As it turned out, those items belonged not to Eline, but to the tenants who occupied the lower apartment. She lived in the top floors with her sons, who were of course too old for the toys I had seen through the window, had I thought even for a moment I would have realized my mistake. I would have realized that the woman I had met at the museum and at the café, the woman whose brother had only recently been assaulted to the point of hospitalization, could not be living in such an innocent way—that woman would lock the doors, close the drapes, switch on the security cameras, that woman was living in a state of considerable fear and anxiety.
But I didn’t think, or it didn’t occur to me, perhaps because I was at that point still unable or unwilling to reconcile the woman I had met with the situation she was in. Instead, I had in mind the family that occupied the ground-floor apartment, the aura of their happy chaos with me as I rang the doorbell expectantly, it was the kind of life I would have wanted Eline to have, the kind of life I would have wanted to have myself. I therefore experienced a small shock when a man opened the door and I saw beyond him the monochrome interior, cold and perfect, with not a single ornament out of place.
But it was the man himself who was most jarring—it was the brother, Anton de Rijk. And although I had come to this house with the clear understanding that I would be meeting him, I found that I was not prepared, I was still startled by his appearance. How was it that I had failed to imagine the extent of his injuries, how was it that I was surprised by the large and vivid scar across his forehead, still puffy and puckered at the edges? Or the fact that he was breathing heavily as he leaned against the door, as if struggling with a lung that had recently been punctured, a set of bruised and broken ribs? His face was faintly distorted, as if he had suffered nerve damage, some features crumpled, others that veered off. I remembered that he had been hospitalized, for over a week, Jana had said.
He remained there, his body propped against the door, I was aware that I was staring. He nodded, as if I had confirmed something, either about himself or about myself. No doubt in the wake of the assault he had grown used to people staring. His face was a version of Eline’s face in the way that a photographic negative is a version of the photograph itself. I thought this would have been the case even before the assault, he had none of her beauty, on some level his features simply registered as a coarsened version of hers. And yet they had a quality that was in some way primal, as if his was the originating mold. If it was lacking in beauty his face nonetheless had some dark charisma, it was memorable in a way that Eline’s was not. As I stood before him, I could feel myself forgetting what Eline looked like, I began only to recollect her face as a distant echo of his.
With some visible effort he at last pushed himself upright and stepped aside, bidding me enter. You’re Eline’s friend, he said, and I nodded and said hello. He turned and I saw that he moved with the aid of a cane, an ornate and lacquered instrument that was old-fashioned, entirely unlike the rubber and aluminum braces that are more common now. The effect was to make his injuries seem more inherent to his character, less temporary and more integral. As I followed him through the well-appointed foyer with its large mirrors and neutral hues, I saw that he was walking with a marked limp, dragging one leg heavily behind him. He wore expensive dress shoes, polished to a meticulous gleam, I wondered if he did that himself or if someone else did, a butler or a manservant, a figure as anachronistic as his cane. The sole on the side that dragged was thicker, the shoe had been outfitted with a lift, and I thought then that the limp must have been part of a long-standing condition, predating the attack.
I followed him until we at last reached a large and airy kitchen, where Eline stood at the counter. She looked up and made a sound of annoyance, You should have told me, I didn’t hear the bell, she said. She smiled apologetically at me, as her brother made his way to the kitchen table. He sat down, leaning back into his chair and gazing at her. I watched in fascination as he pushed his tongue out of his mouth, so that it lolled against his lips, a gesture that was at once obscene and playful. She made a sound of quiet exasperation and then turned to me. Welcome, she said. You met my brother, Anton.
Yes, I said, although he had not in fact introduced himself. I thought it was surprising that Eline had not opened the door herself, she did not exactly fuss over her brother （no doubt he was the type of man who would have batted away such ministrations）， but she treated him with visible concern. He reached for the bottle of wine that sat on the table, I saw that it was already near empty. Eline resumed chopping some herbs, she glanced at him several times before she abruptly asked, Are you supposed to be drinking on those painkillers? I thought the doctor said not. He ignored her, I was still standing in the middle of the kitchen, perhaps it was not too late to quietly back out of the room and leave the house unnoticed.