Kitabı oxu: «Shadow Sister»

Lydia
1.

All of a sudden he’s got a knife. The flash as he draws it is so unexpected fear paralyses me. I try to speak, but the sound dies in my throat. I can only stare at the blade glinting in the light streaming through the classroom windows.

Then waves of adrenaline pulse through my body and I can move again. I reverse towards the open door. Bilal steps forwards at the same time so that the knife remains pointed at me, at my chest, my throat.

My thoughts scramble and fall away. I once did a training course on how to handle these kinds of situations. An image of the textbook flashes through my mind. But I can’t remember the tips. I can’t remember.

Intuition kicks in: Don’t make eye contact. Try to escape. But will I make it to the door?

I glance at Bilal. His gaze is strange, fixed, predatory. His eyes register every movement I make, but surely he cannot see the wild heartbeat I can feel in my throat. I try to empty my face of expression, but I’ve no idea whether I’m succeeding. I probably look more surprised than frightened.

Surprised, because I hadn’t seen this coming. But I should have been prepared for it, particularly with Bilal Assrouti.

As he passes the first line of desks, the other students are still quiet, stunned. I stare at the knife and the world contracts into a tunnel through which I can see only the long blade and Bilal’s glittering eyes. The nineteen-year-old standing in front of me might be a schoolboy, but he’s also a man; he’s a head taller than me, his arms are muscular and there’s a tic in his neck.

My eyes become glassy with fear; time stretches. Probably no more than a few seconds have passed, but it feels like minutes, minutes in which I know I’m in serious danger.

Thick fog in my head. Reason, Lydia. Talk. I need to talk. Start up a calm conversation. Show him this isn’t the solution. Show him I’m taking his feelings seriously.

After letting out a dry cough, I find my voice. ‘Put the knife down, Bilal. You really don’t want this and it won’t get you anywhere. Why are you so angry?’

‘Why am I so angry?’ he shouts. ‘Why do you think, bitch? You just stood there, all full of yourself, and told me to leave school!’

‘That’s not what I said—’ I begin, but the denial is a mistake. His face contorts and I fly into the corridor. There’s a clamour in the classroom, but I don’t stop.

I run to the headmaster’s office and throw open his door. Jan van Osnabrugge has the phone in his hand, but one glance at my wild appearance is enough for him to put it down.

‘Lydia! What is it?’

I close the door behind me – Bilal hasn’t followed me – and lean against it. For a few seconds I can’t speak. ‘Bilal. He pulled a knife on me.’ I indicate the size of the knife with my hands and Jan’s eyes grow even wider.

‘You look pale. Are you all right? I’ll get you some water.’

He gets up, but I shake my head – I don’t want to stay here alone while he fetches water.

‘Sit down for a bit,’ Jan says. ‘Tell me what happened.’

Shaking, I sit down in the chair opposite him, but I can’t remember a single thing. I can’t recall anything of what happened beforehand or how the argument progressed, all I can see is the knife. I bury my face in my hands and weep hot tears.

Jan crouches next to me and puts his arms around me. ‘Have a good cry. Don’t worry. We’ll handle this. Where is Bilal now?’

I shrug, still shaking.

‘I’ll send someone to your classroom to look after the other students.’ Jan strides out of the room and I want to call out to him to stay, but no sound emerges from my throat.

I sit there in a daze, looking out of the window that opens onto the playground. Rotterdam College offers various types of education, but most students are doing some kind of technical or professional training. Generally they’re pleasant, reasonable young people. They do need keeping an eye on, but you can have a good relationship with them. Just like at any other school. And just like at any other school, we have students with learning difficulties such as ADHD, autism, Asperger’s or dyslexia. In the old days they would have gone to special schools, but not now.

I’ve always invested a lot in my students – I do a lot of overtime, making home visits or popping into the McDonald’s where they hang out, so we can have a chat. Mostly, my students appreciate this. Plenty of them have told me so; others have demonstrated it by sharing secrets, big and small, or telling me about their home lives. Believe me, this is not easy for them. In general, a child’s shame runs deeper than their need to talk about their problems.

In the beginning, if I turned up unannounced at their homes, they’d refuse to let me in, but little by little I’ve gained ground. I’ve been in most of their living rooms by now and, yes, I’ll admit that I’m proud of it. Why shouldn’t I be?

I wouldn’t have been able to get up in front of a class and teach if it didn’t inspire me. I feel responsible for my students; I might not be the driving force of their existence, but I do have some kind of influence on their future.

