'It isn't, no. Nothing like. It's Lester. Simon Lester. Mr Lester.'
'Of course,' the receptionist says in a tone that suggests the distinction isn't worth making. 'You are a passenger on the flight that was diverted to Schiphol, yes?'
'That's me. I mean, I'm one of many.'
'We believe you are legion,' the receptionist says, presumably to impress me with some obscure English. 'We are told no flights to London are expected for at least twelve hours.'
Natalie may well be checking the arrival times, but I ought to let her know. Frugojet is paying only for the room, and email will be a good deal cheaper than phoning. I thank the receptionist and get dressed from my suitcase. I retrieve my coat from the hook on the door and remove the key from the slot that powers the lights. As I step into the corridor, the tang of some especially potent cannabis seeps out of a room.
I'm certainly in Amsterdam. I have to hold onto the unsteady banister all the way down the stairs, which are so close to vertical it's more like descending a ladder. In the token lobby two chairs with tapestry seats confront the reception counter. The man behind it is so tall and long-faced that he might have been selected to fit in with the proportions of the hotel. As soon as I bid him good evening, which makes me feel more adrift in time and space than ever, he says 'Ah, Mr – '
'Lester,' I say to head off anything else. 'Can you tell me where's the nearest Internet access?'
'Very close. In the street.'
As the glass doors toll behind me, an illuminated barge full of sightseers trails its waves along the canal. I can't help wishing that the similarity to the boats that pass Natalie's apartment would transport me home, an instant link. An icy breeze that feels like a reference to the blizzards that have much of Britain in their grip snatches at my face as I step onto the cobbles. Ranks of pale skinny houses topped by extravagant gables stretch in both directions to bridges bearing cyclists and pedestrians. In a moment I notice the Internet sticker on the window of the café next to the hotel.
It's the kind of establishment for which the city is renowned. Before I've even pushed the heavy door open I'm greeted by an intense smell of cannabis. The brightest light in the gloomily panelled room is shed by half a dozen computer screens on tables just inside. Beyond them lower tables are surrounded by padded chairs and couches shaded by plants in pots, no doubt one reason why the place is called the Pot of Gold. To the left of the entrance a blackboard behind the counter displays the deals on varieties of marihuana and hashish. The topmost and presumably most potent is called Waking Dream. A large man in a moss-green pullover at least two sizes larger blinks slowly but not unwelcomingly at me across the counter. 'Could I buy some time on the Internet?' I ask him.
'Pay when you finish. Anything else for you?'
I'm tempted to enquire whether they sell single joints, but I don't know how the effects might combine with my jet lag. 'Not just now, thanks.'
He eases himself off his stool and immediately vanishes, opening a section of the counter to reveal that he only just comes up to my waist. He sways like a recently disembarked sailor as he leads me past a monitor that shows an unnervingly young girl at solitary play and logs me onto the adjacent computer. As he wanders off, sandals flapping on the bare boards, I type my Frugonet password to find that Natalie has emailed me.
Well, you are having adventures, aren't you? It's not like you to fall asleep in a film, though. It was hardly worth waking up by the sound of it. You might as well have stayed in case there was anything else for you to do. Let us know if you get the chance where you are now and for how long if it's going to make a difference. Mark says he's got something to show you besides him in the school play. He's hoping you'll be back for that at least.
N/M
Perhaps she typed this in a hurry, but it isn't just the untypically brusque signature that makes the message seem accusing. I have to remind myself that I didn't give away too much in my hasty email from the terminal beside the Chicago departure gate. Much that I omitted resembles a dream, not least my being wakened by one of Willie Hart's performers. 'Do we need to get you to the airport anytime soon?' Both of them were in my room, and as I strove to open my eyes I wasn't sure if I was more apprehensive of seeing them naked or dressed – as cheerleaders, perhaps, or high-school students. In fact they were wearing shorts and T-shirts, though not a great deal of either. One of them proved old enough to drive a Punto when I'd flung my belongings into my suitcase and thanked Willie at length while returning the hug she was in no rush to finish. All the way to the airport I was aware of very little beyond the girls, the one in the rear seat leaning forward to rest her bare arm on my shoulder, the driver's hand straying close to my thigh. Otherwise I'm left only with the fancy that all the glimpses I had on my drive to Limestones were replayed backwards. I may tell Natalie some or all of this, but not now.
