Rus Like Everyone Else by Bette Adriaanse Page B

one hand. With the other he held the phone. “All right,” he said. “The usual. And you?”
    He leaned on the couch while he put his socks on. He had his tie on too.
    The secretary started looking for her clothes. The lawyer came into the bedroom.
    â€œDo you want a cup of tea or something?”
    â€œI can’t find my shoe,” the secretary said.
    The lawyer looked under the bed and tossed her sandal on the blankets.
    â€œDo you know where the bus stop is?”
    ASHRAF’S ENTERPRISE

    Ashraf stood in the office of the post boss, who supervised all post and parcel delivery in the East area. In his hands Ashraf held the plan for his enterprise. He’d listed all the benefits and had an answer to every objection; he’d calculated the monthly and the yearly results.
    The city was divided up in 157 package-delivery areas, 51 of them in East. Before, the postal service assigned its employees one area and let them deliver the packages in that area in Royal Mail vans. But outsourcing plans were made, and when one of the deliverers retired now, his area was given to an outside deliverer, who had his own van.
    According to Youssef, who used to work there, it took seven hours on average to deliver all the packages in one area. Since the postal reorganizations, the delivery window was stretched longer from eight in the morning until nine in the evening, which meant that if you worked fast, you could do two areas in a day, like Youssef used to do. If Ashraf took on two areas by himself, and got a double month’s salary, he could save up for another van. There were no limitations to the amount of areas taken on by one person, so he would then take two more areas, for which he would hire people for a lower hourly rate. Then he would save up more, for another van, and two more areas, until he had a little empire of areas, twenty or so. Then he would sell it all, pay the mortgage for his mother and university tuition for his brother, and he’d be free.
    â€œThey say there is a guy named Gregor who’s done it in North,” Youssef had told him. “He started with one van and has all of the Northern areas now. Does nothing himself and makes six hundred a day.”
    â€œMy name is Mr. Bleeker,” the post boss said. He extended his hand to Ashraf, not really coming out of his chair but just stretching his upper body a few centimeters, before sinking back down in his chair again. “Everybody calls me Herman,” he said, “but I wish they didn’t.” He frowned as he looked silently at the post sorters outside his office, who were singing along to “Yesterday” by the Beatles. Then he pointed at the chair in front of him and said, “All right then.”
    Ashraf placed his plan on the post boss’s desk. “I have my own van and I was hoping to start out with area 1979 and 1980. My friend Youssef told me they will soon be available. I’m interested in taking more areas, when possible, and hiring my own employees. It will save you ten percent in taxes and you would only have to deal with one person.” Ashraf moved on his chair. He had puton a shirt, a tie, and his father’s old leather shoes; even though Youssef said they’d hire anyone with a van, he still did it.
    The post boss took off his glasses and sighed. He had bags under his eyes and there were stacks of filled-out forms on his desk, schedules with big crosses and arrows on them, and posters with reorganization slogans.
    â€œI know that you usually want new deliverers to go along with someone else as a trainee, but I have gone along with Youssef a few times so I know it all,” Ashraf said. “I have experience.” It didn’t sound as professional as when he practiced it. He sat quietly in his chair as the post boss looked through the calculations.
    The post boss sighed without interruption and his skin looked gray like newsprint. Now and then his head drooped