Girl in the Dark (11 page)

Mo walked with me to the institute's exit. It was a labyrinth of corridors, bolted doors that had to be unlocked, and security cameras.

“How do you think it went?” asked Mo. There was something about him that made me feel at ease. A certain vibration in his voice, the reassuring look in his gentle brown eyes, the confident way he held his body; it was hard to pinpoint what it was, but it worked. I could imagine that Mo would have the same effect on the patients in here.

“It was hard. Although I should have expected that.” We crossed a courtyard with a little commissary. It was swarming with men, all leering at me. It was a strange thing to think that all of them had committed some serious offense.

“You did great, though. The photos in particular. A brilliant move, bringing those along.”

“You think?”

“Didn't you notice? He was wary at first, as he is generally, but when you started talking about his fish I could just see him relax. Good for you. There are therapists in here who've been working with him for months, and they haven't achieved as much as you did in just half an hour.”

I felt myself blush. “It must have been the blood connection.”

“How can it be that you never knew he existed?”

“My mother just never told me she had an older child. Can you imagine?”

“You do have to remember that back in the seventies there was a different attitude to so-called ‘difficult' children. Back then it was something to be ashamed of—people would think it was all the mother's fault.”

“Still, I think it's pretty absurd that my mother never breathed a word about him. I wonder what would have become of him if he'd had a normal youth. If he had grown up in a normal family.”

We had arrived at the exit. Mo waved his pass at a sensor. The doors swung open.

“That's always the tragic thing about people like Ray,” said Mo. “He's actually a really sweet guy.”

“He is, isn't he?”

“Absolutely.”

I handed in my visitor's pass and shook Mo's hand. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “You're welcome.”

“Uh, Mo?”

“Yes?”

“Do
you
believe Ray—that he didn't do it?”

He started to laugh.

“Never mind.”

I didn't have much time to think about my encounter with Ray, my
brother,
Ray, because the entire drive home was taken up with a phone call from Rence. Aaron had been allowed to return to the day care, so for as long as that lasted, I was back working in the office.

“Peter van Benschop complained about you.”

I turned up the volume on my phone's speaker. “Oh?”

“I want you to think. What might Peter have complained about?”

“Surely you don't expect me to fall for that. If you're trying to catch me out with a loaded question, you'll have to come up with something better.”

“Not bad, nice and sharp. That's what I like to hear.”

“I'll be there in a minute. Do you want to meet?”

“I can't. Our good Werner B. is expecting me in half an hour.”

Werner B. was a rather incompetent burglar and therefore one of our most loyal clients. “Is he still in custody?”

“They're keeping him another two weeks. I'm afraid that our friend won't be getting off so easy this time. Nice distraction, though, Iris. It's Van Benschop we were talking about.”

I groaned. I'd been hoping to wrap up the Van Benschop case quickly and smoothly, but it seemed to have the same drawbacks as an X-rated film: lots and lots of the same action, over and over again, while taking much too long to come to a climax.

“Let me reformulate the question: Are you sure you've been handling Peter van Benschop's case to the best of your ability?”

“If I'd been handling the matter to the best of my ability, I'd have locked Peter van Benschop in a dungeon with a couple of premenstrual dominatrices.”

“Be serious.”

“Dear Lawrence, cross my heart, I swear that I have given Mr. Van Benschop's matter my full attention and will continue to do so.” I hoped it sounded convincing.

“Peter van Benschop thinks you were too hasty in proposing a settlement. What do you say?”

“Need I remind you that according to the Bar Association's rules of professional conduct, settling a case out of court is
always preferable to taking it to trial? Besides, I think a trial is risky.”

I took the exit into the south part of Amsterdam and headed for the office. “We don't have much choice. I think Mr. Van Benschop should be glad the plaintiff has chosen to pursue the civil course. I'd hate to think what might have happened if the girl . . .
young woman
had gone to the police.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Then: “Where have you been, anyway? There's nothing on your schedule.”

“I was meeting a potential client.”

“And who might that be?” There was suspicion in Rence's voice.

“I'd rather keep that under my hat for a while longer.”

“Or was it your kid's day care again?”

I felt the urge to scream but instead said as coolly as I could, “The client is incarcerated in the Hopper Institute. He was convicted of the murder of his neighbor and her little girl. He may be interested in an appeal.”

