by Jeremy Welch
She let out a laugh that hinted that she probably could have coped with the hoards in the stands.
“Oh, you would be surprised. I was younger, different then.”
She cupped her hands around her mug for warmth and raised it to her lips. Her fingers denuded of rings had obviously worked. The nails of her fingers glossy with bright red nail varnish.
“I’m here for the peace and quiet, why are you out and about at this hour?”
He saw his reflection in the window. Raindrops falling down the window gave the impression of tears; his mouth opened and closed as if choosing words was too difficult. Patiently she waited for a reply.
“I saw you with Pepper last night,” she said gently as she glanced at him.
“Huh!” was all he could say with a shrug of shoulders.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Oh God, it’s not about Pepper, it’s about me.” It was a self-pitying wail. “Anneke, what am I doing? Last time we met I described my life as a shit show. I’m trying to think of a word that can properly describe what it feels like to be rudderless, hopeless, but desperate to take control.” He paused and stared into his coffee. “You don’t want to hear this, do you? I’m sorry.”
“Yes I do.” Her voice was smoky but soft. “Why don’t you talk, I’ll listen and when I can I’ll offer up some advice?”
Sebastian looked through the window at a delivery van; the driver opened the door and heaved out a large plastic container of fresh rolls and croissants. He handed it to the café owner who peeled back the plastic cover. He nodded his head and smiled before turning into his unlit café.
Without looking at Anneke, Sebastian started his monologue. He told her of his parents, emotionally crippled by their upbringing, loving for sure but in a detached functional manner. School days idling into success from natural ability. University: first love won, lost and compromised into a friendship. A choice of army career out of deference to his father. A regretted move into finance. The drifting and fear of departed time. Wanting change through self-determination, to be someone different to what he was.
He felt the better for the confession. She said nothing in response, she didn’t look at him.
“The full confession, that’s it. This is when I jump off the bridge, isn’t it?”
“Before you do, let’s have another coffee.” She raised her hand to the waiter indicating a refill.
The two coffees arrived to silence. She sipped hers and passed the sugar bowl towards him.
“Can I tell you a story, well a homily really?”
“As long as it’s not as bleak as mine and has a happy ending, sure,” he said as he stirred the sugar into the steam.
“I work with a man whose life has been tempestuous. He came from a loving family, both parents hoping his life would be more fulfilling than theirs which had been a grind of subsistence living. Both died leaving a young man in search of fulfilment for them. He started a job of grinding manual labour. The only outlet was a religious sect that initially offered pastoral care. Like so many sects before it turned out very nasty. He saw things and did things that few others can imagine.”
He interrupted. “Is this leading to some biblical moral?”
She ignored him. It was she that now looked through the window into the middle distance and the past.
“He escaped the sect and after a terrifying journey arrived here in Holland. I met him when he was a street performer in Dam Square, a broken, frightened man. Our meeting coincided with a very painful and unhappy change in my life. Bearing in mind what he had seen and been through, his distrust and fear of others, he helped me through a great unhappiness. He is happy now.”
“And you, are you happy now?” he asked confused by the story.
“Sebastian, you’re missing the point. All change is possible, all things available for change but that desire can only come from within. You can do and be whomever you want, irrelevant of the past and circumstances. You just need the passion to change.”
This was like listening to Zoe, but kinder.
“Yes, I get that bit, but the story doesn’t mean anything if I don’t know the person.”
“You do, vaguely,” she replied.
Her hands pressed palm down on the table as she lifted herself up.
“I’ll be back in a second,” she said as she climbed the narrow spiral staircase to the bathroom.
The café had filled slightly with suited men reading the financial pages of Het Financieele Dagblad, others browsing the sports section whilst waiting for takeaway coffee and breakfast. It was still too early for the recreational coffee meetings. He didn’t know any of these people. He only knew the troupe, Salt and Pepper; it couldn’t be either of them as Anneke had recruited them from London. Eva, Hugo and Ricard all seemed perfectly normal without visible marks of a troubled journey. He couldn’t rule out Philippe, the illusionist, as he had never met him.
The scent of newly applied perfume told of Anneke’s return.
“Perhaps you need some help in this transformation. Perhaps writing it down will help. You do want to be a writer, don’t you? Well this is a start. I know little about writing but I have always worked in the creative world, the Chrysalis and before that fashion, so perhaps I can help. Why don’t I give you a subject to write about? If you want to you can show me what you’ve written.”
Without looking at her he picked up the mug, held it to his lips and put it down undrunk. Slowly he put another teaspoon of sugar into the mug, stirred it, lifted it and took a long draught. He held the hot liquid in his mouth until it cooled enough to swallow.
“OK.”
She wrapped her scarf around her neck and mouth. Her hand slipped into her coat pocket as she stood up.
“Here.”
A folded piece of paper was placed in front of him.
She put her hand on his shoulder, squeezed hard before walking towards the entrance.
“As you know I’m usually here in the mornings.”
As her hand touched the handle he wanted to know.
“The story, it’s Dasha. It’s about Dasha, isn’t it?”
She flicked her hair back, lifted her coat collar, smiled and left.
