Affection
Yvonne had always said
that Willem was a great big softy, which I found hard to believe. He
certainly did not look it. Willem Wallace was a Scotsman and groom at
the riding school where I stabled my horse in the early 1970s. He
looked like a brooding villain from a silent movie, tall, lanky and
square-shouldered. His black, oily hair was plastered back to resemble a
skull-cap. Although his face had regular features that almost made him
handsome, this impression was ruined by dirt, dense stubbles and an
eternal scowl. He always seemed bad-tempered, never smiled and seldom
spoke. His clothes defied belief. Jeans so filthy that they would have
stood up alone and tattered, grimy sweaters. He also smelled bad: a
sourish body odor mixed with the aromas of dark tobacco, beer and
horses. On top of all that he treated the customers with open contempt.
Not surprisingly, almost everyone at the riding school, including
me, was afraid of him. Children panicked at his approach and scattered
like sparrows in every direction. Grown-ups just pretended they were not
there. Only newcomers made the mistake of asking him things. Then he
would look at them in disgust as if they had farted, without responding,
until they repeated their request. Then he'd nod his head and simply
continue what he was doing. If they asked him a third time, he'd walk
away and disappear.
I could not understand how any business could afford to employ a man
like him. His mere presence dampened the atmosphere. And although he
never harmed anyone, I could not help feeling that this was only a
matter of time. I began to synchronize my visits with times that he was
out of sight. Usually in the afternoon, when he skulked off to a shed at
the back of the riding hall, where nobody but the boss dared disturb
him, and even then only in dire emergencies.
He also seemed to get drunk every night. Whenever I went riding in
the evening, Willem would be at the bar, swilling beer, watching the
riders with unmistakable disdain, repeatedly shaking his head at some
imperfection on our part. When we had finished, and he had to unsaddle
the hack horses, he would stagger about unsteadily, in a miasma of
alcohol, unmistakably drunk.
In a way he was the cause of my getting to know Yvonne. My horse
developed a minor ailment, which meant that he had to receive medication
three times a day. I had been told that I could only rely on the morning
and evening doses being given (because Willem did those and, whatever
his faults, he would never forget anything related to the welfare of
horses). But at noon Willem was off duty and the horses depended for
food and everything else on the volunteers, who were notoriously
unreliable, not out of any ill-will but simply because they were too
numerous, too chaotic, too young. So if I wanted to be sure, I'd have to
do it myself. And that's what I did. Every lunch break I would race from
the office to the riding school to dump a spoonful of powder on my
horse's food before racing back again.
One day, when I was in the stall, the doorway was darkened by the
huge form of Willem. He startled me, and for a brief moment I feared
some kind of mischief. But he simply patted the horse on the rump.
"Giving medicine, I see," he said, in an unusually friendly voice.
"Er… er… yes," I stammered.
"That's good. Don't trust the little urchins, do you?"
"Well, "don’t trust" is a bit harsh. They mean well, but things
often get in the way when you’re young."
"Very true." A brief silence, which made me uncomfortable. What on
earth was I to say?
He cleared his throat.
"I could do it," he said.
I almost passed out. That was about the last thing I had expected
from the big, surly brute.
"Would you?"
"Sure, no problem.
"That would be wonderful. Save me a lot of time."
"Good, that's settled then" he said, instantly turning and shuffling
off.
"Thanks a lot!" I shouted after him.
He did not respond.
I was so astonished by the event that I had to share it with someone.
So, against my habit, I went into the canteen. This was a peculiar
place. Although it was long and narrow, with a fully equipped bar next
to the entrance, it had a homey atmosphere, like an oversized but cosy,
old-fashioned living room, almost Victorian in its excess of furnishing.
The floor was overcrowded with wooden tables and chairs, each table
covered with a different kind of cloth, a big white Martini ashtray and
a little glass vase with flowers in varying states of bloom. One long
side was glazed from ceiling to waist-level, offering a view of the
riding hall. The back wall had two doors, one leading to stands along
the ring, the other to an office. Every square inch of the walls was
covered with some object: pictures of horses, posters, pieces of tack,
horseshoes, lamps with frilly shades, little, wall-mounted jukeboxes, a
dart board. The place always had the same aroma of stale beer, tobacco
smoke, hints of perfume and the oily odor of frying fat from the little
kitchen behind the bar.