“Hmm.”

“An appeal would be prestigious for the firm, Lawrence.” I knew that would sway him.

“Well, now. Little Iris wants to play detective.”

“Are you trying to insult me?”

“Of course not, honey pie. But you know what's involved in an appeal. Before you know it, you've got the entire office working on it and we have to let more lucrative pieces of business slide. Not to mention the eventual costs of the forensic research, digging up new witnesses and so on.”

“Pres-
tige,
Lawrence.”

He sighed. “You know I can't resist.”

“Exactly.” I parked my car in front of the entrance of the eighteenth-century canal house.

“Look, I have to go. Take the next couple of weeks to do a little research. But not before you've applied for a subsidy from Legal Aid, naturally.” Rence himself was just walking out the door as I was going in. We lowered our cell phones.

“If there's sufficient grounds for an appeal, we'll put together a team. Okay?”

“Great.”

“Be good, now.” Rence flounced off to his SUV.

I waved at him and then walked into the office.

“Brilliant move
,
” I said to myself out loud.

Now I didn't have a choice; I'd
have
to start digging into Ray's case. The good news: It would give me the opportunity to get to know him, and get paid for it, too. The bad news: Bartels & Peters had a strict rule against representing family members. But Ray was really a stranger, I decided. I wouldn't let my emotions get in the way.

Ray, the
Monster Next Door
. I'd never have expected it, but I had wanted to throw my arms around him and tell him, “Come, we're going home.” It must have been because he looked like Aaron. That must be it. After all, who was Ray to me?

Or was it the blissful look on his face when I'd started telling him about the fish? Like a child being read to before going to sleep. Had my mother ever read to him? Had he snuggled against her in the evening, in his pajamas, with freshly washed hair? Had she loved him? Had anyone ever loved him? Ever?

Rosita was cheerful most of the time. But she could also be sad. That's when she'd open the door and trudge back into the living room without saying a word. I never knew what else to do but follow her, clutching the paper bag with the madeleine. Then she'd plop down on the couch and sit with her head in her hands.

“Ray!” Anna said happily. Her lips went up at the corners and her eyes were wide. The first thing she always did was to grab the madeleine. She didn't take the trouble to peel the paper off neatly, no—she'd tear the bag open and stuff the whole cake into her mouth.

“You have to take your time and enjoy it,” I said. “You have to take a bite and then chew it slowly so that you can appreciate the taste and the texture. Can you taste the way it's a bit crusty on the outside and fluffy and sweet on the inside, a bit moist and yet airy?”

Anna usually sat on the couch watching TV. I didn't think it was a very good pastime for a child and my mother didn't think so, either. So I decided to buy a big box of Lego Duplo blocks for Anna. From then on, whenever I visited, I'd build something and she'd join in. We built castles, farms, and mansions. Anna said that we'd
live in one of those for real someday. I did try and explain to her, over and over, that you can't really live in a toy house.

Rosita would sit on the couch, sometimes with her head in her hands, sometimes watching us, sometimes watching the TV, and sometimes, but not often, she'd come over and help.

One day she said, “You never ask me how I am.”

“I didn't know I was supposed to,” I said. “Sorry. Do you want me to?”

“Yes. Isn't that the normal thing to do?
Normal
people ask each other how they are.”

That hurt me. I'd thought I was doing everything right. I stopped by every day, I always brought a treat, and the week before I'd done her gardening.

“You don't like it that I said that.”

“No.” I was nervous and didn't know what else to say.

“Why not? Come on, admit it, you aren't really normal, are you? Like the way you always seem to be sitting at home by yourself staring at your fish. Or the way you're so worried about time, bringing her one madeleine every afternoon at three fifteen on the dot. That isn't
exactly
normal, is it?”

I shrugged my shoulders. I couldn't look at her.

“And stop moving your hands around like that. You're not kneading bread in the bakery here.” She grabbed hold of my hands and made them stay in my lap. Her hands were warm. Soft and warm.

“Or—take your mother. Talk about abnormal! Is it normal you hardly ever see her or speak to her?”

“She's busy,” I mumbled.

“Bullshit. Want to know what
I
think? I think that mother of yours should be proud of you. Does she even know there're lines of people who come to the bakery just to buy your croissants?”

