A woman sweeps her balcony. There are no leaves on the trees, it is Winter. She glances over to an adjacent house, the house without curtains. The lady who lives there often sits in front of her laptop, eats a sandwich while working. Sometimes she dances and puts on music really loud. It's always dramatic music. Or she sits in a chair next to the window and drinks a cup of coffee early in the morning. And sometimes there's a man. They unashamedly embrace, unaware of the rest of the world. Or simply not caring.
Today, the lady is in front of her laptop again. She is not working though. Her head rests on her arms, face down. The woman studies the lady and recognizes the jerky movements that reveal she is sobbing. The lady then sits up and drops her face in her hands.
The woman slips on her jacket and runs out. She counts windows and doorbells and floors. Number 12, 3rd floor. It takes a while for the lady to answer.
"Hello?" says the lady through the intercom. Her voice contains the careful tingle of hope.
"It's your neighbour," says the woman. "I was wondering... if you happen to have any... any sugar?" God does she sound pathetic.
"Sugar?"
"Yes sugar."
"I think so." The lady opens the door. She is smiling radiantly. "I thought this only happens in sitcoms," she says and laughs. The woman studies the lady's face which has smudges of mascara on it. So she was right then, the lady was crying.
"Are you all right?" asks the woman.
The lady turns to her, still smiling.
"Why do you ask?"
The woman glances at the window and the lady instantly understands.
"Well," she says, and after a while, "I never knew having to admit defeat is so hard." Still, she smiles. She bites her lip, but smiles.
The woman nods. Her mother once warned her she shouldn't give up on school and trot off to do weird soul-searching stuff in India. The woman is now almost fifty and is still soul-searching. She also lives in the same tiny studio she lived in when she was twenty. Moreover, she is no longer in touch with her mother.
A guy stops me on the streets. I thought he wanted to ask the way.
"Thank you sister," he says. He explains that he is from Iraq. Then he speaks of how he is a refugee and had applied for a permit but the Dutch government hasn't granted it. They are stricter on Iraqis now, he says.
"Yes, I heard on the news!" and instantly I feel really smart. He talks and talks and I'm getting cold and impatient. He says he is now roaming the streets and needs to be registered at an existing address in order to access the salvation army's resources and anyway it's cold and he has a friend in the North who he'd like to see and who can help him out, but...
Yet again I feel smart, "speak no more, you need money, do you? It's an expensive dare."
He nods, yes a trainticket costs about 26 euros sister.
I have just bought a pair of shoes. And so I quickly open my wallet which has 16 euros in it and give it all to him. That's how relieved I am he isn't asking me for my address to register himself. Otherwise I'd have had to lie. "I know the problem, I don't have a house either..." or something of the sort.
His black eyes glimmer briefly on looking at the money, perhaps from disbelief or from joy. But it is only very briefly.
I bike away feeling increasingly foolish. He is probably just a drug-addict who has figured out what to say.
I decide I don't care. It's not the truth that matters. It's about wanting to believe that the stories people tell you are true.
The car I borrowed gave up on me. I had left my celphone at home. I had gone to the beach. And then to the inlet for cargo ships. They loom up on the horizon and disappear into mainland, a canal swallows them, takes them away. It had been a crisp and sunny day.
Now suddenly it was dark and cold.
I asked two angry-white-men on Harley Davidsons whether I could use their phone. They were clad in black leathers. Heavy-set, scarred faces. We talked for a while. A polite conversation one has with strangers.
"Bye," I said, after the care was fixed, "nice to meet you. And thank you."
"No problem, glad to be of help."
"Not that we're ever entirely helpless in this country are we?"
After that, I went and did some groceries. On entering the supermarket an angry looking woman brushed by me. She was in black too, heave-set and scarred. She stared at the floor, and walked straight out in a determinate pace. Which is when I noticed the french-bread sticking out of her pocket. One of the cashiers noticed too. She jumped up and ran after her.
Stop that thief!
Leave it, is what I thought. Why would you care about a loaf of bread? She's hungry.
The man in the suit, yesterday. Drinks, suits, chit-chat, that kind of an event. A friendly, get to know eachother type thing. Then the man in the suit stepped forward, was introduced to us. He was the evening's speaker. It took me a while to notice there was more to him than man-in-suit. He was young, much younger than he presented himself as being. I found that unfortunate for him. We have a whole life ahead of us to be old. His hair was parted. And he started off just fine. Ease off the nerves with a little joke or two, politely refer to the previous speaker. Right, so now you have us listening to you, introduce yourself.
