Rus Like Everyone Else. Bette Adriaanse

was a hard one. How did he occupy himself? Rus thought about all the things he did every day. He drew a ten from the debit card in the morning, and he went to the supermarket, and of course he got lost a lot. Every day he drank a hazelnut latte in the big brown chair near the window in the Starbucks, where he compared the number of customers with the day before and wrote the difference on a napkin with a pen. He also enjoyed standing by the pond and looking into the water to see what he could he see. Sometimes he had to tidy his house a little bit and take his sheets to the Wash-o-Matic, and he often stood still to talk to the dogs that were waiting outside the supermarket. He also kept track of the gull that lived in the drainpipe, at what time it left and at what time it came back. Rus narrowed his eyes at the form. “Accountant. Actor. Astronaut. Athlete.” He let his pen float over the options. He checked the box for the word “Controller.”

      “I am a controller,” Rus said to the boy, who was staring at his identity card. He felt important, now that he had a word for what he did.

      “Oh, yes, good,” the boy said distractedly. “It’s finished?” He held out the calculator for Rus, who said yes and quickly finished check-marking all kinds of boxes, on topics like “Savings” and “Possessions” and traded the form for the calculator. The memory ended with Rus adding and subtracting everything in his apartment.

      Rus stood at the opposite side of Low Street for a while when the memory was over, looking up at his apartment, the letter dangling from his hand. Then he shook his head furiously, went in through the front door and up the stairs, and closed the door of his apartment firmly behind him.

      The sun has gone down now and is shining on the other side of the world again, but you are still here with me. We’ve seen the windows across the water switch to dark, one by one, and you can picture the inhabitants switching their lights off, making their way through the dark bedrooms, stepping barefoot into bed.

      Behind a few windows the lights remain on. The secretary’s curtains light up blue; the light is coming from her laptop, which is still on. She has joined an Internet group today for people who do not like to fall asleep alone. Now she falls asleep with a Japanese girl on the laptop screen, watching her silently. The secretary named her Katie just before she fell asleep.

      On the other side of the secretary’s wall, only a meter away from her head on the pillow, Mrs. Blue is sleeping too. She dreams of Grace, lying unconscious on the floor in the soap-opera mansion. Mrs. Blue turns around on her side and shakes her head in her sleep.

      Down the road, on Low Street, the windows are dark as well. But on the corner there, on the ground floor of Rus’s housing block, you see a red light blink every five seconds or so. That’s the alarm on Mr. Lucas’s bedroom window; the alarm Rus hears every Monday when he sets it off to make sure that it works. Mr. Lucas is lying in his bed by the window, his face pale, his arms clenching his pillow. A chair is shoved under the door handle and he keeps a knife tucked between his mattress and the box spring, because he is afraid in the dark. He is afraid in the light too, but you will hear about that later. First, he has to get the letter that we have here for him, the letter that will change everything.

      “Dear Mr. Lucas. You are invited...” it reads, and there is even a seal on the envelope, which we put neatly back on.

      Rus is the only one in our neighborhood who is not sleeping. From where you are standing, right behind me, you can see his silhouette, sitting up in bed, looking at the view from his window, just like us. He could draw this view from memory: the roofs of the houses, the antennas and chimneys, the clouds passing over, all framed by the windowpane. Over the years the image has stamped itself on his brain. Never before had he considered that it could be taken from him. He has seen it for twenty-five years, every morning and evening, and it is his, his, his.

      THE DEBT COLLECTORS

      “Mr. Rus,” a voice said. “I know you are in there!”

      Rus startled in the bed. He’d been lying with his face in the pillow, trying to forget the letter, but it remained in the middle of his thoughts, refusing to leave. And now there was a voice.

      “I am here to talk about your debts,” the voice said.

      “Wait,” Rus said. He got up from the bed. “Wait a second.” He quickly put on one of the tracksuits that his mother’s boyfriend had left. “Don’t go away.”

      “I don’t go away,” the voice on the other side of the door said. “I am a debt collector.”

      Rus zipped up the jacket and opened the door. The debt collector was a tall man in a long black jacket. He looked over Rus’s shoulder and glanced around the apartment. Then he focused his eyes on Rus.

      “Mr. Rus, not only have you neglected to pay your taxes, amounting to two thousand six hundred fifteen in total, you have also ignored delayed payment fees and administration costs. In total: two thousand nine hundred eleven, to be paid to me right here, right now.”

      “Yes, yes,” Rus said, raising his shoulders when he heard the number, “please don’t shout. It is in fact good that you’re here because this is a misunderstanding and it has been making me feel very restless. You can take the letter back to the tax office and tell them I cannot pay.”

      “Ha ha,” the man in the jacket said, but he did not really smile. “Do you really think, Mr. Rus, that you are an exception, that you can use the facilities in this city without paying? That is stealing.”

      “Don’t say stealing,” Rus said.

      “Do you know what the law says about stealing? It is a crime. You are a criminal, Mr. Rus.” When the man said “mister” he squinted his eyes and spit rained on Rus’s face.

      “Don’t think I don’t know your type,” the man said. “You use the roads, you use the water, and when the bills come, you pretend you don’t have any money.”

      “But I don’t have money for this!” Rus said. “I don’t want this. I want to lie in my bed and I don’t want to use any facilities!”

      The man raised his eyebrows and pointed at Rus’s feet. “Didn’t you get home by a government-funded road yesterday, Mr. Rus? Isn’t that a glass of water I see on your nightstand?” The collector put his foot between the door and the jamb. “Is that a real vintage tracksuit you’re wearing, Mr. Rus? Those are valuable. Where do you keep your savings? How much do you make as a controller?”

      Rus pushed the door against the man’s foot. “I am not a controller,” he cried. “I am nothing. I have nothing. I just wanted to get the calculator.”

      “I see. Then do I understand you have supplied the tax office with false information?” the man said, taking notes. “Do I understand you’ve consciously done so?”

      “Yes,” Rus said. “You understand! It was all false and conscious! Now leave me alone!” He stepped onto the man’s foot, which he pulled back, and quickly Rus slammed the door shut.

      For a few seconds nothing happened. Then Rus heard footsteps going down the stairs and it went quiet again, only the tap still dripped. Rus opened the door a few centimeters. When he didn’t see anyone, he quickly grabbed his coat and the letter and ran down the stairs.

      Halfway down the staircase Rus was blocked by a man who was slamming stamps on a paper. The man was wearing a long black jacket.

      “Mr. Rus?” The man looked up from the paper. “You’ve neglected to pay your tax bill, a total sum of three thousand two hundred sixty-one, which I am here to collect.”

      “No, no.” Rus shook his head vigorously. “You just said two thousand nine hundred eleven.”

      “I did not speak with you before, Mr. Rus,” the man said, placing his hand on Rus’s elbow. “That was another debt collector. You have recently indicated that you entered false information on your City Registration forms, which resulted in a three hundred fine for supplying false