Araon now took the first train to Central Park and went into the green space to alleviate his pains. In that terrestrial paradise he had calm enough to meditate on Jill and his long-lasting love for her. A feeble rain somehow stopped his imagination. But it was a brief shower not a storm menacing rain. Sitting on a bench, he relaxed making inner gossip of whatever he saw. A woman and a man in their middle twenties were arguing in the grass, half-naked. For a moment life seemed to stop at the shade of the tree where he was finding himself. The birds were not singing any more as if they were announcing a blizzard. Hopefully things were different. After a dark sky the sun was sparkling again. Araon was a victim of his conjecture concerning the murder at the Van Gogh Museum. He felt stupid not having a clear idea why he chose New York as the site of his refugee-like state. He just flew over there full of enthusiasm. He simply obeyed his instinct. “Sweetheart I’ll come back home soon,” were the words that constantly puzzled his mind. The thought of a murder without a corpse was a lesser problem now. He went for a walk on the park’s path and reached the place where John Lennon had been assassinated ages before. He never believed it was a mythomaniac, a crank seeking publicity who killed the legend but a schizophrenic who was still serving his life term sentence. That mystery drove Araon back to Amsterdam with his mind again. There was no name of the corpse of the Van Gogh Museum in the list of the missing in Amsterdam. The murder dated back three months and that was a problem for Araon. His imagination went too far. It was enriched with the craziest conjectures about the matter. He considered nitroglycerine a means of dissolving traces of a decomposing body. It was a strange thought but it could lead to a solution. Maybe the murderer had no time to hide the body and they used a blundering way to disperse traces of what they had done. Somehow, Araon believed the murderer was a foreigner who put the corpse in a fridge in order to delay the decomposition of the body as much as they could. They obviously didn’t want to surrender to police even with the right evidence. Araon watched all over the place where John Lennon had lost his life so that to make a comparison with his murder case in Amsterdam. Feelings of guilt pervaded his mind. He would never dare to leave any occasion to exercise his pride for his love for Jill. But now in his anguish he had sense enough to put his family life after his duty as a citizen. The atmosphere of New York amazed and calmed him down.
The frenetic lifestyle embraced him like a shadow. And he started to think of his own case again. He had no objection regarding any analysis of former mysteries. He remembered a boy nicknamed Frantic who used to kill his victims and save them in the fridge just for the sake of doing it. But Araon’s corpse must have a name. He saw it in the lines of the Amsterdam directory hidden behind the cypresses of the cemeteries and in the list of the leftovers of a fat restaurant kitchen. He could imagine his man, face plump and with very red skin. He must be of medium height and of medium built. But what was wrong with all that fuss? It was a bet that Araon didn’t want to miss. Walking through the park he could finally breath healthy air which was a joy for his lungs. He was blessed enough to stay away from the traffic and pollution of the city for a while. But there was something that enriched his fantasy with dark colours. He was considering the possibility of a death by torture and stoning quick enough to carry the man away. Lizards and doves made their way through the park. He checked through his trouser pockets and he found no mobile phone in them. Probably he had been absent-minded enough to have left it in the hotel room. He needed it to keep in touch with the world. A whisper of sorrow assaulted his state of mind. He couldn’t live his life without Jill. If it was not for the promise he made to himself, to sort his case out by himself he would now catch the first plane and go to embrace his adored wife at home. “I’m burning with passion,” was his then thought. He was close to find the corpse, or better, the rest of it. It was a kind of sickness that allowed its victims to hide themselves with intact hair. Araon’s mind was dancing with joy. He had no material evidence but imagination enough to go ahead. Now his way to the hotel was a must. He was hungry, thirsty and dirty. His mind never stopped working and when he arrived at the hotel; he was sweating like a thief after a robbery. He asked for the key to his room and he went first to check his documents. The last time he had gone out of Amsterdam he had been robbed, his passport and his wallet full of money. He lay in his bed with his radio switched on, happy to have his documents and money with him. He ordered a sandwich and a beer and he finally had a rest.
Albert and Sylvanus were embarrassed at not having heard of their friends any more. They had squandered a fortune with gambling and they had only Araon and Jill who could help them. The day after his birthday, Sylvanus went to ring the bell of his mates in Luciensteeg. But, surprisingly, he had no answer. He squeezed his mind trying to figure out what must have happened. He knew that the two spouses were anxious and agitated in the middle of a small crisis, but that was not enough to justify their absence. Sylvanus had a precious gift for Araon. It was a book on the disentanglement of mysteries of any kind. He knew well that all that fuss was Araon’s main concern. Sylvanus was handling it very gently as if it was a precious stone. He waited for a long time in front of the door of Araon and Jill’s flat in vain. He had the funny idea to launch an SOS to the neighbour in order to find the couple. None of the next of kin had seen the two for a very long time. Sylvanus was tough and determined. He didn’t want to use useless efforts to catch his friends and he looked for alternative solutions to the problem. He went to catch the first train to another part of the city. He stopped at Rosenghract where he found nothing. He heard a trembling voice from behind calling him, he turned and saw Albert all soaked. “Albert what pushed you to come here?” said Sylvanus a bit nervous.
