Girl in the Dark (3 page)

“Yes, because he knew you were on your way,” Petra replied in a withering tone.

I took a deep breath. “I realize Aaron sometimes gives you a hard time. I know you try your best, and I'm full of admiration for the way you run this day care. But I just cannot drop everything and come running for every little thing—today I was in a very important meeting with a client.” I was trying to talk to her as pleasantly as I could manage.
We're both adults and can discuss this reasonably, can't we? Notwithstanding the fact that you consider me the worst mother you have ever encountered, with a child who's a little terror. And in spite of the fact that I suspect the only reason you've taken the job of running a day care center is that you can boss around not only the little kids but their parents as well.

Petra put her hands on her hips. “Iris, biting isn't just a little thing. It's unacceptable behavior. If an adult did that, he'd be under arrest. You, of all people, ought to know that.”

“But they
aren't
adults.”

“Listen to me. I've been in charge here for twenty years, and I've seen quite a few children come and go. Aaron is an exceptional case. I think you should consider taking him to a child psychologist.”

“I admit he can be difficult. And as you know, our pediatrician has already given us a referral and we're on a waiting list.”

“It would make a big difference if he weren't able to get away with so much at home. If you'd discipline him a bit more.”

Mika and Emily were setting out the fruit. I watched Aaron climb onto a chair and pick up a piece of apple from the plate. He began chewing, content.

“You have no idea what goes on at my house.”

“You should be glad we're willing to keep him here. And speaking of waiting lists, I'm sure you're aware there's currently an eighteen-month wait for this day care center.”

“Of course I am, of course. I'm very, very grateful. That's what you want me to say, isn't it, Petra? You want me to grovel at your feet and tell you what a true Mother Teresa you are, don't you?” As a lawyer, I was trained to negotiate, to come up with the best argument, to find the correct tone, to touch the right nerve. But when it came to my son's day care, I couldn't do it.

“I think it would be best if you took Aaron home and kept him home for the rest of the week. And then next week we'll just try again.” Petra bared her teeth in the grimace of an aggressive ape. “Best of luck.”

I had lost. I had lost well and good.

For some reason Aaron did know how to behave with my mother. Probably because, like the rest of the world, he was a little scared of her. Even I was never completely at ease around her. She was sphinxlike. As if there were a number of invisible lines around her that must not be crossed. Only you never knew what, how, or when.

My mother arrived, scarlet toenails peeking out of her white sandals. She listened to my story and then reminded me, in an irritated voice, that she was leaving for vacation in two days, so
she couldn't watch him. “Besides, you were going to do something for
me
for once. You were going to watch my house, remember?”

She picked up Aaron and carried him to her car. “You've got this afternoon and tomorrow to arrange something for him. Otherwise you'll just have to take the rest of the week off. Or tell them you're sick.”

She belted Aaron into the child seat. That's how you can tell if someone's a devoted grandmother. They have more elaborate equipment for your kid than you do yourself.

“Nobody's going to die from skipping work for a few days. Not even you.”

I was taken to a small room with a urinal and a large mirror next to it. A guard removed my handcuffs. I shook my arms to get the stiffness out.

A nurse without a white coat, or anything to show she was a medical professional, started giving me orders. She told me to drop my pants down to my knees, lift my shirt up to my chest, and then pee into a designated cup.

“Could you please give me some privacy?”

“No.” No apology, no explanation, nothing.

I was used to peeing in the presence of other people, but not in the presence of a female.

“I know this isn't fun,” said the man named Mo, “but all newcomers have to be tested for drugs and alcohol. There have been some drug-related incidents in here lately.”

“I'm telling you again: drop your pants and pull up your shirt so that I can see your stomach.” She wasn't wearing a white coat, but she certainly had a bossy voice.

I dropped my pants and underpants, and stood there with my limp white penis. It made me mad. Why did I have to pee in front
of this horrible woman who didn't even have the decency to dress right? Why were they doing this to me?

“Easy,” said Mo. “It'll be over soon.”

“Now pee into the cup,” she said again.

I tried to relax in spite of my anger, to let the pee come, but nothing was happening.

“Just take it easy,” said Mo. “It'll come.”

I felt panic rising in me. In the mirror I saw the nurse staring straight at my crotch.

“Can't she look the other way?”

“No, I can't.”

“She has to make sure there's no cheating,” Mo explained. “That you don't slip someone else's urine into the cup.”

I had no idea how I'd have managed that, and anyway, I wanted nothing to do with anyone else's pee or other bodily fluids.

“It's not working. She's got to leave. Or at least look the other way. I can't do it.”

“And everything was going so well—” Mo began, but the woman cut him off: “No more whining, only whizzing.
Now
.”

I saw that Mo was laughing. He was against me, too.

