Rus Like Everyone Else

by Bette Adriaanse

  “Accommodation,” Rus repeated as he walked down the market square, past the passersby, who kept their distance. “City Plans!”

  “We hereby inform you that your ‘apartment’ was illegally built. It is the only fourth-floor apartment in the entire three-story housing block. It was presumably hand-built during the war from scrap materials (see Book 2, Section 3. Unauthorized Constructions and Illegal Habitats).”

  “Scrap materials,” Rus said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Unfortunately, under the Housing Entitlement Law as installed in the ’70s—and you know what kind of hippie mentality they had back then—we cannot demolish a home where the occupant has lived for over seven years. Not even in your case: a construction that was never even intended for living, but most likely used only to shoot enemy carrier pigeons out of the air (see Book 2. Appendix 1. War Constructions: A City Catalog).”

  Rus snorted. The thing about the pigeons was obviously something they had made up to make him feel even more under attack. The wind was cutting through the thin fabric of his tracksuit, but he did not notice it. He clenched the paper in his hand.

  “However,” the letter read, “since we cannot demolish it, the apartment has now been registered retroactively, which means community taxes will have to be paid going back to your eighteenth birthday—to be paid today, before 5 o’clock (see Book 1. Taxes).”

  That sentence was followed by that horrible amount and all kinds of threats about what would happen if he didn’t pay, even talking of things like “eviction” and “auction.”

  “But why should I pay this?” Rus shook his head anxiously as he zigzagged among the fish stalls, the carpet stalls, the cheese and nut stalls, and the tram rails. “Two thousand six hundred fifteen for using the water and some kind of road maintenance! I never even use the roads! Why do they think I have that kind of money?”

  “Since you have recently declared that you have a substantial income as a controller, we believe you will have no problem meeting the payment deadline.”

  “Declared!” Rus shouted as he entered his street. “I have never declared anything, I.” With these words, Rus came to a sudden halt. A memory had catapulted itself from the back of his brain right in between his thoughts and now started playing in his mind like a slow-motion movie.

  “Good afternoon,” the memory started. “Would you like to participate in a City Survey?”

  It was a boy who’d asked him this, just last winter, when Rus’s doorbell had rung. The boy who rang the doorbell was standing in Rus’s doorway, holding a pen and a paper. He smiled. Rus did not know what to answer. His doorbell never rang.

  “Everybody who completes the survey form gets a little gadget.” The boy held a small, shiny object in the air. “It’s a mini calculator. You can add and subtract with it, multiply and divide.”

  “Yes,” Rus said, “I’d like to participate.” He stretched out his hand to take the calculator, but the boy put it back in his pocket.

  “My name is Ashraf,” he said. “I work for City Statistics.” He handed Rus a plastic card with a photo on it.

  Rus looked at the card. It said “City Statistics Identification.” Rus squinted at the card. It was unclear what he was supposed to do with it.

  “That’s me,” the boy said, pointing at the picture.

  Rus held the card up to the light. He did not know exactly why he did that, but he had to participate in order to get the calculator. He had to calculate a lot every day.

  “It really is me,” the boy said. “It is my picture.” The boy took the card from his hands and held it up against the light too. “Right?” he said. He wiped the card with his sleeve and looked confused. “They’re strange things, pictures. But I’m sure it’s me.”

  “Of course,” Rus said. He tried to sound reassuring.

  “The thing is,” the boy said, “normally, a face is in movement, but when you take a picture, it gets frozen. It is not me, Ashraf, who is represented in this photo, but just one of my many faces.” The boy squinted at the picture. “That’s why a picture can show a very different face than the way you see yourself for instance.”

  “Yes,” Rus said. He’d never had his picture taken by someone, not that he could remember. “When will I get the calculator?”

  The boy gave Rus the paper and the pen. Rus had never filled out a form before, but this seemed very easy. Name? Age? How long he had been living there, any family? Did he have dogs?

  “RUS, 25, Since I Was Born, They Left Me,” Rus penned. “No Dog!”

