by Jeremy Welch
He didn’t feel the brakes being applied as his body shot forward. His shoulders rested on either side of the gap between the front seats and his head bent forward on the arm rest as if awaiting the executioner’s axe. Raising it, he looked through the windscreen at the zebra crossing. Inches from the bonnet of the car a man in a long black cloak was reproachfully staring at the driver from under his black Fedora; the only other expression of animation was the bobbing up and down of ringlets. It was Dasha’s rabbi.
The rabbi turned his back to the car and formed a crucifix with his arms to halt any motorised movement. They were like a Roman battle formation; a testudo of twenty black-coated and Fedora-wearing men crossed the road. Their flanks were protected by their black ankle-length coats; from above, the rims of their Fedoras protected them and their only weapon was a Torah clutched in their right hand held at chest height like a Pila. At the rear, not in rank but separate and alone in a new sharp-edged coat with the shine still on the fur of the Fedora, was a face without ringlets. It lacked the resolution of the others; a newbie in his new clothes, the nose askance to the face and his step out of sync with the others Sebastian thought he looked like Dasha.
“Sorry, my friend. I had to stop,” the taxi driver spoke over his shoulder. “Does the fifty still stand?”
“Yes.” The taxi leapt forward. Sebastian stared through the rear window to confirm it was Dasha. Neat and tidy in his new sharp-edged black armour Dasha looked as if he belonged.
The taxi drew up at the Krasnapolsky Hotel; Sebastian threw the money on the passenger’s seat and ran towards the revolving door. Rushing through the foyer, knocking into late-check-out businessmen he looked for the clock; the multiple time zones confused him – New York, London, Tokyo and Amsterdam. The clock read one thirty for Amsterdam. He ran to the rear of the hotel and the cut through to Oudezijds Voorburgwal. As he got closer he knew he needed to slow down. The red light district, unlike the prostitutes’ cells, was not an area with fast-moving people. The ponderous sex shoppers would notice a runner as would the pimps; they would be on alert to the unfamiliar.
He stopped to light a cigarette. The smoke made him cough after his run and the nicotine made his already fast heartbeat increase. He stubbed it out and inhaled the air in deep breaths. Calm it down, calm it down, he thought. He walked towards the little bridge over the canal; his eyes ahead, the curve of the bridge gave him a slight height advantage to see into the distance. He knew who he was looking for but couldn’t see him. The four cell windows covered with the bleached curtains, the white-shoed pimp absent. His fingers glided over the medallion in his pocket; he could feel the benevolent face of St Bridget on his fingertips. He knew he would only have to wait ten minutes before the curtains would open again. He leant on the wrought iron railings of the bridge, trying to convey nonchalance and the natural state of someone enjoying the summer sun post lunch.
He heard the clock of Oude Kerk ring for two o’clock. He had been on the bridge for over twenty minutes; not one of the three curtains had opened. He thought of Irena, thought of Sacha and the new girls under her charge. His mind ran across the possibilities; Sacha had overdosed, but why would the other curtains be closed? It was impossible to have four overdosing, wasn’t it? Had Sacha been moved or sold? No, as Rosie had told him she had been put in charge of the new girls. His eyes concentrated on the curtains willing them open. The thought that she had finished her shift and departed depressed him as he would never say goodbye, never be able to offer her… offer her what? He didn’t really know what he would say to her or what he could offer to her.
He saw one curtain drawn back; he waited for the departing man. No one came out. He started to walk slowly towards the other doors. There was still no one exiting. He stopped to check if the pimp was in his usual place. He wasn’t there. His disappointment increased as he imagined a bucket and mop being put outside the door before a cleaner emerged having cleaned the room for the next girl renting the room. It wasn’t a bucket and mop placed on the cobbled pavement, it was an Albert Heijn plastic shopping bag, full and square shaped.
She was wearing a pair of jeans and blue Jack Wills hoodie. The hood was down and her hair was pulled back untidily in a ponytail; her face with no makeup was red raw as if she had been scrubbing it hard. She picked up the bag and knocked on the curtained doors to her left and right. The door to her right opened immediately as if the occupant had been awaiting the knock. A girl of about nineteen emerged with her eyes cast down to the pavement and the mascara on her eyes smudged. She didn’t talk to Sacha, just walked past her and called a name to the drawn curtain.
“Natalia.”
Nothing happened. The young girl called the name again. The curtain remained closed. Sacha walked towards the closed door and opened it slightly. She spoke whispered soft words into the small opening. Her hand went into the room and as she turned she gently pulled out a track suited girl. The girl had a baseball hat pulled low over her face, the tracksuit was a size too big for her. Sacha lifted the peak of the baseball cap slightly and kissed her forehead. Sebastian saw the girl’s face, blotchy and swollen around the eyes, and with her makeup partially removed her face looked like a bruised peach. He thought she must be around sixteen or seventeen and seemed to have been crying for all those years.
