Farah read the date on the first letter: 22 August 1977. Thirty years ago. The letter wasn’t from her mother, but a response to what she’d written. It opened with a quote from her mother’s favourite poet, the fourteenth-century Persian mystic Hafez, whose last name Farah had taken upon arrival in the Netherlands.
O minstrel, sing:
The world fulfilleth my heart’s desire!
Reflected within the goblet’s ring
I see the glow of my love’s red cheek,
And scant of wit, ye who fail to seek
The pleasures that wine alone can bring!
…
He cannot perish whose heart doth hold
The life love breathes.
Then her mother’s admirer spoke in his own words, in firm handwriting on lined paper.
My dearest, only a great poet can speak his heart in this way. The best I can do is quote Hafez in the hope of giving you a glimpse of my happiness. The joy of having met you and the joy of being allowed to love you.
Unable to cope with the suspense, Farah turned the letter over and looked at the writer’s name at the bottom.
Raylan Chapelle.
She stared at the name for ages.
She pictured her mother as she kept vigil by her side for three consecutive nights, while she lay in bed with a fever after meeting Paul.
Farah heard her whisper once more.
‘Not you too, sweetie. Not you too.’
She got up and walked across her flat. In front of the open window she watched the Swing being dismantled by a bunch of workmen. Likewise, the old-fashioned Spiegeltent with its colourful stained-glass windows was being taken down panel by panel, while the Ferris wheel with the red bucket seats was lying on its side, stripped of its soul. Small groups of Chinese people were waiting in the wings, poised to start building their own stages, tents and stalls. In the morning, the square would be filled with dancing dragons, Chinese revellers and bewildered tourists.
Suddenly, one of the Chinese pointed up. Cries of surprise followed and in the clear night sky Farah spotted the fiery trail of a falling star, which slowly died out.
There you go, Uncle, she thought to herself. Farewell.
4
A live band was in full swing at the jazz café Casablanca on the Zeedijk when Marouan entered. In a split second he scoured the shady clientele in the room and made a beeline for Sasha Kovalev. With his eyes glued to the blonde female saxophonist in her rhinestone-studded black tuxedo, who’d just begun a spirited solo, Kovalev placed his commanding arm on Marouan’s shoulder as if greeting an old friend.
‘What are you having, comrade?’ Kovalev said in his Slavic-sounding English.
‘Listen, Kovalev, I’m not here for small talk or a friendly drink. Let’s get down to business,’ Marouan replied, irritated.
‘You know what’s funny,’ Kovalev calmly continued, ‘you come to live here as an immigrant, or whatever PC term they’re using these days. You do your best to contribute, to keep the economy going. Though over time you realize that more and more people would rather see you piss off to your own country. Yet, you decide to swim against the tide. You embrace the language and the customs. The entire time you try to act like a real Dutchman – BAM – right to the heart of the matter. Don’t kid yourself, Diva. You’re not Dutch and neither am I. And let’s comfort ourselves with the fact that we’ll never be. C’mon, have a drink.’
Marouan was silent. When the bartender looked at him questioningly, he asked for a glass of water. It came with a slice of lemon.
‘Do you like jazz, Diva?’ Kovalev loved seeing Diba squirm. ‘I asked if you like jazz?!’
Marouan knew that Kovalev would use whatever he said to go off on another dubious tangent.
‘Only in good company.’
Kovalev laughed aloud. The audience applauded the saxophonist who’d finished her solo. She bowed so deeply Marouan suddenly had a panoramic view of her bronze-coloured breasts. Kovalev whistled on his fingers and turned back to Marouan.
‘Make no mistake, my friend. A sax solo like that sounds easy, but it’s mighty difficult. You better believe it! Musicians are chosen for their unique ability to improvise.’
‘And to bow as deeply as possible,’ Marouan sarcastically added.
Kovalev pulled Marouan towards him and started lisping in his ear almost lovingly.
‘Look, my dear durak, you and I are, in fact, members of the same band, you understand?’
Marouan sipped his water without reacting and kept staring straight ahead at the saxophone player.
‘We’re a band, Diva, damn it, and you’d better listen up. We’ve reached a point that demands improvising. Do you hear me?’
‘I hear you,’ Marouan replied.
‘Good. Because the solo is yours. I’m the backup rhythm section. It’s your big moment to shine. The grand finale is near.’
Marouan straightened his back.
‘You know what they say about Russians, Kovalev? That you’re all a bunch of lying thugs.’
‘Oh, is that so, Diva?’
‘Yes. But it’s not entirely correct. You only lie to certain types: to the authorities, to people stuck in the same boat and to the Dutch. So now that you’ve happily informed me I’m not a Dutchman, I’m certainly not in the same boat as you are and as far as authority is concerned, at the moment I might as well be walking the beat again. And one could ask if I’m even in a position to do that. So tell me more about how you envision this solo of mine?’
Kovalev’s grin was now so broad it looked like he’d swallowed a coat hanger.
‘You and I, Diva, have developed a relationship. That’s important: blat, connections, and from that automatically comes krugovaya poruka, shared responsibility.’
