Page 25 of All About Christmas

“Hey, neighbour!” Dex wraps a garland of coloured lights around the edges of the canopy that keeps the bench of his bicycle cab dry.

Wet snowflakes fall from the sky, dissolving almost as soon as they hit the ground, but still form a thin layer on the tarp of the cab’s roof.

He’s pulled his wool cap far down over his ears, a few black curls still sticking out from under the brim.

His gaze falls on the pink weekend suitcase standing next to me.

My hand rests on the handle as I look around, hoping to see Olivier’s Tesla.

“Where are you going?” he asks with a curious look in his eyes. “Do you need a ride? I should mention that my prices have gone up since last summer. You know, inflation... Higher fuel prices...”

I look at his pedals. “Fuel prices?” I repeat. “But you cycle yourself, right?”

Dex nods. “Yep. You know what you pay for a bapao bun these days? And a can of Red Bull?” He looks at me as if to say I would need to empty my bank account in order to fatten myself up with that diet.

“And do you know how many I have to eat to cycle from point A to point B?” he continues, pityingly shaking his head. “But anyway. Can I take you somewhere?”

I chuckle. “No. Sorry, Dex, I have to go to Cologne.”

Dex drops his shoulders. “Oh,” he says disappointedly. “That’s an awful lot of bapao buns.”

“Yes, I could never afford that,” I say, smiling.

“Hm.” He nods. “Maybe next time.”

“Sure. Have you saved up for your PlayStation 5 yet?”

Dex sticks his chest out proudly. “I have. It’s a very lico.

.. luco...” Some wrinkles appear in his forehead.

“Lucrative business, you know. I’m the most sustainable cab in town.

Those yuppies especially love that, so they all call me after their Friday afternoon drinks are over.

” He points to the speakers on the side of his bike.

“I’ve also installed a stereo. They always sing songs when I come to pick them up, so this seemed like a nice addition. ”

I’m about to reply, but then I hear the familiar buzzing sound of a Tesla stopping in front of us. I look up and Olivier steps out. He’s wearing a shirt with an expensive-looking jacket over it again.

Dex whistles in disbelief, looks wide-eyed at the expensive Tesla, and then at his pedicab that has HOT WHEELS written on it in bold letters. His head hangs a little, and he scratches his hat that slides back and forth over his head. “Oh,” he says, defeated. “Are you going to Cologne in that?”

“Yes,” I reply. “But,” I hasten to say, “I like your cab much better.”

Dex’s chest proudly juts forward, and I see Olivier looking at my neighbour’s pimped-out wheeled gondola in amazement. He briefly taps the roof of his own expensive sled, as if to console her after my hurtful remark. What is it with men and their cars?

“Are you coming?” he asks. “Or would you rather take that Christmas disaster down the highway?”

Dex throws him a dirty look but says nothing else and continues fixing the Christmas lights.

“Come on, you don’t have to be so mean,” I reprimand.

He shakes free some of the snowflakes sticking to his hair. “You started it.”

My God he acts like a toddler. I already regret taking him up on his offer to drive to Cologne together.

It seemed so convenient: we’re staying at the same hotel and that night at my parents’, he actually seemed to be quite pleasant company.

After Dad had given him a hard time—and then subjected him to a sugar avalanche of glazed Christmas cookies—Olivier had acquired a new fan.

Dad laughed excessively at every dull joke he made.

As he walked us out, he had whispered in my ear, “Look. That’s son-in-law material. ”

I’m pretty sure Olivier heard it, and with that one utterance, my father had made my embarrassment complete that evening. Throughout the entirety of the evening, I walked around as red as Rudolph’s nose and didn’t dare to so much as look at Olivier.

But now I can’t take it back. Olivier relieves me of my suitcase and puts it in the trunk.

Half sulking, I sit in the passenger seat and wave to Dex, who is trying out the different settings on his Christmas lights.

Eventually, he chooses a blinking setting that makes André Hazes and Monique Westenberg’s relationship seem stable.

Olivier starts the engine and drives down my street. Michael Bublé fills the car with drowsy Christmas carols.

“Don’t you think this is a waste of your time?” I ask after a while.

He frowns. “No, why?”

“Well, this might just be an unnecessary trip for you.”

He breathes a deep sigh. “Yes, that is a possibility. But I’m not going to assume that.” Olivier grabs a bottle from the holder by the gearbox and hands it to me. “Here. Drink some.”

