After the Ashes (8 page)

While she blotted the hot liquid, she sang a soothing lullaby—one I hadn't heard since before my mother died when she sang it to me.

“Do you know the mussels man,

the mussels man, the mussels man?

Do you know the mussels man

who lives in Scheveningen?”

Brigitta's voice wavered like the twitter of a zebra dove. With all the noise in the dining room, I don't believe anyone—except little Jeroen and me—heard the song.

My heart ached with longing. If my mother were still alive, would I feel so out of step with the world? Would she care if I were more like a prickly weed than a beautiful flower? Or would I be entirely different if she were still alive? Would Brigitta and I still be friends? I wiped my eyes before anyone—especially Brigitta—noticed them glistening. I didn't need her to know she could bring me to tears.

Vader returned with a pitcher of water, and Brigitta dipped the cloth and continued her ministrations, her actions sure and precise.

“There now.” She wiped her brother's face and gave him a soft tap on the nose. “All better.”

He giggled, and we returned to our cooled soup.

While we ate, Brigitta glanced in my direction and frowned. I paid her no mind and instead strained once more to hear Vader's and Mr. Burkart's discussion over the clinking china and Jeroen's babble.

“But the volcano hasn't erupted in centuries.” Worry filled Vader's voice. “It's supposed to be extinct.”

Mr. Burkart ate a spoonful of soup. “So was Pompeii.”

“And we all know how that ended,” Vader said.

“ ‘
Many volcanic islands are sufficiently ancient, as shown by the stupendous degradation which they have suffered
,' ” I quoted.

Every head at the table turned in my direction. I didn't realize I had spoken out loud.

“Thank you for that comment, Katrien,” Vader said. Only he didn't look appreciative. This was probably considered rude behavior.

Mr. Burkart wiped his mouth with his napkin. “At any rate, I don't think we have too much to worry about. It is forty kilometers away.”

I wanted to tell him Mrs. Brinckerhoff's story, but Tante Greet placed a hand on my knee and whispered, “Please behave,” into my ear.

What had I done wrong? I was trying to participate in the conversation, wasn't I? Isn't that what she wanted?

Brigitta kept eyeing me, her head moving side to side like a house gecko. “Is something wrong, Brigitta?” I asked through clenched teeth, trying to maintain my composure.

“You look nice tonight,” she said in a too-sweet tone.

“Dank u,”
I mumbled, keeping myself on guard for a subtle insult.

“It makes a nice change.” She returned to her soup.

I glared at her.

“She's correct,” Vader said. “You do look nice tonight.”

I pushed my spectacles up. Did Brigitta fool my own father? He should be smart enough to see past her false compliment. “
D-dank u
, Vader,” I stuttered.

“And it does make a nice change,” Tante Greed added.

My jaw dropped. How could my aunt shame me—again—in front of Brigitta?

Vader chuckled.

Even Mr. and Mrs. Burkart smiled. They were all teasing me. They were all insulting me. No one appreciated how hard I was trying to be polite.

Brigitta sipped her soup, oblivious to the hatred I felt toward her. She was the perfect lady on the outside. But I knew her heart was rotten.

Ignore her, ignore her, ignore her
.

I couldn't heed my own advice. “Even the most black-hearted
among us can be civilized at times,” I said, looking pointedly at Brigitta.

Everyone stared at me again, and a roar filled my head like ocean waves pounding the shore. I knew I would suffer for this. I should have just ignored Brigitta, but she made me want to tear my hair out. Or pour my soup over her head.

Tante Greet said something to my father. I saw her lips move. But the roar was still there, and I couldn't hear a word she uttered. Sliding her gaze in my direction, she raised her eyebrows and indicated the salt cellar in front of me. I grabbed the small glass dish and set it in front of her with a thud.

She opened her mouth—probably to say something about my behavior—but I turned away from her. I felt angry enough for my own eruption.