Opening the folded piece of paper he read:
It was a long journey
The Country – Africa
The Job – Blood diamond mining in the Congo
The Sect – Lord’s Resistance Army
The Sect Leader – Joseph Kony
The Route to Amsterdam – via Africa and Europe
The Name – Umuntu, the compère of the Chrysalis
Your Title – “The Transformation”.
He recalled his first meeting with Umuntu – open, affable and welcoming. An exiled shadow from Africa with a new Dutch identity. His skeletal past of thirty-eight words in front of him, those thirty-eight words unimaginable except for the host of the Chrysalis.
Sebastian had heard of the Lord’s Resistance Army. It had started with a self-proclaimed messiah called Alice Lakwena who combined Old Testament fundamentalism with politics to overthrow the Ugandan government. After a defeat at the hands of the government she retreated into exile to be replaced by Joseph Kony. The combination of dwindling support and a zealous desire to rule started him on a campaign to build his army through raiding villages and abducting thousands of children to build the ranks. To keep the children obedient and compliant a combination of drugs and Messianic teachings taught them to kill. Each raid for new recruits involved kidnapping, rape and mutilation of the old and those that offered any resistance. Drugs, slavery and retribution created a force of killer children that roamed the Congo and Central African Republic.
He took a sip of coffee; it was cold.
Walking back to the Tulp the words of Zoe, the homily of Anneke and the life of Umuntu left h
im feeling humble and angry with himself. Retracing the route to the café he passed the house with the cat flap; in the downstairs window with its left paw raised cleaning its face the cat looked like a maneki-neko outside a Chinese takeaway. The tabby colour in the morning light offering up patches of gold, white and yellow with a red collar sporting a gold bell. Sebastian looked directly into its green eyes.
“I’m not, you know. No I’m not!”
The paw dropped to the floor. The cat looked at him and blinked.
2
Turning into De Wallen district a new day had started. The prostitute cells were almost all covered with sun-worn closed curtains. Cleaners with a bucket and mop were washing out each cell like the slop-out of prisons, the physical guilt of the previous night washed into the canals across the ever forgetting cobbles. Thoughts of error and guilt plagued the minds of men in hotel rooms with hesitant arms wrapped around wives and girlfriends. Almost all of the cleaners were foreign. Had Umuntu been one of them on his arrival? Was this the reward for a journey perilously undertaken? Was the journey worth the prize?
Fifty metres short of the boat there was an argument between three men. Two large in leather coats, the third dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. The two leather-clad men shouting in Russian, jabbing fingers into the chest of the third man.
“Fuck you! I know nothing of what you are talking about,” he replied in English with heavy Slavic vowels.
Sebastian retreated and crossed one of the numerous little bridges to the other side of the canal.
As he looked back from the safety of the opposite bank he saw a fist hit the lightly dressed man, head forced upward. Blood covered his mouth and the swelling of his eye gave proof to the fact that this was not the first blow. The wail of a police siren echoed off the buildings. One of the leather jackets pointed at his eyes with two fingers then pointed at the victim, turned and walked away. The noise of the siren increased as the wounded man looked around him and ran in the opposite direction of the oncoming noise towards Chinatown. He looked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed. It was Dasha.
Recrossing the canal Sebastian quickened his pace back to the Tulp and the anonymous safety it provided. Looking through the window of the bathroom he saw two uniformed men get out of the car. Around them the near vicinity of the incident looked deserted. Most of the cleaners had disappeared into the cells and shut the door. Those that remained were questioned by the police and replied with upheld arms and open palms. They knew to admit to seeing or hearing anything would result in awkward questions of domicile.
Faced with a wall of silence and unopened cell doors, the police left the red light district to its cleansing and preparation for pre-lunch business.
Sebastian turned the shower on and went to the bedroom to undress. The bed, left in a state suggesting sleepless turmoil, had been immaculately made. A note under the now revealed photograph of Zoe read,
“Popped in to see you on my way to rehearsal. It was early, where were you? Px”
He removed the photograph, wrapped it in its scarf and placed it underneath his jumpers in the drawer. Feeling guilty about Zoe or Pepper – he couldn’t decide which – he shut the door of the shower cubicle.
Chapter 6
Sebastian dealt with the voicemails from his mother, in an impersonal and non-confrontational way by email rather than by returning the calls. In recent weeks the tone had become increasingly pleading.
“Your father is very worried about you, Sebastian. He says it will be autumn soon and it’s time to look for a job. He wants to know when you are going to look for a job.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “How’s the writing going? Do let me know. Don’t tell your father I asked.” The volume increased. “Do call us soon, darling.” He knew his father had just walked back into the room.
The email reply held a promise of an unspecified time period for a return, but he was specific that he wanted to write and would not be returning to his previous life. There would be two replies: one strident, the other supportive.
A week had passed since his meeting with Anneke and there had been some progress. The quantity of writing had increased, the story had been started and some of the characters had breathed; others were awaiting the kiss of life. His original story, breath by breath, was becoming a novel.
