Tonio (9 page)

‘I was a little hard on him, I guess, chewing him out for his lack of ambition. At his age I was no better.' First one job after the other for a year, then two aborted studies: psychology and law. And after my philosophy bachelor's: two half-doctorates, philosophical anthropology and aesthetics — two halves, unfortunately, don't make a whole. So much for my own goals.

‘I've got a hunch Tonio
will
finish his degree.'

‘Or else he'll do other amazing things.'

We strolled back towards the parking lot. ‘Half past three,' said Miriam, as we passed the goat farm. ‘No, we can't do that to him.'

‘Oh, Tonio's a pretty efficient photographer. He doesn't go for the scattergun approach. When he had to snap me for
De Groene Amsterdammer
he sat me down at an antique Remington, tossed a few rolls of telex paper around. I heard a few clicks, and assumed he was taking some proofs. “Ready when you are,” I said. But he already had what he was after.'

‘You just said a photo session is sometimes more than a photo session. Come on, let's go have a drink at the goat place. Grant him this one afternoon.'

8

When we got home at around five, Tonio was packing up his cameras in a large plastic bag. The girl had just left. A whiff of cigarette smoke hung in the house.

‘And … any luck?' I asked.

‘We'll see,' he said. ‘I can judge the digital shots pretty well on the computer. But I took some analogue ones, too, and for those I'll have to wait for the prints.'

‘Pop out back before you go,' I said.

One of the styrofoam reflectors was leaning up against the side of the small arbour that enclosed a wooden loveseat. I settled down on the veranda with the evening papers. A little while later, Tonio placed two square photos on the table in front of me.

‘Remember, they're just Polaroids,' he said. ‘I always take a couple to test the light.'

They were in black-and-white. A girl, or young woman, Tonio's age, with shoulder-length hair and a pleasant face that looked far too sweet-natured for the aloof business of modelling. She had put herself in a somewhat too deliberately winsome pose, framed by the mini-arbour, its bench apparently removed during the session.

‘Pretty girl,' I said, my expert eye far from withered. ‘Very pretty. But a professional model … I dunno.'

I handed him back the Polaroids. I could see on his face that once again, I just didn't get it.

‘Professional? Adri, she's a
college
student. That modelling and acting, it's only a side job. Just like me at Dixons.'

‘She's awfully attractive, that's for sure.'

Suddenly, his demeanour changed. ‘She asked me go to Paradiso with her on Saturday night,' he said, with bashful pride. ‘Some kind of Italian blockbuster night, with Italian hits from the '80s.'

‘Oh, there'll be lots of Eros Ramazzotti then.'

He pulled a comic face that said: never heard of him. Miriam came out onto the veranda and offered us something to drink. Tonio declined, but sat down anyway, albeit restlessly, on the edge of a chair. Miriam reminded me of two funerals the next day, at more or less the same time. Two close acquaintances, both of whom were equally important to us.

‘We still have to choose,' she said. ‘And not like: you do one, I'll do the other. Not this time.'

‘Too many people dying lately,' I said. ‘Cremations, funerals … The question is: are they all mandatory? People are so quick to make you feel like there's no getting out of it. There's something unfair about it, considering my own—' I turned to Tonio. ‘I'm not sure if you know … well, so now you do … but when the time comes, I insist on being buried in the absolutely smallest possible company. Not cremated, mind you, buried. A hole in the ground with three people standing around it. Three, no more.'

‘Oh,' said Tonio, ‘and who's the third one then?'

There was a moment's silence, and then we all burst out laughing in unison. He was right. The third one would be lying in the coffin.

Tonio had a delightfully unassuming laugh, with lively bursts which made his parted lips looked even fuller and the skin on his nose creep upward toward his forehead. (That laugh, too, was in a critical condition. Oh God, save his laugh.)

He got up and, still chuckling, asked his mother: ‘Do you still get Surinamese takeaway on Sundays?'

‘A tradition since before you were born,' Miriam replied.

‘Whitsun, too?'

‘We don't do Whitsun.'

‘Sunday's on then. Chow mein would be delicious.'

‘All right, just don't cancel again because you're so
beat
. Like last Sunday, when we were supposed to go into town.'

‘Oh yeah, that watch … we'll have to make another date.'

In his quick, springy way, his shoulders hunched just a tad, he headed to the door, and said goodbye with his variable salutation, which this time sounded something like: ‘Oi.'

‘Have fun Saturday,' I called after him. I don't know if he heard it, as he was already passing through the kitchen on the way to the front door. How extraordinary: Tonio was going to drop by for the third time in the space of a week. The previous day he had laid out his future plans, but it was like he had something
else
to tell us. I hadn't forgotten how proud of a new girlfriend I used to be. With the ongoing conquest still in full swing, I already wanted to show her off, not only to my friends but to my parents, too — even if only in words for the time being, and if at all possible with a picture as well.

9

After Tonio had left, Miriam called me to the kitchen. She stood at the open fridge. ‘Check this out.'

The shelves, the vegetable drawer, the door compartments — every nook and cranny was jammed with cartons of ice tea and fruit juice in all possible flavours. There was a litre of Lipton Ice in the freezer, in case the young lady liked hers extra cold. Neither of us knew that Tonio had done all this shopping. It amounted to half a week's allowance spent on fruit juice and iced tea.

‘Tonio knows how to look after his models,' I said.

‘It won't be out of concern for lack of vitamins at his parents,' Miriam replied. ‘I'll take them with me next week along with his clean washing.'

In the corner of the living room, next to the glass display case containing Tonio's rock collection, I saw two more styrofoam reflector sheets. A strong nicotine smell hung in the air. On the floor, a saucer with stubbed-out cigarette butts; I emptied it into the waste bin. So the girl — still nameless — was a smoker.

