‘I don’t want that life any more. Never again.’
‘Excellent. Was that it?’ He was about to get to his feet again.
‘No. I haven’t told you everything yet. I mean about last night.’
‘You were at the hospital until the early hours.’
‘Yes, but after that I went to see someone. A man. And I spent the night there. All night.’
‘Who was it? Do I know him?’
‘Why do you ask? Does it make a difference?’
‘Stayed the night. Does that mean you fucked him?’
‘It won’t happen again, David. I …’
‘No,’ David said as he got to his feet so unexpectedly it made her start. ‘It’s already happened!’
He began pacing. No surprises there. He always did when he was trying to find a solution to a problem. Head down, searching for an insight that would restore his grasp of the situation.
‘Is it because I’m away too much? Because I’ve given you too much freedom? Have I been too accepting, is that it?’
She noticed he was losing his temper and involuntarily shrank away.
‘I really don’t know, David, but you’re right.’ Yes, that was it. Telling him he was right would calm him down. ‘It’s happened. But it won’t happen again.’
He came to a halt, gave her a sharp look and accentuated his words, which kept coming like the waves of a spring tide, with forceful gestures.
‘Okay, it’s happened and let’s assume it’s happened once and it won’t happen again … that’s possible, but who’s to say that it was just this once, that you haven’t already … I mean, has it happened before?’
‘You’ll have to trust me.’
‘Trust? You’re asking me to trust you? After the bombshell you just dropped? What a fucked-up thing to do, Farah!’ he fumed. ‘First you’re a bundle of tears in the shower in the middle of the night, have sex with me like your life depended on it and then you disappear again. Where were you? What were you up to? I’ve just come back from India, I conclude a world-class deal and instead of wanting to celebrate with me, you turn up here telling me you’re screwing other men but that you’re thinking of giving it up one of these days …’
Halfway through his tirade, she got up to leave.
‘Hey, hang on a minute, where do you think you’re going?’
‘Home. I’ll come back once you’ve calmed down.’
‘You won’t even let me react to the havoc you’ve wreaked?! Do you expect me to stick a goddamn flower in your hair and simply forgive you?’
‘I’m not expecting anything right now. I’m going, David.’
‘Sure, by all means. Brave, very brave. Well, that’s you. Don’t let anyone get too close. Spend the whole bloody time doing your own thing and remaining elusive. Especially to those who love you. Make me think you’re here for me, while you only care about yourself. Make me believe you feel at home here, when in actual fact you’re somewhere completely different! You think I don’t notice? You’re not really here, you’re always somewhere else! You’ve never really been here, you’ve always been “over there”, but you won’t tell anyone exactly where that is.’
‘No, that’s not true, David. I am here, I want to be here. I love you.’
‘Do you think those are the soothing words I’m waiting for right now?’
‘What are you waiting for then?’
‘For you to leave. And I mean really leave. Because in the end you’ll leave anyway, whether you intend to or not.’
‘I don’t want to leave.’
‘No, but we’re not doing this on your terms. You have no right to set the terms. I’m the one setting the terms here, you hear me? This is my house, and in my house I live by my terms! So either you stay and let me finish my rant or you piss off and I’ll send you your things!’
‘I told you I’m sorry, I love you.’
‘But you see, that’s the problem. You’re not sorry at all and as for the loving, what good does that do me if you go and screw other guys?! What does “loving” mean, for God’s sake? I’ll tell you what it means? It means fuck all!’
The man facing her was not the David she knew. He was someone else. His evil twin.
After his last few words, Farah walked into the hallway with tears in her eyes, opened the front door and stomped through the gravel back to the Carrera. As she pulled away, she saw his figure in the doorway. The contours of an abrupt ending.
Part Three
* * *
STORM
How did it feel to be dead? It was something he’d asked himself a lot. His granddad said that the gates of heaven would open up. And he’d have a life without end, without pain or hunger.
