by Smith, Skye
"Here, keep hydrated," Tomas said, "flying is like drinking tequila. You must keep drinking water." He opened his own and took a swig. "I assume you don't often fly."
"Not if I can help it. It's difficult to like, drive to Amsterdam, eh," she chuckled, feeling herself relax. She took a swig of water and then realized how dry her mouth had been.
"Your accent is west coast, not Boston. From the eh, I would say Canada."
"Mendocino," she said, "and yours is Dutch."
"Danish, but I do a lot of business in Amsterdam." He took another sip of water. "With Russians, unfortunately." They were both quiet for a very long five minutes while the plane bucked and heaved through the cloud layer and its storm turbulence. She closed her eyes and when she opened them he was again holding her hand.
"Thank you," she said. "You don't like Russians, then. Is that a Danish thing?"
"It's a business thing." He looked around to see who was listening. "The older Russians that I deal with all went to school in an era when they were taught the capitalism is theft. Not surprisingly, that is now how they approach all business deals, as thieves. Thieves make for very successful capitalists because they have no preconceived notions of ethics."
"You mean like the drug cartels."
"Not at all. They are much worse than thieves. They are extortionists, pushers, and slavers." He was relaxing now. The turbulence had eased, at least for now. "Having said that, many of the corporate leaders in Russia are ex KGB, you know, the secret police. They tend towards..."
"Psycho culture," anticipated Maya.
"You know about psycho cultures then?"
"Much more than I want to. Much much more," she said quietly.
"It sounds like a sad story. I vill change the subject," he replied equally quietly.
And so the flight passed, quite quickly and comfortably. The service was excellent, the food better than any she could remember on an airplane. They sipped brandy and drank water all the way across the Atlantic.
"Drink water and sip brandy, always on a plane," he said. "People get sick on planes from breathing the air. The brandy sanitizes your mouth and throat all the way down and this stops you from getting sick. Brandy is like the hand sanitizer for your throat. Between brandy and hand sanitizer, I never get sick when I travel anymore."
"Yeh, but like, Boston and Amsterdam are not the third world, and you are traveling first class," she rebutted.
"I work for Big Oil. I spent half of last year in Mexico, in some asshole places."
"So, you didn't like Mexico. I've always wanted to go," she said. "It's on my list. Drive around and explore Mexico."
"I like Mexico a lot. Not the cities. I hate their cities, but their towns are enchanting. Mexico has a rosy future now that they have figured out what was making everyone sick."
"What was that? What sickness?"
"Amoebas, you know, the stomach parasite. Everyone was sick with it. It has dragged everyone's energy and health downhill for decades."
"And now they have cured it?"
"They always had a cure. The problem was they would immediately be re-infected."
"Of course. The Mexican water. It's infamous," she said.
"It wasn't the water. Bad water was just a symptom of the real problem." With each phrase he was talking more quietly and in a deeper tone.
"So are you going to tell me, or are you going to like, string me along?" she asked, leaning towards him so she could hear.
"It was dog poo. All the dogs had amoebas. Nobody cleaned up after the dogs. Their poo turned to dust. The dust coated everything. If the people touched anything, and then touched their mouths, they re-infected themselves."
"That's disgusting," she said. "I'm so glad we are finished eating."
"Then I won't tell you the rest," he smiled at her. They were now leaned into each other talking quietly.
"Saying that just makes me curious." she whispered.
"The media shamed people into cleaning up after their dogs. The army and police shot all stray or sickly-looking dogs."
"And cats. Do cats spread it too? Did they shoot the cats?"
"I don't know," he whispered, "Why would you ask that?"
"Last summer I was helping a psychiatrist with her studies about psychos. She has started a research project to see if there is a correlation between the Gondi parasite of toxoplasmosis and psychos. The disease is spread by cats and rodents through their poo."
"Ah," he whispered, "that explains your comment earlier when we were talking about Russians. That is how you got too close to psychos."
"I have a gift, or perhaps it is a curse," she said, pulling back and looking him in the eye. "I can sense psychos when I shake hands with them."
"You are joking. You are playing some game with me."
"No, unfortunately, I'm not."
"Not so unfortunate," he whispered, "considering you are so fair and lovely and look so young and innocent. If you had not told me you were from California, I would have sworn you were from Denmark."
"My ancestors were Frisian."
"Ahh, of course. The fair hair and eyes but with the amber skin. Of course. During the Frisian Diaspora triggered by Napoleon, many fled to America." The man rattle off some phrases that sounded like they should be English but were gobbledy gook. He looked at her sternly. "And yet you do not speak the language?"
"I am American. I barely speak English," she said and they both fell back into their seats laughing.
When he caught his breath he said, "Forgive me. My success in my business is reliant on my linguistic talents. I was chosen to negotiate with the Russians because it is one of my languages, although they do not know that. It was the same in Mexico with my Spanish. That said, I wish I had your talent to recognize psychos. Executives and salesmen all walk the walk and talk the talk like they are psychos. It would be very helpful to know which actually were."
