by Simone Vlugt
I can’t help but laugh.
‘It’s all guesswork,’ Thomas says in his normal voice.
‘Yep.’ I survey the last piece of steak on my plate. After a long pause, I look up and say, ‘But I still believe in it.’
Thomas looks at me, his expression troubled again. ‘Well,’ he says at last, ‘it might be good for you to believe in that.’
14.
Raoul is the only person I feel comfortable with at the moment. He’s the only one who knows how it feels. And my parents, of course, but their grief is too large to leave room for me.
We go for a walk in the Bergse woods and end up having coffee on the outdoor terrace of a restaurant. Valerie’s spending the day with Raoul’s parents.
‘How are you getting on now?’ I say. ‘Are you coping?’
I’m asked that question so often myself that it makes me feel ill. How do people expect you to be getting on? And of course you’re coping, you have to, you can hardly give up breathing. But my own grief gives me the right to ask such a clichéd question and I have to because Raoul looks dreadful. So dreadful my stomach bunches up.
Raoul stares at the black liquid in his mug as if he’s wondering why he would have any need for it now. Why carry on eating, drinking, and all those other trivial acts when so much emotion and pain is racing through your body?
‘Do you know what kills me?’ he says. ‘All those people who say “time heals” or that I should be “grateful” for all the lovely memories I have of Lydia. That she’s gone to a “better place”. She’s lying under the cold ground!’
I remain silent, not at all taken aback by his outburst.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I constantly get the feeling that Lydia is close by.’
The very second I say that there’s a gust of wind. We should be sheltered by the restaurant building.
‘I keep dreaming about her,’ I continue. ‘About earlier, when we were little, and our childhood. We had so many rows.’
Raoul looks up from his coffee. ‘I always argued with my sister too.’
‘I know it’s normal, but I regret it now. Every nasty word I said to her, every mean thought.’ My voice quavers.
Raoul puts his hand on top of mine.
‘You mustn’t start thinking like that, Elisa, or you’ll go under. Do you think I don’t suffer from regrets?’
I avoid meeting his eyes.
I take a tissue from my handbag, blow my nose and sit there holding it. When I look up, Raoul is staring straight at me and for a couple of breathtaking seconds our eyes lock.
‘We’ve all got something we could reproach ourselves for,’ he says. ‘I was always nagging her – about not being home enough, about the school taking over her life, about there not being enough time left for me.’ He laughs briefly and joylessly.
‘Well, that was true,’ I say. ‘She was always going out in the evenings, or having to telephone one of her students…I found it irritating, but at the same time I admired her for it. If Lydia dedicated herself to something she did it body and soul.’
Raoul’s hand balls into a fist. ‘And to think that one of her beloved students put a bullet through her head.’
‘You don’t know that,’ I say.
‘I do know that!’ Raoul rages. ‘I should never have let her go out on her own. I should never have left her alone for a second! Damn, damn, damn!’
People around us look up in surprise. He hides his face in his hands and makes choking noises.
I shunt my chair closer to his and put my arm around him.
I can still remember the day Lydia brought Raoul home for the first time. We were twenty-two. She was still living at home and I was living in Amsterdam. It was Sunday and we’d arranged to have lunch at our parents’ house.
Lydia had gone away for the night with Raoul. I came alone and waited with my parents for them to return. We were in the garden. It was a warm spring day – much more pleasant to be in my parents’ park-like garden than in my tiny, roasting apartment.
‘It’s so beautiful here.’ I looked around in admiration. ‘It’s so green. And Dad, your flower beds!’
My father sipped his beer and surveyed his garden, his great love. ‘Thanks, doll,’ he said. ‘If you need any more cuttings for your balcony, just let me know.’
‘I can’t fit anything else on it,’ I said. ‘But one day I’ll buy a house with a garden and then you can get to work on it, okay?’
‘You’ve got a deal.’
‘Have you already met this boyfriend of Lydia’s, Elisa?’ my mother asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I think she’s only just met him herself.’
‘What’s only just?’
‘A few weeks at the most,’ I said. ‘They met on the train, I believe.’
‘I wonder what he’s like,’ my mother said.
I wondered too. Despite the fact that Lydia and I are twins, we didn’t like the same type of men and we’d often criticised each other’s choices. Or to be more accurate, she’d criticised mine.
But the moment Lydia strolled into the garden with Raoul, I knew that it was different this time. And when he shook my hand and looked into my eyes, I knew that I had a problem.
Initially I hoped that he’d be a total asshole, but he wasn’t. As well as being gorgeous, Raoul was also considerate, witty, affectionate and warm-hearted. At first, I avoided him as much as possible. I arranged to meet Lydia when I was sure that Raoul wouldn’t be there. But there was no avoiding him on occasions like birthdays. Then I’d withdraw into a corner and listen to my sister’s happy chattering. Lydia had always been more outgoing and over time I got the impression that it annoyed Raoul a little. Lydia’s impulsive, lively character meant that she sometimes cut other people off when they were talking. Once I saw Raoul looking at her in a way that made me wonder, and that night, his eyes rested on me for a few seconds.
