by Jeremy Welch
Sebastian felt a vibration in his jacket pocket. Pulling out Irena’s phone he looked at the screen. The photograph on the cover was of Irena holding the hand of what looked like her mother and father in the countryside, all laughing, possible a post-Sunday lunch walk. The name Sacha glowed green next to an envelope. He held it up to show Umuntu.
“It’s Irena, the girl assaulted in the park. Should I open it?”
A nod from Umuntu.
The envelope opened and the text came through. “Are you OK? Where are you Irena? S x”
“I kept it to give back to her, she dropped it after being attacked. I know she works near the Tulp but she wasn’t there today. Should I keep it or hand it to the police?”
Umuntu considered the question.
“Keep it, there is no point giving it to the police. It will just remain in lost property. Wait till she gets back to work, she will need it. Mind, that may be a couple of days.”
“What makes you think that?”
“As I said, for the pimped girls there are repercussions. She must have tried to make a run for it because the last resort for a pimp is to hand out a beating. The pimps never deface their property, unless it’s to teach a lesson. The girls can’t earn with a swollen face.”
“Oh my God. Now I know why they didn’t get involved in the assault.”
“Sebastian, these people are not to be taken lightly. They are evil. A well-organised cross country of criminals. I know what it’s like to be owned by such people.” His face took on the sad features of a previous misery that had gone on for too long. “They were wise not to get involved in the assault, and lucky for you that they stopped you or who knows what state you would be in now.”
Sebastian looked around the bar half-expecting the two leather jackets to walk over to the table and remove him to the back of a waiting car.
“I am going to hand the phone in to the police then.” As if this act would expunge the incident from his memory and any future entanglement.
“No, don’t do that. If she’s not back at work in the next few days I’ll ask Rosie to track her down. She knows everyone here. Irena will need it.”
Sebastian looked uncertain, afraid.
“OK?” Umuntu questioned.
“OK.”
As they walked back to the Tulp Umuntu put his arm around Sebastian’s shoulder, pulled him closer and gave him a reassuring hug.
“You know, Sebastian, what those four did in the park was right. Right for them and right for you. You may not realise it now but you will. Don’t jeopardise your friendship with Salt and Pepper.”
Sebastian nodded in acknowledgement.
Arriving at the gangplank to the Tulp Sebastian turned to face Umuntu.
“Why the tour this evening?”
Umuntu paused, turned to face him and smiled.
“Things are never quite as they seem. Are they?” he answered before walking away.
Before he could reply his phone announced a new message. It was from Zoe.
Chapter 10
The night was still but Sebastian woke with a start. His clock glowed three. As soon as he saw the time he knew he had to get back to sleep otherwise he would miss the alarm call in four more hours. He checked his phone, the light red. Opening the message again he re-read it, it made him happy.
“Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. Z x”
Turning on his side he plumped up the pillow to try to regain his oblivion. He shut his eyes and a smile played on his lips. He would find sleep again but first he wanted to bathe in contentment.
Even as a child he had trouble sleeping when he thought that there were unclosed issues in his life. Things not resolved, no matter how slight, required closure or the sandman would miss him on his nightly visit leaving him tossing and turning, praying for the new day to arrive to close the outstanding issues. Making the ledger balance.
After the night with Umuntu there was the issue of Salt, Pepper, Ricard and Hugo, the need for closure. Umuntu had been right and the next day he had sought them out individually to apologise for his outburst in the park. Easy with Ricard and Hugo but more difficult with Salt and Pepper as they were always together. He hadn’t explained his understanding, just that he was sorry. Hugo and Ricard accepted with formality, seriousness and a firm handshake. Salt and Pepper threatened him with untold consequences should it happen again. Before hugging him.
The text that same night from Zoe had said she was free for a few days and wanted to come and stay. The following calls had been effusive from Sebastian, guarded and evasive from Zoe. The result for him the same: she was coming over and arriving at ten. The ledger balanced. Sleep arrived.
