She breathed deeply to stand the panic and succeeded in preventing the stranger touching her. It was very frequent for a lonely woman to be the victim of a stalker. Jill watched him carefully and noticed a scar next to his right eye. He was a forty something, straight declared guy. “What do you want from me?” Jill said.
“I never harm a beautiful woman,” he said. He looked a bit pale and his fragility helped Jill to overcome her fears.
“Now leave me alone if you do not want me to contact the police and arrest you,” said Jill. There was a vein of sarcasm in her words.
The guy took a small trumpet from his hand baggage and started to whistle. Jill begun to consider being near a crabby man but the nearest mental hospital was far from there. Jill was living a sort of theatrical performance to the eyes of the bystander but she didn’t blame herself for this. Hopefully somebody would arrive to help Jill to get rid of that weird and dangerous man. “Now is time to go back home,” she thought to herself but her wish to stay apart from Araon won at the end.
“Don’t let your imagination run away from you,” the stalker cried while being moved away from Jill. He impersonated the noise of some galloping horses and went in another direction dragged by local people. Jill could finally breathe deeply and stay calm.
“Thank you,” she said and she departed her helper dismissing herself from any sense of duty. The night arrived and Jill was still in the street like a vagabond. Araon, on the other hand, had undertaken a pleasant journey by train. No sense of guilt overwhelmed him who was in the fantastic countryside. The sense of peace and quietness intermingled with the anxiety of Araon who was still under the influence of the myth concerning the imprints of occasional visitors of the Van Gogh Museum and the ones of the murderer. It was all toxic. He had to inhibit his imagination somehow. He instinctively kissed the floor and fainted at the odour of faeces coming from the building he was in front of. And again, the imagination held him. Van Gogh Sunflowers had been deteriorated in the colours despite the recent work of restoration. It seemed as if its colours dropped into the floor to intermingle with the imprints of the murderer. It was maybe his huge sense of responsibility that made his mind fly over and over in the wildest dreams. Loneliness and anxiety were his keywords. He had a radio with him, he switched on trying to console himself and forget for a while the big mess deriving from his private investigations. The radio awoke Araon’s senses again. It was talking about cases of murders in Amsterdam but nothing was told about the Van Gogh Museum. Never in his life had he felt alone like then. Poor Jill: a stranger in the middle of the storm. Araon’s wife and best friend was left over accidentally from Araon witnessing of a crime case. Time passed by and he was still there steady and respectful. Walking up and down was a way to stretch out his nerves. A tiny little thing in the floor attracted him. It was a postcard of a lover lost over there. Araon was a voracious reader and in the countryside, he was missing a newsagent to take the newspaper of the day. He felt disconnected by the rest of the world. The last time he read a newspaper was the day when a scandal in the Amsterdam politics world was spread worldwide. But, again, he felt that something deserved the reader’s attention and that was the mystery of the Van Gogh Museum traces of blood next to the Sunflowers. Araon must have a piece of an old newspaper he cut. It was into his trouser pocket. The article was concerning a spy drama at Heathrow Airport that Araon linked to the murder at the Van Gogh Museum. It emerged that an old acquaintance of the spy broke out of the Van Gogh Museum the day before Christmas the previous year to see the painting for an assessment. At least these were the facts as exposed. Araon was wishing to flee. He didn’t want to live his whole life with a sense of remorse. Sometimes he wanted to cry in a burst of emotions. Self-discipline refrained him from that state of desperation. Albert and Sylvanus were constantly in his mind in the place left from Jill’s one. They were the two wonderful friends who used to assist him whenever needed. Memories of their encounter at an Amsterdam cafe recently crossed his mind. They were moments shared with Jill. He was split in a dilemma: whether to contact Jill or to carry on living his life like a grub.
Meanwhile Jill was surrounded by hooded guys. She had decided to stay at a hotel suitable for her bread and butter availability. She was at the Hotel Kransapolsky where she conceded herself meditations over her recent misfortune. She had the first room on the upper floor. She had a big window facing the plaza outside. Breakfast was served from half-past seven am to ten a.m. every day. Consuming breakfast was the only moment she could socialize with the other guests of the hotel. She was nosey to know the vicissitudes that drove a slender old lady to spend some time lazing about. Jill was delicate as usual and approached the old lady with an exuberant enthusiasm. “May I help you to put your coffee into the mug?” But the old lady looked pale and indifferent. She was shy and violent at the same time. As an act of rebellion, she dropped the coffee in the floor. Jill stood in disbelief. She was looking for a friend not for somebody so disruptive. The second attempt to involve the old lady in a mutual form of friendship sounded better. In fact, the old lady smiled when Jill mentioned the life as a vagabond. “I feel like an outsider everywhere,” said Jill. “I want to be part of a slice of society no matter how.” Her only memory of belonging to a community of people was the day of her marriage to Araon.
