Peter Buwalda - Bonita Avenue

Groups of singing football supporters swarm The Hague Central Station; he has to run to catch the 4:06 train. When he alights in Enschede two and a half hours later, he goes to a phone booth and dials the number of Aaron’s house. He lets it ring until he hears a busy signal. Then he calls Tineke on his cell phone. “Still at The Hague Station,” he says. “I’ll just come and watch the match at home.”

“Great,” she says with her dependable, pleasant voice, “Janis’ll like that. How’d it go?”

“Useful. Frederik sends his regards. He’s really done his best.”

“Shall I save you some dinner?”

“Please. OK, got to board now.”

“Have a good trip, dear.”

He leaves the station, in front of the Bruna newsstand a kid with curly wet hair and an overnight bag nods at him, he smiles back, always smile back, and decides to take a taxi.

He clears his throat. “Vluchtestraat.”

The Mercedes glides through the orange-bedecked streets like a stingray. Children have painted the wooden partitions. Dark redbrick row houses that retain the day’s heat, open windows with screens. Nightfall is hours away. The street Joni and Aaron drove off from five days ago, the car fully packed, is festooned with orange banners, flags, balloons — as though the explosion never happened. Enschede is a salamander that’s lost its tail.

He has the driver stop at the end of the street, pays him, and removes the key from his pocket before he gets out. He takes a deep breath and, without lingering, walks along the quiet Vluchtestraat, past a sort of nurses’ residence, then crosses diagonally and cuts into the short path leading to Aaron’s front door. If he rings the bell, just for show, the neighbors might hear. No, this needs to be done like a Band-Aid: rip it off in one quick jerk. Holding his breath, he inserts the virgin steel into the lock. It refuses. He jiggles it back and forth, softly, his fingers become moist.

During their last week at the farmhouse Aaron showed up with a brand-new key, and while Sigerius listened to his story — the city had replaced the locks on all the doors they’d had to force open — he registered precisely where Aaron put it: on the key ring in the pocket of his summer jacket, a corduroy blazer he hung neatly on a hanger in the front hall closet. He was the last one in the living room that night. While the rest of the house slept, he smuggled the keys out of Aaron’s pocket and took them to the bathroom, where he wrestled the only one that looked like an unused house key off the ring. The next day his secretary had it copied at a Mister Minit.

The wrong one? A superstitious person would see the hand of Fate at work. ( You’re making a mistake, go home, forget everything .) He wipes his hands on his trousers and looks around. Never look around . On the second attempt the lock glides open.

He steps inside and closes the door softly behind him. It is a full minute before he can hear the silence above his own heart. A vague animal smell penetrates his nostrils. He exhales and considers locking the door. A neighbor who waltzes in and starts filling a watering can. He rehearses his reaction: insurance papers, my son-in-law phoned from his vacation address, a fender-bender, I’m just busy upstairs.

A small stack of dish towels lies on the white-painted steps, a pair of running shoes on the next step up. That is where he must go, upstairs, but first, just to be sure, he opens the door to the living room. It is cramped and dusty, he feels clumsy, as though he’ll knock things over. On the coffee table, around which they congregate once a year for a slice of birthday vlaai , lies a pair of badminton rackets and a container of birdies. Opposite the TV, a stylish sofa with soft purple upholstery, matching armchairs, two pillar-shaped speakers he and Aaron bought together in Münster, an old Dual turntable and next to it a stack of jazz LPs he recognizes as his. The fascinating wall of books coaxes a smile out of him, but it is a nervous smile. Out of the corner of his eye, to the left, he notices a large, dark rectangle with glowing edges: the curtains to the backyard are drawn. Something starts humming resonantly. The fridge? The curtains on the street side are open, unfortunately; a Moroccan woman pushing a baby stroller along the sidewalk glances at him as she passes. Always smile and wave. Behind her, a low apartment block; beyond that, the provisional fence around Roombeek. His heart bulges: someone comes crashing down a flight of stairs, thud, a door clicks shut — the nextdoor neighbor? Stay calm. France is a long way away. You whisked them neatly out of the country.

Here, take 1,500 guilders and beat it. Relax, enjoy. Talk things out. He walks into the kitchenette and picks up a glass from the counter, fills it from the tap, and drains it sloppily. It was an emergency measure, he would rather have bided his time. An opportunity to use the key would present itself sooner or later, those two were always jaunting off on some vacation or another, it made you wonder where they got the money. But then Tineke told him the relationship was on the rocks. Serious trouble. Hanging by a thread. Tineke had gone to Ennio’s funeral, a depressing, poorly attended affair; she had expected to see Joni and Aaron together, but their daughter was there alone. Afterward, in the chapel, she told her mother about the argument with Aaron, and expressed her misgivings about their future.

That made everything a sight more complicated. They wouldn’t be going on vacation anytime soon, maybe never. And he couldn’t very well break into the house of his daughter’s ex … The previous week, their last training in the dusty gym: five minutes before they were to start it occurred to him that Aaron might not show up. But he did, after all. Let him bring it up, he thought. They laid out the mats, thwap, chatted about the upcoming European Cup, warmed up in silence, practiced groundwork, and went through katas —and all that time, not a word. “Aaron”—he eventually got the ball rolling himself—“what do you think, will you and Joni patch things up?”

“Have you spoken to her then?” They stood there arranging their suits, the bald beanpole with his black belt between his chin and chest.

“Have you spoken to her?”

“No. I’m not allowed to phone. And you know Joni.” I know Joni? Don’t make me laugh . “It’s awful, Siem.”

Another silence. Aaron seemed to hesitate, and then told him she was going to see Wilbert. He had dragged that out of her during their last argument. “But Siem, please,” he said with a voice like an old dishrag, “you didn’t hear it from me.” While recovering from this piece of news Sigerius noticed how emaciated Aaron looked, instead of flushed from exertion he was as gray as an egg carton. His skin could peel off his skull any minute and crumple to the mat like a burlap bag. “I really hope we can work it out, Siem. I’ve never told anyone, but from day one I’ve seen Joni as the mother of my children.”

He nodded. Let’s kill two birds with one stone. With a bit of luck he could derail that meeting. Start by putting it off, and work your way toward call ing it off. “Aw geez, Aaron,” he smarmed with the kind of duplicity he usually reserved for his deans, “I wish there was something I could do. What I’m going to say to you now, I’ll say to Joni too, I promise. You two belong together. What you’ve just told me, it’s serious stuff. I don’t want you both chucking it all away. Everything’s been thrown off-kilter these last few weeks, for everyone in Enschede and for you and Joni too. I think you two should take a vacation. Together. On me. And as soon as possible.”

“Wow, Siem, you mean that?” he said, his lower lip trembling. “That means a lot to me.”