Girl in the Dark (12 page)

“The plaintiff is already seated in the conference room,” whispered Claire, the receptionist. “We've parked Mr. Van Benschop in your office for the time being.”

I tried not to show my annoyance. “Next time I'd appreciate it if you could find another solution. I prefer not to have clients wait in my office when I'm not there.”

“On Lawrence's orders.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course.”

There was a small conference table in my office. But that wasn't where Peter van Benschop was sitting. He was standing by my desk, studying a photo of Aaron and me at the zoo.

“Single mother, isn't that what I said?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Van Benschop.”

“When it comes to women I'm always right. They may think of themselves as complicated creatures, but to me they're an open book.”

If you knew what I was thinking right now, you'd run back to your mama, howling,
I thought. “Would you mind taking a seat?” I
asked politely, pointing at one of the chairs at the conference table. “I'd like to go over what's going to happen in the upcoming conference.”

He complied, even took out his notepad.

“Since the plaintiff's legal team has chosen to resolve this matter with both parties present, it probably means they want to make an issue of Miss De Boer's emotional state.”

“How do you mean?” asked Van Benschop, an aggressive tone creeping into his voice.

“It's easier, naturally, not to have to face up to the fact that Kim de Boer is just a young girl . . . excuse me, young woman, when she exists only on paper. I have the feeling they'll want to play up her age and vulnerability, use it as their trump card.”

“You mean she'll start sobbing or something?”

“She may. Things will be said that will seem unfair to you. Demands will be made you won't agree with. But I want you to refrain from speaking unless I ask you. Is that clear?”

“What do you mean, I can't speak?
I'm
the one being sued, aren't I?”

“True. But you have retained me as your attorney. So please let me do my job.”

“But I
know
Kim.”

“And isn't that where all the trouble started? More than anything, it's so you won't say anything ill-advised from a legal standpoint.”

“Okay.” He made a show of writing
KEEP TRAP SHUT
on his notepad.

I couldn't help laughing. “Are you ready for this?”

“I hope so.”

Waiting for us in the conference room were a stony-faced Kim de Boer, her parents, and her attorney. This wasn't going to be a walk in the park.

“No need for introductions on my part, is there?” said Van Benschop.

“We know who
you
are,” said the mother.

I had pictured a dysfunctional family. Indifferent parents who were too busy getting drunk to care and only willing to get involved if there was money in it. But Mr. and Mrs. De Boer sat in neatly pressed outfits, giving the impression of decent, steady people. It struck me what a painful mess it was for them.

Kim de Boer sat between her parents, with no makeup on. Her hair drooped in greasy strands down along her oval face. I tried to read her expression, but it was completely blank.

“We all know why we're here,” I opened the discussion. “Miss De Boer holds my client, Mr. Van Benschop, accountable for damages arising from lost income and emotional distress.”

“Correct,” said Adrian de Leeuw, the plaintiff's attorney. I had met him once, at a Junior Bar Association cocktail hour, a million years ago.

“We believe that this is about something more than money damages or legal conditions. What we would like to discuss is that my client”—De Leeuw nodded at Kim de Boer, as if we didn't know who she was—“is a young girl traumatized for life.”

Kim de Boer was staring straight ahead with the same blank expression on her face.

“You have already described your client's state of mind rather extensively in your letter,” I said drily. “May I have your reply to the counteroffer?”

“When I look at your proposal, I don't get the feeling that you are conscious of the gravity of the situation. My client has suffered severe emotional distress and will need
years
of therapy.”

“Your client knew what she was getting into. I'd like to remind you that it was she who contacted Mr. Van Benschop in the first place. She was thoroughly informed as to the nature of the production and signed a contract.”

“And we did go over everything first, didn't we, hey, Kim?” Peter van Benschop jumped in. “We even had a Coke together afterward.” I gave Van Benschop a vicious kick under the table.

“The real question here is to what extent a minor can be held responsible,” said De Leeuw.

“She was so eager that she presented a fake ID. My client had no clue as to her actual age. You could also have read
that
in my counteroffer.”