They were silent while the stewardess refreshed their brandies. "How strong is this sense that you get from them?" he asked. "Is it unmistakable, or are you just making a best guess?"
"Umm," she thought back. "Everyone I have sensed as a psycho, turned out to be one. I don't know about those that I did not sense. Some of them may have been, and I missed it. You are not one."
"Thank you. I must tell my wife. When my head is filled with business deals, she often accuses me of being one." He leaned towards her again and lowered his voice. "What are you doing for breakfast tomorrow?"
"I have no idea," she said. "This is my first trip to Europe, and I have no itinerary until I contact my friend in Bruges. I won't even have a hotel room for tonight until I visit the tourist bureau in the airport, never mind worrying about breakfast and train schedules."
"Then if I help you, will you help me?"
She groaned loudly inside, and softly through her lips. He was being such a nice man. Why do they always have to spoil it? She decided she may as well get this out of the way as soon as possible. "Do you want to have sex with me?"
"Well, I'm flattered of course, I mean a man would be foolish not to," he replied and saw her frown, "but I am afraid I must refuse your offer this time. My wife and I have a typical Danish agreement that we must first ask permission of each other. It will be late when we arrive in Amsterdam. Too late to phone her with such a question. Besides, she would never agree without meeting you first."
"I wasn't offering," she whispered harshly.
"Neither was I," he smiled back. "Let me explain. I have a breakfast meeting in my hotel suite tomorrow morning with some Russians. A large contract depends on my judgment. If you were there to shake their hands, that would help me to make the decision."
"Ummm" she said. She hated feeling the darkness of psychos. No. She already knew she would say no.
"It would be easy. The hotel is picking me up at the airport. You come with me. I have requested a suite for the breakfast meeting. It will have at least one separate bedroom. You may have it. I will ask the hotel to make a t
rain reservation for you and ensure that you catch it. In the morning, you have an early breakfast. When the Russians arrive, I introduce you. You shake their hands, tell me what you feel, and then leave to catch your train. Simple 'yes'."
"Ummm"
"Say 'yes'. You will have a bed for the night, a breakfast, and a train ticket. I will have more knowledge about who I am dealing with. It is all good."
"Shhh," she said, mulling it over, "don't turn it into a sales pitch. Let me think." The decision boiled down to risk. Was she at greater risk staying with this man, or landing as a woman alone in a strange city at night. The devil you know or the devil you don't. "Okay. I will shake hands for you."
* * * * *
* * * * *
MAYA'S AURA - the Ashram by Skye Smith
Chapter 6 - Amsterdam, The Netherlands
Even if you are a minority of one, the truth is the truth. - Mahatma Gandhi.
The suite was high in a hotel tower with a view of Schipol airport. It had a large living area with a formal dining table, but only one bedroom and one bathroom. It was luxuriously appointed, but as soon as Maya had explored it, she worried about the sleeping arrangements. Too late to worry about that now. In the lobby, as they checked in, she had also been booked on a morning train.
It certainly had been an easy way to descend into Europe for the first time. Tomas was greeted as they left customs, and their bags were whisked away to a waiting van. The driver waited while they used the airport bank to do an exchange for Euros. The Euro bills were colorful, like Canadian ones, and it made Maya pine for Vancouver and the guys she lived with there, Erik and Karl.
She showered first, and she must have forgotten to lock one of the two entrances to the bathroom, because as she stepped out of the shower, he was standing there, leaning against the doorway, watching her. He did not apologize, he just said, "I thought I should have a look at what I was missing. It would have been better not to have peeked. Now I feel a deep regret."
She quickly wrapped herself in the towel she had been using as a turban to keep her hair dry. She did not know whether to scold him, or to thank him for not joining her in the shower. Either way, it felt a bit creepy. While she was making up her mind, he took off his bathrobe and stepped into the shower. Way creepy. She quickly grabbed the other robe and fled into the living room.
She sat in her robe waiting for him to finish. The hotel had supplied a complementary snack of tea, and crackers and cheese, and she munched through them slowly. She had explored the couches to see if any of them were hide-a-beds, but none were, and that made her even more worried about the sleeping arrangements. There was only one bed, the king in the bedroom.
She kept telling herself that she was being was foolish. Next, she would be worried that he had drugged the tea or any of the snacks. Eventually she decided not to worry about it. There was a point where mistrust became paranoia and she did not want to live a life of paranoia. Once he was finished his shower, she grabbed the bathroom again and finished her before-bed routine.
* * * * *
She awoke at five in the morning after sleeping soundly for four hours. She pushed herself up on her elbow to look around. She was on one side of the bed, and he was on the other, but he had rolled the decorative pillows into the bedspread to create long sausage, and then had placed the sausage like a wall between them. She curled back into covers and closed her eyes and did not wake again until there was a rosy glow in the morning sky and a knock from room service at the door.
He was reclined against his pillows watching her wake up. "That will be your breakfast. Perhaps you could answer the door."
She looked around for her robe. Both of them were neatly hung over the chair on his side of the bed. She was sure she had left hers over her feet. She looked at him accusingly.
He smirked and said "Forgive me my little pleasures. You are lovely to watch, especially when you are flustered."