  “Have you been unemployed in the past ten years? If no, go to question 7.”

  “No,” Rus checkmarked. He knew exactly whom the unemployed were, always hanging around outside the supermarket in their mobility scooters or sitting on a bench in the park with cans of beer at their feet. He had never been anything like that.

  “Question 7. What is your occupation in daily life? Fill in the box.”

  That was a hard one. How did he occupy himself? Rus thought about all the things he did every day. He drew a ten from the debit card in the morning, and he went to the supermarket, and of course he got lost a lot. Every day he drank a hazelnut latte in the big brown chair near the window in the Starbucks, where he compared the number of customers with the day before and wrote the difference on a napkin with a pen. He also enjoyed standing by the pond and looking into the water to see what he could he see. Sometimes he had to tidy his house a little bit and take his sheets to the Wash-o-Matic, and he often stood still to talk to the dogs that were waiting outside the supermarket. He also kept track of the gull that lived in the drainpipe, at what time it left and at what time it came back. Rus narrowed his eyes at the form. “Accountant. Actor. Astronaut. Athlete.” He let his pen float over the options. He checked the box for the word “Controller.”

  “I am a controller,” Rus said to the boy, who was staring at his identity card. He felt important, now that he had a word for what he did.

  “Oh, yes, good,” the boy said distractedly. “It’s finished?” He held out the calculator for Rus, who said yes and quickly finished check-marking all kinds of boxes, on topics like “Savings” and “Possessions” and traded the form for the calculator. The memory ended with Rus adding and subtracting everything in his apartment.

  Rus stood at the opposite side of Low Street for a while when the memory was over, looking up at his apartment, the letter dangling from his hand. Then he shook his head furiously, went in through the front door and up the stairs, and closed the door of his apartment firmly behind him.

  The sun has gone down now and is shining on the other side of the world again, but you are still here with me. We’ve seen the windows across the water switch to dark, one by one, and you can picture the inhabitants switching their lights off, making their way through the dark bedrooms, stepping barefoot into bed.

  Behind a few windows the lights remain on. The secretary’s curtains light up blue; the light is coming from her laptop, which is still on. She has joined an Internet group today for people who do not like to fall asleep alone. Now she falls asleep with a Japanese girl on the laptop screen, watching her silently. The secretary named her Katie just before she fell asleep.

  On the other side of the secretary’s wall, only a meter away from her head on the pillow, Mrs. Blue is sleeping too. She dreams of Grace, lying unconscious on the floor in the soap-opera mansion. Mrs. Blue turns around on her side and shakes her head in her sleep.

  Down the road, on Low Street, the windows are dark as well. But on the corner there, on the ground floor of Rus’s housing block, you see a red light blink every five seconds or so. That’s the alarm on Mr. Lucas’s bedroom window; the alarm Rus hears every Monday when he sets it off to make sure that it works. Mr. Lucas is lying in his bed by the window, his face pale, his arms clenching his pillow. A chair is shoved under the door handle and he keeps a knife tucked between his mattress and the box spring, because he is afraid in the dark. He is afraid in the light t
oo, but you will hear about that later. First, he has to get the letter that we have here for him, the letter that will change everything.

  “Dear Mr. Lucas. You are invited...” it reads, and there is even a seal on the envelope, which we put neatly back on.

  Rus is the only one in our neighborhood who is not sleeping. From where you are standing, right behind me, you can see his silhouette, sitting up in bed, looking at the view from his window, just like us. He could draw this view from memory: the roofs of the houses, the antennas and chimneys, the clouds passing over, all framed by the windowpane. Over the years the image has stamped itself on his brain. Never before had he considered that it could be taken from him. He has seen it for twenty-five years, every morning and evening, and it is his, his, his.

  THE DEBT COLLECTORS

  “Mr. Rus,” a voice said. “I know you are in there!”

  Rus startled in the bed. He’d been lying with his face in the pillow, trying to forget the letter, but it remained in the middle of his thoughts, refusing to leave. And now there was a voice.