Kim's mother looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment. I suspected her husband was just raring to lunge across the table and make mincemeat of Pissing Peter. Go ahead, I thought. I'd gladly push my chair aside and give him all the room he needed.

“I don't know a thing about that,” said De Leeuw.

“Then you ought to read more closely.”

“Is that true?” Mr. De Boer asked his daughter. “Did you use a fake ID to take part in this disgusting . . . spectacle?”

Kim's expression did not change.

“We need an answer,” I said.

She shrugged.

“Silence implies consent, I believe.” I hated myself for saying that. This had nothing to do with consent. Let alone my own conscience.

“I
should
like to hear my client's own answer,” said De Leeuw.

“Do you think I'm
crazy
or something?” yelled Van Benschop indignantly. As if he was the one who'd been traumatized. “I'd
never
allow a minor to act in my films. Do you have any idea how eager women are to do this? I've got them knocking on my door . . .”

“What Mr. Van Benschop is trying to say is that there was no need for him to permit a minor to participate in his production. There is a reason all actresses are obligated to give proof of their age.” Request a copy of the fake ID, I tried silently signaling to De Leeuw.
Ask
for it. But telepathy was evidently not his strong suit.

“Without that fake ID your client would never have been given the role.” I couldn't have given him a more explicit hint.

But instead of asking to be shown the evidence, De Leeuw turned to his client. “Kim, did you falsify your ID?”

The girl stirred herself at last. She squirmed in her chair and her mouth wavered. She was going to break.

Everyone stared at her expectantly. She seemed to shrivel in her chair.

“It was Rick—he's the one who did it,” she finally said. The voice of a little girl.

“Did what?” asked De Leeuw.

Please put an end to this farce, I prayed silently. I decided right then and there that this was the last time I'd ever take this kind of case. I'd rather do nuptials.

“Rick did something to the copy of my . . .”

“What the . . . ?” said Mr. De Boer. “Damn it, Kim. We
told
you that you were not to see him!”

Mrs. De Boer's neatly painted mouth had become a thin straight line. A flat line on an ICU heart monitor. The only thing missing was the high-pitched alarm.

“I hope you'll sleep well tonight,” Mr. De Boer said to me before leaving the conference room. “Congratulations.”

We had gone over the numbers and arrived at a total just slightly under the original counteroffer.

I couldn't think of an appropriate rejoinder. No excuse, no protest, no retort. Normally I'd have said something like “Bye now.” Or “Drive safe.” But neither seemed fitting. I watched the
girl, supported by her parents, led out of the conference room. De Leeuw gave a curt nod and followed them out. The door slammed shut.

“Well, that was easy.” Van Benschop rubbed his hands together. “Let me buy you a drink? Champagne?”

“Easy? It was
easy
?” I asked.

“Yeah. I have to tell you, I didn't have much confidence, but the way you handled it . . . you were great. I told you, didn't I, that it was all just a bunch of malarkey on that Kim's part?”

I turned and stared at him, incredulous. “If you really think it was easy because you had the law on your side, you're totally mistaken. It's just your dumb luck the plaintiff's attorney was asleep at the wheel.”

“It's the outcome that counts, I say.”

“The outcome?” It took me all I had not to start screaming at him. “The outcome is that you've ruined her and her entire family, not to mention what you've done to all the other morons—the men who think it's okay to abuse their wives because your films show them how it's done. You have no idea how much damage you're doing.”

“Excuse me? What a prissy, pompous bitch you are.”

“And
you
are a narcissistic, opportunistic, immoral bastard.”

As I said it, the door swung open. “Didn't it go well?” asked Rence with a frown, charging into the room. “How do you feel, Mr. Van Benschop?”

God, the icing on the cake. “We did extremely well,” I said. “Mr. Van Benschop was just about to pop the champagne. Weren't you?”

“Oh. It didn't sound that positive,” said Rence. He put his hand on Van Benschop's shoulder. “Is Ms. Kastelein behaving herself?”

I didn't give Van Benschop a chance to answer. “Did you think
I was being unkind? On the contrary, you could see it as an ode to the submission of . . . what was it you called it again, Mr. Van Benschop?”

