Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2)

by Ruth Francisco

  I pretend to look shocked and annoyed, then I bow my head in deference. “It would please me very much, if it would please you.”

  “Tell her I'll pay her double what you pay.”

  “Of course,” I say, trying to appear hurt, looking sadly over at Wilma, who is clearing the plates.

  “You really shouldn't be eating so much sugary food if you're trying to get pregnant,” says Dilara.

  “You are right, of course. I'll send her over tomorrow.”

  Dilara, gloating over her little victory over me, puts on her abaya and niqab, and steps out into the rain with a spring to her step.

  Eighteen, February 2021

  Roommates

  Kazan is trying to spend more time with me, but there is a formality about our encounters. He is unfailingly polite. I think of a sixth form school boy showing off his campus to the parents of a perspective student. Yet I find I look forward to seeing him, and sense the same from him.

  Sex is off the table. He will not tell me why. I have tried to initiate sex, wearing gauzy nightgowns (making use of Faruk's carefully chosen ensembles), posing against the light of the window, stretching my neck, smiling, or standing close to him in the kitchen, brushing his shoulder, touching his hand as I pass him the morning paper. He clearly knows what I am doing, soaking in that slow pulsing heat that exists between two people who either are attracted to or hate one another. He refuses to meet my eye, and sometimes we stand that way for a long moment, silent, matching our breathing. I'm surprised the curtains don't catch on fire. Invariably, he moves away.

  Most of the time we keep our distance—five feet seems to work—and talk about safe things. Food. Movies we remember. The weather. He is full of little kindnesses, and never returns from a trip without bringing me flowers, as if apologizing for how much time I have to spend inside.

  “Do you know why Muslims love tulips so much?” he asks, as he fills my arms with brilliant red blossoms.

  “We need a reason?”

  “Because their shape is like the Arab word for Allah. During the spring in Turkey, the boulevards and public parks are filled with tulips.”

  “Is that why so many Turks immigrated to The Netherlands?”

  “No. We came for the weather.”

  Eight months have passed since we married. But no one has proposed divorce. I guess Dilara's threats were empty, or perhaps only postponed. I suspect the Basturks have been discussing my failure to get pregnant behind my back. Perhaps Kazan refuses to divorce me. For reasons of his own.

  One day he gives me a present. Anticipating yet another piece of jewelry I will never wear, I open it. It is a CD player, strictly haram. The kind people carried with them before the iPod.

  Now when he returns from trips, he smuggles me music, CDs of all kinds—jazz, Afro-pop, classical, bassa nova, Swedish pop, and my favorite, Shakira.

  “Do not play it outside of the house,” he warns me.

  “I won't.”

  We do not listen to music together, but it becomes a way for us to relate. He gives me music, we talk about it. Sometimes, when I am singing to myself in the kitchen, I will turn around and see him watching. “Don't stop,” he says.

  I learn nothing about his work and feel like an absolute failure. I'm wasting my time here. I get a few stories about his childhood, going to school in Switzerland, learning the diamond business from Uncle Osman in Zürich. I wait for him to drop some clue, something I can work with. I get nothing.

  One morning he tells me he will be gone for three weeks. He holds both of my wrists and makes me face him, the way you try to talk sense into a stubborn child. He looks me directly in the eyes. “Listen to me, Salima. If I don't come back, the numbers to the safe are scratched into the frame over the toilet. I'm sorry . . . about everything. You'll be fine. There are instructions and money.” He kisses the top of my head and leaves.

  I give him a half hour, then go to each of the toilets. Only the guest toilet has a picture over it. I take it off the wall, and study the back of the frame. My thumb senses a rough spot along one edge. I get a magnifying glass, and find a string of thirteen numbers, etched into the back molding of the frame. I write down the numbers, memorize the string, then burn the paper.

  I realize he never told me where the safe is. I cover the house top to bottom yet again. No safe.

  He expects me to figure it out. Some kind of test. To see what kind of brain I have—a conniving, puzzle-solving brain, or the innocent and obedient brain of the young Muslim woman I pretend to be.

  No, he knows me better than that by now.