The old lady introduced herself as Samantha and she showed emotions and elations at the mention from Jill of a life as a stranger to society. “I’m similar to you,” she answered. “During my life, I have been married three times and they were three painful marriages. My first marriage dated back to my adolescence. I was a baby bride and my parents were more than happy about it. You cannot imagine the horror of being married against your will. Two other marriages followed and they were not happy at all. I’m looking for a rest in this sort of hospice far from my daily duties. What about you?” said Samantha.
“Well, my name is Jill. The most appropriate depiction of myself right now is the one of a homeless. I left a note to my husband when I left home and I don’t know when he read it. I want to stay on my own for a period of time. I feel like a cat that disappeared from home and that went back for meal time. Of course I’m joking. I live my life as a tragedy with the fear of losing my husband even though I want to stay on my own for a while.”
The old lady seemed very interested in Jill’s story but she apologized she had to go away now. Jill politely departed from the lady and went to her room to watch some TV programs. It was time for breaking news. She learnt about the crisis in Ukraine and about the menaces from Isis. Not to talk about Ebola. She felt to be so lucky to be safe and healthy even on her own. She switched off the TV and she relaxed herself in her large bed. She needed to sleep just for a couple of hours. She was in the realm of dreams when the cleaner knocked on the door to check if somebody was in before entering for cleaning. She realized somebody was inside fast asleep and went towards the other room. The quiet of the day spoke by itself. Even the traffic outside didn’t make Jill wake up. Her heart beat steadily when she was dreaming of Araon. It was a sort of clandestine conspiracy. Sorrow and mercy were feelings that never abandoned Jill when it come to think of Araon. Snakes, rabbits, turtles were the associated images that pullulated Jill’s dreams. At the strongest noise from those animals Jill woke up. “It was fantastic! I want to be back there soon,” she said aloud once awaken.
CHAPTER FIVE
Amsterdam post office was one of the most efficient in the world but that day there was something wrong. The appropriate postmark was missing on several letters. It was not a question of mismanagement but of mere casualty. The number of letters due to be re-directed was larger than most. Among that pile there was a letter to Araon addressed from Doctor Van der Baast. It was very important since it highlighted the fact that a man of Van der Baast’s calibre was missing the point. Flogging and severe criticism were the ingredients of the doctor moaning by post. He had sent to him a sample of his studies on the hospital mismatch of the c
hemical constituents of the blood analysis of two patients. It was a menace of disorder for the foreseeable future. A scandal like that would not allow the hospital to survive people’s criticism. But it was a big question mark. Where did the letter go through before reaching his receiver, Araon? Van der Baast was overwhelmed by the fear of appearing before the magistrates because of misconduct and Araon was the first to be informed by him. In the hospital everything seemed to be quite normal. All the nurses and the other staff were dealing with their job with unconditional love. Only cases of terminally ill patients embittered the atmosphere. Van der Baast was not at peace with himself. He had to carry on with his clandestine analysis before a scandal would burst out. He was confident and easy before Araon’s genuine friendship but to reach him was hard these days. It was not easy to unblock the postal service matter and to reach Araon in due time. The doctor went to the toilet, passed by the kitchen and went to watch the city from the window of the first floor of the hospital. A big break was what was needed after that storm of emotions. A van arrived at the hospital with siren blaring making Van der Baast disfigured with shame. Cases like these were frequent at the hospital and the doctor didn’t know if it was sarcasm or misogyny. Van der Baast was motionless and daring for a while before taking the decision to hide his secret material in a private box in his office. After that he rushed to the ambulance pretending to be worried as usual. The wounded man had a scar because of a quarrel of the previous day and he was under the strain of a significant hangover. One of the nurses arrived to make a general checkup as commanded by the head of the hospital department. The wound had the fresh appearance of the consequence of a fight. Bleeding and breathing roughly the man gave hope of survival. Van der Baast spent a long time taking care of the man and he postponed to the following day the procedure of analysis of the blood Araon had brought to him; procrastination was not his style. “Don’t put off to tomorrow what you can do today. Tomorrow never arrives” was his motto. He just took some time to go into his office to bring his secret writing making sure that nobody would see him. He had been running the hospital for twenty years with the reputation of being honest, fast-thinking and fast-moving in the ruling of the place. Nobody was suspicious he had a secret concerning the blood of a murdered person whose corpse had not been found yet. That was the mystery he was dealing with together with his friend, Araon. “Never mind,” he thought holding the precious papers. Gasping and panting he left his office to start the routine of the visits to the patients. He was happy to announce to three of the patients that they could go back home within three days. He had never lost the energy of the man he was when he first entered the direction of the hospital departments. He wasn’t a different man and he never searched for more respect and obedience than was due from his staff. A ray of sun warmed the atmosphere of the room of the three women who were so happy and relieved. The doctor watched them with hope and enthusiasm. But this was only one of the sources of joy coming from the undertaking of that job. There were also moments of annoyance. Some cigarettes stamped on the floor were the sign of trespassing the no smoking rule in the hospital. Once finished all the visits, a flush distinguished his face from the heat consequences in the skin.
