The Reunion

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‘It is as if there’s a hole in my memory. Now and then a bit of it fills in, but then I lose it again.’

‘Hmm.’ Olaf leans back and lights up another cigarette. He offers me another one too but I shake my head.

There is a long silence. I drink my beer in large gulps. I’m not used to silences, I don’t know how to react to them, even though there’s nothing uncomfortable about Olaf’s silence. He’s not waiting for an explanation, expects no further emotional outpouring and I don’t make the mistake of babbling inanely. He doesn’t say anything and neither do I.

So we just sit there while he smokes his cigarette and I finally cadge another. Smoking a cigarette at the right moment can make you look like you’ve got purpose.

‘Did you know Isabel well?’ I let my ash fall into the ashtray.

‘Not really. I used to see her walking around at school and I spoke to her occasionally. Robin told me that you used to be friends. But that was before I came to your house, I think, because I didn’t ever see her round yours.’

‘Our friendship was over by then,’ I say.

Olaf’s gaze rests on me. He doesn’t say anything, just looks me straight in the eye—always a good way of unnerving someone and keeping them talking.

‘The last years of primary school were really great. The first years of secondary were a shock, but later on it was good.’ I’m rambling. ‘I’d really changed then. I was relaxed, didn’t let anyone bully me anymore. I was a completely different Sabine, the other me. You wouldn’t think so would you? You never knew me like that. You know, sometimes I have the feeling that I’m several different people, all with different personalities that take over without me having any say in the matter.’

What am I saying? I tap my cigarette against the side of the ashtray and let out a forced laugh. ‘I sound like a schizophrenic, don’t I?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Olaf says. ‘I recognise that myself. Aren’t we all made up of different personalities? For each situation you put on a different face, a different manner, a different way of talking. You’re constantly adapting. At work I show a whole different Olaf.’

It’s quiet again. The waiter comes to collect our plates. He doesn’t ask whether we’ve enjoyed the food but looks at us questioningly.

‘Two coffees, please,’ Olaf says.

The waiter nods and walks away.

‘And it was delicious, thank you,’ Olaf adds.

The waiter doesn’t react and Olaf rolls his eyes. ‘He’s thinking, it’s only pancakes, man.’

‘Which is why they should be delicious.’

‘Exactly.’

We wait for the coffee and finish smoking our cigarettes. It is difficult to suddenly change to a new, lighter topic of conversation.

‘What do you actually remember from the day of Isabel’s disappearance?’ I ask.

‘Not that much,’ he says, ‘apart from that I had a maths exam. It was boiling in that sports hall. Luckily the exam was easy. Maths was my best subject, so I finished quickly. I didn’t wait for Robin but got on my moped and went home. That’s all. Later that evening he called me to ask if I’d seen Isabel at all.’

‘Robin called you? Why?’

‘Isabel’s mother had probably just called you.’

‘But why would you have known where she was?’

‘No idea. Robin knew that I knew her too. Isabel used to go out with…what’s he called again? That bloke in my class, the one with the denim jacket and black hair. Bart! Yes, Bart de Ruijter. I told him he should call Bart.’

I’m shocked, but I try not to let anything other than interest show on my face. ‘And did he?’ I ask.

‘He gave Bart’s telephone number to Isabel’s mother but Bart had been sweating away at that maths exam all afternoon, he hadn’t seen Isabel at all. He was interviewed by the police later though.’

The waiter sets down two tiny cups of coffee in front of us.

‘Espresso,’ I say in disgust.

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘No. Here, take mine.’ I push my cup towards Olaf.

‘What would you like? A milky coffee?’

‘No, don’t worry. I don’t really feel like coffee. Do you think they’ve got anything stronger here?’

Olaf laughs. ‘There are tonnes of pubs around here. We’ll go soon, okay.’

The blue of the sky takes on a darker tone. The neon lighting feels almost aggressive. I light a cigarette and watch Olaf drink his coffee. He stares into space.

‘Robin was really mad about her,’ he says after a while.

I look up with a start. ‘What, Robin? In love with Isabel? No!’

Olaf looks at me in astonishment. ‘But you knew that, didn’t you?’

‘No, and I don’t believe a word of it. Robin and Isabel? That’s ridiculous!’

‘Why? She was good-looking. If you’d said she was eighteen, I would have believed it. I didn’t realise that she was so young until Robin told me that she was in your class. But I know for sure that he had his eye on her, even if he didn’t do anything about it. No one could understand it because she made such a play for him.’

‘Didn’t he do anything about it?’ I ask, moved.

‘No,’ Olaf’s eyes are soft. ‘No, he didn’t do anything about it, but I could see that it was a real struggle for him. He was attracted to her and she knew it. If she liked someone, she had to have them, even if it was only very briefly.’

I remain paralysed in the red bucket seat. Robin was in love with Isabel. He was in love. With Isabel!

‘He hated her,’ I say. ‘He told me so himself.’

Olaf empties his cup.

‘Yes,’ he agrees. ‘He hated her too. Love and hate are quite close to each other. Why does it affect you so much?’

I look at him with dull eyes. ‘You know why.’

Olaf leans forwards and lays his hand on top of mine. ‘Yes,’ he acknowledges, and after a short silence adds, ‘Was it that bad for you?’

I look away, at a tram ringing its bell at a cyclist.

‘Yes,’ I hear myself say. ‘Until Robin got involved. But before that it was really bad.’

The relaxed feeling seeps away and the familiar pains in my shoulders and stomach return. My hand shakes as I put out my cigarette.

