A Father's Affair by Karel van Loon Page B

to judge. In any event, her voice on the phone sounded clear and self-assured. ‘Excuse
me, I’m trying to reach the Demircioglu family,’ I said. ‘There’s no one here by that name,’ she said. ‘I’m very sorry, I must have dialled the wrong
number. Is this . . .’ And I read her number aloud, changing only the final digit. ‘No,’ she said. ‘This number ends in a five, not a four.’ ‘Oh, I’m very
sorry.’)
    When I’m finally on the train to Haarlem, after forcing down my dinner, a benevolent calm settles over me. Tonight I will do only what I
must
do, without hesitation, and with a
boldness that was last mine that first time I met Monika on the tram, and asked to go with her to the Bijenkorf. Tonight I will take my life back into my own hands. Perhaps, I muse, that will be
the end purpose of this nightmare: to shake me out of the half-slumber I’ve been in so long, in fact, ever since Monika died.
    I watch the new office buildings and factories in the western harbour area as they’re slowly swallowed up by the fall of darkness, and I say (so loudly that the woman across the aisle
glances over at me), ‘This is your wake-up call from the far shore of the River Styx.’
    Standing in a doorway across the street, I can see the lighted windows of the Neerinckx house. Mother is putting the children to bed. At least, that’s what I assume
I’m seeing. A floor lamp is on in the living room, but the room is empty. Three windows on the top floor were lit just a moment ago, but now there are only two: one little window belonging to
what is probably a toilet or a shower, the other to a bedroom. The curtains are closed, but a band of light is shining through a crack and the fabric gives off a faint glow. Every once in a while I
see a shadow move across the yellowish-green field. Then the bathroom window suddenly becomes a black hole. A moment later a woman appears in the living room. She walks to the back of the room and
disappears from sight. Less than a minute later, she reappears, a mug in her hand. Her dark hair is pinned up. She’s wearing a green sweater and black trousers or a skirt, I can’t quite
see which. She sits down on a couch against a long wall straight across from the window. Carefully, she takes a sip. Then another. She gets up and closes the curtains (they’re trousers, not a
skirt). The curtains are off-white. For a moment I see her shadow, then nothing.
    The wind is still blowing hard, but it’s stopped raining. I decide to walk around the neighbourhood for fifteen minutes. It’s a few minutes past eight, so she’s probably
watching the news. During the weather report seems a more propitious moment to ring the bell. Besides, that will give me time to run through my story one last time. Circumstances have dropped a
unique opportunity right in my lap, and I mustn’t blow it.
    ‘Good evening, my name is Aldenbos, Erik Aldenbos.’ ‘Good evening, sorry to disturb you.’ No, not disturb. ‘Sorry to bother you like this.’ No, better
introduce myself first, that forges a bond of trust. ‘Good evening. Aldenbos is the name, Erik Aldenbos.’
    ‘Good evening, I’m Erik Aldenbos. Sorry to just show up at the door like this, but I couldn’t find your name anywhere, so I couldn’t phone
first.’
    I hadn’t been planning to say that, but when I eventually got to the portico I looked around and didn’t see a nameplate anywhere, so when Anke Neerinckx opened the door that line
just rolled off my lips.
    She looks at me questioningly, the door open only far enough to get a good look. She’s switched on the light in the portico, and I blink my eyes in the glare. Suddenly I’m afraid
that will make me look untrustworthy.
    ‘I used to live here,’ I say quickly. ‘As a child. Years ago. Something happened then. Well, it’s a long story. What it all boils down to is that I hid a letter in the
attic. And that letter, well, as I said, it’s a long story, but my