August 2000
Willem
WILLEM AND BAS cycled down Beethovenstraat and turned onto the Princess Irenestraat that led into the park. They passed the Christus’ Geboorte Church on their right and followed the trail over a bridge. The canal beneath was dark and stagnant, topped with little islands of bright green moss. After the bridge, the trail wound through a thicket of trees and bushes. They easily found Jurriaan’s elephant tree, a tall beech with wrinkled gray bark. Willem and Bas hid their bicycles behind the trees and took their hockey sticks out of the bags. They crawled into the bushes close to the path. Willem checked his watch.
Something landed on his nose, and he batted it away. Bas lit a cigarette. Bas’s parents and grandparents smoked, and as far as Willem could observe, so did all their relatives. Birthday parties at the Debose home were toxic.
“Want one?” Bas asked.
“No. Can you blow the smoke in another direction? It stinks.”
“Not as much as your armpits.”
Ten minutes dragged by. The only sound was the drone of traffic on the nearby highway.
“Where the hell is he?” Bas whispered.
Willem shrugged.
A minute later, Jurriaan appeared on the path. He rode slowly, his bicycle wobbling, while he peered into the bushes on either side.
“He’s going to fall,” Bas said.
“Nah. He’s all right.”
Willem heard the whir of spinning wheels seconds before he saw the two boys with fiendish grins on their faces. One blond and well built, the other redheaded and skinny. Both wore gleaming white trainers. Blondie kicked Jurriaan’s bike, spilling him into the bushes like a sack of potting soil. The two bullies laid down their bikes in the middle of the path.
“Now!” Willem shouted.
He burst from the bushes, yelling and brandishing his hockey stick, Bas on his heels. The two bullies had such astonished faces, Willem almost laughed.
“Leave my brother alone or else.”
“Or else what?” Blondie sneered.
“We’ll beat your ass.”
Willem and Bas brandished their sticks.
“I’m out of here,” the skinny boy said, jumping on his bicycle and speeding off.
But Blondie held his ground. “Go ahead and try.”
This wasn’t part of the plan. Both boys were supposed to hightail it, but Blondie was spoiling for a fight, and Willem was happy to oblige.
“Your brother’s a retard,” Blondie said in a singsong voice. He took a few dragging steps, arms dangling by his sides, his hands flapping. Mimicking Jurriaan.
Willem tossed his stick onto the ground and punched the boy in the face. The boy yelped and stumbled back. From the corner of his eye, Willem saw Bas drop his stick and help Jurriaan up. Blondie lunged forward, grabbed Willem’s waist, and knocked him off his feet. They rolled over the ground, arms flailing. When they stopped, Blondie was on top. His fist smashed into Willem’s nose. Red lights flashed before Willem’s eyes, and warm blood gushed over his mouth and chin. He spat into the boy’s face.
Bas yanked Blondie off Willem.
Willem scrambled to his feet. His stick was too far away, and he grabbed Bas’s.
“What are you doing?” Bas said.
Willem’s blood pounded in his ears, and his vision narrowed. Every nerve buzzed. He couldn’t stop himself, like careening downhill on a bike without brakes. He brought the stick down hard on the boy’s thigh.
The boy grunted in pain and grabbed for the hockey stick. Missed by a mile.
Willem swung again, this time hitting Blondie’s arm.
“Klootzak!” the boy swore, and glanced at his bicycle a few yards away. Willem raised the stick over his shoulder, both hands gripping the smooth wood, and took aim. The boy covered his head with his arms.
“Enough!” Bas yelled, grabbing the end of the stick. Willem yanked, but Bas held on tight. Willem yanked harder. They struggled, and the stick suddenly snapped in two. Willem was panting, his heart going berserk. Jurriaan tugged on Willem’s elbow.
Willem jerked his arm free.
Blondie jumped on his bicycle.
“Your friend’s crazy!” he shouted at Bas as he sped away, throwing a look over his shoulder before disappearing around the bend.
“For Christ’s sake,” Bas said, pacing in a tight circle. “You could have broken his arm. Or his head.”
