The Coots by Steven R. Kraaijeveld
The sun draws the people of W— out of their homes and into the ancient city's center. Singly and in clusters, they stroll along the old-stone paths, chatting and laughing. The water in the canal smiles with reflected light and, after a winter of shadows and haze, life in the city resurfaces. People drift outside to feel the sun sink into their skin, to live unroofed against the open sky. Their spirits expand in the light like the blooming faces of the white dahlias strewn across the canal bank.
The water lures the city's feathered beings. Ducks buoy calmly, dive into the depths, and return with unseen nourishment. A group of three coots, their black bodies inconspicuous against the gray water, floats near the bridge that connects the city's two main shopping streets. The people on the bridge are focused on their own enjoyment and pay no attention to the life below.
A young couple crosses the bridge. On the other side, there is a low concrete wall. Tufts of green and brown moss grow in the cracks. The young man leans against the wall and pulls his girlfriend toward him. She spins theatrically and lands with a cheek against his chest. He keeps one arm around her and lets the other dangle. With the ease and confidence born of sure affection, he peers into the bustling shopping street ahead.
The engine of an inflatable boat stutters in the distance. She keeps one eye closed against his chest and observes the world with the other. Pots of purple camellias are fastened to the bridge's white-coated metal railing. Everything looks neat and joyous, arranged with care. She sighs.
The coots by the bridge make her think of the ones that would play in the pond on her grandfather's estate. They look so similar, with their white opera masks and stark black feathers. It has been a long time since she has visited her grandfather. His coots always recognized her; she was sure of it. They would krrp krrp krrp whenever she approached the pond. As she stumbled through the muddy grass, trying to get close enough to touch them, the scent of stale water would cling to her nostrils. But something is wrong with these coots. Why are they moving so strangely?
She realizes suddenly that one of the coots is not moving. The other two are throwing their bodies forward and dipping their beaks into the water, under and against the body of the still coot, whose neck is bent awkwardly and whose head, she now sees, is slumped beneath the surface of the water.
She lets out a cry. Startled out of his thoughts, the young man asks what's wrong. Only after he repeats the question does she reply.
"The coots," she says.
"The what?"
She gestures toward the water.
He turns his head and examines the canal—the capillary waves, a partly submerged twig, a faded camellia bobbing on the water—until he understands.
"It happens," he says, closing his arms around her.
They remain standing like this, quietly.
Then he suggests that they continue their walk. When she doesn't respond, he pulls away to look at her face. He can see the delicate veins in her eyelids, almost translucid in the sun.
"Remember the new bookstore?"
The words mean little to her as she stands there, thinking about the coots. About the one with its head sunk in the water, and the two who keep trying.
"I want to go home," she says.
Steven R. Kraaijeveld is a Dutch philosopher, ethicist, and writer who grew up in Czechia, China, and the Philippines. His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Epiphany, L'Esprit Literary Review, Massachusetts Review, Maudlin House, and MoonPark Review. He was a finalist in Fugue's 2025 Prose Contest. Find out more about him on Instagram (@esarkaye) or through his website: stevenrkraaijeveld.com.
