by Jeremy Welch
Sebastian continued his monologue beaming with delight.
“The book’s coming along word by word, page by page. I really want you to meet someone. You’ll really like her, well I do, so I know you will.”
“I knew there was something wrong when we got there. The suite at the Fairmont had two bedrooms, one each. The sitting room had been set up with computer dealing screens and various alarm clocks showing different times of the day. But that’s not all. He made me unpack his suitcase as he fiddled with the screens. He had twenty exactly matching white shirts and ten matching pairs of black trousers, all the same. He threw them out after each day.” Her eyes widened at the memory.
“She has helped me start writing again, I mean she is not a character in the book, more of a guide. Not of the writing but as a guide to what I already know, I mean why I am writing.”
“All day, I mean all day, he stared at the machines. Well not all day, as he got up very early to go to the gym every day, about 5am. If I ever have to look at multi-coloured bouncing pixels again I promise you I will jump out of the window. He spoke endlessly about risk return ratios and whole conversations took place in letters – EPS, EBIDA, PE – and other impenetrable language.” She shook her head in disbelief.
“On a sunny day like today I went to the park, the Vondel. Anyway in the park there were these two prostitutes. Then a gang of thugs hit the first one and then another guy who I know, well I think it was him, took the other one away in a car. I don’t know but I think the car was driven by a rabbi. Do rabbis drive cars or is it against their religion?” He looked thoughtful as he spoke.
“Before he went to the gym in the morning he insisted that my room was tidied, the bed made before the chambermaid came in in the morning, even made me wash and clean the shower after I had used it. You know wipe the walls down with one of those windscreen wipers. The magazines all had to lie in a line, edge to edge. Towels hung like soldiers to attention. He even took his own cutlery to dinner as he said all the other people were probably poor and had nasty diseases.” She looked down at the plate with the marijuana motif in the centre, relieved to see the chipped ceramic pattern.
Sebastian searched unsuccessfully in his pocket; he came up empty handed, looked with confusion at his hand and explained.
“Well I have to give it back, I mean it’s not mine and she needs it, the phone I mean.”
“I had never slept with him before we went to America. He always took me home in a taxi in London pleading an early start. I did after a dinner in San Francisco, twice in fact, well twice but not on the same night.” She shuddered as if a cold blast of air had swept across her.
Looking around him for fear of being overheard Sebastian whispered, “You don’t want to get involved with them, the pimps. These guys are brutal, they would kill you just as easily as say hello. Dangerous, very dangerous, that’s what Umuntu says.”
“Dinner was sometimes in a private dining room. He didn’t like the other people at the hotel. He always ordered for me, I don’t even like fish. You know I don’t.”
Sebastian fixed his eyes on hers.
“There should be an organisation, a global one that stops these girls from being trafficked. It can’t be that hard, can it?”
She stared back at him, without focus but thoughtful.
“He always wanted to do it doggy style, well the two times we did it he did. I don’t like it like that, head banging against the headboard, not being able to see him. It hurts too as there was never any foreplay, just straight in.” She moved on the cushions as if uncomfortable.
“The prostitutes around the Tulp all seem to have a tattoo of a horse’s head with wings, always in their armpit. Is that a new fashion? Like the one where girls get wings tattooed on their lower back? But they’re always on the lower back, these aren’t, they are in the armpit.”
“The worst thing was as soon as he had finished he would stand up and go back to his room, leaving me alone in mine. But I knew he was a bastard. You know why? He had all his pubic hair shaved off and a tattoo saying Master above his cock!”
She burst into hysterical, uncontrollable laughter wiping tears from her eyes.
“The final straw was as he left, his shoes remained. You won’t believe this but they had a wedge insert at the heel to give him some extra height. He was really just a short-arse.”
He joined her in laughter but unsure what he was laughing at as the effect of the hashish reached its zenith. Through stifled laughter he asked, “How was San Francisco? I hope you’ve got rid of that shit Simon.”
“Have you finished the book yet?” she replied with her hand hiding her mouth and stifling her giggles.
Leaving a tip, they mounted their bikes with a view to fulfilling the next thing on the agenda: shopping. The trip to the eclectic fashionable district of Jordaan was one of increasing hazards as the effect of the late lunch dominated. Balance unsure, reactions slow, Zoe had twice cycled to the very edge of a canal and been saved only by the protective metal barrier from a mid-afternoon swim. Sebastian offering little help as he collapsed into fits of giggles. Each T-junction en route echoed to the cry of “Wegwezen de manier waarop je voor de gek!” and the urgent ring of cycle bells forewarning of imminent crashes.
The shops, small and compact, offered designer clothes, not of international brands but of the owners’ creations, eclectic in colour, cut and design. Zoe tried on shirts, dresses and skirts and with each transformation pulled back the curtain of the changing room to show Sebastian. He nodded approval or disapproval with the addition of a smile or grimace. The shop owners indulgently watched this display in the hope of a sale. But with each sad nod from Zoe she handed back the clothes; the owners acknowledged that a sale was more likely from someone in a more sober state.
