was something the matter with him. He seemed … drunk.
‘Herman, there’s no pâté,’ Magda said as Mrs. Deknudt folded the ten-euro bill into her wallet and before Dr. Lietaer’s wife could order. She gave Magda a dirty look, but Magda ignored her. Madame Princess could just wait.
‘I haven’t had time, Magda. I’ll make a batch later today, if I get the chance.’ He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. He rubbed his eyes, as though he were about to cry.
‘I hope so, Herman.’
He sighed.
‘They make quite a racket, don’t they, the windmills,’ he said. The three women looked at him sheepishly, Mrs. Deknudt because she was stone-deaf, that bimbo Lietaer because every spring she fried her brains on a tanning bed, and Magda because she had misunderstood Herman’s comment.
‘Your meat mill, you mean?’ she asked, biting her bottom lip to keep from asking in jest if he’d been tilting at windmills. He did not answer. He grunted and like a zombie took the Lietaer woman’s order. Of course only the most expensive cuts of meat were good enough—no country steak for her, it had to be sirloin.
Magda was so nonplussed by Herman’s wretched appearance that she ordered country steaks instead of the breaded Swiss patties Walter liked so much. On the way home she fantasized about what had worn Herman out so. It couldn’t be Claire’s lust. She smiled. Liquor, that must be it.
Her irritation about the lack of summer pâté made way for a blissful warmth. For the first time in ages, she had something to be cheerful about.
◆
Zeppos was the ideal antidepressant. When Saskia came sniffling back inside, Zeppos darted under her bathrobe to lick her feet. Giggling, she led him to the sofa, where he slobbered all over her calves and behind her knees. Tears of sorrow became tears of laughter. She even got a little aroused by it.
Now that she was in the shower, she could look on the bright side. Tomorrow she had an appointment with the social worker, and although she was nervous about her reaction to the job rejection, there was good news too: she was in somebody’s files! For the first time in her life, people thought she was worth keeping on file. Maybe the insurance company would offer her another job. A secretarial post was perhaps aiming too high, but she would be happy to deliver the mail or answer the phone. Moreover, she was quite the speed typist. Of course, she still made oodles of mistakes, and she could always brush up on her grammar. At any rate, being kept on file was a first step.
She turned off the faucet and got out of the shower, more refreshed than before, as though the water massaged not only her body, but her thoughts too. What’s to complain about? She had been given this beautiful apartment, even though instinctively she felt she did not deserve it.
She hastily finished her bathroom routine. All her life Saskia had been stuck in a whirling carousel of guilt, retribution and labor, worked ragged like a beast of burden during the day and scorned as a downright nuisance during her meager free time. Pleasure and relaxation were for namby-pambies. But she had escaped from that nest of vipers and tried, once in a while, to enjoy life.
‘Come, Zeppos,’ she said, ‘time for our walk.’
She did not need to call him, he sprinted toward her of his own accord. She stroked his brown head while he licked her hand. He’s a lick addict, she giggled to herself.
‘Have you eaten up all your food, Zep?’
She peered into the kitchen. Zeppos’s dish was as clean as a whistle.
‘Let’s go then.’
Before pulling the door shut behind them, she glanced around the apartment, at the living-room suite she had bought with the last of her savings, to make it feel a bit like her apartment, at the cabinet where the compilation CDs were neatly arranged next to the old CD player, at the round dining table with the cheap chairs. She cleaned house at least twice a week. The sober interior meant more to her than just a collection of thrift-store furniture. Here, she decided things for herself. Here, no one could harm her.
◆
Zeppos sniffed around lamp posts and doorsteps, wagging his tail, and occasionally lifted his leg to offer the Blaashoekstraat a sign of his appreciation. Saskia’s feelings swung between the enjoyment of a summer stroll and the acrid guilt of not really deserving this little pleasure.
Then she heard a car approach. She froze and flattened herself against a wall.
‘Zep, come,’ she hissed, and the little dog cowered at her feet. She dared not look, and turned her face to the wall. She heard the rattle of the old engine, recognized its sound. She braced herself for squealing brakes, the slam of a door and her furious grandfather’s screams and blows. Her escape from the ugly past was about to come to an end, with Granddad dragging her into the dirty green Mercedes, back to the farm. Back to the life she deserved.
The car slowed, then picked up speed and drove past. It was in fact a Mercedes, but a clean blue one. Saskia felt her heart sink back into her chest. Her breathing returned to normal. But the fear would never pass. She was constantly on edge, took the putt-putt of a lawnmower for Granddad’s jalopy, or her heart skipped a beat every time a Mercedes drove by, like just now.
She had to put it out of her mind. She watched Zeppos’s carefree sniffing and tried to enjoy the warmth of the sun on her face. She’d been living in the town for three weeks now—if you could call a street with a hundred houses at most a town—and she was getting to like it here more and more. The first time she rode into Blaashoek on the bus, something struck her as strange. Along the Blaashoek Canal were ten tall poles, like chimneys from an underground factory. But no smoke came out, and the sight had something surreal about it. The poles appeared to have no use whatsoever. All they did was spoil the view of the countryside.
A few days later she realized that they were not chimneys at all. Silly me, she thought, when she saw the blades rotating in the air. She had to admit they couldn’t have found a better place for the turbines: a persistent, potent wind blew over Blaashoek. Even now she felt it tug at her clothes, like a child nagging for candy.
Despite its modest size, Blaashoek offered its inhabitants all the amenities you could want: there was a butcher shop—the butcher was a jovial fellow, and his wife always politely nodded hello—and a small grocery, where the manager Patricia was always up for a chat. Saskia liked the town’s casual friendliness.
The neighboring pharmacy was the one place she unconsciously gave a wide berth. She hoped never to have to set foot inside. Since learning what the pills had done to her mother, she couldn’t walk past a pharmacy without a chill running down her spine.
The only drawback was the poor bus connection to the city, just one per hour. Tomorrow she’d have to take the 7:15 bus to make her appointment with the social worker. She would love to have a car, but didn’t know how to drive. Who would have taught her? Granddad said women behind the wheel was about as good an idea as pigs in a cockpit.
Her daydream had led her further from home than she’d ever been until now. She didn’t like going out much, and if she did, she usually chose the other side of the town. She glanced around.
‘Oh, Zeppos, look!’ she said. The dog skipped expectantly toward her, but returned to the flower planter when it became clear he was not going to get a treat. Saskia squinted in order to read the brass nameplate
