Annelies Verbeke

Thirty Days

Translated from the Dutch by Liz Waters

World Editions

breda 2016

Published in Great Britain in 2016 by World Editions Ltd., London

www.worldeditions.org

Copyright © Annelies Verbeke, 2015

English translation copyright © Liz Waters, 2016

Cover design Multitude

The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

First published as Dertig dagen in the Netherlands in 2015 by De Geus bv, Amsterdam

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library

isbn 978-94-6238-070-7

This project has been funded with support from the European Commission. This publication reflects the views only of the author, and the Commission cannot be held responsible for any use which may

be made of the information contained herein.

The translation of this book is funded by the Flemish Literature Fund (Vlaams Fonds voor de Letteren - www.flemishliterature.be)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea

Whose action is no stronger than a flower

william shakespeare, Sonnet lxv

30

He drives through the hot, clear weather, through a landscape that remains foreign to him but that he’s hesitantly starting to love. Sometimes he still misses the city, the colours, the sounds, the distractions. Here it’s different, not worse. The blossom and buzz of spring turned into a promising summer that fled an excess of rain before coming back to confound the approaching autumn. The fields are still sodden. As if not growing dull and blotchy, the crowns of the trees nod with restrained bravura at the sky, incessantly: bring it on. Hop poles bear fat baubles, drunk on themselves, ready for harvest. Lonely dust whips up and catches in puddles. Roundabout art plumbs the depths. He’s not sure whether all of this strengthens or stupefies him.

In a village shared by France and Belgium he sees two men with flat caps and baskets, of pigeons, perhaps. Apart from that, many ponies and a farmer, his glistening tractor circled by seagulls. The other people are hard to see. They’re behind front walls, or, like him, in cars, between front walls.

Today he’s expected in a nice neighbourhood. In this region the houses are fewer than in the other scraps and patches that make up this small country. With its liking for red brick it keeps things simple. Just the occasional Spanish hacienda among the mock farmhouses—he’s yet to spot any pagodas from the Brussels Periphery. The cacophony of building styles, so frequently written off as tasteless, has always cheerily endeared him, the way the houses stand next to each other like twelve-year-olds on their first day at high school, thrown by pure chance into long-term togetherness, adrift in their desperation. It pleases him to see the two modern houses where he parks his van leap out of the monotony.

He lifts the tub of sponges, cloths, rollers, and brushes out of the back of the van and selects one of the pots of paint he’s put ready. Pick Nick, from the Joie de Vivre collection, for the largest of the kitchen walls: his suggestion; their approval.

‘Alphonse!’ he hears as he crosses stone slabs in trimmed grass to the front door of one of the houses.

It’s the woman who lives here, a beautiful woman with a confident voice. He met her the evening they chose the colours. Her sportswear looks new, the fabrics showing no trace of exertion, and the sweat has beaded only at her temples, in the margins of her hair, which is held in a ponytail. She gives an awkward wave. He puts down the paint pot to shake her cold hand.

‘Not been here long, I hope?’ she asks. ‘My husband’s taking our daughter to school and I thought I’d just have time for a run, but part of the route was under water and I missed a turning.’

‘Only just got here,’ he says.

He’s come to repaint their kitchen and living room. He estimated three days, but now he suspects he’ll have it done sooner; they’ve made meticulous preparations. The curtains and socket covers are off, the furniture is in the middle of the room, draped with sheets, and the long kitchen worktop is empty.

A black dog runs at him in ecstasy, skidding and banging its head on a table leg before continuing with undiminished bounce on its original course.

‘Björn!’ the woman shouts.

‘Hi Björn,’ he says. Tail wagging, the dog snuffles at his outstretched hand, then farts and turns round to investigate, shocked.

The woman joins in his laughter, until Björn’s frenzy reignites and she drags the animal by the collar to the neighbouring room, where she shuts him in. ‘I think he’s got a multiple personality!’ she shouts above the distraught howling behind the door. ‘And he misses the cat. Benny. Benny and Björn! As in ABBA?!’

The dog bears more resemblance to a late-1970s hard rocker, thinks Alphonse.

‘They were inseparable. When dogs and cats grow up together they can get to be friends!’

