by René Appel
“Women,” sighed Jacob. “Such heartless creatures.”
“You are exactly right, friend. We must beware their treachery. Well, I offered 2.3 million for the house, and the paperwork awaits completion. The professor left behind no power of attorney, so the widow Van der Meer is required to make an appearance at the signing. And that will be difficult.”
“Is she already gone?”
“Not quite. Her . . . departure still needs to be attended to. I would value some assistance, and if you’re inclined to volunteer I will reward you more than generously. You seem to be a man with a gray future before him, yourself in some need of assistance. Am I correct, friend?”
“Gray?” said Jacob. “My future’s black, ebony. What can I do to help you?”
“This neighborhood is crowded with tourists, no one will notice two gentlemen strolling leisurely toward the Hobbemakade with a trunk on wheels. The canal there is surely sufficiently deep, and there are brief gaps in the traffic when the lights at the crossings turn red. She weighs 130 pounds at most, and is perhaps five feet nine or ten in height—or should I say that she was five-nine or -ten? I believe she must have been a jogger, since her long legs—once so alluring to Van der Meer’s goatish eyes—were too tightly muscled for an ordinary steak knife.”
“Jacob,” I said, filled with revulsion, “don’t listen to any more of this bullshit. Let’s go inside, I’m cold.”
“With the exception of a few soft spots, the rest is rather lean, tough meat. That particular part of the process is as yet incomplete, and I could certainly use your help there as well, my friend. It would be best, I think, to wait until the blood has fully coagulated. Van der Meer may well have decorated his home with the finest available artwork, but he doesn’t seem to have paid much attention to the outfitting of his bathrooms. There are a number of broken tiles in the floor, and those will have to be thoroughly scrubbed.”
“Jacob, seriously, don’t listen to this lunatic!”
“If we can’t fit her into the trunk, there’s also a carry-on bag with wheels that we can use.”
My name was called and, almost gagging, I said, “Please, Jacob, let’s go in.”
He didn’t react, his eyes and ears riveted on the stranger, who whispered, barely audibly, “It’s a nice little piece, the fabric is a Scottish tartan, so even if there is some blood, it won’t show.”
“Jacob, for God’s sake!”
“Yeah, I, ah, I’ll be right in,” he murmured distractedly.
They seated me at a little table by a window. I peered over the top of my menu and saw them standing there outside, their heads close together. When a server came to take my order, I told her I was waiting for someone. She asked if I wanted a drink, and I said I’d have a glass of the house white.
When I turned my attention back to the window, they were gone. I have to admit that it was cowardice that kept me in my chair. I couldn’t eat a thing, just sat there pouring glass after glass of wine down my throat. The place emptied out, the chairs were turned upside down and put on the tables, and I just sat there with no idea what to do.
* * *
I tried repeatedly to reach Jacob over the next couple of days, but his phone went straight to voice mail and at night his apartment windows were dark. I kept asking myself what could have happened to him and was plagued by the most gruesome images. I even walked along the Hobbemakade a couple of times, searching for something floating in the water.
So you can understand how relieved I was earlier this evening when I walked into Café Wildschut—one of my regular after-work hangouts—and spotted Jacob sitting in one of the shadowy corners in the back room. And you can understand how surprised I was to see him in the company of a woman—and not just any woman, no, but the one and only Martha. They looked so lovey-dovey I decided not to disturb them, and I hesitated for a second, debating whether it would be the better part of valor to take a seat at the bar or just leave the place altogether.
At that moment, Jacob glanced up and saw me and waved. Smiling broadly, the two of them stood and approached me. Martha handed Jacob her glass of wine so she could wrap me in an exuberant hug. I smelled expensive perfume, and saw over her shoulder that Jacob’s hair was freshly cut and he was wearing a sharp new suit that must have set him back more than he could possibly afford on his salary.
“How nice to run into you both,” I managed.
“Back atcha,” said Jacob. “We’re gonna go out and grab a smoke. Come with, and we’ll tell you about our plans.”
A few seconds later, we settled around one of the high-tops on the terrace.
Martha squeezed my arm and said, “We’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Leaving?” I glanced at Jacob, who avoided my eyes. “I was afraid you were already gone.”
He grinned and shook two cigarettes out of a pack. “We got fantastic job offers.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what I say, my friend. Our worries are over. A new life awaits us.”
“You’ll come and visit us,” said Martha.
“Absolutely,” said Jacob. “Who knows, maybe there’s a golden opportunity for you in the south of Spain too, and you can quit your stupid job.”
He put the cigarettes between his lips and struck an old-fashioned wooden lucifer. The stink of sulfur burned my eyes, and he blew a cloud of smoke right in my face. I made my excuses with a gesture and hurried home, half-choking.
And as I lie here in the dark, unable to sleep, I realize that my gesture was also a wave of goodbye, because I’m afraid—no, I’m quite certain—that I’ll never see either of them again.
