July 2000
Louisa
LOUISA ROSE EARLY the next morning, careful not to wake Hendrik, and padded downstairs to the basement. But she stopped at the bottom of the stairs when she saw what looked like a pile of clothes in front of the locked door.
On closer inspection, she saw that the pile was Jurriaan, curled up asleep, his head on a cushion from the living room sofa, his body wrapped in a throw. Her heart softened, as it always did when she found him sleeping, when he was at his most vulnerable. Long lashes; plump pink cheeks; thick, dark blond hair. Innocence written all over him. Damaged goods. Some might say he was her cross to bear, but they would be wrong.
She bent over Jurriaan. “Sweetheart.”
His eyes opened and blinked. He groped around the floor with his hand.
She spotted his glasses a few feet away and set them on his face.
“Did you sleep here all night?”
He nodded and adjusted the glasses on his nose. “Are you going to let Willem out?”
The twins had a bond, no denying that.
She said, “You’ll catch the flu next if you’re not careful. Go to your room, and don’t tell your father that I locked Willem downstairs.”
He nodded and she watched him mount the steps in that awkward way he had, dragging the throw behind him. The footsteps stopped when he was just out of sight, and she knew he had sat down on a step.
“Jurriaan,” she said, her voice harsher than she had intended.
The footsteps resumed, and she unlocked the door.
Willem was awake and lying listlessly on the sofa, his eyes glazed, his cheeks flushed. She laid her hand on his forehead.
“You have fever. Go upstairs to bed.”
He sat up, his hair askew.
“What about hockey?”
“You’ll have to miss the match.”
“That’s not fair. I did what you wanted.” His voice was a croak.
“But now you’re sick.”
“I feel fine.”
He coughed, a deep, wet sound from his chest.
She stepped back to avoid the spray and lifted her eyebrows. He looked mutinous and balled his fists, but the bravado was only for show. Defeat settled in his eyes. He staggered to his feet. She followed him upstairs, watching him enter his room and slam the door.
In the master bathroom, she washed her hands with antibacterial soap and lavished them with lotion. The doctor had assured her Willem wouldn’t be contagious after a week, but he’d felt hot. No harm in taking precautions.
After applying makeup, she dressed in an expensively tailored skirt suit and high heels, and drove the Mercedes toward Amsterdam Noord, on the other side of the IJ River. She took the route through the IJ tunnel because it was shortest. The concrete walls closed in on her. For a moment, she imagined the big car scraping the concrete and spinning out of control. So she straddled both lanes and pressed hard on the gas pedal, sighing with relief when she emerged into daylight.
The Van der Pek neighborhood was still sleeping, except for dog walkers and nearly empty buses. It had been built early in the century to house dock workers, but now all kinds of working-class people lived there. She passed the Jasmijnstraat and turned onto the Oleanderstraat—the streets were named after flowers, although there weren’t any in sight. Battered old cars and vans lined the curbs. She found a parking space at the end of the street near the canal and walked back along uniform terraced houses with somber brown-brick facades and gable roofs. Rentals, owned by the housing associations. The click, click of her heels on the pavement echoed in the crisp morning air.
It was early for a Saturday morning—only eight o’clock. The perfect time to catch Katja at home.
Louisa used her spare key to let herself into the ground-floor apartment. Katja’s cat, curled up in the armchair, raised its head. The place reeked of a neglected litter tray.
A stack of clean laundry teetered on the sofa. She walked around the apartment, assessing the damage inflicted by her stepsister. Spilled candle wax on the rickety table. Dirty pans in the kitchen sink. Empty wine bottles next to the overflowing garbage can. But no lasting damage to the apartment itself. Nothing to prevent Louisa from getting back her security deposit.
The bed was unmade, and her stepsister wasn’t in it. Louisa shuddered to think when Katja had last washed the sheets and who had slept in them. Then she thought of Willem’s sheets. They must be rancid by now. She made a mental note to ask the cleaner to change them.
Where was Katja?
The only tidy spot in the apartment was in the corner of the bedroom where an old desk stood. On it was the electric typewriter Louisa had paid for and next to it, a stack of typed pages.
She picked up the top sheet and frowned at the words “Chapter One.”
