by Marion Pauw
“I’ll do my best,” she said loftily.
I hung up, and instead of screaming and hurling a brick through the window at Van Benschop’s aggravating mug, I took a deep breath. I squared my shoulders and marched back inside.
“I started without you,” said Van Benschop as he motioned to the food that had appeared while I was on the phone. “It was taking so long.” His top lip had a piece of lettuce stuck to it.
“I’m so sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me. It’s an emergency.”
“Your kid, I’ll bet.”
“I’ll call you this afternoon to make another appointment. Again—so sorry.”
“Single mother. It’s easy to tell. I’m an expert at reading women. I can also tell that you prefer black underwear. And I bet you try reading at night before going to sleep but you always nod off with the book in your hands.”
I suppressed a sigh of annoyance. “I’ll pay the check.”
He grabbed me by the wrist. “I’ve never let a woman pick up the check in my life. I’m not about to start.”
“Company policy.” I jerked my arm loose and took out my credit card. “I’ll call you this afternoon.”
I’d been told that a child enhances your emotional life. There was some kernel of truth in that. Ever since I’d had Aaron, I was often overtaken by a feeling of total incompetence.
It was the third time this month I’d had to pick up Aaron up early because he’d misbehaved. There had been other incidents as well, but my mother had been able to fill in.
I was thinking about the Procreator, who only had to worry about his son every other weekend but somehow still considered himself to be the perfect gentleman. After all, he had legally acknowledged the kid as his, and he did pay 250 euros a month in child support. It felt like hush money. We had contributed equally to Aaron’s conception, yet my life had changed forever while he was able to go on just as before.
I could have spared myself a lot of misery if I hadn’t had Aaron. But I was fourteen weeks along when I discovered I was pregnant. That’s what you get when you work sixty hours a week. You don’t have time to keep tabs on your menstrual cycle. Meetings, reports, lawsuits, deals all coming at you in such rapid succession that in the end you have no idea what you’re doing, and yet somehow or other you manage to get it all done, and done damn well, too.
I had an ultrasound. On the monitor I saw little arms and legs waving. A heart beating. A real baby. How could I have that removed?
The Procreator hadn’t been charmed, to put it mildly, by the prospect of fatherhood; he gave me hell for it, claiming the kid probably wasn’t his anyway, since he certainly wasn’t the only one I’d slept with. Didn’t I want an abortion? he had asked. He had even offered to help pay for it, which was ridiculous, seeing that abortion is free in the Netherlands. He wrapped up his argument with the complaint that it had been the worst sex he’d ever had. My career, my figure, my entire life down the drain, and then to have to listen to that kind of crap . . . I didn’t want to let it get to me, because it was so terribly childish. But it did get to me. So I told the Procreator he could go fuck himself.
Back in those days I still had some sort of survival instinct. I might be alone, but I was young, strong, and smart; I could handle it. I’d be the poster child for the tough, independent woman with a simply adorable child. I’d be mother and father, both caretaker and provider. I was proud of my swelling belly. Wept with joy when I first held Aaron in my arms. Wept with despair when a few days later I hadn’t snatched more than two hours of sleep in a row.
One month after Aaron’s birth I received a letter. The Procreator was indignantly demanding to have contact with his child. I didn’t object.
He paid us a visit, with his mother. She had a grim, determined look in her eyes; the Procreator came trotting along behind. I wasn’t in the mood to offer them baby-blue-and-white sugar sprinkles on toast to mark the happy arrival of a newborn.
Without asking, the Procreator’s mother snatched Aaron out of the crib and shoved him into her son’s arms. He just stood there. He had no idea what he was supposed to do with the baby, and I had no idea what to say. But his mother did. She had the whole scenario down pat. In a solemn voice she intoned, “This is your daddy, Aaron,” pronouncing the name wrong, with the emphasis on the last syllable. I’d have giggled if I hadn’t been so exhausted.