‘I’m not here for a Russian lesson from you, Kovalev.’
‘Tomorrow, somewhere in Amsterdam, there’ll be a basran walking around, a punk piece of shit with a Zastava M57 on him. And believe me, that guy is so trigger happy he even urinates in bursts. He’s my gift to you. Bring him in.’
‘And then what am I supposed to do with him?’
‘Lock him up. Interrogate him. Hassle his Russian rat’s ass. I don’t know. Whatever detectives like you do with lowlifes you pick up. Impress your chief.’
‘By bringing in some guy just because he’s packing?’
Kovalev let the ice cubes in the glass clink against his teeth. Marouan could hear Kovalev’s grey matter cranking away above the din: I’ve got this Moroccan chump by the balls. I picked him up out of the gutter, complete with gambling addiction, and patched him up so he’d have no choice but to obey me and now this goat-fucker is acting tough?!
Marouan backed down. ‘Is it urgent?’
‘Urgent? I’m talking about turbo speed, Diva.’
‘Who’s the target?’
‘The dancing boy.’
‘Damn!’
‘He needs to be moved from that hospital as quickly as possible.’
‘And you think I can just snap my fingers and it’s done?’
‘With me as inspiration you’ve been known to work miracles, Diva. Just like that six hundred kilos of cocaine in the belly of a Colombian plane appeared out of nowhere. What was that? Does Detective Diva have special connections? Absolutely, Diva has me! If you can convince your superiors that the boy is in imminent danger and you have the intel from the exact same source as the drug bust, then doors will open to you, you’ll be back in the spotlight, the centre of attention: Diva, the sequel!’
‘Where does the boy need to go?’
‘Doesn’t matter. He just can’t stay where he is now. Because even with extra security, he still isn’t safe. If need be, they’ll blow the whole place to smithereens to silence him. Move him and I’ll hand you an assassin with mega connections in return. Connections that could topple an entire criminal organization if you play your cards right. But we have to play together, Diva. This needs to be a duet. Our grand finale.’
Marouan gulped back the last of his water, slammed the glass on the counter and looked at Kovalev the way he’d once looked at his Koran teacher before punching him so hard in the face that he gave him a nose bleed.
‘Kovalev, as a child I learnt there are no coincidences in the world.’
‘Because the Great Creator decides and determines everything,’ Kovalev said, grinning.
‘Exactly. Coincidence doesn’t exist and everything is connected. And so I think those two unidentified corpses in the burnt-out station wagon and that injured Afghan boy all have something to do with you.’
Kovalev looked at Marouan with a cold stare.
‘Do you know what it means, Diva, when you accept that man is a product of His Maker?’
‘Enlighten me, oh wise Buddha.’
‘It means that he can only dance to the whims of His will like a helpless puppet. It’s very simple, Diva. You don’t dictate to Allah. He dictates to you. See me as a secret agent in His service. As soon as I stop protecting you, your cover will be blown and they’ll see you for the compulsive gambling fool you are. You’ll immediately be sent back to the Rif Mountains, where you’ll spend the rest of your life condemned to sitting on red-hot stones being sucked off by sheep. And what’s going to happen to your family then? And how do you think I’m going to get your daughter to repay all the money I’ve pumped into your pathetic excuse for a life? So do what you do best, Diva, without bothering me with juvenile discussions and childish questions. This will be the last thing.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘Que sera, sera,’ said Kovalev with a grin, placing a wad of euros on the bar and slapping Marouan on the shoulder, ‘whatever happens, happens.’
When Marouan walked along the Zeedijk moments later, past some late-night partygoers, he knew for sure Kovalev had poor taste in everything. Even his choice of songs. With that less than reassuring thought, and the usual aversion, he walked towards the square behind the Oude Kerk.
The girl with his young Aisha’s face and body had her curtain drawn and the windowpane clearly reflected his pitiful image. For the first time he was shocked by the weary, paunchy figure he’d become.
His head was spinning with haunting images and conspiracy theories as he wandered through the streets, finally arriving on Nieuwmarkt, where a crew was dismantling a funfair and arguing with Chinese traders impatient to set up their market stalls.
It was five o’clock in the morning when Marouan pounded on the door of Joshua’s houseboat.
5
Danielle had fallen asleep on the sofa out of sheer exhaustion. When she awoke, the towel she’d wrapped around her body earlier was lying crumpled on the floor. She was still cold. She instinctively rubbed the bump on the back of her head, sat up slowly, and stayed in the same position until the pounding in her head subsided. For a moment she thought she might have dreamt it all.
She dragged herself to the kitchen where she drank a large glass of water and swallowed three more paracetamols. She was no longer dizzy or nauseous, but dog-tired. She poured a pint of skimmed milk into a large bowl, added half a pack of cereal, topped it with a big glob of honey and began loudly wolfing down the mixture. After showering, she walked into the living room. She debated whether she should call the detective who’d brought her home last night. Finally she decided not to do it.
Suddenly she noticed a black folder on the table that she didn’t recognize. It must have been put there last night. Her heart began to race. She picked up the folder and walked over to the sofa. She opened it and on top of a small stack of papers was a business-class ticket departing from Schiphol Airport with the final destination Toussaint Louverture Airport, Haiti. The ticket was in her name.
