Shadow Sister (15 page)

‘Beautiful,’ Raoul says. ‘Don’t you want to look at the bears, sweetie? Look! Polar bears!’

Valerie isn’t listening. She turns around and runs off to look for new stones.

‘Look at her with those stones.’

‘That’s what we paid twelve euros to come and see.’

I smile. The concentration with which my niece studies the ground reminds me of Lydia’s and my chestnut hunting in the graveyard.

‘What were you about to tell me?’ Raoul asks. ‘Something strange happened…?’

I glance at his handsome, powerful face and wonder what possessed me to want to talk to him about my feeling that Lydia was haunting me. Raoul is so sensible and practical, how could I expect him to take me seriously?

‘I still get the feeling,’ I begin, ‘that Lydia is with me. Sometimes doors open and close inexplicably, and I keep feeling such a strange breeze around me…’

Raoul gives me the kind of look a medical practitioner uses to assess how serious their patient’s condition is. Despite everything his expression makes me laugh.

‘I’m not mad,’ I say. ‘It just sounds mad.’

‘Oh…’ Raoul says, only increasing my desire to convince him.

‘She’s here, Raoul. I feel her presence now too. She is walking with us.’

Raoul looks around and lets the observation sink in. We carry on in silence for a while, so close to each other that our hands keep touching. It must almost look like we’re walking hand in hand. I wonder what Lydia thinks about that and take a step to the side.

‘It’s guilt,’ Raoul says suddenly. ‘Guilt because we’re still alive and she isn’t. Because we didn’t do anything to prevent her death, we couldn’t have done anything. Guilt because—’

He breaks off his sentence and walks on in silence, his eyes on the path.

He’s right, of course we feel guilty. Because we’re happy we’re still alive, despite all the pain and misery, but that’s not the reason that I feel Lydia around me. I don’t say anything else about it.

Valerie runs past the monkey cage to the playground where ice-creams and chips are on sale.

‘Daddy! Elisa! Look!’ she calls out, as she climbs onto a springrocker. ‘I can go really fast. Can I have something to eat?’

We exchange a glance.

‘Shall we sit down?’ Raoul proposes.

I nod and look for a free table while Raoul joins the food queue. It’s cold sitting there in the wind and I’m glad when he returns, carrying three portions of chips. He takes one over to Valerie who doesn’t look like she’s planning on getting off the spring-rocker, and comes to the table with the other two.

There’s a long silence. From time to time I look up at Raoul’s expressionless face as he stares into the distance. He turns to me, and I jump at the sound of his voice.

‘It wasn’t going well between me and Lydia,’ he says quietly. ‘I think she knew I’d been in love with another woman for a long time.’

My heart races and I hardly dare look at him. I freeze, shivers running down my spine.

‘Oh,’ I say at last. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘No?’ He looks at me.

I stare at the sticky table surface and try to keep my emotions under control. Restless thoughts and long-repressed feelings whirl around my head, alternating with intense joy. I didn’t imagine it! I hide my happiness and lower my eyes. ‘Did Lydia know?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Raoul says. ‘I think so. Women seem to have a sixth sense about it.’

‘How did she react then?’

‘She didn’t say much about it. I don’t think she wanted to know. She threatened to divorce me if I was ever unfaithful. She said she’d take her money out of the business and I’d never see Valerie again. It sounded like she was joking, only she wasn’t. She would have done it if she’d been sure I was cheating, but she wasn’t sure.’

‘You weren’t cheating on her,’ I say. ‘You didn’t lie, you don’t need to feel guilty.’

‘Thinking about someone else is also a kind of infidelity,’ Raoul comments. ‘It might even be more dangerous than physical infidelity.’

A fresh wave of guilt washes over me; he’s right. My conscience is too strong. How can we build anything in this mess?

I look at Raoul. ‘And now? What next?’

Raoul stares into the distance.

‘I think it would be best to leave things be for a while,’ he says quietly.

Once I’m home, I slowly recover from the shock of Raoul’s veiled declaration of love. I love him, but I’ve got nothing to feel guilty about. Or do I? Should I have tried harder to repress my feelings? Should I have tried to invest myself more in my own relationships? Instead I kept myself available, allowing my sister’s marriage to falter.

A fast-developing headache takes away any desire to cook dinner, or do any of the other chores that are waiting for me.