“It’s Aaron,” I said.
“We’ll need to get used to your name, of course,” she cooed at the baby.
“Mother, please,” said the Procreator. To me he said, “I like his name—Aaron.”
We smiled at each other cautiously.
Since then the Procreator and I had found a way to get along. As it turned out, we were quite capable of exchanging information in a normal conversational tone, along the lines of “Aaron’s already had his bottle,” or “He refused to go to sleep, and then he smeared poop all over the walls.” Sometimes we’d even have a cup of coffee together, although the Procreator was determined not to give me any hope—as a mutual friend informed me.
I had been attracted to the Procreator only once in my life, and that was after the consumption of a fair number of cocktails at a New Year’s Eve party four years earlier. The arrogance of the man, to assume I was just dying to have a relationship with him, irked the hell out of me. Still, I was glad he didn’t want to give me any hope. The alternative, it seemed to me, would have been exhausting.
When I arrived at the day care center, Aaron was in a corner, playing with a stack of brightly colored blocks. When he caught sight of me, a big smile came over his face. “Mommy!” He ran clumsily up to me, the way three-year-olds do, and flung his arms around my neck. I picked him up and cuddled him. He smelled so good—I could have picked his smell out of millions.
“Hey, sweetie pie! Having fun?”
Aaron proceeded to demonstrate to me how a tower of blocks collapses if you pull out the bottom one.
“Clever boy!”
He was immediately so intent on his game that he didn’t notice me walking away. Petra, Mika, and Emily were preparing fruit for snack time on the kitchen island in the center of the space.
“All appears to be well now,” I said to Petra, the buxom mother superior of the team of twentysomething, pierced-navel day care workers, none of whom I could believe would actually want to spend their days doling out Play-Doh to a gaggle of three-year-olds.
“Yes, because he knew you were on your way,” Petra replied in a withering tone.
I took a deep breath. “I realize Aaron sometimes gives you a hard time. I know you try your best, and I’m full of admiration for the way you run this day care. But I just cannot drop everything and come running for every little thing—today I was in a very important meeting with a client.” I was trying to talk to her as pleasantly as I could manage. We’re both adults and can discuss this reasonably, can’t we? Notwithstanding the fact that you consider me the worst mother you have ever encountered, with a child who’s a little terror. And in spite of the fact that I suspect the only reason you’ve taken the job of running a day care center is that you can boss around not only the little kids but their parents as well.
Petra put her hands on her hips. “Iris, biting isn’t just a little thing. It’s unacceptable behavior. If an adult did that, he’d be under arrest. You, of all people, ought to know that.”
“But they aren’t adults.”
“Listen to me. I’ve been in charge here for twenty years, and I’ve seen quite a few children come and go. Aaron is an exceptional case. I think you should consider taking him to a child psychologist.”
“I admit he can be difficult. And as you know, our pediatrician has already given us a referral and we’re on a waiting list.”
“It would make a big difference if he weren’t able to get away with so much at home. If you’d discipline him a bit more.”
Mika and Emily were setting out the fruit. I watched Aaron climb onto a chair and pick up a piece of apple f
rom the plate. He began chewing, content.
“You have no idea what goes on at my house.”
“You should be glad we’re willing to keep him here. And speaking of waiting lists, I’m sure you’re aware there’s currently an eighteen-month wait for this day care center.”
“Of course I am, of course. I’m very, very grateful. That’s what you want me to say, isn’t it, Petra? You want me to grovel at your feet and tell you what a true Mother Teresa you are, don’t you?” As a lawyer, I was trained to negotiate, to come up with the best argument, to find the correct tone, to touch the right nerve. But when it came to my son’s day care, I couldn’t do it.
“I think it would be best if you took Aaron home and kept him home for the rest of the week. And then next week we’ll just try again.” Petra bared her teeth in the grimace of an aggressive ape. “Best of luck.”
I had lost. I had lost well and good.
