The Reunion

I’m rushing towards the escalator. Get downstairs, down, away from here. Outside, fast. Back on the bike, around all the shoppers. Home, back to my nest. I ride as fast as I can and arrive home in a complete sweat. Bike back in the corridor, lock, upstairs. The door closes behind me with a reassuring click.

No messages on the answering machine.

No flowers.

Only memories.

6

Isabel Hartman went missing on a hot day in May, nine years ago. She was riding home from school but never got there. We were fifteen. I’d already lost her before that; when we were both in Year 7 our paths began to diverge. But she was a determining factor in my life. She still is—she’s beginning to dominate my thoughts again.

From the beginning of primary school Isabel was my best friend and we were inseparable. We spent hours in her bedroom. Isabel had a really cool table and chairs where we’d install ourselves with coke, nachos and dipping sauce. We’d listen to music and chat about everything we were interested in: friendship, love, her first bra, who in class had had her first period and who hadn’t.

I can still remember how it felt when we began to grow apart.

Isabel and I were both twelve and starting secondary school. We’d ride there together, and enter separate worlds. I would fade into the background and Isabel would blossom. The moment she rode in to the school grounds there was a clear change in her posture. She sat up straighter, stopped giggling, and would look around her with an almost queenly arrogance. Even the older boys looked at her.

Isabel began to dress differently. She was already a B cup when my hormones were still asleep and I still had a helmet brace. She had her long, dark hair cut off and started wearing a leather jacket and ripped jeans; she had her nose and navel pierced.

One day she rode away from me the second we got into the school grounds, she locked her bike quite far from mine, and walked towards the others with a self-confidence which won her attention and respect.

I didn’t dare go after her. I could only look on at Isabel and the other girls from my class. They were all tall and slim and dressed alike in tight tops which showed off their bellies. Long hair, dyed blonde or red, floated around their heads or was casually tied up, with refined wisps, which framed their sun-tanned faces. They all smoked, and chatted in a language I didn’t speak.

I realised that I’d been missing something they’d all been aware of and that it was too late to change.

Isabel had epilepsy, but very few people knew. Her really bad fits were controlled by medicine, but sometimes she’d have blackouts or light fits. I could usually tell if one was coming. If she had time, she’d give me a sign, but mostly I’d see it in her blank expression or in the twitches in her hands.

When we were still riding to school and back together, sometimes we’d have to stop because a black-out was coming. I’d lay our bikes on the roadside and we’d sit down on the grass, if necessary in the pouring rain, in our waterproof jackets. After a bad attack, Isabel would be really tired and I’d push her home on her bike.

It was like this for a long time but our friendship would always end the moment we entered the school grounds.

On the day she disappeared we hadn’t been friends for two years. That’s why I was riding quite a way behind her when we left the school. She was with Miriam Visser who she was hanging out with a lot at the time, and I didn’t feel like latching on. They wouldn’t have appreciated it either. I needed to go the same way and slowed down so that I wouldn’t catch up with them. Isabel and Miriam were riding slowly, hands on each other’s arms. I can still see their straight backs and hear their carefree voices. It was nice weather; summer was in the air.

At a certain point, Miriam had to turn right and Isabel and I would usually carry straight on. Miriam did indeed turn right but so did Isabel. I followed them, I don’t know why because it wasn’t my usual route. I was probably thinking of going home through the dunes, something my parents had forbidden because the dunes were so isolated. But I did go that way quite often even so.

We rode behind each other to the Jan Verfailleweg which led to the dunes. Miriam lived in one of the side streets. She turned off and held up her hand to Isabel who continued alone. This surprised me. I’d been expecting Isabel to go to Miriam’s house.

I carried on behind Isabel, keeping a safe distance. She dismounted for a red light at an intersection. I stopped pedalling, hoping that the light would quickly turn green. It would be embarrassing to find ourselves next to each other and to have to find something to say. Then a small van stopped behind her shielding me as I drew closer. The light turned green and the van set off in a cloud of exhaust fumes. Isabel got back on her bike and went on her way. If I’d also gone straight I would have ended up right behind her and I didn’t want that. I turned right and took a slight detour to the dunes.

That was the last time I saw Isabel.