My dear Oom Maarten,

Our visit wasn't that long ago, but it seems like months have passed. So much has happened here. I hope your time since we visited has been quieter. I know you must sleep for days after we leave because you're always running like a crazed monkey when we're there, keeping us entertained with parties, dinners, visits, walks in the park. Even Torben must be exhausted.

How have you been? Have you chosen a wallpaper for your parlor yet? I liked the cream one with the vines. It reminded me of the jungle. If you choose that one, I could draw a few beetles climbing in the greenery. I know Torben would love that! He always barks at the geckos that climb the trees in the park.

Tante Greet will probably tell you, too, but I caused quite the stir at dinner last week. Now I am only allowed into the jungle two times a week. This is an effort on Vader and Tante Greet's part to stop my rude behavior.

Vader tried to explain why my behavior was considered so awful, but I'm still not sure I understand. I haven't done anything that terrible. I insulted Brigitta Burkart, but only after she provoked me first.

In case you've forgotten, Brigitta Burkart is the worst person imaginable. She's the girl who thinks I'm disgusting because I collect beetles. I hate her.
She's
the one who's offensive. But she's so
good at pretending to be a lady when her parents are around that no one notices how mean she is.

Since I haven't been able to explore the jungle as much lately, I still haven't finished my twenty-sixth case of stag beetles. I only found two beetles on my last walk.

It's dreadfully boring not being able to explore. Tante Greet makes me dust and sweep, and the time passes so slowly. I'm rereading
On the Origin of Species
again.

Tante Greet is calling me. I suppose I had better go. Who knows what she'll have me do if I'm slow to answer.

All my love,
Katrien

Two weeks after the horrible dinner with the Burkarts, I stood in the front yard of our house, frustrated because I couldn't find Slamet anywhere. It had been far too long since we'd gone collecting in the jungle together, and he was nowhere to be seen.

On the side porch, Tante Greet and Indah cleaned fish for supper. Blood and guts splattered their aprons.

“Is Slamet running an errand?” I called. “I can't find him.”

Indah stiffened, and the slender knife in her hands stilled. Tante Greet wiped her hands on her apron and beckoned me to follow her inside.

“Is something wrong?” I asked as she led me to the kitchen.

Tante Greet wiped her hands again. “Slamet will not be spending as much time here as he once did.”

“Why not?”

Glancing out the open door, she said, “Indah is concerned about the amount of time the two of you spend together.”

“What?”

“And frankly, so are Niels and I.”

I rubbed my eyes. “He's my friend. I thought you wanted me to have friends.”

“Girlfriends, Katrien. Your friendship with Slamet was fine when
you were children, but you're a young woman now. It's unseemly to be so close to him.”

“Unseemly? You make it sound like something torrid.”

“Katrien, you must understand,” she said, now cleaning her fishy hands with a damp cloth. “It is inappropriate for girls your age to be so friendly with boys.”

“But I
don't
understand,” I said, pushing my spectacles up.

“Lift them, please,” Tante Greet said automatically. She walked over to the stove, lit the fire inside and set the kettle on to boil. “Your friendship with Slamet sends the wrong message to other people.”

“What kind of message can my being friends with Slamet possibly send? That doesn't make any sense.”

“It will make it more difficult for you to find a husband.” Her brows furrowed and her voice turned wistful.

“But I don't want to find a husband,” I protested. “I just want to go to the jungle with Slamet.”

We stood in silence until the kettle boiled, and Tante Greet removed it from the stove. She poured the steaming water into the dish tub and washed dishes while I watched, still confused. “Dry this, please,” she said, handing me a cup.

Grabbing a dish towel, I did as she ordered.

“It is time for you both to grow up. Indah has asked her oldest son, Raharjo, to take Slamet under his wing, to teach him things a man should know. Since his father is dead.”

“Vader could do that.”

She shook her head. “No. Things a Muslim should know. Things a native person should know. Things your father could not teach him.”

But Vader knew so much. I refused to believe Raharjo would be a better father figure for Slamet than my own.

“Katrien, there is more than the difference between boys and girls that sets you and Slamet apart.”

I growled and threw my hands up in frustration. “I know. He's native, and I'm not.”

