Willem
“JEETJE, DAD. DO I have to go? I’m still coughing.”
Willem gave a little cough to demonstrate. He was perched on the edge of his bed in a pair of smelly pajamas. His sheets hadn’t been changed in a week, all through his sweating and shivering. The bottom sheet was stained yellow. Jurriaan said it looked as if he had wet the bed, but it was sweat, not pee.
Hendrik stood in the doorway, wearing the suit that made him look like a sleek black crow. His black hair was slicked straight back and his head moved in little jerks as he eyed the room before his gaze landed on Willem.
“Take a shower and be downstairs in ten minutes. Don’t forget to bring your cough drops,” he said, and flapped away.
Willem bunched his fists. His temperature was back to normal, which meant he could play in the field hockey match tomorrow. He had already telephoned his best friend, Bas, with the good news. But it also meant he had to attend his mother’s concert tonight. An hour in the car. Two boring hours in the music hall, without an intermission. How many of the stupid concerts had he attended? A million?
He was still perched on the bed when Jurriaan came in a few minutes later, rocking from one foot to the other, his arms dangling by his sides.
“Hey, twinnie. Dad’s waiting in the car.”
Willem heaved a sigh but didn’t move.
Jurriaan limped to the wardrobe, his right foot turned in—the only outward sign he was different from other twelve-year-old boys. Willem felt a twinge of guilt as he always did when he contemplated his twin’s disabilities.
Jurriaan handed him a pair of dark blue trousers and a white shirt. “Put this on. Hurry.”
Their mother was in Rotterdam, rehearsing, dressing, ticking off boxes. She expected them to be sufficiently early for the preconcert backstage ritual—and Willem knew better than to keep Louisa Veldkamp waiting.
He pushed himself up and swayed for a moment before the room righted itself. His fever might be gone, but he was still weak, and the hockey game tomorrow was the most important one of the season. He couldn’t miss it. Attending the concert was the price he had to pay.
“Your hair.” Jurriaan pointed and giggled, jabbing at his glasses, which had slipped down his nose.
Willem stumbled into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. His hair stood up in spikes. There was no time for a shower. He stuck his head under the faucet, and when his hair was thoroughly wet, he ran a comb through it. Taking a washcloth, he wiped his armpits, conscious that good old Jurriaan waited for him just outside the door, like some kind of watchman. They had each other’s backs. Always.
Hendrik’s big Mercedes idled in the driveway.
“Dibs on the front seat,” Jurriaan shouted as he hobbled quickly to the car.
Willem shrugged and climbed into the back. The car smelled of leather and air freshener and something foul. He sniffed. Jeetje, it was himself.
Soon, they were speeding on the highway, the darkness broken only by headlights and streetlamps whizzing by. The air blasting from the car’s vents tickled Willem’s throat. He started coughing and couldn’t stop. Shit. He had left the cough drops on the night table.
Hendrik glanced over his shoulder. “Take a cough drop.”
Willem swallowed hard. “I forgot them.”
“Godverdomme,” Hendrik cursed and fell silent for a moment. “Jurriaan, look in the glove compartment. Maybe there’s a stick of gum.”
Jurriaan rummaged through the papers. “Sorry, Dad,” he said.
“You shouldn’t have made me come,” Willem grumbled.
“Your mother said you had to unless you had a fever.”
Willem rolled his eyes.
Hendrik pulled off the highway at the next exit and stopped at a bright, sprawling service station with four empty bays. He handed Willem his wallet.
“Get yourself a pack of cough drops. No dawdling.”
Willem coughed all the way across the tarmac to the little shop with glaring lights and a security mirror mounted on the wall. He paced the aisles, checking out the shelves. Weird brands of junk food. Stupid plastic toys. Half-dead flowers in buckets. Through the window, he saw the Mercedes creep toward the entrance, engine running like a getaway car. Willem walked slower. Suddenly, he wanted to be late for the concert.
He felt the eyes of the cashier watching him. As if he would steal any of the crap. The shop didn’t sell cough drops except the kind that tasted like cow dung, so Willem bought a bag of hard candy for himself and a package of licorice allsorts for Jurriaan.
In the car, Willem unwrapped a cherry-flavored candy. The cellophane crinkled. He tensed. Louisa had a built-in sensor, attuned to any sound he made. Would she be able to hear the crinkling from the stage? He unwrapped all the candies and wiped his sticky fingers on his socks.
They arrived too late for the ritual backstage kiss on Louisa’s cheek—Willem’s fault. Everything that went wrong was his fault even when it wasn’t. But this time the blame was fair. If he hadn’t forgotten to bring the cough drops, they wouldn’t have stopped at the service station. There would have been time. Sweat pooled under his arms.
Most of the audience was seated when the three of them sat down in the front row next to Miss Klunder, his mother’s new secretary. Most of the time Hendrik lived in a world inside his head, so Louisa tasked her secretary with spying on Willem and Jurriaan during her concerts. Willem gave Miss Klunder what he hoped was a cherubic smile. The lights in the concert hall blinked twice and went out except for pinpricks along the carpeted aisle, and the audience fell silent. The curtain swept open. A spotlight illuminated a grand piano in the center of the stage.
