Absinthe

by Guido Eekhaut

  Later, after he had fled the village, he couldn’t understand how people managed to remain ignorant of the world in the midst of the richest country in Western Europe.

  But that was later.

  He rose. He no longer wanted to look at the ceiling. It was a morbid habit. He had to get out and live.

  He went to the window. His apartment was on the fourth and highest floor, under the roof. The street was crowded as it usually was, except in the first hours of the morning. Even when he closed the window and the curtains, he could hear the continuous sound of the city.

  A city. A real city.

  There had been only silence in the village. Cows and pigs in the stables and sheep outside, and occasionally a truck or a tractor. But there had been mostly silence.

  He didn’t miss that silence at all.

  WEDNESDAY

  Amsterdam, and Then to Leuven

  24

  EILEEN CALSTER HAD SPENT the night in Maarten’s bare and absurdly empty room. It contained no more than a bed, a wardrobe, a small table under the window, and two chairs. The fact that he had two chairs was absurd: he never received visitors. The walls were unadorned. Not even a calendar. The place was devoid of any personality. But to Maarten, this was where he felt at home.

  She stretched her skinny arms above her head and watched her brother sleep on the other side of the room, on top of an extra blanket. He had offered her his bed in an offhanded way, not out of kindness, but because it was a logical choice. He had to protect his sister, and that meant giving her shelter. And the bed. For now.

  She wanted a shower. There was a shower on the landing. She would have to borrow one of his towels. She would have to buy new clothes later. Returning to her apartment was out of the question, as she realized all too well.

  Either the killer or the police would be waiting for her there.

  She sat up. Maarten was still asleep. He slept soundly. Had always slept soundly, even as a child. Almost nothing would wake him. She rose. The bed smelled musty, and not because of her. The room smelled unpleasant. She opened the window. The room was situated at the back of the building. It looked out over a collection of ill-kept little city gardens, rooftops, chimneys, walls, and some windows. She wore the T-shirt from the day before, and yes, she needed fresh clothes.

  She had her debit card and money in the bank. She would be all right for the time being.

  Did the police know who she was?

  Of course they knew. All her documents were still in the apartment.

  She borrowed a towel and a bottle of shower soap from the wardrobe and went into the corridor for a shower.

  Fifteen minutes later, she was back, more or less refreshed. More or less clean. Maarten was awake, sitting on his thin blanket in a Zen-like position, eyes closed.

  “You’re leaving again today,” he said, not opening his eyes. “That’s your plan, right? You’re not staying.”

  “I can’t stay here, Maarten. That would put both of us in danger. I shouldn’t even have come. That was stupid. I should get away from here as fast as possible. Also for your safety.”

  He said nothing. Just sat there, at some great distance from the world.

  “Can’t you understand?” she insisted. “These people who were after Pieter, they’re no amateurs. They will find me if I stay here.”

  He opened his eyes, focused on her. “And where will you go?”

  “To Annelies.”

  He shrugged. “That’s stupid.” Then he added, “Why her and not me? If they can find you here, why not there as well? Does that make sense, sis?”

  Eileen arranged the sheets on the bed. “I’m sorry I came here, Maarten, that I interrupted your life and all. It was an emergency.”

  She could have said, that’s what family is for. But she didn’t. Not under these circumstances.

  25

  RESTAURANT ZEEDORF IN AMSTERDAM South had an excellent reputation for good French cuisine and an elaborate menu. It served seafood in a traditional Mediterranean fashion, eschewing the use of animal fats. The kitchen staff was of Italian and Sicilian origin, which meant that portions tended to be somewhat bigger than what the pure French cuisine prescribed. The chef came from Flanders, where he had received two Michelin stars. The staff was well-trained and well-paid. Service never disappointed nor failed. You sat in armchairs, and the tables were larger than in the average restaurant. And you didn’t have to sit too close to your neighbor. It was cozy, and it was discreet.

