Joe Speedboat

TOMMY WIERINGA

Translated from the Dutch by Sam Garrett

Copyright © 2009 by Tommy Wieringa
English translation copyright © 2009 by Sam Garrett

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Published in 2009 in Great Britain by Portobello Books Ltd

First Published in Dutch in 2005 as
Joe Speedboat
by De Bezige Bij, Amsterdam, Netherlands

ISBN: 978-0-8021-9712-2 (e-book)

Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America

Black Cat
a paperback original imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
841 Broadway
New York, NY 10003

Distributed by Publishers Group West

www.groveatlantic.com

For Rutger Boots

It is said that the samurai
travels a twofold Way,
that of the brush and that of the sword.

MIYAMOTO MUSASHI

It's been a warm spring. At school they're praying for me, because I've been out of it for more than two hundred days. I've got bedsores all over my body and a condom catheter taped to my flute. This, the doctor tells my parents, is the phase of the ‘coma vigil': I've regained limited receptivity to my surroundings. He says I've started reacting to stimuli, pain and noise, and that's good news. Reacting to pain is a definite sign that you're alive.

They hang around my bed the whole time, Pa, Ma, Dirk and Sam. I can hear them as soon as they get out of the lift – a swarm of starlings darkening the sky. They smell of oil and stale tobacco; they've barely bothered to change out of their overalls. H
ERMANS
& S
ONS, FOR ALL YOUR DEMOLITION NEEDS
. Scrap is our middle name.

We demolish wrecked cars, industrial equipment and the occasional café interior, if my brother Dirk happens to be feeling pumped up. Dirk has been barred from almost every bar, shop and inn in Lomark, but not in Westerveld, not yet. He's got a girl over there. He comes home smelling of chemical violets. All you can do is feel sorry for her.

What the Hermanses talk about mostly is the weather, the same old song and dance; business is slow and the weather's to
blame, no matter what the weather's like. They swear and shake their heads, first Pa, then Dirk, then Sam. Dirk clears his sinuses loudly, now he has a gob of snot in his mouth. He doesn't know where to go with it, the only thing left to do is swallow – and, bloop, there it goes.

Lately, though, there's been more to talk about in Lomark than just the weather. While I was out cold, a runaway moving van wrecked the Maandags' step-gabled house, and huge explosions off in the distance are causing the whole town to shit itself with a certain regularity. This all has to do, it seems, with someone by the name of Joe Speedboat. He's new in Lomark; I've never met him.

Whenever they start talking about Joe Speedboat, though, I prick up my ears – he sounds like a good guy if you ask me, but then no one asks me. They're sure Speedboat is the one making the bombs. Not that they've ever caught him at it, but there were never any explosions before he came, and now suddenly there are. Case closed. It's got them pretty pissed off, let me tell you. Sometimes Ma says, ‘Hush now, Frankie might hear you,' but they don't pay her any mind.

‘Just pop out for smoke,' Pa says.

You're not allowed to do that in here.

‘Is that really his name, Speedboat?' asks Sam, my brother, two years my elder.

Sam's never the one I have to worry about.

‘Nobody's name is
really
Speedboat,' says Dirk. With that big mouth of his.

Dirk, the firstborn. A real bastard. I could tell you things about him.

‘Ach, the boy's just lost his father,' says Ma. ‘Let him be.'

Dirk sniffs loudly.

‘Speedboat, of all the stupid . . .'

It makes me itch, a nice kind of itch, the kind you can't help scratching. Joe Speedboat. Well I'll be damned.

Weeks later, the world and I are both still flat on our backs and breathless, the world because of the heat, me because of the accident. And Ma's crying. From happiness this time, for a change.

‘Oh, he's back again. Sweetheart, there you are.'

She burned a candle for me every day and actually thinks that helped. In class they think
they're
the ones who did it, with their praying. Even that hypocrite Quincy Hansen joined in on it . . . as though I'd ever be caught dead in
his
prayers. Not that I can get out of bed or anything. I couldn't if I tried. They've still got to run tests on my spinal column; at the moment, all I can move is my right arm.

‘Just enough to choke the chicken,' says Dirk.

I can't talk yet either.

‘Not a whole lot ever came out anyway,' says Sam.

He looks over at Dirk to see if he's laughing, but Dirk laughs only at his own jokes. He doesn't have much choice: no one else will.

‘Boys!' my mother warns.

So this is how things stand: I, Frankie Hermans, one good arm attached to forty kilos of dead meat. I've been in better situations. But Ma's tickled pink; she'd have been thankful for one good ear – as long as it listened to her, of course.