For some reason Aaron did know how to behave with my mother. Probably because, like the rest of the world, he was a little scared of her. Even I was never completely at ease around her. She was sphinxlike. As if there were a number of invisible lines around her that must not be crossed. Only you never knew what, how, or when.
My mother arrived, scarlet toenails peeking out of her white sandals. She listened to my story and then reminded me, in an irritated voice, that she was leaving for vacation in two days, so she couldn’t watch him. “Besides, you were going to do something for me for once. You were going to watch my house, remember?”
She picked up Aaron and carried him to her car. “You’ve got this afternoon and tomorrow to arrange something for him. Otherwise you’ll just have to take the rest of the week off. Or tell them you’re sick.”
She belted Aaron into the child seat. That’s how you can tell if someone’s a devoted grandmother. They have more elaborate equipment for your kid than you do yourself.
“Nobody’s going to die from skipping work for a few days. Not even you.”
CHAPTER 3
RAY
I was taken to a small room with a urinal and a large mirror next to it. A guard removed my handcuffs. I shook my arms to get the stiffness out.
A nurse without a white coat, or anything to show she was a medical professional, started giving me orders. She told me to drop my pants down to my knees, lift my shirt up to my chest, and then pee into a designated cup.
“Could you please give me some privacy?”
“No.” No apology, no explanation, nothing.
I was used to peeing in the presence of other people, but not in the presence of a female.
“I know this isn’t fun,” said the man named Mo, “but all newcomers have to be tested for drugs and alcohol. There have been some drug-related incidents in here lately.”
“I’m telling you again: drop your pants and pull up your shirt so that I can see your stomach.” She wasn’t wearing a white coat, but she certainly had a bossy voice.
I dropped my pants and underpants, and stood there with my limp white penis. It made me mad. Why did I have to pee in front of this horrible woman who didn’t even have the decency to dress right? Why were they doing this to me?
“Easy,” said Mo. “It’ll be over soon.”
“Now pee into the cup,” she said again.
I tried to relax in spite of my anger, to let the pee come, but nothing was happening.
“Just take it easy,” said Mo. “It’ll come.”
I felt panic rising in me. In the mirror I saw the nurse staring straight at my crotch.
“Can’t she look the other way?”
“No, I can’t.”
“She has to make sure there’s no cheating,” Mo explained. “That you don’t slip someone else’s urine into the cup.”
I had no idea how I’d have managed that, and anyway, I wanted nothing to do with anyone else’s pee or other bodily fluids.
“It’s not working. She’s got to leave. Or at least look the other way. I can’t do it.”
“And everything was going so well—” Mo began, but the woman cut him off: “No more whining, only whizzing. Now.”
I saw that Mo was laughing. He was against me, too.
“If you can’t pee, you’ll be put in solitary until you can,” she said.
We had a solitary unit in the prison, too. I’d been put in there once, when I was new and didn’t yet know it was best to do what they tell you. They left me in there for three whole days until I couldn’t remember who I was or where I was or if I even still existed.
I took a deep breath. Straining as hard as I could, I managed to squeeze out a few drops of urine.
“Just in time. Pull up your pants,” the woman said.
Once I was dressed, I was able to think clearly again. It occurred to me that nurses probably don’t have the power to decide who gets put into solitary. In prison they didn’t, anyway. I decided to find out as soon as I had the chance.
I was assigned my own private cell. It wasn’t very big, six by nine feet at most, but it had all I needed. A bed. A desk for writing, although I was hoping that, in here, I wouldn’t be left with too much time on my hands. And a shower, sink, and toilet in a separate stall. It didn’t have a regular door, just little swinging doors. I’d be allowed to shower, poop, and pee in private, then. It was a definite improvement.
Better than the dormitory in the Mason Home where I spent most of my youth, with its communal showers and toilet doors that were way too small, so you couldn’t even take a dump without everyone knowing. There, if you sat on the toilet and farted, they’d all start cheering. They also applauded if you won the masturbation contests in the showers, though I could barely get my penis up when there were others around, and so I never won. But farting was my forte.
