Summer Brother

by Jaap Robben

  -

  4

  On the table there’s a torn bag of chips from Mandy the Nail’s. Its real name is The Snack Palace, but Armand, the owner, has a thumbnail half an inch long. When you order a hot dog, he digs his nail into the steaming skin and runs it the length of the sausage. Then you choose from three sauces and he squirts a sad little dribble along the split.

  “What kept you?” Dad chews from his easy chair. He grabs a couple of chips and drags them through the mayonnaise. “I thought you were going to fry us some eggs.”

  I give him the coolest look I can muster.

  “What?”

  My lips are sealed.

  “What is it?”

  Silence. His eyes are already narrowing. I can’t spin this out much longer.

  “What’s the look for?” Dad wipes his greasy fingers on his jeans and goes to get out of his chair. “Fuck’s sake, Bry! Answer me!”

  Quick as you like, I toss four twenties onto the Formica tabletop.

  “For the first week.” I try not to sound too chuffed with myself. “And the tenant’s moving in straight away.” Dad looks at me, then back at the money, chewing all the while.

  “Well, that explains the car at the gate.” He counts the notes again, like he can’t quite believe it. “This is for one week?”

  “He didn’t even haggle.”

  Dad pulls aside the curtain behind him, but you can’t see the caravan from there. “Don’t tell me it’s another Arafat clan? We can’t have kids here again.”

  “No, no. This one’s alone. Well, just about.”

  “Just about?”

  “He’s got an aquarium.”

  “An aquarium?”

  “Oh, and he wants the aircon fixed.”

  “Well, we can take a look at that in the morning.” Dad shifts up so I can sit on the arm of the chair. He slides a hot dog in my direction and tears the bag of chips all the way open. Picking up the four twenties, he spreads them like a hand of cards and fans his face. “Nice job, Brian my boy.”

  The fifth twenty-euro note is glowing in my pocket.

  -

  5

  To get the last stubby screw out of the aircon, I have to twist so hard that my thumb cramps up. Dad leans against the storage box of Emile’s caravan and coughs his lungs awake. “Don’t lose any!” His voice wheezes and wavers. “Important little buggers, they are.”

  The casing comes loose at last and I lift it off. Emile came out to introduce himself to Dad but as soon as he saw that Rico and Rita were with us, he nipped back into the caravan.

  “Well spotted, Bry,” Dad whispers.

  “What?”

  “You know …” He checks that the door of the caravan is shut. “Getting this guy to pay full whack. Did you see that watch? And those shoes?”

  “Of course I did.” I sit down in the spiky grass and wiggle my bum until the blades stop pricking through my swimming trunks.

  “Hand-stitched by a bunch of fucking elves.” Dad spins the fan one way then the other and kneels down beside me. “Thirteen-millimetre wrench.”

  I rummage in his plastic shopping bag of tools. “This one?”

  Dad checks the number and sets to work on a stubborn bolt. I tie a new knot in the cord of my swimming trunks and brush a couple of dried-up earwigs out of the aircon casing so Dad can’t have a go at me for leaving everything to him.

  The dogs take turns trotting over to the concrete swimming pool behind the caravan. A yard or so from the edge they freeze, crane their necks, and peer into the pit, one paw off the ground. Snuffling back across the grass, they poke their noses into the aircon casing, sneeze, and shake away the cobwebs. The swimming pool is big enough to hide two Renault vans. You can still see the tyre tracks if you know what you’re looking for. White paint flakes from the concrete, the broken ladder has keeled over. Pine twigs are shooting out of the latest cracks, the old ones were plastered over a while back. Two of the walls have been painted a sloppy ocean-blue and a job lot of tiles are stacked in a corner, waiting for someone with the will to smarten up the pool and fill it with water.

  “They can smell it, you know,” Dad says.

  “What, that you took a leak back there?”

  “Jean says they used to hold dog fights in that pool.”

