Shadow Sister

Elisa

6.

The emptiness is waiting for me after the funeral, a terrible, apathetic emptiness. In the first few weeks after her death, I was too dazed for it to really sink in. It was as if I’d run full speed into a wall and just stood there swaying, too stunned to feel the blow.

I didn’t hear a word of my father’s funeral address, which made me more keenly aware of his pallid face and quivering voice. I tried to listen, leaning against my mother, mute with distress. She gripped my hand; her other arm was wrapped around Valerie. Raoul sat doubled over, his face buried in his hands.

Every pew in the church was full. And the sea of flowers! Lilies everywhere, giving off their heavy, sweet smell. The procession to the grave crossed a sun-drenched yard. It was early May and already twenty-five degrees.

We stood around the coffin, Raoul in his black suit, holding Valerie’s hand. She wasn’t crying; she didn’t seem to understand. She clutched a lily, Lydia’s favourite flower, which she didn’t want to leave behind at the grave. We let her take it. She’d already done a drawing which we’d put inside the coffin.

I remember the warmth, the birdsong, the fresh green leaves on the trees, and Raoul’s tears when he threw the first shovel of soil onto the coffin. My father’s contorted face, and my mother, who appeared impassive, a heavy dose of valium helping her get through that day.

I was wearing an orange and pink skirt and a matching sweater, and the boots Lydia had bought for me. Both inside the church and in the graveyard, I’d been conscious that I looked like I was going to a party and I felt many shocked glances directed towards me, which made me feel ill at ease. Should I have worn black?

It was only after the funeral, at the restaurant, as I caught my reflection in the window, that I understood the real reason behind those glances. I looked so much like Lydia right then. It shocked me too.

The last time I saw my sister, I was aware of the irreversibility of each passing second. I studied her dead face through a mist of tears – my twin sister.

They sometimes say that people who have died look like they’re asleep, but it’s not true. Lydia looked like what she was: dead. Her eyes were closed, her hands were folded and her skin pale. But the most shocking thing was the rigid way she lay on that white satin.

Suddenly the meaning of the expression ‘deadly silence’ sank in. And of the word ‘forever’.

Before the funeral I was numb. Afterwards my new reality began to take shape. Despair overwhelmed me and dragged me under. For the first few weeks, I barely felt like I existed. May had promised a beautiful summer, but I spent the month in bed, staring at the white walls and ceiling. White is a comforting colour: so calm, empty and pure.

I found myself in a state that could be called neither sleeping nor waking. In any case, real sleep was elusive. The nights were only distinguishable from the days by a paper-thin film. Sometimes I barely knew whether I was awake or dreaming. I listened to the silence, to the indescribable lull in which I found myself, safe in my own little world.

Before her death, I had felt that something was about to happen, something that would have far-reaching consequences for me and for those dear to me. Something unnameable, but nevertheless unavoidable. The feeling had been strongest when I woke up in the mornings.

When I woke up that Monday at the end of April, I remained very still and didn’t open my eyes. As if my childish refusal to look at the day would have any influence! Of course I did have to open my eyes eventually. My gaze went first to the alarm clock – it was still early – and then to the ceiling. For a quarter of an hour I looked at that white surface and tried to rationalise my feeling of discomfort. Where was it coming from?

Lydia.

Something had happened to Lydia.

I could have thought about any number of people who were dear to me: my parents or Thomas or Raoul. But Lydia’s name was the one that burned itself into my mind and, in a fit of panic, I grabbed my mobile from the bedside table and called her. There was no ring tone, it wasn’t switched on.

But of course it wasn’t, it was a quarter past eight, her first lesson had already begun.

Had I dreamed something that had made my head so full and heavy? It was possible; if only I could remember the dream, it might explain the feeling that something was wrong.

That day I was going to Capelle aan den Ijssel, to photograph a wedding with Thomas. Thomas is a photographer as well, and his sister, Laurien, was the bride.

By the time I got out of the shower, I was late. I raced out of the house dressed in green combats and a white sweater, my hair still wet. I grabbed my stuff, it was all there ready – my camera, tripod, light reflector. I was soon in the car; it belonged to my friend Sylvie. She lives and works in Rotterdam, where she can walk everywhere, so she lends it to me at times.

If you are a photographer, there’s always some family member with something to celebrate and they remember you just in time. Because of course you don’t charge them the full rate – you wouldn’t do that to family. You’d be invited anyway, so while you’re there, you might as well take pictures, right?

I’m positive that another professional photographer wouldn’t get as many requests for ‘just one more shot with Uncle Jim’ or of the five girlfriends of the bride with their children, who look so pretty in their new clothes.

