‘You leave my children out of this! You hear me?’ Marouan shouted.
He gasped. His legs were trembling so hard, he was afraid he might collapse. He thrust both his hands against the wall above his head to brace himself and, as he did this, imagined pushing down the entire building from the inside out.
21
‘Yellow-bellied cowards! The lot of them!’ Edward fumed as he approached her desk. ‘You have to talk till you’re blue in the face these days to get what you want. It’s all about circulation figures and advertising revenues. Fucking “budgetary constraints” blah, blah, blah!’
‘So the whole thing is off?’ Farah asked.
‘Don’t be silly!’ Edward snorted. ‘Of course it’s happening. But what really aggravates me is that I keep having to move heaven and earth to convince those spineless wankers that their bureaucratic nonsense isn’t doing anyone any good. Goddamn, we’re a newspaper, not a sanatorium. We’ve got three months for now. Granted, it’s not enough, but once we’re making headway with the story, hopefully they’ll cough up more time.’
‘But that’s great news, right?’ Farah jumped up to throw her arms around Edward’s thick neck.
‘Hold your horses, Hafez,’ he said. ‘There’s one condition you have to agree to.’
‘And that is?’
‘A second reporter. Someone with experience.’
‘They still don’t have much faith in me upstairs, do they?’ She couldn’t hide the disappointment in her voice.
‘It was my idea. You don’t have enough experience with stories like these, and I can’t keep a constant eye on you. It’s still your initiative, but see it as a joint project; you, me and the person I’ve picked to cover your back.
‘And who might that be?’
Ed stomped back and forth, stalling longer than strictly necessary.
‘I want Paul Chapelle out there with you.’
After he finally spit out the name, Farah felt the restless spirits stir in her once again.
Edward had trained Paul. And apart from being his mentor, he was also his uncle. Paul had once been promising, but there wasn’t much left of his potential. It was rumoured that Paul’s previous posting in Moscow had turned into a fiasco, full of binge drinking and bad-tempered brawls. But Edward was a man who never gave up on people – he continued to believe in his nephew’s journalistic career, despite the many signs that this was probably futile. He’d been instrumental in having Paul transferred to Johannesburg. But apparently things didn’t go much differently there than in Moscow. Or indeed in Paris and London, where Paul had been posted previously.
Perhaps, Farah thought, Ed saw this project as a last-ditch attempt to bring his prize pupil aboard: give Paul a new chance at the AND. But why should she, in her first major assignment, have to put up with a self-destructive correspondent whose career was clearly on its way down the drain?
Ed’s answer was simple. ‘This is about a possible international network and Paul has international experience. You don’t.’
She was too overwhelmed to reason with him. The dark clouds filling her head made it impossible for her to stand up for herself. ‘And what if he says no?’
‘He won’t say no.’
‘Wait a minute Ed. As you always say, what’s in it for you?’
‘What’s in it for me? A top-notch team of journalists, of course.’
‘How can you say that? We’ve never worked together.’
‘Then it’s about time. Listen, Hafez, how long have I known you? Since the first day you walked into the pressroom as an intern. Ambition in abundance. But let’s be honest, you haven’t exactly written exposés worthy of a Pulitzer. A few articles on asylum policy, some in-depth portraits of famous athletes, lots of regional news and finally that piece you’re working on now about a general pardon for refugees. But what have you done to make a name for yourself?’
‘Well, I certainly didn’t put my head in a liquor bottle, like your nephew.’
‘No, your claim to fame is beating the shit out of people so they end up in hospital.’
‘God, that’s a fucked-up thing to say, Ed!’
‘Correct. But a journalist with as much talent and determination as you deserves better than what I just rattled off. And frankly, Paul also deserves better. And I’m not only saying this because he’s family. His problem is that he doesn’t have someone beside him to measure up to.’
‘But why me?’
‘Dammit, Hafez … because the two of you have more in common than you think. Trust me for once!’