‘Cats mostly live longer than dogs!’ he shouts back.

‘She was murdered!’ and because Björn ends his dirge while she’s saying it, she repeats: ‘Our cat was murdered.’

It’s the denouement of a story she’s eager to tell, a long story that smoulders behind her lips, but this is too soon—she swallows it on hearing her husband’s car.

The husband too has an athletic build. A swimmer.

‘Hey, the Fons!’ he says, as if they’ve known each other for years, and raises both thumbs. His master’s voice reactivates Björn.

He’s forgotten their first names. He must look them up in a moment.

‘Ready for the big job? I wish I could help, but there are plans that need finishing.’

He’s an architect, Alphonse reminds himself. He works from home.

‘I’ve shut him away,’ the woman says as her husband strides over to the door behind which the howling and scratching increase.

‘Shut away?’ the husband asks in a childish voice. ‘Is my very best buddy shut away?’

Wrenched back and forth between mixed but extreme emotions, Björn skitters across the floor, trembling with irresolution.

The man picks him up. ‘He’s a Portuguese Water Dog,’ he says, while the dog attempts to insert its tongue between his moving lips. ‘Our daughter’s allergic to most other breeds.’ He turns his attention and that piping voice back to the thrashing dog, setting it down on the floor: ‘And who else has a Portuguese Water Dog? What am I saying, two?’

For an answer he looks at Alphonse, his hands making a graceful, proffering gesture that transmutes into two pointing fingers, two pistols. ‘Obama!’

‘Well, anyway,’ mumbles the woman. She gives Alphonse’s forearm a brief, feeble tap, announces she’s off for a shower, and hurries out of the room.

The man tickles Björn’s head, then kneels in front of the dog, lifts its front paws, looks deep into its round eyes and whines: ‘You know I didn’t mean anything wrong by that, don’t you?’

‘I’ll get started,’ says Alphonse.

Els and Dieter, they’re called. It’s written on the estimate. Els left after making him a cup of coffee and Dieter has been working upstairs for some hours now, in his study on the other side of the house. He makes frequent trips to the toilet.

In the absence of their inhabitants, houses often inform Alphonse about the kinds of stories they’re going to tell. Or they mislead him. That happens too. A wastepaper basket with children’s drawings torn into tiny pieces, or shrines, or holes in the plasterboard, recently kicked.

Els and Dieter’s house gives little away. They’ve tidied their things into sleek fitted cupboards and drawers. On the walls are pictures of the family in the snow, the family in swimming gear on a slide; the series runs thematically through the four seasons.

One of the living-room walls is made up of large glass doors that look out onto the garden at the back of the house. In contrast to the orderly interior and the front garden’s manicured lawn, it makes an unkempt impression. The ladder against the wooden fence reminds him he’s forgotten his own. He can make do with a chair, removing his shoes to stand on one, but it’s not easy working like that.

Björn keeps Alphonse company, silent but watching his every move. For a long time he believed the barking of dogs came down to one of two messages: ‘Don’t do that!’ and ‘Hey!’ They had nothing else to say. Björn isn’t the first dog to have caused him to doubt this, even yawning along with Alphonse as he stretches after applying the masking tape. Coincidence, he thinks, but it happens again.

He mentions it when Dieter comes down to check there’s nothing he needs.

‘That means he likes you,’ says Dieter. ‘Dogs have a lot of empathy. Just lately I read that they don’t bark to communicate with each other. It’s a language they’ve developed for talking with us.’

‘I thought only humans found yawning contagious.’

‘We don’t know very many people who yawn when we yawn, do we, buddy?’ Dieter pipes at the dog. No further explanation is forthcoming.

‘I’ve forgotten my ladder,’ says Alphonse. ‘I could go home and fetch it, but I notice there’s one in the garden.’

‘Can you get it yourself?’ Dieter heads off upstairs.

Outside it’s even hotter now. Alphonse does his best to avoid stepping in dog mess as he crosses the garden. Isn’t Björn ever walked? In attempting to remove the ladder he sees there’s another on the other side of the garden wall. They’re linked by a worn purple swimming board with m and l for ever written on it in felt-tip pen. It’s a rickety structure, easy to dismantle. He props the board up against the garden wall and resolves to tie the whole lot together again more securely later.