Pissing Peter didn't answer, but he was looking pretty hot under the collar.

“I'll get the documents ready by the end of today. I'll send them over for you to sign off on?”

“Excellent,” Rence said quickly. “I'm glad you were able to get this matter resolved quickly, Iris. Well done. And perhaps you'll give Mr. Van Benschop and myself the chance to talk it over.”

I strode out of the room without a backward glance.

It was in the yard that I saw Rembrandt again. I'd recently been allowed to do yard work. Some of the patients had their own vegetable plots. Or they grew flowers. I clipped the hedges.

There were lots of hedges in the central courtyard. People sometimes called it Little Versailles. The hedges were planted in a square. The corners were cut off by diagonal lines making a smaller inner square. Inside that square stood a statue of a naked man. Though he did wear a stone loincloth. The restriction on naked bottoms obviously applied to the statues in the yard as well.

They let me clip all the hedges once every other week. Not without someone to keep an eye on me, though. Because patients with hedge shears had to be closely watched.

I looked forward to the day I trimmed the hedges. It reminded me of when I lived on Queen Wilhelmina Street. When I still had my job. When I still had Rosita and Anna. When I was often alone, sure, but not nearly as lonely as I was now.

I was halfway done with the second hedge when I saw Rembrandt wander into the courtyard. He'd been sprung from solitary a few days before, and I had managed to avoid him.

“Hey, Ray,” he said, tossing a cigarette butt on the lawn. I made a note to myself to pick it up and throw it away the moment Rembrandt was out of sight.

“Rainman. Word is you got a crush on the blond cunt, what's-her-name-Jeannie?”

I didn't say anything back but went on clipping. Snippets of boxwood rained rhythmically down.
One, two, three.
On
three
my blades would lop off the next twig.

“You think she's hot, don't you?”

One, two, three. One, two, three.

“Know what you should do? You should just grab her. She wants it
bad
. It's obvious, the way she's acting.”

One, two, three. One, two, three
.

“You can do that, can't you? You
are
a real man, aren't you?”

I stopped clipping and looked around to see where the guard was. He was having a conversation with a colleague. I hoped he'd look up and tell Rembrandt to get lost. Didn't he know patients with shears needed to be closely watched?

Rembrandt took another step closer. “Sneak up behind her and tweak her nice fat ass.” I was worried he was going to pinch my bum. His hand was coming closer. I tightened my grip on the hedge shears.

At last the guard turned around. “How's it going?” he asked.

“Great,” said Rembrandt. “Little Rainman and I were having a nice little chat.”

“Stop distracting him.”

Rembrandt waved his hand in the air. “Fine, fine. See, I'm walking away. We're cool.”

I went on snipping at the hedge. But I couldn't find the right rhythm anymore.

“If you don't do it, I will,” Rembrandt called over his shoulders.

“What's
he
on about?” The guard had come up next to me. I saw Rembrandt watching us from a distance and tried to concentrate on the hedge.

“Nothing,” I mumbled. My head felt hot, as if I had a fever. I didn't think I had a crush on Jeannie. Although she was very nice and she'd brought me a slice of her homemade bread. I'd tasted it and said, “Needs more sugar.”

I had to admit that I did sometimes think of her when I jerked off. But she didn't even come close to Rosita. No one could hold a candle to Rosita. I thought about Rosita's white teeth, her dimple, and her nails, which were much too long, and I was sad.

“I don't feel like doing this anymore,” I told the guard. “Can I come back and finish tomorrow?”

“Sure, Ray. No problem.”

Back on the floor I sat staring at the photos. Peanut, Saturn, Venus. I held them up to my face and studied them. The fish were looking good. And Iris Kastelein who said she was my sister was right: the coral had grown. My . . .
our
mother had obviously taken very good care of the aquarium, but there were a few fish missing. Where was King Kong? And where was Hannibal? I also saw a dwarf angelfish I'd never seen before. I'd ask about it when Iris Kastelein who said she was my sister visited me again.