My memories of the time are a little foggy. It is strange how unimportant details remain razor sharp in your mind, while everything of significance is lost. For example, I can’t remember anything else special about that day, just that I rode behind Isabel and Miriam and how trustingly they rested their hands on each other’s arm. I can’t even remember the moment I learned that Isabel was missing. I only know what my mother told me about it later. Our parents had known each other earlier when we were still best friends, but that had petered out too, with our friendship. That evening, Isabel’s mother had telephoned mine when Isabel didn’t come home. My mother came upstairs to my room where I was busy doing my homework and asked me if I knew where Isabel was. I said I didn’t. That didn’t surprise her—Isabel hadn’t been round for ages.

Isabel’s parents had called the police right away. A fifteen-year-old girl who had stayed out all night? She was probably at a friend’s house, the duty officer had said. Isabel’s father spent the whole night combing the village and neighbouring areas while her mother called everyone who knew her daughter.

When she hadn’t turned up after two days, the police got involved. The officers interviewed everyone within her circle of friends, but because I wasn’t part of that anymore they didn’t ask me anything. I couldn’t really have told them that much, only that I was the last person to have seen her, not Miriam Visser. But what difference did it make? Since I’d turned off early, I couldn’t be sure that she’d ridden home through the dunes.

With the help of the army, helicopters, tracker dogs and infrared scanners, the whole area was searched. Isabel’s mother and her neighbours stuck up missing posters in bus shelters, public places and in house windows.

They found no trace of Isabel.

At school it was obviously the subject of conversation. Everyone had something to say about it, but I can’t remember much. Robin once reminded me about the wild rumours that were being spread: she had been kidnapped, raped, murdered, perhaps all three. And if it could happen to her it could happen to anybody. Nobody thought that Isabel might have run away. She had nothing to run away from, after all. She was the most popular girl in the school.

Teachers who Isabel had recently had problems with were treated with suspicion. As were boys she’d dumped. The depths of the North Holland canals were searched and an aeroplane combed the beach. Police motorbike officers drove along all of the walking paths in the dune area from Huisduinen to Callantsoog.

Isabel’s parents were filmed for programs like Missing and The Five O’Clock Show. After each broadcast, the tip-offs would come pouring in and people from all over the country volunteered for a large scale search because the police were not prepared to provide the necessary manpower. The search took place. Part of the army joined in. Psychics tried to help. But Isabel was not found.

I must have really retreated into my own world since I can remember so little. Finally the excitement died down. Worries about forthcoming reports, having to retake classes, the next school year and all those other cares gained the upper hand. Life went on. That’s to say, it should have gone on, but I still wonder what happened to Isabel.

Not long ago, her case was reopened in Missing. I was surfing the channels and got a shock when Isabel’s smiling face and short dark hair appeared on the screen. Spell-bound, I watched the reconstruction of the day she disappeared. All possible gruesome scenarios were played out while Isabel’s face smiled down at me from a box in the top right of the screen.

‘There must be people who know something more about the disappearance of Isabel Hartman,’ the presenter said earnestly. ‘If you’d like to come forward, please call our team. The number is about to come up on your screens. If you know something, please don’t hesitate. Pick up the phone and get in touch with us. There’s a reward of two thousand euros for any tip which leads to the case being solved.’

The reconstruction has triggered something and I’m getting a headache. I try to dredge something from the depths of my memory; something that I’m not entirely sure is there. I don’t know what it is, but I do know all of a sudden that Isabel is not alive.

7

That evening, I sit down at my computer with a bottle of wine, go to the chat room and pour my heart out to friends I’ve never met and probably never will.

The bell makes me jump. It’s nine o’clock. I get up, a little woozy from the wine and press the button that opens the door downstairs.

‘It’s me,’ Jeanine shouts.

She comes up and looks around. ‘What are you up to?’

‘Chatting. I’ll just shut down.’ I log off.

Jeanine goes through to the kitchen and stops. ‘How long has that lot taken you?’ she calls out, pointing to the bench top covered in empty bottles.

‘Oh, I’m not sure exactly.’

‘Not very long, I think.’ She studies my face. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing. I just like a glass of wine.’