Dear N/M:
Looks like I'm grounded for at least the next half-day. Don't worry, I'm behaving myself. Maybe I'll linger over a lonely Indonesian feast if they do those for one, and then I may even retire to my room. Mark, it's still two days until your play, isn't it? They're bound to have cleared the runway at Heathrow by then unless the world's reverting to an ice age. Which it isn't, so you needn't start performing any rituals to wake the world up or raise the sun or whatever people used to do for Christmas.
Love –
S
As soon as I've sent the message it makes me feel I was less than awake. Instead of sending a revision or a postscript I check the newsgroups, and at first all I can do is laugh.
So Mr Questionabble thinks everyboddy has to hush now he's finnished making stories up about himself and commedians, does he? I'll bet I'm not the only one that's noticced Mr Questionabble spells Quotabble, er, Simon. (The er's because he's not sure of his own name.) If everyboddy else wants quiet I'll leave him allone as soon as he addmits he hasn't been telling the truth. Let him say he hasn't got an edditor or a pubblisher for any book. He just needs to be hummble and I'll wrap up my sillence and send it him for Christmas.
Colin has responded.
Well, nobody or even noboddy can say Me, I'm Slime doesn't live up to his name. How many things can you get wrong in one post, Slimy? Simon's name isn't questionable, and it isn't spelled like that either. I'll tell you how we can resolve this crap if you've got the balls for it. Come and see me in my office at London University Press and I'll prove I exist however you need me to prove it. That's if you ever leave your computer and get out of the house. Maybe you don't like anyone to see your face because you think they're all laughing at you. Let's put you out of your misery. They are.
I am, but partly at how Colin is aggravating the situation. Perhaps I sound less than amused, because the man at the adjacent terminal passes me the plump joint from which he has just taken a generous drag. He doesn't exhale while I risk a polite puff – I don't know how potent the contents may be, but I suspect very – and then, grinning with the silent effort that turns his fat face paler, he gestures me to have another. I don't until he breathes out, giving me the opportunity to return the joint to him. The effects seem pleasantly mellow, and I'm happy to back up Colin's response.
I'll second that. Let us know when you'll be visiting the office and I'll make sure I'm there as well so you can see we're two entirely different people. If you don't accept we'll know you don't believe what you've been saying. I rather hope for your sake that you don't, but then there's no reason for you to carry on saying it, is there?
I might go through the message and double every consonant, but the notion feels less like a joke than a threat of losing control. I post the message and check my email again, but Natalie hasn't answered. The hot puffy dimness is growing oppressive, and I'm unnecessarily aware of the flicker of the screens, a pulsation that appears to be swelling my neighbour's whitened face. I log out of my Frugonet account and hurry to the counter.
I'm uncomfortably conscious of the shortness of the man behind it. I have to rid my
self of an impression that he's balancing on stilts to bring his face on a level with mine. 'Anything else now?' he says.
'Just the session.'
'Five euros.'
I have only sterling and dollars in cash. He raises his eyebrows, which appear to tug his expression blank, and lets me see the effort required to push a credit card reader across the counter. I insert my Visa in the slot and type my pin number, though I can barely distinguish the request for it, never mind the keys. I have to crouch to be sure of the next message, as if the faint flimsy letters are pulling me down to them. AUTHORIZATION DENIED.
'Sorry, wrong number,' I say, feeling like an operator in an old and irrelevantly suspenseful film. 'One toke too many, eh?' When the small man contains his amusement, if any, I duck closer to the luminous green keys and pause after pressing each of mine. By the time I poke ENTER I could fancy that the task has taken so long I've forgotten how it began. There's no doubt how it ends, however. AUTHORIZATION DENIED.