After dumping the laundry on the floor, she sat on the sofa and started reading the manuscript. It was a story about two girls, best friends, who lived at opposite ends of the Magere Brug, a narrow bridge over the Amstel River. One was a dancer, the other an ordinary girl with no special talents of her own, who worshipped her friend. It was obvious the dancer was based on herself and the friend on Katja. The first page pulled her in, and the story kept her turning the pages, but she wouldn’t tell Katja that.
A key rattled in the lock.
A few moments later Katja wheeled her bicycle into the living room. Her wavy copper hair was windblown, her cheeks flushed. She wore a tight dress, hem halfway up her bare thigh. She couldn’t have ridden her bicycle without revealing her panties. The unmistakable smell of sex wafted off her.
“Good morning,” Louisa said.
Katja stopped in her tracks. The surprise on her pale, freckled face would have been comical under different circumstances.
“Where have you been?” Louisa asked.
“At a friend’s house.”
“A boy’s?”
Rhetorical question. She had once caught Katja—then fourteen to Louisa’s thirty—making out with a boy, his hand up her skirt. Louisa had lost no time in putting her on the pill.
“You should have called first,” Katja said, her eyes darting to the manuscript on Louisa’s lap.
“I left two messages on your answering machine.”
“Sorry, I’ve been busy.” Katja propped her bicycle on the kickstand.
“But not with schoolwork.”
“What do you mean?”
Louisa set the manuscript on the floor and dug an envelope from her shoulder bag.
“This letter came for you from the university. Based on your progress to date, you won’t earn enough credits to continue. It also says they warned you.”
“You opened my mail?”
“I’m paying your tuition.”
Katja snatched the letter.
“Didn’t we thrash this out before you enrolled? You can write a novel after you get your degree.”
“I can do both.”
“That hasn’t worked out, has it?”
Katja took a deep breath. “I told you I didn’t want to study accounting.”
“It’s a practical degree. You can’t expect me to support you forever.”
“But accounting? That’s not who I am.”
“You’re only nineteen. You don’t know who you are. Trust me.”
“I’ll bring up my grades. I promise.”
“Too late. I canceled the lease on the apartment.”
“Without talking to me first?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Where will I live?” Katja’s mouth quivered.
Louisa softened her tone. “Darling Katja. I won’t turn you out on the street. You can live with us and help Hendrik keep an eye on the boys.”
“You want me to be your nanny?”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“What happened to the au pair?”
“She quit without giving notice. Those foreign girls are so unreliable.” Louisa had docked the au pair’s pay for breaking two crystal wineglasses by stupidly putting them in the dishwasher instead of washing them by hand. She had left in a huff the same day, leaving Louisa in the lurch.
She glanced around at the shabby furniture. “Think of it as a chance to get yourself sorted. I’ll send Hendrik with the car tomorrow to pick up your suitcase.”
“What about my stuff?”
Louisa was tempted to give her opinion on the sagging sofa and the table with a coaster wedged under one leg. But then she saw the rebellious expression on Katja’s face. A small compromise was in order.
“If there’s anything you’re particularly attached to, we can store it in our basement. I’ll arrange for a thrift shop to pick up the rest on Monday morning. They’ll find a new home for it.” Or, more likely, incinerate it.
Katja picked up the cat and sank into the armchair. “Did you read any of my novel?”
“A few pages.”
“What did you think?”
“You’re wasting your time.”
Katja’s shoulders drooped.
Louisa leaned forward. “Let me tell you what it takes to be a great artist. I started playing the piano when I was three years old. I gave my debut concert at eight. I practiced six hours a day. I won my first international competition at sixteen.” Louisa paused, not sure if Katja was listening. “Katja?”
The girl’s chin jerked up, a spot of pink on each cheek.
“My point is, I didn’t wake up when I was your age and decide I wanted to be a concert pianist.”
“But—” Katja said.
Louisa stood up. “I’m going on tour next week. I’ll expect you to move in before then. School’s out for the summer, and I don’t want to leave the boys alone all day with Hendrik. You know how obsessed he gets when he’s working on one of his projects. The house could be burning down.” Her voice trailed off. “Find a home for the cat, or take it to the animal shelter.” She nudged the manuscript with the pointed toe of her shoe, and the pile toppled. Katja knelt and gathered up the pages, putting them back in order.
I should have torn it up, Louisa thought.
She drew herself up to her full height and strode out the door. She was halfway to the car before she realized Katja hadn’t said yes.