When it was time to say goodbye, he pulled me tightly to him. I couldn’t help but feel nourished in his embrace. I smelled him, heard his heartbeat and tried to imprint every second into my memory, so I could think back to it later as I lay alone in my bed.
Did Lydia ever notice anything? Did she see how I looked at Raoul when I thought I was unobserved? Did it ever occur to her that Raoul and I were drawn to each other at birthday parties or nights out with friends? Did she suspect anything when Raoul sent job after job my way when I started work as a photographer?
I never acted on my feelings, but ran headlong into a series of relationships that had nothing to offer, could never have anything to offer. I never broached the subject with Raoul and he’s never said anything to me. But those feeling are there…still.
15.
Wouldn’t I like to go home with him for a bit? We could eat together, perhaps even go to a restaurant. The house is so quiet and there’s no one to talk to.
It doesn’t seem like a sensible thing to do. I can’t help Raoul with his loneliness and I don’t want to. I’m not afraid of the silence of my own home, perhaps because I’m used to it, perhaps because I don’t really feel like I’m alone. Lydia tells me what to do, still. Every time I make a decision I know what she would have said about it, and nine times out of ten I hear her saying it. In a way she interferes as much in my life from beyond the grave as she used to when she was alive.
Only now do I realise how tightly Lydia and I were bound together, though our whole lives we tried to be individuals.
When Lydia decided she liked jewellery, I refused to have my ears pierced. If Lydia wanted to go somewhere hot and sunny for our holidays, I got travel brochures for Scandinavia. Once when I was about fourteen I had my hair cut so short my scalp shone through the stubble.
However much I emphasised our differences, there were always many similarities. I quite liked skirts and beach holidays, but after a while I found myself trapped in a pattern of behaviour I’d chosen and from which there was no escape.
When we were ten, Lydia got appendicitis and had to go
to hospital. When my father brought her home after the operation, it was raining hard and he carried her inside from the car with great tenderness and concern, covered in his new suede jacket.
That evening I had a sore stomach too. My parents called the doctor, but it turned out there was nothing wrong. The doctor said it was solidarity pain, common in twins. I cried when he went away again without sending me to hospital.
‘Why are you crying now?’ my father asked.
‘Probably from relief,’ my mother said, stroking my hair. ‘She was scared she might need an operation too, of course.’
I let them console me, pulled on my father’s suede jacket and refused to take it off for the rest of the evening.
Lydia took charge from a very early age. I remember playing ball with her in between the parked cars on our street. Finally we’d had enough and I had to cross the street back to our side of the road, where Lydia was, only I couldn’t see between the parked cars very well. Lydia couldn’t either, but she still beckoned to me. Trusting her blindly, I ran into the road and found myself in front of the screeching tyres of a car. The car managed to stop just in time – the skid marks stayed on the road for at least a year afterwards. I ran home in shock and threw myself crying into my father’s arms.
‘Why didn’t you look?!’ he cried out.
‘Lydia said it was all right,’ I sobbed.
My father sighed and stroked my hair. ‘You’re going to have to learn to think for yourself.’
We both liked music. I had piano lessons and Lydia played the violin. I was talented and enjoyed performing for other people, but the applause was never for me alone – Lydia was just as good at playing the violin.
Sometimes I fantasised about being an only child. I was jealous of friends who could be completely themselves.
My wish came true. I’m on my own now.
Lydia
16.
It’s almost impossible to teach that next morning. News of what happened with Bilal is buzzing through the school and during my first lesson, everyone wants to vent about it. Hafid and Jeffrey shout that we should get tough on him, Yussef makes a couple of philosophical comments and Niels punches the air, pretending it’s Bilal. Abdel is the only one who doesn’t engage; he’s turned away, looking outside. That doesn’t surprise me –Bilal is his cousin, which is another reason I’d rather not spend too much time talking about it, but the class has other ideas.
‘Bilal is scum,’ Elvan says. ‘He’s not a good Muslim, Miss. He’s always doing bad things, like drugs and stuff.’ Her friends and a couple of the boys back her up.
Abdel gives them a dirty look.
‘It’s time to move on, now,’ I say. ‘It happened, it’s been resolved.’
‘We think it’s horrible for you! We want to know how you are!’ Funda calls out, her eyes large.
I’m sure they do, but I also know that they’ll clutch at anything to turn a boring Dutch lesson into a juicy conversation, and the minutest details will be spread through the school afterwards. I begin the lesson.
After that I’ve got Bilal’s class, the final year students. They are older and less unruly. They don’t seem to need to talk about the incident so much. Only a few students, mainly girls, have something to say.
‘Bilal always feels insulted, Miss,’ Naima says. ‘You can’t do anything about it. You only have to blink for him to think you’re making fun of him.’
‘It’s true.’ Mohammed is a quiet student and the sound of his deep voice is so unexpected that I look up at him in surprise. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Miss. We’re all really impressed that you stayed so calm.’
The rest of the class agrees and I’m moved.
‘Thanks, Mohammed. I appreciate you saying that.’
We set to work. I’m so pleased I started teaching again right away. The support of my colleagues and students does me a world of good.
