by Jeremy Welch
The tinkling increased. It had started. The source of the noise came from the cells nearest Oude Kerk and flowed slowly from cell to cell: the tapping of coins on glass. From the side of the Kerk he saw him in his full hierophantic glory. The rabbi alone in his black ankle-length coat, his Fedora alternating from black to a colourless shimmer as the sun fell on it from parting clouds. His face as resolute and certain as he remembered him at the opening night of the Spiegeltent. The noise of metal on cell windows announced his arrival. If the tapping of coins on glass had been rose petals they would have been strewn to herald his route as now the chorus of tapping had been taken up by the prostitutes on both sides of the canal. The rabbi didn’t look behind him, he knew they wouldn’t let him down. Voyeuristic and sex-shopping tourists stopped to observe the lone figure. Fingers started to point at Oude Kerk as the testudo formation of black-coated and Fedora-topped battle group appeared. It consisted of eleven ranks, each rank made up of three people, except the middle rank which contained one open space between the two manned flanks – a total of thirty-two persons.
Sebastian’s heart was thumping as he watched the advance. There was no turning back now. He noticed that the arrival of a mass of religious figures had seen the guilty slip off Oudezijds Voorburgwal through alleyways to question why they were in the red light district.
The noise of the glass being tapped was in stereo as the cells on both sides of the canal tapped their windows in unison. The noise got louder with each advanced instep footfall of the testudo; it sounded like the support drumbeat of an advancing army. The chorus of noise heralding the approach of the testudo joined with the tapping that confirmed its passing. The noise seemed amplified by the canal water. Sebastian had heard no laughter from the working girls before; he had seen feigned smiles, but now like the most appreciative audience he saw the girls’ faces light up. For the first time in their working lives it was the girls that anticipated the pleasure. Scantily clad, they looked more like a party of friends changing for a swimming trip rather than selling their bodies, their postures animated at the thought of the near future.
The pimp turned to see what the commotion was about, his face unconcerned. He looked around at the girls; he obviously mistook the girls’ tapping as a spontaneous mocking of the feh of Jews invading the red light district. He spat at the advancing feet of the rabbi, turned back to the water and mockingly updated the listener on the phone; his face sneeringly described the scene before the conversation returned to business.
The rabbi walked past the pimp, his eyes firmly fixed on the horizon, confident in his plan.
Sebastian smelt the acrid fauna scent of marijuana as the inmate of the Bulldog had finished his surgical rolling of a joint.
“Hey man! This stuff is strong. What’s that huge black beetle doing over there?” His eyes were glazed with the hit and his pointing arm shaky as the drug coursed through his bloodstream.
The black-clad group had halted in front of the now stationary rabbi. The rabbi had positioned himself five metres beyond Sacha’s workstation. The testudo stretched for ten metres behind him. Sacha’s cell now blocked off from the pimp’s view who had been pinned against the railing unable to move.
Sebastian knew his time was coming, it had been a success so far and he couldn’t let them down. He screwed up his eyes to block out the sun as it reflected off the canal water. By raising his hands to block it out he saw what he was looking for; the middle rank with the empty space in the middle was protected on either side by two smaller members of the group, one with a large stomach. These two didn’t satisfactorily fill their black coats, which hung off them as if off a coat hanger while their Fedoras sat like oversized cooking pan lids on their heads, easily mistaken as young apprentices to the faith. The anticipated sign could only be seen by those who knew what to look for; a small wisp of red hair blew gently in the breeze from under the rim of one of the Fedoras, the one nearest to Sacha’s cell.
The rabbi extracted his Torah and addressed the stationary group; his voice thundered like Moses with the tablets clenched in his hands. Sebastian watched but didn’t listen. The crowds who had been following the advance were now stuck behind and those in front were equally stuck, unable to navigate past the group at prayer, unwillingly increasing the size of the congregation. The noise of the coins on glass persisted, reaching a crescendo as the rabbi started to read from his book. The pimp looked around him and scratched his groin; these crazies would be away soon.
“Come on, come on! Do it now,” Sebastian whispered.