As he cleans the living-room walls, the sound of the hard brush sends Björn to sleep. The ammonia Alphonse uses to tackle the greasier surfaces in the kitchen wakes him up again, though. He sneezes and slinks away to the hall with a look of alarm. Then claws tick on the stairs. Alphonse opens the glass sliding door to dispel the stench.

When his master comes down to make himself a sandwich, the dog isn’t with him.

‘Like anything?’ Dieter asks, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

Alphonse has his own sandwiches, but he accepts a cup of coffee.

Dieter looks past him, at the ladder, then out of the window. He walks over and slowly shuts the sliding door.

‘Mila put that ladder there,’ he says. ‘Children.’ He smiles apologetically, then signals his habit of eating at the computer.

Mila is about thirteen and resembles neither of her parents. With a dramatic sweep she throws off her backpack.

‘Hello,’ she says. Then, dismayed: ‘What’s my ladder doing here?’

‘Perhaps you could say hello to Alphonse first?’ Her mother has come in behind her.

‘I just did. What’s my ladder doing here?’

‘I borrowed it for a bit, because I forgot mine. I’ll put it back shortly. I’ll tie the swimming board nice and tight. Promise.’

‘But I need it now.’

‘Homework first,’ says Els.

‘Haven’t got any homework.’

‘I don’t believe that.’

Mila storms out of the room the moment her father comes in.

‘Hello!’ he says crossly. Without responding, she runs up the stairs.

‘Puberty. We won’t be spared,’ Dieter chuckles. ‘You don’t think of that when you’re in it yourself, how your own children will subject you to it eventually.’

‘It’s not that bad,’ says Els.

She asks whether he has any children.

‘I don’t think so.’

They find that funny and something gleams in their eyes, a slight curiosity, slight suspicion. Alphonse resolves not to make that corny old joke any more.

He fetches the cable ties from the van. On the other side of the house he attaches both ladders to the swimming board.

‘I’m calling on your neighbours shortly, by the way,’ he says, back in the kitchen.

Els and Dieter stare at him as if he has a hatchet embedded in his skull. Why the neighbours? He explains that he’s taking them some colour swatches, so they can choose a colour. As soon as he’s done here, he’ll make a start there.

Dieter wraps his arms around his head. Els slaps a painted wall with the flat of her hand. ‘Damn,’ she says, looking first at her Pick Nick-pink hand and then at the skeletal fingers on the wall. ‘Sorry.’

Alphonse presses a cloth to the mouth of a bottle of turpentine and holds her hand in his to clean it. For a moment she stands there like a crestfallen child, her fingers wide open so that his resolute, fatherly strokes can find all the paint. Then her rage flares again. ‘Really, what are they playing at?!’

He takes a small, new roller out of its packaging and skims it breezily over the handprint like a lightweight steamroller. It works.

‘Everything we do, they copy,’ Dieter explains. ‘No idea what’s going on in those people’s heads. They see your van out front and before you know it, their kitchen’s in need of a new colour too.’

‘Their bedrooms.’ They haven’t heard him.

‘It’s been going on for years. We buy a house, they buy a house. We have a baby, they have a baby. We get a new car or travel across the United States and they do too.’ Els glumly removes traces of paint from under her fingernails. ‘What are we supposed to do? Move?’

‘We’re not moving.’ It’s Mila who’s spoken. They didn’t hear her coming downstairs and as she crosses the living room to slide open the glass door they stand motionless next to the granite worktop and stare at her.

Els waits till she’s outside before going on: ‘It’s even got to the point where they’ve started interfering in our lives. They think they can make certain adjustments to our lives.’

Dieter wants to interrupt. His mouth points in her direction and his lips purse several times, backed by an index finger describing the path of a powerful insect.

‘We don’t know that,’ he says eventually.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ says Alphonse.

They thank him, somewhat startled by the abrupt ending and slightly dismayed at how much they’ve divulged, but they haven’t told him the whole story yet.