THE MAN ON THE JETTY
by Murat Isik
Bijlmer
Some call us Amsterdam’s deplorables. Others claim there are only junkies and dealers left in the Bijlmer, our neighborhood. That’s a bit of an exaggeration, though it’s true that we live in a godforsaken part of town mainly inhabited by those who can’t find anywhere else to settle. It’s also true that the storage rooms in the Bijlmer’s apartment buildings’ basements have devolved into the exclusive domain of the city’s addicts.
Saleem and I knew we had to watch out, not just for the junkies, but especially for those lost souls who might loom up from out of nowhere and surround us. So we were on our guard the moment we set foot in the stairwells, and we stayed alert as we slipped through the narrow streets after dark. And ever since a guy whipped out his dick in the elevator and scared the shit out of me, I knew I had to get out of the Bijlmer, the sooner the better.
* * *
One day, Saleem and I were on our way home. His uncle was visiting, and he’d brought with him a wrestling video featuring our hero, the Ultimate Warrior. As we chattered excitedly about the mythical man with the painted face who’d stolen our hearts, I spotted something in the distance I’d never seen before: an object shimmering like mercury streaked along the bike path, like Marvel’s Silver Surfer cruising from planet to planet on his cosmic surfboard. When I looked more closely, I realized to my disappointment that it was just an ordinary mortal on a racing bike. He approached us at dizzying speed, and—with his mirrored sunglasses, Spandex shirt and shorts, and futuristic bicycle—he was the closest thing to a professional cyclist the Bijlmer had ever seen. When he was thirty yards off, he began to slow down. He braked to a stop beside us and looked us up and down inquisitively. “Hey, boys,” he said, his tone friendly. “I saw you walking and thought, I bet those kids can help me.”
He removed his shades, and I stiffened at the sight of his eyes. Those steel-blue eyes. It was him! This was the same guy who, a few months earlier, breathing heavily and staring at me full of sick desire, had pulled his prick from his pants in the elevator. Did he recognize me too? I looked around, trying to decide which way we should run.
“I think I’m lost,” he said, smiling.
You are definitely lost, I thought. I elbowed Saleem, telling him without words to keep walking, but he just stood there, n
ot taking the hint.
“Where you trying to get, mister?” asked Saleem politely.
The man eyed us, grinning. Anyone who saw him would have taken his expression as sympathetic, filled with warmth and humanity. But I knew the dark desires that hid behind it.
“I’m looking for the Hoogoord Apartments, but these buildings all look the same.” He began rubbing his upper thigh. And then I saw it: he had a huge boner, though he was totally casual about it, like it was built into his bike clothes and he always pedaled around the city that way. We had to get out of there. We had to get out of there right away! I poked Saleem again, harder. Pretty soon the guy would recognize me, and then he’d grab for me or . . .
“Hoogoord?” asked Saleem.
The man nodded patiently, and his grin broadened as my friend spoke.
“It’s in the Bullewijk,” said Saleem.
“Is that far from here?” the man asked sweetly, but I could tell he was faking, just waiting for the right moment to pounce. His hand slid to the inside of his leg, as if he wanted to call our attention to his wiener.
But Saleem was oblivious. “Not so far, not with a bike like that.”
I shoved him so hard he almost fell down.
“What’s your problem?” he demanded. “Why are you pushing me?”
I fought to keep my voice from trembling. “We have to go,” I said, loudly and clearly. “Your uncle . . . he’s waiting for us.”
The man looked right at me now, and it was as if an icy hand crept under my shirt and slid up my back.
“Metin, would you let me tell the man how to get to Hoogoord, please?” said Saleem, his voice overly articulate, as if to prove he wasn’t just some street rat. “My uncle can wait an extra minute.”
I pulled him close, put my mouth to his ear, and whispered, “He’s the guy I told you about, from the elevator!”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded, and said through clenched teeth, “Look at his shorts, dammit!”
And Saleem’s gaze finally dropped to the guy’s woody, still big as ever, probably stimulated by our innocence. Saleem’s breath quickened. “Shit,” he muttered, “we gotta get out of here.”
“I’ll go first,” I whispered. “You follow me.”
The man looked like he was about to dismount from his bike. “Something wrong, boys?”
“No,” I said flatly. “We have to go.”
“Yeah, we have to go,” repeated Saleem, his voice shaking. “And you”—for a second I worried my friend was about to panic—“you want to go that way.” He pointed back in the direction from which we’d come.
“That way?” the man asked.
I was sick with tension.
“Yeah, yeah,” Saleem stammered. He leaned into me and whispered, “Should we run?”
“Wait,” I said, though I didn’t know what we were waiting for. Maybe I didn’t want to throw the situation off balance. Maybe I was afraid the guy would lunge for us if we freaked out. “Just take it slow,” I said, barely audibly, and started off for Saleem’s building. “Come on,” I said, loudly now, “your uncle’s waiting for us.”
Saleem eyed the man nervously. “Sorry, mister, we gotta go.” But he stayed where he was, as if he needed the man’s permission to give up his role of helpful guide to the Bijlmer.
“Hey, fellas, what’s your problem?” The man suddenly grinned again. “You never seen a cock before?” He picked it up with his free hand, like he wanted to show us it was in good working order. “It’s a penis. Your daddy’s got one just like it. There’s nothing wrong with a penis, is there?”
