Chrysalis

by Jeremy Welch

  “No, darling, he’s not the monster, he won’t eat you,” her mother said with a reassuring smile.

  Chapter 9

  He sat alone at a table and for the first time in many days willed the phone to show signs of life. For reasons he couldn’t justify he had hoped by some subliminal messaging that Zoe would know what had happened in the park and would contact him. The beer was now flat and warm having been cradled in his hands for the past half hour. The Vlinder mid-week quiet, with evenly spaced solitary drinkers looking for answers or just company in their drinks. Sebastian along with them but also in hope of bumping into Salt and Pepper. He turned to look at the pressure on his shoulder; it had been a gentle squeeze of a black hand, the cuticles purple.

  “We heard it was a rough day,” Umuntu said through a sympathetic smile.

  “Can we join you?” Anneke placed three beers on the table without waiting for a reply. “Want to talk about it?”

  He shrugged his shoulders, took a long draught of the replenished beer and regaled them with the events in the park. The hardest part to explain was the anger he felt towards Salt, Pepper, Hugo and Ricard. The anger was due to their lack of engagement in the assault of Irena and avoidance of intervention with Sacha’s manhandling. Christ, he was angry with them. There were only two in the Irena assault, no more than twenty metres away. There were five of them, all young, four certainly fit, one perhaps less so. The least equipped making all the running, the other four all offering resistance to any relief. This anger was swirling with the potential loss of friendship with Salt and Pepper. He had screamed at them after Sacha disappeared, screamed at all four of them but really talking only to Salt and Pepper.

  “What if it had been you two?! Huh? What if it had been you two and everyone sat on their arse whilst you were being assaulted?!”

  Turning to Hugo and Ricard, “Look at you two, built up like alabaster statues and just as fucking useless. God, you make me sick, the pair of you.”

  He turned and walked away from them.

  “You don’t understand,” was the flat reply from Hugo to his back as he walked away.

  He needed a cigarette after off-loading the recent history. Standing outside he drew aggressively on the butt, his hands shaking, his mouth pursed as he tried to extract as much nicotine as possible. Anneke joined him; cigarette at the ready, she struck a match within her clasped hand like a workman to protect the flame from the wind and lit one of her Marlboro Reds. The tip of the cigarette burned brighter in the dusk than the darkness of night time.

  “They did have a reason, Sebastian.”

  “Well if they did I don’t get it. It was an act of shameless cowardliness as far as I can see.”

  “Sebastian, look about you. People coming and going with freedom, homeward bound, meeting friends for a drink. Doing what they want to do when they want to do it. But things are never as simple. Everyone’s tied to something: circumstances, events, people. It’s never quite as it seems. Everyone is living in a… what do you call it? A shit show. Trying to make sense of events beyond their control.” She dropped her cigarette and crushed it under her foot with a twist of her sole and kicked the butt into the drain. He looked down at flower-patterned Doc Marten boots with red laces and noted how aggressively the act had been executed.

  “Look, I have to go, stay with Umuntu for a while. It’s never good to be alone for too long.”

  She leant over to him and in the pool of orange street-light she looked older. She kissed him on both cheeks; she smelt of foundation. He watched her walk away; she walked with confidence and a big stride.

  “Come, Sebastian, let’s go for a walk. It’s a wonderful evening, it will take your mind off things.” Umuntu took his arm and lead him towards Oude Kerk. Turning left into Oudekerjsplein they walked along the cobbled street. The church on one side and on the other side, no more than the five metres from the fortified sacred walls, the windowed cells of prostitutes. The prostitutes around Oude Kerk, most black or coloured, older than in the other areas of De Wallen. There was a less frenetic atmosphere, calmer perhaps because of the presence of the church and a subliminal message.

  “The whole world is here, Sebastian. Blacks, coloureds, whites, Asians and all ages too. Some from the old colonies like Suriname, the Caribbean and the Malaccas. The newly arrived migrants from Central and Eastern Europe. They are all here.”

