A tremendous irritation was the first symptom that struck Araon. Somehow, he was expecting such a big joke from Jill. She was so weird lately. “Hopefully, our marriage is safe. This is the most important thing,” he thought. He had always followed golden rules to keep his relationship with Jill healthy and steady. Right now, it was not booming. This was a process they had to go through at that moment of their marital life. Araon forgot his worries and began to organize his day. Now he had to enquire of himself two main issues: the blood at Van Gogh Museum and his wife fleeing from home. Somehow, he wanted to contact, from the directory, some blood test operators to try to find out whom the blood belonged to. But it was not a good idea since that meant to expose himself to the danger of being identified as a murder witness who didn’t report the fact to the police. He had to carry on his own without interference from third parties. Suddenly he had in mind the name of a doctor: Mr Van der Baast. He was the right ally. Cunning and subtle he had reached worldwide fame for being helpful in sorting problems of those who addressed them to him. Silence fell and the afterthought took another direction. But the outline of Jill crossed his mind. This was the main issue of the moment. He went outside his flat, crossed the bridge and went to buy some Havana. He literally was in love with their savour. He had left the flat without taking a shower and eating a few biscuits purposely left by Jill on the kitchen. Crumbs of the soul would have made the situation worse. And last, but not least, he had been keeping in mind the bride-to-be, bride-to-be-not just to reach a balance of the emotions that were filling him at that moment. He had in mind the lesson from the past which brought to him advice about how not to break his relationship with his wife. “A caprice is a caprice for those who want to hold their whims in a balanced way,” he thought and marred his fingers with the ink of his pen. He had Jill’s note with him upon which he wanted to take his own observations. A ray of light, which was so unusual in an Amsterdam winter, brought joy to him. Some people were incited to violence by an unexpected hint of heat but this was not so in Araon’s case. He was calm and intermingled ideas and emotions with elegance. Later on, he inverted his stroll to go back home where a soothing sleep was waiting for him. He had to recover from the stress of the day and it was a surprise he couldn’t fall asleep immediately. His thoughts had clouded his mind and there was nothing he could do against them. Only after an hour he succeeded in falling in the realm of his sweet dreams.
Jill, on the other side, was strolling in ancient Amsterdam. The beauty of the streets conceded her the advantage to have been born in that city and not in another one. She loved the countryside but she didn’t blame herself for being so attracted by the colour of a multiethnic society. To be brief, she was busy with strong emotions while wandering around. Being alone was a cathartic experience for her. It helped her to overcome the irritation she had as a consequence of her letter to Araon. She was forced to put herself on the sidelines. But she was keen to carry on the undertaking of the stroll among the crowd. She finished at the Neegunstratjen. Her walking brought her a sad reflection. She didn’t used to go around the city with Araon, maybe hand in hand, and that was boring. But it was not definitely the reason of their momentary separation. She was happy to understand, to still be in love with her husband. A moment of absent-mindedness and a seagull placed himself on Jill’s shoulder. She was an animal rights supporter and the presence of those birds filled her with joy. She didn’t know how to behave in front of that chance: To feed or not to feed them with the biscuits crumbs she had in her pockets? A woman next to her was of the opposite opinion to her. She was doing her best to kick those poor birds out of the street. And she succeeded: in a while the seagulls slowly disappeared. “Curiosity kills the cat,” was what Jill was thinking right now. She had been shocked by the woman’s behaviour and she was still there waiting for the birds to come to sight again. She was curious about how the matter would end. Hopefully the woman had gone to the other side of the street and left Jill alone, abandoned to her issue. Jill realized it was a hour she had been wandering around Amsterdam and she didn’t know exactly where she was now. “Araon is not with me,” she suddenly spoke with a gesture of her hands. “We are an item,” she carried on. She watched the surrounding crowd with a glance of surprise. They helped her to carry on thinking about her husband. Her attempt to reassure herself with stupid remarks finished to rush her into the void. She decided to have a break among all those astounding buildings.
A funny pink gate introduced her into the main road of a massive building. Its walls seemed to be the ones of a medieval mold. There were no windows but one facing the street. She left her fears behind and she rung the bell with the hope of finding somebody who would let her in. An old moody lady come to the door to cheer the guest up. She was dressed in vintage red skirt with fastened booths and a coloured crumpled shirt. In the first instance she had no words. She closed the door behind Jill just to avoid the streets of old Amsterdam becoming a river with tributaries everywhere. The two women broke the ice by shaking hands and the old lady started narrating her own story. “You know my dear,” she said with a strident voice,”I have been living here since my infancy. I attended the childbirth of my beautiful daughter in this room and I cannot mention about all the sumptuous galas we had here for the anniversary of our marriage. Usually I don’t let strangers come in, but you are an exception. I had strong feelings of congeniality when I saw you outside from the window of my sitting room, so I decided to let you in. A wonderful woman like you shouldn’t spend her own time with useless matters. You were hanging out with somebody else, weren’t you? I have just finished ironing my clothes and I’m ready to tell you the story of myself. I would also like to know something about you. What were you doing all alone in a district like that?” the lady said.
“I arrived here by accident,” started Jill,”I left a note for my husband in my flat just to let him know that I wanted to be apart from him for a while. By now he should have read it and, hopefully, he didn’t call me on the phone. Actually, I live in Luciensteeg, not far from here. I needed to walk a lot in order to organize my ideas. My husband and myself are absolute strangers these days and this has broken my heart. I don’t think we can receive any help from outside. We do not want to divorce but we have to reflect upon our behaviour towards one another. I have been immediately fascinated by the window of your home. But now. Tell me something else about you.”