Before he steps into the hall, he sees them, floating on a flying carpet above the garden wall: two thirteen-year-old girls, flinging their smiling faces forward and back.

He catches another glimpse of the girls through the window in the rear wall of the neighbours’ house before he’s led to an armchair. His clients sit in two separate chairs to his left, each with one leg thrown over the other. They’re slightly shorter and rounder than Els and Dieter. Between him and the couple, bubbles tinkle in the glass of tonic they’ve put on the coffee table for him. At his feet pants a small, attentive dog of an indeterminate breed. When Alphonse picks up the glass and puts it to his mouth, the animal seems to hold its breath.

‘Where are you from?’ the woman wants to know.

‘From Brussels,’ he says. ‘I’ve been living here for almost nine months now.’

‘Yes, yes,’ the woman enunciates. ‘But where are you really from?’

‘From Brussels, he said, didn’t he?’ Her husband stands up nervously. ‘Would you like an olive, Mr, er?’ he asks. ‘Cheese?’

‘No, thank you. And just call me Alphonse.’

‘We’re Sieglinde and Ronny. I’ll go and get some anyway,’ says the woman after her husband has sat down again. She goes to the kitchen, which is walled off from the living room. It sounds as if she’s emptying all the cupboards.

‘How did you get on next door?’ the man asks. He’s obviously trying to make the question sound neutral.

‘I think I’ll be finished there by tomorrow evening.’

‘Didn’t she say anything, Els, when she heard you were coming to see us?’ Sieglinde lays out little bowls of olives and cheese, putting cocktail sticks and a napkin holder beside them.

Alphonse isn’t immediately sure how to answer. ‘It seemed to interest them,’ he says.

Ronny sniffs. ‘No doubt!’ exclaims Sieglinde. ‘She’s crazy, Alfredo.’

They’re more forthright than he was expecting.

‘Alphonse,’ Ronny corrects her before he can.

‘Sorry. For years she’s been telling anyone who’ll listen that we’re copying them. We could say the same about them, but we don’t, because we’re still in command of our faculties.’

‘It all came out one evening, at a party,’ Ronny goes on. ‘A party right here in our house, actually. They were our guests. First they sulked in a corner for some reason or other ... ’

‘Well. She did.’

‘Then they had too much to drink as usual and suddenly it was “another coincidence” that we had a dark-blue Peugeot. It’s not even the same model! And over there, didn’t that chandelier seem familiar to them, and that shrub at the bottom of the garden and I don’t know what else.’

‘Well, okay, but the idea that we brought Lana into the world purely because they’d just had a baby. Tell me, Albert, who would ever think that way?’

‘Alphonse.’

‘Pardon me. Who would think that way? I was in my late twenties. Everyone around us was having their first baby then. I was four months gone before I realized she was pregnant too. But no, we were copying them. How full of yourself do you have to be to think something like that is even within the bounds of possibility?’

While speaking, Sieglinde and Ronny have stood up to perform an angular dance that for Ronny now ends with a punch to his thigh and in Sieglinde’s case is still ebbing away in one index finger, which taps the centre of her forehead like a woodpecker’s beak.

Alphonse settles into the backrest of the chair. When a confession starts as energetically as this, it usually lasts a while.

‘If it’d stopped there, well ... But no, no, it gets even more absurd.’ Sieglinde is now bending down onto the coffee table like a she-ape, weight on her fists, buttocks in the air, nostrils wide, like her eyes, magnified by her glasses. ‘Did she say anything about her pussy?’

Alphonse has to give the question time to sink in. ‘It’s dead, I believe?’

‘She said a bit more about it than that, I’ll bet. Her story is that we killed their cat.’

‘Yes, and the reason why is even more interesting. We killed it because our own cat was run over and because they think we think they did it—we, incidentally, don’t ask ourselves who was responsible, we assume it was an accident—and that’s why we, eye for an eye ... ’

‘Cat for a cat!’

‘ ... killed their pet—get this—by impaling it with a dart! A dart from a blowpipe! We shot a poisoned dart at it!’

‘Because that’s what we’re like, Alphonse! That’s the kind of thing we get up to!’

‘Alphonse,’ says Ronny.

‘That’s what I said.’

