Chrysalis

by Jeremy Welch

  Ah yes, compassionate leave for a night and training the new ones to alleviate the pain. Sebastian felt exhausted. Looking around the chapel of St Bridget, the church and the empty pews he spoke to the altar not Rosie.

  “What’s the point of these buildings, this chapels and these icons?” He pointed to the portrait of St Bridget. He wasn’t angry, he just wanted to know.

  She didn’t reply.

  Without moistening his fingertips Sebastian crushed out the flame of his candle, rose and placed it back in the box, the only one with a blackened wick. He started to walk back to the entrance.

  “Hope, Sebastian,” he heard her say. “Hope.”

  He pulled up his collar as he left the church. He didn’t know why, it wasn’t cold, there was no wind just the night breeze of a summer’s evening. Avoiding any lit part of the streets he made his way back to the Tulp. He drew the curtains, closed and locked the door. He knew that Salt and Pepper would look in after the show, perhaps even offer to share his bed for emotional comfort. He knew that this too was coming to an end; perhaps tonight was the end of their relationship, as he wanted, tonight, to be alone. They would be leaving Amsterdam in the next few days along with the rest of the troupe. For them this was something to look forward to, for him less so.

  He looked around his room; he hadn’t turned on the light. The computer screen advertised Microsoft as the logo bounced around the screen. He flicked through the pages of his original manuscript, the well-fingered pages full of crossed-out text and margins with complicated additions. Towards the end he found the two pieces of paper that formed the genesis of the novel. The two pieces of A4. With no anger or malice he scrunched both and threw them into the waste basket.

  He slipped off his shoes and without taking anything else off got into the bed and covered himself with the sheet. In the darkness he reached for his phone, pressed Z. Next to her name was a bubble. He typed, “I love you”, before hitting the save button.

  2

  He woke feeling the tightness of the sheet around his legs. The opiate of sleep wearing off, he was in that moment of half-wakefulness where the start of the day offers all possibilities. It lasted but a moment. He felt his clothes distorted and uncomfortable on his body as he had tossed and turned under the heat of the sheet during the night.

  He had been awoken by a tapping at his door; it was soft and undemanding but constant. Opening the door he was surprised to see the sun rising above the Skeith weightlifter’s moustached rooftops.

  “I brought you some coffee.” Anneke’s arm reached into the companionway.

  He took it and walked down the companionway into the curtain-drawn gloom. Anneke followed. Sebastian slumped into one of the uncomfortable armchairs and for the first time since his military service lit a cigarette before a sip of coffee. The soldier’s three-course breakfast: cigarette, cough, coffee.

  “Will you stay on to finish it?” Anneke reached into her pocket for her Marlboro Reds.

  Sebastian looked at his computer, blew on the coffee to cool it. He felt no need to answer immediately.

  “I don’t know,” he coughed through the smoke.

  She waited. She always waited, knowing he had more to say.

  “With you gone I’ll know no one. In fact after yesterday I will know one less than no one.” He drank his coffee and winced as the boiling liquid burnt his throat. “I don’t suppose it matters where I finish it.”

  “But it does matter that you finish it.”

  Sebastian looked at her. He always felt uneasy that Anneke seemed to have the ability to understand him. He trusted her but her innate ability to anticipate his thoughts, to comprehend fully why he was writing, disconcerted him. At no stage had she even mentioned Irena or what had happened. Sebastian knew that was right as there was nothing to say except platitudes of consolation; nothing would change, it would be as it was no matter what was said. He knew that she knew that too.

  “I’ll decide tonight if I am going to stay on here to finish it. I’m unsure yet.” With this lie he held something that she didn’t and couldn’t know. “There are a couple of things I need to do before I decide.”

  She dropped her cigarette into the plastic cup to a hiss from the coffee. She was preparing to leave. She pulled a black hair tie from her wrist and with both hands pulled back her hair to form a small ponytail. He had never seen her with her hair back, her face fully uncovered. She had a face at which men walking by would turn to confirm or deny their first impressions, not quite sure on just a first look.