‘If you drink that much, you don’t ‘just’ like a glass of wine, you need alcohol. And if you need alcohol you’ve got a problem.’

I’m uneasy under Jeanine’s sharp gaze.

‘Perhaps you’d be better off finding out why you feel so miserable, instead of kidding yourself that you just like a glass.’

Her expression is so worried that my irritation melts away. It’s been a long time since anyone has looked at me in that way, apart from my psychologist, but she was paid for it. We sit down at the kitchen table and I stare at its wooden top.

‘This is not just because of RenÉe, is it? This is still something to do with your depression,’ Jeanine says.

I nod.

‘But you did see a psychologist, didn’t you? Didn’t that help?’

‘After a while she couldn’t see how she could help me any more. Things were going better, but she had the feeling that she couldn’t get to the heart of the problem.’

I fiddle with the fruit in the fruit bowl. It is a pretty ceramic bowl that I bought in Spain and paid too much for. I laugh and tell her that.

‘Sabine…’ Jeanine says.

I keep my eyes fixed on the fruit bowl and try to decide whether to go on. Then I look up and ask, ‘Do you ever feel that there’s something in your memory that you can no longer get to?’

‘Sometimes,’ Jeanine says. ‘When I’ve forgotten someone’s name. It will be on the tip of my tongue and then just when I want to say it, it will disappear.’

‘Yes, exactly.’ I take a banana and gesture towards her with it. ‘That is exactly what it is like.’

‘What’s it got to do with then?’ Jeanine asks. ‘Or have you forgotten that too?’

I snap off the top of the banana and slowly peel it. There it is again, that spark, the memory that surfaces. I sit frozen, stare at a framed print on the wall and then it has gone again. I eat the banana, frustrated.

Jeanine hasn’t noticed a thing. ‘I’ve forgotten so much of the past,’ she says.

‘I have told you about Isabel haven’t I?’ I say.

‘Yes.’

‘I get the impression that I might know what happened to her.’

Jeanine stares at me. ‘But they never found her, did they? How can you know what happened to her?’

‘That’s just it,’ I sigh. ‘That is what I am trying to remember.’

That night I sleep badly again. I wake up with a mind full of confusing dreams, dreams about the past, about school. When I’m fully awake, I can’t remember any of the details. The only thing that remains is Bart’s smiling face, close to mine, and the deep sound of his voice in my ears. Bart, my first real love, the first and the only boy I’ve slept with. I haven’t seen him since school. I can’t remember ever having dreamt about him before. Why is the past pursuing me so relentlessly?

‘I’ve got a suggestion.’ RenÉe comes in to the office, takes off her coat and places a large pink piggy bank on her desk. ‘I’ve discussed it with Walter and he agrees with me. Too much paper is wasted on typos. Often the mistakes would have been found if you’d read over your work again. We all make mistakes occasionally, but recently the paper bin has been getting really full.’

She so deliberately avoids looking in my direction that I know who is being held responsible.

‘If we were to put ten cents in the piggy bank for each wasted sheet of paper, we could use the money to pay for our Friday afternoon drinks. What do you all think?’ She looks around expectantly.

I can’t believe it. I’ve got a headache and have been keeping an eye out for Olaf. It would be handy if something small could go wrong with my computer, but the PC starts up just fine.

‘Hmm, yeah,’ Zinzy says.

I met her for the first time this morning and she seemed quite nice. She’s small, dark, very delicate, but in one way or another able to stand up to RenÉe.

‘I think it’s a good idea,’ says Margot, who types the fewest letters. ‘A lot of paper is thrown away.’

‘Why don’t you all have a think about it,’ RenÉe says.

I don’t agree, but I don’t feel like sticking my neck out. Zinzy doesn’t say anything else.

To escape RenÉe’s gaze, I swivel back to the screen and an email from Olaf pops up. Good morning, Sabine. It seems that your computer is working alright. Pity!

A smile spreads across my face. I immediately send him a message back: It is a bit slower than normal.

It isn’t long before I get a reply. I’ll come and have a look. ASAP!

On my way to get a coffee, I bump into Olaf.

‘That was quick,’ I say, laughing.

We’re standing in the hall, looking at each other.

