Mom breathlessly clicks on the message.
Hallo from Daan and Luuk! We are a couple from the Netherlands who wish to stay at your room. Is it available this weekend?
My mom’s hands are practically shaking as she grabs the mouse (the computer one, as opposed to a dead one under her desk. I just want to make that clear because of what I said before). It skitters off the table and she grabs for it.
“Maureen, relax,” my dad says, laughing. “They’re not going anywhere.”
“You don’t know that,” my mom says. She frantically writes them back. And then sits there, biting her thumb.
There is a ping and either Daan or Luuk answers. We go to their profile. It shows a tulip. No photo. But they have amazing reviews from the other people who’ve hosted them.
It looks like we’re going to have company this weekend.
After texting back and forth, we learn that our guests usually stay at a more expensive AirHotel in Manhattan, but the hosts canceled on them at the last minute. They were desperate for a new place, and thought our room and neighborhood looked charming.
My mom has dusted the entire apartment like twenty times and checked to make sure there’s enough toilet paper in the bathroom.
“I just think they’re going to be neat,” she tells my dad. “We really want a good review from them.”
She has convinced him to wear his grown-up clothes, which makes this look kind of weird. I mean, she even got cut flowers from the deli and put them in a vase.
We never have flowers in the house. It looks like someone else’s apartment. Mom has gotten a text from Daan saying they’re on their way here from the airport.
There’s kind of a feeling like we’re waiting for a play to begin. Nobody does anything they normally would do. I check my phone and text Nat and Gus to see if they’re around and want to get together later.
The doorbell rings, and Mom lets out a scream (I wonder if I should warn Luuk and Daan). She rushes to the door and flings it open.
Two well-dressed middle-aged men sweep into the apartment.
One is small and slender, and in an expensive-looking bright-red sweater. He’s wearing jeans, which also probably cost a fortune and look like someone ironed them. He’s wearing black loafers that go perfectly with everything else. He immediately hugs my mother and introduces himself as Daan.
Luuk laughs and shakes my father’s hand. “We’re Dutch. Maybe you prefer to shake hands, yes?” Luuk is tall and round, and has a scarf wrapped around his neck and tucked into a perfectly fitted white shirt. If any grown-up I knew in Brooklyn tried this, they’d look ridiculous (unless they were like twenty years old, maybe? Nope. They’d still look ridiculous).
But somehow it looks charming on Luuk. Just like his accent.
“And this is our son Daniel,” my mother says, awkwardly gesturing to me.
“So pleased to meet you,” Luuk says.
“We’re going to be sharing a bathroom, is that right?” asks Daan.
I nod, not knowing what to say.
“We shall try not to spend too much time there,” promises Luuk.
“Unless we eat the wrong things!” says Daan, laughing. “Then, as you say, all bets are off!”
We all laugh at this. I guess Dutch people like bathroom humor. I decide Daan would fit in very well in middle school.
They have matching sets of luggage, made of leather (who has leather luggage?).
Luuk tells us they’re here for a few days for a conference. He’s a professor of art history at Utrecht University and is giving a talk at the Metropolitan Museum on Sunday.
My mom has gotten hummus from Haddad’s and cut pita up into small triangles and toasted them. By now, Daan has joined us at the table. This hummus is our secret weapon.
Daan dips a piece of pita in the hummus and tastes it. His eyes widen and then close. Either he’s in ecstasy or he’s allergic to sesame seeds.
“You have to try this, Luuk! It’s enchanting.”
“I was planning on it,” Luuk says, chuckling. He takes a bite and nods.
“This is absolutely the best hummus I have ever had!” declares Daan.
“It reminds me of the kind we had in Israel,” Luuk says. “You’ve been, yes?”
“Um, actually no,” my dad admits. It’s hard to explain to world travelers that we’ve never been outside the United States.
“But this is better,” Daan insists. “It must be local.”
“The place makes it fresh every day,” I tell them. “My friend’s family owns it.”
Luuk looks over at me. He smiles. “You must take us to their shop before we leave, Daniel.”
“I’m so happy to be here! We almost didn’t book it,” Daan says.
My mother’s face turns white. “Why? Was there something wrong with the listing?”
“Yes, your place is a pigsty,” says Daan.
My mom looks like she’s going to cry.
Luuk pushes Daan. “He’s teasing. Look, you’ve made her upset.”
Daan hugs my mom. “I’m so sorry. Your apartment is lovely. It’s enchanting.”
“It goes well with the hummus,” Luuk says, grinning.
“So what was the problem?” my dad asks.
“I don’t know,” Luuk says. “We tried to book the room three times online. It just wouldn’t take our reservation.”
I feel a prickle on my neck. Can’t wait to tell Nat about this.
Daan grabs my mom’s hand “But we loved it so much, we emailed support and they booked it for us. Once they took our credit card, everything started to work fine.”
“We thought you should know, in case it happens again,” Luuk says.
Daan checks his fancy wristwatch. “Ah, look at the time. We need to meet some friends. Please excuse us.”
Luuk smiles at me. “Don’t forget, you’re taking us to that shop before we leave.”