There was usually a radio on, tuned to some popular music station,
softly. But that day the volume had been turned up. A love song blared
through the room and somewhere behind the bar a female voice was
crooning along, quite melodiously.
I
can't survive,
stay alive,
without your love.
It sounded heartfelt. I wanted to be quiet and listen, but stumbled over
a bar stool, which instantly made a young girl pop up behind the bar,
with a wealth of long & honey-colored hair swirling about a flustered
face, as she dashed to the radio to turn down the volume.
"Oops, sorry about that," she said, blushing fiercely behind the
veil of her hair, keeping her eyes down.
"Don’t be," I said. "I enjoyed your singing."
"That is a very sarcastic thing to say."
"No I mean it."
"Then you must be tone-deaf," she said, with a suppressed giggle "I
know that I am."
I smiled.
"Could I have a glass of sherry?"
"Righto," She set about her task.
I watched her with growing interest. He was young and very small,
about five feet, but obviously not a child anymore. Very lively, with
brisk movements, tossing her hair out of her face with little shakes of
her head.
"Are you new here?" I asked.
She turned my way, right in front of me, looking straight into my
eyes, only the bar between us, a yard perhaps. I could smell a sweet,
orangy fragrance. With both hands, fingers outspread, she brushed back
her hair, revealing all of her face. It gave me a little jolt. Not that
she was beautiful – eyes too small, nose a bit awry and her mouth rather
big – but her lively and cheerful features made her irresistibly pretty.
Somewhere inside I felt something stir that I had not felt for a very
long time. I was 35, a great commercial success, and very unhappily
married.
"O no, I'm not new," she said. "Not really. I was a customer, sort
of, and now I am an employee, sort of."
"Ah," I said, puzzled.
"I'm not making any sense, am I?"
"Not entirely."
"That's me. Muddle, muddle, muddle. Anyhow's, here's your sherry."
She placed the glass in front of me.
"Why the booze?" she asked. "I've never seen you drink in the
daytime before."
I looked up, surprised that she seemed to know that much about me.
She was intently rubbing the drain-board with a rag, avoiding my gaze.
"I had a bit of a shock," I said. "Willem offered to give my horse
medicine."
She looked up, eyebrows arched in surprise.
"What's so shocking about that?"
"Well, you know… Willem."
She chuckled.
"Aha. I see. You obviously don’t know
Willem. Well, Mr Landman, take it from me that Willem is kindest, warm-heartiest
softie you'll ever meet."
I was speechless.
She nodded firmly.
"No kidding. He is."
"He sure knows how to hide it."
"Things aren’t always what they seem."
"That's true enough. Give me an example."
"Well for one thing, this whole business would collapse without
Willem. He works from seven to twelve. Seven days a week."
"Not in the afternoon."
"No. He takes a few hours off, but that's when he looks after his
rabbits. He breeds them. For the money. But mostly for their company. He
also stays nights if there something wrong with a horse or when a mare's
expecting. He knows more about horses than anyone I know, vets included.
And also he looks out for us, apprentices. He'll stand up to anyone if
he thinks it's the right thing to do."
Just then the door opened and a stammering little face asked Yvonne
to come and help. She ran off at once, leaving me in a bit of a daze. It
had been a long time that I had enjoyed someone's company as much as
hers. Although I was already late for the office, I waited a little
longer, hoping for her to return. She did not, so I left.
I did not have much of a life just then. Work all week, social
commitments with my frosty wife during the weekends. In fact, riding my
horse was the only genuine pleasure I had. And now suddenly this lovely
little girl had appeared. I made some discreet enquiries, learned that
she was only 17, still in high school, left to her own devices by
uncaring parents, mad about horses, working part-time at the
riding-school, but only paid in free rides and snacks. Thursday morning
was her shift behind the bar.
Next Thursday I was back. In the meantime I had thought about her a lot,
but not seriously. After all, she was hardly more than a child. I could
not imagine starting anything with her.
Still, when I did not see her moped in the parking lot, my mood
darkened, to brighten instantly when I saw the honey-colored shock of
her hair, just sinking from view behind the bar as I entered the
canteen.
"I wish I wasn’t so infernally clumsy," I heard her mutter,
apparently to another girl who was sitting at the other end of the bar,
largely hidden behind a newspaper.