He’d know that he was in heaven because everybody was dressed in white and they would be singing. But the confusing thing was that he’d seen quite a few people in white lately, and none of them was singing. What’s more, he’d seen not one gate open, but lots of them. Gates he was carried through on his back. The other thing his granddad never told him was that heaven was made up of all these different rooms and corridors filled with bright light.
Granddad could tell wonderful stories, but some of his comparisons made him sound like a poet. And he didn’t like poems.
He liked games. Especially Aaqab, the eagle game. It went without saying that he would be the eagle sitting on the rock made of gathered timber, tyres and boulders. The other boys would hide and as soon as they emerged like pigeons, he would fly at them, scattering them and giving chase until he’d devoured them all. He hoped that wherever he was, be it heaven or otherwise, he could soon be an eagle again.
But above all he hoped the woman would come again. The woman with the long dark hair, the blue eyes and the gentle voice. The woman who spoke his language and had held his hand. She was like an angel, but dressed in black. That was confusing too, because in heaven nobody wore black.
A face hovered close to him. It was the blonde woman he first saw after he got hit by the light. She was talking to him. But he didn’t understand the language they spoke in heaven. The only thing he understood was ‘salam’.
She said it no fewer than three times and looked really sad as she did so. She kissed him on the forehead. A sloppy kiss. It made him wonder whether in heaven they were all sad and all gave sloppy kisses.
Then suddenly everybody began to talk at once, in loud, hurried voices, and there was smoke and a smell of burning. The sky was engulfed in flames and everybody was in a rush to get away. Beside him, people were running through the smoke, throwing him worried glances, and after he’d been wheeled through a transparent gate he was slid into a cool cabin with dimmed lighting. He heard an explosion nearby. It reminded him of the thrust of engines during a rocket launch. He felt the entire cabin vibrating and heard the crash of breaking glass and a loud roar. Again, the smell of fire.
All that time he was lying in the iron cocoon. Tied to his bed. Defenceless.
But strangely enough he felt no fear. The last time he’d been afraid was when he was running among the trees. As soon as the white light got hold of him, that fear had evaporated.
What he did feel was regret, since he hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye to the angel with her blue eyes and gentle voice.
1
They were built to have the feeling of Manhattan, the lavish penthouses on Amsterdam’s Oosterdok where Sasha Kovalev gazed out over the old city from his rooftop terrace as he gulped back a protein shake. Sasha’s muscles were throbbing with pain after a less than productive visit to the gym earlier that evening. Normally he did forty-five minutes of dynamic sets with the down moments in between machines as the only time to recover, but since that bullet in the woods had grazed the left side of his chest, he still suffered from considerable pain. The wound stung with every lift, push or pumping motion, so he could barely manage two-thirds of his routine sets. Tonight Sasha had struggled from machine to machine. It seemed that despite his forty-two years of age he was more rea
dy for a retirement home than the prominent position he was used to having in the gym, given his immense height and impressive pecs.
Not only did Sasha’s body ache, his head hurt too, all the way to the roots of his jet-black dyed hair. He’d let it hang loose. Wearing it pulled back tightly, like he usually did, was too painful right now.
In his official capacity, Sasha had been employed for years as an interior designer for AtlasNet. In this role, he’d given all of the company’s worldwide offices a touch of the avant-garde, with an emphasis on art. Because AtlasNet’s big boss, Valentin Lavrov, had a passion for art.
But Lavrov was first and foremost a genius businessman with a Machiavellian instinct for power, a man who used a variety of strategies to continually expand the reach of his influence. During negotiations, Lavrov always made sure he was flanked by an intimidating, silent type. And Sasha had the particular talent of being a threatening presence without uttering a single word or moving a muscle. Sasha was soon Lavrov’s favourite companion at business meetings and travelled with him from deal to deal in his boss’s private jet. In this way, Sasha acquired a grasp of his employer’s business practices.
Needless to say, some of these dealings had a shadier side. Lavrov was used to getting his way. Those who wanted to slow him down or openly contradicted him could count on a surprisingly fierce reaction. But that was only the beginning. Sasha went looking for their darkest secrets and when he found something, those people were put into a position where they could be easily blackmailed. They were left with no other choice but to dance to Lavrov’s tune, whether they wanted to or not.
