by Marion Pauw
“Well, Agatha Antonia Boelens is my mother, too. I was born in 1985. But then where were you?”
It was too much for me. My hands started whipping around in all directions.
She grabbed them and held them, the way Rosita used to.
I quickly jerked free.
“Sorry,” said this woman whose name was Iris Kastelein and who said she was my sister. “Do you want a glass of water or something? Can he have one?” she asked the guard.
The answer was no. Not during the visit.
Iris Kastelein who said she was my sister looked at me. She did look a lot like my mother. She had the same eyes. I was surprised I hadn’t noticed it before. I quickly looked away.
“You’re allowed to look at me, you know. I realize this must come as a shock. And I’m sorry to spring it on you like this. But . . .”
I looked at her face again and saw her eyes were wet. Why was she crying? And what did she expect of me?
“What happened to you, Ray? Where have you been all this time?”
I forced my hands down and sat on them. That helped.
“You’re better off asking him more straightforward questions,” said Mo from his corner.
“Okay,” said Iris Kastelein who said she was my sister. “How old were you when you stopped living with Mother?” She was speaking very slowly, as if to an idiot, but I answered her anyway.
“Nine.”
“Where . . . did . . . you . . . go . . . live . . . after that?”
“You can talk to me normally.”
“Sorry. Of course. Where did you live after that?”
It was all getting too much for me. This female person coming in here just like that, asking all kinds of questions. How could I know she really was my sister? My mother had never mentioned she had another child. Let alone a brand-new, better child instead of me. A lady, no less, in a fancy suit. Why would my mother have wanted another child once she got rid of me?
“Ray finds emotions hard to deal with,” Mo explained. “And I must say it’s a bit much to take in.”
“Yes, I understand it’s a lot. Is it okay with you if I continue a bit, Ray? Or is this too much?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Where did you live after you were nine? When you left home?”
“Mason.”
“What is that?”
“A home for boys.”
“Ray was at a boarding school for troubled kids,” Mo explained. I very much doubted he was allowed to give out confidential information about me. Whose side was he on, anyway? Mine or hers?
“How awful,” said Iris Kastelein who said she was my sister, and whose eyes were still wet. “I just don’t know what to say. I can’t believe Mother never told me about you. Incredible. Did she ever visit you at the school? Do you still ever see her?”
This conversation was exhausting and confusing. Especially when she called my mother “Mother.” I just didn’t have the energy to answer her questions. I caught sight of a Pholcus phalangioides, a common skull spider, moseying up the wall.
“Should I come back another time? To give you a little time to let it sink in?”
The spider was going to spin her web up against the ceiling. Then she’d wait for another spider or insect to get trapped and use more thread to reel it in. I’d seen it plenty of times on the Discovery Channel.
“Ray?” said Mo. “Iris was asking you a question.”
“Sorry.” Iris Kastelein who said she was my sister was staring at me with my mother’s face, which didn’t scare me, but did make me nervous.
“I’m tired. I want to go back to my room.” I got to my feet.
“Wait.” She rummaged in her bag and took out a stack of photos. “I brought you something.”
“You’re not allowed to hand things over like that,” said the guard. “Please give them here. We’re here to see to it that the resident receives them.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry,” said Mo. “But rules are rules. We’re having a problem with drug use among the patients.”
“I understand.” She turned to me. “I took some pictures of your aquarium, Ray. I thought you might like to see them.”
King Kong, Hannibal, Saturn, and Maria! Peanut and François! I sat back down.
“The aquarium is fine. Mother has a guy, Maurice, who comes and takes care of it once a week. The coral has grown quite a bit. And Mr. Van de Akker also came by recently.”
“Van de Akker?”
“Yes.” Her face took on an expression I couldn’t place. Was it fear, worry? “He said the aquarium wasn’t quite as magnificent as when you took care of it, but that it’s still in great shape.”
“And the fish. Tell me about my fish.” I leaned forward so as not to miss a word.
“What can I tell you? Saturn and Venus spend most of the day hiding in the sea anemones and . . .”
“Yeah?” Just to hear their names from someone else’s lips filled me with joy.
“And Margie. She swims round and round in circles all day long. Has she always done that?”
“Always.”
“Well, she’s still doing it. She fights with François from time to time. I think it’s because their territories overlap.”
I shut my eyes and listened to the stories. Like when I was little and my mother read to me at bedtime. When everything was still fine.
“. . . Aaron, my little boy, just loves the aquarium. He’s nearly four and likes nothing better than to watch the fish all day long. He knows the names of all the species by heart. The doctorfish are his favorites.” She paused. “You must miss them.”
“Who?”
“The fish.”
“I think about them every day. Every day I say their names out loud.”
“I’m sure they’re thinking of you, too.”
“Fish don’t think. Not the way we do, anyway. They can’t even tell one person from another, so how can you expect them to think about people?”
“I think your sister meant it kindly,” said Mo. “I think she meant to say that you did a great job taking care of your fish, and there’s no one to take your place.”
