have spent my whole life here, as a result of which I do believe that in some sense it might be prudent for me to advise you in this, you understand—to enlighten you about the circumstances, so to say.”
“You invited me to tea. I came. Let’s drink tea.”
The notary’s hands trembled slightly as he refilled both cups from the heavy teapot.
“What I’m trying to say is that several very esteemed persons in our town, I would say so much as the very pillars of our little community—you can probably imagine whom I’m talking about, can’t you—in short, if things should, for some reason, go the route I mentioned before, if the circumstances should maybe change and you develop the desire to become involved in this issue, then several people could be, how should I put it now, unpleasantly surprised, which might not necessarily be the most favorable course of events, neither for your sister nor yourself, because, you see, there are particular rules in the capital and elsewhere around the world in general, but we have our own here, you do realize, and we’ve become accustomed to them, although you yourself might not be, nor should you, since I certainly understand that you’ve had more of a nomadic lifestyle, but on the other hand, your sister really hasn’t, now, has she, and she also has the greater share of her life still ahead of her, so I can only hope that you will, by all means, give full consideration to any step you take beforehand. You do understand what I’m saying, don’t you? Right? So, what do you say?”
“For us, things have gone the way they’ve gone. Now, we’ll see how they go for you. Pass the sugar, please.”
“Things are bad,” the notary said, and lit a cigarette.
“Things are worse than bad,” the lawyer said, waving to disperse the cloud of smoke. “Things are worse than worse than bad.”
“Easy,” the banker said. “First of all, we should find out more about him.”
A rat-faced young man—the lawyer’s assistant, whose name was Willem—came to empty the ashtray. He said nothing.
“We should figure out who he is,” the banker continued.
“How, I wonder?” the lawyer asked.
The banker was a strong man who had already begun to watch his health and had managed to achieve enough in his lifetime to answer yes-or-no questions with a single word.
“We should play cards with him,” he said.
Cloves always came on Thursdays, and Thursday it was.
He had already managed to empty the bottle of beer he was carrying with him, and had already managed to place the flower he had brought into a vase with water. He had already managed to go grocery shopping and to buy everything he always did. And while Laila made dinner, he had already managed to check and see whether the bathroom faucet was still leaking, and it was, and he had already managed to fix it, so that now it should definitely hold. He had already managed to read through both today’s and yesterday’s newspapers, and to listen to the radio a little on top of that. He had already managed to eat his favorite cabbage rolls, as many as he could stuff down, and this time was unusually somewhat astonished by why Laila had made so many of them. He had already managed to ask what news was to be heard, and without waiting for the reply, had also already managed to say how fantastic it was that at least one person—he, Cloves—hadn’t left Laila alone to wilt in bleak solitude. This time, unusually, he had already managed to start to feel somewhat incredulous over why Laila hadn’t already made the bed and gone to wash up.
Then, the sound of footsteps made by knee-high boots echoed from the stairway, and a knock sounded at the door.
“Good evening,” Brother said.
“Hello,” Laila said.
“Good evening,” Cloves said.
They stared at each other until all was clear.
“It appears it’s time for me to go,” Cloves said, and stood.
How could he have known that once, long ago, the flower he brought would stand in the vase for the entire week, but then, little by little, it started to wilt already by Monday, then it barely lasted until the weekend, and now it was thrown out with the Friday-morning trash? Laila strove to remember what kind of a job the man even held. Director of the post office’s delivery department? A clerk at the stationmaster’s office? Bookkeeper for the brass band? She couldn’t remember.
“I’ll get going, then,” Cloves said at the door, his flushed cheeks sagging, his spine slightly arched, and his gut hanging slightly over his waistband. Laila realized that she was seeing the man for the second time in her life today, as something obviously had to have impressed her the first time; but maybe then, long ago, each time before he looked at her, Cloves himself hadn’t always known exactly what he saw.
“I don’t understand,” Brother said. “I don’t understand how you’ve allowed the world to step on you like this.”
“Because I hoped it would step over me,” Laila replied.
“Even so.”
“But did I really have a choice?” Laila asked. “I wanted, I really wanted to have a friend, too. But none of them saw me. Do you think that when they looked at me, they saw a scrawny girl with pale, thin lips and potato-colored locks, hiding her hands behind her back? No. They saw a tall, blue marble staircase; arching, golden thatched roofs; and a white stretch limousine parked outside—so what that it’d been a long while since anyone could drive anywhere in it. They saw my grandfather’s surname and all of his ancestors since time immemorial peering over his shoulder. And when the mirage faded—and that happened as soon as they really heard anything I said—then they fled, helter-skelter; some didn’t even say goodbye. You know, when that whole degrading process was over and they’d tricked me out of everything we once had, and I ended up here, penniless, unable to do anything about it and with only a bunch of memories breathing down my neck, then at first, I really wanted to scream and cry, but afterward, I realized that I was actually glad. Glad that it’s all over now. That I’m free. That I’m myself. And that from then on, things would go both as well and badly for me as they might, but that it’d only be my own doing.
She gulped.
“It’s hard for me even now,” she continued, “when someone greets me out of habit, as if I’m still the way I was then. I don’t know what to say to them in return, but they still do it—my old tutor Mrs. Salt or Mrs. Cymbal or the twin boys Hendrik and Hindrek—or, well, they’re not quite boys anymore—whose mother used to be the Villa chef, or else Gabriel, you know—the bachelor photographer, with whom I was in love for a while in high school, against my will but all the more hopelessly. How can’t they see that I’m not the one they knew?”
“I understand,” Brother said.
“No, you don’t,” Laila sighed. “You still think that I’m just like you are. Strong. Someone who can handle anything.”
“No,” Brother replied. “What I think of you isn’t something I don’t see, because that’s just the way I love you. But it seems like you’ve let yourself be bent the other direction. Maybe it’s easier, but it’s definitely