"We all wish you weren't," said the girl, a chubby, red-haired lass,
who caught sight of me and uttered a cheerful greeting.
"Morning, sir."
This made Yvonne spiral into a standing position, hair swirling. For
a split second she looked at me, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, a picture of
innocent wonder. It gave me a tingling sensation, a bit like stubbing my
elbow.
I smiled.
"Good morning ladies."
Yvonne lowered her head a little so that her hair hung before her
face.
"Good morning, Mr Landman," she said. "Sherry?"
"No, coffee will do."
"Righto," she said and began to rummage about in search of
something. She kept her head in such a position that her hair remained
before her face.
"Why are you hiding behind your hair?" I asked.
"That's because I don’t want to frighten you."
I frowned.
"How's that?"
"I have a hideously disfigured face. It would turn your stomach."
"Really?"
She giggled.
"No, not really, but I do have a skin disease. My brother says it's
leprosy, but so far nothing has fallen off yet." She dangled her hands
before her face to demonstrate this. "So I guess it’s not really
leprosy."
"No I guess not."
"It's very disfiguring, though, my skin disease. That's also the
main reason why I cannot get a boyfriend."
"Surely it cannot be that bad."
"Oh but it is. I break out in horrible brown spots. Well, two of
them. One here, right smack in the middle of my forehead." She parted
her hair to show me. There was nothing there but pale, smooth skin.
"I see nothing." I said.
"Of course you don’t," she said. "It's not active just now. It only
happens when I am very tired and excited."
"But you just said that you were disfigured."
"And so I am. I have a pimple."
"A pimple?"
"Yes, a pimple. A big one. A huge one. A Himalaya-size pimple."
"That's some pimple."
"Yup, it's the curse of my life. I'll never get a boyfriend."
"Can I see it?"
"Only if you show me yours."
"I haven't got a pimple."
"Well, that's that then. Is there anything else I can do for you,
sir?"
"Coffee would be nice."
"O darn, I forgot."
"Muddle, muddle, muddle," said the girl at the other end of the
counter.
"Very funny," said Yvonne, suddenly stopping and turning back from
the coffee machine, empty-handed. "I've got something to tell you."
"Really?"
"Yup. It's about Willem. He was in fine form the other day."
The redhead chimed in.
"You can say that again."
"This is what happened." Yvonne hopped on to a bar stool behind the
bar. "You know that Willem is not very keen about ponies."
"No, I didn’t know that."
"Well, he isn't. He calls them freaky little midgets and refuses to
have anything to do with them, unless of course there's something wrong
with them and then he goes and molly-coddles them. Yesterday he caught a
youngster teasing Miss Marples. So he picks up this lad, carries him out
of the riding school, holding him way out in front of him, like a bundle
of wet hay and drops him into the canal." She burst into laughter. "You
should have heard the kid holler. I laughed so hard, I almost fainted."
"Wow," I said.
"No, there's more. Half an hour later the boy's father appears, to
complain. Willem throws him into the canal as well. And an innocent
bystander who said something. He'd probably have done the same with the
policemen who followed later, if the boss had not kept him out of
sight."
I laughed, more at her delight than at the story, amusing though it
was.
Suddenly she slapped her forehead.
"Darn! Forgot your coffee again."
She ran to the coffee machine and finally came back with the
beverage, rubbing her forehead.
"Almost knocked myself out there," she said.
I grinned, offering her a cigarette.
"No thanks. I don’t feel so good."
"Why's that?"
"I don’t know."
The girl at the far end of the bar looked up from her paper.
"Perhaps you're not getting enough sex," she said. "It says here in
the paper that it is very bad for your health not to have enough sex."
"Ah," said Yvonne. "That explains everything. What do you think?
Should I have sex?"
"I don’t really know. But if you think it will do you good, you
should."
"Easier said than done. I can’t get a boyfriend. Nobody will have
me, what with my skin disease and pimples and all. Anyhow's, I don’t
believe in sex before marriage."
"Very sensible."
"But I don’t believe in marriage either. So I've dug myself quite a
hole there." She burst out laughing.
She cocked her head a little, gazing at me pensively, pursing her
lips.
"You don’t look like someone who has actually had sex. You seem more
of a nudge-nudge, wink-wink type of person to me."
