Ugly Girl
Copyright© 2026 by Han Jansz. van Meegeren
17. Dutch Arrival
It was nice to see that Ciaran had friends in the garage who helped him pick up a bed from the Swedish department store and were willing to help him carry it up the steep stairs. Sylvia and I were greeted with masculine indifference. They fully focused on getting the flat, heavy packages through the door and then up the stairs. They handled it without saying a word. One stood downstairs to hand it over, the second stood halfway up the stairs, and at the end, Ciaran carried it up to the attic. A single, very Scottish-sounding curse, and the job was done. Sylvia and I were allowed to assemble the bed. Sylvia was a DIY-er, so by the time he got home that evening, the job was finished. Our guests could arrive.
I will not act bigger than I am. You’d see right through it anyway. The day they arrived, I was nervous. I wasn’t the only one. Ciaran had taken Friday off and was also pacing the house. The only one who was the picture of calm was Sylvia. When Sandor’s sturdy car pulled up, our welcoming committee of three people was waiting for them. Sandor got out, and his wives stayed in the car.
He walked right past his mother and me and went straight to Sandor, hand outstretched. “Good afternoon,” the big, powerful man greeted the boy who was barely out of school. “What a wonderful place you have here! What a privilege it is that we get to spend Christmas with you.”
Ciaran wasn’t sure what to make of this. He stammered something back. I felt the frustration about this extraordinary machismo welling up inside me. “Yeah,” he would say, “that’s just our way of life,” but whatever your lifestyle, if it impeded just normal, decent behaviour, that is the limit; that is where I draw the line. I think he read that in my expression as well because he came over to us.
“Aunt Zuzanna, how are you?” he asked as he hugged me. When I didn’t answer, he turned to his mother.
“Girl, you look so much better than I’ve seen you last time. Please tell me you feel better.”
“My name isn’t Girl anymore, Master. Mistress forbade me to use that name.”
“So, she did. I’m sorry,” he said without sounding regretful. He pulled her into a hug, and they exchanged whispers.
“Are the women allowed to get out of the car?” I asked, perhaps with a touch of sarcasm.
“Of course,” said Sandor. “They’re still tied up at the moment, I’m afraid, but we’re going to get them out. Could you help me?” he asked Ciaran. When the guys popped the doors open, ropes spilled out of the car and onto the ground on both sides. It took little imagination to understand why the ladies hadn’t come out yet. Once Jutta stepped out, still stiff, Sylvia couldn’t hold back any longer and ran towards her. I wasn’t prepared for that and had to follow whether or not I wanted to. Running had never really been my thing, and everyone burst out laughing. Sylvia jumped up onto Jutta, her arms around her neck, her legs around her waist. A real airport scene. They took turns kissing each other wherever they could reach. Their faces, their necks, on their eyelids. It was a declaration of love beyond any other interpretation. Two lovers separated by the sea; one had been bound by ropes, the other was still bound by a long chain.
Ilse walked towards me. I’m afraid I felt a little forlorn, too. She pulled me into a hug. “How lovely to see you again, Aunt Zuzanna. You look so good, Scotland must be good to you,” she said with a mischievous smile, turning her gaze to Ciaran.
“He is good for me, Ilse. Is Sandor good for you?” I asked her.
Ilse smiled. “Of course he is. He may look like a bear, but he really is a teddy bear.”
“Good,” I said. “Let’s break this up,” Sandor shouted. “It’s time to unpack some things.”
This meant Jutta and her daughter had to drag the suitcases up the stairs. Ilse was probably the one to unpack, because within a few minutes, Jutta was in our bedroom. Once again, two people were lying on the bed, hugging each other, but this time I was the one watching. I got a taste of my own medicine, and it didn’t taste all that good. Two lovers, with no shame or restraint, told each other how much they missed each other and how happy they were to feel each other again. You’d be amazed at the variety of words you can use to express that to each other. Someone knocked on the door. Ciaran, who else? Do you think Sandor would have knocked? Really?
“Zuz, I am going to Pitlochry with Sandor. I will show him the town. You can go eat; Sandor and I will have a bite to eat in town.” And away he was.
“Girls, meet Ciaran. He still has a bit of growing up to do.” I said, and we all laughed. Ilse joined us. Four on a twin bed is a challenge, but we managed.
“Of all the people I know, I admire you the most, Aunt Zuzanna,” Ilse said suddenly, while Jutta and Sylvia were deep in conversation about acquaintances I didn’t know.
“Oh, and why is that? I’m not that special, Ilse.”
“Yes, you are. You don’t hear some people, you might not even see them, but it’s people like you who make the difference. Crazy things happen in our home sometimes, sometimes very crazy things. But it’s all indoors. It’s safe, it’s all safe, sane, and consensual. What do you do? — you just go out into the street, you talk to people, you apparently don’t care what they say or think about you. You just do it. Not for yourself, because I don’t think you get any pleasure from that chain at all, but for someone else. From such a deep sense of responsibility that I can only have the deepest respect for that.”
Ilse had become increasingly vocal during her emotional monologue. Her mother and her mother-in-law were no longer talking. I needed to add some nuance before she canonised me.
“We have found a way for the public to accept the chain between us, or rather, Sylvia has found a way. As so often happens, we fall back into the past, with me playing the blind one and Sylvia my companion. She presents herself as a human guide dog, ensuring that I, as the poor blind woman, can still take part somewhat in social life. The chain between us prevents me from unexpectedly running into a bus or knocking people over in the street. If you tell that story repeatedly in a small community, people whom you’ve never seen before know how things really are. So you don’t have to explain it to everyone. Gossip often does that for you.”
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