“What are you doing here? I left you this morning when you went to look for Araon and Jill and now I find you here,” said Albert.
“Let me explain. Araon and Jill were not in. I waited for a long time in front of their flat door just to know from the next of kin that the couple have not been seen over there for a very long time. So I decided to come here and the kismet decided to let me find you here.” said Sylvanus.
The two friends didn’t lack common sense but they were not endowed with intuition. They walked for a while before they stopped at a pub where they enjoyed a pint of draught beer. They were relieved for the barman’s good manners and for his friendly way of interacting with the customers. “A grey beer, it is,” uttered Sylvanus.
“We needed it, didn’t we?” answered Albert. They got another pint of lager and left the place leaving a big tip for the personnel. Once the barman realized that they had given him a big sum of money. he left the pub to look for the two guys but they had apparently disappeared.
They wished they were on a boat on the beautiful canal of the city but they had a broken heart to mend. They had to postpone the enjoyment, busy as they were, to find a solution to the disgrace. Albert handled the matter with a sort of funny delirium. He appeared too confident and self-conscious. Sylvanus, in his turn, always hesitated before pronouncing the appropriate sentence. Apparently, they had nothing in common. Annihilating all their emotions over a difficult issue was a mistake of their youth. They felt they looked like two wandering souls. Never mind. That was it. Albert proposed that they should leave the matter until a better time, seeing little chance to meet Araon and Jill around and to focus themselves with their job. They had mastered the problem with great efficiency with no result. It was time to stop the trials and tribulations and to involve themselves in their daily duty. They were two civil servants with a lot of spare time. They walked along the street for a long distance until they approached a sex shop. They couldn’t see any difference between the customers of that shop and the animals. A ferocious headache hit Albert at the very thought of entering the shop and have a few words with the shop assistant. Albert and Sylvanus’ sense of morality was stronger than the curiosity for any single item in the shop. Hands in pockets and cigarette on their lips they were the real pict
ure of two friends in front of their funny dilemma. They wanted to be in the right direction without unappropriated disdain for any kind of mistake. An attempt to contact Araon and Jill on the phone went wrong. Both phones were switched off. “They must have great ability of survival,” said Albert.
“I don’t know. I simply want to see them as soon as possible. I trust they are well,” answered Sylvanus. “Maybe they are safe and joyfully honeymooning in a warm place,” carried on Sylvanus with a vein of irony.
In fact, Amsterdam had a different atmosphere. Artists and jugglers scattered themselves along the street to announce the arrival of the warm season. The two mates found the episode inspiring as if the characters had struck a chord. Suddenly Sylvanus was sick three times. “Maybe it’s the beer,” he said. But Albert wanted to take him to the nearest first aid and to sort his friend’s health problem out.
Sylvanus went back to normality soon without the help of medicines. So they could proceed as they were doing. A van was rushing its way home without giving attention to the pedestrian crossing. “It’s a bad day, isn’t it?” said Albert with shattered nerves. It was a sign from above that warned them they shouldn’t go to work for that day. They exchanged some friendly words and decided to go back to their respective houses. They would read a book, do some cleaning, watch TV. Whatever kept them calm and serene. To have lost a day at work was not a big nuisance for them. They had to tie the knot of their destiny.
Albert’s flat was tiny, untidy but warm enough to welcome whoever would come. He immediately went to cook some pasta and started to improvise a scene with his friends at lunch with him. “Hi guys. Araon and Jill must not be apart from one another They are the best lovers of all time. They love each other a lot. To overcome this small crisis must be a child’s game. But don’t let me be the only one who talks. What do you think Sylvanus?”
