Butterfly on the Storm

by Walter Lucius

  In the course of the afternoon, when Farah had failed to respond to his text messages, he’d started worrying. She was as meticulous in her day-to-day business as she was quick to respond to calls and messages. Later he heard from a political correspondent in The Hague that right before the debate in Parliament one of the bystanders outside the building had been taken away in an ambulance. This had triggered a bizarre urge to leave a string of messages on Farah’s voicemail.

  Edward couldn’t stand being concerned without knowing exactly why, and the more messages Farah left unanswered the greater his concern got. In the end, he could barely concentrate on his work. So when she finally burst into his office, shouting ‘sorry, sorry’, he’d welcomed her with frenetic patriarchal barking when all he’d wanted to do was hug her.

  Why did Farah Hafez have this effect on him?

  She first barged into his office more than ten years ago. Late, even then, and with an enthusiasm bordering on hysteria.

  To his question of who or what had motivated her to go into journalism, she’d named her great inspiration.

  Raylan Chapelle.

  He had been touched by Farah’s fascination with his deceased brother-in-law. Raylan Chapelle’s writing about the Vietnam War and his later coverage of the run-up to the Saur Revolution in her former home of Afghanistan bore witness to great insight and courage, Farah had said.

  ‘Without insight and courage you don’t get anywhere,’ she’d added. Whereupon Edward had asked her what she wanted to achieve at the AND with her courage and insight. The response of the dark-haired idealist with the striking blue eyes hadn’t been a surprise.

  ‘I’d like to empower people. It’s up to us, journalists, to keep reminding them that our leaders and social institutions are dependent on our support.’

  ‘Have you ever considered going into politics?’ Edward asked with a patronizing smile.

  ‘I became a journalist so I could keep an eye on every kind of authority, and that includes politicians,’ she’d responded.

  He’d hired her and helped her to the best of his ability to link razor-sharp intuition to crystal-clear analysis, although in the heat of the moment he’d just denied her those qualities. Farah had been right to demand trust and respect. It was time he admitted to himself that as the person in charge he found it incredibly difficult to have so little control over Farah and her work.

  In the case of the hit-and-run boy she’d exhibited the qualities of a seasoned pro. Not only should he have given her the trust and respect she asked for, but also the freedom to conduct the investigation the way she saw fit, not the way he prescribed. Edward had made the same mistake with Paul. It had cost him his most talented pupil.

  The question wasn’t so much about Farah being ready for the major league, as it was about the big boss being able to handle it. He looked at her, sitting next to him at the large table beside the big screen, completely at ease, by the look of it. No trace of the stress she’d shown ten minutes earlier. No trace of the sadness he’d seen in her eyes as she told him about her uncle’s death.

  He briefly rested his hand on her shoulder before turning to the array of print journalists, photographers and the conspicuous team of reporters from IRIS TV.

  ‘I would like to take this opportunity to introduce you to Farah Hafez,’ Edward said in an informal tone. ‘Farah has been working for us for over ten years and alongside her journalism career she has dedicated herself to the noble martial art of Pencak Silat. She’s been so successful this year that she was chosen to round off a major martial arts gala at Carré.’

  He took a sip of water.

  ‘Why a press conference on a martial arts gala? Before I answer that question I’d like to invite you to watch how The Headlines Show chose to report on this fight yesterday,’ he resumed, and pressed the play button on the remote.

  Cathy Marant appeared on the large screen, wearing a shiny purple blouse.

  ‘Pencak Silat is a martial art which originates in Indonesia,’ she said with a generous dose of pathos, hinting at impending disaster. ‘But this evening it was no Indonesian warrior who stood out, it was the Afghan “Farah H”, in daily life a journalist with the Algemeen Nederlands Dagblad, who so badly manhandled her opponent in the ring that she was taken to hospital with serious injuries.’ Marant paused a moment and stared into the camera. ‘Let’s take a look!’