“If you can't pee, you'll be put in solitary until you can,” she said.

We had a solitary unit in the prison, too. I'd been put in there once, when I was new and didn't yet know it was best to do what they tell you. They left me in there for three whole days until I couldn't remember who I was or where I was or if I even still existed.

I took a deep breath. Straining as hard as I could, I managed to squeeze out a few drops of urine.

“Just in time. Pull up your pants,” the woman said.

Once I was dressed, I was able to think clearly again. It occurred
to me that nurses probably don't have the power to decide who gets put into solitary. In prison they didn't, anyway. I decided to find out as soon as I had the chance.

I was assigned my own private cell. It wasn't very big, six by nine feet at most, but it had all I needed. A bed. A desk for writing, although I was hoping that, in here, I wouldn't be left with too much time on my hands. And a shower, sink, and toilet in a separate stall. It didn't have a regular door, just little swinging doors. I'd be allowed to shower, poop, and pee in private, then. It was a definite improvement.

Better than the dormitory in the Mason Home where I spent most of my youth, with its communal showers and toilet doors that were way too small, so you couldn't even take a dump without everyone knowing. There, if you sat on the toilet and farted, they'd all start cheering. They also applauded if you won the masturbation contests in the showers, though I could barely get my penis up when there were others around, and so I never won. But farting was my forte.

Then there was Harderwijk penitentiary, where for years I'd had to share a cell and toilet with another guy. He stunk to high heaven, even though his diet was the same as everyone else's. He'd go sit on that crapper twice a day, producing the worst stench you can ever imagine. You could close the door, but the stink somehow filtered out through every crack anyway. I often complained, even wrote letters about it. Addressed to him, but also to the warden, and the queen, who'd said on TV she wanted to be a queen for all people, and I was still a person, wasn't I?

But my cellmate Eddie just made fun of me. “That's just the way a
real
man craps, Raynus. Smell and learn.” The more I com
plained, the worse it got, until he stopped closing the door altogether and the stink was completely unbearable. The warden sent someone to tell me to stop whining, and I never heard from the queen.

For a whole six months I was forced to inhale that smell two times every day, once in the morning and once at night. In the end my whole system shut down. I got more and more constipated. From an average of one crap a day, it turned into three times a week, and then I couldn't seem to go at all anymore. My stomach blew up like a balloon. I was in agony. I couldn't eat or drink; I didn't even want to move. I just lay there flat on my bed while Eddie kept doing his stinking business with the door wide open.

I was moved to the infirmary and they gave me an enema. It was humiliating and painful, but my bowels finally came loose. The foul smell wafting through the green-tiled bathroom of the sickbay was even worse than my cellmate's stench. That was kind of satisfying, in a way.

When I got back to my cell Eddie had gone, and I spent the last six months in relative peace, although with too much time on my hands, as always.

I had my own toilet once, years ago, when everything was still okay. I loved that toilet. Unlike the one in the boys home or the prison, that toilet was all my own.

“Your things are being delivered this afternoon,” said Mo. Startled, I sat up; I'd completely forgotten he was still there.

“Then you can arrange your suite the way you want. Maybe you've got some personal items you'd like to display. Or hang on the wall. We do have a rather strict policy about smut. Tits, okay.
Ass, not okay. The other rules are: no alcohol, no drugs, no cell phones, and no Internet.”

“What about my fish?”

“You have fish? What kind?” Mo sat down on the edge of my bed, like a mother getting ready to have a nice bedtime chat with her teenager; at least, that's what I'd seen on TV. My mother had visited me in prison pretty often but had always gone home before it was time for bed.

“I have a saltwater aquarium.”

Mo whistled through his teeth. “Expensive hobby.”

I didn't know what to say to that.

“What kind of fish do you have?”

“All sorts: surgeon, clownfish, angelfish, cowfish . . .”

“I'll mention it to the people upstairs, okay? As long as the aquarium isn't too big, they might allow it.” Mo slapped himself on the thighs and stood up. “I'll leave you alone for twenty minutes. To let you recover from your journey and get used to this place a bit. Then I'll come pick you up for your intake with the psychiatrist.”

“Okay.”

“After that I'll give you a rundown on the daily routine. And tomorrow, if the psychiatrist says it's okay, I'll introduce you to the other inmates.”

The steel door of my cell clanged shut. There was a small sliding hatch at eye level. That way they could spy on you whenever they liked.

I counted exactly five paces from the steel door to the wall. Normal walking steps. I paced back and forth a few times to make sure I'd measured right. Then I sat down on the bed and stared at the freshly painted white walls.

“Aaah, there she is, my own rising star!”