"Say no more," I said, taking my cue from the Monty Python sketch
she was referring to.
She broke into another peal of laughter, which was very
infectious.
I could not help laughing along.
"You a Python fan, too?" she asked.
"I sure am."
She gave her head a shake, tossing her hair out of her face. It gave
me a little jolt. Again it struck me how pretty she was. I could not
help staring. Slowly the smile faded from her lips. She looked at me
quizzically.
"What?" she asked.
"There's no pimple."
She began to smile, but stopped again.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Like what?"
"I don’t know. Nobody has ever looked at me like that."
"I don’t think I've ever looked at anyone like this."
"Well, stop it, you're making me nervous."
"Okay," I said, lowering my gaze. I suddenly felt my heart beating
inside my chest, very loudly. I had to take a deep breath. Fortunately
Yvonne and the paper-reading girl got into a heated argument about the
best way to get sex. I quickly drank my coffee and left.
Two weeks later she had a nasty fall from a horse while I was there. I
volunteered to take her to a hospital for a check-up. It turned out she
only had a mild concussion. I took her to my apartment, a small
penthouse that I rented to avoid daily commuting during the working
week. As she lay on the couch, slumbering, I sat beside her on the
floor, gazing at her, strangely mesmerized. I stroked her forehead,
where indeed a brown spot had appeared, but not disfiguring at all, more
like a big freckle. As I stroked her hair, I felt myself falling in love
with her. And when she awoke and smiled the moment she saw me, I could
not help but kiss her.
"What's that for?" she asked.
"I don’t know," I said, "It just happened."
She smiled again.
"Fair enough."
I gave her another kiss and our affair began. A wonderful, richly
tapestried, wildly exciting affair, but also heart-wrenching, because at
that point in time there was no way we could become a couple. She was
only 17, I was 35 and inextricably married. It seemed madness but we
could not help ourselves. We were, in cruel irony, made for each other,
sharing a deep love for animals, a passion for horse-riding, a genuine
desire to love and profound need to be loved. We laughed at the same
jokes, wept at the same movies. We had wonderful evenings out. Dinners
in posh restaurants, where she shocked the straight-laced waiters with
her lack of table manners and mollified them with her merriment. There
would be wild dancing in discos, fierce battles at pinball machines, a
slap-up supper of junk food in a cafeteria and always a soppy finale in
some nightclub, dancing close together, slightly drunk and very lustful.
And although she could look embarrassingly young, making me feel almost
a pedophile, sexually she was much more active than I was. Her
lascivious eagerness was so exciting that I could never get enough of
her. She turned into the love of my life.
We had agreed that she would never phone me at work. So, when she did
just that, three weeks before Christmas, to say "please come at once",
in a tense, little voice, I realized it was serious. Without bothering
to make up any excuse, I simply announced my departure and went. During
my drive, through heavy snowfall in a gathering dusk, I forced myself to
act as calmly as possible, although my mind was in a whirl. A troupe of
disasters paraded before my mind's eye, ranging from another fall from a
horse to fire, pregnancy, rape or some fatal disease. The sheer volume
of these chaotic thoughts numbed me and I managed to suppress the urge
to drive as fast as I could.
Fifteen minutes later I reached the riding school. A strangely
atmospheric scenery awaited me, tranquil and Christmassy. It had been
snowing steadily for over an hour and our part of the world was covered
with a downy white layer, several inches deep. As I got out of the car,
the snowfall was just abating. A few last big flakes fluttered around
me, moth-like. The dusk cloaked everything in a lusterless, grayish blue.
The collection of buildings that made up the riding school lay at the
bottom of a gentle slope, huddled together under the blanket of snow.
Above the main entrance stood a Christmas tree, sprinkled with lights
that shone with harsh, white glitters in the gloom. It was freezing
cold, a scent of wood-smoke in the air. I noticed a police car in the
parking lot, a big white Chevy, freshly parked, judging by the sharp
tracks in the snow, and its bare metal shiny between the dull contours
of snowbound automobiles on either side.
Across a white and slippery slope I slithered to the door, tense,
dreading whatever awaited me. Peace reigned in the stable. The horses
stood munching. I was greeted by the familiar odors of hay, manure and
horse sweat mixed with the petroleum from the big black stove in the
saddle room. The large sliding door to the riding hall was half open.