In most cases this blackmail involved sex. That’s how Sasha manoeuvred the French chairman of the European Commission’s Directorate-General for Competition, Nicolas Anglade, into a tight spot. Anglade led the preliminary investigation into the wheelings and dealings of AtlasNet in Europe, and in no time at all he was ranked as one of Lavrov’s most hated enemies.
But by now Sasha realized that his own knowledge of Lavrov’s deal-making practices, under the cover of AtlasNet, also made him increasingly vulnerable. It was only a matter of time before Lavrov would come to the conclusion that his lieutenant and fixer Sasha knew more than was good for him. He wouldn’t be the first, so for some time Sasha had been working on an exit strategy.
He walked to the edge of his expansive rooftop terrace. He knew what they said: pride comes before a fall. But it wasn’t really pride that had got the better of him, it was actually impulsiveness. He preferred seeing himself as a brilliant chess player who, unlike others, could determine the outcome of the game before the first move had even been made; someone who’d never let the progress of the game depend on chance.
But this time he’d done just that.
It had happened in the woods, at the moment he’d laid eyes on the Afghan boy with the tinkling jewellery stepping out of the station wagon. The mere sight of the boy hit him like lightning. Such a defenceless child, so pure, and most of all so beautiful. Sasha immediately knew that his exit plan wouldn’t be complete if the boy wasn’t a part of it. With that insight, he’d spent the last forty-eight hours reviewing all the pieces on the chessboard and deciding that in order to get away with his impulsive manoeuvre in the woods he needed to force the end of the game using a few quick moves. He walked into his flat and made a Skype call to Goa, India.
The man who appeared on screen in front of him spoke English with an Indian accent that Sasha always found amazingly erotic.
‘You’ve made it very difficult, you know,’ the man said in a forgiving tone.
‘Bikram, my dear,’ said Sasha. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t call me “dear” now. This is much too serious. You know you’ve put yourself in a dangerous position. You need to come here as soon as possible.’
‘I can’t leave him behind.’
Sasha heard Bikram’s sigh, a sound of surrender. He’d heard that sigh for the first time during the Amsterdam Art Fair. Bikram, with his dark lashes framing those Indian eyes, was standing in front of a three-metre-high wooden figure of Alcyoneus, the mightiest of Greek mythological giants. The two men had been checking each other out and couldn’t contain their laughter upon seeing the Greek hero’s humongous circumcized penis.
From that exchange of laughter between two strangers came an insatiable desire that gradually took on another dimension: a monogamous relationship in which their ideals took shape in a masterly plan to start an entirely new life together elsewhere, far away.
Bikram had at that time, as a broker, developed a trusted business relationship with property magnate Armin Lazonder. Lazonder was an adventurer, who’d started out in the firm of his father John, a manufacturer and supplier of King Vox studio recorders. After taking over the business, the young Lazonder went on to establish a record label of his own, a production company and a software lab. All under the name Dorado Media. But he didn’t become truly big until the Iron Curtain came down in Eastern Europe and he took over a large number of privatized metal factories. The small shareholders didn’t have a clue how much their companies were worth. But Lazonder did. He sold them on to third parties for enormous sums, and then he invested the money he’d earned in Dutch real estate. After purchasing a few monumental buildings in Amsterdam, he started to work on realizing his dream: the New Golden Age Project.
Bikram mapped out a complex investment plan for the venture and convinced Lazonder it would be better if he put part of his private capital into foreign equities. Lazonder deposited 100 million euros in an account Bikram would manage with a guaranteed profit share of forty to fifty per cent in just six months’ time.
However, Bikram didn’t buy any foreign equities, but secretly funnelled Lazonder’s 100 million euros to an offshore account that he’d opened with Sasha. To keep Lazonder from getting wind of his scheme, Bikram regularly provided him with phoney account statements.