‘So, there is something wrong with your computer,’ begins Olaf, at the moment that I say, ‘What a bit of luck that you…’ I break off my sentence but Olaf gestures for me to continue.

‘What’s a bit of luck?’ he asks.

‘That you emailed when I was in the middle of thinking how slow my computer was.’ I walk over to the coffee machine. Olaf comes with me and leans against the kitchen unit.

‘That’s why I’m in IT. I can sense that kind of thing.’

‘Coffee?’ I ask.

‘Black.’

I place an empty cup in the machine. We make no move to go to the admin department.

‘Did you do anything good yesterday afternoon?’ Olaf asks as he takes his cup from the machine and puts one in for me.

I press ‘white coffee’.

‘I tried to clean the windows but stopped myself in time. After that I went to buy fake plants in the Bijenkorf, went up to the cash desk with them and took them back again. I was home just in time for The Bold and the Beautiful.’

Olaf laughs so hard that he spills coffee onto his shoes. RenÉe, who is just walking by, turns around. I step to the side so that Olaf blocks out her sour expression.

‘And what are your plans for this afternoon?’ he asks.

‘I’m going to Den Helder.’ I pick up the scorching plastic cup and blow into it.

‘Den Helder.’ He looks at me with interest. ‘What do you want to go there for?’

I shrug my shoulders and smile, but don’t answer.

‘Do your parents still live there?’ Olaf asks.

‘No, they emigrated to Spain five years ago.’

‘Oh yeah, you told me that yesterday. Not a bad move.’

‘It depends how you look at it. Robin is in London, my parents are in Spain…’

‘Ah, poor thing, so you’re left behind all on your own?’

Olaf puts his arm around my shoulders and leaves it there for a while. His arm feels like lead. It would be terrible to shake him off but that is my first impulse. The way he strokes my arm suggests a bond that isn’t there at all. Not yet. It could also be the first step towards something unthinkable. Is Olaf interested in me? Is that possible?

‘I must get back to work.’

‘But wasn’t your computer a bit slow?’ he says.

‘No slower than me, so it will be alright.’

Olaf stays in my thoughts for the rest of the morning. Every time someone comes in, I look up, and I keep thinking I can hear his voice. Every ten minutes I check for new mail. But, no, that was it for today, and now my uncertainty drives away the hopeful butterflies in my stomach.

It’s been a long time since I felt this way. The first time I fell in love was with Bart at the school disco, and his reciprocal interest brought about the same feeling of amazement I’m now experiencing with Olaf. That nothing came of my other relationships was my own doing.

RenÉe comes into the office and I get back to my work. She sends a cool glance in my direction, slides behind her desk and from then on checks every other minute to see what I’m doing. With a sense of deep relief, I pick up my bag at twelve-thirty and leave without saying goodbye to anyone.

I spend the whole afternoon lying on the sofa and zapping through all of the television channels, waiting for As the World Turns. The sun shines in, revealing the dust on every object in the room.

I’d planned to do some cleaning but energy has deserted me. Even making a cup of tea seems like too much effort.

With my feet, I shift a book on the table towards me. A woman with a challenging look and hands on her hips is on the cover. The Assertive Woman is written in menacing letters at the top.

It’s one I recently got from the library. It is full of tips and psychological insights that offer solutions to every problem. All you need to do is learn a list of assertive sentences by heart and then use them at the appropriate moment.

It’s not my problem./I’m off. Bye!/What difference does it make to me?/I want to be left alone now./I’m not taking that./Do it yourself./I’m not going to do that./I don’t want to do it./I’m against it.

They would all be usable against RenÉe. I memorise them until I hear the theme tune to As the World Turns.

8

‘Have you all thought about it?’ RenÉe asks the next day once we have all arrived.

I say nothing and carry on calmly typing.

‘About what?’ Zinzy asks.

‘That we pay fines for unnecessarily wasted paper.’

‘I’m for it,’ Margot says. ‘It is a brilliant idea, RenÉe.’

RenÉe’s eyes wander over to Zinzy and me. ‘Sabine?’ she asks.

I picture the list of assertive sentences. An ‘I’ message would be particularly good here. It sounds powerful and commands respect.

‘I’m against it,’ I say.

