Saving Charlotte Read online

  Finally they arrive at their house, and my neighbor lifts his mother up and carries her inside. She wheezes, cradled in his strong grasp. Her head hangs limply against his chest.

  Once he has settled her, he immediately rushes back out to the street. “You got in the way!” he shouts at me. “You interrupted our walk.”

  “Sorry,” I say meekly. “I won’t do it again.” It somehow seems wise not to argue.

  “Nobody has any consideration, ever,” he goes on. “Last year a car hit my mother while we were walking. She broke her hip and spent a month in the hospital. A month. There is no respect for the elderly. None whatsoever.” He is still angry at me, and I don’t know what to say.

  “Why do you sing?” I ask, just as he is about to walk away. He scrutinizes me closely, probably considering whether it’s worthwhile even to answer.

  “It gives her structure,” he says curtly. “The doctor told me that’s what she needs. Regularity, rhythm, structure. This song works best.”

  “How sweet of you to do this for her,” I say. I start to like him, this eccentric man who does not care at all about his appearance but cares all the world about his mother.

  “Do you mean that?” he asks, his tone softening. “You’re not kidding, right?”

  “Not at all,” I reply. “I mean it. It is so very nice of you to take care of her.”

  He looks at me again. “Most people do not understand why I do this,” he says. “They think I should take her to a nursing home. In fact, you’re the first who thinks otherwise.”

  I smell his sweat, mixed with the fragrances in the air hinting of summer. I think of the new life growing inside me, the child that I hope to hold one day soon.

  “You are a wonderful son,” I say. “Your mother is lucky to have you.”

  Today I can do nothing but lie on the couch by the window with both arms hugging my unsettled stomach. I don’t feel like the radiant mother-to-be depicted in books. I feel big and clumsy. Being with child is far more challenging than I had suspected. I’m emotional, forgetful, often confused.

  My world has shrunk. I do not read newspapers anymore, or watch television. Reports of accidents, wars, and disasters upset me to the point of tears. Parties and dinners, any small talk, wipes me out. I can deal only with Robbert, who, as always, knows how to say exactly the right thing. I love staying home, musing about my child. I delight in its tossing and turning, relaxing only when it sleeps. Sometimes I feel a hand, then a foot pushing. Ever so gently I push back. It won’t be too long before I give birth.

  Early in the afternoon, between clients, the hooker often stops by to check in on me. “You take it easy, girl,” she says in the commanding voice of an all-knowing nurse. “It’s two of you now.”

  At three o’clock the door of the school opposite us on the canal opens and dozens of kids run outside, squealing, laughing. A slender girl meekly pulls on the sleeve of her mother’s coat, pointing out something in the drawing in her hand. Her hair falls in two braids over her shoulders. Her mother gazes at the drawing, holds it up against the air, then rolls it up. Slowly the two of them walk away, holding hands, until they disappear around the corner. After a while the school gate closes and it’s quiet again.

  An hour later the old man who lives next to the school opens his door, inhales the outside air, and walks precariously down the five doorsteps. He firmly grasps the railing, grimacing as if in pain. I hold my breath, praying he won’t fall, until he reaches the street. There he peers over the water, as motionless as a statue. I too stare at the blue water that lies between us. When he notices me looking at him, a broad smile appears on his face. He waves enthusiastically at me, with his two arms high in the air. He continues to wave until I stand up and wave back. The air between us becomes thin; the water turns into a darker shade of blue.

  The following day, when I want to lock my bike to the fence, my temperamental neighbor immediately steps outside. He is dressed in a ragged T-shirt that reaches halfway down his drumstick thighs. His frizzy hair sticks straight out—he must have washed it for once. To my surprise, he walks over to me.

  “My name is Mackie,” he says solemnly, holding out his hand. “I have avoided you because you always looked so grumpy. And also because you did not show the slightest interest in our neighborhood.”

  He squeezes my hand so tightly that I am afraid he may break a bone.

  “Listen,” he says hoarsely, moving his mouth closer to my ear. “You should know that my whole family was wiped out by the Holocaust. For me, the world consists of two kinds of people, those who betray you in wartime and those who will give you shelter. For the longest time I was not convinced which group you belonged to, but I now know you are made of the right stuff.”

