Peter Buwalda - Bonita Avenue

Again he experienced an alarming satisfaction with his deed — or was it a non-deed? Until now he had steadfastly performed the ultimate non-action, just as he had made a point of steering clear of that rotten life. With a jab on a red rubber button he set the saw in motion. The teeth whistled in the cold, dry air, gave off a slight gust. The motor produced a sonorous, frighteningly loud tone. He glanced back anxiously at the workshop door: how far does this noise travel? With a separate switch he turned on — and then back off — the exhaust arm. He was overcome with revulsion: instead of sawdust, bits of … flesh would fly around. Organic blobs, scraplets that under no circumstances must be allowed to get into the exhaust system, they would decompose, rot, stink to high heaven. Every scrap, every splinter, he would have to clean up meticulously, without forgetting a thing, like a reverse proof in mathematics.

Hang on tight to your nefarious sense of satisfaction . Think of the headaches he’s caused you, the stress, the shame, year in and year out. Every time, yet another slap in the face, another disappointment, another misdemeanor, another, another, and yet another — he poured all this misery over himself like a ton of fish waste, and before he knew it he was shoving the panel into the saw with all his might. With a screech, the blade slid into the flaky board, sawdust sprayed, he smelled the false scent of construction, in less than ten seconds the steel shark fin had chewed its way to the hip. I’m not planning to bleed for you any longer. I’m not going to fucking let it happen . The circular saw sank its teeth into the worn-out denim, there was no sign of resistance; without balking, the spinning blade chewed through the frozen thigh bone, the shrill sound did get augmented by something darker, a damp, almost gurgling undertone, whitish and dark-red spatters flew off the saw blade. Screaming as if it were his own leg, he rammed the saw even deeper. The motor seemed to slacken a bit, the upward spattering increased, a hailstorm leaving a trail over the board and his coat. He felt soft flicks against his neck, against the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his right temple — and he recoiled.

Is this me? Is this us? As though he were on fire, he swatted at his face and neck, cursing and sputtering, in an attempt to rid himself of the gunk. In a wild panic he yanked off his sweater, buttons burst off his shirt, he could feel the scraps of sticky-wet flesh sticking to his hands. Spitting, spastic with disgust, he lunged at the saw and slammed the rubber button, silencing the machine, and then hurried out of the workshop. Blinded by tears — something inside him was starting to thaw — he staggered through the darkness, marking out figure-eights and zeros in the snow, until he slipped and landed with a smack, facedown, on the cold deck. Lying there in his mold, he pressed his sullied face into the snow and felt his tears freeze. He squeezed his eyes shut and scrabbled upright. The cold burned his face, he walked, moaning, to the utility room. In the living room he pulled his shirt over his head and undid his belt. Still sputtering, he went through the front hall to the bedroom and then into the bathroom. He furiously undressed. Naked, he rinsed his mouth at the washbasin and let the shower run hot.

The tent bag is lying like a blood blister on the edge of the pit. He clambers back up the incline a bit, grabs the drawstring and pulls at it until the bag rolls over the mossy edge. He catches it and lets it slide the rest of the way down to the bottom. He stands panting for a few seconds. Just as he is pushing and wriggling it into the rooty crevice under the pine tree, his phone rings.

The ringtone is so incongruous in that morning silence that he surprises himself with a grin, his facial muscles are taut and rusty. With a sigh he sinks to the ground, stretching his legs out in front of him in the snow. He just sits there, absently, until the ringing stops. For a moment the woods are noiseless. Then his phone starts ringing again, and this time he takes it out of his breast pocket. It is his advisor, Hendrik, the old hand who had been banished to Education in the wake of the Bijlmer inquiry. Through his infinite exhaustion his mouth once again curls into a sort of a smile. This dedicated soul, who from a parallel universe has reached him in the depths of his misery.

“Morning, Hendrik.”

“Hello Siem, sorry to call you on a Saturday. Am I disturbing you?” The voice fills his consciousness like the smell of freshly baked bread.

“Go ahead.”

“Siem, it’s like this. You’ll remember Karin was supposed to go on that talk show tomorrow on TV, but I’ve just heard she’s got flu. Lost her voice. My question is: can you take her place? Personally I think it’s a golden opportunity to squelch all the grumbling about that school plan. What do you think?”

“I’m standing on a ski slope, Hendrik. To be honest, I’m not doing all that much thinking.” What he does think is: don’t leave me alone. Talk to me.

Hendrik swears. Then he laughs: yes, he thought he’d seen the call was being forwarded out of the country, now he remembers Sigerius mentioning spending the holidays in France. “That’s that, then, Siem, never mind. Have yourself a fine vacation.”

“You too, Hendrik, you too.” Apparently something in his tone keeps the other from hanging up. A hesitant silence fills the air. Hendrik is a boat floating far up above him, he must swim up to the surface, and fast. “What are you going to do?” he asks.

“Me? Oh, this and that, tie up some loose ends. I’ve got a lunch with that new parliamentary reporter, kid from the NRC.”

“Actually, I meant for Christmas, Hendrik.” Between sentences his teeth chatter, he pulls in his lips over his teeth. “And New Year’s Eve.”

“Nothing special, Siem.”

“The children? Doing anything with them?” His teeth chatter.

Hendrik pauses. Then, reluctantly: “My wife’s daughters are coming for Christmas. The youngest one has a new boyfriend.” He coughs, waits for another fraction of a second. “A boy from former Yugoslavia. My wife’s dreading it slightly, I think. So. Siem.”

As soon as they’ve hung up he sinks back into the depths of an abyss, cold and ever darker.

• • •

He scoured himself clean with gritty gel from a small tube. The stuff grated the top layer of skin on his neck, on his face; everything had to come off and get washed down the drain. With every fleshy little snot he cringed in self-loathing and disgust. The hot water ate into the places hit by the nunchuk, there was an enormous bruise under his armpit and another elongated one on his neck. He washed his hair twice with a handful of shampoo, his fingers like a steel brush over his scalp. He squeezed toothpaste onto the brush that lay on the small glass shelf and scrubbed his teeth, spat the froth between his feet, and then scrubbed again until his gums bled. He removed the showerhead from its holder and squatted down. There was a soft pink substance on the drain that he pushed through the holes in the copper plate with the back end of the toothbrush. Why, he didn’t know, but as he was doing this he thought back to the full living room in their house on the Antonius Matthaeuslaan, the week after the birth. All his in-laws were there, smoking, bantering, munching the biscuits with sprinkles that he and his older sister had prepared in the kitchen while Margriet’s father sat on the john, for a good long time, he remembers thinking. He could smell the old Wijn. That lout behind the bathroom door bothered him: a reminder that their little boy up there in his crib carried the genes of the guy on his toilet. He was unhappy.

You sawed him up . He tried to stand up, his ribs cut into his chest like sabers, he had to grab hold of the aluminum doorframe. The devastating force tearing into him was not localized, not something on the scale of his life — it was immense. You murdered him and then you sawed him up .