Peter Buwalda - Bonita Avenue

“Yup. What I’m telling you is two weeks old, you get it? We come home earlier than planned and there he is. And I realize right away: he knows everything.”

“Why you telling me this?”

“And then he walked straight through the window,” I said. “And now I’m going to America. He just marched straight through it, bam , straight through the glass.”

“But bitch — why are you telling me this?”

He’s bleeding like a pig. Vague throbbing under his left foot, tingling in his hip and lower arms, if he lays his chin on his right shoulder blade he can see the gash that runs diagonally over the ball of his shoulder — but he feels almost nothing. His physical pain is smothered by a much broader malaise. Why did he get undressed, why didn’t he just leave? The regret that descends upon him feels like a chronic condition. He pushes his back flat against the blind brick wall behind which Joni and Aaron are, must stay . He prays they won’t come after him. His brain is a bazaar after a bombing, thoughts are ripped-off limbs. His nakedness is infinite. From the blood prints on the gray paving stones he sees that he walked a little way into the alley, then back again. His entire existence is reduced to this alley, with the Vluchtestraat on one side, the Lasondersingel on the other. In his initial panic he almost ran out onto the boulevard, a powerful flight reflex. Not long ago he helped lead the town in a silent march through these streets, now he is standing stark naked in this alley. Naked in an alley with his ass in his daughter’s panties. Please let this be a nightmare . He shuffles along in that procession and sees himself emerge from the alley without any clothes, through pairs of 100,000 eyes he looks at himself: a raving lunatic. His clothes are lying on the attic floor, but going back in there is out of the question. He keeps seeing himself standing in the living room, sees his nakedness through her eyes. Where did they come from? The recurring image of Joni collapsing to the floor in shock. Think for a moment. You must get out of here. But you can’t. The brick wall is making his back itch. Just think of one thing at a time. Wait for it to get dark. And as though someone is reading his thoughts, the light dims, he looks that way: a silhouette at the Vluchtestraat end of the alley. He is briefly glued to the wall, a sculpture in a ludicrous place. The echoes of a bouncing soccer ball, it is a child, it runs for a few steps, picks up the ball, and looks. He jerks into motion, drags himself through the alley, the sole of his left foot suddenly on fire, after a few meters the brick walls become a green wall of conifers. He can only think of one thing: without hesitating he wriggles between two man-sized conifers at the edge of Aaron’s neighbor’s yard, for the second time this evening he squeezes himself among countless pricking fingers, the grainy sand sucks itself deeper into the hole in the sole of his foot. Stay standing in the narrowest spot. Make yourself small. The sand wants to suck him dry, the itching of the branches in his ears, between his buttocks, in his navel, the intense smell of sap. He turns his head toward the backyard, the branches scrape, he sees a terrace, the back door is open. Automatically he shifts slightly back into the alley, and listens. Footsteps, the echo of the bouncing ball, every sound wave ricochets ten times up and down between the walls, the child is approaching. He squeezes his eyes shut, listens, himself a conifer, all he hears is the rushing of his blood. The echo recedes, the steps become slow, almost inaudible. Wounds throbbing in unison. When he opens his eyes and looks through the dark-green tangle of branches, he sees the child, it’s standing in front of him, it’s orange, it’s wearing a Holland jersey. It stares wide-eyed in front of him — at his chest?

“Go away,” he whispers.

It cowers, it is a little boy, he sees, he drops his ball in fright, grabs it as it bounces away and sprints with hollow footsteps toward the Lasondersingel. He remains stock-still, waits before exhaling, a trembling sigh. Slowly his hearing sharpens again, he hears a bus drive by, he hears soccer coming from the houses, the voice of a commentator, fans. God bless football. Keep my alley clear . He allows his tension to ebb slightly — but then stiffens again. He’s overestimating his invisibility. These people only have to walk into their backyard. And Aaron and Joni? He’s still bleeding like crazy, a tepid stream trickles down his biceps. He needs to think more clearly. He can’t stay here. But then what? A sudden roar rushes sweat to his skin. Shouting inside the house, cheering from all the backyards: the hordes are coming to get him. A goal. He realizes he’s still clamping the nylon stocking in his fist, he shakes it loose as though it’s a rattlesnake. The branches are armies of ants. What can he do? The streets are abandoned, emptier than this it will never get. He tries to control his breathing, shifts his feet and visualizes the Vluchtestraat. Maybe he can ring somebody’s bell. Say he’s been robbed. The thought of himself on a garden path in these panties. But he can’t very well take them off. Everything is ruined . He is humiliated, she is humiliated. Is she really? Must get out of here .

He considers: half of them are on vacation. He visualizes the low-rise apartments at the end of the street with all his might; museum on the left, block of flats on the right, wooden garden fences behind. Can he get up to one of those balconies? And which one? Is there a logical approach? Closed balcony doors mean the occupants are away. Open: football, closed: away. Can he sprint there? Peek out of the alley, choose your moment, make a dash for it. He tries to estimate the distance. Forty meters. Fifty. Six seconds. And getting up onto one of those balconies? For a second he thinks of home, of the tangle of grass behind their farmhouse, of the tranquillity, the shelteredness. It has to be pitch-dark before he can … walk home? Christ on a crutch. Must he walk home? You’re in a dream, you’re in the mother of all nightmares . A short-cut, maybe? All the jogging paths he’s seen in the past twenty years unfold simultaneously before him, a knot of wooded paths and loose sand. But there’s the city in between. A taxi? You don’t even have a phone . No keys, no money, nothing. His thoughts turn to Tineke. He can’t face her. He mustn’t even get home before midnight. Is there a spare key in the garden?

Got to get onto one of those balconies .

He turns his head 180 degrees, bristles rub against his eyelids and cheeks, his neck is strangely stiff. His chin tucked against his own blood, he looks over his shoulder, down the alleyway, and listens. On this side the world is quiet. Again he is struck by the indifference of objects: gray paving tiles absorbing his blood, the indifferent exterior walls. He inhales as though he’s about to take a dive and glides out from the trees. Run . Adrenaline dissolves in his blood, is discharged from his wounds. The air on his bare skin. Every few steps he looks back, tries to suppress his panting. Behind that brick wall: them .

The street clutches the setting sun. He is overcome by the sudden spaciousness. The purple sky is infinitely high, his nakedness is intensified. He peers around the corner of the brick house at the apartments, the wide balconies, it’s farther away than he had hoped. The balconies are fronted by orangey-pastel panels; that’s where he wants to be, behind one of those panels. Across from the entrance door with the letter slots is a large concrete and steel bin, a mini-bunker for garbage bags. Already now, from his trench, he feels the warm asphalt under his feet, pebbles in his open sole. A car turns into the street, with a groan he darts back into the alley. Holds his breath until the unhurried machine has passed. So close to their front door. The street is empty.