I came across the grainy white sheets elsewhere in the house. They gazed at me like monochrome paintings, telling me no more about the photo session than that they reflected sunlight or lamplight onto the model.

‘What are we supposed to do with all that styrofoam?' Miriam asked.

‘Leave it,' I said, ‘he can clean it up himself on Sunday.'

10

Before dinner, I went up to my office on the third floor — not to work, but to raise the awning on the back balcony. It had rained a few nights ago, and the irregular
tick-tick
and drumming of the rain on the open canvas had kept me awake for hours.

The electric button, to the left of the French doors, seemed to falter — until I noticed that the awning was already up, neatly rolled into its aluminium frame.

Wait a sec. I knew for sure I hadn't raised it before we left for the Amsterdamse Bos — intentionally, to protect the parquet floor from the profuse sunlight that streamed in at that hour. I could have raised the awning and drawn the curtains, of course, but in order to air out the room I left the balcony doors wide open, and experience had taught me
that the curtains would billow upwards, and on their way down sweep stuff from the nearby desk. The last time that happened, I had incited Miriam's ire by accusing her cats of being the cause of the destruction.

All these deliberations were still clear in my mind — even now, three days later, in the back seat of the police van. It was not a matter of forgetfulness. I had left the curtains open, lowered the awning, and fastened the doors by their hooks on the balcony wall. Now, upon returning, I found the curtains still open, but the doors were closed tight and the awning raised.

Tonio? We had a deal: he was free to use the entire house, except for the floor where my office was, because I was busy sorting through material, and there were stacks of handwritten, as-yet unnumbered sheets everywhere. I had a good look around. There was no evidence of them having taken photos here. No styrofoam sheets. No film roll wrappers in the wastebasket. No sign of the unwelcome rearranging to which photographers from newspapers and magazines so enjoyed subjecting one's home.

Was I hoping for signs of an amorous interlude? The book about Dutch police precincts, a reference aid for my novel that I kept stuck between the two seat cushions of the chaise longue, was still in place.

I opened the balcony doors. The slats and planks that used to be Tonio's old bunk bed lay precisely as our handyman René had left them, only a bit more grey-green after exposure to the snow and rain. To the right, an aluminium fire-escape ladder led up to the roof.

‘Minchen, when we came back from the park … did you raise the awning in my office?'

‘No, you must've done it yourself. I can't do everything.'

I was none the wiser. I decided to ring Tonio about it — tonight, or else tomorrow. Not to scold him for having invaded my workspace, but … well, maybe I'd find out some details of his love life. My God, what an old busybody I was becoming.

The phone call went by the wayside. Soon … later, while he was recuperating, I'd ask. God knows how many hours we would have to spend at his bedside until he was himself again. There'd be enough time to talk. I would jabber him through it.

11

A critical condition: what
is
that, actually? Perhaps they were quick to call someone's condition ‘critical' so that if it did turn out badly for the patient after all, they'd be safeguarded against the vengeful indignation of the survivors.

I was reminded of my cousin Willy van der Heijden Jr., who was declared clinically dead after a motorcycle accident. Illusionist-joker that he was, he rose from the dead, and six weeks later returned to business as usual, which in his case meant low- to medium-grade criminality. So it could swing that way, too.

No, bad example. Not even a year later, he was on the run, artificial knee joints and all, from the police, and crashed himself just as dead as before by smashing his car into a tree: no headlights on an unlit road. This time he skipped the ‘clinically' phase.

I remember my mother calling me up with the news. ‘A bad egg, that boy, but I had to let you know.'

While I was on the phone with her ,I looked at the eighteen-month-old Tonio as he crawled across the rug, drooling from the exertion. No such thing would ever happen to him, I would see to that. With the upbringing I was going to give him, he would never have to flee from the police, let alone with his headlights off.

‘How's Uncle Willy taking it?

‘He's a wreck, of course. He'd put all his hopes into that boy. The neighbours said he wandered the streets the whole night with his dog. Talking out loud. Yelling.'

‘He might be dead already,' Miriam moaned.

‘A critical condition,' I said, ‘can mean anything. I'm sure they're doing their best.'

‘He's being operated on,' the policeman said. ‘They've been busy for hours.'

Goddamn. That did sound critical.

CHAPTER THREE

Wrong hospital

1

The police van took several successive curves, which our speed made seem sharper than they were. I either nearly slid away from Miriam along the slick upholstery, or was thrust up against her with a sudden force, which evoked a gagging sound from her.

‘Sorry, baby.'

Three weeks shy of twenty-one years ago, we also embarked on a wild ride to a hospital, but in a much smaller vehicle: a Fiat Panda. Miriam had woken me at 4.00 a.m. with severe abdominal cramps.

‘Are you sure it's your intestines?'

‘I haven't been to the toilet all week.'

She held my hand. I could tell from her grip how much pain she was in, and how regularly the cramps came. She was trembling. We lay like this, in silence, for a good while.

That night, we had gone to bed arguing. Anticipating the increased washing needs, we had bought a washing machine a couple of days earlier. After the burly delivery men had left, their far-too-generous drink tip in hand, I noticed that the white casing was damaged. By the time I had got the manager of the appliance store on the line, my reserve of diplomacy was depleted: the jerks had screwed up, period. The same fellows returned later that day, now far less friendly, to exchange it. Only after they left did their revenge reveal itself. During the test run, the thing shuddered and stomped loose from the wall. Standing barefoot on the tile floor, I had no choice but to hop backwards away from the machine, lest its undoubtedly sharp bottom edge amputate my toes. While performing a life-saving jitterbug, I also had to find the off button in order to subdue the automatic monster.