I was in the reception area of Bartels & Peters waiting for my mail as Lawrence Bartels made his entrance, in the swanky navy trench coat he'd had made to measure somewhere deep in the wilds of Italy. Where exactly was a closely guarded secret, as if the rest of the world would descend on this undiscovered gem en masse otherwise. He flounced up to me with outstretched arms, in the manner of a talk-show host. “Good afternoon,
cara
amici
. Come into my office.”

I wondered what I was in for; I was almost certain that Peter van Benschop had lodged a complaint about me. Walking out on a client was indefensible, and I had a feeling a trip to the day care wouldn't count as a worthy excuse.

There are few, if any, law firms that are in business to serve their fellow man out of the kindness of their hearts. Bartels & Peters certainly wasn't one of them. It was all about billable hours. Though working here was a great improvement over my previous place of employment, an international mergers and acquisitions firm. There I'd regularly been woken in the middle of the night on account of some foreign client needing to get something done
before close of business in whatever time zone they were in. I slogged away many a night with a slice of congealed pizza on the mouse pad. Canceled many a vacation.

When Aaron was on the way, it became clear I'd have to dial it back a bit. Then, as if someone up in heaven had taken a personal interest in my situation, I was offered a job at Bartels & Peters. A stone's throw from my apartment, and I'd have to come in only three days a week, virtually unheard of in the legal profession. It should have made my life a lot easier. But all I can say is: the front lines of the law are a cakewalk compared with the demands of a three-year-old.

Lawrence had an office befitting a successful law partner. A desk the size of a pool table that made him look even smaller and chubbier dominated the room, and an antique Persian carpet covered the marble floor. A baffling but doubtlessly priceless work of art hung on the wall.

“Sit, sit!” Rence boomed, as if he were standing on a stage and had to muster the rapt attention of two hundred audience members.

“Are you going to chew me out?”

“What are you talking about? Peter van Benschop just called me, and he's wildly enthusiastic. He told me he's seldom encountered such a
tough female
. Which may not be all that surprising, considering the nature of his oeuvre, let's say. He's crazy about you.”

“So he didn't mention the fact that I had to leave?”

Rence's face fell. He waved his hand, irked. “I don't want to know about it. Haven't I told you over and over again not to be so damn honest? Being
believable,
that's what it's about. Honesty's a bad trait in a lawyer. Don't you know that?”

“I'm sorry.”

He burst out laughing. “And don't ever admit you're sorry either. Just don't do that. Ever!”

“If I'm not here to be raked over the coals and beg forgiveness, why am I here?”

“Because, dear Iris, I wanted to compliment you on your success today. That's the one and only reason for this little tête-à-tête—no need to get all anxious. All I wanted to say was: Well done. I don't care what it is that you did; whatever you did, it was a good job, and that's all that matters.”

“In that case, thanks.”

“Now. Peter van Benschop is coming to the office tomorrow to hear the strategy we're proposing. He'd like to get the whole business behind him by the end of the week.”

“Impossible, I'm afraid.”

“Excuse me?”

I considered telling him the truth, but decided to simply stick to the facts. “I can't come in Wednesday and Thursday, and Friday is my day off anyway. I can work from home. But I can get less done there than here.”

“Had this been discussed?”

“No. Circumstances beyond my control, I'm afraid.”

Rence silently shook his head of unruly gray curls, or what was left of them. He stubbornly refused to acknowledge that he was balding.

“I'm sorry,” I added.

“I've already told you I don't want to hear any excuses!” he burst out. “Fuck it, Iris. Fuck it all.” A ball of spittle was stuck to his bottom lip. With a theatrical flourish he got up, walked over to the window, and stood with his back to me. Eccentric. Flamboyant. Exhausting.

“Then I'm not sorry. Actually, I'm not sorry at all. Haven't you
ever heard of emergency leave? Maternity leave? Or should I take all thirty of my outstanding vacation days in one go?”

Rence was speechless. “Okay, then,” he finally said. “I've already told you I don't care what you do as long as you're doing a good job. So even if you have to do your work from the North Pole, just do what you have to. As long as Peter van Benschop is happy, and as long as I'm happy with the bill I can send him when it's done.”

“Don't worry.”

“You'll never guess who my latest client is . . .” It was evening, and since Aaron was sleeping over at my mother's, I was in a bar having a drink with a girlfriend. Like any normal lawyer.

“No idea. The Pope? Oh no, wait a minute.” Binnie held her forefinger in the air. “Your mother is finally being charged with irreformable iciness toward others.”

“Ha, ha.” Binnie and I had known each other since elementary school. Ever since my mother had asked her to say “Good afternoon, Mrs. Kastelein” instead of her usual elated “Hellooooo!” those two had never gotten along. My mother was as prim and proper as Binnie was exuberant and messy. Binnie's real name was really Brigitte, but she hated that name. No one could remember how she'd first come up with “Binnie.”