  So, all in all, a nice upmarket restaurant. But in spite of that, it had a bad reputation, which had nothing to do with its inherent qualities but merely with the fact that the whole of the Amsterdam crime world made it its favorite hangout. It wasn’t uncommon to see at its tables a number of people whose mostly unflattering portraits adorned the mug-shot books of the city’s criminal division. On occasion, they could be found in the newspapers, where their exploits—recent or past, depending on the zeal of the writer—were commented on in hostile terms. If you needed a “who’s who” of Amsterdam crime, you just had to show up here on a regular basis. You would know at once who was talking to whom, and you’d just as easily find out who was in conflict with whom.

  The department store adjacent to the restaurant belonged to two brothers of Iranian descent. The restaurant did nothing to attract clients for them, but the brothers couldn’t care less. They made most of their money on the underground parking garage beneath the store. Not that they demanded unreasonably large sums from the regular store customers. Their interest lay in the patrons of the restaurant who came in the evenings, after the store was closed. The sort of clients who would want to park their Bentley, Maserati, Porsche, or Hummer somewhere safe. Where it wouldn’t be damaged by vandals. Or fitted with a bomb while no one was looking. The Iranian brothers provided safety, for an appropriate sum. So the guests of Restaurant Zeedorf could enjoy their meal in tranquility.

  Only on special occasions did Adam Keretsky dine at the restaurant, discreetly, and outside the circle of influence of criminal Amsterdam. In that sense, the restaurant was a sort of free zone. He came here to enjoy his meal quietly. This time would be an exception, however. He was to meet with a number of Russian gentlemen. Tarkovski was good at fitting such events into his boss’s busy schedule. Keretsky didn’t know of Zeedorf’s reputation and didn’t care, as he often frequented similar establishments in Moscow and around Russia. The local Russians preferred to meet him here, even if they knew their arrival might be registered by the unavoidable cameras down the street, courtesy of state security. What did it matter? They often waved at the cameras and then enjoyed spending considerable amounts of ill-gotten money on food and Zeedorf’s famous wines.

  The proprietor of the restaurant guaranteed his customers that there would be no surveillance by outside forces inside the restaurant. No unwanted eyes or ears. And he had set rules. No weapons were allowed inside, you couldn’t threaten another customer, and your safety would be guaranteed on the premises. A safe haven for crime lords, as it were. Someone on a disreputable internet forum had once suggested that a heavy bomb in the cellar would rid Amsterdam—and perhaps the whole of the Netherlands—of all organized crime. But until now, no one had come forward to execute this daring and probably suicidal plan, most likely because anyone who could do it successfully was already in the employ of people who patronized the restaurant.

  Tarkovski couldn’t prevent the proprietor from displaying his knowledge of the French and Italian cuisine, but the young man had insisted on vodka being served. Vodka as aperitif and vodka with the meal. The restaurant, used to complying with the extravagant demands of its upmarket clients, had bought a special stock. And they had managed to acquire several bottles of Yat, surprising even Tarkovski. When the almost frozen bottles arrived on the table, everyone was thrilled. “Keretsky,” one of the men said, “this is astonishing. Are you planning to import this divine beverage into this dreary country?”

  Keretsky smiled but said not
hing. He wasn’t here for the vodka. He had other ideas concerning what he wanted to do with Holland. He sat at the head of the table, raised his glass, and wished everybody good health. Glasses were emptied at once. All of them spoke Russian, even those who had been living in the Netherlands for a long time and had become uncertain about the finer points of Russian grammar.

  “To Russian friendship,” Keretsky said.

  Tarkovski looked at his boss after he had drunk the vodka. He knew Keretsky didn’t drink all that often. Tarkovski would fill both their glasses with water from a bottle—one exactly like the Yat—that stood on the table between them. Let the others drink, Keretsky had said. Russians who drink too much tend to talk too much as well, often without thinking. That would suit Keretsky well.

