Page 15 of AMS.TER.strum

Chapter Seven

Now

Luuk

No other passenger wears such a broad smile while looking out the window at the fields, and bridges, and canals below—that dollhouse-like landscape of the Netherlands, complete with the windmills scattered among the colours of the blooming bulbs. Certainly no one else’s eyes are searching for the one thing that makes this one passenger smile: there it is, Sugar City from above. I swear I can see the LED lights dotting the latticed twin silos of the former sugar factory changing colours, although it isn’t dark yet. I chuckle at how the kitschy, ’80s-looking building hasn’t lost its appeal since the first time I saw it some twenty years ago, on the train to Haarlem, when Dad told me its history. Maybe that’s why I love it so much—because it was the three of us, happy and unsuspecting of what the future would bring.

‘Not bad for an oldie.’ Thankfully, the chair next to me is empty, so nobody bothers about the weirdo talking to himself.

It’s bizarre how a renovated building from the mid-1800s can make me feel at home; that I have really arrived where I’m supposed to be; that for the next few—too few—days, my life will have the tempting taste of what I want, of an intoxicating family-life routine. That R-word people complain about is my dream. Almost everyone calls it boring and feels the need to escape it, until it’s taken away. Then, the lack of the despised routine can send you off-kilter. Like I am, knowing my family routine has been disrupted forever.

The plane approaches Schiphol, and I’m totally blasé for the -3 m indication on the screens when the wheels bump against the tarmac. Duh—half local here, so I will absolutely play it cool. Still, it wasn’t until Dad and I left the country that I realised how special it is. Now, I like showing off that ‘God created the world, but the Dutch created the Netherlands’, as if I were part of that group of creators. And now, after a decade abroad, I feel like a wandering ball on a vast golf course finally finding its destination every single time.

I’m here, I’m home, comes the recurring thought. Only here and home isn’t just the city I spent my childhood and part of my teenage years in. Above all, it’s three people I start counting down to see again, the moment I say goodbye to them. My home.

I don’t hurry to unfasten my seat belt, although I’d love to fast-forward the long taxiing to our gate, the equally long walk through the airport that seems to expand with every visit, and finally the taxi trip to my familiar Airbnb—walking distance from Corrie’s—where I can dump my luggage, take a shower and get dressed for my surprise visit.

The familiar, temporary abode gives a hint of permanence. As if this space is my pied-à-terre, carrying images from my previous visits. It’s good to be back, and I’ve missed everything! Even the sound of passing trams that used to make our old house shudder. Oh, what wouldn’t I give to be able to feel that mini earthquake again! But most of all, I’ve missed her. Them.

I peek in the mirror for the umpteenth time since I got ready, wondering how this casually-dressed man staring back at me will look in her eyes. Whether she’ll see that “the kid”, as everyone used to call me when we first met (she adopted the more affectionate “kiddo”, which she never dropped), has grown. Said kiddo got a very uncomfortable hard-on at the anticipation of seeing her, which he’d had to take care of in the shower, while fisting his anatomy, in order to not embarrass himself. If the mere thought of seeing her has that effect, what will happen when she’s standing in front of me? Thankfully, two hyperactive kids keep the body and mind busy enough to prevent any embarrassment.

Shit, I almost forgot their presents! I rummage through my suitcase for the two bags containing knickknacks I made sure to find during my tours—my reasoning being I’m too old for those but still wanna buy them—plus a few things on their wish list, which their mom has strictly forbidden to be expensive, adamant that they shouldn’t consider people who love them their own personal genie in a bottle, despite my reassurances about not minding at all. In fact, I’d love to be said genie for all three of them, but that’s my secret wish for my own genie in a bottle, and I wonder whether it will ever be granted or is doomed to permanently live in the shadows.

A drop of rain lands right on my nose as I close the door of the Airbnb, a reminder of why hoodies or caps are a good idea in this country, but I’m too hyped up to head back up to the second floor. Instead, I walk faster along sidewalks speckled with dark polka dots of water. Only when I’m just two blocks away from her place does it dawn on me that I never asked Corrie about her working shift, afraid I might give away the surprise. But wouldn’t she have sent me some desperate GIF before leaving, her sentiments about her new supervisor similar to mine for Gwen and her interview?

I run the last stretch to the familiar door as the drops turn into a proper drizzle. As always, when I ring the unreliable doorbell next to the name plate with Corrie, Otto and Ada written on it, I wonder whether the name Luuk would be welcome there too. Is there space in their lives for someone who’s dying to become part of their family routine? Of their family, period?

‘Are you checking whether I’ve changed my mind?’ Corrie’s voice approaches, and I’m delighted—she’s here, the surprise worked, and I’m a click of the door lock away from seeing her.

She’s obviously prepared to find someone else on her doorstep, because when she looks straight ahead, at the height of my chest, her brow furrows. Right away, her head tilts up and her eyes open wide in recognition, and a huge smile blooms on her face.

‘Luuk?’

‘Last time I checked,’ I confirm, my smile competing with hers.

For a few moments, we take each other in, getting used to the live version, as opposed to the video-call images. This Corrie right here is more stunning than ever, all dolled up in a lilac dress that makes her eyes pop and take almost the same shade. Her discrete makeup is almost invisible, and her hair, usually in a messy bun—more practical to chase two five-year-olds around the house—is tumbling in tempting curls on her shoulders.

Finally, Corrie opens her arms. ‘Come here, kiddo!’

I refuse to let one word ruin the moment. It’s what you call a friend, right? It doesn’t refer to “the kid” from back then, awkward and shy.

For now, I push all thoughts aside to envelop Corrie into a hug, kiss the top of her head and get lost in her perfume—that soft, baby-powder fragrance she chose because Ada was sensitive to anything stronger. It suits her as if it was made for her. It’s a scent I’ve become sensitive to for totally different reasons, whiffing for it like a hound dog, disappointed whenever I do find it, only to be knocked with the realization that it doesn’t belong to her.

Still smiling, Corrie steps back to take me in again. ‘What are you doing here?’

I lightly tap her temple. ‘European concerts, ouwetje. Have you forgotten already?

Her eyes open wide in a you did not just call me an oldie disbelief, before she playfully slaps my arm. ‘I’m not that old to have forgotten you were supposed to arrive in a week.’

‘Stole a few days to come earlier. Surprise!’ I open my arms to the side, the bag with the presents dangling from one hand. ‘A good one?’

‘A fantastic one!’ Am I so starved for her, that I’m turned on by the crimson nail polish of her toes as she almost jumps up and down on her bare feet? ‘Come on in, you’re getting soaked!’

‘Shit, I made you wet…’

She bats away my apology. ‘I live with little people. A bit of water is the least of my concerns.’

I look behind her, surprised to see nobody. ‘Where are they?’