Sacha started to walk away from Sebastian, Natalia and the young girl following behind her in silence. Sebastian followed them in the hope they would separate and he could talk to Sacha alone. He followed them to the Central Station willing them to part. He knew once they arrived at the concourse he would lose them in the crowd. Before the entrance to the station next to the large lettered sculpture of “Amsterdam the Happiest City in Europe” Sacha stopped at a kiosk to buy cigarettes. As she put her change into her Cath Kidston purse he knew he had to talk to her or lose the opportunity forever.
“Sacha.” He spoke it gently so as not to surprise her.
Natalia and the young girl who had been standing waiting for Sacha looked up in alarm, their faces were fearful and their eyes looked at Sacha, pleading for help. Sacha looked at him blankly; she was emotionless, nothing would frighten her again and nothing would make her safe and happy again. She was functioning only.
“Sacha, it’s me, Sebastian.”
She stared at him as if he was something she had lost and now couldn’t remember why she had worried about the loss in the first place. She said nothing.
“We met when you were at work.”
The two girls looked startled and stepped away from Sacha, trying to hide in the migratory population of travellers.
“I was a friend of Irena’s. I mean I am a friend of Irena’s.”
Her eyes lit up in recognition, not of Sebastian but of the name Irena.
“She’s dead,” she said flatly; the only part of her body that moved was her mouth. Her arms rested by her side; the open Cath Kidston purse spilled her change onto the grey concrete concourse.
“I know.”
She didn’t move, she just stared at him. She looked like a confused child; her feet were turned inward and her knees pressed together. He wanted to hold her close and by a process of osmosis absorb her misery; he would take it from her, he would bear it for her.
The tannoy rattled off a list of stations to be visited by the soon-to-be departing train from Platform 10.
“Haarlem. I have to go,” she said mechanically as if the name of Haarlem had triggered something in her brain.
Sebastian didn’t know what to say. He had anticipated she would remember him; the goodbye would have been easier. He took a step towards her; she remained static. He picked up the change from the floor and put it into her purse snapping it closed.
“Sacha, the phone, Irena’s phone? The park? Remember me now?”
“Irena is dead,” she replied placing the purse into her hoodie pouch. “Dead.”
He took a risk, he knew time was
running out. He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked directly into her eyes.
“Look, Sacha, we’ve met before. You once told me something when we met. You said, ‘I don’t know if you can do this but the best thing for you to do is to forget us, but later when you’re away from here remember us.’ Do you remember?”
Her head moved sideways and her eyebrows moved closer together as if trying to recall the conversation. He knew if she thought harder she would remember, if not now but later definitely.
“Sacha, I am leaving now, going home. But I want to give you something.”
He put his hand into his pocket and placed the medallion of St Bridget into her hand. She looked at it blankly. He took it from her open palm and hung it round her neck. He felt as if he was dressing a mannequin.
“When you touch this you will know that I am thinking of you and Irena. I may not be here but I will never forget you both. I will always remember you both.”
Her hand touched the medallion nestling in the soft indentation of her collarbone.
She looked up at him; her eyes were moist. She was fighting to stop them leaving her tear ducts.
“I remember you. You’re a friend of Irena’s.” Two tears fell, one from each eye, and rolled to the corner of her mouth. To gain control she inhaled the teardrops into her mouth. “She trusted you.” Her voice so quiet he could hardly hear her.
The tannoy repeated the list of stations. As soon as she heard Haarlem she turned to go. She didn’t look back. Sebastian watched them go towards Platform 10. The only motion he saw from Sacha was her right arm see-sawing across her neck with her hand holding the medallion between her thumb and index finger.
He watched them disappear down the stairs to the platform. It was as if he was watching her presence fading, slightly at first and then totally, as he exited a labyrinth, leaving her, forever trying to find the exit. The goodbye felt like a betrayal. It lacked a future for Sacha.
He consoled himself that the last goodbye of that day would be easier; he knew how to handle that one. It would be quick, decisive and leave him satisfied. He just needed the night.
Chapter 19
1
He turned out of the station towards the north end of Prinsengracht; he couldn’t face the red light district. The bohemian and alluring decadent atmosphere that first struck him when he arrived in Amsterdam now seemed comprised of misery and hopelessness. The working girls, he now saw, were having their souls slowly dug out of them with each joyless jab of a commercial cock.
He needed somewhere quiet, somewhere normal. Prinsengracht in late afternoon offered both.
The electronic confirmation of his two o’clock flight to London stored in his phone burned through his breast pocket. He knew that he would only have the next morning to say goodbye to Anneke, Umuntu, Salt and Pepper. They would already be making plans to move on after the show closed, next stop Hamburg. He wanted the time available to be constricted; the goodbye would be easier in the hurry of limited time.
He knew he wanted to do more than say goodbye to Anneke. He wanted to thank her for her tutelage. To thank her for her discrete hand of guidance, making him see what he somehow knew but couldn’t see. The book now so nearly finished, the prize on completion as he presented it to Zoe – that was the gift she had given him. It was irreplaceable. She had changed him, and slowly and imperceptibly she had given him back his ability to take decisions, decisions that channelled his future. He wouldn’t know how to say that to her. He bought a packet of cigarettes, a notepad and a small red Swiss Army knife from a corner shop. He would tell her though, he would write it and give it to her just before he left for the airport.