He stumbled out of the shower, looked at his reflection, then at the bed. The jeans she liked him to wear laid out, blue and white shirt ironed waiting a choice and a back to hang off. Aftershave or not?
“Not too much, no none,” he said to the bottle placing it back on the bathroom shelf. Coffee first then clean his teeth so he didn’t have stale breath when he kissed her hello. How was that kiss to be? On each cheek, hand on shoulder? On each cheek with hand behind her neck? A hug and one kiss? Leave it to the occasion. That never worked, he knew; there would be a fumble and he would end up missing her cheek and kissing her lips. Too early for that, or perhaps it was not to happen at all this trip. Don’t put the shirt on until you have your coffee, nothing worse than a coffee stain. Shut up, Dasha, take your groaning elsewhere. He clenched his fist and looked ceiling ward with his eyes shut, and like the atheist he was he appealed for guidance and success from the heavens.
“God, please, please make it happen.” The phrase reminded him of his childhood birthdays before entering the kitchen. “God, please, please don’t make it a rugby ball/tennis racket/football.” It always was. The smile contrived as his father leant over him holding the racket and showing him how Jimmy Connors used to hit the ball. His mother awaiting the paternal absence before handing over just what he wanted.
“Calm down, just calm down. Stop thinking.” His reflection spoke off the boiling kettle. “Please God, it’s the last request ever, promise. Tell me she has broken up with Simon.”
He waited until Dasha had cleansed his soul. Locked the companionway door; reopened it, rushed down the stairs into the bathroom and sprinkled some aftershave on his cheeks, not too much. Looked at his watch, time enough. Ten minutes to the station and seventeen minutes by train to the airport. Then a wait, a pleasurable anticipatory wait. He couldn’t wait.
The doors of the train bleeped and glided open. He stood next to the door to avoid any delay from fellow travellers as they disembarked fiddling with the handles of their wheeled turtle bags before moving off. He followed the signs to arrivals. Took up position behind the welcoming barrier. Looked at the airport clock – thirty minutes to go – he waited.
The opaque doors of customs opened intermittently revealing the new arrivals. He knew a London flight had arrived as a hen party of flat Estuary vowel voices screamed.
“Let’s get pissed. Girl Power,” they said as the coven of women dressed in black T-shirts and leggings topped with pink tutus spewed out onto the concourse protecting an overly made-up woman with a “L” sticker on her chest and “Learner Bride” badge on her back.
He bobbed on the soles of his feet to see behind the heads of the arriving passengers. The door closed as he got a glimpse of her. She was dressed in white jeans, a blue shirt tucked into her waistline, her body divided by a brown belt. On her head was a velvet hat of purple and black. She was bending to pick up her bag. His heart raced in anticipation, his palms damp.
The door opened and closed again with momentary glimpses of her. After what seemed an unfair time delay the door opened and she walked towards the entrance. Sebastian started to lift his hand to wave; it fell back to his side. He just wanted to look at her and lock the image away for recall
on cold October days.
Her eyes scanned the crowd and fell on Sebastian. Walking towards him with her eyes meeting his and then falling, she smiled. The smile that said, “I knew you would be here.”
“Hello Sebastian.” She shyly kissed him on both cheeks. “Jo Malone Lime, Basil and Mandarin.” She laughed softly into his ear.
“It’s a new me.” Picking up her bag he noticed it was small. Too small to pack the men’s pyjamas she always wore, he hoped. “Come on, we’ve only got two and a half days to live forever. God, it’s wonderful to see you.” He hugged her and laughed.
Walking across Dam Square Zoe pointed towards Rokin.
“Do you remember we stayed over there in a small apartment? The walls were thin and the guests next door constantly shouted at their children. We had to spend the entire weekend away from the place.” She turned around and pointed across the cobbled square towards the palace where the sentries might have been. Now guarded by various mime artists – Charlie Chaplin, the Statue of Liberty and Jack Sparrow were on duty. “In the corner, next to that pub that’s where we went shopping, the shops are gone now. It was a fun weekend, wasn’t it?”
