by Jeremy Welch
“Thank you.” She paused and placed the half-eaten Stroopwafel in the bin. “I know what you did to the pimp and why, but, Sebastian, you have to understand the whole situation is complicated, we’ve been through this before. The Kazakhs who control the girls, the trafficking and the pimping are organised on a global scale. It was an act of foolish bravery. In fact it could have altered the course of Sacha’s future.” It was a criticism and it hurt him.
“Has something happened to her because of me?” He wanted to be cleared from the error, innocent to anything else that might befall Sacha.
She paused, then smiled a taut smile of forced absolution.
“Thankfully no. But it could have altered something we have been working on. Since Irena’s death Sacha has been collapsing into herself. If we don’t get her out of Amsterdam I think she will walk the same path as Irena.”
“You’ve got a way of getting her out, away from all of it? How? I’ll do anything to help. What can I do, tell me?”
She didn’t reply but she did assess his enthusiasm.
“You said you had been working on something, you and others, what others?”
She pushed her head back and looked at the ceiling, her assessment over.
“I can’t tell you that. I can tell you that what you did has opened up an opportunity for you to help us.”
He had a feeling of indignation that she wanted his help but would reveal nothing; he had a right to know. He felt an ownership of Sacha’s future. Before he could protest he heard the creaking of the floorboards as Umuntu entered the room.
“It’s not a question of trust, Sebastian, it’s a question of protection, protecting some of those involved in what we are going to do,” Umuntu said as he leant against the doorframe blocking the view of the corridor. He had been listening to their conversation.
Sebastian felt at a disadvantage sunk into the mattress having to look up at Rosie and now at the room-shrinking presence of Umuntu.
“So you’re involved too? Who else? And what are you going to do?” He felt piqued that a plan involving Sacha had been made without his involvement. He was tempted to tell Rosie the source of the 10,000 euros.
Rosie looked at Umuntu and Sebastian thought he saw a slight nod of her head.
“When we leave tomorrow and we are taking Sacha with us.” Umuntu’s voice was as certain as he was in achieving the plan.
2
The table had been cleared of the glasses, cutlery and strips of ribbon that had represented the important features of the red light district; the plan had been discussed; each person involved represented by coloured beads had been put away. Everyone knew where they were supposed to be and at what time. Sebastian was impressed with the minutiae of the planning by Umuntu and Rosie. Unknown to him prior to the briefing was that the outline of the plan had been Anneke’s. She had formulated it, approached those required to pull it off. There had only been the four of them in the room: Anneke, Umuntu, Rosie and himself.
“I know there is bad blood between you and Dasha. He is not happy with you participating and he doubts you can pull off your part.”
Sebastian interrupted Anneke.
“Look, it was a mistake. I went to see Sacha to ask about Irena. I don’t know what he thought, maybe he thought I had been, well you know, using her.” He looked at the other three. “Christ, you don’t think…”
“Sebastian, don’t be so stupid!” It was a rebuke from Anneke, not in anger but frustration as her thoughts were elsewhere. His crass assumption they would think such a thing had interrupted her thinking. She lit a cigarette and drew on it. “It’s important to him that this goes as planned. She is important to him.”
He felt like an outsider; first Rosie and now Anneke, both had concealed the planning from him.
“Oh, I see.”
“No, Sebastian, I doubt it.”
This new tone of Anneke’s annoyed him. He wasn’t sure who he was talking to, Anneke or Jurgen. He thought of the photographs in the bedroom, Jurgen looking perplexed as he saw his creation on Anneke. Perhaps it wasn’t a perplexed look, maybe it was a look of weakness, watching all that he wished to hold walk down the runway away from him. The weakness of not telling her he loved her. Sebastian decided that he didn’t like Jurgen; he had had it all to hold but had never had the courage to close his fingers around her. Sebastian felt the uncontrollable rush of indignant blood in his brain; his temper was now lost.
“Well for fuck’s sake try me then! Just tell me.” He stared an Anneke in a threatening way.
The heavy voice of Umuntu started to speak but before many words were spoken Sebastian interrupted.
“Not from you. Him.” He pointed at Anneke.
It lay on the table in front of them, that one pronoun; it couldn’t be seen or retracted. There was silence as they stared at the centre of the table. To Rosie these were not shocking words. Over the years she had seen the changing personae of so many in the dark world of prostitution. Umuntu had changed as a result of circumstances. Sebastian had never had to adapt to survive.
Anneke looked at Sebastian registering no surprise at his outburst. Her face was calm, her speech even and patient as if he had not said anything. She continued.
“Dasha has refound his Jewishness. Since he has been in Amsterdam he has been tutored by a rabbi to welcome him back to the faith. Part of that is the Golden Rule, ‘That which is hateful to you, do not do unto your fellow.’ Perhaps that was the cause of the altercation between you two. As to Sacha, well he has been helping her try to get out of prostitution, trying to show her acts of kindness to show her that not all men are made equally evil. He believes in redemption for his lapse from his faith, but in his mind that redemption is inexorably linked to the salvation of Sacha. He believes that if he can save her from the circumstances that are destroying the value of her human existence he will have earnt his redemption. That, Sebastian, is why she is so important to him. That, Sebastian, is why we cannot fail tomorrow.” Her hand reached across the table and covered Sebastian’s.