Besides the ticket, there was also a letter from Hospital Saint-Michel, in Port-au-Prince, with a request to contact them right away. On an impulse she grabbed her telephone. When she dialled the number and introduced herself, the man on the other end of the line immediately switched to a warm, responsive tone.
‘We’re pleased that you’ve called, Dr Bernson. Your reputation precedes you.’
‘Is that so?’ she replied hesitantly.
‘Thanks to you, we’ve received a donation that, according to current standards, will allow us to pay two licensed physicians for five years and launch a major health programme for the area’s poorest children. Given the money will only be transferred once you confirm your arrival, you’ll understand that we were anxious to hear from you.’
‘Well, eh, here we are …’ She had to do her very best to keep the confusion she was feeling under control.
‘Doctor, you have lots of experience working in Africa,’ the man continued, ‘so you’ve seen poverty up close. People here in Haiti are so poor they can’t afford a doctor’s visit. Our organization is completely dependent on charitable donations from individuals. And nobody has ever given us such a generous gift.’
‘No, I can imagine,’ Danielle said after an awkward silence.
It was like she’d turned into somebody else and was suddenly staring at the possibility of a whole new life. Far away from this reality where, since last night, her life was in danger.
‘When might you be able to come?’ the man asked. She could hear him trying not to be too anxious, just like she was trying to hide her bewilderment about this turn of events.
She checked the local arrival time of her flight to Toussaint Louverture Airport. It made her head spin. She suddenly imagined herself strolling around Port-au-Prince while physically she was still here, completely broken.
‘Can I call you back?’
She didn’t wait for an answer, hung up and wondered if she could manage it again, changing her life overnight. She’d done it before. From Africa to the Netherlands, but it had proven to be a disastrous decision.
The screeching birds coming from her mobile startled her. She gasped when she recognized the voice of the man who’d attacked her last night.
‘Did you find what I left for you?’
‘I’ve seen it.’
‘It’ll save your life. Believe me.’
She had the feeling he meant it. Yet she still asked him why she should believe him.
‘You don’t have to do it,’ he answered calmly. ‘It’s your choice.’ Then he hung up.
She rose to her feet and pressed her body up against the large window. It felt cool to the touch. She could barely think. The only sound she could hear was the whooshing in her ears. Maybe the water of the Gulf of Gonâve, the wide bay of Port-au-Prince, sounded just like this.
6
After Paul Chapelle securely fastened his seatbelt for the flight to Amsterdam that morning, the co-pilot made an announcement requesting that all passengers leave the Boeing 747 because of a mechanical defect they’d just discovered.
It was the drop in the bucket needed to make his deep-seated claustrophobia kick in. In his attempt to be the first of the nearly 500 passengers to exit the airplane, Paul bumped into people who’d quickly stood up to grab their hand luggage from the overhead bins. When he reached the plane’s doorway, he leaned against the hull, dizzy and drained. Gasping for air with his mouth wide open, he could barely breathe. It felt like his eyes were about to jump out of their sockets. He thought he’d suffocate. A hand pushed an open paper bag against his mouth. He automatically clutched the bag and started to blow into it.
He looked at the woman who’d helped him. He recognized her face, the sea-blue eyes, straight nose, and lips with the same reassuring smile she’d thrown him when he’d found his seat number twenty minutes earlier. She’d been sitting beside him on the other side of the aisle.
‘You’d be a good one for a rugby team,’ she said with a wink, as if to put a heroic spin on his frantic struggle forward.
‘Forget it,’ gasped Paul, ‘I’m more like Road Runner, that cartoon character.’ He tried to smile.
‘You’re lucky stewardesses aren’t trained to crash tackle their passengers. C’mon, before they
change their minds.’ Without waiting for a reply, she dragged him down the steps and over to the area where all the passengers were being directed. With one hand guiding Paul’s arm, she’d taken control of the situation. The idea that he was being treated like a disobedient little boy brought a stupid grin to his face. He gave her another good look, his strong guardian angel with her dark-blonde hair and classic profile. She was wearing a black linen jacket with a crisp white blouse and high heels, beneath bleached jeans, which made her as tall as Paul. She walked beside him, purposefully yet still elegant, under a gleaming white canopy supported by black pillars. Paul was happy to go on a sightseeing tour of the entire airport in exactly the same way, until he thought again and abruptly stopped her.
‘My notebook, my phone, everything is still on the plane.’
‘My stuff too,’ she said as she turned towards him. Suddenly standing there, kissing distance apart, Paul got the feeling they’d been travelling together for a long time. She looked at him with a welcome mixture of mockery and assurance.
‘I’ll handle it.’
And off she went. Click-clacking with her heels on the shiny tiles. Paul watched her for a moment and then headed for one of the long waiting-room benches with a view of the runways.
He usually felt at home in airports: places where life stories were collected, where people were weighed down not only by their luggage but also the baggage of the past. He’d always found it something of a sport to make up stories about the people he saw. But now the only story that interested him was his own.
Butterfly on the Storm Page 30