  The cell doors opened slightly as they walked by with invitations and promises of carnal pleasure. One door opened a little wider than the others and a large-breasted middle-aged black woman in white shorts and an ill-fitting bra screeched with delight, her ample flesh struggling to be contained.

  “Umuntu, you got a new job? You a pimp now? Man, things can go wrong in life if this is what you’re doing! Your friend want some fun?” She waved her arm to entice them in as she opened the door wide.

  “Hello Rosie.” Umuntu hugged her warmly. “How’s business?”

  “Man, it’s awful. It’s hard when you get to my age.” She ran her fingers down her sides and over her plump thighs. “Competition is tough with all the younger girls, the new ones from Eastern Europe. They are younger, too young and too pretty too. They gotta work harder, you know, some have just gotta work harder, you know that, Umuntu. Still the best clients know experience is what you’re paying for, right, Umuntu?” She licked her lips and winked at Sebastian knowing that Umuntu was never going to be a client. “But you know, kids at university, I’ve got to pay for that. Then what? When they finish, no jobs. Don’t want them doing this.” She waved her arms around the warm red womb-like cell. “Hell man, times have changed. They gotta do something else.”

  “Keep well, Rosie, keep well.” He smiled and squeezed her upper arm.

  “I will man, I got De Rode Draad to keep me occupied too.” She looked at Sebastian. “Come see me sometime, anyone who is a friend of Umuntu is a friend of mine.” She laughed as she took up her perch on the high bar stool at the entrance to her cell.

  Arriving at the junction of Oudekerksplein and Sint Annendwarsstraat Sebastian suggested a beer at The Old Church Coffee and Juice Bar. The night had arrived and the warm air seemed to be pushed around the narrow street by a slow-moving broom, each sweep warmer than the previous one making shirts stick to backs. The air heavy with the smell of marijuana being smoked at the nearby tables. The neon lights of the bar reflected pagan lights against the stained glass windows of the church.

  “She is quite a lady Rosie, how do you know her?” Sebastian spoke through eager sips of his cold beer.

  “She used to work in a soup kitchen for the homeless in Chinatown. I used to go there when I first arrived in Amsterdam. She is a wonderful woman with boundless energy, a life being lived. Her husband long since deserted her so she has had to bring up her two children by herself. Quite an achievement really.” Umuntu tilted his beer in salute.

  “Do they know she’s a prostitute?”

  “No, she always told them she worked for a homeless charity and for De Rode Draad. Actually she does both but neither pay, but she didn’t tell them that bit! She is now a prominent member of De Rode Draad, the prostitute union.”

  “There is a union for prostitutes?!”

  “Indeed, Amsterdam is an extraordinary place. If you look over there you can see the outline of a statue, like a primitive Degas sculpture.”

  Sebastian looked through the crisscrossing of people and saw a stationary large-breasted woman in heels. The figure set in bronze leaning against the frame of a doorway exactly as Rosie had been in her doorway.

  Waving his arm around the circumference of the church Umuntu continued his history lesson. “Within the thousands of cobbles in the plaza around Oude Kerk there is one cobble set in bronze, missed by most as they walk over it unseen, of a hand caressing a woman’s breast. Both these statues are dedicated to all those in the world that make their living by prostitution.”
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  “The union of prostitutes, how does that work?”

  “It’s there to provide support for the working girls – health checks and advice. For those first entering the business it offers advice on safety and paying their tax.”

  Sebastian raised his drink and eyebrows. “Tax? They pay taxes?”

  “Yup, and VAT! Rosie tells me the charity tries to encourage all the working girls to attend, as they are self-employed. Most of the local Dutch girls do but she has problems with the East European girls attending. Most are illegally here and don’t want the scrutiny of the authorities. Their life is a lot harder with no protection or mutual support.”

  Dropping some euros onto the table Umuntu stood up.

  “Come, I want to show you something.”