He looked at her right wrist; it was still there slipping up and down her arm as she waved her arms about in recollection.
“Come on, I want to show you my new home.” He laughed as he grabbed her arm and pulled her onward.
Walking through the red light district, still now and scantily populated by both punters and prostitutes, they were the only ones laughing.
“Sebastian, you really have drifted into the decadent life. I bet you spend your evenings with a glass of absinthe and a notebook. Just you and the green fairy dreaming and writing.”
“Not quite. What I do know now is why writers either blow their heads off or drink themselves to a welcome early death. Right, stop here, close your eyes and hold my hand. Watch your step and I’ll guide you.”
Zoe grasped his hand tightly and walked unsteadily as Sebastian guided her toward the Tulp.
“You can open them now.” With his hands outstretched like a conductor bringing the orchestra into full note he presented the two yellow bicycles. The bikes old and designed for elegant mount with no cross bar, Amsterdam Cycle Hire on a board behind the seat. On top of the handle bars a bouquet of tulips held in place by yellow ribbon.
“Your steed awaits you. Come on, we have no time to lose.” He took her bag and boarded. Unsure what to do with the bag he placed it on the sofa; he looked towards the bedroom and decided to deal with the sleeping arrangements later.
“Oh Sebastian, it’s wonderful. Look at all the flowers.” Every glass, mug and pitcher was full of flowers. The light of a summer’s day giving the room a rainbow glow as it reflected off the petals. She hugged him with a hard squeeze. “I’m so glad I came,” she laughed.
With the enthusiasm of a recent immigrant to a new city, Sebastian was desperate to show off his new home.
“Let’s go for a cycle ride so I can introduce you to Rembrandt.”
The start was shaky as they wobbled south along the cobblestone streets; with each junction crossed and the observation and replication of their fellow cyclists their courage grew. By the time they reached the Heineken Experience on the outskirts of town their confidence was further bolstered by the smell of beer. Cycling side by side along the Amstel canal they looked like any other young Dutch couple on a sunny cycle ride.
“I haven’t done anything like this since I was child. I have forgotten how blissful it is to have the wind go through you hair and the feeling of freedom a cycle can give.” Zoe was smiling as they passed under the motorway.
Sebastian drew away from her and shouted over his shoulder.
“Race you! The finish line is a café on the right.”
“Right, you’re on.” Zoe rose off her seat and leant forward on her bike. “I’m catching you,” she laughed.
He let her draw parallel, stared at her with the eyes of a Tour de France winner and sped away. With the café in sight he knew he was going to win. Fifty metres before the finish line he heard a cycle bell trilling and a deep female voice shout, “Wegwezen de manier waarop je voor de gek!”
He knew what the words meant and with the accompanying anger of the bell he pulled on his brakes and slowed, stopping at the side of the cycle path to let the irate cyclist past.
“Loser,” she laughed as she cycled past him with her head now over the cycle bars. “Catch me if you can.”
He knew he had been defeated. With a slow, sedate and dignified cycle he arrived at the café to find Zoe sitting at a zinc-top table. She smiled the smile of the victor.
“Where did you learn to speak Dutch?”
“If you remember, Sebastian, those were the most repeated comments on our last trip here fifteen years ago. Every time you tried to cross the road you were met by that cry. It’s the only Dutch I know: “Wegwezen de manier waarop je voor de gek”, Get out of the way, you fool.”
“And the last noise you hear before…”
“… you die is the tinkle of a cycle bell,” she finished for him.
He turned to go into the café with a smile on his face; she had remembered. He knew she would have a double espresso too. He also knew he wanted to ask about Simon, but now was not the time.
“I don’t see Rembrandt here, all I see is a café and a park.”
They had left the city behind and Amstel Park bordered them on one side; on the other side of the canal a fan of small fields divided an islet into strips of discipline.
Sebastian picked up his bike and pushed it back along the Amstel canal, retracing their route.