He watched as the black-clad figure with the distended stomach and red hair fiddled with the coat buttons. The hands that slipped out from the sleeve were almost doll-like in their size; the fingers fumbling with the buttons, they were failing to undo. The figure leaned forward to concentrate on the stuck buttons; the Fedora slipped backward revealing more red hair.
“For Christ’s sake, Salt, your hair. Pull your hat back on your head,” Sebastian hissed as he moved forward ready to cross the small bridge to the other side of the canal.
Salt’s fingers finally released the buttons and passed the package through the black-coated armoured perimeter to the unseen Sacha. Salt’s coat hung even looser now that she had got rid of her stomach.
“Man, it’s weird to have Satan’s black beetle roaming the streets.” The voice was relaxed and dreamy as it drifted through the exhaled smoke. The now thoroughly stoned hippie looked lightly through his half-closed eyes at the testudo. He raised his two black yellow-stained fingers to his lips and popped a little pink pill into his equally yellow black-teethed mouth. “It’s scary. I hope it goes away. Just imagine if it laid an egg and the whole city was taken over by little black beetles. What do you think, my friend?”
Sebastian nodded without looking at him; his eyes were fixed on the pimp. He had made a series of calls, all short, and during each his eyes had looked along the canal railings. Sebastian noticed five almost evenly spaced alert, not curious, heads looking back and forth. A smaller separate congregation, a backhand of pimps.
Sacha’s pimp, bored of the disturbance to business, waved his arms around trying to usher the group away from his domain. He knew that no souls would be saved by prayer; they had long been sold by someone else. He wanted business to resume, money made.
The booming voice of the rabbi ceased with the closing of his Torah. On cue as at a theatre the coins restarted the tapping on glass. The testudo shuffled without moving forward as if waiting for the waters to part. It was only as the rabbi set off along Oudezijds Voorburgwal towards Damstraat that it broke into step following its leader. The ranks were closer now making it impossible to see the individuals, just a phalanx of righteous avengers. The testudo Sebastian now knew was a full complement, thirty-three in all and the middle rank the smallest in height. That rank he knew was made up of two redheads on each flank and a nervous addition in the middle, all three struggling to look taller and fuller of body.
“They’ve done it!” Sebastian hopped from foot to foot. Rosie’s plan of distraction had worked; the girls of De Rode Draad had fulfilled their part of the plan. Sebastian looked towards Oude Kerk and could just make out Rosie smiling, her skin a sheen in the sunlight. He waved his arm in victory. He wanted to celebrate the success; he walked over to the now very animated pink-pilled druggie, picked him up off the chair and hugged him.
“I told you, man, speak the words and the wind takes them away. See there, the beetle goes away, leaving no eggs. The wind listened to me. We’re all safe now.” His eyes moist with safe and beautiful chemical visions of the future.
As the testudo made its way to Damstraat laughing tourists, now released from their forced participation in the prayers, snapped photographs with their iPhones. The alleyways surrounding Oudezijds Voorburgwal started to empty as the guilty returned now the eyes of God had departed and couldn’t review their souls.
The girls were
slow to start their business of tempting customers. Their doors were ajar as they leant out to discuss the recent events. Sebastian watched as the rear wall of black coats rounded the corner of Damstraat and felt a glow of success; he wouldn’t be needed after all. His eyes looked towards Sacha’s cell, the curtain drawn and a contented pimp knowing business had returned to normal, money being earnt so quickly after the interruption. The pimp basked in the evening sun with his back to Sebastian, his arms behind him resting on the railings. The whole body position told all that this was the way to make money; life is easy if you’re smart.
Sebastian knew what should be happening now; the middle rank would break away from the testudo, the black coats taken off and the Fedoras handed to the old Yiddish driver of the bus. Thanks would be offered by the two redheads as they kept a tight hold of Sacha. The car with Anneke behind the wheel would be outside the Krasnapolsky Hotel, the two rear doors open in welcome to Salt, Pepper and Sacha. It had been decided to overrule Umuntu who had wanted to drive. Anneke felt that only the presence of women would put Sacha more at ease, as the last time she departed in a car to a destination unknown it had been the start of her captivity to the sex traffickers. The bus would depart with a wave from the quartet; a different future lay ahead for Sacha than the one when she last waved at her mother from the rear of a car.