She looked at him questioningly.
“Do you understand now?” she almost whispered.
He stared at the table, it was clear to him now why he had been excluded from the planning; he really was an outsider. Rosie wanted to get Sacha away from Amsterdam, away from the world of prostitution. Dasha needed that to succeed for his reconciliation. Anneke was needed to make it happen. Umuntu was needed to execute the plan.
His eyes alighted on her red nails. He was the one who had tried to draw blood with his comment, he was the one who had tried to inflict the wound on Anneke. It should be his hands covered in red. He couldn’t look at her; he was willing but his neck wouldn’t move. His eyes fixed on her red fingernails.
“Anneke, I can’t tell you how sorry I am for what I said.”
Her hand squeezed his; her nails disappeared into the palm of his hand.
“I know. It wasn’t about me or Sacha, was it?” He didn’t look up, he knew what she was going to say.
“It was about what you haven’t done.”
She was right of course. They both knew that.
Chapter 22
1
He knew where he was supposed to be, and when, the timing essential for the successful execution of the plan. He walked slowly, looked at the clock on the Royal Palace in Dam Square and quickened his pace. He would be late. After a short spurt of speed he fell back into the amble of the tourist. He needed to get the arrival right. Small as his part was, it was integral to its success. He would execute his part without fear of the consequences to himself.
His mouth was dry and his packet of cigarettes half-empty; a tracker dog could have followed his path backwards to Anneke’s flat by the half-smoked stubs. The route had been circuitous to avoid any sighting by the pimp; he had looped around Oude Kerk turning into Lange Niezel and left on
Warmoesstraat to Dam Square. Standing in the square he looked towards the corner where the shop had been, the one where he had bought Zoe the bracelet. He looked at his phone. No missed calls. The speaking bubble of the text message had no red circle indicating a message. He knew then that he would never return to Amsterdam. If all went according to plan he would be on the last plane this evening to London, to what he wasn’t quite sure.
The square was active with people. He felt an envy as they moved to their destination in full knowledge that they would be greeted by a familial kiss, perhaps a passionate lovers’ intertwine. His future was opaque and grey as October; he could only see as far as his arrival in the Babel-like chaos of Heathrow Terminal 4 under harsh lights. In his case illuminating nothing.
He entered the Krasnapolsky and sat in the foyer with his eyes locked on the multinational clocks to avoid the curious eyes scanning his overly made-up Kryolan face, bruises hidden behind the makeup. He was early; he didn’t have to start to get into position for another twenty minutes. His eyes wandered around the guests. He watched a businessman shake hands with a fellow suit, formally with an unspoken commitment to be in touch with each other soon. The goodbye between Sebastian and Anneke carried a commitment to be in touch again at a time unknown too. He had woken early; Anneke was already up and dressed when he entered the kitchen.
“I’ll miss you, you do know that?” She said it quickly as if she had rehearsed and waited with impatience to say it. He wasn’t sure if this was a comment of forgiveness for his lash-out the previous day.
He took it as forgiveness and didn’t want to jeopardise the inner cleanliness he now felt. He just nodded without knowing what to say to her.
“I think we’ve helped each other, don’t you?”
Before Sebastian could answer, the doorbell rang and she rose to open it. There is never enough time when you need it and always too much when you don’t, he thought. He needed to talk to her to explain that he was not angry with Jurgen for the fatally missed opportunity. He had superimposed his fear of never having Zoe again onto her. But then she probably knew that already, but he wanted to tell her all the same, to tie up the loose ends, make the ledger balance.
Umuntu entered the room looking awake and urgent.
“Hello Sebastian. Here is your ticket to London. Before we set off I need to have a contact number in case something goes wrong.” His voice was officerial.
Anneke looked at Umuntu.
“Well you have mine and I have yours. How about you, Sebastian, what number should we use if anything goes wrong?” Her eyes held his, her eyebrows pulled slightly together. He knew it was a test, a test that could affect his future.
“My mother.” He slowly dictated the number so they could program the number into their phones. As Anneke tapped the number into her phone her eyes never left Sebastian’s. He felt as if she was rummaging around his brain rewiring his thought process. He broke away from her eye contact and said, “If you can’t get a hold of her, try a friend of mine called Zoe.”
Anneke smiled.
The contingency planning over Umuntu took charge.
“Right, Anneke, you need to leave now. Rosie will meet you at Oude Kerk, she is there now with Dasha and the rabbi. They want to run through the plan to iron out any potential problems. Hugo and Ricard have already left with the lorry and are on their way with the Spiegeltent to Hamburg. Salt and Pepper are on the way to Oude Kerk and Philippe is checking the van.”
It was happening so suddenly, events overtaking time. That was the curse of being a small part of something bigger: events controlled time.
“Everybody know what they’re doing?”
Anneke and Sebastian nodded.
“Right, let’s go.”
Umuntu picked up the luggage and took it downstairs to the car.
Anneke with her hair pulled up in a ponytail looked at Sebastian, walked over to him and kissed him on both cheeks.