I have to get out of this place. They're driving me nuts, hanging around my bed, grousing about business and the weather. Did I ask for this? I'm telling you.

I grew a year older in my sleep, they celebrated my birthday in the hospital. Ma tells me about the cake with fourteen candles that they scoffed around my bed. My sleep lasted about 220 days and, counting the first few weeks of rehab, I'm going home now for the first time in ten months.

It's the middle of June. The miracle of my resurrection – as Ma insists on calling it – puts a lot of pressure on life at home. I have to be fed, cleaned and pushed around. Thank you all very much, but the words just won't cross my lips.

One day my brothers take me to the fair, because Ma makes them. Sam pushes the wheelchair cart; the fresh air hugs me like an old friend. While I was gone the world seems to have changed. It looks scrubbed, as though the Pope were coming to visit or something. Sam pushes me down the street in a hurry, he doesn't want people stopping him to ask questions about me. I can hear the noise of the summer fair. The shrieks, the fast patter of the carnies, the ringing of the alarm bells when you hit the mark – the noise says it all. It says hooray for the fair.

Dirk's walking out in front of us. His back is ashamed to be here. He turns into Zonstraat and passes the Sun Café, with Sam and me bringing up the rear. The fair is fading. All I can hear now are the peaks and valleys of sound. Looks like we're not going to the fair. I turn my head to look at Sam, who's
ramming me down the street at racetrack speed. At the edge of the village we get to the old Hoving place. That's where we stop. Dirk is already opening the garden gate. I haven't been out here for a long time.

‘Gimme a hand, wouldya?!' Sam shouts.

The cart won't roll through the high grass full of burdock and poppies. Dirk comes back, the two of them wring the cart through Rinus Hoving's garden, the garden of the late Rinus Hoving. His farm is deserted, and as long as the heirs keep fighting about what to do with it that's the way it will stay. They pick me up, cart and all, and carry me in through the pantry door. The red floor tiles are covered in a carpet of dust. I can see footprints in it. They roll me through the kitchen and down the hall, then park me in front of the sliding glass doors to the sitting room.

‘Put him over by the window,' Dirk says. ‘So he's got something to look at.'

‘Put him over by the window yourself.'

Sam is having his doubts. Dirk's not. Dirk doesn't have doubts; he's too dumb for that.

‘We can't really do this,' Sam says.

‘It's his own damn fault. If she thinks I'm taking him on the Tilt-a-Whirl, she can think again.'

‘She', that's Ma. Not that Dirk has any respect for her, but she has a powerful instrument at her disposal: Pa's right hand. Sam's head moves into view.

‘We'll be right back, Frankie. In an hour or so.'

Then they're gone.

This is just great, dropped in some dump like a bundle of dry twigs. At least you know what you can expect from them. I'd figured something like this, I was just waiting for the facts. Facts aren't nearly as bad as suspicions. The fact of the matter is
that I find myself in a darkened house that's breathing down the back of my neck. And that my view consists of a windowsill covered in dead flies, spider webs and dust balls. My fears all have one eye open now, you can't fool them, they're wide awake. And there they are, shouting to beat the band. Critters! Child molesters! Things! In a word: panic. But how long can a person stay scared if nothing happens? It starts feeling kind of weird, and when nothing keeps on happening all you can do is laugh at yourself. But wait a minute, there, that really
was
a sound! I swear, I heard a door slam, something falling over . . . I turn my head, which takes so much effort that I groan like some retard. Like pushing over a tree with your forehead. And there, standing in the doorway . . .

‘Hello,' says the figure.

A boy's voice. I stare into the light coming from the kitchen behind him, and all I can see is his silhouette in the doorway. He comes over. A boy, thank God it's just a boy. He walks around in front of me and takes a long, unembarrassed look. His gaze takes in the steel braces clamped to my feet, the cart's blue upholstery (genuine leatherette, my good man), the silver tubes and the wooden lever on my right, used to steer the front wheels and propel the back wheel by sheer force of the human arm. Bought ‘to grow into', after a manner of speaking. It's a real peach, never left the garage except on Sundays, you know the spiel. They say I'll be able to move around in it myself someday, but for the time being I can't even knock a fly off my own forehead.

‘Hello,' the boy says again. ‘Can't you talk?'

A tanned face with clear eyes. Hair cut in a Prince Valiant fringe. He turns around and looks out the window. Hoving's garden: heads of red clover, stinging nettles and the lovely poppy, so pleased to be seen but so insulted when picked that she withers in your hand.