  As they walked into Sint Annendwarsstraat they passed the window of Anna restaurant. Inside Sebastian saw the well-heeled Amsterdam crowd along with foreign business people, groomed and sophisticated, at tables with small, beautifully presented dishes. The waiters, clean and sharply servile, glided by with one hand behind their backs as they poured wine into half-filled glasses. The faces of the diners were happy and laughing. Familiarity being built before business discussed. The residents of Prinsengracht and Keizersgracht dressed with success and wealth sparkled with light reflecting off Rolexes and rings.

  The atmosphere in Sint Annendwarsstraat was different. The ground floor of the buildings like the filling of a child’s birthday cake. A layer of neon reddish pink ran the length of the entire street, the lights on ready for business. The wind of the evening had not dissipated the smell of stale beer and marijuana that hung heavy. Cigarette butts carpeted the doorways of the working girls, a sign of indecision. One of the windows, curtain closed, still had a lit cigarette recently discarded.

  “If you look to your right, carefully, there are two men in bomber jackets. Pimps.” Umuntu spoke as they walked.

  The men were in their early twenties leaning against the wall like flamingos propped up on one leg. The other leg cocked and the sole of the foot flush against the wall. They were not moving, they were not buyers. Eyes glided across the first six cells, some with curtains drawn. The open cells had scantily dressed girls in pants and bras prancing like horses before the start of a race. They looked continually in the mirror, adjusting their hair or makeup, moving to the window to entice.

  “They are pimps for some of the girls here. They spend most of the day and certainly all of the evening here counting the number of visitors to each girl. That way they know how much the girls have earned and more importantly how much they have earned.”

  Sebastian lowered his eyes after being caught in the radar look of the two men. He looked to find Umuntu among the flow of men. Some stopping to stare at the girls the way one would look through a window at a coveted sports car. Others retracing their steps trying to pluck up the courage to enter. He felt a tug on his arm and found himself pulled towards the entrance of a narrow alley. So narrow there was no room to walk normally. To pass through the alleyway was only possible in crab-like fashion. On either side of this suffocating alley no further apart than a one-arm stretch was a twenty-metre row of cells with doors ajar. The air didn’t move here but hung like a heavy coat made of fear, lust, desire and regrets suffused with cheap perfume and sweat. The girls scantily dressed for all sexual persuasions. Little notices similar to the postings on a church noticeboard in neat and precise writing detailed all the services that were available. With no daylight the girls shone, their underwear glowed under the ultra-violet light, their eyes white with dilated pupils and soulless. The men passed each other back to back with downcast eyes of guilt.

  It was with relief Sebastian came onto the open street of Oudezijds Voorburgwal; here the air was moving at least.

  “Sorry about pulling you through the alleyway. I thought it necessary as the two pimps seemed to have clocked you. That’s something you really don’t want. They don’t like to be noticed and an unwelcome stare can be met by an equally unwelcome attack.”

  Sebastian tried to wipe away the experience of the alleyway from his moist brow.

  “I thought you said they were all self-employed.”

  “No, not all. Some of the East Europeans are trafficked and pimped out by their owners. That’s why Rosie said they had to work harder, much harder. To the traffickers and their pimps they are just machines to produce money, when the machine is worn out with over use they are discarded and all too readily replaced. They are ruthless in a way you cannot imagine in the darkest hours of your worst nightmares.”

  Sebastian thought of the alleyway with no daylight. The small cells, the smell, the lustful stares, the loveless sex, the hell of being owned, all repeated on a daily basis until worn out. He felt sick and breathed the night air, lighter and moving as they walked along the canal edge.

  The contrast to the alleyway could not have been more different. The canal dividing the street into two, it was open and the air cooler as it passed over the water. The bars with lights on were noisy and busy with laughter and chatter competing with music. Swimming along the canal a phantom whiteness of swans dipping for food. They seemed oblivious to the streetlife.

  “Over there by the sex shop you can see another pimp.” Umuntu pointed to a combed-back greasy-haired youth talking into his phone. His face purple from the neon glow of the advertising hoarding shouting, “Sex Videos. Private Cabines”.