There is a moment’s silence.

‘Given the amount of mistakes in your letters this doesn’t surprise me, Sabine,’ RenÉe says.

‘I’m against it,’ I repeat. ‘It’s a terrible idea.’

Margot and Zinzy remain silent.

‘Zinzy?’ asks RenÉe. ‘Do you think that too?’

‘Well, I’m not sure…’ Zinzy falters. ‘If you think it’s necessary…’

‘We have to all want to do it,’ RenÉe says.

I recognise Walter in her words.

‘Listen, RenÉe,’ I say. ‘I come here to earn money, not to finance the weekly drinks. I don’t think that we deliberately make typos, so if we just agree to check our work more thoroughly before we print it that should be enough.’

They all look at me, gobsmacked. I’m rather good at this.

‘Some people make more mistakes than others,’ RenÉe says coolly.

‘If it’s taken up by the union, we’ll implement it, otherwise not,’ I say, equally coolly, and turn my back on her.

RenÉe doesn’t speak to me for the rest of the morning and Margot and Zinzy avoid me. The tension in the office is so tangible that anyone who comes in immediately lowers their voice. My in-tray is filled up with drafts covered in yellow post-it notes. If RenÉe needs to speak to me, it comes through Zinzy and Margot.

‘Do you know what the problem is?’ Zinzy says. We are hanging around by the vending machine, where I used to stand with Jeanine. ‘You don’t give the impression that you want to get back to work. You sit at your desk with a stony face and that puts people off. Everyone thinks that you’re a grumpy cow who’d rather be at home on sick leave.’

‘However would they have come up with that?’ I say.

Zinzy seems to be nice. Slim, petite, shiny black hair, big brown eyes. I’d like to look like her. There’s something uncertain in her manner that makes her come across as insecure—which she absolutely isn’t. She’s just told me exactly what people think of me, after all.

The ultimate proof of her independence is this particular risky venture: eating Mars bars with me by the vending machine.

Her words are illuminating. So that’s how they see me. Well, they are not really wrong. I don’t really want to be back at work, but it wasn’t always like this.

‘Do you find me grumpy?’ I ask.

‘Not right now, but when RenÉe comes over, I see you go all stiff. Why do you have such a problem with her?’

I screw up the Mars bar wrapper and throw it into the bin.

‘You’ll find out for yourself one day,’ I say.

At twelve-thirty I go to the lift. I could take the stairs but just the thought of all those stairs makes me feel dizzy. Lifts are there to provide people with a service. You’d have to be stupid not to take advantage of them.

There’s a ping and a moment later the lift arrives and opens. I rebound off a wall of bodies.

‘Oh,’ I say, ‘full.’

‘Not quite, Sabine! You can fit in. Breathe in, everyone.’ It’s Olaf from somewhere at the back.

On the second floor, I almost fall out when the doors open.

I wait until everyone is out to get back into the lift. Olaf hovers outside the lift.

‘From now on I’ll resort to the stairs,’ I hold the door open with my foot so I can talk to him. At the canteen, there is a long queue by the buffet. ‘It smells of pancakes.’ I enjoy the greasy, sweet waft.

‘Do you like them?’

‘They’re delicious. Especially with a slab of butter and a thick layer of icing sugar…’

His gaze glides over my body. ‘I can’t tell.’

‘Because I never eat them. I’ve banned them from my diet,’ I say.

Olaf shakes his head. ‘If there’s one thing I hate,’ he says, ‘it’s that women are always denying themselves things.’

‘What?’

‘I once had a girlfriend who was always dieting. She couldn’t talk about anything else. Montignac, juice diets, Slimfast, you name it. I became an expert in the field. Pounds flew off and kilos went back on. If I ever cooked anything, she would have just started a carrot diet. I got sick of it.’

I laugh despite the unexpected pang I felt when Olaf started talking about an ex.

‘You’re not on a diet are you?’ he asks.

‘What difference would it make? I’m not your girlfriend am I?’

‘That’s true.’ He looks at me with a mysterious smile. ‘What do you like, apart from pancakes?’

‘Greek food,’ I say, ‘I love Greek food.’

He nods. ‘Then we’ll go out and eat Greek sometime, okay?’