When Carel finally answered his phone later, he’d told her that they’d beaten him with the candlestick – and even with Babette, whipping the marionette against his back and ribs until it broke. Next time, apparently, it would be much worse.
In her cramped plane seat, Maja sighed. Life imitated art, even the most fantastic and grotesque creations. It was a Hieronymus Bosch world.
“You okay?” asked her fellow passenger.
“Sure,” said Maja. “Fine.” She tried to touch her hair; her fingers stroked the air. That morning, she’d gone to the hairdresser to transform her style: now she had a short bob, dramatically and uncompromisingly black. With her new contact lenses, she was green-eyed. Red lipstick as always, dark eyeliner. And of course her prominent nose – it had embarrassed her as a teenager, but she liked it now. She wanted to be striking, noticeable; she wanted people to help her. She wanted to whoosh through this city and then disappear – like a flame.
“Not a bad wine, I thought.”
“Not too bad,” said Maja, drawing it out in an English manner.
“We’re on the way to good wine country. Good country in all sorts of ways. I come here for months every year, to the holiday house. Just can’t help it.”
“Like a migrating bird.”
The man was as unlike a bird as could be, and laughed. “If a dodo could migrate, yes. Do you know Cape Town well?”
An admirable English habit, to assume – at least, pretend to assume – knowledge and experience from one’s conversation partner. “Not at all.”
“You’re going to love it.”
Maja had not had time to think about the city. Pieter moved quickly, despite the fact that it must be high season for tourism. Presumably he knew someone at KLM. Maybe he’d got a passenger booted off the flight to make space for her.
“Of course,” the Englishman told her now, “Cape Town isn’t as decadent, as wild, as you’ll be used to, being from Amsterdam and all.” He flashed Maja a smile.
“Oh no,” Maja said. “Amsterdam isn’t anything like you think. I haven’t had an orgy since . . . last week.”
He laughed. “You’re a character.”
“Don’t pretend you’re innocent,” said Maja, lightly punching his shoulder. Yes, she was a character. There was more artifice in her than this man knew. “I’m going to turn in.” A good idea to give him just so much for now, and no more.
“You’ll need to save your strength,” he said with a wink.
Six am. The Englishman slid open the window shutter to reveal a scene of clouds tinted with golden light. Maja had slept badly: waking, she was left with dream fragments of Carel, wolves chasing him across the snow. She fell into a more peaceful doze until the plane was in descent and the captain announced their imminent arrival in the city. Maja touched up her lipstick while the Englishman turned his attention to the window. “Feast your eyes,” he said. She leaned over and caught sight of greenery and mountains below. Then they were looking down on an expanse of shacks, their roofs glinting in the sunshine.
“Tragic,” Francis said. “This government, I tell you,” he added. Maja felt that the man was ready to offer further remarks, but she was not in the mood for politics – she seldom was – and did not encourage him. The two of them watched as the plane descended, moving from calm, godly heights to the small, teeming world of people.
At the terminal, Maja walked towards Passport Control, leather satchel over her shoulder. She’d worried about this part, but had persuaded herself that there’d be no trouble for an EU citizen. As she waited, the Englishman decided to make his move.
“Where are you staying?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet.”
“We could meet up for a drink – might be fun.”
“You’ll have to give me your number.”
He scribbled on the corner of a piece of paper he found in his hand luggage – “Francis”, followed by a number – and then excused himself. “Nature calls, you know.”
She took her place at the back of the line. Maja hated queues. She’d spent seven years standing in them. Queues for supper, breakfast, lunch, the toilet in the morning – especially then; for the pay phone, for tampons and soap, for a magazine six months old. As the queue shuffled forward, the memory came to her, as intense as if it were yesterday. Her first night in prison, nineteen years old.
Maja was much less experienced then, with a weaker sense of how to manoeuvre her way through the world. She was in her cell, having unpacked the contents of her duffel bag. Trying to keep calm, moving slowly and deliberately. She sat on the plastic chair, at the table – neat, this cell, her cell, with apricot walls and fluorescent overhead lights – and wondered what to do now, given that the first fifteen minutes of her sentence was accounted for.
She’d been sitting for about thirty minutes when the door opened and an older woman entered. The woman wore the same blue uniform as Maja, but there her resemblance to a prisoner ended: she had nothing cautious about her, nothing of servitude. She was of average height, shorter than Maja but clearly very strong: her shoulders were broad. “You don’t look dangerous,” she said.
“I’m Maja Jellema. Who are you?”
She snickered. “Polite.” She opened Maja’s cupboard and peered into it. “Not much sense looking for stuff now. They hardly let you take anything in.” Then the woman was behind her, placing her hands on the muscles between Maja’s neck and shoulders. “Stay down. No need to rise.” Maja became completely still. “I’m in charge of this section.”
“Really?”
The woman’s fingers pinched the muscles hard, and Maja cringed; the woman relaxed her hands again. “Jokers do badly here. Yes: I’m the boss. The warders have their thing, but I’m at the top.” She flicked Maja’s ear hard, making it sting. “I know what you did, outside. Some women here will keep their distance, but not for long. You’ve got the eyes of a deer.” She gave Maja’s head a pat. “You might be okay if you behave.”
Then she took hold of Maja’s right arm. Impossible to shake off – the angle was wrong. The woman had all the power. She pulled the arm up behind Maja’s back; Maja shouted out. The woman let go and the arm swung back, hurting. “Maybe more later. Up to you. I’m Griet, by the way.” And she went to the door.
“Griet?” Maja got up, walked towards her humbly. The woman turned and stood, waiting. Maja slowly raised her right hand, letting it ascend through the air, palm outwards, supplicatory. Griet’s eyes were still following her right hand when Maja sent her left hand, as hard as she could, fingers forked, into the woman’s eyes. She was rewarded with a scream. “Nice to meet you,” said Maja.
In Maja’s post-prison life she tried to avoid not only long queues but also small rooms with minimal furniture. Het Nieuwe Jeruzalem, where she served toasted sandwiches and made cups of coffee, was large enough. But in this airport queue the feeling of prison slipped through Maja, leaving a fast-beating heart. She focused on a scuffed shoe mark she’d noticed low on a nearby wall – how had that happened? – and tried to see it as Abstract Expressionism: vigorous, dynamic. Slowly her breathing came under her control.
At last it was her turn. As she handed over her passport, the official, barely glancing down at the document, stood up – she was of substantial size – and left. Behind Maja, Francis was watching: she could feel his gaze on the back of her head. Another passport official, this one also very wide but a man, entered the booth. To calm herself, Maja imagined the two passport officials as subjects for a Brueghel painting. They could be a pair of rollicking villagers, if they were only more cheerful.
The