by Marion Pauw
“Sometimes. If she has to come on a different day than the appointed date.”
“What do you mean?”
“The appointed date. The third Saturday every other month.”
Rosita rolled her eyes. “Okay. Give me her name and address, and we’ll look up her phone number. She’s got it coming, the old witch.” She was talking very loud, much louder than usual.
“Are you mad at me?” I didn’t understand what had her so upset. And I really didn’t like the way she spoke about my mother.
She laughed. “Of course not, silly. I’m mad at your mother. How dare she ditch you like that?” She leaned closer. The hollow between her collarbones came closer, too, so close I could hardly breathe. She took my hand in hers.
“Ray, she’s your mother. Suppose I sent Anna away. What would you think of that?”
I looked at Anna, who had stopped building castles and was watching TV.
“Exactly. People just don’t do that.”
I only had my mother’s PO box number. That made Rosita even more livid. She called information, but they told her there were at least forty Boelenses in Amsterdam. “You have to ask her for her phone number, hear me? The next time you write. And then get her to give you her street address as well. I’d like to see how she weasels out of that.”
Of course I never did dare to ask my mother. Although Rosita kept asking me.
The next time I found Rosita sitting with her head in her hands, I remembered what to do and asked her, “How are you?”
She raised her head a bit and stared at me under a lock of dark curly hair. Her eyes were red, but she smiled faintly. “How sweet of you to ask, Ray.”
“How are you?” I said again, because I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say.
“Come sit next to me.” She patted the spot beside her on the couch. “Put your arm around me.”
I went and sat on the couch, and since I couldn’t move, she took my arm and pulled it across her shoulders. We were sitting closer than ever before.
“Not so stiff, Ray, just hold me.”
I wrapped my arm tighter around her. I wanted to do a good job.
“Not that hard to start with. Just gently. Shake your arm to relax it, and then put it around my shoulder. That’s right. Very good.”
We sat there like that for a bit. Rosita was making snuffling sounds and I waited for what came next.
“I just can’t do this anymore,” she said after a while. “It’s driving me crazy, living like this.”
She was quiet, and then she said, “Now you have to ask me why.”
I cleared my throat. “Okay. Why? Why is it . . . uh, driving you crazy, living like this?”
“Can’t you see? Here I am with a kid, no job, and no husband. I barely get by. Look around. Is this what you call a proper home?”
I looked around, and my eyes got stuck on the photograph on the wall of the naked, pregnant Rosita. I felt my penis get stiff.
“I can’t even afford fucking carpeting. I was young and pretty once. I could have had any man I wanted. Men with good incomes, nice things. But I had to go and choose that fucking prick.”
Rosita began to cry. My arm jogged up and down on her shoulders. Cautiously I stretched out my hand and caressed her hair. She didn’t slap it away. She let me. Her hair was just as soft as my mother’s when I was little. Only Rosita had more curls, and they were darker.
“But you know what? One day I will be rich. Very rich. I have this rich great-uncle in England, you know. But what good is that for now? As long as he doesn’t die, I’m stuck in this dump. What should I do? You’ve got to help me, Ray.”
I felt a slight panic rising in me. What did she expect of me? Did she want me to kill the great-uncle?
“I can’t stand living like this anymore. Not just for my own sake, but also for Anna’s.”
I didn’t know what to say. Then I had an inspiration. “Tomorrow we’ll go buy carpeting for you. The best you can find.”
“But I can’t afford it.”
“I’ll pay for it. Wall-to-wall carpeting. Because I want you to have a proper home.”
She looked at me. “Would you really do that for me?”
I nodded. I felt warm inside.
She threw her arms around me and gave me a kiss on my cheek. I sniffed her sweet smell and felt her breasts pressed against me. My penis nearly exploded.
“Oh, Ray.” Rosita slapped her hand to her mouth. “You’re not used to people touching you, are you?”
She laughed, and I laughed with her. We laughed a long time.