Saleem took off, running like I’d never seen him run before. I set off after him, yet I could barely keep up.
“Hey, wait!” the man called after us. “You’re not upset, are you?” Next thing I knew, he was biking alongside me, totally relaxed, like he was cheering on a marathoner. “Boys, why are you running away?”
“Leave us alone!” Saleem shouted. “Leave us alone, you pervert!”
“What did I do wrong?” the man said. “I was just asking for directions.”
I sprinted as fast as I could go, but he stayed right beside me on his bike. “Hey, you look familiar, kid.” He stared at me intently. “Didn’t we share a pleasant moment in the elevator?” I tried to go faster. “Yeah, you’re the kid from the elevator!” His breathing suddenly grew heavier. “And now you’re running away.” He raised a hand. “Come on, kid, can’t we just talk for a minute? I’ve got a Nintendo at home with like a hundred games.”
I rocketed after Saleem, caught up to him, and passed him. I ran like a horde of hungry, hungry hippos were at my heels. I ran for my life. After maybe ten seconds, never slackening my pace, I risked a glance behind me, just at the moment the man gave up the chase. He braked to a stop and set off in the opposite direction, as if he’d decided at last to follow Saleem’s instructions.
I stopped running and bent over, gasping, my hands on my knees.
“What are you stopping for?” Saleem demanded.
“Gone . . . he’s gone.”
We walked on quickly, hearts pounding, looking back every couple of steps.
“We have to call the cops,” I said.
“First let’s tell my uncle,” said Saleem decisively.
Soon we arrived at Saleem’s building.
“I’ll call up and ask him to meet us when we get off the elevator.”
I wasn’t used to Saleem taking the lead—I was always the one who made the decisions in our friendship—but the role suited him surprisingly well. Saleem thumbed the intercom button longer than usual, then shouted that Uncle Imran should wait for us upstairs at the elevator door.
As we stepped into the car, I worried that the man might rush in behind us and pick up where he’d left off.
“Were you afraid?” asked Saleem, as the elevator finally jerked upward.
“No,” I lied.
The car came to a stop, and the door was ripped open. A giant with his head shaved bald stared in at us.
“Uncle Imran,” Saleem cried, “I am so happy to see you!”
His bulk filled the entire doorway, and his broad shoulders and huge forearms were those of a man who had been blessed with extraordinary strength. If I hadn’t known he was Saleem’s uncle, I would have shrunk back against the elevator wall.
“What has happened, Saleem?” His voice was youthful and soft, in contrast with his intimidating appearance. “Did someone hit you?”
“No, not that.”
“Then what?”
“There was a man . . . he showed us . . .”
“Showed you what? Just say it, Saleem!”
“He showed us his thing.”
“His thing?”
Saleem nodded.
“What else did he do?”
“He . . .” Saleem fell silent for a moment, and I wondered if I should take over the telling of the tale. Maybe Saleem didn’t dare bring up this sort of thing in front of his uncle. “He was touching it. And when we ran away, he followed us.”
“Where? Where is the bastard now?” There was rage in Imran’s voice. Rage and a determination to take revenge.
“He rode off on his bike.”
“Where to?”
“Toward Hoogoord,” said Saleem. “He was lost.”
The elevator car shuddered when Imran stepped inside. “We’ll find him.”
Imran must have been at least six foot three, and with his apelike hands he looked like a laborer who spent his working hours hauling blocks of granite. Saleem had told me he worked in a garage. He played cricket like every Pakistani man, but he also boxed, and he was a star in both sports. One day he’d knocked out his sparring partner even though the other man was wearing a helmet. Since then, no one would spar with him anymore.
“Take me to the place where you last saw him,” he said. “I’ll teach him a lesson.”
Saleem looked at me gleefully, but for some reason I felt uncomfortable. What would happen to
the man if Imran found him? He wouldn’t just politely ask the guy to give up his dubious hobby. No, he’d probably feed him a knuckle sandwich.
“Which way?” asked Imran when we got out of the elevator. Saleem led the way, walking quickly. We passed a group of black boys who stared at us in awe. “What you looking at?” snarled Imran, and they immediately turned away.
We approached the path where Saleem and I had sprinted at least three hundred yards. “He followed us on his bike all this way,” said Saleem.
Imran laid a hand on my friend’s shoulder. “Listen, you point him out to me the second you see him. Don’t be afraid, he can’t hurt you now.”
But strangely enough, I wasn’t worried about the man on the bicycle anymore. I was worried about Imran, about what he would do to the man. I summoned all my courage and asked, “Uh, what are you going to do when you find him?”
Imran snorted. “Like I said, teach him a lesson.”
The way he pronounced the word lesson, his dark eyes flashing with determination, I knew it had to mean something painful, something accompanied by screams and desperate pleas. I flashed back to the gangster movies I’d seen, where things never ended well for people who were taught a lesson.
“But,” I said hesitantly, “shouldn’t we just call the cops?”
“The cops?” Imran guffawed. “No, we definitely should not call the cops.”
Encouraged by his laughter, I dared to ask: “Why not?”