  The fight footage was shaky and grainy and shot from some distance away. Yet its impact was dramatic and Edward knew why. It had been manipulated. The event had been officially documented in a steady wide shot. In the montage, however, it had been digitally altered in such a way that it looked as if someone with a mobile had made an illegal recording from the stands. It camouflaged the vile tricks Farah’s opponent had pulled. As soon as Farah began meting out her final few kicks and blows, the picture switched to a second camera which recorded the fight from nearby.

  Then there was something else that Edward had noticed earlier in the day. At the moment Farah’s right uppercut hit her opponent’s chin, its dull impact was inexplicably loud. When Farah’s left fist hammered her opponent’s ribs, he heard something snap. And the kick with which Farah landed her rival on the mat was accentuated by a nasty whizzing sound and a dull thud, like an axe brought down hard on a lump of meat. And to top it all off, each of Farah’s kicks and thrusts were relayed in slow motion.

  Edward faded the picture to black after Farah’s opponent had gone down – in slow motion, of course, and with the sound of a heavy sandbag hitting the ground.

  ‘As you’ve no doubt seen,’ he said nervously, ‘the better part of the fight was filmed in wide-angle. What you’re about to see are the images from the camera that actually shot the close-ups. Unlike the footage you’ve just seen, these images haven’t been cut, edited or enhanced with sound effects.’

  After he pressed play again it was plain to see how her opponent grabbed Farah’s head, pulled her across the mat by her hair, and when held in an arm lock, bit Farah’s calf so hard it started bleeding, causing Farah to scream in pain.

  Edward pressed the pause button at the moment the referee intervened.

  ‘These images were reviewed today by members of the international Pencak Silat Association,’ he said dispassionately. ‘Based on their conclusions, Farah Hafez’s opponent has been banned from all national and international competitions for a minimum of two years.’

  He took another sip of water, ignored Farah’s look of surprise and concluded by showing Farah’s final kicks and blows again without any of the image manipulation and sound effects. Although it still wasn’t a pretty sight to see her opponent go down like that, it all looked a lot less shocking and brutal than in the cut broadcast on The Headlines Show.

  ‘The Association has unanimously decided that Farah Hafez has won this fight on forfeit,’ Edward resumed as he held the contested article from De Nederlander in the air. ‘But apparently Cathy Marant is a martial arts expert: she claims this was, and I quote, “Ruthless Revenge by Afghan Farah H.” ’

  He straightened his back. The time had come to put his authority as well as his strapping size to good use.

  ‘I wonder,’ he said, raising his voice, ‘why a journalist who was born in Afghanistan, but has had a Dutch passport since childhood, has suddenly become an “Afghan”. And, let me ask you, why is Farah Hafez referred to as “Farah H.”? Simple. Somebody’s last name is reduced to their initials when we refer to serious criminals!’

  He realized he was getting carried away in reaction to the indignation he was generating among the gathered press in the atrium. He paused a moment before launching into his final argument.

  ‘In our view, the reporting on this fight, both in De Nederlander and on The Headlines Show, shows that Cathy Marant not only manipulates the facts but then takes it all one step further by making false accusations, thereby both slandering one of our journalists and casting criminal aspersions on her!’

  Edward glared into the camera
of the IRIS news team. He remembered an incident years ago, when he’d taken a blind drunk Cathy Marant, who was still working for the AND at the time, back to her home after an office party that got out of hand. Because she was completely legless, he’d carried her inside and put her down on the bed. Before he’d had a chance to react, she’d unzipped his trousers and panted in his ear, ‘I want you inside me, now!’ But no sooner had Edward pushed her off than he witnessed an instant transformation. From a lusty lass she changed into a hate-spewing dragon. ‘So it’s true what they say, you’re a queer.’

  The air seemed charged when Edward uttered his final few sentences.

  ‘Ms Marant asks what’s happened to the values espoused by our nation if we tolerate the conduct of “Afghan Farah H.”. I would like to know what’s happened to the values of journalism if we continue to tolerate the libellous reports of Cathy Marant?’

  The reporter with the IRIS TV team raised his hand. ‘Marc Combrée for IRIS TV,’ he said pompously. ‘I have a question for Ms Hafez.’