“Go on, tell me.” Binnie took a big sip and placed her empty glass on the bar with a bang.

“Peter van Benschop.”

“Who?”

“Peter van Benschop of the fabulously wealthy shipping family Van Benschop.”

Binnie's eyes began to gleam. “Is he single?”

“No idea.”

“But surely that's the first thing to find out when you get a man like that as a client. What's he look like? How old? How tall?”

“In his forties . . . around six feet . . . Now that I think of it, he may be your type. You like a man to be dominant, don't you?”

“Love it.”

I almost lost my footing because some guy trying to order a drink at the bar jostled me. He struck me as the type who works in a realtor's office. Ugly suit and an insolent look on his face. White wine spilled out of his glass and onto my chest, right at nipple level. Whether he knew what had happened or not, he pretended to be unaware of what he'd done.

“Hey, watch it,” Binnie snapped at him. “You've just splashed your wine all over her shirt.”

Turning to face us, he inspected Binnie from head to toe. “Jesus, you're a tall one.”

“No? Really?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Wow, are you ever tall,” the guy repeated.

“Tall enough to notice you're already getting pretty thin on top. What do you think, Iris? Will he look good bald?”

“Oh, let it go.” I took a napkin and started dabbing at the wet spot. I looked like someone who'd forgotten to stuff a bra pad into her nursing brassiere. Lovely.

“I don't think it'll suit him.” Binnie put her finger to her chin and looked thoughtful. “He's got such a funny round little head. I'm sorry, but someone will have to tell him. Five years from now, I'm afraid you'll look like a little piglet.”

I couldn't help laughing.

“If I were you I'd try to make the best of the few good years I still had. I'd start by trying to act a little less boorish. Watch
where you go, and if by chance you should cause a little accident and spill some white wine on a lady, make sure you apologize.”

He stared blankly at her for a few seconds. “Cunt.”

“I, too, very much enjoyed making your acquaintance.” Binnie turned toward me. “Peter van Benschop the millionaire. I can already picture it. I'm
so
ready for a rich man. Because being a journalist is great—it's all that I expected it to be. Yes, I
have
shaken Nelson Mandela's hand, and yes, George Clooney is gorgeous in real life, and yes, I've written exposés about fraud and written impressive articles about shar-pei amphetamine abuse. But I hadn't taken into account that I'd have to get my rocks off on the prestige and the top journalism awards that will undoubtedly be heaped upon me some day. Because the pay is a pittance. How long do I have to keep sharing an apartment with a roommate? And having to cope with tanning product smeared all over the sink or listening to Marie-Ellen screwing noisily at two in the afternoon while I'm trying to make a deadline? Oh, Iris, if Peter and I get married, you can be my bridesmaid.”

“Are you also willing to get chained up in an S&M dungeon?”

“What?”

“And get a prick rammed down your throat until you choke, be forced to drink piss from the source, engage in strangle-sex . . .”

“What?”

I paused a moment, for the effect.

“Tell me! Tell! Tell!”

“Peter van Benschop makes very twisted movies. Try Googling the name ‘Pissing Peter
.
' Can't tell you more than that—client-attorney confidentiality.”

“Hmm. But is he good looking?”

“If you like a Geraldo Rivera type.”

“To tell you the truth, I prefer Mediterranean men with fine, el
egant hands. Only they never like me back and it isn't very sexy to feel their erection poking into your kneecaps while you're French-kissing. How's your love life, anyway?”

“The pits.”

“Oh, come on. You, who are constantly meeting men in need? If you ask me, lawyer and dental hygienist are the best professions for snaring a man.”

“Oh, come off it.”

“Men who find themselves in a helpless situation and are completely dependent on you. Vulnerable and scared, they yearn for safety and warmth.”

“I can assure you that they don't have romance in mind.”

“No, darling, it's
you
who doesn't have romance in mind. Ever since you had a kid, you've decided you're permanently retired from the relationship scene. Wake up! You're young, pretty, independent, funny, and you don't have any obvious physical handicaps. In ten years' time, Aaron won't want to be mothered anymore; he'll be all consumed with motorbikes and girls, and then you'll think: ‘What the hell did I
do
all those years?' Why not try online dating?”

“Oh, please.”

“If you ask me, you're not at all happy.”

I shrugged.

Binnie looked at me with concern. “Are you all right?”

I shrugged my shoulders again. “Problems with Aaron. I'm afraid he's going to get kicked out of day care.”

“How come?”

“Never mind. I'm just glad not to have to think about that right now.”

Binnie place her hand on my arm. “It's going to be okay.”

“That's what I keep trying to tell myself.”
Except that it's getting harder and harder to do.