Having exhausted the designer shops, their only purchase was two pairs of fake Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses with white frames from a street hawker. They walked like stable lads in the show ring next to their bikes, holding them tight to their thighs for fear of the bikes being startled and rearing up in fright from the passing pedestrians. The streets now busy with end-of-day activity. Babboe City cargo bikes with a wooden trough at the front occupied by school children sucking on lollipops whilst the mothers exchanged lunch dates. Family tandem bikes with a child at the rear holding a multicoloured windmill humming quietly, the cross of the handle bars populated with the voice of instructions from the youngest child.
“Let’s go back,” Zoe suggested with an air of contentment as the hashish wore off to be replaced by a calming tiredness.
Approaching the Tulp Sebastian scanned the windows looking for Irena. She wasn’t there but the room was occupied by a brunette and scanned by the two pimps from the park. Zoe watched him, followed his eyes.
“Ever been tempted? Bet you have. Come on, you can tell me, I’ve told you about San Francisco.”
Before he could answer Salt and Pepper hopped off the Tulp.
“Hi Sebastian.” Their eyes ignored him as they studied Zoe. They turned to Sebastian, smiled an approving smile.
“See you two tomorrow at the opening,” Salt airily said as they passed them.
Zoe looked at Sebastian. Sebastian looked back with a face that told of a question.
“You’ve been more than tempted, I think,” she said as her eyes followed the departing redheads.
Chapter 11
1
He sipped his coffee and looked at the bed. He had been right, the suitcase had been too small. The sun had warmed the room and the sheet had slipped from covering her. She lay curled up with his spare spotted pyjama bottoms and a crop top. Her stomach revealed, even and smooth, moving imperceptibly as she slept. He smiled at the thought of the previous night. They had spent the evening on the bed and then in it, Sebastian reading his book to her from the computer screen. She had listened carefully and not without comment. Eac
h of the points was noted on the screen with a dotted red line finishing in a bubble of red at the margin of the text. Her comments as if spoken in a child’s comic. He had agreed with most, but not all. Contesting those he disagreed with had led to a lively debate, which he invariably lost.
“How can he be so decisive at the same time as being so useless in all aspects of his life?” she had asked of the protagonist.
“Well there are layers to his character that overlap, some where he is in control and others where he is not.”
The reply was a note in the margins. “Based on who?” it questioned.
As the evening had turned to night she had become sleepy. She had asked for some bedclothes and if it had been a hint at an invitation Sebastian had declined. He was content just to have her in Amsterdam, in his houseboat and in his bed. He needed nothing else although a slight desire to want more lay beneath.
“Second drawer down,” he had shouted from the bathroom through a mouthful of toothpaste. As he heard the drawer open he coughed and the toothpaste splattered from his mouth over the mirror like a rabid dog in attack mode. It was the drawer with her photograph wrapped in her scarf. He waited for a comment. Hearing the unzipping of her trousers and the swoosh as the pyjama bottoms were pulled on, he felt safe enough to re-enter the bedroom.
“Come to bed,” she said in an invitation to shared contentment. He pulled back the sheet and climbed in. She laid her head in the crook of his neck. Her hand searched and held his.
“Talking of inconsistency, thanks for keeping my scarf, it always was a favourite of mine,” she murmured before slipping into sleep.
He watched her as she stirred into consciousness and wondered what it would be like to see this every day, each morning. The thought made him feel peaceful and content the way a constant source of pleasure never diminishes its delight no matter how often seen. The sight of her passport and airline ticket on his bedside brought the thought to an end; she would be leaving tomorrow. They only had today.
“Morning,” he said to the vole-like opening of her eyes.
She smiled. “What have you planned today? No more cycling and a different lunch please.”
“Whatever you want to do during the day. Tonight we are going to a show at a Spiegeltent.”
“Oh, I’m not sure I like circuses.” She sounded disappointed.
Sebastian found himself echoing Umuntu.
“It’s not a circus. It’s like being at an intimate party. The acts are performed as if you are actually part of them. Afterwards there is a post-show party that we should go to. I want you to meet some of the troupe, I know you’ll like them.”
She looked at him.
“I already have and I’m not so sure,” she said, not accusatory but looking for a confirmation or denial.
The day was summer hot and still. They wandered the streets with no destination. Coffee and lunch were spent in comfortable silence interspersed with languid commentary watching the passing of the people. It was peaceful, calm and the soporific atmosphere created a closeness as they, themselves inactive, watched those who were active. Both knew the time for departure was close and each in their thoughts wanted to ask questions and receive direct answers but feared the ruining of what time remained together, not enough to resolve the unspoken issues.
“You know, Sebastian, sometimes I didn’t think you would do it. I thought you would come here, get pissed and come simpering back to London after a week. Perhaps you have managed to rekindle the fire. Certainly I loved what you read to me last night.”
He looked at her and remembered Anneke’s comments: “You now know who you are writing the book for.” In gratitude to both he replied with a smile.
“I knew you always knew I could do it. I just didn’t. Thank you both.”
