I recognized her immediately when she walked into the train station. She was waiting for me and I had nearly walked in her direction, unsuspectingly. I should never have told her that I came here often. It dawned on me that I had revealed much more to Carine than I usually did with people that I tried to help. For a moment, I considered approaching her, but I changed my mind in time and turned on my heels. I could not sympathize too much with my proteges. Always keeping a professional distance and, when the time was ripe, I had to disappear. That’s how things had been for years and how they would continue for years to come. I walked down the modernized Keyserlei, which was really starting to look quite nice, even though I had been one of the many people who had protested against cutting down the beautiful trees that had always made one of the busiest streets of Antwerp look a bit like a country road. The young, newly planted trees were looking bright green. It would take a while longer before they would reach the status of their predecessors, but the whole did appear really clean and modern. A lot had changed in Antwerp the past few years. I ordered a large cup of coffee at Exki and sipped it as I calmly walked on, being absorbed in the sea of people that was moving in the direction of the Meir. However, I turned left at the Leien. Five minutes later, I was standing in my living room. In the corner, there were still some unpacked boxes. Fortunately, I did not have that many possessions. Since I discovered the formula five years ago, with which I could help thousands of people, I had become a nomad. I never remained in one place for more than half a year and I was always ready to pack my things and move to a different address in a matter of days. The wooden floor creaked as I walked towards the window, still sipping my cup of coffee. I put the cardboard cup down on the granite window sill, opened the window and took a few deep breaths. This house was big and old and it had an incredible atmosphere. I closed my eyes to feel the energy of the room. That’s when I heard a creaking floorboard behind me.
A thin fifty-year-old man with a gray mustache stood in the doorway and was taking me in with unconcealed curiosity. I smiled and approached him lithely. He took a small step backwards and then extended his hand, which I shook firmly.
‘I’m sorry I just came barging in here like that, but you had left your door open and I thought, let’s go say hi to the new neighbors.’ He looked over my shoulder at the round dinner table, which only had a single chair standing beside it.
‘That’s right, I’m a bachelor.’
He awkwardly picked at his mustache. ‘I didn’t think – I didn’t want to... I’ve been married for eighteen years. You will meet my wife one day.’ He looked at the dining table. Apart from it, there was hardly anything in the room, except for a few small cupboards and a couch. I saw that my sketchbook was still lying on the table. He saw it as well. ‘Are you an artist?’
‘Oh no,’ I laughed somewhat exaggeratedly. ‘I just draw some flowers or a fruit bowl every now and then, that’s all.’
‘Oh.’ My neighbor took another step into the room, his attention still directed at the sketchbook.
I had to distract him. ‘And yes, I do want to have dinner with you and your wife tonight. I haven’t eaten croquettes in quite a while.’
My neighbor’s eyes opened wide. ‘How did you know what I was about to ask and that my wife would be making croquettes tonight?’
I looked straight at him. ‘Just a guess.’
‘Wow.’ The man laughed a bit nervously. ‘For a moment, I thought you could read my mind...’
It was not the first time that people thought so. I properly took the man in once more. He suffered from rheumatism. His hands were cramped and his back was a little crooked. ‘Do you believe in those kind of things?’
‘No.’ He took a step back. ‘Well, then I’ll see you tonight. Does seven o’clock work for you?’
‘Seven o’clock is fine, Georges.’
Now he was looking outright frightened.
‘I’ve read it on your mailbox earlier.’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Shaking his head, he left the room.
I carefully locked the door behind him, before I walked over to the old couch and opened the sketchbook. To an outsider, it would be a bunch of unreadable formulas, but to me, it was my life’s destination. I could still remember the day when I bought it, not knowing why in God’s name I purchased a sketchbook. Or why I had walked into a hobby store at all. During the forty three years that I had walked on this planet, I had never shown any talent for creative hobbies and now I was buying a sketchbook and pencils of some expensive brand. I took them home, laid the book down on the kitchen table and stared at that first page for a long time. Then I started drawing, writing, sketching, noting down formulas. It seemed as though my hands had a life of their own. I wrote and drew more than ten pages before I wrote down in big letters: rhodiola and phosphatidylserine. I connected them with two thick lines, pushing my pencil very hard. That was it. That was the reason. The reason why I had bought that sketchbook, the reason why I had been sketching like a madman for nearly two hours. For months, I had been looking for a formula to help my wife.
She came home late from her work that night, even later than usual. I walked up to her, wrapped my arms around her and told her that I had found it, the solution against her stress and all problems that stemmed from it. She looked emotionless at me. ‘I’ve found it as well. You’re the cause.’
I let go of her. ‘What are you saying?’
She shook her head pityingly. ‘You’re the cause, J.P. How long have you been without a job now? And then I come home and you’re just sitting there, mumbling about some magic formula that will make me better. It would be better if you vacuumed the house or cooked for once. I can’t deal with it anymore.’ Her eyes teared up. ‘I really just can’t deal with it anymore.’
She grabbed some clothes. I tried stopping her, shouted, begged, gasped for breath. She told me that it was too late, that she should have done this much sooner. That her father would come and pick up the rest of her things. The last thing she said, was: ‘You should go talk to someone. A psychiatrist, for example.’
Then she shut the door behind her. I sank down on a hard kitchen chair and stared at the floor. That night, I cried for the first time since the day my mother deliberately destroyed my Lego castle because I didn't want to clean up my room.
During the weeks after that, I called her every day. I tried convincing her that she should take the supplements. She responded by asking if I had seen a psychiatrist yet. Whether or not I was working again. On a sultry summer day at the end of June, I decided to give up. Not being able to help her hurt more than the divorce which her lawyer had quickly managed to wrap up, but it could not go on like this. I had to go outside again, continue with my life, find a new purpose. Back then, I still lived on Linkeroever and took the tram to the city. Suddenly, a man sat down next to me who was in pain. I felt it. He was in pain, he was tired and his digestion was messed up. I told him I could help him. He was surprised and a startled, as always with people who I can sense. My wife once told me that it seemed as though I looked right through her. That was not true. I simply sensed what people wanted me to feel. That my wife was going to leave me, for example, I did not see coming.
The next day, I met up with the man and handed him a piece of paper.
‘Rhodiola,’ he read, surprised. ‘What’s that?’
I smiled.