He was a pastor, he said. AND, a business man. He pauzed for a moment. Perhaps he was used to people falling over backward in awe. Then he went on to answer how this was possible. Probably just as possible as being a lawyer and writing bestselling novels, I thought. After a few minutes he seemed to be talking about nothing in particular, himself maybe, and for the sole purpose of talking. He didn't give us anything to think about.
When he finished a woman asked him his definition of God. He lashed out at her by mimicking her the way a bully in school would.
"What my definition of God is? Well, first of all we should all learn to read properly. The Bible, that is to say. And listen. Do you know how to listen?"
The woman stood her ground, she told him her question had been sincere. She was honestly interested. He said a whole lot more but never answered her question. Perhaps he didn't have a definition. Perhaps he was still developing one. There's nothing wrong with that. In fact, it would have been quite intelligent.
But as the saying goes: wisdom comes with age.
A friend calls another friend. The one friend had been wondering who to call.
So many friends, yet noone to bloody well call.
This thought made him more depressed than he already was. Was he desperate enough to bother his parents? For godssake, he thought. That would mean admitting failure. Yes mum and dad, I am past fourty mum and dad, and still I feel like crying like the baby I've always been. All right?
Wine, more wine.
Music, more music.
Silence. No not silence! He doesn't believe a word all those happy people say. That he should practice being silent.
"Are you by any chance in a bar right now?" he texts his friend.
"Almost, I'm meeting up with the team," the friend texts back.
Oh no, not the team. It's his friend's team and not his. Even though he can drink way more than them. Way more.
Suddenly, the friend who is going out with his team calls. He hardly ever calls. "Where are you?" he asks.
Where the bloody well do you think I am? "Home."
"I'm outside."
Well good for you.
"I've been kicked out."
"What?? No way, really?" You didn't tell her did you?
"I told her. I told her about Julia."
"Fuck." I told you not to, didn't I? You don't want to be like me, do you?
"But listen, what was that you were saying?"
I was saying I feel like crap. "You're going out drinking are you?"
"Yes. You can come if you like."
"No, no, I need to get loads of work done."
"It'll pass," the team-drinking-friend says, "you need this. This is who you are."
What? feeling like crap is who I am?
"The things around us change faster than we do," he says, "eventually we do too. Eventually."
That's true. That's so fucking true isn't it. "I suppose."
"So are you coming out then?"
"Nah. You go out, have fun. If you need a bed, you know where to find me."
"Thanks mate."
"Yeah, thanks mate."
"When I was 4, you threw my favourite underpants away."
I could pretend I had no idea what he was talking about. But I did know. Sure I knew. I could, for example, have said, "oh really? oh well. Haha, that must have been funny..." Cough.
Instead, I chose to sit down in front of my little boy, who was on the floor taking off his pants to go to bed. Something, no idea what, had triggered a memory.
He had been 3, actually. And like many toddler boys, he was simply too lazy to go to the toilet. We were about to board an airplane. I had said, "I want you to pee before we go." He refused. "But don't pee in your pants then, okay?" Of course not mummy. Five minutes later, he wet his pants. I was out of spare undies. Goddammit. So then take the bloody thing off and well I'll just uhm throw the goddamn thing away because at least your trousers are still somewhat dry and why the hell and I told you and for chrissake... and so on.
It was worse than he remembered. I had pulled his pants down in front of everyone. So learn then the hard way then, if you must. And now, I hated myself all over again.
"I remember that yes. I remember being angry and I remember it wasn't your fault. I was tired and toddlers can be really tough to deal with sometimes. But that's no excuse. It was wrong of me. How about we buy new favourite underpants tomorrow? Would you like that?"
He nodded.
"So we're all right then?"
He nodded again and went on with his business of doing the things 5-year olds generally do.
Later, I asked him as casually as possible, "is there anything else you remember me doing that was mean?" He didn't react. But after I told him his bedtime story, he put his little arm around me the way he always does while he and I wait for him to fall asleep.
Motherhood means holding your breath and crossing your fingers. For years on end
New years go by with increased speed. As does the moment it comes, that new year. Gone in a flash. Happy new year, my friend! Let it be a better year than last. Let it be cancer-free. Let it be opportunity-filled. Let it be worriless, fearless, endless in time.
Happiness.
We used to have time. Now we have pain.