The start of the letter was hesitant. Each sentence ended in a drag on a cigarette. He paused, thought and paused again. Ordering another coffee he allowed the waiter to take away the crumpled pages of his previous efforts and his dirty cup. The delight of secret laughter as a young couple walked by distracted him; his eyes followed after them as they walked down the length of Prinsengracht. The soft net curtains of street-level kitchens waved from the open windows in the light summer breeze. Outside many of the houses placed directly on the doorsteps or cobbled pavement were deckchairs. One house had a two-seater sofa promoted from the interior darkness to a place in the sun. A woman passed the café terrace pushing a pram; she spoke softly to her sleeping baby. The elderly woman on the sofa was joined by her husband; he handed her a cup of tea in a small, fine delicate china cup. She smiled at him as she took it from him. There was no need for a sugar bowl or milk jug, he would know how she liked it. Her free hand patted the cushion next to her.
The waiter returned and placed the coffee on the wiped-clean table top.
“Thank you.” Sebastian smiled at the waiter.
He lit another cigarette and felt a bite at the back of his throat as he inhaled. Flipping the cigarette packet lid open he was surprised to count only ten left. He stared at the notepad; the most recent letter hadn’t progressed further than, “Anneke”.
Looking at the retreating waiter he thought of those simple two words, “thank you.”
His previous attempts at writing the letter had all failed. The contents of the previous letters weren’t about Anneke. The thanks may have been, but the sentences all led to what he hoped from his return to London. It all revolved around Zoe. Anneke’s nurturing, encouragement and café tutorials had all been about finishing the book. He remembered some of her comments: “You now know who you are writing it for”, “There is only love, there is nothing else”.
He pulled out his phone, found Zoe’s telephone number and typed, “I’m coming back. Can we meet next week?” This time he didn’t save it, he pressed the send button.
Crushing out his cigarette he started to write:
“Dear Anneke,
Thank you.
Love Sebastian.”
He knew he didn’t have to add anything else. She already knew he was grateful, and by how much.
He folded the letter into an envelope, wrote Anneke on the envelope and put it in his pocket.
2
The deckchairs and sofas were gone, the windows shut and the streets quiet now except for the occasional rattle of the contents of a bicycle basket as late night returnees cycled over the cobbled streets. The daylight had long since been stolen by the advancing shadows. Sebastian had traced and retraced the horseshoe canals: Prinsengracht circular route back to the Central Station, the same with Keizersgracht, Herengracht and Singel. He watched the lights in the houses go out downstairs, the bathroom and then the bedroom. The houses were dark and the people safe inside unaware that this goodbye was imminent. Sebastian knew he would be there, in situ, waiting for the close of business.
He walked past Madame Tussauds and laughed as the headlights of the only car on the road highlighted Arnold Schwarzenegger sneering at the world in his Terminator costume. The restaurants were closed in Damstraat, and the only suggestion they had been busy were the fat black polythene bags stacked at the roadside ready for dawn collection. Oudezijds Voorburgwal was almost empty of people; the neon red and purple lights still flashed but only onto the canal water.
Sebastian kept his eyes lowered. He counted off the cobblestones as he walked. Each stride covered eleven cobbles. He needed to concentrate. The mostly nocturnal Bulldog was closing to the scrape of zinc chairs being stacked. He was getting closer. Eleven, another eleven, he would see him soon enough.
Most of the working girls had left, their curtains drawn. Those that remained made no effort to stand at the window; there was little business to be had. They sat on their bar stools in the recess of their rooms making calls to each other. They didn’t even look as he passed. There was a Friday afternoon ten-to-five feel; business nearly over and just going through the motions until they could leave. He passed two drunks with football scarves wearily chanting.
He ke
pt his eyes down, counting.
Arriving at the bridge that crossed the canal he looked towards the familiar cells. Two had their red lights on, the others dark and the offer-of-business light were off.
He saw him. The white trainers supporting his squatting body as he played a game on his telephone at the alley entrance.
Sebastian reached into his side pocket and opened the knife. The blade felt cold against his hand; it frightened him. He estimated it would take him less than five minutes to get there. He walked slowly at first, quickened his pace and then ran. The pimp looked up as Sebastian’s foot caught him under the jawbone. He felt the outline of his chin on his instep. The pimp slumped backwards, his mouth open to cry out. Sebastian put his hand over the pimp’s mouth and pulled him into the darkness of the alleyway.
He felt with pleasure the warm blood on the inside of his hand.
“Lie still, you bastard,” he hissed.
The pimp stared up at him from the prone position. His eyes bloodshot and scared. Sebastian reached into his pocket and pulled out the knife with the open blade. The pimp’s eyes widened with an end-of-life stare. Sebastian half-smiled, almost a sneer of satisfaction.
“Move and I’ll cut you. You understand.”
The pimp’s head nodded.
Sebastian leant forward. The pimp’s eyes tried to follow the blade, his forehead sweaty, and the smell of urine filled Sebastian’s nostrils. Sebastian moved the blade down the shiny black shirt, over the damp patch of his groin and rested on the white trainers. With two swift upward strokes of the blade he cut the laces and pulled off both trainers holding them like a trophy.