Peter Buwalda - Bonita Avenue

“Hello?”

“Aaron, you are one hard-to-reach dude.”

He had to think a moment before realizing it was Thijmen Akkerman on the line. Thijmen, his personal physician, had studied medicine in Utrecht, but was working as sales manager for a high-tech prosthetics firm, computer-driven limbs, hips made from Playmobil plastic. Thijmen had been supplying him with sleeping pills via scrips pinched from his father, who was in fact a bona fide GP. It sounded like he was hanging on a Delta kite.

“Speak up, Thijmen,” he said, “I can barely hear you. I’m at a wedding. How did you find me?”

“I phoned your home number,” Thijmen yelled, “but there was no answer. So I went looking for you. I’m right near your house. I only just remembered you two were at Groeneweide.” That’s right, Aaron did tell him about the wedding; apparently as a student Thijmen had had a job there as a dishwasher. “Your whole neighborhood’s on fire,” Thijmen continued. “It’s unreal what’s happening here.”

“What about my house?” Vaessen, he saw, had already buggered off. Stol and Brigitte looked attentively at him; Joni, unruffled, carried on eating. Just that irritating way she sat there stuffing her face made him know exactly how he had to handle this. He knew it.

“There’s a blaze,” Thijmen shouted, “right across from your house. An inferno, I’m not kidding you. But they say it won’t spread to the other side of the street. The fire department says the wind’s blowing the other way. I’m just calling to set your mind at ease. I’ll bet you two are shitting yourselves.”

“An inferno, you say?” he said. “Jesus Christ. And my house?” He heard sirens in the background, and a roar. “Thijmen, you still there?”

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry, a couple of fire engines just passed by. Hang on. Your house is still OK, but the glass wall is busted, you know, that …”

“The sliding doors?”

“Yeah, those. They’re gone. Wait. They’re shooing me away. All the windows have been blown out. Everywhere. Unbe fucking lievable.”

He turned to Joni and pointed his thumb downward. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and said: “I think we have to go back,” after which he stuck a finger in his ear and reassured his friend at the other end. “Thijmen, calm down. Take it easy. Joni and I are here, in Zaltbommel. We are fine. We’re eating veal. But I’m really glad you called. Yeah, it’s terrible. Yes. Yeah — it’s not far. We can be there in an hour.”

Thijmen had listened in silence. “Aaron?” There was bewilderment in his voice. “There’s nothing you can do, man. Just stay where you are. Be glad you’re there . You go party. I’ve got to hang up now, kid, I’m out of here.”

“Got it, Thijmen, understood. You’re absolutely right. We’ll do that. You just get out of there safely. See you, dude.”

With a little crackle Thijmen hung up.

“What’s that?” Aaron asked the dial tone. For a brief moment he looked straight into Boudewijn Stol’s eyes. “OK, Thijmen, hang in there, buddy. Sure thing. We’re on our way. Bye.”

He pressed the end-call button and set the telephone down next to his plate.

“Well?” asked Brigitte. “Doesn’t sound too good.”

“No,” he said. “There’s something awful going on in Enschede. A fireworks factory has exploded. We saw it on the TV back in our hotel room just now. That’s where we’re from, you know, Enschede. I live right near that factory. It’s much worse than they thought. Being broadcast on all three stations.”

“Huh,” said Stol.

Impressive analysis, he thought— huh . “The sliding glass doors of my house have been blown out,” he said, “and …”

“If that’s everything,” Joni interrupted. She did not look at him, but sliced off a piece of veal and dragged the tender meat through the gravy. She stabbed a snow pea along with it and stuck the assemblage into her mouth.

“For the time being, yes, that’s everything,” he said. “But the whole street is on fire. If the wind shifts my house will be toast. We’ve got to get there. Now.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin and demonstratively shoved his chair back. Joni kept looking at her plate and continued chewing. He watched anxiously as she ate. Damn, you know, this was his house they were talking about, nobody else here could claim their house was about to go up in flames. She swallowed. A golden-blond wisp slipped over her cheek; she gently, calmly, slid it back behind her ear. Then, as though deciding she had been watched for long enough, she laid down her cutlery and looked at him. “Aaron,” she said, “don’t be so unbelievably childish. We’re at the wedding of one of your best friends. We can’t just take off. Calm down a bit, honey.” She winked at Stol. “Good thing he doesn’t have a stable.”

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “No, Joni,” he said, palpitating with a surging rage, “I don’t have horses, but I do have two house pets, remember?”

“Guinea pigs,” said Joni.

Brigitte hid a snicker behind her hand.

“And forty original jazz LPs belonging to your father next to my turntable,” he added quickly. “And a laptop. And a fortune in photographic equipment. And 2,000 books. Maybe we can salvage some of it? Just a suggestion?”

“Go get the car,” said Joni, “while I fill a bucket with pond water.”

Stol intervened. “I understand where your boyfriend’s coming from,” he said soothingly. During their brief squabble he occupied himself with his handkerchief: leaning back casually, he produced, magician-like, the crimson silk hanky from his breast pocket, spread it out over his left hand and picked it up from the middle, as though it were soiled. A little shake and he took hold of the underside with his free hand, carefully folded the cloth in half and grasped it like a marmot. Prising open his breast pocket with thumb and index finger, he released the little silk beast into his pocket, appraising Aaron all the while. “His instinct tells him he has to rush to the fire-storm. It’s happening there, and he’s stuck here. His most cherished possession, a house containing all that defines him, is in danger — this is clearly no trifling matter.”

Aaron blinked. Why did the Oracle not address him directly? Had he even asked for his opinion?

“If you ask me,” said Stol, as though he could read his mind, “you should put your emotions aside for a moment and consider the nature of the situation in Enschede. And Arend’s likely role in its solution.”

“My name is Aaron.”

“That is what you should be thinking. Now rather than later. Better to realize here, instead of there , that by going there you’ll probably do more harm than good.”

“Who said anything about doing harm?”

“I did,” said Stol. “There’s a fire, there’s the danger of collapsing buildings. Poisonous fumes. The whole ball of wax. The only thing the professionals want from the general public is that they keep out of their way.”

“And what makes you the expert?”

Stol, smiling, sized him up.

“What’s so funny?”

“You are. You are a really funny guy.” With a couple of quick tugs he pulled his cuffs out from under the sleeves of his jacket. He turned to Joni. “But say your boyfriend goes anyway. What then? Then there’s Arend wandering around a disaster area with nowhere to sleep. He’s in the way. And say the wind does shift, then all he can do is stand there, drunk and helpless, and watch his house burn to the ground. You have to be able to handle that. And if I judge him right, I’ll bet he can’t handle that too well. He’s already freaking out.” Stol picked up his fork, skewered a bite-sized hunk of veal and put it into his small mouth. “In other words, if you go there,” he said, chewing and jabbing his empty fork in Aaron’s direction, “you’re risking a trauma.”