If I call a student to my desk to discuss their behaviour, we can have a conversation without them storming out, as they often do with my fellow teachers. The other teachers haven’t gone to the trouble of attending the inter-cultural coaching sessions – they take up a lot of time in the evenings but give important insights into immigrant children. Every teacher there has come because of troublemakers in their class, and Bilal Assrouti has always been a troublemaker.

Bilal has been in my class for almost two years and we have clashed from the start. He’s the kind of domineering child who rules the roost at home and thinks he can act that way at school too. But the idea that he’d draw a knife…

I’ve been teaching Dutch for seven years now and I’ve never come up against a problem with a student that I couldn’t solve, but every day Bilal gives me the feeling that I’m a failure as a teacher, that I fail at all those things I’m desperate to do well. I’ve tried from the start to get through his armour-plating of defensiveness and scorn – the problems that he has with me as a female teacher – but in vain. And on a sunny morning at the end of April, it’s come to this.

The noise of the school bell pierces the corridors and makes me jump. There’s an instant uproar and shortly afterwards the playground fills up with students. Dark hair, caps and headscarves everywhere. Is Bilal among them or has he gone? Would he really have stabbed me? I shunt restlessly backwards and forwards on my chair and decide not to leave the school premises before I’ve seen Bilal being carted off by the police.

2.

The door opens and Jan comes in and closes the door behind him. ‘Bilal’s friends say he’s left. I’ll get in touch with his parents presently and let them know about the incident.’ He sits down at his desk. ‘Lydia, we’ll address this without delay.’

I let out a sigh. ‘Thank you, Jan. Do you think the caretaker could take me to the police station in a little while? I daren’t go out while Bilal is still on the loose.’

My words are met with silence. Jan coughs and stares at the pen pot on his desk. ‘I’m wondering whether it makes sense to report this. Of course I can’t stop you, but I don’t think it’s worth it. There’s a large chance the case will be dropped due to a lack of evidence.’

‘A lack of evidence? With twenty-four witnesses?’

‘Most of whom are Bilal’s friends,’ Jan argues. ‘Don’t rely on your students too much – they’ll either be loyal or scared of repercussions. I’d rather not have them drawn into this, you understand.’

I stare at Jan as though I’m seeing him for the first time. ‘I don’t understand at all. I’ve been threatened with a knife and you propose we act as though nothing has happened. Why is that?’

I already know the answer. If I report him, Bilal will be arrested and it will generate negative publicity for the school. Rotterdam College has been losing students for years, despite merging with two other schools, and it’s not the first time we’ve made the news in this way.

My disgust must be evident because Jan raises a hand. ‘It’s not about the school, Lydia. The situation will only get worse if you make a big deal out of it. Bilal’s in his final year, there’s no way we can expel him. He’s legally entitled to take his final exams. We’ve all just got to get along for the rest of the year. Reporting him to the police would be like throwing oil on the fire.’

I hesitate. The mere idea of seeing Bilal in my classroom again makes my heart race.

‘I don’t want to run into him in school. I don’t want him in my class anymore, I don’t want to bump into him in the corridor and I don’t want to see him hanging around the assembly hall.’

Jan folds his hands. ‘I swear that Bilal won’t get away with this lightly.’

‘What are you planning to do?’

‘I don’t want to come across him in the corridors either,’ Jan replies. ‘I’ll suspend him for a while and after that he can finish the rest of the year at the other site. That way he can take his exams and you won’t have to be confronted with him. I’ll inform his parents and arrange an appointment with them for this afternoon. How do you feel about that?’

I rub my forehead, trying to massage away the beginning of a headache. ‘I’m not sure. Christ, Jan, he could have stabbed me!’

‘But he didn’t,’ Jan says in the tone of someone reassuring a child. ‘Why don’t you take the rest of the day off. Take as long as you need. Get over the shock, make sense of things and let me know when you’re ready to get back in the saddle. You’re too upset to teach right now.’

I shove my chair back and stand up. ‘Fine, but as far as the police go, I’m not promising anything.’

Jan says quietly, ‘If there’s another negative article in the papers it will cost us twenty new students next year and just as many will decide to change schools. That’d mean two jobs on the line, two teachers unemployed. Please, Lydia.’

3.

As I stand in the corridor, amid the bustle of students, I’m overwhelmed by exhaustion. I walk back to classroom no. 209, unlock the door and go inside. My eyes dart to where I was standing when Bilal threatened me. I picture him stabbing me, see the knife in my throat, a big slash across my face. I see the blood pouring out and suddenly I’m shaking uncontrollably.