  “I am here to talk about your debts,” the voice said.

  “Wait,” Rus said. He got up from the bed. “Wait a second.” He quickly put on one of the tracksuits that his mother’s boyfriend had left. “Don’t go away.”

  “I don’t go away,” the voice on the other side of the door said. “I am a debt collector.”

  Rus zipped up the jacket and opened the door. The debt collector was a tall man in a long black jacket. He looked over Rus’s shoulder and glanced around the apartment. Then he focused his eyes on Rus.

  “Mr. Rus, not only have you neglected to pay your taxes, amounting to two thousand six hundred fifteen in total, you have also ignored delayed payment fees and administration costs. In total: two thousand nine hundred eleven, to be paid to me right here, right now.”

  “Yes, yes,” Rus said, raising his shoulders when he heard the number, “please don’t shout. It is in fact good that you’re here because this is a misunderstanding and it has been making me feel very restless. You can take the letter back to the tax office and tell them I cannot pay.”

  “Ha ha,” the man in the jacket said, but he did not really smile. “Do you really think, Mr. Rus, that you are an exception, that you can use the facilities in this city without paying? That is stealing.”

  “Don’t say stealing,” Rus said.

  “Do you know what the law says about stealing? It is a crime. You are a criminal, Mr. Rus.” When the man said “mister” he squinted his eyes and spit rained on Rus’s face.

  “Don’t think I don’t know your type,” the man said. “You use the roads, you use the water, and when the bills come, you pretend you don’t have any money.”

  “But I don’t have money for this!” Rus said. “I don’t want this. I want to lie in my bed and I don’t want to use any facilities!”

  The man raised his eyebrows and pointed at Rus’s feet. “Didn’t you get home by a government-funded road yesterday, Mr. Rus? Isn’t that a glass of water I see on your nightstand?” The collector put his foot between the door and the jamb. “Is that a real vintage tracksuit you’re wearing, Mr. Rus? Those are valuable. Where do you keep your savings? How much do you make as a controller?”

  Rus pushed the door against the man’s foot. “I am not a controller,” he cried. “I am nothing. I have nothing. I just wanted to get the calculator.”

  “I see. Then do I understand you have supplied the tax office with false information?” the man said, taking notes. “Do I understand you’ve consciously done so?”

  “Yes,” Rus said. “You understand! It was all false and conscious! Now leave me alone!” He stepped onto the man’s foot, which he pulled back, and quickly Rus slammed the door shut.

  For a few seconds nothing happened. Then Rus heard footsteps going down the stairs and it went quiet again, only the tap still dripped. Rus opened the door a few centimeters. When he didn’t see anyone, he quickly grabbed his coat and the letter and ran down the stairs.

  Halfway down the staircase Rus was blocked by a man who was slamming stamps on a paper. The man was wearing a long black jacket.

  “Mr. Rus?” The man looked up from the paper. “You’ve neglected to pay your tax bill, a total sum of three thousand two hundred sixty-one, which I am here to collect.”

  “No, no.” Rus shook his head vigorously. “You just said two thousand nine hundred eleven.”

  “I did not speak with you before, Mr. Rus,” the man said, placing his hand on Rus’s elbow. “That was another debt collector. You have recently indicated that you entered false information on your City Registration forms, which resulted in a three hundred fine for supplying false information, plus administration costs. This sum has been added to your debt. Now, where is your money?” The debt collector ran his eyes over Rus’s body.

  “All I have is my mother’s old debit card,” Rus said, folding his arm across his chest. “But I need that for the Starbucks and groceries and the Wash-o-Matic.”

  “Then you stop going to the Starbucks. Then you stop eating. Then you sell your kidneys. We don’t care about your life, Mr. Rus. We care about the boundaries of the law and what is possible for us within them.”

  “But I need to eat,” Rus said. “I need the Starbucks.”

  “A kidney does around fifteen hundred,” the debt collector said. He lowered his voice. “I could, perhaps, even introduce you to some people. A heart, of course, sells for much, much more.”

