August 14, 2004
Willem
LIKE A CONDEMNED man, Willem had been counting down the days and the hours until Louisa’s arrival. Now less than twenty-four to go.
He parked his bicycle next to the barbed wire fence that separated Doeksen’s dairy farm from the dike road. The wooden gate gaped open. Jurriaan always refused to cross the cattle guard, afraid his lame foot might slip through the rails, but Willem crossed over with a skip and a jump. As he hiked up the gravel drive to the farmhouse, cows grazing in the pasture lifted their heads. The cows didn’t bother him, but his heart fluttered when the bull lumbered his way, head bobbing, balls swaying, tail swishing. The bull could crash through the fence if he had a mind to, but he stopped, one brown eye trained on Willem.
An army-green Land Rover was parked in front of the house, but no one answered Willem’s knock. Shading his eyes with his hand, he peered around the fields. There was no sign of Doeksen. He climbed over a stile and followed the well-beaten path to the barn.
The pungent smell of animals, manure, and hay nearly knocked him over. The farmer was pouring grain from a big burlap bag into the feed troughs.
“Mr. Doeksen,” Willem yelled.
The farmer set the bag on the ground. He wore a work apron over a shirt with rolled-up sleeves and stained jeans. He was around Louisa’s age, with a sunburned face and muscular forearms.
“Young Mr. Veldkamp?” Doeksen said in his heavy island accent. “How’s your tae?”
Willem knew tae meant “father.”
Hendrik and Doeksen enjoyed an unlikely friendship, the rich city slicker and the struggling dairy farmer. Both men were taciturn. Sometimes they met up at the pub in Oerd for a beer, and Willem imagined them drinking in silence.
“My dad is doing fine,” Willem said. “Is it okay if I use the dinghy this afternoon?
“Is your tae going?”
“Yes,” Willem lied.
Doeksen grunted something that sounded like, “You have to pay for the gasoline.”
Willem crossed over to the farmer and handed him a tenner, hoping for change, but Doeksen shoved the money into his shirt pocket.
“Bring her back in one piece.”
Willem froze. For a moment, he thought the farmer meant Katja.
Bring the dinghy back whole!
“Thank you, sir.” He exited the barn and danced a little jig in the yard.
That afternoon, he and Katja chained their bicycles to the fence a half mile down the road from Doeksen’s farm. She wore her usual attire: trainers, shorts, and a T-shirt with wide arm holes that revealed part of her bra. Her hair fell in waves on her shoulders. He tried to grin, but his face was too stiff. Did she suspect the reason for the picnic? Was she as nervous as he? Would being nervous affect his … performance? Jeetje.
They climbed over the dike path onto the rickety wooden pier that jutted out from the bank. Three weather-beaten boats were moored: an ancient fishing boat with peeling black paint, Iron Lady scrawled on the bow; a blue runabout called Anne-Noor, and Doeksen’s once-white dinghy named Glop. A blue boat cover stretched over the little craft, keeping out the rain.
“Be careful. The boards are slippery,” Willem said. But Katja was peering at the sky, not at her feet.
“Willem, don’t the clouds look like sailboats scudding across a lake?”
“Yeah, sort of.” The clouds were just clouds, and the blue was sky, not a lake. He guessed he didn’t have a poetic bone in his body. Worse, his mind conjured up the image of Louisa drinking wine on a terrace, inventing ways to ruin his life while she watched real sailboats race around on Lake Como. With an effort, he pushed the image out of his head.
It was flood, the tide coming in. In the distance lay a sandbank that stayed dry even at high tide. It was Willem’s favorite fishing spot, even if he caught only the occasional eel or flounder. The sandbank was a place Louisa didn’t know existed; she preferred the white sand and the beach pavilions on the north side of the island.
He shrugged off his backpack.
“Glop?” Katja asked, reading the name on the bow.
“It’s island dialect for ‘narrow passage.’”
“Whose boat is it?”
“The dairy farmer’s. We can use it as long as we pay for the gasoline. I paid him this morning.”
“You’ve thought of everything.”
Willem smiled, thinking of the package of condoms he had purchased in Oerd, now stashed in the inside pocket of the backpack.
“Dad taught me how to drive the dinghy. Sometimes, Jurriaan and I take it out to fish.” What he didn’t say was that he wasn’t allowed to take the dinghy without Hendrik.
He unsnapped the boat cover, rolled it up, and threw it into the dinghy. He shoved his backpack under the rear bench. As he helped Katja into the front, she smiled in amusement. He felt his face flush, realizing she didn’t need his help, but she didn’t protest, and he liked touching her hand. Before casting off, Willem pulled two life preservers from the storage compartment and handed one to Katja.
The outboard motor wasn’t all that powerful, only two horsepower, and it sounded a lot like the spin cycle of a washing machine. But Katja looked over her shoulder at him and grinned, her hair flying in a cloud of red gold. He wasn’t old enough to drive her places in a car, but a boat ride was pretty impressive. He felt older. More confident. And he needed confidence for what he hoped was going to happen.
“Tell me where we’re going,” she yelled.
Until now, he had kept their destination a surprise. He pointed to a shadow on the water a half mile ahead.
“Is it an island?” she asked.
“No. It’s officially a sandbank. It’s not big enough to be an island.” Lutine was a nature reserve and off limits to the public, but he and Jurriaan had never encountered a forest ranger or any human visitor—only seabirds, strutting around, and the occasional seal.
