Not much was needed to convince Joshua that once again Farah Hafez had been right. A police investigation that would have benefited from as much media silence as possible was now being broadcast into millions of Dutch living rooms, and was receiving a bleak political dimension as well, thanks to the involvement of Vincent Coronel.
Joshua saw that Danielle was sweating. She could barely find the words to counter Coronel.
‘You’re talking about contemptible cultural practices and traditions that have been smuggled into our country, but I’m talking about a child, Mr Coronel. A child, you understand?’ It looked like she would burst into tears at any moment.
‘Dr Bernson,’ Coronel replied dismissively, ‘you may have saved that boy’s life, which is of course praiseworthy – by the way, it’s also your medical responsibility – but let’s not pretend this boy is just an incident. This isn’t an isolated case.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘More will follow, Dr Bernson. You know it, I know it and our viewer audience knows it.’
‘Where are you going with this?’ Danielle exclaimed, her voice breaking.
As determined and resolute as Joshua had seen her two nights ago in the middle of the road attending to the boy, so emotional and flustered was she now. Danielle, with all her ideals, had landed in a place where you only got the audience on your side with witty one-liners and populist arguments. With her sincerity, Danielle Bernson had lost the battle in the television arena before she’d even begun.
28
Danielle saw that the conversation was about to go in a completely different direction than she wanted, and she remembered Farah’s words, ‘It’s going to turn against you!’ She realized what kind of a trap she’d walked into. She’d thought she’d be able to tell her story here, but now she knew that her appearance was nothing more than a ploy, meant to provide a platform for Vincent Coronel to vent his criticism of the government’s current asylum policy.
Coronel, in the meantime, was only too happy to take advantage of this platform.
‘We can no longer allow all sorts of foreign practices and above all abuses to be imported into our Dutch society,’ she heard him assert in a staccato tone. ‘We can no longer accept that Afghan war criminals are eligible to stay in this country. Did you know that the Netherlands currently has I don’t know how many ministers, governors, generals and former agents of the feared Afghan secret police, the Khad, living here? All important figures of the former communist regime that terrorized Afghanistan for years! The discovery of a dancing Afghan boy shows that we are dealing with a ring of Afghan criminals who have managed to settle here thanks to Geneva’s Refugee Convention and the naivety of the Dutch government.’
Danielle could no longer contain herself and responded sharply.
‘Mr Coronel, do you know how many Dutch children are treated every year in hospitals due to abuse? Children who are abused by Dutch people!’ she cried angrily.
‘I really don’t understand the relevance of your question,’ Coronel said calmly, but nevertheless he seemed caught off-guard for a moment. Danielle didn’t wait for his reply.
‘Nearly a hundred thousand!’ she cried. ‘One hundred thousand! And has anyone ever asked these children what it’s like to be beaten, abused or raped?!’
She looked around and saw the expectant faces of the audience in the studio. You could hear a pin drop.
In the heat of the moment, she was no longer afraid of speaking in public.
‘Tonight I was going to talk about an Afghan boy, not even ten years old, who was smuggled into the country by an international criminal gang. But that boy could have easily been a Dutch child, or an African child – a child is a child. The real criminals are the bunch who brought him here. But in your hunt for political gain you have the audacity to use child trafficking and child abuse to label refugees and asylum seekers as criminals. Is everything acceptable as long as it wins you votes? Let me tell you this, Mr Coronel: child abuse has nothing to do with politics, nothing to do with immigration and certainly nothing to do with your revolting political views!’
Coronel’s comeback to Danielle was weak. He avoided looking at her and alternated his gaze between Cathy Marant and the former footballer’s wife.
‘In her immense naivety, Dr Bernson doesn’t realize that she’s saved the life of a boy who’s ended up ten thousand miles from his home, precisely because a group of his countrymen are now living here in the Netherlands. And these are people who think they can institute this kind of abuse on a large scale in our country.’
‘That doesn’t have a damn thing to do with this,’ said Danielle, and then she turned towards Marant and took a shot at her, ‘Ms Marant, or should I say Ms Manipulator? You should be ashamed of yourself. You lured me here under false pretences.’
‘Dr Bernson, you came here of your own free will,’ Marant replied arrogantly.
‘You’re absolutely right, and now I’m going to take advantage of my own free will by leaving.’ She immediately acted on her words by getting up and walking away.
‘Why don’t we break for a commercial; we’ll be right back …’ Danielle heard Cathy Marant say in an icy tone behind her.
29
Anxiously waiting to be connected, Marouan walked along the crowded outdoor terraces of the Rembrandt Bar and Royal Café De Kroon with his phone hugging his ear. He wandered across the tram tracks, lost in thought, causing a dull screeching of brakes and the deafening ring of a bell from the approaching Line 9 tram. Marouan barely noticed.
As he passed a Mariachi band, playing the same tune as always, he was suddenly aware of the growing number of chuckling people standing around and staring, as if his fly were open. When he turned around he saw the reason. A Charlie Chaplin lookalike was walking behind him and mimicking Marouan’s every move and facial expression. Marouan waved the street artist away, giving the white-faced Charlie with his elastic body cause to playfully gesture in return. The minute Marouan turned his back on him, the aping pest copied his every movement again.