For the bedroom ceilings he recommends Balanced Mood, from the Colores del Mundo collection. They agree that the pale bluish-green he slides out of the colour swatch will do perfectly.

On his way home Alphonse crosses wide fields on narrow roads. The low sun gilds the stalks of tall grain and an indefinable longing. No one else knows that in the mornings, still brittle and directionless after the embrace of sleep, he rarely listens to music because he finds the immediacy of it almost impossible to bear. Now he puts on the radio and when he looks up there’s an oncoming vehicle, making no attempt to slow down. He drives right up to the edge of a maize field and stops the car to listen.

Duke Ellington’s ‘Caravan’, in a version by Dizzy Gillespie. He knows every note. Camels trek through the desert, but the trumpet sets fountains playing. The water flows over his shoulders, down his back. That strange violin solo, too. When the track finishes, he turns off the radio.

He eats the remains of yesterday’s pasta. Does it seem peaceful or merely quiet without Cat? He hopes the yoga retreat has given her what she expected from it, even if he doesn’t quite know what that was.

She’s not answering her phone. He needs to return Amadou’s call. Why does he keep putting that off? His friend getting in touch again after all these years made him so happy he immediately invited him to come and stay for a short holiday, bringing his new girlfriend with him. In a large part of his memory, Amadou walks at his side. There’s no reason to avoid him now.

Or he could start up Skype and see his mother. She’s always there, in a full house, surrounded by people who need her advice or just want to be with her, some of them feeding on the fruits of her goodness.

He’s tired and can’t seem to shower away the fatigue. What he feels is getting harder and harder to name. He knows what it isn’t. It’s not anything that hurts. Not at all. But it’s some kind of waiting.

The bleep of the phone, the landline this time, cuts through the water in his ears. He turns off the tap and wraps himself in a bathrobe. His guess is Dieter.

‘Alphonse?’ It’s Sieglinde.

‘Yes,’ he says.

‘I just wanted to call you. Because we got rather carried away today and because we’re not proud of it. We’d also like to thank you for listening.’

‘That’s all right. Don’t cry.’

‘It’s out of our control, know what I mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay. Sorry to disturb you. Have a good night.’

‘Sleep well.’

29

Next morning he finally gets hold of Cat. She seems cheerful.

‘You’re feeling good, then?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ she says, unhappy with the subject. ‘But I have to go now.’

‘Where to?’

‘Well, to yoga. Another four days.’

‘Have fun.’

‘Bye, Alphonse.’ She’s never come up with a shorter form of his name, which is something he appreciates. Apart from her parents, everyone calls her Cat. Not very long ago she had a malignant tumour. They have to assume it won’t come back.

‘Fonzy!’ Dieter calls out. He’s wearing a dark-blue bathrobe, clearing away the breakfast things. ‘Great that you also work on Saturdays,’ he says in English. Sometimes people do that, suddenly address him in English, even after he’s had conversations with them in Dutch and even though there are four languages he speaks more fluently.

Els, who let him in, has jogged out of the door, this time with Björn on the lead. In the garden, bent over their swimming board, wearing anoraks, the girls are sitting on the top rungs of their ladders writing something on a piece of paper or card. When they see him standing at the window they wave in the manner of ladies-in-waiting. In reply he imitates the pope driving past.

Dieter’s gaze flutters out past his shoulder, a nervous moth that, despite the call of the light, quickly returns to the semi-darkness. He mumbles that he’s going upstairs to get dressed, walks across the living room to the hall but stops when he hears Alphonse slide the door open. He’s a father, Dieter is, and he’s obliged to entertain some slight suspicion when an adult man, ultimately a stranger, wants to talk to his adolescent daughter and her friend without involving him, and without there being any clear reason for it. So he returns to keep watch, Dieter does, peering into the garden, which he’s increasingly been avoiding, touched as ever by the harmonious relationship between the girls, a thing no longer talked about between these walls for fear of damaging it.

The children’s faces become more undecided, more serious during their conversation with Alphonse. What is he asking them? Is it time to step in? Then there’s some nodding. The girls nod, Alphonse nods, and they all turn in his direction, smiling feebly, it seems to him.