Fifteen minutes later, the dinghy was as close to the sandbank as Willem dared with the engine running. He cut the power and picked up the oars. After a few strokes, he stopped.
“We need to get out. Help me pull her the rest of the way.” The water was up to his knees, higher on Katja, but the sand was solid under their trainers. Katja wasn’t as strong as Jurriaan, but she was nimbler, and they soon pulled the dingy above the high tide line.
Katja turned a three sixty, pure delight on her face. Willem thought his chest would burst with pride, as if he had created the sandbank himself.
“I know the perfect spot for the picnic—this way.” He hoisted the backpack and led her over a dune. They climbed over a second dune and found themselves in a dip protected from the wind and very private.
He pulled a tablecloth from his backpack and spread it in the little gully. They sat down on the sand, facing each other.
“I brought beer,” he said, taking out the two bottles and leaving the sandwiches for later. “Shit.”
“What’s wrong?” Katja asked.
“I forgot the opener.” He must have left it on the kitchen counter. Idiot!
She laughed, leaned forward, and kissed him on the ear and on the neck.
Willem heard Bas’s voice in his head: “Now or never.”
He kissed her deeply, and she kissed him back, but after a few moments, she jerked away, a spot of red blooming in each cheek. She stared wide-eyed at Willem. Her pupils were enormous. He slipped his hand inside her blouse and cupped a breast. He felt her nipple harden. Felt her heartbeat strong and fast. She was breathing hard. They undressed as though on silent command. The blue sky and the white dunes receded until there was only Katja, warm and soft in his arms.
He finished quickly—too quickly—and lay on top, panting, still throbbing, and cursing to himself. He hadn’t satisfied her. A cardinal sin, according to Bas. An apology was in order.
“That was my first time,” he said.
She shushed him with her finger on his lips. Stroked his hair, kissed his ear, and ran a fingernail along his spine. When she pushed her hips against his, he shuddered.
“Do it again,” she said. “This time slower.”
“Shit,” Willem said afterward. “I think it leaked.”
“Don’t worry. I’m on the pill.”
That made him pause. But of course he had figured she wasn’t a virgin. She was twenty-three, and she’d had boyfriends. Maybe still had a boyfriend.
“Are you going to see the guy in Amsterdam again?”
“Who?”
“The one you dated this summer.”
“We broke up.”
He had more questions, but the closed expression on her face silenced him.
He brushed the sand off her breasts, off her rounded stomach, and off her soft thighs. While he dressed, he watched her pull on her panties and bra, then the rest of her clothes. She sat beside him on the ridge of the dune, and they ate the sandwiches. The sun was dim, the sky more gray than blue, a haze over the water. Soon, it would be ebb and the water would recede, exposing the mudflats teaming with crabs, worms, and cockles. The tide was predictable, unstoppable.
“Does the sandbank have a name?” Katja asked, tucking a lock of coppery hair behind her ear.
This was Willem’s favorite story from Wexalia folk lore. “Lutine. It’s named after the HMS Lutine. In 1799, the ship sank in the North Sea during a storm. It had a cargo of gold coins on board. All the crew was lost except one man.”
“How tragic. What happened to the gold?”
“The ship broke apart, and the wreckage was silted over. The spot is famous for its dangerous currents. Once every fifty years or so, the silt shifts, exposing the remains for a short time. Salvagers have recovered only a small part of the gold.
“Lutine sounds French.”
“The ship was a French frigate captured by the British. Lutine means ‘a female elf.’”
“This is a magical place,” she said, wriggling her toes in the warm sand.
He squeezed her hand. “I love you. I don’t care who knows.” He waited for her reply, his heart hammering.
Her posture stiffened. “Louisa can’t find out.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s a jealous witch. Besides, we’re family. She’ll turn it into something ugly.”
He slung his arm around her shoulders and tried to draw her closer, but she shook free.
“I’m serious, Willem. If Louisa finds out we’re lovers, she’ll be furious. I don’t know what she would do.” She clutched his arm, her nails digging into his flesh. “No touching. Don’t come to my room. Don’t even look at me. Not while she’s here. You have to keep our secret. Do you swear?”
“Are you blowing me off?”
“Does it look like I’m blowing you off?”
He didn’t know.
She unlatched her fingers from around his arm and stood up.
Willem stared at her freckled knees for several moments and slowly got to his feet. “Jurriaan asked me yesterday if you were my girlfriend.”
“What did you tell him?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I said you weren’t.” He hated lying to Jurriaan, and strictly speaking, he wasn’t. You could hang out with a girlfriend. Go places with her. Hold her hand in public. You didn’t have to hide a girlfriend.
“Does Hendrik suspect?”
“Are you kidding? Dad’s in another world most of the time. How long do we have to keep our relationship a secret?”
She cast her eyes down and plucked a purple flower from a mound of flowering grass.
“How long?” he repeated.
“I don’t know.”
“A month? A year? Help me out here.”
“Until it’s safe.”
“Until you don’t need her money anymore?” He regretted the words as soon as they rolled off his tongue.
Her chin lifted. “There’s that too.”
She was right. It was a stupid idea to tell his mother. He was acting like a lovesick teenager. At least she hadn’t pulled the “I’m older and wiser” routine.
He wadded up the tablecloth and tried to ram it into the backpack, but it didn’t fit, so he yanked it out and started over, this time folding it first. Katja’s anxious green eyes tracked his every move as he gathered up the unopened bottles of beer and their trash.
Shit. She hadn’t said “I love you” back.