“You like to be very accurate, don’t you?” said Iris Kastelein who said she was my sister.
But I couldn’t think of her as my sister. I’d always thought of sisters as little girls, like Anna.
The guard handed me the bundle of photos. “Here you go.”
I took them and hugged them to my chest.
“Don’t you want to look at them?”
“When I’m alone.”
“Can I do anything else for you? Do you need anything? Money? Food? Clothes?”
“The only thing I want is to go home. To my fish.”
She looked sad. “Sorry. I don’t think I can help you there.”
“I didn’t do it. They’re keeping me locked up; they just won’t let me go. While I’m innocent.”
She was silent a long time, gazing at me with another of those weird looks on her face. “I could review your case. If you want.”
I didn’t understand what she meant.
“I’m a lawyer. I’ll have a look at it and see if there’s something I can do for you. But I can’t promise anything, of course.”
“I didn’t do it.” It was the only thing I could think of saying.
“No?”
“No. I didn’t do it.”
CHAPTER 18
IRIS
Mo walked with me to the institute’s exit. It was a labyrinth of corridors, bolted doors that had to be unlocked, and security cameras.
“How do you think it went?” asked Mo. There was something about him that made me feel at ease. A certain vibration in his voice, the reassuring look in his gentle brown eyes, the confident way he held his body; it was hard to pinpoint what it was, but it worked. I could imagine that Mo would have the same effect on the patients in here.
“It was hard. Although I should have expected that.” We crossed a courtyard with
a little commissary. It was swarming with men, all leering at me. It was a strange thing to think that all of them had committed some serious offense.
“You did great, though. The photos in particular. A brilliant move, bringing those along.”
“You think?”
“Didn’t you notice? He was wary at first, as he is generally, but when you started talking about his fish I could just see him relax. Good for you. There are therapists in here who’ve been working with him for months, and they haven’t achieved as much as you did in just half an hour.”
I felt myself blush. “It must have been the blood connection.”
“How can it be that you never knew he existed?”
“My mother just never told me she had an older child. Can you imagine?”
“You do have to remember that back in the seventies there was a different attitude to so-called ‘difficult’ children. Back then it was something to be ashamed of—people would think it was all the mother’s fault.”
“Still, I think it’s pretty absurd that my mother never breathed a word about him. I wonder what would have become of him if he’d had a normal youth. If he had grown up in a normal family.”
We had arrived at the exit. Mo waved his pass at a sensor. The doors swung open.
“That’s always the tragic thing about people like Ray,” said Mo. “He’s actually a really sweet guy.”
“He is, isn’t he?”
“Absolutely.”
I handed in my visitor’s pass and shook Mo’s hand. “Thank you.”
He smiled. “You’re welcome.”
“Uh, Mo?”
“Yes?”
“Do you believe Ray—that he didn’t do it?”
He started to laugh.
“Never mind.”
I didn’t have much time to think about my encounter with Ray, my brother, Ray, because the entire drive home was taken up with a phone call from Rence. Aaron had been allowed to return to the day care, so for as long as that lasted, I was back working in the office.
“Peter van Benschop complained about you.”
I turned up the volume on my phone’s speaker. “Oh?”
“I want you to think. What might Peter have complained about?”
“Surely you don’t expect me to fall for that. If you’re trying to catch me out with a loaded question, you’ll have to come up with something better.”
“Not bad, nice and sharp. That’s what I like to hear.”
“I’ll be there in a minute. Do you want to meet?”
“I can’t. Our good Werner B. is expecting me in half an hour.”
Werner B. was a rather incompetent burglar and therefore one of our most loyal clients. “Is he still in custody?”
“They’re keeping him another two weeks. I’m afraid that our friend won’t be getting off so easy this time. Nice distraction, though, Iris. It’s Van Benschop we were talking about.”
I groaned. I’d been hoping to wrap up the Van Benschop case quickly and smoothly, but it seemed to have the same drawbacks as an X-rated film: lots and lots of the same action, over and over again, while taking much too long to come to a climax.
“Let me reformulate the question: Are you sure you’ve been handling Peter van Benschop’s case to the best of your ability?”
“If I’d been handling the matter to the best of my ability, I’d have locked Peter van Benschop in a dungeon with a couple of premenstrual dominatrices.”
“Be serious.”
“Dear Lawrence, cross my heart, I swear that I have given Mr. Van Benschop’s matter my full attention and will continue to do so.” I hoped it sounded convincing.
“Peter van Benschop thinks you were too hasty in proposing a settlement. What do you say?”
“Need I remind you that according to the Bar Association’s rules of professional conduct, settling a case out of court is always preferable to taking it to trial? Besides, I think a trial is risky.”
I took the exit into the south part of Amsterdam and headed for the office. “We don’t have much choice. I think Mr. Van Benschop should be glad the plaintiff has chosen to pursue the civil course. I’d hate to think what might have happened if the girl . . . young woman had gone to the police.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Then: “Where have you been, anyway? There’s nothing on your schedule.”