The hall was fully lit but empty.
I hurried into the canteen. On first sight everything seemed normal.
A few trainees were sitting together at a table, the radio was softly
playing Christmas carols. Then I saw Yvonne. She was in the centre of
the group, head lowered upon her crossed arms, sobbing.
"What's going on?" I asked.
Hearing my voice Yvonne immediately jumped up and flung herself into
my arms. She was shivering, clung to me like a frightened child. I
stroked her hair and consoled her as best I could and after a few
minutes she calmed down enough to talk.
"A nightmare," she said, chattering, as if with cold. "Willem told
me not to look, but you know me. I had to." She closed her eyes, two big
teardrops formed in the corners and slid down her cheeks, already
smudged with mascara. She sniffled.
"I've never seen anything like it. Blood everywhere. And his head …
like a smashed tomato. Pulp. Just pulp. Oh God," she gagged, pushed me
away and dashed out of the room.
I stood aghast.
"What was that all about?"
"It's Willem," said one of the other girls. "He's killed Richard
Smit."
I staggered.
"Killed him?"
"Like a madman."
"Yeah, he caught him beating Lady Macbeth and just flipped."
"Beat his brains out."
"Literally."
I felt my knees wobble and had to sit down.
"That's terrible," I said. "And now what?"
"The police is here, in the office," the girl tilted her head at the
door in the far wall.
"Willem called them himself," she added.
Yvonne returned, looking a mess, sickly white, red-nosed, eyes swollen
and almost closed.
She sat down quietly beside me. Took one of my hands in hers and
held it tightly.
A few minutes later the door to the office opened. Two uniformed
police officers appeared, Willem behind them followed by two men in
plainclothes, detectives apparently, and the boss, very subdued. A hush
fell over the company. Willem looked his usual self, apart from
uncommonly big stains on his sweater, some red smears on his face, and
the handcuffs on his wrists. He walked erect, looking at nobody in
particular, until he passed us. Then his eyes sought out Yvonne and he
winked at her, making her burst into tears again. Willem stopped. One of
the uniforms tried to edge him on, but Willem eyed him so ominously that
he backed off. Gently the big man laid a hand on Yvonne's head.
"Don't cry, lassie. It's all right. Take care of Lady, will you?"
She looked up at him through her tears, nodding fiercely.
"I will," she blubbered.
"That's my girl." He turned and followed the policemen out of the
door.
The radio was still softly playing Christmas carols. A choir was
singing: "On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me…"
"Please take me home," Yvonne said.
She was very quiet in the car. I imagined that she was still overcome
with the horror of the event. Darkness had fallen. It was snowing hard
again. Visibility was down to a few metres, slowing traffic down to a
crawl.
When we approached her parent's house, she stirred.
"I want to stay with you," she said.
This was not part of our elaborate ritual to keep our relationship
discreet. But it mattered nothing just then. I turned the car and drove
back into the city.
At the apartment she seemed to regain her composure, even began to
smile faintly.
We sat down on the couch, both with a large sherry.
"Don't you think it weird for Willem to go berserk like that?" she
asked.
"Well, I'm not surprised he killed someone."
"No. Me neither, but it's the way he's did it. I've never seen him
lose control before."
I looked at her. My love. This little girl, now so serious,
touchingly so.
"Abuse of horses always infuriated him." I said.
"I know. But I've seen him furious before. So have you. Remember the
knifing?"
I did. One evening a drunken motorcycle thug had wandered into the
riding school, terrorizing everyone in the canteen at knife-point.
Willem stood up to him. He had been a boxer in his youth, quite good,
apparently. But the motorcyclist stabbed him immediately, driving the
blade deep into his stomach. Willem uttered a soft groan and then threw
a single punch – one crunching jab – and the knifeman collapsed into a
corner, vomiting teeth and blood into his lap. Calmly Willem walked to
the bar and sank upon a stool.
"One beer," he said, "and an ambulance."
"Remember how great that was?" Yvonne asked.
"I do. But what's the connection?"
"Well, that's Willem. He never did more than he had to. I just can't
see him beating up a corpse. Besides, he hates the sight of blood."
"Really?"