‘Sit down for a moment,’ says Alphonse, shutting the door behind him. In the background Mila and Lana bend down over their concerted scribblings once more.

Dieter does as he’s asked, resting his hands on his thighs and looking at the floor, paler than before, the bathrobe now lending him a fragile serenity.

‘Sieglinde and Ronny didn’t kill the cat.’ Alphonse stays on his feet as he talks.

‘I thought not.’ Dieter doesn’t look up. ‘How did it happen?’

‘It was a friend of the girls. A local boy who’s never dared come round since.’

‘I know the one. I’ve never seen him here blowing darts.’

‘It was an accident. The boy shouldn’t be punished for it. And neither should your daughter or her friend.’

Dieter nods. And nods again.

After that the glue that seemed to fill the room during their conversation flows out. The silence is driven away by metallic noises: the extending legs of his own ladder, his screwdriver opening a lid. Upstairs, Dieter takes a bath.

For most of the day the three family members leave him to paint in peace. They steal past respectfully, or express their approval when he turns to look at them. The work progresses quickly. Wall after wall begins to shine.

Just before midday he hears Els and Dieter’s voices intoning through the ceiling, Els getting agitated about something, then coming round. When they eat lunch at the kitchen table, they want him to sit with them. Once he’s there, no one can think what to talk about. They put local cheeses on his plate, peeled fruit, straight from the tree, he simply must taste it. Björn too awaits his reaction.

As he’s clearing up in the evening, they both grow restless.

‘A beautiful job,’ Els tells him. ‘And so quick.’

‘To think you’ve been here for barely two days,’ says Dieter.

Alphonse taps on the window. Mila and Lana wave back. Then he shakes Els and Dieter’s hands.

‘I’m not far away,’ he says. ‘On Monday I start next door.’

They nod.

‘There’s more work here too.’ Panic in their voices.

‘The rooms upstairs could do with repainting this year.’

‘You know where to find me.’

They walk with him along the hallway, catching his eye at every opportunity.

When he reaches the van and turns back toward them, Björn rushes at him full tilt. He picks up the floundering dog and carries him to the front door, where he lays him in Els’s arms. For one second she looks at Alphonse as if he’s just delivered their baby, then they laugh it off.

On the village square in Watou he orders a coffee on the empty terrace of a full bar. He has to admit the barman is right: it’s summer at last and the weather seems odd. There are motorcyclists passing through, and two youngsters on slender horses. At the church, overlooking the square, a statue of Jesus stands with arms spread. In the middle of the square is a soldier, accompanied by a lion.

He finds himself in a strange, beautiful life. Does he demand too little? Does he receive too much?

After settling up, on his way to the van, he sees the front of the statue. The soldier is holding a revolver to his chest, barrel pointed away. The nearby figure of Christ, head bowed, now seems frozen in the act of raising his hands.

Some things continue to amaze him here. Like having to drive twenty minutes for a shawarma.

It’s a new place, with a sign outside made of glittering sequins so that the letters Pita Merci move in the wind and reflect the weak evening sunlight. Inside it’s clean and empty. Linoleum. With great precision the young man at the till is arranging a roll of tinfoil, some knives, and a large salt cellar. Next he concentrates on laying all the plastic forks in the holder the same way round, teeth toward him. His face is strikingly flawless.

‘Gardesh,’ he says happily when he sees Alphonse come in.

They don’t know each other. It’s a long time since anyone called him that and he likes it.

‘Nice place.’

‘Thanks. Expensive, though. Work, work, work.’

‘No doubt. I’d like a large shawarma with all the veggies and samurai sauce, please.’

The young man laughs. ‘Spicy then. Always.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You guys always want spicy sauces. And lots of chicken.’

Although Alphonse has now opted for the other rotating pillar of meat, it’s true that he eats a lot of chicken. Like almost everyone he knows. And it’s true that he has a preference for spicy sauces. He doesn’t want to feel as if he’s been caught out in some way. ‘I thought my eating habits were my own. A personal thing.’

‘Well they’re not,’ says the man and then—suddenly roguish, suddenly even younger—‘With every shawarma: a free show!’