Bikram pulled a few other fast ones with the money too. Finally, Lazonder would realize he’d lost double the amount he’d supposedly invested abroad. The discovery would come to light soon enough: when a few tax inspectors appeared on Lazonder’s doorstep.
For his own safety, Bikram had basically disappeared into thin air. Two months earlier he’d gone into hiding in Goa where he’d established himself under a new identity. The plan was for Sasha to join him later so their departures couldn’t be connected. False identity papers were also waiting for Sasha at their new luxury seaside villa.
Bikram sighed a second time.
‘All that money doesn’t mean anything if I can’t share it with you. I’ve arranged an ambulance flight. It can be waiting for you at Schiphol Airport tomorrow evening. But only if you’re coming with him.’
Sasha pulled his hair into a ponytail again and smiled.
2
Danielle kept counting until she lost consciousness. When she came to on the tiled floor, her body felt ice-cold. As if she’d been blanketed by snow.
The dimly lit room spun around her as she crawled to the toilet and vomited. On her knees, supporting herself on the rim of the bowl with both hands, she tried pushing her body upright. She took a few deep breaths with her eyes closed. The nausea faded. The spinning gradually stopped.
She then stood up by grasping on to a pipe on the wall and stumbled to the sink where she turned the tap all the way open.
When she bent over to drink the nausea returned for a moment. Bending over further, she let the cold water rush over the bump on the back of her head. She turned off the water. She could taste the salt left by her tears. In the mirror she saw the dark figure of a woman who’d risen from the dead and still couldn’t believe she was alive.
She didn’t turn on a light. The glare would be unbearable. She knew where to find the paracetamol in the medicine cabinet. She pushed three tablets out of the strip and swallowed them one by one. Then she wrapped a large bath towel around her body and shuffled into the living room where she collapsed on the sofa.
She let herself feel the anger, which had been greater than her fear of dying and stronger than the pain of humiliation. But mainly she was angry at herself, for what she’d put in motion by not listening to Farah Hafez’s warnings. Until the absolute last moment Farah had tried to stop her – even made her a new offer. ‘An article about you, your motivations, your experience, the injustices you’ve seen.’
She heard her own distraught response. ‘Isn’t it a bit late for that?! Let go of my bike!’
She was particularly angry because of her lack of patience. Impatience had always been her downfall.
3
Farah had decided to spend the night holding a vigil in memory of Parwaiz, and had ensconced herself on her old Persian ottoman in the middle of her living room. In recent years she’d been increasingly aware that one day he would no longer be around. When that happened, she knew that the last remaining witness to her childhood, the last remaining link to her family and her past would be gone. It had been unimaginable, but now the unimaginable had suddenly become true.
The melody of a song about eternal longing popped into her head. As she hummed it in the quiet room, noise from the big square filtered through, as the funfair attractions were being quickly and efficiently dismantled.
‘Don’t know in whose face I smile. Don’t know for whom I cry.’
Finally, she picked up the bundle of letters Parwaiz had given her. It was actually more of a parcel, wrapped in some sheets of cardboard, which were covered in red velvet fabric with a gold-and-purple leaf pattern that had become partially unstuck. The cards were held together by two yellowed silk ribbons. For additional protection Parwaiz had wrapped the whole thing in tissue paper and tied it up with string.
Farah unfolded the note Parwaiz had slipped in.
My dear child, the past sneaks up on us like a shadow. But remember that even in the greatest darkness there will always be a pinprick of light, even if it is so small that you can barely see it with the naked eye. You’ll see it only once your eyes have become accustomed to the dark. But then you’ll know that you’ve found the power of forgiveness. It is in that tiny pinprick of light. Bear this in mind when you read the letters your mother had wanted to burn out of shame. You must never be ashamed of love. Even when it crosses moral boundaries. Just before the two of you were about to flee, your mother gave me this bundle for safekeeping until she found refuge with you. After her death, I held on to it until I thought the time was ripe to pass it along to you. Seeing as it was your mother who let her heart speak, I mustn’t keep the story of this love from you.
Butterfly on the Storm Page 29