"Yeah," she uttered a small, mirthless giggle "That's also why he
doesn't slaughter his rabbits himself. He just can't. He has to ask
someone else to do it for him. He really is a great big softie, you
know."
"I don’t think Richard would agree."
She shrugged.
"Who cares about him? That asshole got what he asked for. Serves him
right for always pestering poor Lady." Her face turned grim, lips
pursed. "He grabbed me once. Tried to rape me. Willem dragged him away."
Her words gave me a sting of anger.
"You're kidding."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Oh, it's not really such a big deal. You'd be surprised how many of
these respectable owners try to grab us stable girls. But that's not
important. There's something fishy about all this."
She sank into a dark muse, nibbling at her fingernails.
In some dark and twisted way her gravity made me amorous, rousing my
desire to make love to her. Just as I placed a hand on her thigh, she
started. Her eyes widened.
"I've got it!" she exclaimed, "Oh my God." She clapped her hands
against her cheeks. "Oh my sweet god."
She jumped up and began to pace the floor.
"He didn't do it. I'm certain. She did. Lady. He's protecting her."
Half stunned by her sudden outburst, I did not have a clue what she
was talking about.
"Don’t you see? That fool Richard must have gone too far. I've seen
him whip her in the stable. Poor Lady would try to go through the wall.
It must have been something like that. He was beating her and she must
have kicked him. Willem found the corpse and smashed his skull to hide
the wound."
"Are you trying to tell me that Willem is going to jail to protect a
horse?"
"Yup."
I uttered a contemptuous snort.
"I don’t believe it. I'm also mad about my horse but there are
limits."
"Not for Willem, not with Lady Macbeth. She's his little girl. He's
loony about her. He raised her by hand because she was orphaned as a
foal. When she took ill, I've seen him sitting beside her for hours with
a flyswatter to keep the flies away. He's fonder of that horse than many
parents of their children. Oh my God! This is great. Willem's not a
murderer at all." She did a silly little dance out of sheer delight.
I did not believe her. But she remained adamant, swearing that she
would stake anything on Willem's innocence.
After a few minutes her mood took another swing. Her face darkened.
"What's wrong?" I asked, "Doubts after all?"
"No," she said. "I'm just wondering if we should not do something.
Warn the police, tell others. We can’t just let him rot in jail for
something he did not do, can we?"
"Yes we can. In the highly unlikely event that you are right, he
would probably take it very hard if you interfered. Besides, I don’t
think anyone would believe you. And Willem would never admit it. So
what’s the point?"
She thought for a moment and nodded.
"You're right. It would be useless. But it's so infuriating. I just
know I'm right."
"No you're not."
"Yes I am."
"No you're not."
"Wanna bet?"
"Sure."
"A 100 to 1?"
"Whatever."
We made the bet, to be decided when Willem got out of jail and she
would ask him about the deed in my presence.
She stayed at my apartment that night and made love, but things were
never the same after that day. The event changed Yvonne, took away some
of her sparkle, her ebullience, joy of life. She became more thoughtful,
less carefree, and – worst of all – she began to rebel against our
arrangement. It had always been understood that – barring miracles – I
would never be able to leave my wife. Not because I did not want to, but
because there were too many entanglements and complications, social and
professional. I would have to plunge headlong into so many abysses that
it was impossible that I'd ever emerge from them unwrecked. Yvonne knew.
I knew. It had never been a matter of discussion. And even now, when the
only thing that could have saved us would have been some closer kind of
relationship, she never suggested that I should leave my wife. She just
wanted out.
It was hard, on both of us. I went through some of the worst months of
my life, aching for her, desperately lonely in my loveless marriage,
hoping against hope that some day this little wayward girl would change
her mind. But she did not. She moved on, went a bit wild, started seeing
other men, right before my eyes. And that was more than I could bear. I
moved my horse to another riding school, so that I need not see her with
others. That helped, eventually. Time slowly did its destructive work. I
got over her, at least enough to get on with my life. But when she
phoned one day, asking to see me, her voice struck me to the core. I
trembled so badly on the way to our meeting place, that I had to stop at
a pub for a large whisky to steady my nerves. When I saw her, time
reversed. There was a brief spell of confusion. Four years had turned
her from a little girl into a young woman. But it took only a few
minutes for me to see no difference. Everything about her was so
familiar, so reliable.