Farah was reeling. ‘I just need some time to get used to the idea, Ed. That’s all.’
‘You’ve got till tomorrow,’ he said impatiently. He turned and walked away. ‘And give me a heads-up when your coppers get here!’
22
Joshua Calvino knew for certain: his partner Diba was a carrier. A man who carried hate in his heart, a load on his shoulders: a Tempter of Fate. Weighed down by all the misery and setbacks he’d experienced in his lifetime. Diba, like a hardened homeless person, just kept filling his rusty shopping trolley. At the same time, he had a compulsive need to hide this burden from the outside world. As if nobody could see through his deceitful behaviour. But he couldn’t fool Joshua.
On the way to the station, Joshua just sat there in silence. Diba didn’t say anything either. There was no use talking. Their tin jalopy was practically shaking from the loud cursing of the arrested man in the back seat. Joshua took his partner’s satanic grin as a sign that he was enjoying Faber’s swearing. Just wait Diba, Joshua thought, until you hear what the brass has to say about your on-air arrest.
But during the interrogation of the Fabers, Joshua had suddenly felt sorry for him. It was the same feeling he got when he saw an elderly woman frozen with fear on the zebra crossing of a busy intersection, or a man in a wheelchair in front of an out-of-order lift. He couldn’t not help them, because he was simply unable to abandon them to their fate. And even if Diba was fast becoming one of the most repulsive characters Joshua had ever worked with, he couldn’t abandon him to his fate either.
This realization was strengthened when, after interrogating Angela Faber, Joshua walked into the canteen and glanced over at the television, where a handful of his colleagues were laughing at the image on the screen. There was ‘Detective Marouan D.’ in a brilliantly edited clip, complete with slow motion and sound effects – practically a film trailer – arresting a bewildered Dennis Faber as the TV host was about to greet his live studio audience. The clip was from YouTube. Diba’s illustrious deed was being gobbled up by an audience of millions. Now their superiors finally had a legitimate reason to put one of their longest-serving detectives out to pasture. With immediate effect.
Joshua cursed himself for wanting to protect Diba from this apocalyptic event, but realized that this benevolent feeling was his own doing. Part of the baggage in his shopping trolley: a soft spot for the ultimate underdog.
Outside the station he saw an army of press – with bright lights flashing and cameras rolling – gathered around the newly released television personality and his wife. He heard Dennis Faber say how the police had made a colossal mistake because of the stupidity of a detective with dual nationality. The moron had claimed his wife was guilty of a hit-and-run when in fact she was the one who’d reported the accident. Faber ended his statement by expressing the hope that this detective would be sent back to where he’d come from. And that in Morocco they were probably chomping at the bit to hire police of his calibre – to guard the king’s harem.
Joshua felt a less than mild-mannered desire to force Faber to swallow every word, but he managed to control his temper. He walked down the hallway and ran into Diba by the interrogation rooms in a posture that resembled stretching. Perhaps it was just Diba wishing he could literally crawl into the wall and disappear.
When Diba turned towards him, Joshua recognized the fraught gaze of a kamikaze pilot in his eyes.
‘Th
e chief wants to see us,’ Joshua said.
‘When?’ Diba asked without emotion.
‘Now.’ But as Diba set off towards the lobby, on his way to the boss’s office, Joshua stopped him.
‘Wait. Not a good idea.’
‘Why not?’
‘Everybody’s going to want your autograph.’
‘My head, you mean?’
That’s reserved for the chief, Joshua thought. Then he said, ‘Best to let me do the talking.’
‘Why?’
‘The whole arrest was my idea.’
‘But I’m the one who screwed up.’
Perhaps that’s the story of your life, Joshua reflected. And then he impulsively did something even he found surprising: he put a friendly hand on Diba’s shoulder and gave it a pat.