He puts the pita bread in the oven and leans down over his smartphone, which he’s connected to a speaker. After a false start he finds the right track. There are swelling tones that then ebb away, like searchlights across a dark expanse. He performs stretching exercises of some kind with his fingers on the counter between him and Alphonse, arms extended, his head of thick, slicked-back hair slightly bowed. He fixes his customer with the gaze of a falcon. Alphonse wonders whether anything is expected of him. Then an electronic beat bursts forth, intertwined with a regularly repeated, orientally inspired motif. He walks over to a pillar of meat. Alphonse can’t really see how he cuts slices from it, but time and again he swaps the two knives he’s wielding, throwing them briskly behind his back, above his head. With a graceful bow he then whisks the bread out of the oven and, juggling with salad servers, fills it with tomato, onion, cucumber, and grated carrot. At one point the salt cellar, which he’s not using, describes ellipses through the air. A tub of spices brings up the rear, leaving a red cloud with every twist. He keeps everything in motion, including the salad servers, not just with his hands but with taps from his elbows, shoulders, and left hip. When the salt cellar lands upright on his head, he moves it left and right like an Indian dancer while shaking red spices into the pita. Alphonse applauds. As two knives and a small cleaver are launched into the air he takes a step back. The way the young man transfers the meat—still sizzling a little on the hotplate beneath the rotating pillars—into the bread while knife-throwing remains a mystery. Impossible to miss, though, is the moment when he stiffens and the knives and cleaver clatter to the ground around him. With trembling lips and a heavily bleeding ring-finger stump he turns and looks at Alphonse.

Alphonse yanks a dozen napkins out of the holder and the shawarma man presses them to the wound. ‘Where’s the finger?’ he asks.

They both simultaneously twist round to check the hotplate and when they can’t see it there it comes almost as a relief to Alphonse—although relief of a kind that doesn’t preclude goosebumps—to spot the body part under his shoe. He narrowly manages to prevent himself from switching his weight to that foot and lifts his leg as if stepping away from a landmine. The extreme helplessness of a severed extremity, the unreality of it. He picks it up off the floor with a paper napkin. It’s the third time he’s witnessed this. The other two involved fingers as well. He recalls an accident with a power saw at a building firm he worked for. That finger stood upright on the ground, as if someone on the floor below was pointing up through the ceiling. Longer ago there was a fingertip belonging to Aline, his sister, who’d been helping in the kitchen with a knife far too big for her.

The dull thud of the fainting man drives out those memories. He’s lying in a strange, crooked position on the spattered tiles. All that’s moving now is the blood pouring out of the wound. With one hand Alphonse lifts two heavy feet onto an upturned plastic bowl, then goes in search of a freezer. Most of the shelves are frozen shut. The first one that he manages to open, after some wrenching and tugging, is filled with the most detailed ice sculptures, figures the size of Playmobil characters, a Viking, a king, an oriental warrior, all with the same face. It must be the unusual face of the proprietor, the young man on the floor. Alphonse doesn’t have time to look any further. He’d rather not use such finds to staunch a wound. In the next drawer up he comes upon normal ice cubes.

He divides them between two tea towels, laying the finger on one of the stuffed towels and placing the other on the young man’s forehead. It’s a while before consciousness returns. Alphonse is just about to call an ambulance when the victim looks up at him in alarm.

‘Can you stand?’

The young man nods and allows himself to be helped to his feet.

His name is Duran. On the way to the hospital and in the casualty waiting area, his expression evolves from appalled confusion to resigned gloom. Every time his bandaged finger stump sinks dispiritedly to his lap, Alphonse urges him to bring it up to his ear again, which reduces the bleeding and raises the spirits.

‘My father said, “Duran, you live too far away. What are you going to do in that hole? Your family can’t help you run the shop and you can’t do it alone, with your eyes.” I tell him, “My eyes are good, that’s all in the past.” I used to have a lazy eye, a patch on my spectacles, difficult for a child. “You can’t see the butterflies,” my father said—he meant that test, with the butterflies and so on, hidden among blots, everyone saw them jump into view except me. “I don’t need to see those butterflies,” I tell him. Lots of arguments, but I made the move anyhow. I thought: just you wait, Father, there are blots everywhere, keep looking and eventually I’ll jump out from them. You’ll see me then.’