They head back to Jake’s room. I guess it’s not Jake’s room anymore. For the next few days, it’s theirs.
My mother fans herself. I turn to my dad. “What’s up with her?”
“She’s a sucker for European charm,” he says.
“They are pretty charming,” I say.
My dad nods. “And did you check out that matching luggage?”
Daan and Luuk have gotten tickets to see a Broadway show and are eating dinner with friends. My mom gives them a spare key.
“Enjoy the show!” my mom says as they are leaving.
“You have seen it, yes? Is it any good?” asks Luuk.
My mom’s smile is frozen on her face. “Actually, we haven’t…gotten to it yet.”
Right. The tickets are like four hundred dollars each. Nobody we know goes to Broadway shows. Except maybe on school trips.
I mean, there are lots of people in our neighborhood who go, but those are the ones who send their kids to private schools.
The ones who travel to Europe during school break.
The ones who seem to belong in our neighborhood more than we do.
So, maybe I should explain how come we’re able to live here?
It helps that my grandparents first rented this apartment in the early sixties, when no one wanted to live here. Well, by no one, I mean no young families. They were moving to Long Island, or maybe Westchester, where there were nice schools and it was “safe.”
Funny to think about that today, that this was once considered an “unsafe” neighborhood.
I guess it was, kind of. My dad was mugged by other kids on the way to school. There was graffiti everywhere and, from what he tells me, there were a lot more drugs.
But there were also writers and artists and political activists who could afford to live in the apartments that used to be flophouses and rooming houses for the sailors from th
e boats and the workmen who built them.
Little by little, more people like my grandparents started moving in and deciding to stay, even through the bad years of the eighties. Mr. Nordstrom (our history teacher, in case you forgot) showed us headlines from that time when the rest of the country couldn’t have cared less if New York went bankrupt. They saw it as a relic, a fossil. And Brooklyn was still a place you moved from, not to.
When my parents got married, they lived in the city, but then my grandparents decided to move upstate.
We have this thing in New York called rent control, which means the landlord can’t raise the rent too high as long as your name is on the lease and you don’t want to move out. So my parents couldn’t pass up a deal like this and took over the apartment. It was still a pretty sketchy neighborhood then, so the owner was happy to have them.
Well, as the years went on, Brooklyn got better and better, and people started to want to live here. So the other rents in our building started going higher and higher, and our landlord wasn’t so happy about my parents.
He still isn’t, but he’s really unhappy about Richie. Richie has lived here since forever, and isn’t going anywhere. He probably pays half what my parents pay.
So now the only people who can afford to live in this part of Brooklyn are either people like Nat and Gus, whose families have been here for generations, or rich bankers, doctors, and lawyers.
It’s kind of weird to live in a place you can’t afford. It’s like pretending we’re something we’re not.
Luuk sees the look on my mom’s face. I can tell he’s a really sensitive person by the way he says, “Oh, I know how that is. Only tourists go to Broadway, right? That’s how we are in Holland about the windmills!” And then he laughs as he and Daan head out.
Dinner is all about Daan and Luuk, of course. My mom is in love with their sophistication and charm, which she attributes to their being European.
“I think that’s more of a gay thing,” my dad says.
My mom looks at him sharply. “Are you saying all gay men are sophisticated and charming? That’s kind of stereotyping, isn’t it?”
“What? I didn’t think I was being so prejudiced,” my dad protests. “I was trying to pay them a compliment.”
I decide to join in. “Yeah, but it’s like saying all Jewish people are rich.”
“Okay, you’re right. I apologize to the gay community,” my dad says. “I’m sure there are some sloppy, rude, uncultured gay men out there.”
“Please don’t bring this up with them,” my mother begs.
My dad almost spits out his salad. “Do you really think I would do that?”
“No, but my mother would,” Mom says. And they both laugh.
I laugh too. My bubbe Ruth (which is what I call my grandmother) is one of those people with no filter. She just says whatever she’s thinking. Like she’ll greet her son-in-law with “Look at you! What happened? When did you get that belly? You need to get to the gym.” Or to me, “Such nice skin he has! Well, he’ll probably break out in acne once he hits puberty. You haven’t yet, have you, darling?”
So it’s a good thing she’s not here. Who knows what she’d be asking Luuk and Daan.
“It’s so funny, all those extra vowels,” Dad says, moving on. “You know Curt, right?”
Mom thinks. “The sound guy, right?”
Curt is responsible for the microphone and checks the sound levels when my dad makes his videos.
“He’s Serbian, and his name is actually spelled C-R-T!” my dad exclaims. “I learned that when I wrote his check. He told me there are all sorts of Serbian words that have no vowels at all!”
“Okay,” says my mom as I get up to help her clear the table. “Where is this going?”
“I just thought that maybe there could be a trade agreement between Holland and Serbia where they send them their extra vowels since they have a surplus,” my dad says, ducking the napkin my mom throws at him.
After all the dishes are put away, I head to my room to finish my homework.
Later, as I fall asleep, I have to admit to myself that having Daan and Luuk here is kind of neat after all.
