02. Kraak

The sound of gurgling water brought his attention back to the single-burner stove where his moka pot brewed. He’d been lost in thought, staring out blankly onto the overgrown lawn that covered the side of the building, before the sidewalk. A bird had caught his eye, high up on a branch. A magpie, he thought, but he couldn’t be sure. It cackled and bobbed its head up and down, hopped from one branch to another. He got up from his chair and made his way to the kitchen area of the studio, which really was just a sink and the induction stove. He pressed the interface a couple of times until he assumed everything was turned off, though he still didn’t fully understand how this worked, he was more used to gas. He hadn’t managed to turn the stove on solely for his moka pot so he had had to place a pan under it, but the heated metal on metal gave off a smokey scent that he figured could not be good for his health or that of the pan.

He pulled out his phone and added induction plate to the list, which already included broom, rice bag, and all-purpose cleaner. From the cupboard he picked up his thermos, filled it halfway with the oat milk he had previously heated in a pot, and slowly started pouring the coffee into the thermos. As he did so, he heard that cackle again, and his eyes automatically darted to the window to check if the bird was still atop the tree. In the rapidly decreasing evening light, the branches were now mere shadows across a pale orange sky, and all he could see were lines and abstract shapes, faintly moving in the wind. A bright-hot pain on his hand made him yelp.

“Shit!”

He’d continued serving the coffee but had missed the thermos and had directly poured it onto himself. He put the thermos and moka back on the counter and ran icy water over his hand. The water reddened his skin and numbed his hand, sending needles through his nerve endings. After a moment he turned off the tap and dried himself with a clean rag. A small puddle of coffee lay at his feet. Careful not to step on it, he opened up a couple of cupboards above the stove, still finding his way around this kitchen, certain that he’d seen paper towels somewhere. Other than the plates, some cans of beans and crushed tomatoes, and a diverse assortment of spices, the top drawers were pretty empty. He crouched down and opened the cupboard below the sink, where he remembered seeing some cleaning supplies. As he did so, from the corner of his eye he perceived a large brownish spot of grease move suddenly. Startled, he involuntarily did a little jump back on his crouched position, almost losing his balance, and looked at it directly. As he paused, so did the spot, which upon closer inspection turned out to be a large cockroach, two long hair-like antennas moving curiously as if reading his intentions.

A cold shiver ran through his vertebrae. He hadn’t seen one of these in months, perhaps years, and to this day they still grossed him out. He remembered a particularly traumatic moment where he’d woken up to the sight of such an insect just a few centimetres from his face, on his pillow, one morning in his childhood home. They always triggered a tingling sensation around his back and shoulders, as if the creature’s spindly legs were brushing against the hair on the back of his neck. Almost instinctually, he removed one of his blue plastic slippers, which he always wore inside the house, and, with one deliberate movement, slapped it against the cupboard wall with a clap that reverberated inside the largely-empty studio. What was left of the poor creature was nothing more than a rubbery liquid-like smudge, but he felt no guilt, just as he’d had felt no hesitation to do what needed to be done. Beside the smudge, closer to the back of the cupboard, he found the roll of paper towels, with which he methodically cleaned the smudge from the cupboard and then from his slipper. He took another couple of squares of paper and used them to soak up the bit of coffee he had dropped, throwing that in the trash too.

Getting up, he took a small sip from his drink, lightly burning the tip of his tongue, shut the thermos tightly and placed it in his backpack. Then he removed his keys off the hook from which they hung, his wallet from the ceramic bowl, and his shoes from the small wooden rack. Shoes tied, backpack on, he looked once again at the list on his phone and stepped outside his apartment. He walked through the lifeless hallway and became aware of the rubbery squeaks that he could never stop his shoes from making. As he turned into the next hallway he heard some voices, and a few steps later he saw a couple of his floormates sitting on the couch. The couch, he imagined, had been brought to what used to be a secondary entrance hallway away from the main reception of the building, a staff entrance of some kind, as it gave to a small parking lot. He imagined someone had wanted to create a shared living area now that the space was being reclaimed and all rooms were individual studios. A low wooden table in front of the couch held a couple of empty beer cans, and each person held an opened can in their hand.

“Hey,” said the girl. The guy sitting next to her gave a nod, but didn’t speak. They both seemed around his age, perhaps a couple of years younger, he’d guess early twenties. Both of them were blonde, both dressed comfortably, sweatpants and a hoodie. The guy was sitting with his legs folded to his chest, black sneakers resting on the couch. The girl motioned with her beer can, “You’re the guy staying at Vinnie’s room, right?”