I gather my papers into the bag I’d left on the small podium and hurry out. I want to go home but my need to talk to Jasmine is stronger. The lunch break is almost over, but I have to tell her what has happened. Jasmine is my colleague and friend; we both joined the school seven years ago, fresh from teacher-training college. We have been through the same problems with discipline and difficult students. In the beginning she lived outside Rotterdam, but as soon as she got a permanent position at the school, she and her husband Lex bought a house in the same street as Raoul and me in the Hillegersberg area. We’d always been friendly, but after they moved into the street, we began dropping round for cups of tea, and looked after each other’s children. Not that either of us have got much time for tea-drinking. We’ve both got families and a busy working week, so we mainly see each other at school.

‘My god, what happened to you? You look dreadful.’ Jasmine is in the staffroom drinking coffee and a quick glance at my face was enough to alarm her. The bell goes and the teachers around us pack up their bags, put their empty mugs into the plastic crate and leave the staffroom, chatting and laughing as they go.

‘Do you have to teach now?’ I ask.

Jasmine nods, frowning. ‘2E. Why? Tell me!’

‘Bilal,’ is all I say. ‘He had a knife.’

‘What?!’

I look at Jasmine; her expression of horror has made me feel better already. ‘A knife. And not a small one. A long, thin blade. He held it to my throat.’

Jasmine’s jaw drops. ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

My hands are trembling and I’m close to tears again.

‘We have to talk about this, but I’ve got a class now.’ Jasmine is flustered. ‘Hold on, I’ll set them an essay, then I’ll be able to leave them for a while. Sit down and have a coffee, I’ll be back in a minute.’

She puts a cup of coffee down in front of me, then is gone, and I’m alone in the staffroom. I read the announcements on the noticeboard without taking them in. All I can think about is whether or not I should go to the police.

When Jasmine rushes back in, I jump.

‘Well, this really is the limit!’ she cries out. ‘We shouldn’t have to put up with this kind of rubbish. Tell me exactly what happened.’

‘We had an argument,’ I say, ‘but the crazy thing is, I can’t remember what was said.’

‘That’s the shock,’ Jasmine says. ‘It doesn’t matter. You had an argument and then what?’

‘He got up and came towards me. His face was all contorted, it was horrible. And then he pulled out a knife and pointed it at my throat.’ Three sentences and I’m crying again.

Jasmine puts her arm around me. ‘It must have been so terrifying.’

‘I really thought he was going to stab me,’ I sob, choking back the tears. ‘All I could think was, not my throat, not my throat, because I knew I’d have no chance of surviving that. But then I realised that he could also cut my face and I imagined spending the rest of my days with a big scar, or just one eye.’ I cry even harder.

Jasmine strokes my hair; her face is pale. ‘Where is Bilal now?’ she asks. ‘Have you already spoken to Jan?’

‘I ran out of the classroom and went straight to Jan’s office.’

‘And? What did he say?’

I pick up a plastic spoon and toy with it. ‘He would rather I didn’t report it to the police. He said he’d get in touch with Bilal’s parents this afternoon, and he’d suspend Bilal immediately.’

‘Okay. And what else?’

‘Legally speaking, Bilal’s got the right to take his final exams here, but he’ll be barred from entering this building. He’ll take classes at the other site.’

Jasmine nods. ‘The sooner they get him away from here the better. That does seem the best solution to me. Jesus, just the thought that he might pull a knife on me! I’d die of fright!’

I bend the plastic spoon, making a white crease in the plastic. ‘But I wonder if I should go to the police.’

Jasmine frowns. ‘You should really, shouldn’t you?’

‘It wouldn’t do much for the school’s reputation, but on the other hand.’ I look at my friend despairingly. ‘What kind of signal would that send out, that a student can threaten a teacher with a knife and the only punishment is being sent to work in another building?’

‘And a suspension.’ Jasmine adds.

‘A suspension?’ The spoon snaps. I put the pieces down. ‘He’ll get a week’s holiday, watch a bit of MTV.’

‘That’s true,’ Jasmine says, ‘but what do you expect the police to do? The most they’ll do is caution him. If we reported every threat that was made in this school, we’d all be out on the street in no time.’

‘That might be true,’ I say heatedly, ‘but what kind of school is this then? Not reporting him means that the students have the upper hand, that they can do whatever they want.’

‘They can,’ Jasmine says soberly, ‘and you know it.’

I do know it. The power of the students, protected by their parents, is growing and growing. When I was at school, just the threat of being sent to the deputy head’s office was enough to stop me in my tracks if I was fooling around in class. These days they just laugh at you. Once, a student I’d sent out stood outside the classroom windows and dropped his trousers.

