by Jeremy Welch
He turned and ran past some departing guests knocking their bags over behind him to act as an obstacle to his pursuer. He knew this race couldn’t go on for long; he struggled to breathe and his legs weighed heavy on his will. He danced and pirouetted between traffic-jammed cars and taxis in Warmoesstraat. Why had he taken the long route? His legs wouldn’t hold out. He could hear the pimp’s coins rattle in his pocket, his footfall silent on the rubber soles of his white trainers. He must be no more than two arms’ length away; a spurt from the pimp and his collar would be grabbed and down he would go, the blade would go in and the pimp would vanish; it would only take twenty seconds and he would be dead.
He could see Umuntu in the piazza outside the Old Stock Exchange walking round in small circles attentive and searching. Sebastian wanted to cry out, to let him know he was close; his mouth opened, no voice came out, just a lungful of phlegm. The crowds in the Old Stock Exchange piazza admiring the historic building, eyes turned upwards. He could see but not hear, his ears were filled with the deafening bass drumbeat of exertion; he couldn’t go for much longer.
He felt it. There was no warning just a drag on his shirt collar. The shirt pulled back and the V-shape of his open-necked shirt stabbed into his larynx. He couldn’t breathe; the pull of the shirt had cut any entry or exit of air to his throat. He was exhausted. He could see Umuntu’s back, big, broad and strong. He would have got away. Sebastian stopped and tugged at his throat, he couldn’t go any further. He was so close to Umuntu, he could almost feel him. He was standing in front of two lovers with their legs intertwined, making one. Sebastian knew he had bought time. His eyes misted with lack of oxygen, the lovers blurred, he knew he had failed. His muscles relaxed and he waited for the sharp pain.
The pain at his throat eased as his collar was released. He didn’t care anymore, his throat screaming heat as he tried to draw breath. He was bent double looking at the paving stones. An arm grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him towards the curb side. He heard a door open, felt himself pushed into the rear seat.
“I’ve got him!” he heard from the driver’s seat.
Some running feet, a clunk as the passenger door shut. Sebastian choked and spat into the floor well of the rear seat. He felt a raincoat land on his lap as the engine started and the siren cried.
“There’s a handkerchief in the side pocket.”
“Let’s go,” the deep voice of Umuntu.
Sebastian wound down the window to get some air into his lungs. His eyes ran across the piazza; surrounded by onlookers he saw the pimp, sunglasses askance to his eyes wrestling in the unbreakable lock of two policemen.
Looking into the rear view mirror he saw the driver, intense and concentrating with the hint of a smile on his lips as he weaved through the parting traffic at speed, the siren of the police car opening the way.
“Thank you,” Sebastian croaked, his throat like sandpaper.
Umuntu laughed.
“That was a close thing, Sebastian. Thank the Lord that Rosie has friends in high places, Inspector Bloogard here has saved our skins.”
The inspector nodded in acquiescence.
“I have been after those bastard pimps for as long as I’ve worked the red light district. Every time I get one they’re out on the tailcoats of some lawyer or the silence of the girls. Thank God I am retiring soon. That bastard will also be out by tomorrow, I don’t doubt.” He added to the noise of the high-pitched siren by hooting his horn. “You know what? This is the most fun I’ve had since I was a rookie!” He sandwich filled the car between two BMWs.
The car screamed as the gears changed. What the sirens didn’t part the flashing lights did; even the smugly sacrosanct cyclists knew that this was not a time to assert their right of way. They crossed the fan of canals leaving behind the picturesque narrow streets of Amsterdam and as if by a click of a finger they raced through the utilitarian blandness of the concrete outskirts of the city. Sebastian saw the signs to Schiphol airport. He couldn’t think of anything to say, it had all been done, there was really nothing to say. They followed the signs onto the main three-lane motorway and for some reason Sebastian couldn’t work out why they kept in the slow lane. A sign told drivers of a fuel stop in one kilometre; the indicator ticked as the now sirenless police car turned onto the concourse of the petrol station and pulled up next to a white car with four passengers, all women.
Umuntu was first out of the car; he approached the boot of the female car, opened it and extracted Sebastian’s bags.
“Quickly.” Inspector Bloogard spoke through the half-open window.
Umuntu transferred the bags to the police car boot. Sebastian tried to open the rear door but the lock wouldn’t open.
“It’s on an automatic suspect lock,” the inspector informed him. “There’s no time to say our goodbyes, your flight leaves soon.”
Sebastian heard the boot of the police car shut. Umuntu walked over to the white car and leant through the front passenger window checking the passengers. He returned to the police car.
“Go safe and be happy, Sebastian.” He reached his hand over to Sebastian and squeezed his shoulder. “You can do and be whoever you want to be, remember that.”
Sebastian wanted to get out and hug him; the nomads were packing their tents: Umuntu, Anneke, Salt and Pepper. Sebastian needed something to remember them by, something that would always enable him to remember them with clarity.
“I never asked, does Umuntu have an English equivalent?”
The reply was a deep-throated laugh.
“Not on its own, it’s from a Zulu saying, ‘Umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu’. It means, ‘A person is a person through other persons’.
Before he could reply he felt the police car gears engage.
“We have to go.” Inspector Bloogard checked his watch as he let the clutch out.
The police car moved past the stationary car; Salt and Pepper smiled at him waving their hands from their wrists like wind vanes. Sacha offered a tentative smile. Anneke smiled and blew a silent kiss through the window with her phone cradled between her chin and shoulder. Her smile offered something Sebastian didn’t understand, a hint of a different future perhaps. The last thing he saw as they joined the stream of cars on the motorway was the five scarlet nails of Anneke waving goodbye.