I throw my bag on a chair and pick up a photo from the side table. It’s my sister and me, at the beach on a summer’s day. We’re lying on our bellies on the sand. Two identical, smiling faces with cheeks touching, looking straight at the camera.

I study my sister’s face. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Then I lay the photo back on the table, face down.

On Sunday, I visit Lydia’s grave. I take white lilies and place them in tall glass bottles on the grave. I pull out a few weeds and sit down beside her for a while.

‘Lydia,’ I say. ‘Tell me what to do. Help me! If you want me to let Raoul go, I’ll do it, just tell me! I love him, but I love you more.’

I let my head drop and fight back tears. A gust of wind whistles through the treetops, brushes my cheeks and makes the lilies dance. It’s short but unmistakable.

I could read something into it, tell myself that Lydia has given me a sign, but I know it’s not true. This time it was just the wind.

‘I’ve got a date tomorrow.’ The words dance out of Sylvie’s mouth and her feet take a couple of elegant steps.

‘Excellent! Who with? Do tell.’

Her smile is teasing. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’

‘Is it Thomas?’

She laughs again and her feet tap out another little jig. ‘He made me promise not to say anything about it, so I’m not going to.’

‘Why can’t you tell anyone?’ I ask in surprise.

‘Because it’s a secret.’ Sylvie laughs again and sits down on the edge of the table, crossing her arms. But less than thirty seconds later she’s sauntering around the room again; she seems to crackle with static, she’s got that much fresh energy.

I’m glad for her. She’s my friend and I wish her the happiness she’s been longing for. It’s more than obvious that she’s finally managed to get a date with Thomas. Yet, I still feel a painful stab. I understand why Thomas would rather I didn’t know,
we’ve been friends for so long.

‘Why did you mention it then?’ I ask, with light reproof in my voice.

‘Because you’re my friend! I’d want to know if you had a date. Men don’t understand how important it is for women to talk to each other about things like this. You shouldn’t feel shut out. It doesn’t change anything.’

‘No, it doesn’t.’

‘Last night, after he asked me out, I was so excited, I could barely sleep.’ Sylvie is radiant.

‘Did you. Did you.’

‘We kissed.’ She winks at me.

Kissed, they only kissed. The image of Sylvie and Thomas entwined under the sheets disappears from my mind. Why am I relieved? Still, a single kiss seems a little unlikely.

‘Kissed? I hope you were careful,’ I say tartly, turning back to my computer.

‘You’re working again!’ Sylvie observes.

She looks over my shoulder at the picture I’m photoshopping. It’s a still life of a bowl of fruit, on the edge of a just-visible table. Sunlight falls through an arched window, casting a golden glow onto a draped curtain and mosaic floor.

‘Lovely,’ Sylvie says.

‘Hmm, the sunlight is too artificial.’

‘It’s bright.’

‘That’s because it isn’t real – it’s a laser beam.’

‘A what?’

‘Artificial lighting. I shone a light in through the window, but now the light is too bright. A single ray of light with specks of dust would be nice.’

‘Has there been any news?’ Sylvie asks, as if there’s a logical connection to be made between the bowl of fruit and the police investigation. I understand what she means, but I don’t answer at first.

‘No,’ I say. ‘The investigation seems to have hit a rut. How that’s possible, I don’t know. It looks cut and dried to me. In a country like Holland, the criminal has more rights than the victim – that’s what’s probably keeping Bilal out of jail.’

‘Hmmm.’ Sylvie sits down again. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking. We’ve been assuming that Bilal killed her. But if the police can’t get anything on him then maybe he didn’t do it.’

I turn to face her again. ‘But who would have?’

Sylvie shrugs.

‘Exactly.’

‘You’re convinced that Bilal did it, aren’t you?’ Sylvie says. ‘Because he and Lydia didn’t see eye to eye and because he’s Moroccan you’re sure that he’s the murderer.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with racism,’ I retort, ‘but he had a problem with my sister and he threatened her. One plus one is still two, and I don’t understand why the police can’t do anything about it. And it may not have been Bilal who pulled the trigger.’

‘Do you think he had accomplices?’

‘He’s got two older brothers who take the honour of the family name very seriously. They deny having had anything to do with Lydia’s death and the police can’t arrest them. But Bilal also has friends who may have wanted to do him a favour. They barely investigated that angle, they only looked to see whether he had an alibi.’ I pause to catch my breath. ‘You know, the last few days I’ve had a growing desire to talk to Bilal.’