  “Let’s also drink to Holland, this congenial country we like so much,” Keretsky said. “And where the Russian hospitality knows no borders.” Again, glasses were emptied. Plates with smoked salmon and caviar appeared on the table, accompanied by bread and salted butter.

  “And to our new ties with the Dutch financial world,” said a man sitting at Tarkovski’s right hand, a balding, stout, and badly dressed Muscovite whose name was Osip Bender. He was an expert in car export. “Always been a capitalist, haven’t you, Adam,” he said. “And now the unashamed co-owner of a Western bank, no less. If that’s not Russian irony.”

  “‘Owner’ is a bit too grand a word,” Keretsky said. “Four and a half percent, that’s a long way from ownership. You never fully or even halfway own such a big bank. But the fun thing is, when ownership is a matter of small shareholders, power is diluted. Consequently, when you have around five percent of the shares, you’re already a member of the inner circle. It means you can influence the bank for a rather modest sum.”

  “A modest sum!” someone at the other end of the table said. “How many rubles have you really been spending, Adam?”

  “You will read all about it in the newspapers,” Keretsky said. “But it is no secret. The money is owned by my companies, by the way. And it’s not rubles. It’s all in euro, my friends. Exactly what our friends in Holland want.”

  “That’s the way the world is turning, Adam,” said a younger man with smooth black hair at the other side of the table. Tarkovski made it his business to know each of the men around the table, but he assumed Keretsky was not much interested in them and would surely not care to remember their names.

  “The world,” Keretsky said, “is doing us many favors. Or better still, we will it to do us many favors. Look at where we came from and where we are now. What kind of place was Russia in the past?”

  “A republic,” someone said, foolishly.

  “An idea,” said another. “Something invented by revolutionary Marxists.”

  Keretsky raised his hand. “Russia was many things, but mainly it used to be a backward country. And it remained a backward country for most of the twentieth century, governed by a perverse ideology and boorish, paranoid leaders. Gentlemen, let’s not forget that. It was a country where entrepreneurship could not flourish, unless practiced by corrupt members of the nomenklatura. And what is Russia now?”

  “The future world leader!”

  “Absolutely. Well said. We were feared during the Soviet period, but for the wrong reasons. Our tanks managed to invade Hungary and Czechoslovakia, but that was as far as they would ever get. Even then, they ran out of parts. Our army was cumbersome and corrupt and couldn’t even defeat a bunch of Afghan farmers with outdated rifles. Our government only served to suppress the creativity of its citizens and squander the inherent riches of our nation on people who didn’t want to work.”

  “While we—” the black-haired young man started.

  “Today we have become a proud nation!” someone shouted.

  “A nation that will export its power,” Keretsky concluded. “But not like the Americans have been trying for decades. Not by military force. Russia does not need to use military force. It does not have to invade Iraq, not anymore. It does not need a firm fist. Russia is creative. Russians want to work hard and have ambitions. Russia will dominate the economic sphere. With oil, commodities, energy. But also with its financial power.”

  “Keretsky’s utopia!” someone joked. More vodka was consumed. Keretsky remained sober. “But what do I see today?” he bellowed. “What do I see here in Holland? I see a flock of idiots who still trade drugs as their primary means of economic activity. Who think in terms of extortion as a means of regular income. Who prefer to trade in stolen cars. Who trade in illegal arms with third-world countries. Who still dabble in prostitution. As if they still are small-time shopkeepers!”

  There was a sudden silence, even among those who had been drinking heavily. More food was brought in. Roasted fish, pasta, vegetables. Bottles of French wine. And more vodka.

  “We have to make a living,” Bender said. He was sweating profusely and not only because of the vodka. “You cannot blame us for still doing what we have been doing well in the past and what our fathers did before us.”