“And he is Muslim. And other things, too. The point is, the two of you would be quite different even if you were both girls.”

“So I won't ever see him again?”

She shook her head. “I didn't say that. But right now he's somewhere in the jungle with Raharjo learning who-knows-what.”

“I might see him, then. When I go exploring.”

“I doubt it. I understand Raharjo lives in a village deep in the jungle. Much farther than you are allowed.”

I kept my face blank.

“But I'm sure he will visit Indah when she is here,” Tante Greet continued. “So if you do see him, I want you to be as polite and courteous to him as you would be to any guest in this home. But you will not converse with him beyond that, and you certainly will not run off with him to play. If he comes here, it will be to see his mother, and nothing else. Do you understand?”

“No,” I said honestly.

Tante Greet sighed. “That's fair. Regardless, can I trust you to do as your father and I say?”

I closed my eyes in frustration. Slamet was gone. Who would I talk to? Why did it seem like everyone was conspiring against me? Slamet and I had never done anything wrong. Our friendship had never hurt each other—or anyone else.

I could feel Tante Greet's eyes boring into me, and I knew she was waiting for an answer. There was only one that would satisfy her.

“Ja,”
I said.

I was so unnerved by my conversation with Tante Greet that I couldn't even think about going exploring in the jungle anymore. Instead I just stood there, feeling as if the kitchen walls were closing in around me. I needed air.

I ran from the kitchen, burst through the door onto the front porch and gulped deep breaths. As I took in the scenery of our front yard, I remembered how once, when we were little, Slamet and I had spent an entire afternoon rolling a ball back and forth between us on the lawn. When that became tiresome, we threw it at each other. He tossed it toward me—not very hard—but I missed the catch and the ball slammed into my stomach and knocked the wind out of me.

That's how I felt now. Blindsided. Hurt.

Bang!

I jumped and turned toward the source of the noise.

Mr. De Groot, our neighbor, was dragging a trunk down his porch steps.

Bang!
The trunk hit the next step.

I walked over to his yard. “What are you doing?” I asked over the scraping sound of the trunk.

Mr. De Groot set the trunk on the ground and walked over to greet me. “Little Katrien.” The older gentleman clasped my hand.
He had always called me little even though I now stood as tall as he. “Mrs. De Groot and I are leaving.”

His news stunned me. “W-why?” I asked. I couldn't handle another upset today and I suddenly felt like I might shatter into a million pieces.

He pointed southwest. “That's why.”

I followed his direction. “Krakatau?” In the weeks since I first learned of the eruption, the plume of smoke had become a familiar fixture on the horizon. Sometimes the color was white and hard to spot against the clouds; other days it was gray. Today, it was dark and angry like thunderheads.

He returned to his trunk. I grabbed the other end, and we both shoved the trunk into the wagon that sat waiting by the road. “
Dank u
, Little Katrien.”

I pushed up my spectacles. “But why are you leaving? I don't understand.”

He ignored my question and walked to the other side of the wagon.

“Hubrecht,” his wife called, coming outside, “we have four more trunks, and I want to bring the mirror.” Mrs. De Groot was shorter than her husband, but with a long neck. She reminded me of a banded linsang without the spots and tail. “Oh, hello, Little Katrien.”

“Hello, Mrs. De Groot. Your husband tells me you're leaving.”

“
Ja
, we are.”

“Because of Krakatau.” Skepticism filled my voice.

She nodded and cast a wary glance in the direction of the volcano.
“Ja.”

“But Krakatau's forty kilometers from here. Maybe passing ships would be damaged by another eruption, but we'll be fine.”

Her eyes bored into mine, and I had the distinct impression that I was being judged—as if Mrs. De Groot was deciding exactly if, or how, to respond.

Finally, she spoke. “Come here.” She sat on the porch steps and patted the space beside her. I did as I was told. “Hubrecht,” she called. “Help me tell Little Katrien.”

Mr. De Groot tugged at his cotton-white beard and joined us on the steps. “It's your story, Marijn. You should tell it.”