Peter Buwalda - Bonita Avenue

A man like Theun Beers — who’d have known? The next day he does something off the wall, something he never thought of before all this mess began. He goes into a record shop, tries to remember the name of Joni’s begetter’s band, and when he does dredge up the name he goes through the bins of LPs in search of Mojo Mama, against his better judgment, but what do you know, he finds one. Stupid City Blues , it’s called, a battered copy from 1973; on the cover, a photo of the Utrecht Cathedral tower, with — undoubtedly a scissors-and-paste job — an equally tall electric guitar leaning up against it.

With a fascination you’d sooner expect from Joni, but which she always denied — so with borrowed fascination — he studies the photo of the man whose appearance he’d nearly forgotten, but whom he immediately recognizes as her father, because good God, she does resemble Theun. The same healthy blondness, the same proud, self-confident expression, the broad face, the erect posture. The spitting image of that virile, dark blond fellow who on the back cover of Stupid City Blues is shown walking along a river, probably the Vecht, the guitar from the front cover slung over his shoulder like a Viking sword, a rock ’n’ roll guy who named his daughters after Joni Mitchell and Janis Joplin. This is family. The DNA drips off it.

Before listening to the LP on the turntables and headphones up front, before determining that Theun Beers has a flat, uninteresting voice, he stares mesmerized at that picture. According to the caption, the figures a few steps behind him are a drummer, bassist, and pianist: like Beers, twenty-somethings with sideburns and floppy hats or Sandokan turbans over their long hair, but guys who pale in comparison to their frontman in charisma and photogenics. Theun Beers wears leather pants, and between the lapels of his open suede jacket glows a brazen torso as leathery as his trousers.

On Sunday he and Tineke stroll pseudo-relaxed through Het Rutbeek, they discuss the immediate future and how he will inevitably be sleeping in a pied-à-terre in The Hague on weekdays. Suddenly it’s all moving so fast: on Monday morning he hears from Kok himself that the Cabinet very much wants him, “we’ve got a green light”; the next day the eight o’clock news opens with Kruidenier’s dramatic exit. Current affairs programs spend the rest of the evening speculating on a successor, his name keeps coming up. He has already informed his university deans and the key members of his staff by telephone. He and his spokesman go through what he will have to do tomorrow afternoon, after the news from The Hague. A special meeting of the Board of Directors and the trustees has been convened to address the changeover, there is champagne, he makes a farewell circuit through the administrative wing, starts removing things from his office walls.

At two o’clock that afternoon the hurricane starts swirling; the campus is swarming with news media, he gives the same brief reaction a few times and leaves the administrative wing via a side door. The next morning his new chauffeur picks him up, and to his surprise his department secretary is sitting on the backseat. Conversing calmly, they drive to Huis ten Bosch, where after his swearing-in he drinks two cups of tea with the queen; the world is spinning again, but now at double time.

He recognizes the pattern. The first weeks are killingly hectic, he puts in fourteen-, fifteen-hour days, hurtles between Zoetermeer and The Hague, sees more civil servants, advisory panels, and union officials than is good for a person. He endures his first parliamentary debate, wades through stacks of dossiers — but his head is calming down. This is how he’s always done it: smother private problems in demanding work. He enjoys his new arena, the responsibility, the national interest that, like a horde of hooligans, storms the Cabinet where he is suddenly a member.

Back in his apartment on the Hooikade, as he showers off the new reality, Aaron’s house on the Vluchtestraat seems farther away than ever, and he can hardly imagine he actually smashed through that sliding glass door. From his cozy Hague apartment, that balcony where he lay bleeding seems like a fantasy, a dream, a nightmare. For the past few days he’s been toying with the idea of calling McKinsey, asking for Joni’s e-mail address, the real one. Maybe he’ll muster up the courage to send her something, something sensible, something … fatherly?

But then he himself is the recipient. The text message comes in on his private cell phone during parliamentary question time. The Christian Democrats’ education expert has summoned him to the sitting with a query about the competitive position of Dutch research institutes. He is early, it is only his second time in this situation, before it’s his turn the Defense Minister takes questions about the Joint Strike Fighter. The practically empty chamber seems immense, bigger than on television, questioners walk in and out, the minister’s response elicits another question. Kok comes in, walks behind the television cameras. The PM grunts something that sounds like “how’s it going,” sits down next to him and thumbs through a stack of paper. To kill time during the ensuing airplane discussion between his colleague and a defense specialist, he takes his phone out of his pocket. “Unknown sender,” just an 06 number. He opens the message.

Wanker listen. I know you’re fucking your stepdaughter on the Internet. Want me to keep your jerk-off secret quiet?

He glances at the PM. The electrical field surrounding the boss of the Netherlands: its force dissipates. Which throws Sigerius off balance. He has to grasp the veneer tabletop so as not to tumble over backward. But he forgets to first set down that instrument of calamity, he just lets go of it, the phone bangs against the edge of the table and clatters to the floor. He grimaces sheepishly at Kok, who glowers at him, he slides his chair back a bit and disappears under the table. His temples throbbing, he gasps for breath.

Christ. Now the shit’s gonna hit the fan.

He sees the gleaming phone, half of it anyway, the anthracite back panel has come loose, it’s lying on the floor between Kok’s feet. The Speaker of the House calls his name, it’s his turn, he looks up at the PM like a puppy dog, mumbles “sorry” and points under Kok’s desk, “I’ll just get that.” He grabs the bit of plastic from between the heavy black leather shoes, robust labor union footwear that would cost a Berlusconi in the polls, and struggles to his feet. He sets the dismantled cell phone on the desk top and hurries to the Speaker’s lectern. A capable body double answers the questions that are fired at him.

As soon as he is liberated, he leaves the parliament building without so much as a glance in any direction, and has his Volvo deliver him to his department in Zoetermeer. Only once he has closed his office door behind him, high up and deep in his department, does he reassemble the phone. It comes to life, searches for a network, and immediately starts vibrating: two new messages. The first is from, of all people, Isabelle Orthel. Hey, just saw you on TV, long time no see. How’s things? The second is from the same unknown 06 number. Went all pale, didn’t you. Shit-scared, you fucking wanker. Make me an offer .

He slams the cell phone onto his desk, stares at it for a bit, and picks it up again. He’s got a meeting with his department secretary and under-minister in five minutes; instead of preparing for it he fumbles a reply.

Who are you?

For the rest of the week he agonizes over that question. He dials the number about four times, each time gets put through to a female voice who reads out the numbers, followed by a beep. Once, he leaves a message, firm and clear: Identify yourself, friend, or drop the goddamn charade. Once, somebody answers but doesn’t say anything, he keeps asking who he’s dealing with, until, following a derisive chuckle — a gruff man-laugh — they hang up.