Louisa emerged from the wings, to thunderous applause. Her blonde hair fell halfway down the back of her glittering gown. She laid a hand on the piano and bowed to the audience. Her eyes homed in on Willem like a heat-seeking missile. He squirmed. She arranged her skirt, sat down, and moved the bench an inch closer to the keyboard. The first piece was Piazzolla’s spicy Libertango, one of Willem’s favorites, but tonight he couldn’t settle back and listen.
Smells prickled his nose. Flowery perfume. Woodsy aftershave. Stale cigarettes. Old shoes. His own armpits.
He tried his best not to cough. His eyes watered. His nose ran. It was no good. He sounded like a two-pack-a-day smoker.
Miss Klunder leaned forward, her head swiveling toward him. Willem reached for a candy, and the bag crinkled. He froze for a moment and withdrew his hand as silently as possible. When the Piazzolla piece ended, Miss Klunder nudged Hendrik and whispered something into his ear.
Then Hendrik nudged Willem. “Wait in the lobby.”
Willem slid past Jurriaan and scurried up the aisle without looking back. Halfway up, he missed a step and fell, candy scattering across the carpet and under the seats. He felt around. Found a piece. It felt gritty. He left it there. He heard Louisa’s voice in his head: “Klutz. Watch where you’re going.” He scrambled to his feet, clutching the bag in his hand.
Jeetje. What if he coughed for months—like the soldiers with tuberculosis during World War II? His legs felt heavy when he descended the spiral staircase to the lobby and sank onto a plush sofa. The room was empty except for the guy washing glasses behind the bar. Willem’s eyelids drooped.
He woke up to find people streaming into the lobby. People in fancy clothes, suits, dresses, shiny earrings. Chatting. Laughing. Fussing.
“I would kill for a cigarette.”
“Where did you park the car?”
“The performance was below par, don’t you think?”
“Did you see the boy trip and fall?”
Willem’s face burned with embarrassment.
Hendrik and Jurriaan were among the last to appear. His father sat down on one side of Willem, Jurriaan on the other.
“How do you feel?” Hendrik asked.
“Like crap.”
“Watch your language.”
“Sorry.”
“I should’ve let you stay home.”
Willem almost smiled but caught himself. He glowered at his father instead, not ready to let him off the hook.
“A hot drink might help,” Hendrik said. “Let’s get you a cup of tea. Louisa won’t want to hear you cough all the way home.”
Louisa sat in the front seat, Willem and Jurriaan in the back. Miss Klunder wisely took the train. Louisa had changed into a white trouser suit with wide legs and had screwed her hair into a tight bun, but she hadn’t scrubbed off her makeup. Her face made Willem think of a clown with shiny red lips. She rested her hands in her lap, as if they were precious belongings separate from her body. Then she wrinkled her nose and lowered her window halfway.
“You were magnificent tonight,” Hendrik said.
“No, I wasn’t. The performance was a disaster.”
“Now, Louisa. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
She was superstitious about her preconcert rituals, and Willem braced himself for a rant. Her silence was ominous. He prayed he wouldn’t cough. He felt inside the bag. Three pieces left. He popped one into his mouth and sucked, but not too hard, desperate to make his supply last the trip home.
Jurriaan dozed in the opposite corner of the backseat, his glasses slipping down his nose. Willem wished Louisa would yell and get it over with. She would blame him for screwing up the performance. She would blame him for their tardy arrival at the concert hall, for coughing, for sitting out the concert in the lobby. For stinking.
It was nearly midnight when the Mercedes turned into the Apollolaan, a wide boulevard lined with mansions, and glided onto the brick-paved driveway. The three-story mansion—five if you counted the attic and the basement—resembled a fortress with loopholes for windows. Bas called it “the fort.”
Hendrik let them out at the front door before opening the garage with the remote control.
Inside, the house was dark and hollow, as though unoccupied for years.
“Go up to bed, Jurriaan. I want to talk to Willem,” Louisa said softly, her voice as treacherous as ice on a canal. Jurriaan gripped the handrail and began pulling himself up the stairs, dragging his lame foot.
Willem’s eyes met hers. She smiled—a smile making the back of his neck prickle. She opened the door to the basement stairs.
“Mom, I’m sorry about tonight … about the coughing. I didn’t do it on purpose.
“I’ll only take a minute,” she said.
“Can’t it wait?” Willem asked, his panic rising. “I’m tired.”
“If you’re that tired, you’re too sick to play hockey. I’ll keep you home tomorrow. Your choice.”
“One minute,” she had said.
He heard the garage door grind shut. Hendrik would come inside at any moment.
What could she do to him in one minute?
He trudged down the stairs, Louisa on his heels. She unlocked the crypt—Bas’s nickname for the piano studio. In the middle of the room stood two baby grands: Louisa’s pristine Steinway and Willem’s good old Yamaha. The studio was soundproof. She could practice whenever she wanted, without disturbing the household. Sometimes she practiced all night and slept all day. To keep from waking her, Willem and Jurriaan tiptoed around the house and watched television with headphones on.
Louisa glided to the sofa and patted a cushion. “Sit down.”
He obeyed and closed his eyes for a moment. His body ached with weariness. He wanted to go to bed. He didn’t care if the sheets were smelly and stiff.
She towered over him, her shiny red mouth twitching.
“Go ahead. Cough your lungs out. No one will hear,” she said, smiling.
He didn’t know what she meant until she glided from the room and he heard the lock click.