I take it hesitantly and cast him a suspicious look. “Why?”

“It’s important to stay hydrated if you’re going to be shedding so many tears later when I run away with José’s job.”

“Pffft,” I scoff, but take the bottle anyway. I am pretty thirsty.

When I take a sip, Olivier adds, “I also brought sandwiches, in case you’re hungry. They’re in the glove compartment.”

“Oh,” I say in surprise and immediately reach for the handle in front of me. “I hadn’t thought of you as the caring type at all. What’s gotten into you?”

“Holly Jolly Jelly,” he chuckles.

I freeze for a moment and then close the glove compartment again. I cross my arms and stare out the window. “I was wondering when you were going to bring that up,” I growl.

Olivier’s deep laugh seems to practically emanate from his toes. “Ah, come on, Holly. It was hilarious.” He motions to the glove compartment. “It’s just some rolls from a bakery I passed by. Some croissants, pain au chocolat...”

“I’ll destroy them,” I mutter.

Olivier’s smile swells. When I stop responding, he slowly becomes more serious. “If I were you, I would be very happy to have such fathers.”

Normally, I’m also very happy with them, but not for these few minutes.

“Why?” I ask sulkily. I feel like the eight-year-old child again whose father comes to school dressed as a peacock on Halloween.

“Because they care about you,” Olivier says simply. “Not because of what you’ve achieved, not because of how you come across to others, but because of you.”

His hands tighten around the steering wheel, and I see his knuckles turn white. The teasing atmosphere in the car slowly ebbs away.

His Adam’s apple moves up and down as he continues: “I might have been a little jealous of the Holly Jolly Jelly-sandwich.”

Pity flares through my chest as I glance sideways at his strained face.

He stares at the road, eyes locked on the Volkswagen in front of us. “So, believe me,” he concludes, “what you have is worth a helluva lot.”

I’m reminded of Olivier’s interaction with his father at the Golden Televizier-Ring Gala, and I suddenly feel a little guilty. “Sorry,” I say softly, my eyes fixed on my folded hands in my lap. “You’re right. I know that.”

I watch the Tesla’s interface indicate that Olivier can safely merge, and Michael Bublé’s Christmas song turns into one by Bing Cosby.

“Holly?” says Olivier eventually. “Can I ask you something personal?”

“Yeah, all right.”

He taps the turn signal and moves into the left lane. “Your biological mother...”

“What about her?” I ask when he doesn’t continue talking immediately.

“I was wondering if you know her.”

I sit up. “Yes, of course I do,” I say.

“Oh, yeah?” He sounds surprised. “How does that work?”

I pick at a loose piece of skin near my thumb.

“She’s a good friend of my fathers’. They had a huge desire for children, but my biological mother didn’t.

One evening, when quite a bit of wine had been consumed, they came up with the genius idea that she could be a surrogate mother.

” I twist the cap off my bottle and take a sip of water.

“Of course, that didn’t happen on the spot.

They all gave it some thought first, and my mother was ultimately happy to do it for them.

” I put my water back in the cup holder.

“I see her sometimes on birthdays and other occasions, but she’s not a mom to me.

She’s a very sweet woman who made my fathers the happiest men on earth. ” I chuckle. “Their words, not mine.”

Olivier is silent for a moment. “Didn’t that bother you as a child?” he asks finally.

I have to think about that for a moment.

“Sometimes,” I admit honestly. “We’re not a standard family, and my classmates noticed that.

But I definitely wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

I think there are many traditional families whose children have it much worse than I did.

I also find some people’s argument that a child needs both a father and a mother to be such nonsense.

” I take another sip of water. My mouth has gone a little dry from my passionate argument.

“A child needs people who love them unconditionally. Who can give them stability and buckets full of warmth and love.” I twist the cap back on the bottle.

“And I don’t think the gender of the person who provides that matters one bit. ”

I turn my head toward him, but he continues to look intently at the road—thankfully, I don’t have to worry about the Tesla ending up wrapped around the guardrail of the A73. “Or do you think differently?” I ask when he doesn’t respond immediately, ready to drag him into the verbal boxing ring.

Olivier’s jaw twitches a little, but then he shakes his head. “No,” he says. “No, I certainly don’t think otherwise.”