A commissioned professional records only the official events: the church, registry office, reception and a few posed pictures in the park. They wouldn’t be asked to stay until the bitter end, because that would be much too expensive. But you, dear friend or family member, you can’t leave until the grand finale – the guests standing in a ring around the married couple, waving their lighters in the air, bellowing ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’, which you can’t join in with because you’re supposed to be taking pictures of it.

I hate weddings and so does Thomas. That’s why we go together. We’ve agreed never to shoot them alone.

So off we went together that Monday, which was a good distraction from my vague sense of dread.

‘Do you think you’ll ever get married?’ Thomas mumbled.

We’d greeted the bride and the rest of Thomas’s family in his parents’ house and were drinking coffee while we waited for the groom to arrive. We sat a little apart and barely had to lower our voices through the constant chatter of Thomas’s mother and grandmother.

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

‘I can imagine you in a white dress,’ Thomas said, a touching seriousness in his brown eyes.

I looked away with a smile on my lips, it was something I couldn’t imagine at all and for various reasons the subject made me feel embarrassed.

‘It would suit you.’

‘I’m not getting married.’ My voice sounded a little too harsh and the crash as I put my cup down on its saucer was perhaps a little over the top, but Thomas didn’t seem bothered.

‘I know that,’ he said calmly. ‘It doesn’t mean that much to me either. Why shouldn’t you just live together? That’s much simpler, isn’t it?’

‘But our society is set up so that it’s easier if you get married,’ I said. ‘If you just live together there’s a lot more red tape to get the same rights.’

Something that looked like pain flashed across Thomas’s face. ‘Red tape? Rights? What on earth happened to romance and being faithful until you die?’

‘They don’t exist. You’ve settled down until you die, that’s all.’

Thomas glanced at his sister. ‘But Laurien looks really happy.’

‘Wait and see whether her fiancé turns up,’ I said, and he had to laugh.

I didn’t really think the groom would fail to show up, that’s just the kind of conversations Thomas and I have – a little rebellious, kicking against the establishment. If we’d been young in the seventies, we would have fitted in quite well. I pictured Thomas cycling to the registry office, dinking his bride-to-be. Or even better, Thomas carrying his bride on a delivery bike, swerving along the canals. Only I didn’t see myself as that bride, though for some time I’d been getting the impression that Thomas did.

We’d been hanging out together for years because we’d both gone to art college in Amsterdam; even back then we’d been really close.

‘There’s Cyril. Thank god!’ Thomas winked at me and stood up. He took his camera from the table and walked outside. I began to mount my camera on the tripod.

7.

Thomas is a great guy, but he’s difficult, a real artist. You wouldn’t call him handsome; his eyes are a bit close together for that and his face is long and thin, but his dark eyes and athletic build make up for quite a bit. If he had a more cheerful personality, he might be really attractive, but Thomas and light-heartedness don’t go together. When we were students, he was a loner. He suffered from depression and he didn’t make friends easily. During his depressive episodes, which could last for weeks, he would withdraw and become unreachable. I only discovered that when I got to know him better, and it was years before he told me that his father had had similar mood swings. His father committed suicide. Thomas wasn’t as bad as that, thanks to drugs and intensive therapy, but you would never call him carefree.

I didn’t like him at first. I thought he was a grouch, an egoist, uninterested in other people – but then one day he came to my rescue. I was in a crowded tram, blocked in by the crush of people and unable to get away from the man behind me, who took the opportunity to make a grab at me and have a feel. People around me saw it happening, but nobody said anything or intervened, until Thomas pushed his way over to me. I hadn’t known he was on the tram. At the next stop he pressed the button to open the doors, punched the guy in the face and threw him out, shouting after him, ‘Go fuck your mother, you prick!’

There was a round of applause in the tram, but Thomas sat back down with a miserable look on his face. When the tram was less packed, I made my way over to thank him, and that afternoon we worked together on a project at the art college. It was the beginning of our friendship.

It was an unusual kind of friendship, none of the other students understood why I hung out with Thomas. I didn’t really understand it that well myself. I’d probably felt sorry for him at first, until I got to know the real Thomas and made a friend for life.

‘If you go back and process the pictures we’ve taken, I’ll take care of the reception and the party,’ Thomas said to me early in the afternoon. The lunch was over, the guests were leaving the restaurant and the bride’s curls had already dropped out of her hair.

‘I don’t mind helping you. I’ve still got space on my card.’

‘It’s fine. You look a bit tired, are you feeling all right?’ Thomas’s eyes glided over my face in concern.

‘I didn’t sleep very well last night.’