CHAPTER 20
IRIS
“The plaintiff is already seated in the conference room,” whispered Claire, the receptionist. “We’ve parked Mr. Van Benschop in your office for the time being.”
I tried not to show my annoyance. “Next time I’d appreciate it if you could find another solution. I prefer not to have clients wait in my office when I’m not there.”
“On Lawrence’s orders.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course.”
There was a small conference table in my office. But that wasn’t where Peter van Benschop was sitting. He was standing by my desk, studying a photo of Aaron and me at the zoo.
“Single mother, isn’t that what I said?”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Van Benschop.”
“When it comes to women I’m always right. They may think of themselves as complicated creatures, but to me they’re an open book.”
If you knew what I was thinking right now, you’d run back to your mama, howling, I thought. “Would you mind taking a seat?” I asked politely, pointing at one of the chairs at the conference table. “I’d like to go over what’s going to happen in the upcoming conference.”
He complied, even took out his notepad.
“Since the plaintiff’s legal team has chosen to resolve this matter with both parties present, it probably means they want to make an issue of Miss De Boer’s emotional state.”
“How do you mean?” asked Van Benschop, an aggressive tone creeping into his voice.
“It’s easier, naturally, not to have to face up to the fact that Kim de Boer is just a young girl . . . excuse me, young woman, when she exists only on paper. I have the feeling they’ll want to play up her age and vulnerability, use it as their trump card.”
“You mean she’ll start sobbing or something?”
“She may. Things will be said that will seem unfair to you. Demands will be made you won’t agree with. But I want you to refrain from speaking unless I ask you. Is that clear?”
“What do you mean, I can’t speak? I’m the one being sued, aren’t I?”
“True. But you have retained me as your attorney. So please let me do my job.”
“But I know Kim.”
“And isn’t that where all the trouble started? More than anything, it’s so you won’t say anything ill-advised from a legal standpoint.”
“Okay.” He made a show of writing KEEP TRAP SHUT on his notepad.
I couldn’t help laughing. “Are you ready for this?”
“I hope so.”
Waiting for us in the conference room were a stony-faced Kim de Boer, her parents, and her attorney. This wasn’t going to be a walk in the park.
“No need for introductions on my part, is there?” said Van Benschop.
“We know who you are,” said the mother.
I had pictured a dysfunctional family. Indifferent parents who were too busy getting drunk to care and only willing to get involved if there was money in it. But Mr. and Mrs. De Boer sat in neatly pressed outfits, giving the impression of decent, steady people. It struck me what a painful mess it was for them.
Kim de Boer sat between her parents, with no makeup on. Her hair drooped in greasy strands down along her oval face. I tried to read her expression, but it was completely blank.
“We all know why we’re here,” I opened the discussion. “Miss De Boer holds my client, Mr. Van Benschop, accountabl
e for damages arising from lost income and emotional distress.”
“Correct,” said Adrian de Leeuw, the plaintiff’s attorney. I had met him once, at a Junior Bar Association cocktail hour, a million years ago.
“We believe that this is about something more than money damages or legal conditions. What we would like to discuss is that my client”—De Leeuw nodded at Kim de Boer, as if we didn’t know who she was—“is a young girl traumatized for life.”
Kim de Boer was staring straight ahead with the same blank expression on her face.
“You have already described your client’s state of mind rather extensively in your letter,” I said drily. “May I have your reply to the counteroffer?”
“When I look at your proposal, I don’t get the feeling that you are conscious of the gravity of the situation. My client has suffered severe emotional distress and will need years of therapy.”
“Your client knew what she was getting into. I’d like to remind you that it was she who contacted Mr. Van Benschop in the first place. She was thoroughly informed as to the nature of the production and signed a contract.”
“And we did go over everything first, didn’t we, hey, Kim?” Peter van Benschop jumped in. “We even had a Coke together afterward.” I gave Van Benschop a vicious kick under the table.