Having received a few unreturned text messages from Zoe while she was in San Francisco he decided to contact her. Firstly to tell her of his writing and secondly because he wanted to know how the trip had been and thirdly in the hope of hearing that Simon had turned out as he wanted: a shit.
His laissez faire love affair with Pepper continued and he accepted that it was temporary; both gained something from it. For her, physical pleasure, and for him confirmation of being wanted albeit on her terms.
In the mornings Sebastian spent the time touring Amsterdam visiting the Van Gogh Museum, the Rijksmuseum, Anne Frank’s House and the bizarre Museum of Bags and Purses. In the afternoon he wrote, when not in bed with Pepper. On a non-physically active late afternoon there was a knock on his door. It was welcome as the past three hours had been spent staring at the computer screen editing the previous day’s text.
“Hello. Sebastian?”
“Come in.”
The door opened wide and Umuntu came down the steps into the sitting room. He loomed large in the confined space of the Tulp.
“Hi, you got a moment? I’ve come to talk about the show.”
The perfect opportunity to get away from work.
“It’s hot in here, shall we go across the road? My shout this time.”
The afternoon warm and sunny. He had become mostly acclimatised to living in the red light district but the sight of two children, with their legs dangling over the canal wall throwing stones at a plastic bottle whilst prostitutes touted for trade, was incongruous.
As they passed the closest four cells, Dasha’s early morning venue was now occupied by an aged brunette, pale and obviously high, soliciting business from the shadows. The cell next to her was populated by a pretty young athletic women with blond hair. The music blared out from her place of business; she reached her arms into the air touching the lintel of the door, hips gyrating to the music. He noticed on her perfectly shaved armpit a tattoo of a horse’s head with wings at the bottom of the neck.
“Why do they do that to themselves? It must really hurt.”
Umuntu looked at Sebastian, looked at the prostitute.
“Not all the customers are sadists, some visit them for lack of love, some in search of some illusionary temporary love but most just for sex they don’t get elsewhere.”
“No, not that, the tattoo I mean. In your armpit, that must hurt, you have to want that a lot to go through that pain.”
“Sebastian, you’ve been living here too long if that’s all the pain you think they are going through!”
Feeling foolish he opened the door to the Vlinder as Umuntu found them a table outside in the sunlight.
“The show, it’s opening soon. Hope you’re not going to ask me to put on a performance. I can’t even do star jumps, let alone fire eating,” he said putting the two beers on the table.
“No, we don’t need a new act,” he chuckled. “I know you and Anneke have been talking about your writing. Well she suggested that you might like to write a small piece on the show for I Amsterdam. It’s a monthly English publication for tourists. I know the editor and he’ll be fine with it.”
“My God. My first commission, yes I would love to, how many words? When does it go to print? Who reads it? This is so exciting.”
He smiled then laughed.
“Don’t get too excited, it’s a publication given away for free in hotels and the tourist office.”
“Who cares, my first commission. Here, let me get you another one.” Sebastian picked up the glasses and entered the bar. As he waited for servi
ce he beamed back at Umuntu who was pulling off his jumper in the warmth. As he did so, his shirt rose out of his trouser top, and across his lower back were lines. More than lines. His defined shoulder muscles collected at his coccyx. The lines were weal marks, raised, healed and purple against his black skin almost like surgical scars running perpendicular to his muscles. He turned, saw Sebastian looking and slowly tucked his shirt into his trousers.
Placing the glasses on the table, Umuntu looked at Sebastian as if weighing up his potential to understand something. Thought he probably couldn’t. He raised the glass.
“To the writer!”
“Thanks.” Sebastian smiled.
“Welcome to the creative world where impoverishment is guaranteed. Recognition is as elusive as a straight answer from a politician.”
2
Delighted with his first commission Sebastian was in the mood to celebrate. He knew The Wine Cellar based in the catacombs of the New Church in Dam Square offered a good selection of wines. The whole idea appealed to him: a new career celebrated by buying New World wine from the catacombs; it was apposite, a new start. Cutting through the walkway at the Krasnapolsky Hotel he walked through the foyer, dim after the bright early evening light. The chairs arranged in small groups for businessmen to talk about deals to be done. The Americans obvious in their chinos and tasseled loafers, the South Europeans dressed in bright coloured jumpers ready for an evening out and the Japanese in “Amsterdam” logoed windcheaters clutching guide maps. The suited businessmen wandered with the air of business trip loneliness. Business done for the day, the luxury surroundings of their bedroom not tempting on a long solitary night, they mingled with their fellow residents in the hope of belonging. Their mobile phones attached to ears hoping to engage with colleagues in a familiar language whilst surrounded by the Babylonian noise of temporarily stateless tourists.
He was not one of them, he was in Amsterdam, knew where he was going, had his first commission and was about to celebrate with his girlfriend, well sexual PE teacher. Turning right outside the hotel he joined a large buttock wobble of Americans from the Mid-West. Their waists supported by inverted triangular legs resting on small sneaker-clad feet, thighs crisscrossed each other as they, penguin-gaited, followed the upheld umbrella of the guide leader, the umbrella in pastel blue with “Baptist Churches of Mid-West America – Amsterdam Convention”.