August 2024
Willem
JURRIAAN’S LIVING ROOM window was shattered in a thousand pieces but held together inside the frame. There was an obvious impact point, with circular cracks radiating outward like lines on a weather map.
Praying that the glass wouldn’t rain down, Willem squatted on the ground to examine the flower bed: an empty soda can, a few cigarette butts. The shrubbery had been trampled. Someone had spent more than a few minutes under the window, probably spying on Jurriaan. Willem spotted a chunk of concrete the size of a grapefruit, which could have come from any one of the construction sites in the neighborhood. He took it inside to show to Jurriaan.
The living room was decorated in shades of purple, from pale lavender to deep plum. It was tidy, the pillows arranged on the sofa just so and the pictures of cats hung in a straight line. Willem didn’t have to do the white-glove test to know the apartment was dust-free.
Jurriaan examined the chunk of concrete. His face was pale, with dark patches under his eyes. He wore green and brown patterned pajamas and sandals with Velcro straps.
“Tell me what happened,” Willem said.
Jurriaan set the concrete carefully on the coffee table and drew the curtains. “You can touch the glass.”
He was right. The windows were double-glazed, only the outside pane damaged.
“Did you see who did this?”
“No. I was watching television. I heard a big bang. Mr. Verhoeven came downstairs and pounded on my door. He swore at me,” Jurriaan said, rocking from side to side.
“Never mind Mr. Verhoeven. He was scared too.” Willem silently cursed the old man. Bored teenage boys had tormented Jurriaan for years. There was a new crop every year. It was as if tormenting Jurriaan had become a rite of passage for up-and-coming young thugs. Most of it was low-level stuff: name-calling or ringing the doorbell and running. But it could escalate to violence. Jurriaan had a scar on his forehead to prove it.
“They followed me home from the bakery.”
Jurriaan’s shift ended a half hour after school was out.
“Go on.”
“They called me a useless freak.”
“You’re not useless or a freak.”
“I know.”
Willem laid his hand on Jurriaan’s shoulder. “What else?”
“They threw condoms.”
Willem’s eyebrows shot up.
“Used ones.”
As if on cue, there was a smack against the door to the building, followed by another one.
“Stay here,” Willem said,
He ran out the apartment and through the short hall to the entrance. He pulled open the door and jumped back, as raw egg slithered down the wood. Two boys stood on the sidewalk across the street, hooting with laughter.
“Hey,” Willem shouted. “Come here.”
They froze for an instant and took off, but not before he got a look at them. T-shirts and shorts. Blonds. One slim like a dancer, the other built like a bull. They seemed fit. If they were hockey players, Willem would never catch them, but he could try.
The boys raced toward the Olympiakade and nearly knocked down a couple out for a stroll. They sprinted over the bridge and turned onto the towpath. Tonight, the current in the canal was visible. Several times a week, the city closed most of the locks and pumped in fresh water from the Ijssel Lake. The stagnant water was flushed out to sea. It wasn’t the ideal time for a dip, even if swimming had been permitted.
Willem’s heart hammered. The distance between him and the boys lengthened. He was ready to call it quits, when Dancer stumbled and fell. Bull slowed, twisted his thick neck around, but seeing Willem still on their tail, sped up and fled around the corner.
Willem reached Dancer in a few seconds and extended a hand. The boy ignored him and scrambled up on his own.
“You’re going to come with me and wash the egg off my brother’s door.”
“You’re the freak’s brother?”
“He’s not a freak.”
The boy gave a maddening shrug.
“You and your friend are cowards, you know that? You’re picking on someone weaker, someone who can’t fight back.”
“Maybe somebody like that is better off dead.”
Willem bunched his fists, using all his willpower to keep his arms by his sides.
“What’s your name?”
The boy hesitated. “Finn.”
“Well, Finn—or whatever your real name is—what would you do if he was your brother?”
“Dunno. Put a pillow over his face?”
Willem seized the punk’s arm. “You’re coming with me if I have to drag you.”
“Get your hands off me or I’ll sic the cops on you.”
Willem dug in harder. “Let’s go.”
Finn elbowed him hard in the ribs and jerked free, reeling backward toward the canal only a few steps away. Willem tried to grab him but missed, and the boy plunged backward, arms flailing, into the water.
Willem rushed to the edge. The water was black at night and the surface rippled, the current pushing the old water out and fresh water in. There was no sign of Finn. Could he swim? Had he landed on something sharp? On a bicycle? A refrigerator? A car? Amsterdammers had used the canals as a dump for centuries. The current would pull Finn downstream. Willem crept along the bank, peering into the water. He thought his eyeballs would explode.