“The real question here is to what extent a minor can be held responsible,” said De Leeuw.
“She was so eager that she presented a fake ID. My client had no clue as to her actual age. You could also have read that in my counteroffer.”
Kim’s mother looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment. I suspected her husband was just raring to lunge across the table and make mincemeat of Pissing Peter. Go ahead, I thought. I’d gladly push my chair aside and give him all the room he needed.
“I don’t know a thing about that,” said De Leeuw.
“Then you ought to read more closely.”
“Is that true?” Mr. De Boer asked his daughter. “Did you use a fake ID to take part in this disgusting . . . spectacle?”
Kim’s expression did not change.
“We need an answer,” I said.
She shrugged.
“Silence implies consent, I believe.” I hated myself for saying that. This had nothing to do with consent. Let alone my own conscience.
“I should like to hear my client’s own answer,” said De Leeuw.
“Do you think I’m crazy or something?” yelled Van Benschop indignantly. As if he was the one who’d been traumatized. “I’d never allow a minor to act in my films. Do you have any idea how eager women are to do this? I’ve got them knocking on my door . . .”
“What Mr. Van Benschop is trying to say is that there was no need for him to permit a minor to participate in his production. There is a reason all actresses are obligated to give proof of their age.” Request a copy of the fake ID, I tried silently signaling to De Leeuw. Ask for it. But telepathy was evidently not his strong suit.
“Without that fake ID your client would never have been given the role.” I couldn’t have given him a more explicit hint.
But instead of asking to be shown the evidence, De Leeuw turned to his client. “Kim, did you falsify your ID?”
The girl stirred herself at last. She squirmed in her chair and her mouth wavered. She was going to break.
Everyone stared at her expectantly. She seemed to shrivel in her chair.
“It was Rick—he’s the one who did it,” she finally said. The voice of a little girl.
“Did what?” asked De Leeuw.
Please put an end to this farce, I prayed silently. I decided right then and there that this was the last time I’d ever take this kind of case. I’d rather do nuptials.
“Rick did something to the copy of my . . .”
“What the . . . ?” said Mr. De Boer. “Damn it, Kim. We told you that you were not to see him!”
Mrs. De Boer’s neatly painted mouth had become a thin straight line. A flat line on an ICU heart monitor. The only thing missing was the high-pitched alarm.
“I hope you’ll sleep well tonight,” Mr. De Boer said to me before leaving the conference room. “Congratulations.”
We had gone over the numbers and arrived at a total just slightly under the original counteroffer.
I couldn’t think of an appropriate rejoinder. No excuse, no protest, no retort. Normally I’d have said something like “Bye now.” Or “Drive safe.” But neither seemed fitting. I watched the girl, supported by her parents, led out of the conference room. De Leeuw gave a curt nod and followed them out. The door slammed shut.
“Well, that was easy.” Van Benschop rubbed his hands together. “Let me buy you a drink? Champagne?”
“Easy? It was easy?” I asked.
“Yeah. I have to tell you, I didn’t have much confidence, but the way you handled it . . . you were great. I told you, didn’t I, that it was all just a bunch of malarkey on that Kim’s part?”
I turned and stared at him, incredulous. “If you really think it was easy because you had the law on your side, you’re totally mistaken. It’s just your dumb luck the plaintiff’s attorney was asleep at the wheel.”
“It’s the outcome that counts, I say.”
“The outcome?” It took me all I had not to start screaming at him. “The outcome is that you’ve ruined her and her entire family, not to mention what you’ve done to all the other morons—the men who think it’s okay to abuse their wives because your films show them how it’s done. You have no idea how much damage you’re doing.”
“Excuse me? What a prissy, pompous bitch you are.”
“And you are a narcissistic, opportunistic, immoral bastard.”
As I said it, the door swung open. “Didn’t it go well?” asked Rence with a frown, charging into the room. “How do you feel, Mr. Van Benschop?”