“I can entertain you by telling you that my ancestors are sort of aboriginals. It seems quite weird but this is the honest truth. Now I am alone here and this is very sad and painful. I don’t know who will inherit all my possessions after my death. I heard through the grapevine that after the death of my daughter my niece had entered the realm of a low life. I don’t know if this is just gossip. Naturally it is not an honour to me. I try never to kill the time with candies. I enjoy myself knitting and listening to the radio. You must be nosy to know something about my husband I have not mentioned yet. Well, at a certain point of our life he decided to leave me and to join the army. I haven’t heard anything about him since then. I don’t know if he is dead or alive. You must consider yourself lucky to have the company of your husband right now. Don’t be cruel to yourself. You’ll never know what the destiny has in store for you. Just try to be the accomplice of him as much as you can. I don’t want to hear much more about your marital life since you look rather pale and exhausted. But now let me offer you something to drink. You are so sweet my lady.”
“I would simply like some water. After my walk I feel sweaty and dry.”
“Here it is. I forgot the most important thing, that is to tell you my name. I am Katrin. Katrin Van De Bier.”
Jill did surprisingly something that looked like a sob. She saw something weird in that name. She blamed the weather for her changing of mood, but she didn’t want to be distasteful towards the sympathetic old lady. To be in her company was like drawing a painting where the artist would pour all the sophisticated colours in it. Fresh water
was what she needed at that moment. Jill didn’t want to annoy the lady furthermore, so, after sober excuses, she left the house. She didn’t know if to go back home to embrace Araon or to walk among the crowd for another while. Actually she didn’t know if Araon was already at home. She was so confused. She considered the whole matter a sort of piggy thing. Hopefully lady Katrin had a soothing effect on her. The story of her niece had struck a sad cord. “Maybe, she is living in the brothel” she thought. But all that fuss hurt her sense of self-esteem. She was driven slowly along her path by the silence of the people next to her. The wind was whistling and dispersing all Jill’s energy everywhere. She had entered a journey into the unconscious. She needn’t do anything but talking to a shrink. The light of her lucidity had been switched off. “Araon, Araon how stupid I am.”
In the same moment Araon woke up and went immediately into the kitchen to make toast. It had been a long time since he had savoured a nice meal. He went around the house with the ghost of Jill clear in mind. He transformed his sorrow in a sonorous cry. He abandoned himself in a big state of desperation. His lack of self-esteem made things even worse. He had just to wait and see.
CHAPTER THREE
Some guys were taking out of the dustbins the leftovers of the restaurant nearby. That procedure was not occasional but something established over time. They undertook this habit on a regular basis. They seemed to enjoy themselves a lot with the disposal of that trash. What pushed those rascals to act like that was a sort of feverish zeal. Among them there was a man in his early thirties while all the others were fifteen-year-old boys. “Have a look. There is a hot-dog here!” shouted the elder of the group. It was not difficult for them to save edible food from those dustbins. It was probably an innocent undertaking. It was difficult to understand what was behind those mad gestures. They acted as quickly as they could in order not to be interrupted by the armed forces. In less than half an hour they were able to distinguish bad trash from good trash and to keep it to themselves. A blast of icy air flustered them a bit. They were frightened to go back home with some amount of food that could be compared to the disgust of some debris. The big guy, who was obviously the boss, commanded the rest of the guys to take everything with them and abandon the place unnoticed. Their day didn’t finish there, of course. Their presence in the street was a menace that could be turned into the worst havoc in all Amsterdam. “Have a look at the poultry over there,” said the big guy in front of the windows of a butcher’s. “ We can replace it with our trash if we want to.” Of course that was just an excuse. There was something mischievous behind their ordinary habit. They disappeared from the scene, out, out from the sight of the nearby people. Apparently, they were able to not leave traces. The wind cuddled them firmly. A heap of trash next to a beautiful shop was not the best thing they might be able to witness. Amsterdam was clean and perseverant during the day. No matter about the weather, its beauty could take the breath away of whoever. The majestic presence of its canals made it renowned as the Venice of the North. It was all calm and quiet. Sometimes you could see a pub in the corner of the street. The most famous of all was The Black Sparrow. It was the den of foreign people who wanted to desperately find a job. Amsterdam was by far more tolerant than any other city in the north of Europe. Somebody gave her the nickname of the great distillery. Inside the pub, Frenchmen and Germans made the great working class of the zone. They loved to play briscola undisturbed just to try to face reality with a softer acrimony. What a beat! It was The Black Sparrow that saw as a guest the big guy of the group of limpid well-behaved men at noon time. Apart from his sinister eye he looked an ordinary man. He had some draught beer and went to chat with the briscola players. He started talking about the weather and how it affected the agenda of the day. The guy he was chatting to introduced himself as Jip. Frances and Owen were two other guys who introduced themselves into his discussion and watched him carefully before they could mutter some toxic words. Jip took from his shirt a big necklace with a gold cross just to reassure his interlocutors he was not a stalker. To talk to strangers was a basic need to him no matter the impression he would give to whoever. It was a sane curiosity that drove him to chat and chat and chat. The other two tried not to be stupid by talking about Jersey and golf. Frances and Owen smiled clumsily. “Just to let you know what is the point.,” they whispered together.
The Red Box Page 3