  “You will say goodbye, won’t you?” She didn’t look at him but rather inspected him. “I mean if you decided to leave before the show closes.”

  Sebastian nodded.

  “Of course.”

  She stopped at the desk and wrote a number on a piece of paper. He knew he would ring her but not when.

  “Be careful,” were her last words as she disappeared up the staircase.

  3

  It didn’t take him long to pack. One rucksack, neat and circular like a tube, contained all his clothes. That would be for the hold. A small holdall open and lined with Zoe’s scarf, otherwise empty now but later tonight would contain his student manuscript, computer and photograph of Zoe. That would be hand luggage.

  He wiped down the kitchen surfaces, brushed the floor. The bathroom could wait until tomorrow morning after his shower. He washed the vases that had held the flowers when Zoe visited. All the glasses were put away in the cupboards and the two plastic coffee cups from earlier were put in the bin. The bin bag tied and ready to be disposed of at the communal bin when he went out, for the penultimate time. He rearranged the furniture as best he could to the positions they were on his arrival. He was done with the Tulp, as if he had never been there.

  He walked towards Oude Kerk. He knew that breakfast for the homeless would be over. Rosie would be elbow deep in soapy water. He wanted to say goodbye to her. He wanted to see her like that, not at work. In the kitchen her hands usefully employed. He pushed open the metal-studded oak door. He could hear her, confident and commanding in the kitchen. Her orders kindly given, unquestioningly obeyed as the table was wiped and the chairs stacked by willing hands.

  “Hello Rosie.”

  She turned and wiped some sweat from her brow. A handful of white soapsuds stuck to her fizzy hair.

  “Give me a moment.”

  She turned back to finish the dishes; she hadn’t noticed the new addition to her hair. Sebastian could see her in years to come, her hair like the soapsuds: white. Grandchildren in her lap resting against her bosom as she told them afternoon stories of princes and princesses. They would never know her story; she would always protect them from that story.

  “Come, you can buy me a mint tea.” She busied herself taking off her apron and putting on a cream cardigan. Her fellow volunteers discretely studied Sebastian and speculated. She slipped her arm through his and giggled quietly. “Let them guess,” she whispered into his ear.

  They walked in silence. She didn’t look at him but squeezed his arm.

  “You OK?”

  “So, so.”

  Those two words were enough. There were no other words to describe how he felt about the suicide of a young woman whose life he had impinged on, and at the periphery. “Selfish”, “waste”, “sinful”, “sad” were the words for those who heard of her suicide and spoke briefly of the anonymous woman’s death. They hadn’t ever been part of her life, not even on the periphery; that’s what gave them the authority to use those words.

  Before the waiter left Sebastian changed his order.

  “Forget the coffee, two mint teas please.”

  “Oh, and a large piece of chocolate cake for me please.” She looked guiltily at Sebastian. “I know I shouldn’t. If I get any bigger I’ll never get any customers,” she chuckled.

  He looked at her shiny fu
ll face, her cardigan buttons trying to escape the buttonholes as flesh pushed against them. He hoped she would eat a thousand chocolate cakes every day.

  They sat in silence waiting for their drinks. His eyes wandering around the street, watching nothing in particular. As if the thought had just come to him he turned to Rosie.

  “Do they ever talk to them?”

  She look quizzically at him.

  “The inspector,” he said. “Don’t ever give up, Rosie, you’re the only one who can persuade them to talk to us. Well do they?”

  “Aart – Inspector Bloogard – is one of the finest policeman on the force. He’s worked the red light district as long as I’ve been working. We started at almost the same time, in fact we could be called work colleagues,” she laughed. “We’re friends really, he’s a good man, he speaks at the meetings offering guidance and help if the girls need it. For years he has tried to get the trafficked girls to talk to him. He really wants to crush those bastards. They never do though, the girls never do. They’re just too scared.”

  He had heard it all before, the fear that was instilled in the girls. The undiluted fear.