  Edward glanced at Farah, who nodded to indicate that it was okay.

  ‘If it’s true, Ms Hafez,’ Combrée began, ‘that you’re the peace-loving angel your boss claims you are, then why didn’t you just give your version of events when Ms Marant asked you about it? In fact, why didn’t you issue a denial?’

  Edward felt a surge of panic. He imagined Farah flying across the table and lunging at poor Marc with an outstretched leg.

  ‘I’m familiar with Cathy Marant’s work,’ Farah said calmly. ‘As you know, Marant was let go by this paper because she didn’t exactly excel at checking her sources, and that’s putting it mildly, believe me. Cathy Marant draws her conclusions before she begins writing the story. She isn’t interested in what people actually have to say. She simply uses their accounts to confirm her own ideas. I didn’t want to do her bidding when she asked me for my opinion. I only cooperate with journalists who respect the ethics of our profession.’

  Edward could barely believe it. The same woman who’d just held a dying man in her arms was now sitting here like a tower of strength.

  ‘How do you intend to follow up on these allegations, Mr Vallent?’ Combrée asked in an insinuating tone.

  ‘Our legal counsel will ask for rectification of both the article in De Nederlander and the item on The Headlines Show, and if our request is not honoured we’ll sue for slander,’ Edward said, pretending to be perfectly calm and trying to suppress the triumph in his voice. ‘That’s all, as far as we’re concerned. Thank you for coming.’

  He waved authoritatively at the journalists as if to say: there’s no point in shouting questions over and above the crowd in the noisy room. Then he and Farah tramped off together and took the escalator without saying a word and without looking back.

  ‘Does Marant know about our investigation into the boy’s case?’ he asked when they got to the top. ‘In other words, does she know you’re involved?’

  Farah looked at him in surprise. Edward grinned.

  ‘I glance at De Nederlander from time to time.’

  ‘I don’t know how much Danielle has told Marant,’ Farah said.

  ‘What does Danielle know?’

  ‘Yesterday morning, after the operation, we swapped information. She brought me up to speed on his medical status and gave me her thoughts on the accident, while I shared my suspicions of child trafficking with her.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Then why is she making such a fuss?’

  ‘Because she wants to tell her story.’

  ‘What story?’

  ‘Danielle Bernson spent years working as a doctor in war-torn African countries and I’m guessing she’s suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. So one night she sees a seriously injured Middle-Eastern boy in the woods and suddenly all the anguish of the past years comes back to haunt her. To her, the boy is a symbol for all the suffering children she’s tried to help over the years. Her literal words to me were, “I want as many people as possible to finally see what’s happening to these children.” ’

  ‘Danielle Bernson thinks that Cathy Marant will give her a platform for her story? She’d be better off reading How to Deceive Yourself for Dummies. Marant isn’t the least bit interested in poor kids in the Third World. Unless, of course, it involves a national fundraising event with lots of razzmatazz and a bevy of celebs.’

  Meanwhile they’d reached Edward’s office. He closed the door behind them, swallowed and tried to put as much empathy in his voice as possible.

  ‘So how are you feeling now?’

  ‘It’s kind of creepy, Ed, when you pretend to have emotions,’ Farah said, but her smile suggested she was just poking fun at him.

  ‘It’s a straightforward question,’ he said in a conciliatory tone. ‘But if it’s too much …?’

  ‘I can handle it, Ed, you know that. There’s a lot going on, but I can handle it.’

  ‘I know,’ he said warmly.

  ‘Are you going to call it off?’ she asked.

  ‘Call off what?’

  ‘The investigation.’

  ‘Why on earth would I call off our investigation?’

  ‘Because of all the unwanted publicity, because of Cathy Marant.’

  ‘Why do you think we just did that press conference? Nothing is being called off here, Hafez. I’ve done my damnedest to secure the necessary clearance and funds for our investigation! Now it’s your turn. What’s your decision?’

  ‘I’m buying a one-way ticket to the Himalayas to join a monastery.’

