Brother Kemal

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Marieke was sixteen and, in her mother’s words, ‘very talented, well-read, politically committed, with an inquiring mind and a good sense of humour — simply a wonderful, intelligent young woman, do you understand? Not the sort to hang around idly, not addicted to computers or into nothing but shopping and complaining that life’s so boring. On the contrary: class representative, a member of Greenpeace, paints wonderfully well, interested in modern art, plays tennis and piano — or did play tennis and piano anyway …’

Her mother looked briefly at the floor and tucked a strand of blonde hair back from her forehead with her red-polished fingernails.

‘Well, that’s the way things go, don’t they? Right? Two years ago she suddenly developed new interests. I suppose you would say Marieke was what you’d call an early developer. She had her first boyfriend when she was fourteen. Jack or Jeff or something like that, an American, son of a diplomat, in the class above hers. Then at some point it was another boy, and so on. Marieke became something of a live wire, if you know what I mean.’

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