Before the call was answered, Marouan hung up, abruptly turned and shoved his detective ID under Charlie’s nose as he barked ‘Police!’ On the spot, Charlie mimed how broken-hearted he was. The quickly gathering crowd, who thought they were watching a wonderfully rehearsed performance, gave them a big round of applause. Charlie pretended to cry, started to kneel, and held out both arms to indicate to Marouan that he could handcuff him. Marouan’s only escape from the situation was leaving the square as quickly as possible, while the performer, to the great amusement of everybody around, continued his pursuit of Marouan for several metres, like a hungry cat chasing a mouse.
Right in front of Stopera, the city hall, Marouan hit the speed dial on his prepaid phone for the second time. Upon hearing that voice, he related, as if confessing his sins, that a new problem had arisen. He gave his take on the television appearance of the blonde doctor and for a long time only heard white noise on the other end of the line.
‘Didn’t we agree that you’d handle these sorts of problems yourself?’ the haughty voice with that shitty accent finally said. ‘So your problems don’t become my problems. How can we make this problem yours again, Diva, and the sooner the better?’
‘I have no idea,’ Marouan answered, sounding like he had cramps in his stomach.
‘That’s actually the root of all your problems, kulak. That you never have a fucking clue.’
Marouan knew he had no choice but to once again submit to insults in the form of a philosophical treatise, hoping there’d be some mercy for him in the end.
‘Everything starts with fascination, Diva. Fascination. You’re grabbed by something. An idea. An assignment. A goal. Something that gives you direction, that you can build on. Fa-sci-na-tion. Giving you a reason to rise above yourself. But what do you do? You only disappoint …’
‘Sorry.’
‘Go home and wait for my call.’
Click. End of conversation.
Marouan didn’t know what to feel: relief or fear. While walking to his car, fear won out. Waiting at home for a call sounded like a cruel euphemism for waiting for inevitable disaster.
As if he was suddenly yesterday’s newspaper that unscrupulous angels of revenge would use to wipe their asses.
30
Farah arrived at the entrance of the Zuiveringshal just in time to see Danielle storming out while a girl with milky-white hair and a psychedelic shirt tried to stop her. Danielle shoved the girl aside and made a beeline for her bike.
When she spotted Farah she snapped at her.
‘I bet you saw everything. Don’t say “I told you so”. I don’t care!’
‘Not at all! You had the courage to say your piece. You gave them what they deserved.’
Danielle didn’t react. She leaned over to unlock her bike and as she was fiddling with her key Farah heard her sobbing. The girl with the milky-white hair was suddenly standing between them and gasping that she’d never seen anything like it. Danielle straightened up, her face contorted, and yelled at the girl to piss off. Farah wrapped a comforting arm around Danielle, pulled her close and motioned for the girl to leave.
‘Get me out of here,’ Danielle muttered in between her tears. ‘Away from that stupid cow. That bitch Marant. I want to see the boy.’
‘Let’s go,’ Farah said. ‘Leave your bike here. I’ll take you.’
A little while later Farah drove the Carrera into the WMC’s car park. As they got out, Farah noticed Danielle glancing around anxiously.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’
In the lift there was a long silence.
‘Are you okay?’
‘No.’
In the corridor outside the ICU Mariska approached them, but Danielle side-stepped her and slipped into the boy’s room.
‘She’s not supposed to go in there,’ Mariska said, shaking her head.
‘She’s upset,’ Farah apologized on her behalf. Mariska followed Danielle into the room and gently closed the door behind her. Not long after, Danielle could be heard sobbing again. At the sound of approaching footsteps, as well as male voices, Farah turned around to see Joshua Calvino and a police officer entering the corridor, calmly conferring with one another.
Joshua didn’t seem all that surprised to see her again. With a glance at the closed door he asked Farah whether she knew who’d gone in. Meanwhile the sobbing gradually subsided and a moment later the two women came out. Mariska had an arm around Danielle, who was trying to dry her eyes with both hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, while the tears kept rolling down her cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘You’d better go home, Dr Bernson. We’ve got everything under control here,’ Joshua said kindly.
‘Shall I call you a taxi?’ Mariska asked.
‘There’s no need. I’ll escort Dr Bernson home myself.’ Joshua nodded at the police guard, who introduced himself to Mariska and then accompanied her to the boy’s room.
‘Thank you,’ Danielle said to Farah in passing as she walked to the lift with Joshua. Farah watched them until the doors closed and she was the only one left in the corridor.
Joshua had barely made eye contact with her.
31
While the lights and contours of the city at dusk passed her by, Danielle thought back on what had happened to her since they’d found the boy lying in the middle of the road barely two days ago. Before this incident she’d had the distinct impression that she’d left everything behind, that she’d shaken off Africa and could start over again. But everything she should’ve forgotten had travelled along beside her like an amorphous shadow that once again had her firmly in its grip.