Mother had never been good at answering questions. I don't remember exactly when, but at some point I just stopped asking. Whenever she visited me before I went to jail, she did ask me some questions. How my work was going. If I was eating enough. What the story was with Rosita. At first she'd been glad to hear I'd made friends with my next-door neighbor. She'd even said, “Maybe you'll turn out okay after all.”

But then Rosita and Anna had come walking by one time when my mother and I were standing out in front of my house.

Rosita waved at me and I waved back.

“Is that her?” my mother had asked. “Well, that won't do, then.”

“Why not?”

“Just look at that skirt, it's much too short. It's indecent. How old does she think she is—sixteen?”

I looked at Rosita's skirt. It barely covered her buttocks. I felt a stabbing ache in my stomach. “She's always too warm. And I don't know if she thinks she's sixteen. I thought she was almost thirty. But I'll ask her.”

My mother looked at me, shaking her head. “I wish I could see the humor in it—you being the way you are.”

My mother didn't care for Rosita, and Rosita didn't have many good things to say about her, either. I was always caught in the middle.

“So where's your father, then?” Rosita liked to bring up difficult subjects. She'd come and sit next to me on the new couch with an ashtray on her lap, hugging her knees so that her skirt rode up and I could see her brown legs. I had used a good part of my savings to buy that couch.

“He left,” I said. “He wasn't in the mood for a child.”

“What do you mean, he left? Haven't you ever known him, then?”

“No. He left when my mother knew she was having me.”

“
Men
. They're all the same.”

I'd never leave. I'd never leave Rosita. I wish she would have seen that. But instead of seeing it, she allowed Anna's father to disappoint her time and again.

“Hasn't he ever tried to contact you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I shrugged my shoulders. I didn't want to answer her questions, even if I'd known the answers. But I did my best anyway. It was important to Rosita.

“You've got to find out who he is. Don't you want to know where you came from? You have a right to know, don't you? Take Anna's dad. He's a fucking bastard, but at least Anna
knows
him
.
Have you asked your mother who he was?”

I wavered. “No,” I said in the end.

“Aha. You don't want to tell me, do you! That's it.” She put a hand on my cheek and moved her face close to mine. I smelled her sweet perfume mingled with cigarette smoke. It was nice, and also scary.

“We're friends. You know that, don't you? I'm on your side. Look at me.”

I took my eyes off the hollow between her collarbones and tried looking her straight in the eye for as long as I could keep it up.

“That's better. You don't have to be afraid. I'm not going to
eat
you, you idiot.”

“I'm not an idiot.”

She let go of my face. “Of course not, sweetie. You're not an idiot. Far from it. You're the nicest person I've ever met, actually. You hear me?”

I nodded.

“You can trust me, Ray. Why are you keeping all the bad stuff inside? Just tell me. What happened with your father?”

“He left.”

“We know that. Do you know where he went?”

“It was just as well my father left, because I was a terrible cry-baby, my mother said.”

“Babies cry, what do you expect? You should have seen Anna—she howled and howled, day and night. It drove me up the wall! Believe me, Ray, all babies cry their heads off and it drives every mother crazy, even the hoity-toity ones who think they're perfect.”

I looked at Anna. She was watching a cartoon.

“If your father abandoned you because he couldn't take the noise, he's just a wimp. It's got nothing to do with you.”

“I want to buy Anna a fish,” I said. “I want to give Anna a nice big fish, because she likes looking at fish, and then she'll have one of her own.”

“That's so sweet of you. But you won't get out of it that easy. Come on, who's your dad? What has your mom told you about him?”

I had asked my mother about my dad a few times. At some point it had struck me that most of the boys in the neighborhood, as well as the kids at school, had dads who played soccer with them and punished them if they did something bad. One time at dinner I asked, “How come I don't have a dad?”

My mother's mouth froze for a second, and then went on chewing again. “You don't have one, that's all.”

“Why not?” I'd asked. I didn't usually push my mother.

“Because. But don't be sad about it, Ray. Just be happy he isn't here. What do you think your father would say if he could see you banging your head against the wall the way you do? Or when you start screeching in the supermarket because you're scared to walk past the meat, even though you're a big boy of seven? Or what do you think your father would think about you smearing poop all over the walls? Do you think your father would enjoy seeing that?”