He holds the bandaged stump in front of him, horrified by it. Alphonse is just about to urge him yet again to keep his hand vertical when a round-chested doctor comes marching along the corridor. She must be in her late forties and she has orange brushed-up hair, as if her head is on fire.

‘Lost a finger?’ she asks.

‘I’ve got it with me.’ Alphonse points to a plastic bag on the seat next to them. The towel with the ice inside is soaked through.

‘Can I have a look?’ She can’t wait, plainly. He hopes he’s not about to disappoint her. He’s wrapped the finger in a wad of cling film, fearing it might otherwise be damaged by the cold. Duran looks the other way, as nonchalantly as possible.

The doctor takes the wrapped finger and gently taps it on the arm of the seat. ‘Good. Not frozen.’ A delighted little laugh escapes her. ‘Follow me!’

‘But you have to look! How often do you get the chance to see the inside of your finger?’ She’s talking to Duran, who might perhaps have preferred to be given a general anaesthetic.

The doctor stops sewing briefly to turn her attention to Alphonse, who has gone to sit on a chair by the wall. ‘You can come a bit closer if you like.’ The fact that neither of them responds to her cheery invitations seems to disturb her. She’s meticulously described and named everything she’s done; surely a patient could expect no more of her than that?

‘Will he be able to use the finger again?’ Alphonse asks, sensing that her bemusement is subsiding into annoyance.

‘If I’m the one putting it back on, that’s just about guaranteed,’ she says, with a hint of defensiveness but mainly with pride.

Duran’s ring finger is encased in a tight bandage stiffened with a strip of metal. In the car he takes his hand out of the sling that was secured around his neck in the hospital.

‘A ring finger is better than an index finger,’ he says, determined to get back to work that evening. ‘And I’m left-handed.’ He looks askance at his driver.

Strange, thinks Duran, that this man is the only person ever to have seen him unconscious. He didn’t leave him for one moment, not in the shop and not in casualty. He’s struck by how normal that seemed.

‘Thanks.’

Alphonse takes his eyes off the road and raises one corner of his mouth.

‘No, I mean it. Is there anything I can do to thank you?’

‘There is something, actually. Those little figures in the freezer—I’d like to take another look.’

Sometimes air can be displaced by a feeling. Suddenly the car is filled with embarrassment from floor to roof. Am I the only one who knows about the ice men? Alphonse wonders. ‘They’re beautiful. That’s why I’d like to see them again.’

‘It’s a strange hobby, but then all I do the rest of the time is work. I work really hard. Often fourteen hours a day. And I go to the gym, too.’

Alphonse doesn’t insist. He agrees to let Duran make him something to eat. He parks right in front of the shawarma shop. In this part of the country there’s never any shortage of parking spots.

With the good fingers of his injured hand, Duran moves a teabag up and down in a cup of hot water. ‘You can take a look,’ he says. ‘But over there if you don’t mind.’

‘Of course,’ says Alphonse. ‘Otherwise they’ll melt.’

They place two chairs next to the open freezer and bend down over the drawer.

‘They all look like you,’ says Alphonse, at the risk of rekindling Duran’s embarrassment.

‘That’s why they’re all called Duran,’ says Duran. ‘This is Duran Khan, dressed like Genghis Khan, and this is Ataduran.’

Apple tea steams on a low table close to Alphonse’s legs. The sweating pillars of meat have resumed their dervish dance and the floor is daubed with blood. Companionship comes in strange guises, he thinks merrily.

‘Here,’ says Duran. ‘If you can guess his name you can have him.’ He shows Alphonse a Duran dressed in straw and feathers, with a loincloth, a spear, and a shield.

‘Shaka Duran?’

‘Yes. So he’s yours. Never show him to anyone.’

At home Alphonse liberates the ice man from the freezer-block flat Duran has shut him into. He puts Shaka Duran in the smallest plastic box he can find and lays him to sleep between two packs of spinach in the freezer compartment at the top of the fridge. If Cat finds him, he’ll have to explain it was a well-intended gift.