“I was meeting a potential client.”
“And who might that be?” There was suspicion in Rence’s voice.
“I’d rather keep that under my hat for a while longer.”
“Or was it your kid’s day care again?”
I felt the urge to scream but instead said as coolly as I could, “The client is incarcerated in the Hopper Institute. He was convicted of the murder of his neighbor and her little girl. He may be interested in an appeal.”
“Hmm.”
“An appeal would be prestigious for the firm, Lawrence.” I knew that would sway him.
“Well, now. Little Iris wants to play detective.”
“Are you trying to insult me?”
“Of course not, honey pie. But you know what’s involved in an appeal. Before you know it, you’ve got the entire office working on it and we have to let more lucrative pieces of business slide. Not to mention the eventual costs of the forensic research, digging up new witnesses and so on.”
“Pres-tige, Lawrence.”
He sighed. “You know I can’t resist.”
“Exactly.” I parked my car in front of the entrance of the eighteenth-century canal house.
“Look, I have to go. Take the next couple of weeks to do a little research. But not before you’ve applied for a subsidy from Legal Aid, naturally.” Rence himself was just walking out the door as I was going in. We lowered our cell phones.
“If there’s sufficient grounds for an appeal, we’ll put together a team. Okay?”
“Great.”
“Be good, now.” Rence flounced off to his SUV.
I waved at him and then walked into the office.
“Brilliant move,” I said to myself out loud.
Now I didn’t have a choice; I’d have to start digging into Ray’s case. The good news: It would give me the opportunity to get to know him, and get paid for it, too. The bad news: Bartels & Peters had a strict rule against representing family members. But Ray was really a stranger, I decided. I wouldn’t let my emotions get in the way.
Ray, the Monster Next Door. I’d never have expected it, but I had wanted to throw my arms around him and tell him, “Come, we’re going home.” It must have been because he looked like Aaron. That must be it. After all, who was Ray to me?
Or was it the blissful look on his face when I’d started telling him about the fish? Like a child being read to before going to sleep. Had my mother ever read to him? Had he snuggled against her in the evening, in his pajamas, with freshly washed hair? Had she loved him? Had anyone ever loved him? Ever?
CHAPTER 19
RAY
Rosita was cheerful most of the time. But she could also be sad. That’s when she’d open the door and trudge back into the living room without saying a word. I never knew what else to do but follow her, clutching the paper bag with the madeleine. Then she’d plop down on the couch and sit with her head in her hands.
“Ray!” Anna said happily. Her lips went up at the corners and her eyes were wide. The first thing she always did was to grab the madeleine. She didn’t take the trouble to peel the paper off neatly, no—she’d tear the bag open and stuff the whole cake into her mouth.
“You have to take your time and enjoy it,” I said. “You have to take a bite and then chew it slowly so that you can appreciate the taste and the texture. Can you taste the way it’s a bit crusty on the outside and fluffy and sweet on the inside, a bit moist and yet airy?”
Anna usually sat on the couch watching TV. I didn’t think it was a very good pastime for a child and my mother didn’t think so, either. So I decided to buy a big box of Lego
Duplo blocks for Anna. From then on, whenever I visited, I’d build something and she’d join in. We built castles, farms, and mansions. Anna said that we’d live in one of those for real someday. I did try and explain to her, over and over, that you can’t really live in a toy house.
Rosita would sit on the couch, sometimes with her head in her hands, sometimes watching us, sometimes watching the TV, and sometimes, but not often, she’d come over and help.
One day she said, “You never ask me how I am.”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to,” I said. “Sorry. Do you want me to?”
“Yes. Isn’t that the normal thing to do? Normal people ask each other how they are.”
That hurt me. I’d thought I was doing everything right. I stopped by every day, I always brought a treat, and the week before I’d done her gardening.
“You don’t like it that I said that.”
“No.” I was nervous and didn’t know what else to say.
“Why not? Come on, admit it, you aren’t really normal, are you? Like the way you always seem to be sitting at home by yourself staring at your fish. Or the way you’re so worried about time, bringing her one madeleine every afternoon at three fifteen on the dot. That isn’t exactly normal, is it?”
I shrugged my shoulders. I couldn’t look at her.
“And stop moving your hands around like that. You’re not kneading bread in the bakery here.” She grabbed hold of my hands and made them stay in my lap. Her hands were warm. Soft and warm.
“Or—take your mother. Talk about abnormal! Is it normal you hardly ever see her or speak to her?”
“She’s busy,” I mumbled.
“Bullshit. Want to know what I think? I think that mother of yours should be proud of you. Does she even know there’re lines of people who come to the bakery just to buy your croissants?”
“Probably not.”
“I’d like to give her a piece of my mind, that mother of yours. You have her phone number?”
I hardly dared say it. “No.”
“You don’t even know your own mother’s phone number? Why the hell not?”
“I write her letters. And she writes me back. She always writes back.”
“Write? What the hell? Does she ever phone you?” Rosita sounded really angry.