'Third time lucky,' I declare and spend a moment, unless it's much longer, in recalling how I chose the number. It's SL – it's 1912. I thought of mixing up the digits to make it less obvious to thieves, but I'm attached to it. 'That's what it is,' I assure anyone who needs telling, though surely I didn't pronounce the digits aloud or even mouth them. I pinch my lips shut with my free hand as I type the number once again, so slowly that my fingers seem to be growing too unwieldy to find the right keys. I press CANCEL, because I'm suddenly nervous of having mistyped, and intone the digits inside the hollow of my skull as I jab each key. I'm convinced they were accurate this time, and I press ENTER before any doubts can dissuade me. PLEASE WAIT, the scrawny screen advises, and lingers over rearranging and multiplying the scraps of charred material with which it composes words. AUTHORIZATION DENIED. RETAILER RETAIN CARD.
I'm reaching to snatch the card out of the slot when the man takes hold of the machine with a disproportionately large hand and plants it under the counter. I mustn't panic – mustn't grab him and lob him across the room. I dig in my pocket and slap my passport on the counter. 'I can sign instead. This is who I am. That proves it's my card.'
As I straighten up to take my shadow off the passport my photograph appears to stir like an image on a miniature monitor, but he scarcely glances at it. 'It needs your number. Everyone must have a number now.'
'People like us shouldn't go along with that kind of corporate global shit.' This hardly even earns me a stare, and so I try saying 'Anyway, you have to return my card. That's what the message said.'
He might be staring at an especially dull film. 'I must retain. I can read English.'
'All right, I read it wrong,' I say and wonder if I did. I thrust my swollen sweaty hands into my trousers pockets and drag out handfuls of sterling and dollars. 'I'll pay you and you can give me my card,' I tell him. 'Which do you want? How much?'
'No use. We are in the euro.'
'Where can I change these, then? Can I next door? I'm in the Dwarf Hotel. Dwaas, I mean. Dwaas.'
After a pause that he clearly intends to be eloquent he says 'They will not do it.'
'Where, then? Or where's the nearest hole in the wall?'
'You want a hole.' He mimes inspiration and says 'You want to rob?'
'Your English isn't what you thought it was after all.' Surely I don't say this aloud, but I don't care either way. 'An ATM,' I translate. 'A cash dispenser.'
'Go out and left and left again.'
'I'll be back before you know it,' I say before swooping back to retrieve my passport. 'Nearly,' I remark, even if it sounds like an accusation. Is the card reader casting some kind of intermittent light on him? His dim face looks unsteady on its bones, and I do my best to laugh as I hurry out of the café.
The canal ripples as if it's displaying a graph of its own sounds. I find this easier to cope with than the notion that the wavering of the inverted houses is about to spread to their counterparts alongside the water. I trip over cobblestones in my haste to dodge into an alley on the left. Reflections of the ripples pluck at the walls, but they can't be stretching the passage as I put on speed towards the bright street full of people at the far end. However gelatinous the walls and the flagstones underfoot look, it's the fault of the quivering dimness, which also encourages my shadow to prance more than its owner. The alley isn't lengthening, nor is it growing narrower, and it certainly can't squeeze me between the bricks. 'This is a laugh,' I announce and demonstrate until the clamour of my jollity forces the walls to make room. I tone it down as passers-by stare in my direction, although their scrutiny helps persuade me that I'm advancing. As I emerge from the alley at last I peer back to indicate that somebody else must have been making the row. I'm just an ordinary tourist bound for the cash machine at which three men as unremarkable as me are queuing beside a canal.
I take out my debit card once I've joined them and repeat my identification number a few times in my head. It's 1413, which is NM. I hold it in my mind as we shuffle forward to the metal keyboard, which keeps rippling and subsiding, or at least the light from the canal does. By the time the last man strolls away three more have lined up behind me. I slip the card in and type the number despite the hindrance of my frozen fingers. My current account is in debit by almost a hundred pounds.