23
As she left the AND building, Farah started walking towards the two rust-coloured giants with butterfly-shaped shields, watching over the northern riverbank of the IJ. Two impassive steel warriors. They’d recently been placed there as a symbolic protest by opponents of the so-called New Golden Age Project. Farah had just penned a series of articles about the megalomaniac scheme of Armin Lazonder, a business tycoon intent on putting Amsterdam back on the map.
Here in Amsterdam-Noord, on what used to be industrial terrain, he was planning to build three office towers as well as a marina, a sprawling cinema and theatre complex, restaurants, hotels, a luxury shopping arcade and an immense museum for ancient and modern art. The intention was to restore the capital to its former Golden Age glory.
Farah was heading towards the crowds, to Het Fort, an enormous early twentieth-century shipyard which was now occupied by a squatters’ collective which enjoyed the support of the local people.
The steel giants marked the entrance to what looked like an almost medieval spectacle. Makeshift tents, old caravans, converted fire engines and army trucks were arranged in circles. The place was teeming with backpackers, pop-punks, dark ambient fans, Goths and neo-folkies, all rubbing shoulders with Japanese and American tourists who’d been spat out by tour buses and were now gawking at the many stalls. Besides plenty of organic fruit and vegetables, the vendors were selling aromatic oils, hemp clothing, Tibetan bread, prayer wheels, second-hand books and guitars, jewellery and crystal balls, T-shirts, jeans and a choice of textiles with Eastern patterns. The lingua franca was broken English.
The colourful crowds reminded Farah of the open-air bazaar in the Kabul of her childhood, where traders from the four corners of the world, tourists and hippies seemed to mingle quite happily. She came almost every day, usually around lunchtime, to savour the atmosphere, watch the people and stock up on fruit and vegetables.
She paused in front of a tiny stall where a Goth girl was displaying delicate jewellery, hand-made books of haikus and origami angels. Among all the other keepsakes she spotted a butterfly. It was made of fabric, paper and rope. The wings, which were almost as big as the palms of her hand, were tied together in the middle with fluffy rope to form a fat body with two bristly antennae on top. Each wing was made of layers of paper with oriental symbols and Chinese linen.
‘A good-luck butterfly,’ the girl with the mysterious smile said in English. ‘It only works for people who are open to it.’
‘Open to what?’ Farah asked.
‘Luck,’ the girl said drily.
‘You’ll have to explain that one to me.’
‘The thing about luck is that you shouldn’t try to hold on to it. Just enjoy it as long as possible and then let go again.’
Farah wasn’t a big fan of new-age speak. ‘It’s beautiful. Did you make it?’
‘No. It’s really old.’
‘How old?’
‘No idea.’
‘How much?’
The girl named her price. Farah didn’t haggle. When the girl handed her the butterfly she held Farah’s hand for a moment.
‘Take good care of it, will you?’
Farah left her shopping for what it was and made her way to a quiet spot along the waterfront where she took a closer look at the butterfly. Gently, very gently, she blew on the wings. A breath of wind did the rest. The butterfly seemed to be dancing just above her hands. She could hear the rustling of other wings. They were fluttering all around her, taking her back to when she was a seven-year-old girl in the courtyard garden of Kabul’s presidential palace.
She looked at her mother who was nearby, talking to a man. He was touching her arm, Farah noticed. And then she saw the blond boy with the cheeky look in his eyes. He was standing very close to her.
‘Yours are blue too,’ he said, as if he was the first person to ever remark on this. A whole raft of people had assured her that with those eyes she must be a descendant of the Greek general who’d invaded the country thousands of years ago. She was quite proud of this. And then some random brat had the nerve to tell her ‘yours are blue too’. His use of the word ‘too’ was particularly annoying. She took an instant dislike to him.
The butterflies were still whirling around her. The boy said nothing, just sneered at her.
‘They’re not coming anywhere near you,’ Farah said, ‘because you’ve scared them with your dark soul.’
This seemed to strike a chord in the boy.
‘Do I scare you too?’ He sounded sincere.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You can’t scare me, because I can do this.’
