline" he was free to use the entire house, except for the floor where my office was, because I was busy sorting through material, and there were stacks of handwritten, as-yet unnumbered sheets everywhere. I had a good look around. There was no evidence of them having taken photos here. No styrofoam sheets. No film roll wrappers in the wastebasket. No sign of the unwelcome rearranging to which photographers from newspapers and magazines so enjoyed subjecting one’s home.
Was I hoping for signs of an amorous interlude? The book about Dutch police precincts, a reference aid for my novel that I kept stuck between the two seat cushions of the chaise longue, was still in place.
I opened the balcony doors. The slats and planks that used to be Tonio’s old bunk bed lay precisely as our handyman René had left them, only a bit more grey-green after exposure to the snow and rain. To the right, an aluminium fire-escape ladder led up to the roof.
‘Minchen, when we came back from the park … did you raise the awning in my office?’
‘No, you must’ve done it yourself. I can’t do everything.’
I was none the wiser. I decided to ring Tonio about it — tonight, or else tomorrow. Not to scold him for having invaded my workspace, but … well, maybe I’d find out some details of his love life. My God, what an old busybody I was becoming.
The phone call went by the wayside. Soon … later, while he was recuperating, I’d ask. God knows how many hours we would have to spend at his bedside until he was himself again. There’d be enough time to talk. I would jabber him through it.
11
A critical condition: what is that, actually? Perhaps they were quick to call someone’s condition ‘critical’ so that if it did turn out badly for the patient after all, they’d be safeguarded against the vengeful indignation of the survivors.
I was reminded of my cousin Willy van der Heijden Jr., who was declared clinically dead after a motorcycle accident. Illusionist-joker that he was, he rose from the dead, and six weeks later returned to business as usual, which in his case meant low- to medium-grade criminality. So it could swing that way, too.
No, bad example. Not even a year later, he was on the run, artificial knee joints and all, from the police, and crashed himself just as dead as before by smashing his car into a tree: no headlights on an unlit road. This time he skipped the ‘clinically’ phase.
I remember my mother calling me up with the news. ‘A bad egg, that boy, but I had to let you know.’
While I was on the phone with her,I looked at the eighteen-month-old Tonio as he crawled across the rug, drooling from the exertion. No such thing would ever happen to him, I would see to that. With the upbringing I was going to give him, he would never have to flee from the police, let alone with his headlights off.
‘How’s Uncle Willy taking it?
‘He’s a wreck, of course. He’d put all his hopes into that boy. The neighbours said he wandered the streets the whole night with his dog. Talking out loud. Yelling.’
‘He might be dead already,’ Miriam moaned.
‘A critical condition,’ I said, ‘can mean anything. I’m sure they’re doing their best.’
‘He’s being operated on,’ the policeman said. ‘They’ve been busy for hours.’
Goddamn. That did sound critical.
CHAPTER THREE. Wrong hospital
1
The police van took several successive curves, which our speed made seem sharper than they were. I either nearly slid away from Miriam along the slick upholstery, or was thrust up against her with a sudden force, which evoked a gagging sound from her.
‘Sorry, baby.’