“Yes,” he replied, standing a couple of meters away, unsure if he should give them a hug or a handshake or nothing at all. “I’m Santi. I should be in Vincent’s room for the next three months.”

The guy on the couch chuckled. “Yeah, at least. This guy’s gone from his room so often you’d think he doesn’t even live here.” He shook his head at that, a small smile that didn’t offer much sympathy.

“I’m Anouk,” the girl said, “and this is Karel. I’m opposite your door, Karel is further down towards the stairs.” Karel nodded his head sheepishly.

“Sweet,” replied Santi, “it’s nice to meet you.” He paused, unsure of where he should take the conversation, but figuring he should make an effort in this first impression. Still, he went with the easy choice. “You guys been living here long?”

“Oh yeah,” said Anouk, “basically from the start, since they turned this place into homes. Well, regular homes. So, soon to be two years, at this point. But I’ve been living with this company for many years now.”

“And you?” Santi motioned his eyebrows to Karel, who didn’t seem to want to share too much but also didn’t strike him as particularly shy.

“Me? Hmm,” Karel looked dramatically up at the ceiling as if he had to find this information from the deep recesses of his memory, “A few months, just. I’ve also been living with the company for a while now, but in another project. One that used to be a school. They finally decided to tear the building down, though, so we all had to find new places.”

“How long in advance do they have to let you know before you gotta move?” asked Santi.

Anouk chuckled at this. “Technically,” she started, with a long pause for emphasis, “they give you three months. That’s what they put down on the contract. But in reality… shit. Last time I had less than three weeks to leave the building.”

Santi was taken aback by this. He was surprised such a system still existed in what felt in his mind like a country of such strong rule and tenant rights. “Isn’t it better to just squat, at that point?”

“The beauty of anti-kraak – which means anti-squat, if you didn’t know,” Santi did know, but he let Karel go on, “is that it can sound kinda brutal, but it almost gets exciting after some time. It teaches you to live minimalistically, to find love in carrying all that you own. Plus, they’re often able to place you in another building immediately, so you’re rarely left on the street. And, of course, you really cannot find this rent anywhere else.”

Santi nodded slowly, unsure if he was convinced by these arguments, but recognizing that even having to move every couple of years beat the rhythm that he’d had in the past few months by far. And he was still shocked by the price of the rent. He didn’t know a studio could go for that low in this country. “But you can apply for this type of housing only if you’re Dutch, right?”

“Precies,” said Karel with a wink. This word, Santi knew. Precisely. Once again he felt cracks begin to appear in the idealised vision that had been forming in his mind over the last few days, one in which he could stay here indefinitely, chill on the couch and drink beers with his floormates. Pay dirt-cheap rent and put up his own decorations, not having to content himself with the floor-to-ceiling tapestry that currently decorated the studio, the kind that spiritual North-Americans and Europeans loved to put up when they returned from a mindfulness retreat in Latin America as they traveled to “find themselves.” He felt a tendon tighten in his back, one he’d pulled on his latest move while he dragged his luggage through the train station. He also had to carry everything he owned, but found no love in it.

“And you?” Anouk’s voice snapped Santi back to the makeshift living room. “What brings you to our beautiful home?”

Santi pondered on how to answer that for a moment, absently fidgeting with the ring on his middle finger. “Short answer,” he decided, “I like the small town vibes and the smell of cow shit.”

The two laughed at this, and Santi felt the tightness in his back loosen slightly. Then he readjusted the straps of his backpack and waved to the two. “I need to go do some shopping before the stores close. You guys enjoy your beers. Nice meeting you both.” The two lifted their beers to the air in response, as he started briskly towards the front exit.

“Hey Santi,” Karel called out, before he’d fully left the hall, “how about one of these days you join us for drinks and tell us the long answer?”

Santi turned to smile back and raised a thumb as he continued walking. “Sure. I’d like that. Maybe I’ll even join you later if you’re still here when I return!” He said the last part as he turned the corner into the main hallway, and did not stop to hear their response.

A couple hours later he returned, backpack full, wooden broom in hand, but the two were no longer there. The hall was silent, save for the faint electric buzzing of the white lights above. The couch, gray and tattered, simply looked dusty and uncared for. Except for two small rings of condensation on the wooden table, it was as if the two had never been there at all.