  “Well I agree with him. If they are ever going to talk to him it’s up to you, Rosie, you’re the only person they are likely to trust. So don’t give up.”

  She smiled at him.

  “I never will.”

  He stirred his tea; the scent of mint filled his nostrils as he lifted the glass to his mouth. She was right, it was cleansing. He didn’t know how to approach the subject. Didn’t know the response he would get, but he did know that he would be sad.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ve come to say goodbye.”

  She looked at him with kindness.

  “It’s good that you’re going, Sebastian. Not from Amsterdam I mean. You’re just not really made to cope with my world. To cope with it you have to be born into it or placed into it young. Young enough to learn there is nothing else. Then it’s up to me to un-teach what they have learnt.”

  She shrugged with resignation.

  “Maybe I’m not a very good un-teacher. But I’ll learn to be one.”

  He reached over and held her hands.

  “Rosie, you are the only thing they have, the only hope. I think you are the most wonderful person I have ever met. I will always remember you, always.”

  She laughed quietly. She lifted one of his hands from his embrace and placed it on her cheek.

  “There you go again saying things no one has ever said to me before.” She pushed his hand against her cheek. “Feel it?” He felt the intense heat of her cheek.

  “I’m right though, you are wonderful.”

  She waved her hands dismissively, embarrassed but happy.

  “You’re a good man, Sebastian. Can I ask you something?”

  “Ask me anything and for you the answer will always be yes.”

  Her gaze intense on his face, waiting to see if there would be a change.

  “Did you have anything to do with the 10,000 euros?”

  He answered too quickly, he knew.

  “No! How could I?”

  She shrugged her shoulders waiting for an explanation.

  “Rosie, I’m an unemployed wannabe writer. Where would I get 10,000 euros from?”

  She nodded in understanding; a peaceful smile covered her face.

  “I’ll miss you, Sebastian.” She paused. “I just wish I had found someone like you long ago.”

  He flushed as the blood ran to his face.

  Rosie laughed victoriously loud, drawing the attention of their fellow morning coffee drinkers.

  “It’s my turn to make you blush!”

  The waiter took away their empty glasses and wiped the table, leaving the bill attached to an ashtray with a clip.

  They fell into silence as both watched the retreating waiter.

  “I’m not very good at these goodbyes, Sebastian, I’ve said too many before. I think we should say it now. Give me a kiss and off you go.”

  He stood up and hugged her hard feeling her body flesh almost wanting to wrap him. He kissed her on both cheeks and started to walk away.

  “Sebastian, can I ask one more thing?”

  He turned to look at her.

  “Anything, Rosie. Anything.”

  “When you walk away promise me you won’t look back.”

  He nodded.

  “And don’t lie this time.”

  Of course he didn’t. He walked away until he arrived at a tram stop. Hiding within the anonymity of the waiting passengers he looked back. She was still sitting at the table. A broad smile crossed his face. She had ordered another large piece of chocolate cake.

  Chapter 18

  Sebastian knew there were two more goodbyes he had to make that day, both of them time sensitive. He had already decided how he was going to deal with one, but on the other he was undecided.

  He took the first tram that arrived. It rattled and tinkled its way towards the south, each stop announced by a female mechanical voice. He heard the voice announce, “Jodenbreestraat. Museum Het Rembrandthuis.” He decided to get out at the next stop. There was still time to say goodbye. He stood by the doorway as the voice told him he was at “Waterlooplein”. The doors hissed and like a collapsed concertina, they opened. He stepped out onto a busy junction, feeling disorientated. He was lost. He heard the bells chime on the church opposite the tram stop. He looked up to the church clock; it was 12.00. His time window was closing. Next to the entrance of the church he could see a large board of a street map of Amsterdam.

  There were no pedestrians, just cars, motorcycles and vans waiting impatiently at red lights leaping forward like greyhounds at green. He waited at the pedestrian crossing looking at the amber-hatted pedestrian light and the countdown in neon from thirty seconds until he could safely cross.