"See Monty Python last night?" she asked.
I nodded.
"Yeah, But it's not the same, laughing alone."
She smiled, wistfully.
It turned out she only wanted money. The riding school was doing poorly
and the boss had to sell some horses, among them Lady Macbeth, which he
had bought from the dead man's widow. Willem, still in prison, could not
afford her and Yvonne only had half. Would I lend her the rest?
"No," I said, "I'll give it to you."
Her mouth fell open.
"Really?"
"Yes," I said, reaching for my notebook. "Where do I send it?"
She looked at me, pensively, with a hint of suspicion.
"It's not some kind of bribe, is it?"
"No. What do you take me for?"
"Then I'm speechless."
"That would be a first."
She laughed and gave me a bank account number.
I jotted it down and put the notebook back into my pocket.
"What'll you have?" I asked.
"I can't stay."
I winced. Up to that point some hope had been budding inside me. All
at once it was blighted.
I cast her a beseeching look.
She looked away.
"Please don’t …" She lowered her eyes, made a sniffing sound.
"Darn," she said. "I thought I was past this."
She jumped up.
"I must go. I really must. I'm awfully grateful. I really am. You're
great. I'll never forget." She lowered her head and ran away.
I just sat there, lost, empty, sad beyond words. I ordered another
whisky. Tears would trickle down my cheek now and then, for everyone to
see. I did not care, just sat there in a daze of sorrow, sipping my
whisky, reminiscing, in a strangely masochistic and somehow comforting
ritual of mourning.
Predictably, that brief encounter flung me right back to where we had
parted, many years ago. I had to go through getting over her all over
again.
Two years later we were together once more. On the day of Willem's
release from jail.
We were to meet him at her place, a small cottage in the country,
where she kept Lady Macbeth and her foal, just a few weeks old. The
house was owned by her latest friend, another much older man who yearned
to be her husband but whom she could only see as a convenient companion.
He was a lawyer and at work that day.
"A sugar daddy, to be honest. Awfully nice but also awfully boring.
I'm making an effort but it's only a matter of time."
We were in the kitchen of the cottage, a meticulously restored
farmhouse, full of antiques and every imaginable modern convenience.
It was a sweltering summer's day, but the kitchen was kept cool by
inaudible air-conditioning. I felt strange being there. Willem meant
little to me. His murder of Richard was a remote thing of the past. But
I had not been able to resist the opportunity of seeing Yvonne.
The first few minutes had been very uncomfortable. She had not changed
since our previous meeting. Neither had I. There was still a very strong
attraction between us. Fortunately Willem broke the spell by phoning
that he was on his way.
"Only a few minutes more," she said. "And then we'll know."
"What if you're wrong?"
"Then he is a murderer and we must not do anything to antagonize
him," she said and burst into her old, familiar laugh.
When a carefully groomed gentleman in a pinstriped suit stepped out of
the taxi, I had to look twice before recognizing Willem. He looked like
an elder statesman. Yvonne ran out and flung her arms around him. He
reacted awkwardly, motionless at first, with his arms limp along his
sides, then lifting them and placing his big hands clumsily on her
shoulders. She dragged him towards the house. I waited with some
trepidation. I had never met a convicted killer before.
When he saw me, his expression remained the same, neither pleased
nor displeased. I held out my hand.
"Hello Willem, you're looking very well."
He shook my hand with an unexpectedly gentle grip.
"Hello Mr Landman," he said, in exactly the same manner as he would
have done six years ago.
Yvonne was practically jumping up and down with excitement.
"Please Willem, I've been telling Jan all these years that you
didn't kill that bastard. Was I right?"
Willem almost smiled. His lips remained tightly closed but a few
smile lines appeared around his eyes and his cheeks bulged ever so
slightly.
"I knew you knew," he said.
"Yes!" Yvonne punched the air, she beamed at me. "See! What did I
tell you?"
I gazed at Willem in disbelief.
He was calm, relaxed, more so than I had ever seen him.
"Are you saying that you spent six years in prison for that horse?"
I asked.
"Aye."
"You can't be serious."
"I am."
"But it's insane."
"Really? Is affection such a stranger to you, Mr Landman?"
I went purple.
"Of course not, but a horse…."
