Peter Buwalda - Bonita Avenue

For his part, all he did in the weeks, months, years following his Utrecht disgrace was read; out of pent-up anger, out of sheer frustration, he read hundreds of novels, in many cases asking himself, even before he’d met Sigerius: why? Are you done trying to prove yourself yet? When will you admit defeat? It was Sigerius who had given his reading frenzy, in retrospect, a clear significance. “Aaron,” he had said, “I’m not an intellectual. Help me catch up.” The intense realization made his eyes brim with tears. He got out of his chair and took a step toward Sigerius, prepared to embrace him—

“… asked you something,” said the man.

Aaron’s eyes went wide. He hadn’t heard a thing. Had he fallen asleep? Or was this a dream? He looked at the man. “Sigerius and I have a very close relationship,” he muttered desperately, his voice trembling more than was acceptable, “sometimes it seems like I’m his son.”

Unfortunately the woman did not write this down. She fastened the top button of her blouse. These two weren’t here to screen Sigerius; he had sent them. They were his agents, he understood perfectly well that Sigerius was already a minister, probably Prime Minister by now.

“Well, what do you know,” said the guy. He was perched on the edge of the sofa like a dandy. “And what does that say about Sigerius and his real son?”

The woman glanced at an unusually large white-gold wristwatch. But was it really a watch? An inky cloud of fear shot through his veins, several organs simultaneously kicked into wartime production: panic overruled his sentiments of a moment ago, how suddenly they could change! He clenched the leather armrests of the chair with his clammy fists. That watch, it was probably a device, a webcam tested by NASA, and Sigerius and his wife looked at each other right now, judgmentally, our friend here thinks he’s got us figured out, not knowing he also had that figured out. The great shadowing had begun.

“Wilbert plays no role in our lives whatsoever,” he said as softly as possible. “Sigerius abandoned him very early on.” Now that he had them figured out he noticed that Sjöwall wore a huge signet ring, his clenched boxer’s fist looked like the head of a cyclops, he stared into the eye, a diaphragm opened. No one played a role in anyone’s life any longer, he realized all over again. He heard clattering, a gust of wind brought the boarded-up back window to life. All three of them looked. Sigerius had abandoned him too, and how. Strangely enough, he couldn’t put his finger on the exact reason, there must have been a motive of some sort, anyway his friend had well and truly left him out in the cold. A wave of irritation washed over him. What possessed Sigerius to make a habit of abandoning his family? He was being spied on here, but you could also turn the tables, why didn’t he take control of the situation? This was his chance, the line was open, this was the moment to get it off his chest. As a real son it was his duty to tell Sigerius, preferably over Thomson and Thompson’s heads, a thing or two. It wasn’t going to be pretty, but in time his friend would thank him for it. He wanted to say that he loved Sigerius like a father, but that he felt terribly abandoned, and he said so, but what came out of his mouth was so muted and muffled that the guy leaned his granite-head forward.

“What did you say, son?”

He started. Suddenly he smelled Sigerius’s unnerving power, a tingling, fresh chewing gum smell. His tears were already mobilized, now they flowed freely, he cried miserably. The man asked him again what he was trying to say, pushed his small, flat ear almost against his mouth. Aaron whispered the words about fatherly affection and being unappreciated.

The man sank back, looked at him. “I’ll bet it’s not that bad,” he said. The woman slapped her notebook shut. She looked around the room, her nose scrunched upward. “We’ll be off then.”

• • •

Time passed according to the laws of nature. The weather became grimmer, wheezing storms blew rainwater and curled-up autumn leaves into the house. His guinea pigs quietly scratched about, he listened attentively to the gnawing and shuffling. The nights got longer.

On the evening of the second visit — or was it the early hours? — the sound of the electric doorbell plowed through the syrupy silence that enveloped him. Was he awake? Yes, he stood with the bathroom doorknob in his hand. Had he ordered food? He couldn’t remember, and besides he had to go to the toilet. Instead of doing the sensible thing — locking himself in the bathroom — he hurried to the living room, crouched down next to the cold radiator and peered outside from under the curtain. His view of the front path was blocked, so he pushed the left-hand curtain aside a tad and pressed his temple against the ice-cold windowpane: was somebody standing under the wooden overhang? The answer came from a series of loud bangs on the door; he fell backwards onto his butt from fright. He crawled back to the gap underneath the curtain. The shadowy figure — a man, judging from its posture — was definitely impatient, took three steps back and looked up, went back to the door and rattled the letter flap with a deafening clatter. He had something on his back, a small knapsack. His mouth puffed out agitated little clouds.

Aaron’s intestines gurgled. Why hadn’t he just gone and sat on the toilet? Something dark flashed across the front of the house, he held his breath, the man stood squarely in front of the living room window. What was going on? The next moment a merciless banging on the window. His heart shot under the sofa like a dog. Two flat fists, like a child’s feet, against the window, between them a circle of condensation. Losing his balance entirely, he fell forward, only just avoided bashing open his chin on the granite windowsill, but his knees slammed against the radiator with a dark, metallic thud. When he looked up, he was staring into two deep-set, restless eyes. They were Sigerius’s burning oil fields. He immediately turned away, dug his chin into his chest. Had the moment of truth arrived? There he sat on his haunches, paralyzed, fighting against the wind like Hans Brinker, in a desperate struggle with the afterimage. What had happened to Sigerius’s face? Was that from the glass door? Anguish, devastation, humiliation? It was contorted, caved-in, as though a demonic mask had been made of his old face.

Was he dreaming? He felt tears glide down his cheeks. Shatter this window too, he thought. Go on, smash it. And then smash my head. He was numb with fear: his knees, his legs, his whole body, they no longer existed, all his nerves had amassed in the very top of his skull, awaiting the blow. Hit me!

Breaking glass. He fell backward, groaning. He heard the tinkling of the shards, unnervingly far away and at the same time frighteningly close by. But: no pain. No cracking of crushed bone, no gushing of warm blood. He felt nothing! Instead, he heard the front door bolt slide open. Relief made way for new fear: he’s coming to get me .

But again, something else happened. Sigerius did not enter the room, but stormed up the stairs. His ass glued to the floor, he listened to the sounds coming from upstairs. After a brief silence he heard the creaking of the folding attic stairs, and then: footsteps. Sigerius was up in the attic! He hadn’t dared go up there since that terrible evening in June. Once or twice he’d stood in the hallway, clutching the bolt cutter in one clammy hand and a staircase tread with the other, staring tentatively up through the hatch, planning, surely, to smash the whole caboodle to smithereens. But he couldn’t.

What was Sigerius doing there? Had they come home before he’d had time to rummage about properly? Had he left something there?