Then there was Harderwijk penitentiary, where for years I’d had to share a cell and toilet with another guy. He stunk to high heaven, even though his diet was the same as everyone else’s. He’d go sit on that crapper twice a day, producing the worst stench you can ever imagine. You could close the door, but the stink somehow filtered out through every crack anyway. I often complained, even wrote letters about it. Addressed to him, but also to the warden, and the queen, who’d said on TV she wanted to be a queen for all people, and I was still a person, wasn’t I?
But my cellmate Eddie just made fun of me. “That’s just the way a real man craps, Raynus. Smell and learn.” The more I complained, the worse it got, until he stopped closing the door altogether and the stink was completely unbearable. The warden sent someone to tell me to stop whining, and I never heard from the queen.
For a whole six months I was forced to inhale that smell two times every day, once in the morning and once at night. In the end my whole system shut down. I got more and more constipated. From an average of one crap a day, it turned into three times a week, and then I couldn’t seem to go at all anymore. My stomach blew up like a balloon. I was in agony. I couldn’t eat or drink; I didn’t even want to move. I just lay there flat on my bed while Eddie kept doing his stinking business with the door wide open.
I was moved to the infirmary and they gave me an enema. It was humiliating and painful, but my bowels finally came loose. The foul smell wafting through the green-tiled bathroom of the sickbay was even worse than my cellmate’s stench. That was kind of satisfying, in a way.
When I got back to my cell Eddie had gone, and I spent the last six months in relative peace, although with too much time on my hands, as always.
I had my own toilet once, years ago, when everything was still okay. I loved that toilet. Unlike the one in the boys home or the prison, that toilet was all my own.
“Your things are being delivered this afternoon,” said Mo. Startled, I sat up; I’d completely forgotten he was still there.
“Then you can arrange your suite the way you want. Maybe you’ve got some personal items you’d like to display. Or hang on the wall. We do have a rather strict policy about smut. Tits, okay. Ass, not okay. The other rul
es are: no alcohol, no drugs, no cell phones, and no Internet.”
“What about my fish?”
“You have fish? What kind?” Mo sat down on the edge of my bed, like a mother getting ready to have a nice bedtime chat with her teenager; at least, that’s what I’d seen on TV. My mother had visited me in prison pretty often but had always gone home before it was time for bed.
“I have a saltwater aquarium.”
Mo whistled through his teeth. “Expensive hobby.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“What kind of fish do you have?”
“All sorts: surgeon, clownfish, angelfish, cowfish . . .”
“I’ll mention it to the people upstairs, okay? As long as the aquarium isn’t too big, they might allow it.” Mo slapped himself on the thighs and stood up. “I’ll leave you alone for twenty minutes. To let you recover from your journey and get used to this place a bit. Then I’ll come pick you up for your intake with the psychiatrist.”
“Okay.”
“After that I’ll give you a rundown on the daily routine. And tomorrow, if the psychiatrist says it’s okay, I’ll introduce you to the other inmates.”
The steel door of my cell clanged shut. There was a small sliding hatch at eye level. That way they could spy on you whenever they liked.
I counted exactly five paces from the steel door to the wall. Normal walking steps. I paced back and forth a few times to make sure I’d measured right. Then I sat down on the bed and stared at the freshly painted white walls.
CHAPTER 4
IRIS
“Aaah, there she is, my own rising star!”
I was in the reception area of Bartels & Peters waiting for my mail as Lawrence Bartels made his entrance, in the swanky navy trench coat he’d had made to measure somewhere deep in the wilds of Italy. Where exactly was a closely guarded secret, as if the rest of the world would descend on this undiscovered gem en masse otherwise. He flounced up to me with outstretched arms, in the manner of a talk-show host. “Good afternoon, cara amici. Come into my office.”