“If you look over there you will see a windmill, on the left is the statue of Rembrandt looking into the distance. He came here often to ponder the various events of his life.”
They sat down beside the statue and finished their coffees surrounded by the coming and going of tourists noisily embarking and disembarking from buses, dedicating just enough time for a camera snap to prove they had been there before disappearing to hunt further tourist treasure.
“‘Try to put well in practice what you already know; and in so doing, you will in good time discover the hidden things which you now inquire about. Practise what you know, and it will help to make clear what now you do not know.’ It’s a famous quote from Rembrandt,” she said as she studied the statue.
“Sorry, Zoe, this must be like a busman’s holiday to you. I was going to take you to the Rijksmuseum next, an afternoon of going blind trying to find the characters in the Dutch Master paintings. I think we’ve done enough culture for today, you decide what to do next.” His plans now derailed.
“No, I didn’t mean that, it’s beautiful here. I’ll tell you what, why don’t we cycle back into town and do what everyone else does on a sunny day in Amsterdam?”
“They lunch, smoke dope, shop and lounge as far as I can work out. Which one do you want to do?”
To his surprise she looked at him with wide enthusiastic eyes, smiled, laughed and said, “All of them and in that order too.”
There was something of a curfew when they arrived back in the centre of town. The post-lunch hour where the offices were full and the streets empty.
The first two were easily fulfilled. They entered the aptly named Rasta Babylon Coffee shop. The lighting dim, the walls covered with flags of red, yellow and green with a portrait of Haile Selassie placed with museum precision. There they were met by a kindly faced ancient Rastafarian with a sphinx smile and bleary eyes.
“Welcome, man, to your subconscious, peace be upon you,” he said showing them to a small table with legs no longer than two feet and cushions from Morocco spread on the floor. He placed a well-worn menu in front of them.
The menu was laid out like a New World wine list offering names of the vintages: Super Silver Haze, Lemon Larry, Best Vintag
e. The marijuana headings divided into traits: smell, taste and effect concluding with the flowering time. If marijuana was not to the patron’s taste hashish was offered in various guises, prices and aromas.
Sebastian held the menu in the proprietorial way of a male on a first date, perusing and selecting with knowledge.
“Well I’m not sure I will go for the Nepalese Pollen, I find the effect of fastened seat belts doesn’t suit my palate.”
Zoe looked at him to enquire if he knew what she was talking about.
“No idea,” was the reply.
The Rastafarian returned to the table and hovered like a sommelier offering help if required.
“We really want something light and something to eat as well,” he confidently stated to the Rasta.
“Well, my friend, we make very good cakes and muffins, I can bring you a small selection.”
“Perfect, let’s have the house selection,” concluded Sebastian as he handed the menu back.
The hash cakes arrived neatly arranged like a dish of dim sum. Sebastian pushed one towards Zoe, who pushed it back to him.
“It’s the etiquette that men always go first in these places.”
“I didn’t know you were the Debrett’s of hashish eating.” Sebastian spoke through the crumbling of the dumpling in his mouth.
“What’s it taste like? I’ve never done this before.” She inspected one with the suspicious look of a first-time diner at a Seoul restaurant.
“Like soft shoe leather with an aftertaste of moss,” was the contemplated reply as he studiously chewed.
The initial effect was a disappointment after they had tentatively then enthusiastically finished the hors d’oeuvres plate. Within ten minutes all that had changed.
The conversation took an unusual turn. Both started talking; neither was listening to the other but throughout their respective narratives they nodded approval or disapproval to their own dialogue.
“The flight was like being a pampered pet. In first class they obviously think you’re rather thick as they give you an escort and dedicated check-in counters with fewer people. They even hold your ticket for you in case you lose it. Ask questions as if you are too stupid to know where you are going. They look at your ticket and then say, ‘Are you going to San Francisco?’ Well where the hell else would we be going if the ticket already said San Francisco?” She showed her disbelief by moving her head from side to side.