  He studied the map to find out where he was, and the quickest way to get to where he wanted to go. It was a map aimed at religious or ecclesiological tourists, all the churches, of which there were many, marked with a grey cross. The only two synagogues identified by the Star of David. There was a red spot and an arrow stating, “You are Here” next to a cross and the name Sant’Egidio Church; a Star of David highlighted the Portuguese Synagogue close by. The board, like so many in cities, was supposedly there to help but not orientated to the map-reader’s position left the onlooker none the wiser as to where they were. His eyes moved from one cross to the next until he found Oude Kerk. Oude Kerk sat in the middle of a cradle of churches. Oude Kerk the compass rose, to the north the Church of St Nicolas, to the south De Waalse Kerk, to the west De Nieuwe Kerk. The east had none, just the exit to the sea. The irony of so many places of sanctuary so close to an area of such suffering confirmed why this goodbye was essential.

  Sebastian entered the foyer of the church looking for help. Behind the counter selling crucifixes and religious icons a small woman with grey hair sat reading the Catholic Herald through half-moon glasses. She gave a smile welcoming the pilgrim.

  “Hello, I need to get to Oude Kerk. Can you tell me the quickest way to get there?”

  The smile beamed back at him. “Welcome, you’re safe now,” it said. He knew she hadn’t understood him.

  “O-U-D-E-K-E-R-K,” Sebastian spelt out slowly.

  She pointed to a small board at the entrance telling the times of services at Sant’Egidio Church.

  “Yes, I know this is Sant’Egidio Church. But I want Oude Kerk.”

  He was getting agitated. With each second passing the chance of saying goodbye was diminished; he needed to get to Oude Kerk.

  “Ja, Ja,” her hand pointing into the church. “Hier Sant’Egidio.”

  He felt his feet dance the quickstep of frustration, his weight moving from one foot to the other like a boxer warming up. He tried again.

  �
��O-U-D-E-K-E-R-K.”

  His phonetic accent betrayed the passing of the information. He looked around the counter for visual aids to his request. The table top was covered in brochures telling of African droughts, application forms for Christian Aid, a rack of postcards showing the interior of the church. None helped. Amongst the pleading literature was a small display case with a glass flip-top lid. He scanned the contents of the display case; the neat rows of medals shone and underneath each medal a small plaque stated the saint whose face was stamped on the metal. He saw her in the second row, St Bridget. The oval medallion had her in profile dressed in a habit with a halo behind her head, her hands clutching a cross to her chest and a staff running from the base across her body with a lantern at the top.

  “How much?” he said reaching into his pocket.

  This she understood.

  “Ten euros.” She smiled.

  Sebastian dropped the money on the counter and picked up the medallion and pointed at St Bridget.

  “The red light district?” he asked hopefully.

  Her eyes registered relief at understanding him at last; her mouth turned downward at the understanding of his question. For a septuagenarian she was swiftly on her feet. The newspaper had hardly hit the counter by the time her hand was firmly on his back pushing him towards the exit. On the step she waved disapprovingly in the general direction of central Amsterdam. Sebastian headed in the direction suggested. He turned to thank her; she formed a cross from her forehead to chest to shoulders. His mouth closed before the first words could be spoken. She had taken a position on the steps; her legs apart and with her arms across her chest she was prepared for the pagan masses who might try to besiege her church.

  Her eyes reflected the fallen as he impatiently looked for a taxi. She smiled at the invisible hand of God who had removed vacant taxis from the roads. Sebastian wanted to tell her, explain to her why he needed to go the red light district, needed to get there before the time window closed. It was important.

  The taxi smelt clean and with the bribe of an extra fifty euros if the taxi driver got him to Oude Kerk without obeying the lights, the pine tree swung violently from side to side on the rear view mirror wafting the fresh scent of alpine spring air, purging the smell of previous passengers. He knew that for Sacha it could never be. The smell would remain. The smell of the previous customer would linger not just for the rest of the day and night, it would cling to her and slowly suffuse to become part of her; over time his smell would become hers.