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.’
‘Only threatened!’
‘We have to deal with worse things at school, you know.’
‘And so it’s normal? I don’t understand this.’
‘I’ve never had a problem with that boy, Elisa. Not of this magnitude, in any case. In some ways, I’ve only got myself to blame. If I hadn’t looked at his crotch, he wouldn’t have flipped. A thing like that is an enormous provocation in the Moroccan culture.’
‘So what. We live in Holland, and it’s not normal here for a teacher to be called a whore because she’s wearing a short skirt.’
‘I do know that, but I have to work with these boys day in, day out. You still have to take their views into consideration.’
‘I suppose it’s easier to blame yourself.’ Elisa shrugs. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
She goes into the kitchen without waiting for an answer and I stare out of the window at the neglected back garden. She’s right, of course, it is much easier to blame yourself. If you blame yourself, you feel less powerless.
Elisa returns with two steaming mugs of tea.
‘What next?’ she asks. ‘Does Raoul know already?’
‘No, he’s in a meeting. I’m not going to bother him with this now. He can’t do anything about it, after all.’
‘I suppose not,’ Elisa says.
The doorbell tinkles and we look at each other.
‘Hi-i!’ A voice with a rather exaggerated sustained note rings out in the exhibition space.
Sylvie.
‘Hiiii,’ I imitate quietly.
‘Shut up,’ Elisa says, and then in a louder voice, ‘I’m out back.’
There’s a click clack of high heels on the wooden floor and then Sylvie Roelofs appears in the doorway. Sylvie is quite a good friend of Elisa’s, though I’m not sure why. It’s not that Sylvie is unpleasant, but she’s…fake, that’s the word. And instead of keeping any kind of distance, she does her best to please me, which is even more irritating.
She once came on to Raoul while I was there. Luckily Raoul doesn’t go for women like her so she had little success. Since then she’s behaved more normally, but we’ll never be friends.
‘Oh,’ Sylvie says. ‘You’re here too, are you? How are you?’
‘All right, thanks.’
She looks me up and
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.’
‘Only threatened!’
‘We have to deal with worse things at school, you know.’
‘And so it’s normal? I don’t understand this.’
‘I’ve never had a problem with that boy, Elisa. Not of this magnitude, in any case. In some ways, I’ve only got myself to blame. If I hadn’t looked at his crotch, he wouldn’t have flipped. A thing like that is an enormous provocation in the Moroccan culture.’
‘So what. We live in Holland, and it’s not normal here for a teacher to be called a whore because she’s wearing a short skirt.’
‘I do know that, but I have to work with these boys day in, day out. You still have to take their views into consideration.’
‘I suppose it’s easier to blame yourself.’ Elisa shrugs. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
She goes into the kitchen without waiting for an answer and I stare out of the window at the neglected back garden. She’s right, of course, it is much easier to blame yourself. If you blame yourself, you feel less powerless.
Elisa returns with two steaming mugs of tea.
‘What next?’ she asks. ‘Does Raoul know already?’
‘No, he’s in a meeting. I’m not going to bother him with this now. He can’t do anything about it, after all.’
‘I suppose not,’ Elisa says.
The doorbell tinkles and we look at each other.
‘Hi-i!’ A voice with a rather exaggerated sustained note rings out in the exhibition space.
Sylvie.
‘Hiiii,’ I imitate quietly.
‘Shut up,’ Elisa says, and then in a louder voice, ‘I’m out back.’
There’s a click clack of high heels on the wooden floor and then Sylvie Roelofs appears in the doorway. Sylvie is quite a good friend of Elisa’s, though I’m not sure why. It’s not that Sylvie is unpleasant, but she’s…fake, that’s the word. And instead of keeping any kind of distance, she does her best to please me, which is even more irritating.
She once came on to Raoul while I was there. Luckily Raoul doesn’t go for women like her so she had little success. Since then she’s behaved more normally, but we’ll never be friends.
‘Oh,’ Sylvie says. ‘You’re here too, are you? How are you?’
‘All right, thanks.’
She looks me up and
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