* * *
Sometime later, I’m awakened by someone knocking on my door.
Probably Daan or Luuk looking for the bathroom.
But the rapping continues, weirdly insistent. I don’t lock my door, so I wonder why they don’t just walk in, although it’s creepy enough that I’m glad they don’t.
Finally, I open the door.
There’s no one there.
I look down the hall. Maybe whoever knocked on the door realized his mistake and went to the bathroom?
I head to the bathroom, and it’s open. And dark. No one is there. The apartment is quiet. Everyone is sleeping.
It must have been something outside, I decide.
I just thought it was a knock on my door.
I close my door, and get back under the covers.
My breathing is finally returning to normal and I’m about to drop off….
There is a knock on my door.
Daan swears that he was fast asleep when I heard the knocking. We’re at breakfast and Luuk is glaring at him. They are in matching robes. I have never seen anyone wear a robe to breakfast before. Clearly Mom hasn’t either. She is dazzled by this. She asks if they are silk, and Daan laughs and says, “What else?”
They are having toast and fancy jam that my mom picked up at Haddad’s. They have all kinds of imported stuff there. She’s never bought it for us, of course. But for our guests, nothing is too good.
Luuk takes a bite of toast and a sip of gourmet coffee (also from—well, you know by now). “Daan, you are terrible, scaring the boy like that. This coffee is fantastic, Maureen!”
“You know full well I never left the room last night!” Daan protests.
“I know no such thing.” Luuk sniffs. “And you like pulling pranks.”
“It’s fine, right, Danny?” Dad asks.
“Sure,” I say. “I mean, I was a little freaked out, what with all that’s been going on with the room—”
My mom cuts me off sharply. “Don’t bother them with all that, please.”
But of course Luuk and Daan want to hear all about it.
“My family home in Rotterdam was haunted,” Daan insists.
Luuk chuckles. “Not this again. Daan hears the china rattling in the cabinet and insists it’s his grandmother, coming back to make sure he doesn’t chip any of it.”
Daan looks at me. “They don’t believe us. Well, I think it’s fascinating. Do you think it’s your grandmother?”
Dad is going to fall out of his chair, he’s laughing so hard. “Luckily both of Danny’s grandmothers are alive. And if my mother-in-law could haunt us after death, she’d be doing a lot worse than knocking on doors!”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t remember my mom ever knocking on a door before she came in!” my mom adds, grasping my dad’s arm and joining in the hysteria.
Daan raises his eyebrows. “That must have made for an interesting adolescence!”
The whole table is laughing now. Except me. I kind of think I know what Daan is talking about, but I’m not sure, and my cluelessness makes the whole thing even funnier to them.
“You are terrible, Daan,” Luuk says, wiping his eyes. “You owe Danny an apology.”
Daan bows in my direction. “Please accept my apologies, Dan-with-one-a.”
I get up to clear everyone’s plates. As soon as my back is turned they all start laughing again. Being thirteen really stinks.
Luuk’s conference is in the evening, so it’s decided I’ll bring them over to Haddad’s this morning. I text Gus and Nat to meet me there.
We walk the tree-lined streets and Daan remarks on how it reminds him of p
arts of Amsterdam, although the houses here aren’t nearly as old. He pulls up some pictures on his phone to show me.
“They’re beautiful,” I say.
“Perhaps you can come and visit Holland with your folks on your summer holiday,” Luuk says.
I look away. “I don’t think so. We really have to save money for Jake’s college….”
“And what about your college?” Luuk asks gently. I realize that his eyes are like the kindest I’ve ever seen.
I shrug. “I guess we’re focusing on Jake right now.”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” Daan says.
“Perhaps we shouldn’t be talking about this,” Luuk suggests.
“That’s okay,” I insist. “I’m used to it. Really. It’s fine.”
Haddad’s. It takes up three storefronts, with its name emblazoned in big letters over each. There are displays in every window, with goods from around the world stacked in cool little groups. Setting them up is usually Nat’s job, as she’s small and can fit into the windows easily to move things around.
Across Atlantic Avenue there are other Middle Eastern stores. Unlike Haddad’s, they cater mostly to the Arabs who have been living here forever. They carry a lot of the same spices and nuts and stuff that Haddad’s does, but there are hookahs (those water pipes you sometimes see in old movies) and ornamental swords in their windows too. There are entire stores dedicated to Muslim women’s fashion, with beautiful hijabs (the headscarves that rude kid was asking Nat about) in all styles and colors. There’s a travel agency specializing in Middle Eastern trips, a translation service, and a bakery that has delicacies even Haddad’s doesn’t carry.
On the street, gray-bearded men in long caftans fingering worry beads gather in groups while kids run around their legs.
But Haddad’s is different. It is geared more to the whole neighborhood, and has always embraced the latest food trends. As we walk in the door, I smell the familiar scent of fresh coffee, spices, and the food counter where we get our hummus and other delicacies. Shelf after shelf is lined with anything you might want, like cheeses from France, Spain, Greece, and Switzerland and five types of English mustard (four wasn’t enough?).
The Ghost in Apartment 2R Page 5
