Ten White Geese by Gerbrand Bakker Page A

think.’
    ‘Why do you think that?’
    ‘How long can you stay in hiding here?’
    ‘For all we know she could be round the corner. The closer you are, the further away.’
    ‘That’s true.’
    ‘So your mother-in-law wanted you in jail.’
    ‘Yeah. She thinks it’s all my fault.’
    ‘And your father-in-law?’
    ‘He says “no”, “yes” and “
ach
, woman”. He takes it all in his stride.’
    They ate the rest of the
bitterballen
in silence, washing the heat off their tongues with beer.
    ‘Shall we take in a disco?’ the policeman asked.
    ‘Jesus, man.’
    ‘How much longer?’
    The husband looked down at the cast on his foot. ‘Three weeks or so. It was her books.’
    The policeman laughed.
    The bar grew busier, noisier. The barman gestured at the policeman in a way the husband didn’t understand. He stood up, grabbing his crutches. ‘I’m off before it’s too crowded for me to get through.’
    ‘Keep me up to date.’
    ‘I will.’
    They shook hands. The husband paid the tab on the way out and when he turned back at the door, he saw the policeman sitting at the bar. The barman watched him go. It was raining. He hobbled to the tram stop, trying to imagine what a real-life private investigator would be like. In the glass hoarding there was a poster of a skater in a vest, advertising bread. A taxi sped by in the tram lane, splashing water up over the plaster cast.

34
    ‘Rotterdam,’ Bradwen said. ‘Is that a nice city?’
    ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Not really. It’s ugly actually.’
    ‘Is that why you’re here now?’
    His hair was tousled, he’d come straight from the divan, and never before had she so longed to run her fingers through it. She had already noticed the particular way he had of sighing, and when he did, it was almost impossible to resist touching him on the head. The dog seemed to have picked up his sigh. It was only natural for him to ask questions; people talk to each other. Maybe she needed to pre-empt him. ‘
Ach
,’ she said, pouring the coffee.
    ‘I think that’s a beautiful word,’ he said.
    ‘
Ach
?’
    ‘Yes. We don’t have a word like that. One that means “Shut up, you”.’
    ‘Eat,’ she said.
    He cut the bread, tossing a crooked slice to Sam, who had found a fixed spot in front of the cooker. He smeared on a thick layer of butter. The traffic news was on the radio. While he ate, he drew circles on a piece of paper, alternating between yellow and brown felt tips. ‘What are we going to do today?’ he asked.
    ‘The garden.’
    ‘And the TV?’
    ‘Oh, yes. Do that first.’
    ‘Fine.’ He passed her a slice of bread. ‘You’re not eating.’
    ‘I’ve never eaten much in the mornings,’ she said.
    ‘OK.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll go and brush my teeth.’ The dog went upstairs with him.
    She got up and went over to the kitchen window. It was misty again and still. Good weather for working, but she had to lean on the draining board. She lit the two candles on the windowsill and hummed along with the radio. The cooker warmed her. Water ran in the pipes. He turned off the upstairs tap, sending a loud clunk through the whole system. The boy and the dog came back down. She heard him open the front door. ‘Go and catch some grey squirrels,’ he said. Before he came back into the kitchen, she wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.
    ‘Grey squirrels?’ she asked.
    ‘Immigrants. Taking the place over.’
    ‘Just like me.’
    ‘Yes, you’re an immigrant too.’
    ‘But you don’t set the dog on me.’
    ‘Of course not.’ He gave off a sharp smell of toothpaste. ‘Living room?’
    ‘I think so.’
    He walked out of the kitchen. Rhys Jones in socks had been laughable, but that didn’t apply to Bradwen. His were hiking socks, blue and grey, the kind with an L and an R. She heard him pace through the living room, where she kept the standard lamp on all day. Distant barking came from outside, from the far side of the stream by the sound of