Olaf notices. His eyes meet mine, but he doesn’t speak. I’m grateful to him for that.

12 (#ulink_193373ca-b8be-5993-bc3c-631897a7956a)

I’m twenty-three and I haven’t had a boyfriend, apart from Bart. When I was a student I noticed plenty of boys and they noticed me too, but one way or another a night out never developed into a relationship. It was my fault, I’ve since realised. I just don’t like being hugged, or feeling a possessive arm around my shoulder, or being pushed against a wall to be kissed. I feel like pushing them away.

The psychologist I saw during my depression tried to find out if I’d had a sexual experience in my childhood, something that disturbed me. She was quite convinced of it; all my symptoms pointed in that direction. But she didn’t find anything in our sessions and eventually let it drop. Everything there works as it should. It’s just that since Bart I’ve not come across anyone worth bothering with, or who was interested in me.

The first time I became conscious of sexual feelings was when I was around fourteen. A film based on a book had recently been on at the cinema. I’d been really taken by it. It was the story of a forbidden love affair between a girl and a much older man. I wondered whether the book would be as beautiful and got it out. In the film the sex scenes had been quite subtle; in the book they were anything but. I lay on my bed with flushed cheeks. My body seemed to have a life of its own.

Even though my parents never interfered with what I was reading and wouldn’t have forbidden it, I hid the book in my wardrobe. I was embarrassed by what it brought out in me.

From then on, I couldn’t look at boys in the same way. I wasn’t interested in the boys in my class who were mostly a head shorter than the girls, but I watched the older boys who Isabel hung out with. Bart de Ruijter was one of them—the best looking and most popular boy in school.

He was two years above me, the same age as Olaf and Robin. He belonged to the group they hung around with a lot. Of course I’d noticed him before, but I’d thought I didn’t stand a chance. Why would he pay any attention to such an unremarkable, shy girl? Yet he did.

It was at the school Christmas disco when I was fourteen. I didn’t want to go, but my parents knew it was on so it was impossible to stay home. The idea that I was different would have hurt my parents. Having them feel sorry for me seemed more painful than the disco itself.

My father dropped me off and gave me some money to get a taxi home. He could have picked me up of course, but that was the last thing I wanted.

I mingled with my classmates and tried to stay away from Isabel’s gang, but they were everywhere, shrieking and laughing. I danced with no one in particular, like everyone did. The music was pounding. In the middle of a song the whole group appeared on my right, some of them rolling their eyes. Isabel was copying me dance and trying to get Bart to join in. Bart and I barely knew each other and I saw him turn from Isabel to me with a look of non-comprehension. Isabel pulled a sulky face and made a few clumsy dance moves, which the others laughed at. I felt myself blushing and my movements became even more wooden.

‘Yep, I’m on a diet,’ Isabel said, and ran her hands over her hips. ‘I’ve already lost two kilos.’

‘Really?’ Bart said. ‘Then they must have sunk to your arse.’

Everyone burst out laughing and Isabel kicked Bart in the shins. I caught his wink.

After a while, they all went outside and I stayed behind. Then Bart was standing opposite me, smiling. He offered me his hand and pulled me towards him. We danced. We drank. Alcohol was banned but many students had brought small bottles of whisky with them and were adding it to their cokes. There was something intimate about the way we poured shots of whisky into our glasses and drank it huddled close together so the teachers couldn’t see what we were doing. The butterflies in my stomach got stronger.

As the evening progressed I lost more of my shyness; the whisky must have contributed. Isabel’s group came back but didn’t notice anything about us because we had separated and were dancing with the others.

The evening was almost over when we came together again. That’s to say, Bart gripped my elbow, led me from the dance floor and we went outside. At the beginning of the evening he’d been a stranger and now we were walking with our arms around each other to a deserted corner of the bike stand. Then we were kissing, hard. He was a fantastic kisser. I barely knew what I was doing.

‘Open your mouth a bit more,’ he said. The sensation of his tongue slowly exploring my mouth was breathtaking. I was kissing the most popular boy in school!

Just then it struck me that this might be a practical joke. I didn’t know in which way I was being teased but I opened my eyes and looked past Bart to check if the others were around. The bike shed was empty. Bart’s hand moved to my trouser zip, but I pulled it off. He didn’t mind.

‘No?’ he said. ‘Okay.’

We kissed some more and then finally walked hand in hand back to the main entrance. I was in seventh heaven. The party was over. Most people had already left. The group had also gone, probably into town.

It wouldn’t have surprised me if Bart had said goodbye and gone off to find them. But instead he asked me where my bike was. When I told him that my father had brought me, he got his bike, a rickety old rust bucket, and said, ‘Hop on the back.’

He took me home. It was a ten-kilometre ride, and for him another lonely ten kilometres back. At the front door, we said goodbye so slowly that an hour passed before I finally slipped inside. I lay in my bed with a thumping head, in no fit state to sleep. Bart, Bart, Bart, the voice inside sang.

I hoped that things would be different from now on. Bart would defend me, protect me and draw me into the group. Isabel would treat me with respect and we would be friends again. It would even be enough if she left me alone.

I’d forgotten that the Christmas holidays had begun and that there’d be no school for two weeks. But Bart would call me and we’d meet over the holidays and spend them together.

He didn’t call.

For two weeks I moved between hope and despair. Christmas passed me by totally and on New Year’s Eve, I looked outside at the fireworks in the starry sky and made a half-hearted wish that he’d show up in the new year.