  “There too, over by the bridge.”

  The bikes cycled across the small cobbled bridge over the canal navigating through the crowds of tourists and night prowlers. The pimp the only person stationary, observing his property to ensure no theft of what was rightly his.

  As they walked towards the bridge they were approached by a long-haired lank figure with jeans hanging below his waistline and grey boxer short tops showing. He was skinny and sallow with the eyes of the hunted.

  “Want some coke?” He spoke from the corner of his mouth, stopping briefly to await a reply.

  Umuntu dismissively waved him away. He didn’t linger and walked on slowly repeating the request in search of a buyer.

  “I’m not sure I am enjoying this guided tour of yours, Umuntu. I’ve never noticed the underworld before. Now you are pointing it out I see pimps everywhere, pushers and other lowlife. God, I must have had my eyes shut since I got here.”

  “The pimps aren’t everywhere but they are here for sure. I just want to show you one other thing.”

  They left the noise of the canal and took a quiet side street which offered Thai massages from genuine Thai ladies. The street was quieter and the absence of red lights and throngs of people gave it an air of prohibition. The few people they passed looked lost, a bit confused and almost disappointed. Turning a corner the familiar structure of working spaces but lit up in blue against a darkened background noticeable by the lack of commercial lighting of bars and coffee shops. The atmosphere of a closely guarded secret, somewhere only those that know go to. The girls touting for business looked taller and physically bigger, filling the window with their presence, their bodies silhouetted against the blue lighting, faces hidden in the shadows. Their enticement routines were more animated; no tapping at the window with coins but wide swung door open gestures of temptation. The blue light gave the working girls a ghostly appearance making it hard to define their features. There were no loitering pimps or pushers.

  “I walk past the entrance to this street most days and have never been down here before. There is no one here, yet twenty metres away it’s heaving with party animals. Why the blue lights?”

  Umuntu led him closer to the windows.

  “Look closely as we walk by.” His voice was flat and even.

  Sebastian, now wholly accustomed to what usually took place, let out a stifled cry. The cavorting and seductive twisting of the girls’ bodies took place but something else happened.

  “
Christ, that woman has just flashed her penis at me!” He looked at Umuntu as if this was an unfair joke played on him. The return look was placid and reflected no surprise at his response.

  “Now come, let’s go back to the Vlinder.” His arm guiding Sebastian to the red light of night to stop him looking over his shoulder.

  Sebastian had opted for a whisky which didn’t last long. Umuntu recharged the glass and settled down with a beer.

  “This has been an enlightening couple of days for me. I’ve witnessed two assaults and have now passed through the underbelly of Amsterdam. I can’t believe I didn’t notice the pimps and pushers before. I have confused the red light district as some sort of well-organised bohemian playground. An adult sexual Disney.”

  “With more expensive rides,” chuckled Umuntu.

  “No, I mean I thought it was safe. I’ve had no trouble since I have been here.”

  Umuntu sipped his beer, sat back in his seat and looked at him.

  “It is, Sebastian, it is safe for you, for us. For the visitors and tourists and most of the girls it’s safe and well regulated. But there are always those that slip through the net. Those girls that don’t have the protection of De Rode Draad, for them it’s not safe. It’s cruel, hopeless and desolate. They are chattels of the traffickers. Sold onto syndicates and then pimped out by the gangs. For them it’s living hell.”

  “They should leave, make a run for it and go to the police.”

  Leaning forward Umuntu looked directly at Sebastian, holding his eyes.

  “Sebastian, it’s impossible. Once they are owned they are owned. There is no escape. I know what that feels like. Do you imagine that they like what they do? Everyday someone tells them what to do, how many customers they must screw. They have to lie there with total strangers. Imagine it. A fat drunk sweating man stabbing you with his prick over and over again. If they don’t reach the set number of customers there are repercussions. Serious repercussions.”