  What clues has he given me? The music he's gifted me? Stories from his childhood in Turkey? Does any one stand out as different?

  “We had television—not our family, but in town,” I recall him saying. “The schoolmaster had one, the pharmacist, maybe one or two more. Once a week our teacher played a movie in the schoolhouse—Jurassic Park, Pulp Fiction, Terminator, Speed, LA Confidential, Matrix, Harry Potter—we saw them all. After it finished, we'd make him run it again.”

  “Your teacher let you see Pulp Fiction?”

  “He made us promise not to tell our parents. They probably wondered about the new Travolta gestures we added to our dances. What do you call it—that V thing he did with his fingers?”

  “Snake eyes? I don't know.”

  “The thing is, the electricity was always going out—usually during some heart-pumping action sequence. It drove us crazy. We had all these junk cars sitting around, so I took an old car generator, hooked it up to a paddle wheel on the stream, getting 12 to 14 volts, then ran it through an inverter to get 120 volts, and plugged in. We got to see a whole movie, uninterrupted. Only worked when the water was high, of course. We looked forward to bad weather.”

  I recall seeing an electrical panel in the mud room and one in the pantry. Two for one house? It had never struck me as odd until now. I go to the pantry and switch off the circuit breakers. The refrigerator stops humming. I flip them back on, then try the electrical panel in the mud room, switching them all off. The overhead light does not go out. My nails slip under the edge of the panel. I tug hard, but it doesn't budge. I shouldn't have to force it. Pressing firmly with my fingertips, I edge around the panel.

  Suddenly it pops open. The gleaming steel door of a safe.

  I spin out the combination and slowly open a twenty-square-inch vault. A Jericho gun sits on top of papers. I take everything out. A passport and travel documents for me under a different name. Twenty thousand euros cash. A small bag of diamonds. A joint bank account statement for Kazan and me at a Danish Bank with a balance of eighty-three thousand euros. The deed to an apartment in Copenhagen in my name. And a sealed envelope with my name on it—the instructions he mentioned, I assume.

  Several things strike me. He is doing something very risky and doesn't expect to return. If he doesn't return, he thinks I am in danger and should disappear. He also doesn't trust his family to treat me fairly after his death, and wants to provide for me.

  Like a husband.

  Why does he have a Jericho pistol, standard issue of the Israeli police?

  I can only conclude that he is going on a suicide mission. But that makes no sense. He is too far up the food chain for that. Suicide missions are for young adolescent boys with golden keys in their pockets, who don't know better.

  I decide not to open the envelope. If he comes back, he'll know I have snooped. I put everything back in the safe, spin the lock, close the circuit panel, and turn out the light.

  A Curious Event

  The Islamic Council issues a new fatwa. It bans women from walking with pride, or walking in the middle of the sidewalk.

  “Where are we supposed to walk?” I demand of Pim truculently. We meet at Freyja's, where I do my grocery shopping. I cannot live without seeing the people I care about. Uncle Sander keeps an eye out for us.

  “Walk wherever you want. Just not in the middle,” Pim says, grinning. “No one wants to have to say '
excuse me' to a prideful woman.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud. We wear veils. How could anyone tell if we're walking with pride or not?”

  “I'm sure I could tell.” He grabs my hand and pulls me onto his lap. He kisses my neck, his hands groping, struggling to find a way under my burka.

  “You better let me go before we break another fatwa.” I kiss him on the cheek and slip off.

  The National Fatwa Council has more than 300 bans on the books. Amsterdam has 700 more.

  Even the most ardent Muslims are beginning to object.

  Then overnight, posters go up all over the city—on construction sites, on bridges, on the walls of canals, on store windows—declaring “National Pet a Dog Day.” The poster shows a woman in a headscarf holding an adorable Pomeranian with the biggest doggy grin you've ever seen. Three things are incredibly wrong here. The woman is not veiled and is grinning; dogs are impure, and should never be touched; and except for religious events, meetings of more than five people is forbidden.

  I ask Nasira if she knows who put up the posters. “I don't know,” she says. “It isn't anyone from the Resistance, as far as I know.”