She looked at him quizzically; time was too short for them both, she didn’t want to risk a question.
The tempo of the day changed as night arrived. From peaceful and intimate to busy and public as they arrived at the Chrysalis. The long queue sticking out like an arm from the entrance. The Spiegeltent looking nondescript, a large yurt constructed of wood and canvass with a circus pinnacle top. The crowd of all ages, parents trying to calm the chattering of their children as the excitement mounted the closer they got to the entrance. The entrance like the fairground fortune-telling machine. Hands passed into the curved cut glass opening to exchange money for entrance tickets foretelling of excitement within. Sebastian peered over shoulders in front of him, impatient to get inside the tent. Zoe excited because Sebastian’s enthusiasm was contagious. Once inside it was just as Sebastian had imagined.
“It’s a Dutch word, Spiegeltent, meaning Mirror Tent. All of them have a history and a name and this one is called the Chrysalis.”
He spoke over his shoulder to Zoe as he pushed past the dithering crowd who studied their tickets to find their seats. Sitting in their seats he looked around him. It was exactly as Umuntu had explained it to him. A fusion of a cabaret club and an entertainment salon. The circular pavilion interior made of wood and assembled like an IKEA flat pack but without the assembly problems. The magic inside in contrast to the bland exterior. Inside the tent a small circular stage took pride of place in the middle lit by a solar system of lights. Surrounding the stage the circular seating in terraces and behind the seating, at the widest circumference, velvet-covered booths with banquette seating. The walls inside covered in brocade and broken up with mirrors and multi-coloured leaden glass panels. The tented roof supported throughout by barber shop poles.
“Easily confused with the interior of a Victorian brothel,” Zoe commented as she gazed around the now full space.
Their seats were part of the velvet-covered booths, for the privileged elite. Their table circular with two bottles of wine, one red and one white; place settings suggested food to come. A small card on the table read, “Review with kindness, Anneke.”
The small circular stage in the centre of the tent was bathed in a pool of blue light. The audience red, yellow and green-faced as the lighting moved amongst them. Leading to the stage a small walkway and behind the walkway, almost invisible but for the light sparkling off their instruments, was a brass band, silent and waiting. Sebastian recognised the half-shadowed faces of the musicians; they played at the Vlinder on the wooden decking. The crowd chatted and looked around at their fellow attendees, eyes not yet focused on the stage. The sound of so many voices was loud and the words undefined but fast and anticipatory, an air of excitement about the unknown.
The brass band broke into the confusion of voices with precision and abating the smouldering excitement. The coloured lights dimmed to darkness, the pool of blue on the stage cut out. The crowd fell silent, a spotlight shone on the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome.” The resonant voice of Umuntu filled the tent. “Tonight you will see some of the greatest performances from some of the most skilled performers of the world. Dispel the unbelieving and marvel at what you see.”
The light went out. The time in darkness was enough to provoke the shuffling of feet and murmur of voices. The beat of a double bass accompanied the rasp of a trumpet as the stage exploded into flames from the centre. As the flames died the blue lights bathed the stage as Salt and Pepper arrived dressed in sequinned bodices blowing fire into the canopy. As the tempo of the music increased Hugo and Ricard joined them on stage dressed only in pinstripe trousers with braces, their bodies muscular and seemingly carved from stone as the shadows exaggerated each movement of their naked torsos. Salt and Pepper sprayed jets of flame at Ricard and Hugo who turned somersaults. The music slowed to a drumbeat of the double bass strings. Ricard and Hugo formed a gothic archway by performing handstands with their feet together at the apex of the doorway. The lights dimmed and a silhouette appeared in the doorway standing erect and straight in a black suit, white shirt and black tie. Dasha lowered himself with his che
st flush with the stage floor and his head staring directly in front. The strings increased their pace; he raised his legs from behind catching them at his shoulder, and seemingly folded himself into two separate but conjoined body shapes like a sheet being ironed, his face impassive as each of his cheeks was bordered by his feet. The music stopped and as if charged with electric voltage his face and body disappeared behind his folded legs to arrange himself back into the straight erect figure of his entrance.
“My back’s sore just watching this!” Zoe said massaging herself.
Sebastian looked at the audience; Dasha’s act of body reconfiguration had been met with open mouths by some; others had their hands covering their eyes as if they didn’t want to see his body snapped in half and guts splattered across their faces. Dasha repeated the movement across the stage resembling a human Slinky toy.
Eyes moved canopy ward as Eva dropped from the darkness holding herself upside down with her ankles wrapped around a suspended hoop. Around her naked shoulders was a red velvet cape flowing towards the stage. As she lowered to the floor the cape spread evenly across the stage. The lights turned off, the whole tent aflame with jets of fire from Salt and Pepper. The illuminated darkness lasted for five seconds. The band reached fever pitch as the lights came back on and standing middle stage with the cape around his neck held by a golden clasp stood Philippe the illusionist.
The applause burst from the audience interspersed with couples whispering into each other’s ears.
“I know how he did that, there’s a trap door below the stage.” And, “He was under the cape when she came down.”