She longed to forget. Forget that she couldn’t escape. Forget that she’d been blind to the errors she’d made, forget that her naivety had turned against her.
She gazed up at the clear sky and despite the dome of reflected light over the city she could still make out a few stars. A bizarre idea that some of the stars had been extinguished long ago – stars that despite their deaths could be seen here light years later. She had the same sort of feeling. Alive, but dead deep within.
She glanced at the man next to her, sitting silently behind the wheel.
‘Are you religious, detective?’ she asked.
He looked at her in surprise.
‘I believe in all kinds of things. As long as it exists and functions,’ he said, and when he saw her puzzled look, he tried to clarify. ‘I believe in nature, in the cosmos and in the engine of this car.’
‘I mean … belief in a more abstract sense … in a hereafter?’ she asked doubtfully.
‘I believe I’m able to get you home safely. And I believe in what you’ve told me. It doesn’t get more abstract than that for me, sorry.’
She realized that despite the gravity of the situation a smile had passed her lips.
‘Is this how you charm all the girls, detective?’
‘So you think somebody’s trying to charm the girls if he claims to believe in honesty?’
Yes, I must be crazy, she thought to herself without answering, and then she gazed up at the stars again.
‘You mustn’t give up, doctor,’ said Calvino after a long silence. ‘Sleep on it and tomorrow it’ll all look a lot different.’
That’s the problem, she thought. It might look different, but things don’t really change. The same fears and demons always rear their ugly heads and the same mistakes are made over and over again.
They drove into her street and Calvino stopped the car in front of the door she indicated. Before she got out, she thanked him.
‘Thanks, not only for the lift, but also for arranging police security for the boy.’
‘You’re more than welcome.’
There was something about the way he looked at her. As if he expected more. She stumbled out of the car and walked a bit too quickly to her front door, her hand rummaging in her handbag for her keys. All the while, she heard the engine idling and when, with a lot of effort, she finally found her keys and opened the door, she thought she heard him get out of the car. She broke out in a sweat and, despite her fear, turned to see him with his head bent over the steering wheel, looking in her direction. She slipped inside and closed the door while her heart raced like crazy.
In the hall, breathing heavily, she leaned back against the door. Now he knows where I live, she panicked, but then immediately reflected on the absolute absurdity of this thought. After all, this was a detective who had brought her home, a man who seemed reliable and composed, who, acting on his own initiative, had arranged security for the boy.
She heard him slowly pull away and only when the sound of his car was gone did she dare to look out the window. He’d probably waited to make sure she was safely inside and only then drove away. How could she see his concern for her as anything but professional?
Her legs trembled as she mounted the stairs to the living room. The first thing she did was fill a bath and put her phone on silent. After she quickly closed all the curtains, she turned on a few dim lights. She decided to pour herself a whisky, something to relax her while she listened to the bath filling. She found that the safe sounds of home in combination with a drink had a surprisingly calming effect on her.
Even if she had tried, afterwards she wouldn’t have been able to remember when she’d fallen asleep. Before she knew it, she was carried off in a warm stream of oblivion.
32
By tearing off from the WMC site and taking the ring road exit at breakneck speed, Farah tried to put the chilly reunion with Joshua out of her mind.
The intensity of her night with him had brought back memories of an early love. At the age of fourteen, Farah had a penchant for lowlifes, because that’s how she saw herself. Anyway, she was smitten with the biggest loudmouth in class who wore wellies and drab and dirty clothes whatever the season. He was always spoiling for a fight, covered in bruises and constantly scanning his surroun
dings like a hunted animal. But when he was with Farah he calmed down and transformed into a gentle lover with infinite patience and hands that made her body tingle.
One day, she impulsively grabbed his pocket knife and carved a superficial cut into the soft inside of his arm, and then asked him to do the same to her. As they had sex their blood intermingled. It had been the most delicious combination of pain and pleasure, blood and ecstasy she had ever experienced. The scars on her arms and on her thighs and stomach were the tangible reminders of this experience.
During later affairs she was always the driving force, the captain of the ship. The only difference was that captains were traditionally the last to leave their ship, whereas she was always the first. None of her conquests had ever inspired in Farah anything remotely like the feelings she’d had for the one-time love of her life.
In ten minutes’ time she’d be hearing the crunch of the gravel path beneath her tyres. She knew she would see David’s silhouette in the doorway of his welcoming house. He appeared to have developed a sixth sense which told him when she was near, so he would often be waiting for her, even if her visit was unannounced. David never met her halfway – he always stayed where he was. It’s what made walking towards him across those pebbles so worthwhile. She longed for the moment she’d be right in front of him and he’d embrace her like someone freshly returned from a trip around the world.
Again, she realized how extraordinary it was that during her six-month relationship with David there had been no other men. Joshua had been the first and, as far as she was concerned, also the last exception. These kinds of escapades had no place in her life any more. If only she could explain it to David. Trying to imagine his reaction, she pictured him looking at her with wild, disbelieving eyes and, while he paced up and down the room, asking why and whether it was his fault, whether he’d done something wrong?
Butterfly on the Storm Page 27