“Before we meet again say it, don’t make the same mistake as I did,” she whispered into his ear, then turned and left.
Before he had time to reply he heard Umuntu shout from the stairwell.
“Come on, Sebastian.” It was an order.
His eyes moved back to the clocks behind the check-in desk of the Krasnapolsky. It was time to go.
2
He walked through the foyer and out of the hotel through the covered walkway of Servetsteeg; at the junction with Oudezijds Voorburgwal he stopped at the tobacconist to buy another packet of cigarettes. The combination of adrenaline, cigarettes and coffee had made him skittery; he wanted it all to start and end now. He looked around him nervously, studying the passing people and those hanging around outside bars. He knew there was no need but the fear and responsibility of getting it right made him view everyone as suspicious. There were two men standing outside a bar; one listening to a dull story stared over the teller’s shoulder and caught Sebastian’s eye briefly. Sebastian cast his eye down to the pavement. Hopefully he would not be remembered; just another punter on his first trip to the red light district, anonymous, bruised after a stag-night outing, like so many others. Just now he needed to be small; later he would have to expand to fill a large space.
He waited until a group of men passed him, their faces red with anticipation and a combination of sunshine and drink. He kept his shoulder to the shop faces and used the group as a cover until he arrived at the Bulldog. The walk past the prostitutes had been quiet, no tapping of coins on the window to attract business. As the group passed the girls their comments had been ignored, the prostitutes looking towards Oude Kerk. There was no touting for business, it was as if the torpor of summer had won. Sebastian sat in the shade of the awning outside the bar and lit a cigarette. He looked across the canal at the girls in their cells. Most had their curtains open but the girls weren’t prancing to entice; with each solicitation from a passing punter the dialogue had been short and met with the curtain being drawn with access denied to the potential client. The curtain reopened shortly after.
“You look stressed, man.” He hadn’t noticed the dry-haired dreadlocked man sitting at the table next to him; he had the look of a public schoolboy who on his gap year had arrived in Amsterdam, gone straight to the Bulldog and never left. The sight of his bruises deserved no comment, a familiar sight at the Bulldog. Sebastian didn’t want to get into a conversation with him.
“I mean it, man.” His nicotine-stained fingers held a crushed roach end. “Look at the ashtray, man, you’ve got one in your mouth and two burning.”
Sebastian turned to look at the man; his face shone with drug-induced inner knowledge and his smile confirmed he understood all of the workings of the world.
“You’ll die with all that stress, man. You need some of this.” He held out a black-ended roach.
The bells of Oude Kerk rang out.
Sebastian crushed his cigarette out and stood up.
“Sooner than you might think!” was his parting shot to the oracle.
He left the dreadlocked man tutting and worrying about his life expectancy as he positioned himself at Dollebegijnensteeg alleyway adjoining the Bulldog. From here he could look along the full length of Oudezijds Voorburgwal in both directions and remain unnoticed as he hid in the constant stream of potential clients seeking out the sexual privacy that the dark alleyway offered. He thought it strange that it was through a similar alleyway that Umuntu had revealed what to him had been unseen: the true world of the red light district. Here, now, he was part of a plan to make a small correction to one individual. It wouldn’t change the world but it would change her world.
He looked across the canal. Sacha was in her window looking almost childlike, her imploring expression turned towards the church; her small body although only partially clothed looked innocent and sexless as she waited, expectantly. Her hair was not its usual flow to her shoulders but held up in a bun
as if a hat was about to be placed on her head. Rosie would have briefed her with Dasha; both would have had to persuade her it was possible as the repercussion for failure would be obvious to her. Her pimp, shoed in brand new white trainers, had his back to her talking on his phone, his arms resting on the railings and his eyes behind the two pools of circular darkness of his sunglasses. He looked bored until he saw a group of thirteen-year-old girls, arms interlinked, walk past him obviously lost from their host group, clutching their city maps for safety. The black reflecting eyes of his sunglasses took each in turn and roved over their bodies from feet to groin, groin to breast and then a cursory look at their faces. He licked his top lip with anticipated thoughts. Sebastian flushed with anger.
“You bastard,” he muttered to himself.
“You see, man, it’ll kill you, all this worrying.” The dreadlocks bounced with confirmation. Sebastian nodded to him; he couldn’t get into a discussion, not now. He threw his packet of cigarettes to him in the hope that he would occupy himself rolling joints.
For the first time all of the girls’ curtains were pulled back; each cell had a girl inside and none was touting for business; each client approach was thwarted with a gentle push away.
“Where are they, where are they?!” Sebastian muttered.
“Thanks, man. Try to kill the inner monster or I’m telling you it’ll kill you,” the voice drifted from the hair-covered mouth of this joint-rolling Jesus.
Sebastian’s ears were ringing as he strained to hear the noise; it should have started by now. He thought a drinker had dropped a wine glass; a tinkling noise penetrated the silent ringing in his ear. Another drinker must have done the same and another one too. He let out a held breath.
“See, my friend, breathe deeply and peace will come to you, exhale your troubled thoughts to the wind.” His fingers fumbling to crumble the hash into the open cigarette.