‘Well, get an early night then. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Thomas put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me towards him, holding me tighter and for slightly longer than was strictly necessary. Not that it bothered me, but I wondered if he considered every instance of bodily contact as a point in his favour.

I knew the feeling, only it wasn’t Thomas who inspired it.

I drove back to Rotterdam, to Sylvie’s, and left a note of thanks under the windscreen wipers, then caught the tram to Karel Doorman Street. I’d have preferred to go home and settle down on the sofa with a cup of tea and packet of fudge – my addiction – but I’d promised Thomas I’d get to work on the pictures straight away.

I unlocked the studio door and went through the exhibition space to the back where I’ve got an office and a small kitchen. The kitchen opens onto a badly kept garden. It’s overrun with weeds, which always winds my father up. My father loves gardening and made several attempts to tame the plants shooting up in all directions, but each time he came back, he had to start all over again. Finally he had to accept that this garden would never amount to much unless he spent more time in it, and he already looks after the garden of my summer house in Kralingen, as well as Lydia’s, which is huge. And his own garden.

I looked over my computer screen at the garden and sighed. First a cup of tea.

I made a pot of camomile tea – I swear by herbal tea when I’m anxious – and took it out into the garden.

It’s actually quite nice. I don’t like stylised flower beds and themed areas. Just give me a garden that’s alive, even if it’s so exuberant you can hardly get into it. Lawns with a few rickety bistro chairs are not really my thing.

I wandered through the jungle, pulling out a few random stalks, and finally went inside to do some work.

For a while I concentrated so hard that I forgot everything else. Even my tiredness slipped away. When the doorbell rang, my concentration was shattered and the uneasiness rolled over me again. I didn’t need to get up to see who it was.

‘Elisa?’ Her voice was higher pitched than usual.

‘I’m out back!’

Lydia’s footsteps came towards the office, dragging a little. I swivelled around in my desk chair and got up. Lydia appeared in the doorway, groomed from top to toe as usual, with a tight black skirt and a fairly sexy black wraparound top. She seemed tired and irritated.

I pushed my hair back out of my face.

‘Hey sis,’ I said cautiously. ‘You don’t usually finish until much later on Mondays.’

‘Yes,’ she said simply.

Then I knew for sure. ‘Something has happened,’ I said softly.

Lydia

8.

I’m no longer surprised that I don’t need to explain much to Elisa. A single word, a single glance at my face is enough for her to know that I’m not paying a social call.

‘Lydia? What is it? Here, have my chair.’ She pushes me into her place and strides into the kitchen. Within a few seconds she’s back with a glass of cold water, exactly what I need. I drink deeply while my sister stands there with her arms crossed and peers down at me.

‘What happened?’ she says again, as soon as I’ve emptied the glass.

‘Bilal Assrouti.’

Only my parents – who’ve both taught difficult children in the past – can understand what it feels like to matter to another person, to make a difference, and what you have to go through to get there. Apart from my parents, Elisa and Raoul are the closest people to me, but they’ve never understood what drives me to work in a profession that takes so much energy and delivers so few rewards. That’s my own fault for being so open about how bad it can be. I don’t tell them enough of the nice things that happen: the flowers my class gave me on my birthday, how they sing the national anthem in the proper Dutch way, with their arms around each other, to prove that they’ve picked up something from my lessons.

When I talk about my work, the most memorable things are the bad things: one of the students punching Vincent in the jaw, or the attitude of some of the students when I wear a short skirt. I’m afraid I’ve dropped the name Bilal more than once because Elisa reacts immediately. ‘Bilal? What’s he done?’

I look at her for a while without speaking and she crouches down next to me. ‘You’re not hurt, are you?’

‘No,’ I whisper. ‘He only threatened me. With a knife.’

Elisa takes my hand, but she doesn’t have to do that for me to know that I’m not on my own in this. I feel some of her life-force and energy flowing into me and I take a deep breath.

‘Tell me about it,’ Elisa says gently.

I tell her. Every detail, every minor and major incident of the day. I don’t even leave out my own ill-advised reaction to Bilal’s provocative behaviour and Elisa listens without interrupting. When I’ve finished at last, she says, ‘Lydia, this is not your fault. Please understand that. I’m wondering why you’re here instead of at the police station. Or have you already been?’

‘No, that could have enormous consequences for the school.’

My sister gives me a look of incomprehension. ‘For the school? And what about you? This has enormous consequences for you too!’

‘Bilal is going to be suspended and transferred to the other site,’ I say. ‘I won’t have to see him anymore.’

‘Is that all?’ Elisa says in astonishment.

‘He didn’t stab me,’ I remind her. ‘He only threatened me.’