  ‘Seriously, Hafez.’

  ‘I’m fine with Paul,’ she said curtly. ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘As long as you keep me posted about your whereabouts and your antics,’ Edward said with a grin.

  ‘Would you like to fit me with an electronic ankle tag?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare. Make sure you send me a postcard with a bunch of smiling monks.’

  And with that she strode out of his office again. Edward stared into space, pondering his plan. It was almost certainly doomed to failure, but he still wanted to give it a try. He just hoped Farah would never discover his true motive.

  19

  It was by sheer luck that Farah managed to park the Carrera right in front of the brick façade of De Hallen, a former transport depot in the west of Amsterdam. Once upon a time, all the trams serving the capital were parked here for the night. In addition to housing a cinema and a photography museum, it was now home to all manner of graphic and audio-visual enterprises.

  During the press conference Farah’s mind had mostly been on what had happened in The Hague that afternoon. She kept seeing the Bentley gliding past, the horror in Parwaiz’s eyes and the silhouette of man, indistinguishable because of the sunlight reflecting off the car windows.

  But then something occurred to her. She’d been so preoccupied with breaking Parwaiz’s fall and coming to his aid that she’d all but forgotten about the camera that had been circling them earlier that day. After leaving Edward’s office she managed to track down the cameraman, whose name was apparently Sander, and asked to see the footage. She was more than welcome to drop by, he told her.

  She entered De Hallen and thought about the brainwave that had brought her to the Amsterdamse Bos the previous morning. Just like she knew then that she was going to find something, she was convinced there was something for her here.

  Daylight came in through the raised wired-glass skylights. A narrow lane of artificial plane trees ran parallel to the old tram tracks. At the end of it, Sander was waiting for her. He took her through the adjacent hall, past a panoramic artwork of brightly coloured reels and wheels rotating non-stop with interminable rattling and squeaking.

  ‘It represents old, interconnected film reels,’ Sander said with a hint of irony. ‘It’s an ode to the film business. Rather old-fashioned of course, since everything is digital these days. It’s supposed to symbolize that our professio
n doesn’t stand still.’

  Farah thought of death and gave him a wry smile.

  ‘Was he a relative?’ Sander asked.

  ‘Kind of. He was like an uncle to me.’

  ‘It’s hard either way, I imagine.’

  They’d arrived at a large orange door labelled THE BOYS in hand-written black capitals. ‘That’s Tom and myself,’ Sander explained as he ushered her into the small studio, where Tom emerged like a bald Colossus from behind a stainless-steel bar and walked over to Farah with two enormous arms spread wide.

  ‘Hello, lass,’ he said, and his sympathetic tone came as such a surprise that she accepted his two smackers without protest. ‘What would you like to drink?’ he asked next.

  ‘What’s the strongest on offer?’ she replied, much to her own amazement.

  ‘I can make you a batida,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘Tom is our caipirinha champ,’ Sander said, smiling.

  ‘A caipirinha for this lass then, please,’ Farah responded, a little forced.

  As she looked around, her eye fell on a metal wall, which looked like it was made of white enamel and that boasted five portholes of different sizes and colours. The set-up reminded her of the exterior of a fantasy submarine.

  ‘I suggest we go and sit over there,’ Sander said as he escorted her to the other side of the room, where a pale wooden caravan with a large picture window was parked. Inside, both the floor and the three walls were clad in thick orange-red fabric. The mahogany work table boasted two flat screens and a keyboard flanked by large black speakers. A gypsy boy with a shiny tear falling from one of his eyes graced the wall.

  ‘That’s how we feel right now,’ said Tom, who entered carrying a tray with three large caipirinhas. ‘Like you, we can do with a stiff drink after what happened this afternoon,’ he said, and handed her a glass. ‘We’re glad you dropped by.’

  Farah felt tears roll down her face. She couldn’t help it. ‘I could join the boy on your wall,’ she smiled. She took her first sip and felt the comforting combination of the lime, cachaça, ice and sugar going down like a treat.