He had a sudden memory of Araon. He had hidden somewhere the cell to contact Araon and that after thinking of the deficiency of the post office functioning. He dialled the number different times but there was no answer, at last a faint voice answered, “Who’s that?”
“Araon, Araon I am your trustworthy doctor. Where are you now?”
“Well, it’s very difficult to explain. I’m lost in the countryside in the surroundings of Amsterdam. I caught the first train and I arrived here against my will. I’m spending my time in a childish way. Here I feel I am born again. I think justice will be done soon. Jill will know where I am and we’ll agree each other as soulmates again. But let me know about you. I can hear you are trembling with fear. I am your friend and confident at the same time.”
“I have a couple of things I have to discuss with you. They are very helpful for your case but we’ll do it once you are back in Amsterdam. For now, I cannot tell you more than this,” said the doctor with a sadistic irony which seemed revenge. “Bye for now. See you soon.”
“See you soon.” Araon felt relieved by the call of his friend. The countryside was by far too desolate to suggest ideas. And then there was Jill, sweet Jill. Overwhelmed by remorse he decided to go back to town again. Jill was not a problem any more. He was ready to face her provided she was already at home. His confidence never abandoned him.
Jill awakening in the hotel room increased the pangs of her jealousy. She couldn’t remember perfectly the content of her dream which made her savour the patience for life with a better optimism. She had been missing for three days from home and she was not sure if Araon had read her letter yet. Nothing could compare with the strength she used in the journey in her mind. Her fears were that the future would become an obsolete weapon of destruction. She was missing Araon a lot. But she wanted to be diplomatic and brave in order to receive the due answer from Araon. A secret. But what secret? Was it worth splitting a couple for some days? A splitting headache and need for a tablet didn’t spoil the depth of her meditation. She imagined herself in the arms of Araon after a night of love. They would get along well together again as they used to do in their recent past. A baby was the sudden idea of Jill. Maybe a baby would made them recover from their sad wounds. “But a baby is not a toy,” she thought. She finally decided to get off the bed and only at that moment she realized that somebody had entered her room to clean it while she was sleeping. Her first thought was to check if there was anything missing in her bag. Hopefully nothing had disappeared. She had a quick shower and went out deeply attached to the journey into her conscience and soul. She was constantly oppressed by the image of the love of her life. She was looking forwards to embracing him but first she had to square accounts with him. She went to the concierge to give the key of the room and told the receptionist that she would come back soon. The city pullulated with life and Jill enjoyed herself a lot. It was a long time since she had such fuss and amusement. She passed by a sexy shop and she didn’t resist the temptation to buy something for Araon. It was an idea that would give its fruit as soon as she was back home. She also went to a fashionable shop where she bought some dresses for herself. Again, she saw she had not enough money so she left the shop at the astounded glance of the shop assistant. Hopefully Araon would start working back soon and she would be totally dependent on his cash. She had to go back home and stop living like a beggar. She was brisk, though. She went back her own way to the hotel being careful that nobody would chase her. For the moment she didn’t see even the shadow of anybody else in the street. Later on, she bumped into an absent-minded lady and helped her to collect the bag she dropped on the pavement. She carried on the walk undeterred in search of mental freedom. She knew that in Amsterdam she could see prostitutes in the windows of the shops and she was nosey to go and see them despite the amount of jealousy that would have lifted towards Araon. She had absolutely no idea what he could be doing in that moment. The wind was starting to be too cold but this was not enough to stop Jill strolling along the city. An incidental loudspeaker put a halt to her thoughts. He was launching adverts for some brand-new products for dry hair. His latest wish was to make people not to feel a stranger to that situation. Jill picked a few coins from her wallet and bought an anti-dandruff shampoo. So she went back to the hotel and asked the receptionist if somebody had asked about her. The young guy answered that nobody came in enquiring about her and he gave her kindly the key of the room. The tick-tock of the alarm clock had a strange synchrony with her heartbeat. She felt confident in that tiny room and very much bored indeed. She granted herself another two days of rest and then she would compromise with Araon. Now she imagined him in the kitchen cooking his lunch and starting the washing machine to wash his coloured clothes. She imagined him paying the dots that she would c