  “Where do you think it will be held? It doesn't say on the poster.”

  “That's probably on purpose, to divide police presence. My guess would be any place dogs hang out.”

  “The parks?”

  Melis drops by and asks me to go. Her face glows, eyes twinkling in a feverish state of excitement. I've never seen her so animated. “I want to pet a dog. Please, Salima. I can't get any of my sisters to go. They think dogs are disgusting. I know you had a dog. I saw the picture in your bedroom.”

  “Angus. My Golden Retriever.”

  “Will you go with me? Please, Salima?”

  “Of course.” I know I shouldn't. I know too much to risk arrest. And if the Basturks discover our outing, they will never forgive me for corrupting Melis. Honestly, is a sloppy dog kiss that horrifying?

  Off we go, a short walk from Kazan's apartment. In the middle of the sidewalk.

  “What's it like,” Melis asks, “to own a dog?”

  A warm rush floods my body, surprising me. I bite down on my lips, searching for the words. “It's like all the happiness in the world rolled up in one wiggly creature, who adores you. A dog is your best friend, your child, your workout buddy, your clown, your bodyguard. When he lies beside you, you feel a warm golden connection between you. A dog is love.”

  “You've slept with a dog?” She giggles, scandalized.

  “Many times. More than one at a time. Are you ashamed to be seen with me?”

  “As long as we keep you covered, it's okay. No one will know it's you.”

  Laughing in the streets. We can't stop breaking laws.

  We turn the corner. Thousands of people and hundreds of dogs. Where did they all come from? How were they kept secret?

  The mood is festive. Dogs yipping and yapping and tearing all over the place. Islam strictly prohibits abuse to animals, so the mutaween are flummoxed, spinning in circles, spouting Hadiths no one listens to. Even the soldiers are petting the dogs.

  Niko Nazar hands out small bags of doggie treats, tied in pink ribbons. I wave and sidle up to him. “Did they teach you to make doggie treats at Le Cordon Bleu?”

  “Only in the master chef classes.”

  The cookies are in the shape of fire hydrants, which look scandalously similar to an imam in ceremonial garb. And to a penis.

  One mutawa in a white beard and a crisp blue tunic rants at the top of his voice. “If a dog licks the vessel of any one of you, throw away whatever was in it and wash it seven times.” A Husky trots over and sits in front of him, watching him, growling whenever he tries to take a step. Good boy.

  Melis is like a kid in a candy shop, going from dog to dog, petting each one. At first she reaches out and tentatively taps their heads, laughing excitedly. Then she dives in for a hug, grabbing fistfuls of fur, burying her face in their coats. I wonder what's gotten into her.

  We stay an hour or so. I wait for the crackdown, for IRH soldiers to start shooting and throwing tear gas, for mass arrests. But nothing happens. Melis walks home content, her head on my shoulder. Public touching, even between cloaked women, is forbidden.

  “What happened to your dog, Angus?” she asks quietly.

  “You mean, how did he die?”

  She nods.

  “I was out walking him. I was about thirteen. A mutawa saw us and ordered a soldier to shoot him. They wouldn't even let me take his body home to bury.”

  She squeezes my hand.

  Later that evening I realize why no one was arrested at the park. The Islamic Council recognizes that people are suffering from fatwa fatigue. It is better to allow them to let off a little steam than have it build into a revolt.

  I read in De Telegraf the next morning that the National Fatwa Council has a new fatwa for us. Touching or owning a dog is haram. Only service dogs are allowed.

  The fatwa backfires on them. Everyone registers their dog as a service dog, and soon, instead of being hidden, dogs prance about the city in little yellow jackets.

  Ambush

  “One of our couriers was arrested at the railroad station in Den Bosch.”

  Gerda calls an emergency meeting on the Fredrika Maria. “Someone in the Resistance issued him a blank travel pass. The fool wrote his date of birth in the space for the date issued. The Landweer took him in for questioning. He broke down, telling everything he knows.”

  “Have they made arrests?” asks Garret.

  “They nabbed twelve liaison people and two cell leaders. We got hit hard—our Friday morning meeting.”