It won't be as soon as I transfer some money from the deposit account, and I instruct the machine to show me that balance. A wave of light passes across the screen but doesn't blot out the figure: over ten thousand pounds. An object so small it shouldn't be distracting – an insect or a twig from one of the trees by the canal – has landed on the screen. I stoop and blow a pale breath at it, and then I flick it before attempting to dislodge it with a fingernail. Even scratching at the glass doesn't budge it, however. It isn't a twig or an insect. It's a minus sign.
THIRTY-ONE - IT SMILES
My guts seem to shrink like an image on a television that has had its plug pulled. As I stare at the screen in the desperate hope that it will reveal I'm somehow mistaken, the men behind me start to murmur and then laugh. I stare until I'm unable to judge whether the flickering is on the screen or in my eyes or both. I stare until the nearest man enquires 'Are you just going to look at it, mate? It's like he said, it's not a telly.'
He's a Londoner. By the sound of their supportive mutters, so are his friends. I feel pathetically reassured, but less so once I turn to them. They might be undertakers and triplets too: heavy black overcoats, white faces almost round enough to be artificial, oily black hair with partings – left side for the foremost man, middle for the middle, right for the rear guard – that expose their pallid scalps. Nevertheless I appeal to them. 'I've been robbed.'
'There's a lot of it about, they told us.'
'You want to keep an eye out.'
'Don't let us stop you getting your dosh.'
I haven't time to be disconcerted by their speaking in the order that they're queuing. 'I mean I've been robbed on here,' I protest, whirling around to confront the screen, but I haven't taken it unawares. It still wonders if I need another service, which gives me an idea I have to hope isn't hopeless. I jab the button to call up my balance again in case there was an error in transmission and do my best to ignore the murmurs at my back. Are they really saying 'Mean old bean' and 'Must have been' and 'Not a bean'? I struggle against fancying that the last comment has affected the onscreen display, where the minus sign looks blacker than ever, a monochrome film's rendering of red. 'They could do it again, whoever did,' I realise wildly. 'I need to contact the bank.'
'Can he do it on here?'
The speaker is the man with the central parting. As he leans his palms on either side of the screen, auras of moisture swell around his plump hands on the metal. 'He can't,' he announces, straightening up.
'I didn't think he could.'
'I knew he couldn't.'
I could imagine that a single actor is dubbing their voices. The onscreen digits seem to stir as if they're eager to multiply, and I haven't c
onvinced myself that it's merely my vision when the nearest man says 'So let's have a turn.'
He's now the character with hair parted on the right. Do they keep switching places or wigs while I'm not looking? I can't be sure whether his coiffure is slightly askew. I peer at it until the man behind him, his mirror image in terms of hair, says 'You were wanting to phone your bank.'
'Or email them,' says the fellow at the rear.
They're reminding me that I can't pay to do either. I left my mobile at Natalie's because it wouldn't have worked in America. I stand aside to let the leader of the queue use the machine, and then I take a deep breath. 'This is horribly embarrassing, but could you lend me a little money? You've got my word I'll pay you back. Give me your address and I'll give you mine.'
He orders a hundred euros and covers the delivery slot with a hand as he turns to his companions. 'Too much like home, this, don't you reckon?'
All at once I'm surrounded. 'We've got beggars hanging round cashpoints too,' one of them informs me.
'So you Dutchmen hadn't better try it on with us,' says the man with a parting that resembles a glistening slit on top of his head.
A wild grin tugs my lips wide. 'I'm not Dutch. I'm one of you.'
'Smells Dutch to me,' says the man at the screen.
'Fuggy,' says his opposite, waving away the air between us.
'Druggy,' their companion expounds. 'Double Dutch.'
I feel as if the place into which I've strayed is trying to claim me for its own. 'I'm not bloody Dutch,' I insist. 'You saw my balance. It's in pounds.'
The man at the wall snatches his cash and stuffs it in an inside pocket. As he makes way for the man crowned with a slit he says 'You mean you've got some money after all.'
'Unless it was someone else's he was thieving,' says the man who has taken his place.
His friends bring their pugnacious faces close to mine as if they're challenging me to spot the difference, and then they find some cue to step back. 'If you're going to beg, do it proper,' says the man with the left-hand split.
The Grin of the Dark Page 21