A few yards farther, Finn’s head broke the surface halfway to the other side, arms plowing through the water and legs thrashing. Because the brick sides of the canal were straight up and too high to climb out, ladders were attached at intervals along the wall, but Willem didn’t see one nearby. It was up to him to pull Finn out of the water. He took his bearings. He was on the towpath between two bridges, closer to the one he had crossed over a few minutes before. He ran back, legs pumping like pistons, heart working overtime.
Willem flew over the bridge and along the towpath on the other side, peering into the black water, trying to spot Finn. There was no sign of a swimmer: no kicking, no thrashing, only the relentless flow of the current. Cold dread spread over him.
He made out a figure climbing into a small boat tied to a mooring ring. Finn stood up and stretched up his arms, his fingers clawing at the top of the wall. He fell back.
“Hold on!” Willem yelled.
Finn tried again and this time pulled himself over the side. Without pausing to catch his breath, he sprinted away.
Willem slowed to a stop, gasping, heart pounding, and watched the boy disappear into the night.
“Did you catch them?” Jurriaan asked.
“I caught one of them.” Willem collapsed onto the sofa.
“Did you beat him up?”
Willem shot his brother a look. “That’s not allowed. We chatted.”
“Are you going to call the police?”
Willem looked away. He had grabbed the boy’s arm hard enough to bruise. Worse, Finn might say Willem had pushed him into the canal. If the boy brought assault charges, Willem could face removal from the medical register, but he had to protect Jurriaan.
A patrol officer named Meyer, with the rank surveillant, arrived fifteen minutes later. Willem guessed he was only a few years older than Finn. His uniform was a size too big, as if he hoped to grow into it. He blew his nose into a handkerchief.
While Jurriaan served coffee, Willem explained that the bullying had escalated, culminating in the broken window. He admitted chasing the boys, but tweaked the story to put himself in a more favorable light, the way his patients did when confessing to shameful behavior.
The surveillant shook his head. “It’s antisocial.”
“It’s a hate crime,” Willem corrected him.
“Maybe.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I’ll patrol the street for a few weeks. If the boys try anything again, I’ll nab them.”
Willem glanced at Jurriaan, who was sitting on the end of the sofa, his shoulders hunched, trying to make himself smaller.
“Thank you, Surveillant.” Willem meant it, despite the risk that Finn might accuse him of assault. Jurriaan needed to be safe.
Meyer set his cup on the coffee table. “Is there somewhere your brother can stay in the meantime?”
“Jurriaan can stay with me, but you should address your question to him.”
Meyer flushed. “Sorry. Jurriaan? What do you want to do?”
“I want to stay here,” he said, which settled the question.
Jurriaan carried the empty cups to the kitchen. Meyer blew his nose again, shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket, and Willem ushered him to the door.
The surveillant stopped to examine the lock. “I could open the door in seconds with a credit card. Your brother needs a dead bolt.”
“I’ll see to it tomorrow.” He made a mental note to call the locksmith, the glazier, and the insurance company first thing in the morning.
After Meyer left, Willem got a bucket of soapy water from Jurriaan and scrubbed the egg off the front door. He emptied the bucket into the toilet and said goodbye. As he stepped outside, a dried-up old man smoking a cigarette shuffled up the sidewalk. A Jack Russell terrier trotted by his side. The dog’s mouth hung open, its pink tongue lolling, giving it a happy, friendly appearance, unlike that of its frowning owner. It was Mr. Verhoeven, Jurriaan’s upstairs neighbor.
“Excuse me. Can I talk to you for a minute?” Willem said.
“What is it?”
“Some boys are giving my brother a hard time. Here’s my card. Would you call me if—”
“I know,” the old man interrupted, raising his hand to ward off the card. “I’ve seen the little bastards. Thank the lord Jurriaan took the foil off the window,”
“Foil?”
“Last week he covered the window. People will think he’s growing weed. Apartment prices are shooting up everywhere. But I’ve had to reduce my asking price—twice.” He pointed to the sign in the first-floor window. “I’ll soon have to give the place away. It’s time Jurriaan moved back home or to assisted accommodation. No one wants to live above a retard.”
“Jurriaan has learning disabilities—”
“Whatever.”
Willem punched himself hard in the thigh. Ignorant pensioner. “Jurriaan has as much right to live here as you. He’s not hurting anyone. He’s just different. The problem isn’t Jurriaan. It’s people like you.”
“Is that so? I’ve lived here twenty-five years. I never had a lick of trouble until your brother moved in.”
The old man snatched the card from Willem’s hand, strolled inside with the dog, and slammed the door. At least he’d taken the card, a victory in Willem’s book.