“Probably not.”

“I'd like to give her a piece of my mind, that mother of yours. You have her phone number?”

I hardly dared say it. “No.”

“You don't even know your own mother's phone number? Why the hell not?”

“I write her letters. And she writes me back. She always writes back.”

“
Write
? What the hell? Does she ever phone you?” Rosita sounded really angry.

“Sometimes. If she has to come on a different day than the appointed date.”

“What do you mean?”

“The appointed date. The third Saturday every other month.”

Rosita rolled her eyes. “Okay. Give me her name and address, and we'll look up her phone number. She's got it coming, the old witch.” She was talking very loud, much louder than usual.

“Are you mad at me?” I didn't understand what had her so upset. And I really didn't like the way she spoke about my mother.

She laughed. “Of course not, silly. I'm mad at your mother. How
dare
she ditch you like that?” She leaned closer. The hollow between her collarbones came closer, too, so close I could hardly breathe. She took my hand in hers.

“Ray, she's your
mother
. Suppose I sent Anna away. What would you think of that?”

I looked at Anna, who had stopped building castles and was watching TV.

“Exactly. People just don't
do
that.”

I only had my mother's PO box number. That made Rosita even more livid. She called information, but they told her there were at least forty Boelenses in Amsterdam. “You have to ask her for her phone number, hear me? The next time you write. And
then get her to give you her street address as well. I'd like to see how she weasels out of
that
.”

Of course I never did dare to ask my mother. Although Rosita kept asking me.

The next time I found Rosita sitting with her head in her hands, I remembered what to do and asked her, “How are you?”

She raised her head a bit and stared at me under a lock of dark curly hair. Her eyes were red, but she smiled faintly. “How sweet of you to ask, Ray.”

“How are you?” I said again, because I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say.

“Come sit next to me.” She patted the spot beside her on the couch. “Put your arm around me.”

I went and sat on the couch, and since I couldn't move, she took my arm and pulled it across her shoulders. We were sitting closer than ever before.

“Not so stiff, Ray, just hold me.”

I wrapped my arm tighter around her. I wanted to do a good job.

“Not that hard to start with. Just gently. Shake your arm to relax it, and then put it around my shoulder.
That's
right. Very good.”

We sat there like that for a bit. Rosita was making snuffling sounds and I waited for what came next.

“I just can't do this anymore,” she said after a while. “It's driving me crazy, living like this.”

She was quiet, and then she said, “Now you have to ask me why.”

I cleared my throat. “Okay. Why? Why is it . . . uh, driving you crazy, living like this?”

“Can't you see? Here I am with a kid, no job, and no husband. I barely get by. Look around. Is this what you call a proper home?”

I looked around, and my eyes got stuck on the photograph on the wall of the naked, pregnant Rosita. I felt my penis get stiff.

“I can't even afford fucking carpeting. I was young and pretty once. I could have had any man I wanted. Men with good incomes, nice things. But I had to go and choose that fucking prick.”

Rosita began to cry. My arm jogged up and down on her shoulders. Cautiously I stretched out my hand and caressed her hair. She didn't slap it away. She let me. Her hair was just as soft as my mother's when I was little. Only Rosita had more curls, and they were darker.

“But you know what? One day I will be rich.
Very
rich. I have this rich great-uncle in England, you know. But what good is that for now? As long as he doesn't die, I'm stuck in this dump. What should I do? You've got to help me, Ray.”

I felt a slight panic rising in me. What did she expect of me? Did she want me to
kill
the great-uncle?

“I can't stand living like this anymore. Not just for my own sake, but also for Anna's.”

I didn't know what to say. Then I had an inspiration. “Tomorrow we'll go buy carpeting for you. The best you can find.”

“But I can't afford it.”

“I'll pay for it. Wall-to-wall carpeting. Because I want you to have a proper home.”

She looked at me. “Would you really do that for me?”

I nodded. I felt warm inside.

She threw her arms around me and gave me a kiss on my cheek. I sniffed her sweet smell and felt her breasts pressed against me. My penis nearly exploded.

“Oh, Ray.” Rosita slapped her hand to her mouth. “You're not used to people touching you, are you?”

She laughed, and I laughed with her. We laughed a long time.