God, the icing on the cake. “We did extremely well,” I said. “Mr. Van Benschop was just about to pop the champagne. Weren’t you?”
“Oh. It didn’t sound that positive,” said Rence. He put his hand on Van Benschop’s shoulder. “Is Ms. Kastelein behaving herself?”
I didn’t give Van Benschop a chance to answer. “Did you think I was being unkind? On the contrary, you could see it as an ode to the submission of . . . what was it you called it again, Mr. Van Benschop?”
Pissing Peter didn’t answer, but he was looking pretty hot under the collar.
“I’ll get the documents ready by the end of today. I’ll send them over for you to sign off on?”
“Excellent,” Rence said quickly. “I’m glad you were able to get this matter resolved quickly, Iris. Well done. And perhaps you’ll give Mr. Van Benschop and myself the chance to talk it over.”
I strode out of the room without a backward glance.
CHAPTER 21
RAY
It was in the yard that I saw Rembrandt again. I’d recently been allowed to do yard work. Some of the patients had their own vegetable plots. Or they grew flowers. I clipped the hedges.
There were lots of hedges in the central courtyard. People sometimes called it Little Versailles. The hedges were planted in a square. The corners were cut off by diagonal lines making a smaller inner square. Inside that square stood a statue of a naked man. Though he did wear a stone loincloth. The restriction on naked bottoms obviously applied to the statues in the yard as well.
They let me clip all the hedges once every other week. Not without someone to keep an eye on me, though. Because patients with hedge shears had to be closely watched.
I looked forward to the day I trimmed the hedges. It reminded me of when I lived on Queen Wilhelmina Street. When I still had my job. When I still had Rosita and Anna. When I was often alone, sure, but not nearly as lonely as I was now.
I was halfway done with the second hedge when I saw Rembrandt wander into the courtyard. He’d been sprung from solitary a few days before, and I had managed to avoid him.
“Hey, Ray,” he said, tossing a c
igarette butt on the lawn. I made a note to myself to pick it up and throw it away the moment Rembrandt was out of sight.
“Rainman. Word is you got a crush on the blond cunt, what’s-her-name-Jeannie?”
I didn’t say anything back but went on clipping. Snippets of boxwood rained rhythmically down. One, two, three. On three my blades would lop off the next twig.
“You think she’s hot, don’t you?”
One, two, three. One, two, three.
“Know what you should do? You should just grab her. She wants it bad. It’s obvious, the way she’s acting.”
One, two, three. One, two, three.
“You can do that, can’t you? You are a real man, aren’t you?”
I stopped clipping and looked around to see where the guard was. He was having a conversation with a colleague. I hoped he’d look up and tell Rembrandt to get lost. Didn’t he know patients with shears needed to be closely watched?
Rembrandt took another step closer. “Sneak up behind her and tweak her nice fat ass.” I was worried he was going to pinch my bum. His hand was coming closer. I tightened my grip on the hedge shears.
At last the guard turned around. “How’s it going?” he asked.
“Great,” said Rembrandt. “Little Rainman and I were having a nice little chat.”
“Stop distracting him.”
Rembrandt waved his hand in the air. “Fine, fine. See, I’m walking away. We’re cool.”
I went on snipping at the hedge. But I couldn’t find the right rhythm anymore.
“If you don’t do it, I will,” Rembrandt called over his shoulders.
“What’s he on about?” The guard had come up next to me. I saw Rembrandt watching us from a distance and tried to concentrate on the hedge.
“Nothing,” I mumbled. My head felt hot, as if I had a fever. I didn’t think I had a crush on Jeannie. Although she was very nice and she’d brought me a slice of her homemade bread. I’d tasted it and said, “Needs more sugar.”
I had to admit that I did sometimes think of her when I jerked off. But she didn’t even come close to Rosita. No one could hold a candle to Rosita. I thought about Rosita’s white teeth, her dimple, and her nails, which were much too long, and I was sad.