I write everything to be copied down on the board. From time to time I look over my shoulder at the bowed heads behind me and feel warm inside. This is the reason I teach: it doesn’t just require energy, it also gives me energy. I love my students, well, most of the time I love them. When it’s Ramadan and they’re hungry and thirsty, I feel for them. I do my best to help them get good grades, a good report and, ultimately, a qualification. Nobody can take away the joy I feel when the future of an apparent no-hoper looks promising. Not even Bilal can take that away.
I bump into Jan on my way to the staffroom afterwards. Rather than ask me how I’m doing, he says that telling everyone my story is causing unrest and suggests I be more discreet.
I ignore him. Telling it over and over again reduces the chaos in my mind. But during the lunch break, I do feel the need for some quiet time.
‘I’m off for a wander,’ I say to Jasmine. ‘Do you want to come?’
She shakes her head and points at her pile of test papers. ‘I still have to get through these.’
‘Can’t they wait?’
‘Sorry.’
‘All right.’ I put on my coat and get an apple from my bag.
Jasmine turns to the test papers again, but then looks up and says, ‘You’ll be careful?’
The note of concern in her voice touches me. We look at each other. ‘I’m only going to walk round the school.’
It’s wonderful to be outside. It’s always so stuffy in the staffroom during the breaks. As I cross the playground, I toss my hair back and take a bite of my apple. Students nod shyly at me here and there or wave and come over.
‘Miss! Miss! Have you marked the tests already?’
‘I can’t do my talk today, Miss. I didn’t get much sleep and I don’t feel very well.’
I keep the conversations short, promise to give their tests back this afternoon and tell Fatima that she simply has to give her talk, whether she’s got her period or not. I up my pace and walk around the school. The sun has broken through and I’m enjoying its warmth and the fresh greenery.
And then I see him.
Bilal is standing on the other side of the street, wearing a hoodie, surrounded by friends. The shock is acute. He stares at me. My heart hammers in my chest and my step falters. What to do? Go back? Walk on? Show him that I’m not afraid of him?
But I’m almost rigid, rooted to the spot, and my eyes are locked on him. It’s more than obvious that I’m terrified.
A smile spreads over his face; there’s no warmth to it. He nudges one of his friends and points to me. Four faces turn towards me. One of them is taking into his mobile, but cuts the call off immediately.
I look at my watch, pretend to start, as if I’ve realised I’m late for something and spin on my heels. I walk straight into someone. He grabs my arms and I scream.
17.
‘It’s me! Don’t panic!’
Luke.
I take a shaky breath. ‘I almost jumped out of my skin.’
‘I didn’t mean to scare you. Come on, the bell’s about to go.’
‘Were you having a walkabout too, or…?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘I heard that Bilal had been spotted in the area and then Jasmine said you’d gone outside.’
‘You’re so sweet, you really are,’ I say. ‘I wonder what Bilal and his friends would have done if you hadn’t turned up.’
‘To be honest, I don’t think I’d have deterred them if they were planning something,’ Luke says. ‘They were probably just trying to provoke you.’
‘I hope they aren’t going to make a habit of it. I was really scared.’
‘It might be better if you don’t go outside on your own for the time being.’
I give him a sideways glance. ‘Do you think it’s that serious?’
‘Bilal Assrouti is bad news,’ Luke says. ‘I once made him clean the classroom as punishment and got a brick thrown through my window every night for a week.’
‘Really?’ I say, shocked. ‘Why didn’t you ever tell me?’
‘You had your own stuff going on.’
/> ‘Did you report it?’ I ask.
‘I didn’t want to make things worse.’ He sighs and runs his hand through his blond hair. ‘So all he learned was that he can get away with anything. That’s why I think it’s better if you report it. The more complaints the police get about Bilal, the more they’ll have on him. But I’d keep quiet about getting them involved.’
Luke knows that I’m in turmoil about whether or not to go to the police. He gives me a gentle pat on the shoulder and says that he’ll always be there for me if I want to talk. We walk through the chaos of bags and knocked-over chairs. The bell goes as I enter the staffroom.
‘Blown away the cobwebs?’ Jasmine puts a pile of corrected papers into her bag and smiles.
‘Bilal was there,’ I say. ‘On the other side of the street.’
‘No! What did he do?’
‘Nothing. He was about to cross the street when Luke turned up.’ I stroke Luke’s arm; he’s standing next to me rummaging around in his pigeon hole.
‘Accidentally on purpose,’ he says.
Jasmine frowns. ‘I don’t like this at all.’
‘Me neither,’ Luke says.
‘What don’t you like?’ Nora is walking past. Hans, who is leafing through a teaching magazine, follows the conversation with his usual frown.
‘Bilal was outside waiting for me,’ I say – a slight exaggeration.
Nora looks at me, worried.
‘Nothing happened. But I don’t feel very relaxed about him hanging around here.’
Nora nods. ‘I’ll have a word with him.’
‘I’ve never had a problem with that boy,’ Hans says.
It sounds like an accusation and I swivel to face him. ‘I’d never had any problems with Bilal before either. It could happen to any of us, Hans.’
‘I wouldn’t have provoked him,’ Hans says.