‘What?’ Sylvie almost plunges from the desk. ‘I hope you’re not being serious!’

‘I know where he lives, pretty much. I know where he goes out. I’ll go and talk to him sometime. I mean it.’

Until then, it had been nothing more than a vague idea, now it turns into a firm resolution. And why not? I only have to hear him say my sister’s name to know whether he’s telling the truth or not.

‘Please don’t do that, Elisa. It seems very dangerous to me,’ Sylvie says.

‘I’ll make out that I think he’s innocent, that the police treated him badly. I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t talk to me then, unless he does have something to do with Lydia’s death. In which case he won’t be able to look me in the eye. There are all kinds of ways of betraying yourself, even if it’s by saying nothing.’

‘And then what?’ Sylvie frowns. ‘Say that his body language does betray him, what are you going to do with that knowledge?’

I hadn’t thought about that, but the more sceptical Sylvie is the more I feel compelled to look for him, this very afternoon. Anything is better than acting as though life has gone back to normal.

‘Well?’ Sylvie insists. ‘What are you going to do then?’

‘We’ll see.’

Tussendijken has long been a problem neighbourhood, but once the City Watchdog program took control, the police closed down illegal cannabis plantations and flushed the drug addicts out, and it became a little more inhabitable. Despite this, I still feel uneasy when I walk down the street I think Bilal lives in.

The tall, dark housing blocks close ranks and seem to be watching me. A woman in a black veil holding hands with a small child passes by. Further along, a group of boys stand together, sweatshirt hoods pulled up over their heads from under their leather jackets.

I’ve heard that Bilal lives here, but I don’t know at which house. I thought I could look at the name plates, but only a couple of the houses indicate who lives behind their closed doors. There’s a tobacconist on the street corner, a small, badly lit place. A stocky middle-aged man, with a wreath of dark hair around his otherwise bald head, stands mutely behind the counter.

‘Good afternoon,’ I say. ‘Do you sell bus passes?’

The man nods. ‘A day or a month pass?’

‘Day pass,’ I say.

The man lays the pass down on the counter and I pay.

‘You don’t see many of these little corner shops anymore,’ I say, to make conversation.

The man shrugs. ‘I’m one of the last,’ he mutters. ‘Shoplifters, hold-ups…’

‘I’ve heard it’s a rough neighbourhood.’

‘There are enough decent people. Last year we organised a neighbourhood barbecue and it turned into a big party. It’s only a few who muck things up, but isn’t that always the case?’

‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘There are always a couple who give the rest a bad name. Bilal Assrouti lives around here, doesn’t he? Do you happen to know where?’

The man looks up with a jolt and our eyes meet for a moment. ‘No,’ he says. ‘No idea.’

Three boys of around eleven or twelve are playing among the parked cars and look at me with curiosity when I leave the shop. As I search for name plates on doors, they come after me.

‘Are you looking for someone?’ one of the boys asks.

‘The Assrouti family. Do you know where they live?’

The boys nod.

‘Bilal’s not there, you know,’ one of them says. ‘He’s gone to the mosque with his dad and his brother. His mum and his sister are the only ones home.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘So Bilal’s not there. Never mind. Would you tell me which house it is?’

One of the boys holds up a grubby plastic bag. ‘Want a roll-up?’ he asks. ‘Ten cents each.’

I look at the bag of tobacco they’ve put together from cigarette butts picked off the street. ‘No thanks.’

They turn around.

‘You know what, actually I do fancy a cigarette.’

They turn back. One of the boys holds up the bag and assesses it. ‘Reckon you’ll get about ten out of this.’

‘I’ll buy them all.’

‘Wicked,’ the boy says, handing me the bag. I press a two-euro coin into his hand. ‘That’ll take care of it.’

He looks at me in silence and I return the look.

‘What do you want Bilal for?’ one of the other boys asks.

‘Nothing special.’

His friend elbows him in the side. ‘She’s not from the police or nothing, you can see that.’ He nods towards the other side of the street and says, ‘There, number 14.’

‘Thanks.’

The boys watch me cross the street.

I pause in front of the green painted door at number 14. I try to peer through the window, but the net curtains make it impossible. What now?