  “But if I sell my heart, I die.”

  “But you will have paid,” the man said. He smiled—a real smile, which grew wider and wider.

  Rus stared at the man, who was now laughing with his mouth wide open. “Your tongue,” Rus said. “It’s black!”

  The man stopped laughing. He covered his mouth with his papers. “It’s not,” the man said. “Do I understand you refuse to pay the amount you owe in taxes? We have the right to sell everything you own, you know.”

  Rus didn’t answer. He stared at the man’s nostrils, which were also black on the inside. He took a few steps back up the stairs.

  The debt collector moved up toward Rus, hiding his mouth in his collar. “We’ll take everything, Mr. Rus. Think about the kidneys.”

  In one move Rus yanked his arm from the debt collector’s grip and jumped past him, down the stairs. Outside, Rus saw another man in a long coat coming toward him, carrying papers. Rus turned around and started running in the opposite direction, around the corner and over the bridge. He ran as fast as he could. For minutes and maybe even hours he ran without thinking, past the market square and the harbor, past the girls behind the windows, past the shops and the station, only listening to the sound of his feet getting him away from there.

  When he finally came to a halt in a far end of the Eastern borough, he had made up his mind. With sweaty palms, he inserted his mother’s old debit card in the cash machine and pressed the button that said everything.

  MR. LUCAS

  “Dear Mr. Lucas. You are invited by the Queen...” For the tenth time, Mr. Lucas read the letter the post girl had delivered that morning. His heart started pounding again. “Easy,” he whispered to himself, “easy does it.” He brought the letter close to his eyes and continued. “... to stand alongside Her Majesty in the special Survivor Area of the War Memorial Service, taking place on Memorial Square, and attend the subsequent reception.”

  It said that, it really said that. Mr. Lucas folded the letter and carefully placed it in the middle of his black plastic table. “To think that I, Mr. Lucas, who has achieved nothing but failure in my life, am invited to attend a ceremony where the Queen is present too!” Mr. Lucas whispered. “In less than a week from now I will be mingling with the most important people—politicians and people from television—all wearing formal dress.”

  Mr. Lucas sighed. He imagined entering the reception: a solemn, sophisticated, atmosphere; women wearing long dresses, men in suits or uniforms. Maybe there would
even be someone who would take his coat from him. He shivered with joy. “If only someone would take my coat!” he exclaimed. “That is my biggest dream! To just for once in my life have someone take my coat! It is a small dream, a modest dream, but if it could come true, then I would be the happiest man in the world!”

  Mr. Lucas squeezed his eyes shut. “But,” he said, “it would not show. No, I would be like a true businessman. Someone who is used to having someone take his coat. Someone who would be surprised if there was no one to take his coat. ‘That Mr. Lucas,’ they will say, ‘is a true businessman.’” He started mumbling now, Mr. Lucas, as he did so often, about his dream, about being a true businessman, until the mumbling faded and he sat still with his fingers pressed against his eyelids.

  “Unless,” he said, while slowly sitting up, “unless... I was a true gentleman. While all the others let the porter take their coats and let the poor man be buried in felt and fur while they chat and mingle, I will refuse! Yes, yes, that is my biggest dream, to keep someone from taking my coat, out of sheer goodness!” Mr. Lucas suddenly felt a rush of energy, the kind of rush you get when you have a truly good idea.

  “My good man,” Mr. Lucas practiced, “dare you not take my coat.” Mr. Lucas turned to the other guests at the banquet. “Shan’t you be ashamed? For thy are drinking champagne while this good man needs to take coats and stand here like a weary cloth!”

  Although Mr. Lucas wasn’t sure yet about the “weary cloth” part, the people at the banquet applauded him. Mr. Lucas smiled a trembling smile as he envisioned Her Majesty the Queen standing across the room, giving him a reserved but approving nod.

  With that, Mr. Lucas opened his eyes on the couch. He nodded slowly. This single day with the Queen would form a counterweight to all the bad things that had ever happened to him.