She had no choice but to walk in the nude to her robe. It was strange to feel so flustered by his watching. After all, she had spent much of the last summer on Vancouver's nude beach, where she would not have minded twenty men watching her. Perhaps the difference was that she quite liked this man, and his quiet voice that took control of situations without being commanding. She just could have done without the smirk and smarmy comment.
There was another knock on the door, but she pretended to have trouble finding the sleeve hole of her robe. When she had his full attention she winked at him, and then continue on to the door. "Add your tip to the account," she whispered to the attractive maid who lowered a large tray onto the table. Her words received a knowing smirk from the maid, who did an almost invisible curtsey and hurried away.
She lifted the tray and carried it into the bedroom and set it down on the bed. He had already moved the cushion sausage to run along the headboard and was now sitting up against it. "This bed is so large I thought we could have a picnic sitting on it," she said.
He glanced over at the clock. "We have an hour and then I must prepare for the breakfast meeting."
Now that she had admitted to herself that she quite liked this man, she also admitted to herself that he was likely telling the truth about having to ask his wife before he could seduce her. Now she truly relaxed. More than relaxed. She aggressively teased him as they drank wonderful coffee and ate tiny slices of pastries.
"You are being very naughty with me," he eventually said after her robe had accidentally fallen open for the third time. "Thank you. You make me feel young again." He retrieved his wallet and his hidden pouch from underneath his pillow. "You see, it was not just you who was nervous."
He fumbled in the wallet and flourished a small photo of his family. "This is old. I was then forty-five, my wife thirty-five, my daughter twelve, and my son, hmm, ten." He looked long at it and sighed. "It is a typical Danish family. We have small families now. We usually stop after the first son."
"Your wife is gorgeous. No wonder you could resist me. And you say she is thirty-five. Wow."
"I will tell her you said so," he said. "She will be pleased."
"You mean you are going to tell her about me?"
"Of course. You will be of much more interest to her than a list of meetings and negotiations."
Maya found her side bag and pulled out a large manila envelope. She pulled out one of the promo glossies from her movie. "Then here, give this to your daughter and tell her that you met me. Here, let me sign it."
"You are a Hollywood actress? And here I was thinking you were an economy passenger being upgraded to first class because of the crowding."
Maya smiled enigmatically and did not attempt to correct him.
* * * * *
She had piled her luggage beside the window and was sitting in an easy chair watching the jets land and take off when the Russians arrived. Tomas greeted them first and showed them to the table where there were already thermoses of coffee and cups. He then introduced Maya as a stewardess who was just leaving.
She carefully shook each of their hands. There were three of them, all large men, tall as well as wide. After the third hand, she excused herself and wobbled into the bathroom. She leaned against the bathroom counter so she would not collapse to the floor, and then pressed her hands together to raise her aura. It took a long time before she felt strong enough to even turn and look at herself in the mirror. She looked pale and drained.
There was a knock, and then a voice. "Maya, are you okay?"
She unlocked the door and stepped away. Tomas came through and looked at her questioningly.
"I'm sorry, Tomas, but shaking hands with a psycho always drains my energy and make me want to puke. I will be okay in a few minutes."
"Ah, so which one was the psycho?"
"All of them," she gasped.
"Thank you. Uh, the desk just phoned to remind you that your ride to the station will be here in fifteen minutes. All of them. Just so. Thank you."
Ten minutes later, Maya put on her gloves
, walked into the living room, collected her bags and waved goodbye. She had expected them to be all nudging each other and congratulating Tomas on having picked up a stewardess on a plane but instead all she saw was a stern-looking Tomas and three angry-looking Russians.
"That is my decision," Tomas was saying. "I have decided not to wave the bonding requirements after all. Unless you find a sponsor willing to insure your side of the agreement, then I cannot recommend the signing of these contracts." He looked up briefly to wave goodbye to her, and then went back to answering their objections.
* * * * *
* * * * *
Already she was noticing the differences between Europe and America. Little things, like they used door handles rather than door knobs. Important things, like how good an ordinary cup of coffee tasted. Big things, like the sleek and quiet trains.
European trains turned out to be fabulous. Hers was clean and fast, and even if she had missed it there was another soon after. The opposite of American trains, especially those on the west coast. Her ride to the station had still not taken her anywhere close to the actual city of Amsterdam because the airport had its own train station. The information boards showed lists of exotic city names. She recognized some of them from the Rick Steve's travel show on TV.
She soon found out why small suitcases on wheels came in two formats in Europe. The ones with the wheels wide apart, like her American one, were designed for pulling around in airports and city streets. The ones with wheels close together were designed for wheeling down the aisles of trains. Luckily for her there were always willing young men eager to help her move her suitcase down a train aisle.
Tomas had bought her a first-class ticket, but the only difference she could see between second and first was that that second was almost full, whereas first was almost empty. The people. Yes the people were different. Second was a vibrant mix of students and seniors, blondes and south Asians, presumably the Javanese that Tomas had told her about. In first the people seemed less colorful. What was the word for them? Oh yes, boring.