His friend was mute. To be dumb was not the only flaw he was displaying. He showed indifference to his friend’s lot. “Anyway, I have cooked and now it’s your turn to wash the dishes,” said Albert. And it was all in his imagination. Once awake he finished his meal, wore his sleepers and went into his bedroom shutting the door in an inept way. The following day the bell was ringing. Was it bad or happy news?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mark the homeless was quivering with madness in front of the acrostic L. A. U. R. A. All his newly acquired wellbeing seemed to have been shattered suddenly. To be joyful in a situation like that one was a rarity. He wanted to spend all his energy in the disentangling of that mystery. He had nobody to share his secret with, nobody to love and with whom have mutual comfort when needed. He heard the main door of the hospital slamming and that added adrenalin to him. Endorphins and dopamine were his companions during his thoughts. From the room of the kitchen, a smell of vegetable soup was spreading all around. Mark couldn’t resist the temptation to eat before lunch time. He entered the kitchen clandestinely and ate the soup and the meat which were destined for the patients. Now he was able to work with more energy without any sense of guilt for what he had done. L. A. U. R. A. The first letter might be the initial of a place. Among the solutions he had in mind there was this one: Location Addressed Undeterred in the Room of Adversity. Mark was a genius when it came to use his imagination but he had not common sense enough. He didn’t use logic at all to decipher the acrostic that way. But there was no logic in the situation at large. Who had been so stupid to mar with blood the door of a pub in central Amsterdam? An assassin or whoever couldn’t be found easily without the disentangling of the acrostic, but that was not impossible. Amsterdam was a big, free city. Criminals easily escaped the hands of the police, hiding themselves in the most unusual places. Mark never stopped thinking until a nurse arrived to ask if everything was OK. “What’s wrong with you today?” she asked having noticed tiredness in Mark.
“I’m just waiting for lunch time. I’m very hungry today and I cannot go out with this empty stomach. By the way: can you tell me when I can talk to the head of the hospital department? I need to have a chat regarding my permanence here. You have been so kind to me!” he said.
“I don’t think you can talk to him right now. He is too busy, as every morning. But I can assure you that you can stay here as much as you need and use all the facilities which have been given to you,” said the nurse gently. “You don’t need a special permit to stay. But now let me go to bring some food to you before I go serve all the patients in the hospital,” she carried on.
Mark was finally relieved but he didn’t satisfy his empty stomach. In fact, he ate again once he went out in the street. Just a cup of coffee and some biscuits at the nearest snack bar. He went then patrolling the zone he used to live in a couple of days before. He was privileged he admitted to himself. He enjoyed his walk all stinky. He hadn’t had a shower before living in the hospital maybe because he was little used to it. Something stopped him going back to the hospital to have a quick wash. He was happy to have embarked on a journey into the unknown. How different was his life from the one when he was forced to sleep in the street? He was tempted to go to the bar where he had read the acrostic L. A. U. R. A. written with blood but considered it more sensible not to go. He ran and ran in the streets with the joy of a young boy. He was a free man now. He focused his attention on a sort of scribble he saw in a shop window. He felt suddenly scared. Anyway, he carried on his stroll. He made a funny mental distinction between the roads he found himself in. There were the red ones and the green ones. The first ones were the ones where he used to carry on his investigation, while the green ones were the ones where he rejoiced himself as a brave homeless. He saw himself as a former homeless, an investigator and a self-made man. To live in the street was now a memory of the past. At a certain point he started to cry. He had no parents, no wife, no children. At the age of forty-two it was not easy to start a new life again. He simply wanted to savour the delight of a brand-new job purposely created for him. But he immediately stopped crying. He realized that somebody was amazed by his presence in that corner of joyful Amsterdam. He didn’t know if he was going in the right direction. He was following his instinct all jovial and in good humour. The baby within him was the most visible trait of his personality. The whistle of a policeman brought him back to reality. He was crossing the street on the pedestrian crossing. He risked a fine but the policeman sorted it out with a friendly smile. L. A. U. R. A. His mind was constantly busy with that acrostic. Menaces from outside as a result of a missed disguise of him started to make him tremble. He was in a mental state he used to call the harassment of his ideas. Any face he went across to in the street brought the solution of his dilemma. But his sense of dignity didn’t make him go further. He was sure to be the only one who knew about the acrostic. He was mentally nimble even when he saw a roller. skater crossing the street with assurance. A subtle reminder of a clandestine activity could be easily compared to the agility of that guy. It wasn’t all that easy. He felt hungry again. Maybe it was the consequence of having found a shelter such as the hospital. Yes, he wanted to eat again. Since he had been a guest at the hospital, he had put on some weight but he didn’t bother too much. He checked in his pocket and he found three pennies. Definitely not enough to buy some food. He had to wait for the next meal at the hospital. He checked again and he found three euros. It was terrific! He went to the first pub he found and enjoyed a pint of draught beer. He considered himself a bit dumb for enjoying watching TV while sipping beer. But he went mad at the thought of witnessing another pub door marred with blood of an acrostic. He didn’t know if he was dealing with a serial killer or with a stupid revenger who used his lover menses blood seeking for justice. Mark was not sure if it was a right thought not to have reported the crime to the police and to have preferred to work alone instead. That bloody beer made him confused furthermore. It was not just a question of belonging but a whole matter of needing disguise that made him stop thinking.