“Jurriaan’s my brother,” Willem said, his chest heaving—and he owed him.
“Idiot. No one was supposed to get hurt!”
“Do you know what’s wrong with you?” Willem shouted.
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“You’re chicken. That’s what.”
Bas glared, his blue eyes turning gray, the way they did when he was really pissed off. Willem had gone too far, but he wasn’t going to say sorry.
He clenched his jaw and crawled under the bushes to retrieve his backpack. His nose throbbed, and a red glob of blood landed on a leaf. He stuck the tip of his finger in it. The blood was cool and slimy. Yuk. He wiped his finger on his jeans. Louisa was away on tour, but if she somehow found out that he’d been fighting again, he was screwed. She might ground him for the rest of the summer. He seized the strap of his backpack—and Bas’s too—and dragged them toward the path, the branches clawing at his hair. He stood up and brushed the dirt and twigs from his knees.
“Don’t tell my mom,” he said, handing Bas his backpack.
“What do you take me for? Christ!”
“Stop it! Stop!” Jurriaan screamed, clapping his hands over his ears.
Willem slung his arm around Jurriaan’s shaking shoulders. “It’s okay. We’re just having a little argument.”
“What about my hockey stick?” Bas snatched up the remains of his stick and hurled the pieces one at a time into the bushes.
“That crappy old thing?”
Bas grabbed Willem’s new top-of-the-line stick and inserted it into the sleeve of his own backpack. He swung his leg over the crossbar of his bicycle. “Goodbye, Jurriaan,” he said, without even a glance at Willem.
Willem watched his best friend cycle down the path and wondered how they could patch things up.
He squeezed Jurriaan’s shoulder. “Those boys won’t bother you again. Let’s go home.”
Willem hesitated before unlocking the front door. His shirt was dirty and torn, his nose caked with dried blood, and his hair tangled with twigs. After one look at him, Katja or Hendrik would know he’d been fighting.
“Jurriaan, you go inside first. Let me know where Katja and Dad are.”
It seemed like forever before Jurriaan returned. “The coast is clear,” he whispered. “Katja’s in the kitchen, and Dad’s in the workshop.”
Willem closed the door softly and tiptoed upstairs. He undressed in the bathroom and took a shower, careful not to let the water hit squarely on his nose. Even a drizzle hurt. Afterward, he wiped the condensation from the mirror with his hand. His nose resembled a potato. Hendrik wouldn’t notice—he never noticed anything. But Katja would. If she found out about the fight, she might tell Hendrik or even telephone Louisa. He couldn’t risk it, so he had his story ready.
He slunk downstairs to the kitchen. Katja stood in front of the stove, holding the lid to a pan in one hand and a ladle in the other.
“Katja,” he said, his voice nasal, as if he had a cold. He couldn’t smell a thing.
The ladle clattered to the floor. “You startled me,” she said, and her eyes widened. “What happened to your nose?”
“I got hit with a hockey stick.”
She strolled over and peered at his nose, her green eyes squinting. She was so close his eyes crossed when he focused on her face. He had never noticed before she had freckles—on her forehead, her nose, her cheeks. Loads of them. She wore a T-shirt with a low neckline. He followed the freckles to the tops of her breasts and wondered if she had freckles everywhere. Heat rushed through his groin. He swallowed hard. This was good old Katja. Confused, he took a step backward.
“It doesn’t look broken,” she said.
“I don’t think so either.”
“The swelling isn’t bad.”
“No.”
Her head tilted to one side. “I looked at the hockey club calendar. The season finished last week.”
“Uh …”
“I know there wasn’t a practice game either, because I phoned the hockey club.”
Her steady gaze broke him.
Staring at the floor, he poured out the story—about the bullying and the ambush. He told her everything except the part about hitting Blondie with Bas’s hockey stick. As the reasonable adult, Katja couldn’t condone his fighting, even if she wanted to.
“The bastards,” she said when he had finished.
“Am I in trouble?” he asked.
“Look at me, Willem.”
He raised his eyes.
“You’re a hero in my book.”
He felt a grin spread across his face.
“But don’t lie to me again. Deal?”
“Deal.”