"That horse was worthier of affection than many people I can
mention. If I had done nothing, she might have been sent to the
knacker's. I could not let that happen. She did not even mean to harm
the fool. I saw it happen. He tripped, fell against her hooves, as it
were."
"Wow," I said.
"Besides, prison was the best thing that ever happened to me."
"Really?" Yvonne was all agog. I had not seen her so lively since
the old days.
"Aye, I did some studying. I'm a qualified book-keeper now. I even
got a job for a very rich gentleman whom I met in jail. I can afford to
keep Lady and the little one myself. And besides, you'd be surprised how
nice people are to a homicidal maniac."
We all laughed.
"Aren't you dying to see Lady?" Yvonne asked. "I'd have thought you
could not wait."
Willem lowered his eyes.
"Aye," he muttered. "Aye. Anon. You wouldn't have a wee dram a whisky,
now would you?"
Yvonne jumped up.
"Of course," she cried. "Stupid me, I forgot." She ran to the
sideboard and grabbed a bottle standing there, wrapped in gift paper.
"Here," she said, "A homecoming present."
"Ach, you shouldn’t," said Willem. "I ought to be giving you gifts."
He opened it.
"Glenfiddich, my favorite." He said, looking warmly at Yvonne.
He poured himself half a glass and emptied it in one gulp. He wiped his
mouth with the back of his hand, spoiling the impression of being a
gentleman.
"To be quite honest, I'm a wee bit scared. What if she does not
recognize me?"
"She will."
"I'm not so sure. She's only a horse."
I gasped at that.
"But you said she was so special."
He looked at me, always a few degrees cooler than the warm looks he
gave Yvonne.
"She is," he said. "But she's still only a horse."
We went. Willem lagging a bit behind. It was a sweltering hot summer's
day. Insects were buzzing everywhere. The air was heavy with the scent
of freshly mown grass. We turned a corner. Lady Macbeth was at the far
end of a long, narrow field, grazing, dazzlingly white against a
backdrop of a shady pinewood. Her foal was lying outstretched beside
her, barely visible.
When we came in sight the mare raised her head, ears pricked, and
looked in our direction. I held my breath. Would she recognize Willem?
We were far off. The eyesight of horses is not particularly keen. After
a few seconds she lowered her head to resume grazing.
I looked at Willem. He stood gazing at the horse in the distance.
His eyes were almost closed. I saw him swallow hard, and shake his head.
"Oh Willem, I am so sorry," said Yvonne.
"It's nae matter," said Willem, softly.
His words were instantly greeted with a shrill whinny from afar. The
horse stood fully erect, gazing in our direction. The foal had jumped up
beside her. Then the mare came into motion. She took a few hesitant
steps and began to trot, tail raised, flowing majestically behind her as
she broke into a gallop, her foal gamboling along.
"Ach, my wee lass," I heard Willem mutter, and he, too, was running.
Yvonne and I stayed behind.
Willem clambered over a wooden fence, clumsily, tearing a trouser
leg with a loud rip, but he paid it no heed and hit the ground running.
For a moment I thought horse and man would collide. But she came to a
standstill right in front of him, and they stood almost nose to nose.
Willem stroked her forehead. She nuzzled the lapels of his suit. He was
talking to her, softly, inaudibly. It was a scene of almost unbearable
intimacy. I looked away, at Yvonne.
She stood spellbound, two big tears clinging to her lower eyelashes.
I reached out an arm to put it around her but she stepped aside,
stinging me to the core.
"Yvonne?"
She did not react, seemingly mesmerized by the scene before her.
Her tears were dripping freely now. She lowered her head, drawing the
veil of her hair before her face.
"Please go away," she said.
"But …,"
"Don’t … Just go. Please."
Not understanding, deflated and hurt, I had to swallow a few times
before I spoke.
"But surely …."
"Just go away," she said. Without sparing me a glance she turned,
and ran off, back to the house.
An overwhelming sense of loss bore down on me. This was the end, I
knew. There could no way back from this. I staggered to my car, sank
into the driver's seat.
While I was sitting there, wondering what to do with the rest of my
life, Willem came into view, some twenty feet away. He was walking along
buoyantly, almost skipping, sporting a great big, bare-toothed smile. My
envy almost suffocated me. I waited until he had disappeared before
starting the car. |