  The baby pokes my stomach, as if to tell me to move on.

  “Don’t even think of riding that bike,” he continues, without pausing. “Your tires are too squishy. Very dangerous, especially now, when you are about to give birth any moment. Wait.”

  He disappears into his house, then returns with a bicycle pump and vigorously begins to inflate the tires. All without asking me a single question. I am stunned but somehow unable to stop him. He is a force of nature.

  “Do you really have to do this in the middle of the street?” grumbles a forty-something man with a flamboyant pocket handkerchief who for the third time walks by the girl’s window. The geranium smell of his cheap aftershave nauseates me.

  “Mind your own business, you pervert!” Mackie snaps at him. “What are you doing in my alley anyway?”

  “My alley, my alley,” the man sneers. “Listen, the street is for everyone!”

  “Only with my permission,” Mackie says.

  “Nutcase!” the man says to me, circling a finger at his temple. Then he taps on the girl’s window, mimicking a kiss.

  “Bastard,” Mackie hisses behind him.

  The man turns, clenching his fists. “Are you talking to me?”

  I think about running away before this gets out of hand. My stomach tightens. But then the girl opens the door, flirtatiously runs a hand through her hair, and pulls the man into the brothel.

  Right then a sharp cramp surges through me so violently that I double over.

  “You go home,” orders Mackie. “Get inside, right now. I will take care of your bike.”

  Later that afternoon I lie on my bed and watch my belly rise and fall with every breath. I have become my body; the hormones have taken over. Contractions arrive increasingly rapidly. The pain is tolerable only because Robbert, who hurried home after I called him, does not leave my side. Women’s voices pour through the walls. They comfort me. That night the house finally offers me what I need: shelter.

  In the middle of that chilly October night, I give birth to a son. Shaking with relief, I look at the tiny boy in amazement, hardly able to grasp what has happened. This is so vast, so much. Robbert and I can’t keep our eyes off him. We call the blond boy Jurriaan, an old Dutch name we are both fond of. I am struck by how much he looks like Robbert.

  The very next day, unannounced, Mackie shows up to visit our new baby. It’s the first time he has ever been to the house, and to my surprise he has dressed for the occasion. He is clad in khakis, a plaid shirt, and a sixties tie. His bare feet are in plastic sandals. While I hold Jurriaan close to my heart, he restlessly paces around the bedroom.

  “Wouldn’t you rather sit?” I ask after a while, trying to ease the awkwardness.

  He shakes his head. I wait until he stands still and folds his arms.

  “Congratulations on your son Jurriaan,” he says solemnly. “Born in the same alley as I was, more than half a century ago. It was in the last year of the war. My parents were in hiding, hoping every day to get a scrap of food. My mother was so weak she no longer was able to stand. She was lying in bed with stomach flu. Or so she thought.” He tugs on his unruly beard and laughs. “That stomach flu turned out to be me.

  “You must understand that I’m an only chi
ld,” he continues. “I have always lived here. My father died a few years ago. This used to be a close-knit neighborhood. There were a milkman, a baker, and a greengrocer, all in this alley. Everyone knew each other. Life happened on this little side street.” He looks up at me, as if to make sure that I’m paying attention. “Ever since the prostitutes came,” he says, “it is not as it used to be. Nothing is wrong with those girls, but everything is wrong with the bastards who go after them. Always a hassle.”

  He nods his chin toward Jurriaan and clears his throat. “I, Mackie, will personally ensure that nothing will happen to the two of you,” he says. “I watch over this neighborhood.” Just before he steps out, he turns to me and says, “Don’t ever forget—I am not afraid of anything.”

  Later that day, while I am nursing Jurriaan, the blond hooker waves goodbye to a nerdy guy with thick glasses. She then quickly pulls on a denim jacket and hurries across the alley.

  “I have to see him,” she says as she enters my bedroom, still catching her breath. Immediately she sits down beside me, as if we are sisters, ready to share our secrets.

  “What a cutie,” she says, bending over Jurriaan. A sliver of pink lingerie peeks from under her jacket. She coos, bounces on the bed, and laughs loudly. Her girly presence fills the room.