  “Honest?”

  “They used to come from all over to watch and place bets. Lit the place up with construction lamps. Sometimes they chucked in a fox. Or a badger.”

  “Couldn’t they climb out?”

  “Easy enough to kick them back in.” Dad shakes his head. “The blood and blind panic have soaked into the concrete. Those mutts of ours can still smell it.” Dad rubs Rita between the ears while her rough paws slide down his calf. “Ask our new tenant for a bowl of water, will you?” The dogs both look up at me.

  I knock on the door and yank it open without waiting for an answer. Rita squeezes past my legs and shoots into the caravan.

  “I need some water for the dogs.”

  “Could you please take that … dog outside?” She has already bounced onto the seat opposite Emile.

  “Here!” Rita slides off the seat on command but then jumps up with her front paws on the draining board. “Sorry,” I shrug, “she slipped past me.”

  A plate clatters into the sink as she gulps down a scrap of leftover food.

  “Could you get that animal out of here?”

  I drag Rita out by her collar. Rico is at the door, tail wagging, ready for his turn.

  Emile gets to his feet. “Water, you said?”

  “I’ll get it.” I know the place better than Emile and reach into a corner cupboard for a bowl. It slowly fills with the stream of lukewarm water from the tap. A long piss would be quicker. Emile’s aquarium is on the table, two tea towels draped over the top.

  “Is your aquarium busted?”

  “No. Just letting my fish acclimatize.”

  “Shame. I’d love to see them swimming.”

  “You’re welcome to come back another time.”

  Next to the aquarium is a puzzle book and a mobile phone, the kind I’ve only ever seen in adverts. “Is that the latest model?” I ask.

  Emile runs his finger over the keys and the screen glows green. He stares at it, then slides the puzzle book over the top.

  “Does it do all kinds of new stuff?”

  “That’s what they say,” he smiles. “All I’ve done so far is talk to answering machines.”

  Emile looks at the bowl, now overflowing with water. “Will you be able to fix the air conditioning?”

  “I think so.”

  Emile nudges the puzzle book so it’s straighter than it was. “Should I offer you something to drink? Coffee maybe?”

  Rico and Rita guzzle the water before I’ve even let go of the bowl. The aircon is spinning and humming again. “Just as well it’s a sturdy little caravan or this thing would blow it clean away,” Dad says proudly, gathering his tools in the plastic bag. “Don’t get too close, Bry. That fan will lop off your foreskin before you know it. Leave you with a helmet and no hoodie.”

  I hate it when he talks about my dick.

  “Cosy chat?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I heard you two talking in there. Anything I should know?”

  “Not really.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like his fish need a rest.”

  Dad scratches the baggy arse of his jeans, puts the casing back on the aircon, and nods at the screws so I’ll hand them to him.

  “He asked if we wanted coffee.”

  “Now there’s an offer we can’t refuse.”

  Only the light above the sink is on. Dad is sitting next to me at the table and Emile is standing by the draining board. It looks like he’s come to visit us.


  “Hmm, this is quite something.” Dad has lifted up a tea towel and is peering into the dark aquarium. Fish flit past. A little brown monster is cleaning the glass with its suction mouth.

  “Flashy little buggers.” Dad taps a nail against the tank. “Safety glass?”

  “Not that I know,” Emile mumbles. “Might be.”

  “We could do with one of these, eh Bry? Beats the TV any day.”

  “What can I do for you?” Emile asks.

  “Um … you asked us in for coffee?” Dad shoots me a quizzical look. “Right?”

  I nod.

  While Emile pours, Dad sizes up the caravan. “So … made yourself at home, I see.”

  “Uh, kind of …” Emile sits down opposite us. I get the impression he would rather we drank our coffee outside but doesn’t know how to tell us. “Shouldn’t we be heading off?” I ask Dad.

  “The gentleman’s just served us coffee.” A thump on my shoulder. “Don’t be so rude. Decent brew, by the way.”

