We and Me. Saskia de Coster

with sugar—Sarah stays at the table, sitting silently. She makes herself small and keeps her mouth shut, hoping they’ll forget she’s there so she can stay up late, like Emily. On Saturday nights she’s allowed to take her down comforter to the conversation pit and watch TV for as long as she wants. Sarah wants to learn everything about Uncle Jempy.

      ‘Say, Sarah,’ says Mieke, ‘we’ve had enough of that racket. Put some decent music on.’

      Stefaan stands up and lets a waterfall of nasally tones roll out of the speakers and over their heads.

      ‘Jempy, come on, you know this one,’ Stefaan says.

      ‘“Subterranean Homesick Blues”, I’ll say I know it,’ says Jempy, and he chimes in with the twenty-four-year-old Dylan, ‘you don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows’.

      ‘That’s the beginning of rap music, Sarah,’ Stefaan says, his arm draped over the back of her chair. ‘Listen to it carefully.’

      ‘I don’t know this song,’ Sarah answers.

      ‘It’s better she doesn’t know it,’ Mieke says. She refills the water glasses.

      ‘Is the cellar under water?’ Jempy chokes out a laugh.

      ‘We have tea, too,’ Mieke says. ‘Camomile or mint?’

      At nine-thirty on the nose Stefaan reminds Sarah that it’s time for bed. She gives her mother a kiss and hesitantly reaches out a hand to her uncle, although he says he’d rather have kisses like a real cowboy.

      She never expected that her mother would have the same dark blood as a terrorist. The Delhaize Supermarket, where Mieke and Sarah go every week to fill two shopping carts with high-priced provisions, was the target of the so-called Nijvel Gang a couple of years ago. The terrorists mowed down several innocent customers. All of a sudden, the similarities between the world being reported in the news and Sarah’s world weren’t just superficial points of contact; now the two coincided perfectly. They made the news. She watched the news broadcast and saw the cash registers where she always folded open the brown bags, and the shelves at exactly her eye level that were full of candy, perfumed erasers, and stick-on earrings. Jail is too good for those men, Sarah often heard from her mother’s armchair. It was all so exciting.

      Stefaan kneels beside her bed for a good-night kiss. Sarah takes advantage of his position by firing questions at him. ‘Was Uncle Jempy in jail before he came to us?’

      ‘Uh, that’s something you don’t have to worry about.’

      ‘I’m not worried about it. I just want to know.’

      ‘Yes, Sarah. Uncle Jempy is in jail, but this weekend he has vacation. The director of the jail is letting him spend a weekend home, and apparently he can’t think of a better home than his favourite sister’s house, where he hasn’t set foot for at least six years,’ Stefaan tells her.

      ‘Why is he in jail?’

      ‘Mama and Aunt Lydia would rather not talk about it.’

      ‘Is Uncle Jempy a terrorist?

      ‘You watch too much news, Sarah.’

      ‘Why did they arrest him then?’

      ‘Why on earth do you want to know?’

      ‘He’s part of my family, he’s my uncle.’

      ‘Granny is part of your family, too. She’d so much like to see you again. You have to be nice to old people, Sarah. Before you know it Granny will be gone and then you’ll be sorry.’

      ‘But if people are dead, they’re still part of your family, right? Isn’t your little brother part of the family anymore?’ It feels as if she’s touched something red hot, something that will hurt her father and leave a mark. She knows very well that this is forbidden territory.

      ‘Sarah!’ His lower jaw begins grinding as if he were gnawing on a bone. ‘That’s enough talking. Time to go to sleep.’

      ‘Papa, you’re weird.’

      ‘Go to sleep. Now.’ Stefaan doesn’t even plant the customary cold kiss on her forehead but simply turns off the light. When he returns to the living room, Sarah goes to the top of the stairs and listens.

      ‘She left me in the lurch, took my own kid away, and now I’m supposed to pay her?’ she hears Uncle Jempy say.

      ‘That alimony is for your daughter, birdbrain,’ Mieke interrupts. ‘To buy her food and clothes and to pay for her school books.’

      ‘My daughter doesn’t even want to go to school. It’s to pay for Sonja’s jewellery, that’s what it’s for. I worked for her all during our marriage, day and night. If she decides to run off I’m not going to be stuck with all the responsibility.’

      ‘According to the law … ’

      ‘I know you’ve studied it all, but I don’t give a shit about the law.’

      ‘How can you say that?’

      ‘I wipe my ass with the law. You have your principles, I have mine.’

      ‘So you’re all locked up and sitting pretty and we’re left holding the bag.’

      Her mother’s sideswipes come galloping up to her while her uncle’s bass tones remain submerged under the water of the ceiling like whales. In a little while the refrigerator’s built-in freezer door shuts with a click. Would they be eating that bright yellow, grainy, passion fruit sherbet? Sarah and Mieke brought it home yesterday. The cashier at the Delhaize was handing out free products. For Mieke, anything free is suspicious by definition, but she had no choice than to accept the sherbet because it’s rude to refuse a gift. Everyone but Mieke has been going out of their way to avoid the Delhaize since the Nijvel Gang held it up. But she won’t let herself be scared away. Besides, the last place that the gang would want to attack anytime soon is this Delhaize. What’s there to interest them? After the glass bowls have been spooned clean and shoved into the dishwasher, Stefaan announces that he’s turning in. Mieke patters to the hallway to lock the five locks on the front door. Preparations for night-time are underway at number 7 Nightingale Lane.

      Ten minutes of tooth brushing and make-up removal later the house is sunken in deep repose. After a great deal of foot-stamping, brooding, tossing and turning, and with the distant thunder of hunger in her belly, Sarah still hasn’t fallen asleep. She’s thinking about her father’s little brother. What would it be like if he were still alive? Or if he had only been dead a short time and then came back as a little brother for herself and a friend for her papa? Now there’s probably nothing left of the little brother. Uncle Alain has turned into a tiny little person, like all the other dead people. These little people roam the earth endlessly without ever bumping into each other. Her father works with little people, too—viruses, bacteria—but they’re bad little people. Maybe Papa thinks his brother was kidnapped by those bad little people. She thinks it’s really sad for him, but she’s glad Mama has found her brother at any rate.

      The next day Uncle Jempy is snoring loudly on the sofa when Sarah comes down for breakfast. Seven bedrooms and he sleeps on the sofa, is Mieke’s litany. His feet are resting on the ceramic figure of a Chinese warrior. Next to him on the sofa is an empty bottle of Marie Brizard, keeping him company like a shameless lover. He had a go at the liquor supply that gaily decorates the writing desk. As soon as Mieke turns on the juicer he opens his eyes. He comes into the kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee. Mieke presses her lips together.

      ‘It’s Sunday. The weekend is as good as over,’ she says. ‘Better leave now, then you’re sure of not being late.’

      He nods, puts his hand on Sarah’s head and musses her hair. When he goes outside to smoke a cigarette, Sarah begins to whine: ‘Why are you chasing him away?’

      ‘We’re not chasing him away,’ Mieke snaps at Sarah with the same combativeness that she uses in her exchanges with Jempy. ‘Uncle