  “Here,” she says, reaching into her shoulder bag. “Take this. I have been wanting to give this to you for so long.” She hands me a box with a clumsy cutout of Superman pasted on the lid. Inside I find a lemon-yellow baby sweater. “Made it myself,” she tells me proudly. “Between my customers.”

  I picture her knitting, sitting cross-legged on the same bed where she has sex all day long.

  “How sweet of you,” I say as I hold up the shapeless sweater.

  “Why don’t you put it on him?” she asks. ‘Don’t you like it?”

  “Of course I like it,” I hurry to say. “It’s so very pretty.”

  She watches me carefully while I pull the sweater over Jurriaan’s head. It looks odd. Too big, too loud. I sniff for traces of deodorant, shaving cream, and sweaty sex. But all I smell is the stick of peppermint gum sticking out of the breast pocket of her denim jacket.

  “Can I hold him?” she asks, suddenly cheeky, as if she is entitled to him now that he is wearing her sweater.

  I hesitate. I don’t like her overbearing tone, her impertinence, but then I see all that hope in her eyes, and I hand over Jurriaan to her. She lifts him up and hugs him against her silken breasts. The afternoon light shines on the soft, downy hairs on her flat stomach above her low-cut jeans. Who is she, this girl whose life is all about pleasing men? What does she want out of life?

  I find it hard to separate her from all those men who harass her continuously—the eager boys who flash their wallets to show off their pocket money, the older men who arrogantly claim her body for a pittance. But she herself seems to have left the whore in the window when she crossed the alley.

  While gently rocking Jurriaan, she begins to sing. A simple lullaby that my mother sang for me when I was a baby. She mixes up the words, but it does not matter. I hum the melody along with her.

  Robbert comes in, bringing tea and chocolate biscuits dusted with pink sugar. She eats greedily, the way kids eat after being outside the whole afternoon. Bits of chocolate stick to her sleeve and fall on the bed. Somehow it feels as if time has stopped and she will never leave.

  A car honking outside startles her. Frowning, she looks at her watch, then places Jurriaan back into my arms.

  “Oh no, gotta go,” she announces. “Work to do.”

  On a windy October day, I leave the house for the first time with Jurriaan carefully tied in a yellow sling. As I walk down the uneven paving stones, I am aware of dangers I have never noticed before. Cars, bicycles, falling flowerpots. I hold my hands protectively over my baby’s head.

  A few doors down, a ruddy-cheeked girl of about six climbs onto the back seat of her father’s bike. She is wearing a white woolen cap tied with tassels under her chin. He waits patiently until she is comfortable. Although he probably takes his girl to school every day, I have never seen the two of them before. A calico cat claws frantically in a clump of grass beneath an elm. A trash can has Chinese leftovers on top. The canal seems longer, wider, broader. There is suddenly so much to see.

  I go to the public playground behind the old West India House, once the headquarters of the governors who ruled over that faraway place across the ocean they called New Amsterdam. Now the plaza is a home for old people to enjoy an island of peace in the middle of a busy town. I nestle against an old oak tree and breathe in the cool air. An angelic little boy lurches through the sandbox. Ash-blond curls frame his round face; a red superhero cape flutters behind him. He makes me smile. When he walks past me, I ask this spunky boy his name. “Matthijs!” he proudly replies.

  Time slows down here. A woman looks up from her magazine and gazes at the clouds. A tall father sits on the edge of the sandbox, absorbed in a book. Two bright-cheeked girls ride past him on tricycles. “Daddy, look!” they scream. An old man with a cane picks up a candy wrapper, his fluffy hair lifted by a breeze.

  Then a group of toddlers bursts into the square, like a flock of starlings flushed from under the eaves. Walking among them is a stooped man with a bushy red mustache. “Louis, Louis!” the children cry, pulling at his pants legs. “I want the blue scooter!” “Me too!”

  With one hand on the arch of his back, he painstakingly opens a storage cabinet in a corner of the park. One by one he takes out bikes, scooters, balls. The sign above the box says PLAYGROUND SUPERVISOR. This must be him, this unshaven man in his green coat and sturdy worker’s boots.