In the surrounding of Piazza Dam there was a mysterious atmosph
ere. It was a place where portraits of bystanders were sold frequently. It was not too far from the street where prostitutes show themselves out of a window. It was the place where special cheese and dairy were sold. The staff of the cheese factory were well trained and expert. They had to cope with the final place of destination of their product with extreme dexterity. Doctor Van der Baast was very fond of that cheese. With it he made experiments which sounded fanciful: he checked the imprints of their consumers to find similitude with the ones of his patients. His hospital was a place of clandestinely of all kinds. And Van der Baast was the first who had something to hide. The cheese was a stratagem. Its purpose was to hide the work of chasing imprints by the doctor. And he couldn’t have found a better solution than pretending to be worried to be deceived by a factory for sending him cheese that had already used by his patients. The cheese came to the hospital as a leftover. Van der Baast preferred to test the imprints of his patients in the leftovers in that they were more suitable for a dirty job and to be distinguished among polluting entities. It happened by mistake that he analyzed a piece of mozzarella mingled with bread and he found the imprint of a foreign body. It seemed that somebody else ate the product rejected by the patient. That was not an ordinary routine but something that the doctor had the desire to clear his conscience for working for a pro-profit campaign. He was in touch with Araon regarding the secret of the murder and he found a resource of luck among the food given to the patients. He spun around like a baby at the first sign of helpful evidence. The staff of the factory were kind and polite and they didn’t dare to ask what was the purpose of the doctor’s test on the dairy. They went ahead with their job according to the direction of the manager. Mr Spingy, the boss, politely took the doctor around the factory to show him all the processes the cheese was subject to before being sent to the shops. It was a hard job. Van der Baast was very amazed and sparkling with joy when he was aware that the leftovers at the hospital couldn’t be contaminated by the fabric operators. That made it easier to distinguish the imprints of the patients from the ones which could be touched by other people afterwards. The doctor gave a glance at his wristwatch and realized it was time for him to go. He congratulated Mr. Spingy for the great job and assured him that he wouldn’t disturb him in the future. Van der Baast carried on with an evaluation on the way of working he had been undertaking since the day Araon contacted him asking for help. The situation was stiff at the moment. He postponed to another day the phone call he would have liked to address to Araon and he stopped to smoke a cigar. He was not a faulty man but sometimes he treated his healthcare for the patients as a secondary activity. He just spent some time wondering about the position of his wife on his care for his patients, on his undertaking dangerous activities. On daring secrets. But those were single stupid moments. He had a good wife, that was it. The smoke of the cigar spread around the place incessantly. Maybe somebody would be amazed by it. But after that the doctor found himself alone in the middle of the plaza. He enjoyed himself watching pigeons playing everywhere. Maybe he was a bit tired and fed up with the babies screaming in the second department of his hospital. He had always thought that marriage was a bit of a mistake and those cries were the proof of it. But now he stopped thinking of his job. The hospital was far from the middle of the city so he had walked a long way. He had to rush again to the hospital, as his conscience was telling him. At his arrival all the informed patients had a sigh of relief. They felt they had been abandoned to themselves that day. Van der Baast apologized and started his turn of visits. He was busy as a specialist with the examination of a cancer case. His ability to deal with patients allowed them to cope with their suffering with dignity. A nurse went to the room to inform the doctor that there was an important phone call for him. It was the head doctor of another hospital who was looking for allies to start a conference on cancer in the foreseeable future. Van der Baast declined the proposal with extreme harshness pointing out that they oughtn’t interrupt him when he was dealing with delicate cases. He was genial and warm with all his patients and the one he had with him now was not an exception. He was even able to steal a smile from a terminally ill person. The nurse went out of the room crying for fear of losing her job. The doctor reassured her that there was nothing she should be worried about. After all she just informed him of a phone call. The doctor gave her the chance to gain credibility again by checking the drips of the patients and to deal with the lunch preparation. The nurse started to breath normally again. Disciplined and fond of her job she went to deal with the doctor’s command. It was not time for the relatives’ visits yet, but she welcomed the ones who had to spoon-feed their beloved ones. Everything was normal again. Even the smile of Van der Baast had a vein of self-deprecating irony. He went to his private office where he would have worked undisturbed the rest of the day. Araon was always in his mind as a special friend. He didn’t know what he had been doing all that time and he checked his phone number in his notebook. 3, 4, 5, zzzzz Van der Baast had problem with his cell. When he was finally able to connect the call, a feeble voice answered him. “Araon speaking.”
The Red Box Page 7