  “That is exactly right,” Keretsky said. “The same thing your fathers did. That was in the good old days, when they were people of limited means and few dreams. Now we are big. We are one big nation, and we must stop thinking small. The world will be at our feet soon, gentlemen. We must start thinking big. This is no longer about a boatload of nearly new luxury cars that your men can sell at rock-bottom prices in Moscow, on account of every nouveau riche in the capital wanting to be driven around in a large BMW or Mercedes. BMW and Mercedes are already importing these vehicles themselves into Russia, and their customers only want new and officially delivered cars. Price is not a problem anymore. And guns? Everybody deals in guns these days. You want a Kalashnikov? The Chinese man on the street corner will sell you one, a new one, made in China. Is this the sort of operation that will guarantee us a future?”

  Around the table, men remained silent.

  “Eat!” Keretsky said. “This divine food must not go to waste. Eat. But meanwhile listen to my words.” He took a bite from a portion of fish on his plate.

  “While you were thinking small, the world has caught up with you. Gentlemen, today I bought a significant portion of a large Dutch bank. Today I’m offered a seat on the board of directors. I refuse. Why do I refuse? Because I play my own game. Not the bank’s game. Not the game of the Dutch. Tomorrow I exchange large quantities of dollars for euros. The exchange rate of the euro drops by two percent. That is what I do. That’s how I make money. Same thing with oil. Why does the price of oil go up? Is there suddenly less oil than a year ago? Than ten years ago? Has it become more difficult to get the oil out of the ground? Yes, but that is merely a technical problem. The costs go up a few percentage points. But the price goes up a quarter. Why? Because I want it to go up a quarter. Because people like me want it to rise.”

  The men around the table ate. They drank the wine and the vodka. They listened to Keretsky and learned his lesson, because that was why they were here.

  “And what do I see here? I will tell you what I see here. Just the other day, a Dutch police officer was killed by a bomb. He worked for the AIVD. The AIVD, which monitors my activities. They have a very big file on me. They have big files on all my companies here in the Netherlands. Am I worried? No. I am not worried. That’s what the police are for. To fill files with documents about me and my companies.

  “But I am worried about a police officer who is killed by a bomb in front of his home. He did something he was not supposed to be doing, and he knew too much. But I did not order that killing. I would never order such a killing. Because that is not the sort of thing I do, gentlemen. You would, gentlemen. You would arrange for a police officer to be murdered, but not me.”

  Empty plates were taken away by efficient waiters. New hot plates were brought in with more food: meat, mostly, Italian style.

  “Eat, friends,” Keretsky continued. “And consider this: the difference between you and me is that I do not di
spose of people. That is not what I do. I am a businessman. Police officers are not an obstacle on my path. Remember that.”

  An hour later, after conversations had returned to the commonplace subjects that people talk about when they eat and drink, and after the men around the table had said goodbye to Keretsky, he and Tarkovski sat in the Bentley. “What lesson did you learn today, Andreï?” Keretsky asked.

  Tarkovski was no longer certain if he could still talk with his boss in confidence, not after tonight. Because he’d realized that the truth was a tool Keretsky was able to bend and distort any way he wanted. Even worse: truth was nonexistent in the Keretsky universe. “I assume you want us to distance ourselves from criminal activities.”

  Keretsky patted Tarkovski’s knee. “You understood perfectly well, Andreï. Very well. You keep your distance from criminal activities. That is what you tell everybody. Finally, when you say this often enough, people will tend to believe you. They will believe that you are a respectable businessman. That you can be trusted. The banker I saw yesterday knows I am respectable. Why does he know that? Because that’s what he reads in the newspapers, and that’s what his analysts tell him.”

  “But the police officer?”

  “Who? Oh, the police officer. Let me tell you, Andreï: there is one thing you have to be perfectly clear about. Never let your reputation stand in the way of important and difficult decisions at a certain point in your life. Even when you have to make unpleasant decisions. You are a righteous businessman, but at the same time you make decisions that will end a human life. Because that too is a part of business. The Russian way. That is the lesson I want you to take home tonight.” He gestured toward Amsterdam, outside the Bentley. “Do you like it here, Andreï? I think you do, but do you really?”

  “Of course, Mr. Keretsky. I see no reason to complain.”