  “You are new here,” he informs me a bit later in an hoarse voice, checking me out from head to toe. “I’m Louis. I take care of things around here, make it clean and safe for the little ones. This place used to be a mess—junkies and drunks all over. You stepped over needles and broken whiskey bottles. But since I have taken charge the playground stays clean. Junkies don’t even think of coming here now.”

  “Hi,” I say, “I am Pia, and this is Jurriaan. Glad you take care of the little ones.”

  He rubs his back, grimacing.

  “Are you in pain?” I ask.

  “Mmm,” he grumbles. “Tomorrow we’ll get rain. I feel it in my bones. Let go,” he tells a girl who wants to push a shy boy off his bike. “I will give you your own one.

  “I used to be a garbage collector,” he tells me when he returns. “My colleagues dumped the heavy stuff on me, since I was the youngest. Even before I was forty, my back was shot. I stayed home for years on end. Nothing to do except go to the pub to drink beer. When this park job came along, they thought of me. At first I did not understand it. Me? Working with children? But guess what? This job fits me like a glove. Whoever would have thought that? Not me, for sure.” He scratches behind his ear. “I have something to live for now. A reason to get out of bed. Besides, I can’t go to the pub anymore on weekdays.” He looks at Jurriaan, squirming in the sling. “Well, well,” he says with a smile. “Quite a lively chap. I bet he will give you some trouble someday.”

  A girl falls off the jungle gym and runs to Louis, screaming.

  “Oh, oh, oh!” He clucks his tongue as he looks at her knee. “Blood. Poor you.” With shaking fingers he fishes a bandage from his pocket and puts it on her knee, streaked with sand, mud, and blood. While the girl whimpers, he makes funny faces at her until she starts to laugh. Off she runs, back to the jungle gym.

  I look at my watch. It’s noon; the morning is already gone. At my old job, my colleagues will now be heading for the cafeteria. It’s a beautiful day, so they will probably eat outside. A quick lunch before heading back to their clients. Time lost is money lost. Even now, with my newborn on my lap, I still think in billable hours.

  When I walk home, hungry myself, I run into Mackie walking with his mother. I sing along with them. Een, twee, drie, vier, hoedje van, hoedje van. The mother smi
les at me. In a faint voice, she asks me if she can hold Jurriaan. “I haven’t held a baby since I held my own son,” she adds shyly.

  Mackie goes inside to fetch a chair and an ancient camera to take a picture of my baby at ease in his mother’s lap. Jurriaan is five days old; she is eighty-five years old.

  The following day a man with a black hat and a beard even longer than Mackie’s knocks at his door.

  Mackie welcomes the visitor dressed in a black suit. I’ve never seen him so pale, so somber. Something is wrong. He never has a visitor, and he never wears such formal clothes.

  Looking across the alley into Mackie’s window, I watch the visitor sweeping a pile of old newspapers off the kitchen table. Then he folds a cloth on it and puts a robe over Mackie’s shoulders. They make gestures and bow their heads. I press Jurriaan closer to me and bow my head as well.

  Not long after, the door to Mackie’s basement opens. A coffin is carried up the stairs to a hearse parked between his house and the canal. The car glides away, and Mackie crosses the bridge behind it, following at a walking pace. He looks disheveled. Halfway across the bridge, the hearse speeds up on the downhill side. Mackie is left standing in the middle of the road. He still stands there, by himself, long after the car has disappeared. All alone now.

  On one of my evening walks I see a key chain hanging in the lock of the house across the canal. A cluster of different keys crowded on a wrinkled brown leather strap. I still remember the hassle when I once left my own keys outside in the lock. All of our locks had to be replaced.

  I ring the bell. Through the door peephole I recognize the old man who always waves at me so enthusiastically. His cane raps down the marble hallway while he shuffles along. When he opens the door, he blinks in the bright glare. I notice that he is not so much old as well worn. He leans forward and looks at me with warm brown eyes.

  “You found me,” he says with a smile. “Finally.”

  “It was not that hard,” I say.

  “Rutger,” he says, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you.”