This was stuff I couldn't possibly have told Rosita. So I answered, “I don't know.”

She scrunched up her eyes. “You
do
know,” she said. “But if you don't trust me, that's your problem.”

I didn't want her to be mad at me. I tried as hard as I could to think of something that would satisfy her. But I didn't have much imagination. “My mother was very young. Just twenty-two years old. And my father . . . he's just never been around.”

Rosita lit another cigarette and smoked it with big sweeps of her arm. “I'm sick and tired of men who walk out on their women. All they think about is fucking, and a condom spoils it, they'll tell you. ‘It doesn't feel as good.' Want to know what doesn't feel so good? Squeezing a baby out of your body. But that's not their problem.
Oh, no
. The kid isn't their problem.”

I nodded, to make her happy.

“You'd never do that, would you? You're such a sweet guy.”

I got a bit embarrassed and tried not to look at her or at the photograph on the wall. So I stared at Anna's cartoon on the TV.

“Have you ever had a girlfriend?”

“Um, no.”

She laughed. “I should have known. A sweet guy like you. And you're quite good-looking, in your own way. How's it possible you've never had a girlfriend?”

I felt uncomfortable. “Tomorrow we're going to go buy a fish, me and Anna. We'll take the bus to Amersfoort and go to the fish store.”

Rosita laughed. Was she laughing at me? “Don't change the subject. You've never
been
with a woman, have you?”

“I've got to get home,” I said. “I have to feed the fish and check on the levels. I have to prepare a quarantine tank for the new fish.”

She put a hand on my knee and leaned closer. “Or do you sometimes visit the whores?”

Now she was making fun of me. I was sure of it. I got up and walked out of the room.

“Sorry!” she called out after me. “I didn't mean to offend you.” But she was still laughing.

We didn't go to Amersfoort the next day, nor the day after. I couldn't face Rosita, not after the things she had said to me. I did leave the paper bag with the madeleine at their door. I wasn't sure about it—should I or shouldn't I? But I just couldn't
not
do it.

I missed Rosita. I missed our afternoons together. I missed it when we'd both start laughing for no reason and then couldn't stop. I even missed the tough questions she always had for me.

After two days without her, I saw Anna's father park his car in front of her house. I had been sitting at the window, behind my curtain, hoping to catch a glimpse of Rosita. I felt sick. So bad I thought I was going to throw up.

He got out. I thought about him being allowed to see Rosita's privates, even though Rosita had called him a fucking bastard. She called me sweetie pie, she told me I was different than the other men. But
he
was allowed to touch her breasts, be the father of her child, even if he was a very bad one, who only came over whenever he felt like it.

I thought of all the times I'd babysat Anna because
he
needed alone time with Rosita, the times he'd talked to me with a smarmy smile on his face. As if he was better than me, when
I
was the one who'd bought the wall-to-wall carpeting, the new couch, and a new stroller for Anna. Which I'd done even though my mother had said that a four-year-old was too old for a stroller. But then she thought everything Rosita did was wrong or ridiculous. I did really want to
please my mother. But more than anything in the world I wanted to please Rosita.

Anna's father strutted up to her front door. I don't know why, but he turned his head and waved at me. With that grin on his face. As if I was his friend. But I wasn't his friend. No, I was definitely
not
his friend.

He disappeared from view. Rosita probably opened the door in her white bathrobe with nothing on underneath. I stared at his ridiculously big blue car. And I thought,
I'll fix it so you can't drive anymore
.
If you can't drive anymore, you won't be coming over anymore, either, and then Rosita will see she's better off with me.

I rummaged through the kitchen drawer and found a big knife. It was the carving knife my mother had bought me. Part of a so-called starter set, which also included pots and pans, plastic containers, plates, and cutlery.

I didn't really know what I was supposed to do with a starter set, since I'd already been living by myself for quite a few years. Besides, I didn't like the knife; it was too dull and didn't have a nice grip. I had much better knives at the bakery to slice the apples and chop nuts. But for this job it was perfect.