  There’s a smart shirt lying on Emile’s bed, and his coffee maker is installed on the kitchen counter. Between us lies the puzzle book, curling at the edges. Emile follows my gaze. “I haven’t got around to unpacking the rest.”

  “Want us to help?” I ask.

  “I’d rather keep things simple for the time being.”

  “Simple …” Dad repeats. Drops of spilled coffee hiss between the coffee pot and the hot plate. I shift in my seat to straighten up my swimming trunks and they both look at me.

  “Nice cool breeze in here,” Dad says.

  “Yes, indeed,” Emile nods. He catches Dad staring at the packet of biscuits and says, “I’m not having one but, please, help yourself.”

  “All right, just the one.”

  Dad takes a biscuit from the packet. “And? Settling in nicely?”

  “Uh, yes, fine. I’ve only been here one night.”

  Dad examines the biscuit as if he’s wondering which side deserves his second bite. “And what brought you here, like?”

  “Pfff. It’s kind of complicated.”

  “Didn’t see it coming?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Had to up sticks all of a sudden? Aquarium and all.”

  “It takes a bit of explaining.”

  “No one moves here for the view.”

  “Goodness, well I … I have some things to straighten out.” He nudges a few crumbs together with his fingertip and deposits them next to his cup.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Dad nods, as if he knows exactly what Emile’s getting at. There’s a ticking sound at the caravan door. Rico is standing guard, tail swishing.

  “The whole thing is …” Emile’s head shakes away a thought. “Rather complex.”

  He turns the packet of biscuits toward me.

  “Whoa-ho.” Dad puts his hand over the opening. “It’s time we left you in peace.”

  “Is there anything else we need to arrange?” Emile asks.

  “Looks like the two of you worked everything out yesterday.” He lands another punch on my shoulder. “Any questions, just ask our Brian here.”

  Ask Brian? Dad never leaves this kind of stuff to me.

  “And as for collecting the rent …” His knuckles reconnect with my shoulder. “Agreed?”

  “Fine,” says Emile, as if he was about to recommend me for the job, too.

  “Sorted!” Dad goes to whack my shoulder again, but I stand up so I’m out of reach.

  I step outside and the heat hugs me like a fat, sweaty stranger.

  “Oh yeah,” Dad says, with one foot on the doorstep. “Almost forgot the bill. Let’s call it twenty p.p.”

  “Twenty p.p.?”

  “It took the two of us to get her up and running.”

  “You mean the air conditioning?”

  Dad steps back into the caravan, Emile shuffles backward out of the light. “To be frank, that strikes me as rather pricey.”

  “Running costs included. That thing guzzles electricity. Flick the switch and our TV goes on the blink.” Rico tries to squeeze past me and I pull him back by his collar. “Keep those mutts away from the tenant, Bry.”

  “I’m doing my best!”

  Dad shuts the door but I can hear their muffled voices clear enough.

  “I was under the impression that … because the rent … that this was included.”

  “I get it, I get it. But your rent only covers the caravan, see. The aircon’s an added extra. Summer only, so there’s no monthly payment. But if you decide to make use of it, we have to charge you a little something. Didn’t Brian explain?”

  No answer.

  “A one-off payment, like.” The door swings open. I jump back and act like I wasn’t listening. “Forty is a bargain, isn’t that right, Bry?”

  “Yeah, fifty’s the usual.”

  The corners of his mouth give a little twitch. That was exactly what he wanted to hear.

  “All right.” Emile turns toward the kitchen cupboards. “Would you mind waiting outside for a moment?”

  “Not at all.” Dad hops swiftly off the step. “Any technical problems within two weeks, we’ll sort them free of charge.”

  The dogs rub against our legs like they’re trying to wipe the heat from their coats. They lick the empty water bowl and shove it across the grass ahead of them, growling at each other.

  Emile opens the door again and hands Dad the cash.