Farah demonstrated a few of the Silat moves her father had taught her, very slowly and very confidently. He stood and watched her sheepishly, until long after she’d finished.
‘That’s not fighting, that’s dancing!’ the boy said eventually.
Farah tried to stay calm. ‘Every single movement has meaning.’
He slammed his fist against the palm of his hand like he’d seen her do. ‘Hitting your own hands. What’s the point of that? Hurting yourself?’
‘No, blocking your opponent. Go on, attack.’
He looked at her, clearly unnerved.
‘What?’
‘Go on then, attack me. Or are you afraid?’ She saw he was angry.
‘I don’t fight with girls,’ he said irritably.
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re the weaker sex.’
She slapped him in the face. ‘Hit me. Now!’
At that, he lost his cool. He clenched his fists and took a swing at her. She parried his first blow with her left arm. It hurt, because he swung hard. She not only blocked his second blow, but immediately followed it up with an arm lock and held him tightly. He tried to wriggle free, but couldn’t.
‘I’ll let go of you now,’ she said to him.
He stood facing her and tried to swallow his frustration. But instead of getting more angry with her, he asked, ‘How did you do that?’
‘Using the same moves I just showed you,’ she said proudly and repeated the sequence she’d demonstrated earlier. ‘This is how I blocked you. And with this move I put you in an arm lock. It’s not dancing, it’s fighting. Now do you believe me?’
‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘Let me try again.’
‘Go ahead.’
He took another swipe at her, but a controlled one this time because he was keen to see how she would react. Again, she put him in an arm lock. And there they stood for a while, very still, until she realized how intertwined they were. She’d never been this close to a boy before. She could feel his body, his tense muscles, and hear his breath in her ear. She’d like nothing better than to stay like this a while.
‘Farah?’
Her mother had disappeared with the man for a few minutes, but now the two of them were back and standing in one of the arched openings between two columns. Farah saw the man run his hand down her mother’s arm.
The boy let go of Farah, turned around and walked towards the man, who was just bringing her mother’s hand to his lips and pressing a kiss on it.
The man put his arm around the boy’s shoulders. When they were gone, Farah could
tell a change had come over her mother. She seemed softer, rounder. Her eyes were prettier and her laughter clearer than usual. She thought about running after the boy and telling him that she wouldn’t mind teaching him some more. But that would be silly. She looked up at her mother.
‘Mum, who was that man?’
‘A journalist, a friend of your father’s,’ her mother said in the tone she reserved for bedtime stories.
‘And the boy?’
‘That’s Paul. His son.’
The bellowing horn of a cruise liner docking at the port across the IJ jolted her back from her daydream.
The butterfly was lying in her hand. As if it had finally found its way home.
24
Marouan Diba wasn’t mistaken. He hadn’t been touched by God, but by the hand of a half-baked Italian. Yet, Calvino’s reassuring pat on the shoulder had provided the calm he needed, even if it was simply a reprieve for a man who knew he was about to be handed his head – the chopping block was waiting.
Marouan couldn’t read the eyes of his executioner. Whenever anyone entered Chief Inspector Tomasoa’s office, the man had the habit of surrounding himself with an aura of impenetrability. With his Indonesian head shaved clean and his rugged jawline, he reminded Marouan of the actor Yul Brynner. He’d seen his films as a child. Brynner as the King of Siam, Brynner as a Wild West hero – all in black – who’d rallied a gang of fearsome gunmen on horseback in The Magnificent Seven. Brynner always played winners and heroes. Brynner never broke a sweat and needed few if any words, similar to the Chief Inspector. It occurred to Marouan that things could be worse. After all, it was practically an honour to be suspended from duty by Tomasoa.
‘I was in Carré yesterday,’ Tomasoa stated calmly. The chief could pronounce a death sentence and still make it sound like a haiku. ‘At the Pencak Silat Gala.’
Butterfly on the Storm Page 9