If you telephone the parents to ask them in for a chat, they never have time and they aren’t interested. If they do turn up, they barely understand what you’re saying because their Dutch is so poor – or they promise they’ll give their son or daughter a good hiding which you then desperately try to talk them out of. Often, they’re defensive. How dare you?! Are you saying they aren’t good parents? Isn’t it the school’s job to sort out problems? Isn’t that what they’re paying taxes for?

Victor, one of my colleagues, was once punched by a father.

‘What should I do, Jasmine?’ I ask. ‘What would you do?’

‘I’d sleep on it.’ Jasmine gets up to make another coffee. ‘Think it over.’

We sit there together, drinking our coffee in silence. I look at Jasmine over the rim of my cup. ‘I’ve got a headache.’

She rests her hand on mine. ‘Just go home,’ she says. ‘I’ll call you this evening, all right? And whatever you decide, police or no police, I’ll stand by you.’

4.

I’m glad I never cycle to work, even though the weather’s lovely for the end of April. I can’t take my bike because I have to rush off at the end of the day to pick up my six-year-old daughter from school. To my shame, she is sometimes there waiting for me, holding the teacher’s hand. But not today. It’s Monday, early in the afternoon, and I’ve got plenty of time to tell my story to the police.

If I decide to.

As I cross the playground on my way to the car park, I catch myself looking around. The sight of every dark-haired, broad-shouldered boy gives me a jolt and I only feel safe once I’m in my car with all the doors locked.

As I join the busy Rotterdam traffic, it all comes back to me, piece by piece.

From the moment the lesson began, Bilal had been looking me up and down. I was wearing a skirt – not a mini-skirt, it was to the knee – and high black leather boots. Slouched in his chair, Bilal looked from my legs to my breasts and then back again.

Ignoring things is always the best approach, so I carried on with the lesson. Until Bilal raised his hand.

‘Miss?’

‘Yes?’

‘You look really hot today. Are you going somewhere?’

There were some repressed giggles, but most of the room gave Bilal a cold stare.

‘I’d appreciate it if you’d keep such thoughts to yourself, Bilal.’

‘I bet you would,’ Bilal said. ‘You know what we call women in Morocco who walk around like that?’

I gave him a warning look. I’d recently made clear to the class the consequences of swearing, specifically of using the word ‘whore’.

Bilal sat up straight, leaned towards me as if in confidence, and said, ‘Prostitutes.’

Anger coursed through me but I managed to control myself. ‘Do you have chewing gum in your mouth? Do be so kind as to put it in the bin.’

Bilal worked his long body out from under the desk and walked, with the same sly grin, to the bin. He spat out the gum and went back to his place. As he prepared to sit down again, he stared leisurely, suggestively, at my breasts.

That’s when I did something wrong. I should have told him to leave the classroom and report to the headmaster, but instead I looked at his crotch, my expression scornful. It happened so quickly – I shocked myself – I realised I was making a mistake, but it was too late. Bilal had seen it. His expression changed from sly to hard, his lips thinned and his eyes filled with a threat that set all the alarm bells in my body ringing. I stepped backwards and that’s when he pulled the knife.

The memory fills me with a burst of confidence. I’m going to go to the police; of course I’m going to go to the police.

I head back towards the centre, brave the traffic along the Coolsingel Canal and turn off into a side street called Doelwater Alley. I park there and look over at the ‘swimming pool’, as the mint-green tiled police station is known.

But I don’t get out of my car.

My eyes sweep the alleyway and the square in front of the police station, searching for Bilal. He isn’t here. Of course he isn’t here, but he might come out from behind a parked car once I get out of mine.

I don’t really expect that to happen, but my heart pounds away all the same and I wonder whether I’ll be able to get any words out once I’m inside.

I need to get a grip on myself. A glass of iced water would do me good, but all I’ve got is a mouldy tangerine lying next to the gear stick.

I take a deep breath. Would Bilal really have stabbed me? I’ve known him long enough not to believe that. Yet, that look in his eyes when I provoked him…Who knows what I triggered in him? Even though I have a good relationship with most of the students from immigrant families, I’ll never truly understand them.

I imagine Bilal being interrogated – he might have to spend some time in a prison cell – and then I see the Bilal I’ve always known, an arrogant but intelligent boy who is probably already regretting what he did. Maybe Jan is right and I’d only make it worse by reporting it.

I don’t know how long I sit in my car, but at some point I wake up from my stupor and drive home.