“Do you want a beer?” asked the dreadlocked stoner.
He wanted to celebrate; he had time for one last schooner of Amstel before he left Amsterdam for good. The beer frosted the side of the glass.
“You’ll have to pay, I don’t have any money.” His arms shrugged and disappeared into his matted hair.
Sebastian dropped his last fifty euros onto the waiter’s tray. The waiter deftly and single-handedly withdrew the change from a pouch held loosely around his middle whilst balancing the tray of empty glasses in the other. Sebastian tipped the waiter five euros and gave his new friend the remainder. He held the glass up to the opposite bank of the canal to toast a hoped-for befalling to the pimp. His finger stroked the frost from the glass giving him a sepia view through the liquid to the other side of the canal. He could see the prowlers ambling past the windows making their choice, office workers striding past like Giacometti figures through the glass’s distorting lens. He heard the voice rise in anger. Lowering his glass he saw the pimp knocking on the door of Sacha’s curtain-drawn room. The curtain had been drawn for longer than fifteen minutes; the pimp would have noticed that, he knew the timing of the visits. Sebastian knew that the door was always locked from the inside when a punter was busy. Sacha had used her key to lock it when she left. He heard the voice accompanying the banging of a fist on the window.
“Open the fucking door!”
Sebastian placed the glass on the table; he was going to be needed after all.
The pimp put his hand in his pocket and took a key from his rear pocket. As the tail of his coat rose the sunlight caught the knife blade in his waistband. He turned the key and, shoulder to the door, burst into the cell. He closed the door.
“What’s all the noise about? It’s peace time now.” The words slurred from the top of the beer glass as the chemically contented man found his peace being disturbed.
The cell door swung open; the pimp was standing in the street with legs splayed ready to run in either direction, his head looking up and down the street. Had they had enough time? Were they driving away, away to safety? He knew he couldn’t take the risk; he had to buy them some time, any time. It was his time to make himself large; he had dreaded this moment but had wanted to be a contributor to her escape.
Sebastian stood up from the table knocking the table and glass over to a clattering of zinc and broken glass.
“Hey, arsehole! Remember me! I told you if you touched her I would get you. Want to know where she is? I know!”
The pimp’s black sun glassed eyes locked onto Sebastian as his hand reached behind him to his waistband. Sebastian felt the alertness of adrenaline; he looked left towards Oude Kerk, that was one route, the other was to Damstraat on the right. He looked at the pimp, he knew what he was thinking: would he run to the bridge that crossed the canal nearest Oude Kerk or the one nearest Damstraat?
“Come on then, you fucker!” Sebastian goaded him by gesturing himself as the target with his arms.
The pimp looked left, right, made a decision and ran towards the bridge nearest Oude Kerk.
“Run, Sebastian, run,” Rosie’s voice screamed from Oude Kerk.
Sebastian was trying to think, think what to do. The screaming from Rosie made him shiver; the last time he had heard similar words Sacha had pleaded with Irena.
“What’s going on, man? There’s a lot of shouting.”
“Listen to me, my friend, I need to ask you a favour. I don’t have long so listen to me.” Sebastian had pulled the dreadlocks back and was trying to squeeze some sense into the fuddled brain inside the docile face of the drifting resident of the Bulldog. “If you look over there,” he pointed at the running man with the dark glasses, “there is a man with black eyes like a beetle. See him?”
“Yeah,” he replied vaguely looking at Sebastian’s fingertip rather than in the direction it was pointing.
“He is what the big beetle left behind, and he is going to roam the city sewing destruction. Get it?”
“Yeah man, I get it,” he drawled.
“Well when he runs past here you have to push this table in front of him. OK?”
“Yeah, beetle, destruction, table. I get it.” He nodded the way a toy dog nods through the rear windscreen when the brake is applied.