ome back home soon. The Araon she fell in love with fourteen years before was the same as then now. He was daring, sententious, sweet, warm. So what was wrong about him? “A secret is a secret.” Jill repeated to herself nervously. She was not the first woman that had found herself in a situation like that. She was at a crossroads. She watched herself in the mirror and witnessed a drab, exhausted expression. Now it was time for the final countdown. She had to count one by one the minutes that separated her from home. She was aware that she had to carry a heavy burden in front of Araon. Or, maybe, she would meet him in a warm atmosphere where they would swear undying love for each other. The moon was sparkling and high in the sky.
After a heavy sleep, Araon found himself in the middle of a train station in Amsterdam. He was dizzy and thirsty. He was not able to figure out how come he was there. He simply had a good time in the countryside and now he was back again. The call from Doctor Van der Baast made him thrilled and alarmed at the same time. He would have liked to contact him again as soon as possible but something refrained him from doing so. He grabbed a flower from the ground and counted its petals one by one. That was what helped him to win his nervousness. He was in front of a dilemma: either to go back home and face Jill or to spend another day in loneliness over there. He had absolutely no idea where Jill could be and her phone was constantly switched off. Destiny helped him to sort everything out. He left the station leaving the train moving behind him. The cathartic dream of finding solace in the countryside lasted very little. He had nonchalance enough to dig into his unconscious to explore parts of himself that were unknown to him by then. He had no time to meditate or to act. Sometimes he wished he was deaf and dumb by birth not to belong to the group of the privileged ones. But he had learnt the lesson. The main issue by then was to fill in the room of his loneliness to involve himself in a detective story no matter what it cost. Amsterdam looked sad through his eyes. To mend the unknown part of himself was now a routine. Watching inside himself he found the notion of a strong acid, able to dissolve any substance in a few minutes. These must have been used to make disappear any trace of imprint in the Van Gogh Museum. To try to understand the reason of that murder was of lesser importance now. He had in mind a shop in Amsterdam where acid like that was sold. It was an illegal activity but the owner of the shop was able to manage the situation with dexterity. Araon went quick and in a hurry looking for the shop and he found a sample of any kind of acid but the one he was looking for. He was forlorn but he didn’t consider himself a defeated man. The owner of the shop asked him if he needed any help and he stammered the name of the acid well aloud. The shop owner answered that that acid was at the moment out of stock but he would have ordered a sample if he wished to. Araon was determined to get the acid and nodded to the proposal of the man. He left the shop satisfied and went patrolling the green zones of Amsterdam. They were the places where drugs were sold legally. He went to visit that shop just to have an idea of the average customer over there. He was considering seriously that the murderer was a drug addict. Part of the public of the Van Gogh Museum was made up by drug addicts. Substances like those were not sold blindly. But how was it possible to hide a corpse in a minute or two? Araon felt crazy while developing his puzzling thoughts. He alternated moments of joy for the eloquence of his detective story to moments of sadness for being far from Jill. He missed her a lot and he was sort of deprived of an organ when seeing her mobile phone was off. He considered going back home and writing her a note as an answer to the one she had left for him. He got on the first bus and arrived soon in St Luciensteeg. He found the house dark and gloomy with all objects scattered everywhere as the last time he saw them. The letter from Jill was in the same place he had found it the last time he was home. He picked a piece of paper and started writing. “Dear Jill, you have no idea how much I’m missing you now. I might not be the best husband in the world but I miss you so much. Please, phone me as soon as you can. I’ll stay away for a while. Love, Araon.
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