  “Much obliged,” he says and zips the notes away in his breast pocket. “Oh, one last thing …” He points in the direction of Henri’s garage. “I’d steer clear of those two, if I were you.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Just keep your distance, that’s all. They’re a different breed to you and me.”

  -

  6

  “This is one tenant we need to handle with care.”

  “Why did you tell him to watch out for Jean and Brown Henri?”

  “Our Emile is a walking ATM, Bry.” Dad leans in close. “And we need to be the only ones with access. Got it?”

  We trudge along behind our shadows. “Here you go.” Dad pulls out a well-worn tenner and stuffs it into the pocket of my swimming trunks. “A little summer bonus.”

  I heave a secret sigh of relief that Emile didn’t mention how much rent he’s paying.

  “What do you think is up?”

  “What, with our tenant?”

  We both look back at the caravan.

  “How should I know?” The curtains are closed as if no one’s inside. “Maybe he’s a banker who’s done a runner with a suitcase full of cash. Or a loser who never left home till one day he snapped and smothered his senile old mum with a pillow.”

  “You really think that?”

  “The gentleman’s lips are sealed. So are ours.” Dad pats his breast pocket. “An arrangement for which the gentleman is willing to pay.”

  “Where are you off to?”

  Instead of heading for our caravan, Dad strolls over to Jean and Brown Henri’s garage. “Just dropping off the rent.” Inside, metal clatters on concrete. Swallows swoop in through the open doors.

  “Good morning!” Dad’s voice echoes through the space.

  “Maurice …!” Jean looks up, startled. Open boxes are piled all around him. White plastic bottles with blue tops on his left. Identical bottles on his right, only labelled. A regular job from one of Brown Henri’s brothers. A brand-new Mercedes is gleaming on the hydraulic lift, but Henri is nowhere in sight.

  “Hey, Brian! Holidays started already?” Jean asks.

  “Since Friday.”

  “Nice one.” He takes a blank bottle and plucks an oval sticker from a sheet.

  “What kind of shipment you got this time?” I ask.

  “It was Romanian mayo.” Jean turns the b
ottle in his firm grip, slaps the sticker on the back, and thumbs away the air bubbles. “But now it’s organic mayonnaise. From Picardy.” The next bottle is ready and waiting in his other hand.

  “How are things …” He gasps for breath. “… with the girls?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “Yeah, yeah. There speaks a boy …” He pauses, inhales again. “… who hasn’t found himself a girl yet.” Clear plastic tubes run from his nostrils to a bigger tube that winds behind his ear and connects to a machine that puffs every few seconds, like it’s blowing air into something leaky.

  “How many bottles to go?”

  “Two pallets, been … at it since Saturday.”

  “Maurice!” Brown Henri emerges from the toilet. “Long time, no see. Count my tools there, will you Jean?” Their laughter is a duet. The only way for Dad not to flounder is to come up with a wisecrack of his own. But Jean beats him to it. “No need. All your tools are … over at his place already.” They roar. Dad chews on a remark to hit back with. Happy with his banter, Jean fiddles with a molehill of a birthmark below his chin.

  “Jesus, Jean!” Dad bursts out.

  “What?” Laughing sucks more breath out of Jean than talking.

  “When are you going to let me burn off that ugly lump of yours? One tssst with the soldering iron will do it.” Jean’s hand shoots back to his neck like he’s afraid it’s happened already.

  “I’m always telling him that …” Henri yells. “But till Jean finds himself a woman, he’s got to have something to play with.”

  Now Henri and Dad are the chuckle brothers, and Jean is left to stroke his molehill like it’s a sad little creature in need of comfort. “Brian, if you want something to drink …” He motions toward the fridge. They always keep a can of energy drink in the veg compartment for me. Dad stretches contentedly. Cracking a joke always frees him to take up more space. Henri sniggers to a halt. “By the way, have we got ourselves a new tenant?”