The pimp was across the bridge and pushing past pedestrians. He was fit, fast and closing in on the Bulldog.
“I have to go. Remember, beetle, destruction, table.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he slurred into his beer. “Be happy, man.”
Sebastian knew he had been wasting his time; the man was beyond sense. He turned and ran towards Damstraat. With every stride he imagined he felt the hand on the shoulder dragging him to a walk and then the pierce of the blade as it sunk into his soft lower back. He was unclear if it was fear, exertion or imagined blood that soaked the back of his shirt. He risked a look over his shoulder, hoping not to be able to see his reflection in those sunglasses. It was like looking down a railway track; the pedestrians had parted as he had run forming rails on either side of the pavement; the gauge offered a perfect view of his travelled escape route. He didn’t hear it but he did see it. A flash of light as the sun shone on the falling zinc table top. The pimp tripped over the table outside the Bulldog, his knife pointing to the shouting dreadlocked Medusa.
“Over here!” Sebastian shouted more to protect his new friend than out of desire for the pursuit to continue. He took advantage of the pimp’s fall and started to run. His mind was racing, where to run to? Where to find safety? He just needed to get to Damstraat and turn right into Dam Square; there would be tourists there; where there were tourists there were police – he hoped.
His left buttock started to buzz with the ringing of his phone in his back trouser pocket. He nearly dropped it as he fumbled to see who was calling. He couldn’t see the name of the caller on the screen as sweat was in his eyes making it impossible to focus. He pressed the green answer button. The phone slithered in his sweaty hand, his breathing irregular as he ran.
“Sebastian, it’s Rosie.”
He felt a sense of calm; she always had that effect on him.
“Run to the Old Stock Exchange. Umuntu will be there with a car. Keep running, don’t look back, just keep going.”
He couldn’t reply, there was not enough wind in his lungs to run and speak. His legs ached, his chest screamed in pain and his mind tried to work out how to get to the Old Stock Exchange. Which was quicker: Damstraat on to Damrak or was it Pijlsteeg on to Warmoesstraat on to Beursplein? Why can’t the Dutch name their streets pr
operly? he thought.
He needed to stop, just for a second; if he didn’t he wouldn’t be able to continue. At the junction of Damstraat he turned right and stopped. His hands resting on his knees, sweat pouring from his forehead and a slick of tobacco-tasting saliva fell from his lips. He walked back two metres and looked down Oudezijds Voorburgwal; he couldn’t see his pursuer. The onlookers were following his gaze down the same street, their faces expressing surprise at seeing a man running at full pelt away from some invisible foe.
Sebastian weighed up the consequences of the non-sighting. Perhaps the pimp had been hurt outside the Bulldog; hopefully he wouldn’t be taking it out on the hippie. No, that wouldn’t happen, the Bulldog staff had dealt with every conceivable event over the years, the staff would handle this one too. For a fleeting moment he thought that perhaps the pimp couldn’t pass over the invisible line between the red light district and normality. Damstraat was the border of the red light district, maybe he would be safe here in the normal world. Either way he needed to get to the Old Stock Exchange.
He jogged up Damstraat constantly looking over his shoulder; no one was following him. His legs were shaking as the adrenaline dissipated; he was in the clear. Even if the pimp was following there was safety in the crowds in Dam Square. He stopped at the corner of the Square for one last look over his shoulder, all clear. He walked quickly towards the Krasnapolsky Hotel pushing sweat from his forehead into his hair. Only 300 metres to go and he would be safe.
The doorman at the hotel guarded the revolving doors as he watched him with a disapproving look knowing that no one that dishevelled ever checked in; he would bar him access if he tried to enter. As Sebastian drew up to the hotel entrance the doorman fell onto the disability ramp as the fixed side door opened from within. Sebastian did see the reflection of himself in the sunglasses; he looked scared. The pimp must have seen him turn right into Damstraat and had cut through Servetsteeg, the covered walkway that led into the back of the hotel. Sebastian knew he never wanted to see his reflection in those glasses again.