  Everyone gasps. Nasira, who sits beside me, laces her fingers with mine and squeezes firmly.

  “What's going to happen to them?” asks Lars.

  “The usual routine—police station, police headquarters, police interrogation, prison, more interrogation. Then a judge from the sharia court will sentence them.”

  “Chop-Chop,” says Rikhart with a macabre smirk.

  Gerda frowns.

  “How did they find out about the meeting?” asks Kaart.

  “The courier didn't know about it. Nobody knew about the meeting except the people who were there. Our people walked right into a trap. Luuk got away. When he rang the doorbell, a Landweer officer answered. He slugged him and took off. Two more Landweer officers chased him, but he grappled with them and got away.”

  “Thank God,” says Margo.

  Gerda raises an eyebrow, and I notice that Luuk isn't here, which seems odd. Gerda continues. “They're searching apartments and barges. Two from our group were shot while being arrested, as well as Voddenman and the Chief Liaison Officer for the Secret Army.”

  “You mean Reynard?” asks Garret. We have all heard of Reynard. He is organizing Resistance troops for when Coalition Forces invade. The secret army will join them and drive the Islamists from Holland.

  “Yes,” Gerda replies. “All four were taken to Medisch Centrum on Jan van Goyen.”

  “Are they badly wounded?”

  “Our contact at Medisch Centrum says three have shots to the arms or legs, one with a shot to his butt. I'm sorry to tell you this, Lina, but your Uncle Sander was taken.”

  I feel like someone has punched me hard in the chest. “I want to be part of the escape plan.”

  “I figured you would.” A rare smile flickers on Gerda's lips, before she resumes her frown. “The information Wilma feeds us from the Yilmaz household is critical. If you're caught, she is immediately under suspicion. But I will not keep you from rescuing your uncle.”

  “I understand,” I say.

  “Don't get caught.” She continues. “So far, the Landweer only knows the names our people were using for this one meeting. Their families are safe for the time being. But nobody will be safe if they are interrogated. We must get them out fast.”

  “Do you know if their photos were taken?” Garret asks.

  �
�They were taken to the hospital before they were booked, so I think we're safe there for the time being.” Gerda turns to me. “Lina, you and Nasira go to the hospital during visiting hours. Make a precise map of the reception area and the administration offices, and the section reserved for prisoners. Kaart and Pim will be drivers. Janz, Garret, and Hansen will be operations. Have them run through a plan in advance with two cars. Arrival, parking, departure. It all must be done swiftly without mishaps. Lars, you plan the escape route from Amsterdam.”

  “Up the Varken Weg?” asks Kaart, who has recently rejoined the group after escaping from the Landweer. He had to go underground for several months.

  “Any way you can get them to Delfzijl. They'll probably want to join Coalition Forces in Denmark, but they're free to head to Norway or Iceland.”

  I call Melis and tell her I am going to visit a friend in the hospital. She knows without my saying that I'm asking for her to cover for me. She doesn't know I work for the Resistance, only that I sometimes like to go unmonitored. “Do you want me to go with you?” she asks.

  “No, that isn't necessary. But thank you for offering.” I purposefully don't tell her which hospital I'll be at.

  Medisch Centrum

  Wearing black burkas, Nasira and I sign in at the visitors' center in Medisch Centrum. We go into the bathroom and come out each wearing the white shalwar kameez, worn by nurses. Identical Allah pendants hang from our necks along with our fake IDs—we need to be able to recognize each other. I take out a stethoscope and clipboard from my bag. We go in opposite directions.

  I am somewhat familiar with the hospital from when we spirited Joury away, and Uncle Hamza's triple bypass. I find the prison ward on the third floor, the far wing on a floor for cardiac patients.

  A nurse greets me and shows no sign of suspicion. This wing used to be private rooms, now packed with three or four beds each. Shoulders back with confidence, I walk to the first bed, where an old man lies dozing. I pick up the medical chart at the foot of the bed, and take a look at his personal history, vital signs, diagnoses, progress notes, and lab results, then ask him how he feels today, if there are any changes. I check vital signs and he tells me a nurse just did that. “I know. I'm checking her work.”