August 2024
Jurriaan
IT WAS EVENING and already dark. Jurriaan sat at the dining room table, hunched over his notebook, drawing clock faces without hands. When he was done, he dragged the chair to the big window. The friendly glazier had swept away the broken glass and installed a new pane.
Jurriaan turned out the lights so no one could see inside and placed three objects within reach on the lamp table: his phone, the notebook, and a pencil with an eraser. He liked erasers because they rubbed out mistakes as if they had never happened.
Numbers were easier to read than words. There were only ten if he counted zero. They didn’t represent ideas or stories or tell him what to do. Numbers told him simply how many, how much, and how big. For example, he had two feet. His shoes cost one hundred and twenty euros. He was six feet tall and weighed two hundred and seven pounds.
Numbers were also used to tell time. He preferred clocks with rotating hands pointing to numbers, telling him when, how much longer, or how long ago.
Leaning forward in the chair, he opened the curtains a crack.
After a while Surveillant Meyer drove by in his patrol car, his head swiveling like an electric fan. Jurriaan turned on his phone’s flashlight app and filled in the first clock face. Little hand on nine, big hand on twelve.
He waited.
Muffled footsteps sounded in the stairwell and the door to the building banged. Mr. Verhoeven appeared outside on the curb, wearing a bathrobe and house shoes. He was letting the dog out, a little terrier named Tricksy, who didn’t know any tricks. She couldn’t even shake hands. The dog scampered across the street to a laurel hedge, where she did her business while her owner smoked a cigarette. Mr. Verhoeven didn’t bother to pick up after his pet. He should get a fine! Jurriaan thought. Then Mr. Verhoeven tossed his cigarette butt on the ground and whistled. Tricksy raced back. A moment later the outside door closed, and footsteps faded up the stairs.
A scooter roared by, and a few minutes later, a car. Afterward the street stayed empty for a long time. Jurriaan squirmed on the hard seat and considered whether to leave his post to grab a cushion from the sofa. If he had, he would have missed Meyer drive past in the same direction as before. The police officer looked straight at him. Jurriaan ducked. When he raised his head, Meyer was gone.
Jurriaan filled in the second clock: little hand between nine and ten, big hand on nine.
Ten minutes later two figures appeared in front of the laurel hedge, their heads together, throwing glances in Jurriaan’s direction. His mouth went dry. He needed Meyer to return. Return now. The boys crossed the street to the bike rack and bent over Jurriaan’s bicycle, first the front wheel, then the back. It was too dark to make out what they were doing. Punching a hole? Removing the valve? Either way, he would have two flat tires by morning.
The next time Meyer drove by, the little hand was on ten and the big hand on six. His last appearance was at a quarter before one. The surveillant’s patrolling was as predictable as the clock.
Jurriaan closed the curtains and stood up, stiff after sitting so long. He turned on a lamp. After a bathroom break, he drank a cup of tea. He set his alarm for a half hour earlier than usual because he would have to walk to the bakery instead of cycling.
The nice police officer couldn’t help, and Jurriaan was reluctant to bother his twin again. Willem might insist Jurriaan go to live with him. There was plenty of room in the mansion, but Jurriaan loved his purple apartment with pictures of cats on the walls—a place he arranged any way he liked, a place where he stocked his refrigerator with vanilla vla and pastries from the bakery. He loved his job as kitchen help: refilling the ingredient bins, sweeping the floor, scrubbing the display cases and worktops. The baker was training him to bake bread. It was just a matter of reading the numbers: this much flour, that much yeast, the right temperature. Set the timer on the oven and watch the clock.
There was another reason he didn’t want to move back to Dad’s. Never! Mom’s presence lingered in the house, making everything sick. Willem didn’t understand stuff like that. He wouldn’t be living in Dad’s house if he did.
But Willem knew what to do about bullies.