Chapter 23
Sebastian sat at the end of the bed watching her applying her makeup. The mascara brush held delicately by her fingertips, her eyelashes closed onto the brush and after each flutter she reviewed the application for any clogging on her eyelashes.
“I’m rather nervous about meeting her again. The last time I saw her was at the Vlinder.” She spoke to Sebastian’s reflection in the mirror. “We both owe her a lot. Don’t we, darling?”
He used to love to watch her apply her makeup when they were students, had dreamed of doing it again and now it seemed as if there had never been a break between the doing and the desire. He knew he owed it to Anneke.
He had arrived at Heathrow; the arrivals hall was clogged with excited waiting family members of all colours. He walked through the door with the usual absurd feeling of being an adored star, with crowds of people craning their necks, children being lifted for a better view. The air was crackling with excitement, whoops of recognition, tears of reconciliation and reunion. There was no one to meet him. The crowds thinned as he walked past; no placard welcomed him home, no arms opened to engulf him. Amongst all the happiness he felt bereft. He couldn’t go back to his flat as it was still rented out; he didn’t want to go to his family, not yet; that would have been to admit to repeated failure. He walked toward the brightly lit kiosk offering last-minute discount hotels in London. He fingered his credit card; nothing had changed, the book was unfinished, his fiscal deficit remained. The harsh overhead strip lights seemed to concentrate on him as he studied the marker-penned cards offering rooms in optimistically named bed and
breakfasts around Victoria Station: River View, Rose Cottage, The Churchill. He remembered that area for its once grand stuccoed houses now divided into pokey flats for the desperate and dispossessed. Perhaps he deserved to be there amongst the disposed.
He felt a tap on his shoulder, rather urgent in its desire for attention. He had spent a long time looking at the cards; it was his turn to walk to the counter to choose his bed for the night. He didn’t want to look around; he knew it would be a happy pair of backpackers with the wonder of youth beaming from their excited, flushed faces.
“You could stay with me.” The voice soft with a slight quaver of uncertainty.
He turned to see her, her face flushed with exertion, her hair ruffled as if she had been dragging her fingers through it. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt covered by a suede waist-length jacket. She wore no makeup. She had the look of someone who had been in a hurry; to Sebastian Zoe had never looked so beautiful.
He looked at her, his vision blurred with tears.
“How did…?”
Zoe put her arms around his neck and pulled him towards her. Her lips were wet and Sebastian tasted the salt from her tears as she kissed him.
“Your German friend Anneke phoned about three hours ago to say you would be arriving.”
Sebastian knew now why Anneke had not got out of the car to say goodbye at the petrol station.
The memory of his arrival back in London had made him want to see Anneke; though he knew he didn’t need to thank her, she would know his thanks.
“Come on, Zoe, we need to go or we’ll be late. I really don’t want to be late. The table is booked for 7.30 at Giovanni’s on George Street.” He walked around the hotel room impatiently. Since he had left Amsterdam he had exchanged text messages with Anneke as the Spiegeltent had been struck and unstruck from locations throughout Europe. It had now arrived in Edinburgh; the tent had been erected in St Andrew Square. He had arranged dinner and wanted to get there before Anneke and Umuntu.
He heard the click of her makeup bag. Grabbing her coat he looked at her and thought without Anneke none of this would be happening. The fulfilment of his love for Zoe was down to her intervention. He loved them both equally, Zoe for being Zoe and Anneke for being the catalyst.
It was cold when they left the hotel, the streets lit up by Christmas lights; groups of office parties tottered and staggered with their arms interlinked for support mostly. Hats and tinsel decorated their faces red with the weather.
Arriving at the restaurant it was hard to see the tables as the bar was crowded by drinkers. The hostess greeted them and shouted above the noise.
“Yup, got your reservation. Your guests are already here. I’ll take you over.”
She surgically dissected the crowds and guided them into the restaurant, noisy but with the semblance of controlled jollity. Sebastian spotted the large presence of Umuntu and in his enthusiasm pushed past the hostess, pulling Zoe behind him. Umuntu saw him coming and rose from his chair, his arms open wide with his face beaming. The arms wrapped around them both squeezing them close to his body.
“Sit, sit down and tell me your news!” He was laughing, the laughter of delight heard so rarely and when heard remembered with pleasure.
“Well,” Zoe and Sebastian started in unison.
“One at a time.”
Sebastian looked around the table.
“Anneke is here, isn’t she?”
Umuntu waved his hand around the restaurant.
“Just gone to the toilet. Tell me, Zoe, how has he been? Has he finished the book yet? Tell me all.”
Sebastian let Zoe talk; his eyes wandered in search of the ladies’ toilet. He was paying attention to what they were discussing but his eyes couldn’t leave the toilet door. He wanted to see her without her knowing she was being watched. He needed that moment to remind himself just how much he owed her.
He didn’t look up as a pair of black trousers imposed themselves between himself and Zoe. He didn’t want a drink at the moment, he didn’t want to miss the moment she opened the toilet door. He wished the waiter would go away. The toilet door opened and two women walked out swapping a story; one held the forearm of the other as she expressed disbelief looking over her shoulder back into the toilet.
“Hello Sebastian, hello Zoe.” The voice was deep and smoky.
Sebastian looked confused. He turned to the black trousers and raised his eyes upward. Standing with an arm on his shoulder and one on Zoe’s was a handsome, precise and neatly dressed man in a white open-necked shirt and a black suit. His hair was cut carefully round his ears and a foppish lock of hair drifted across his forehead. Sebastian raised his hand to cover the one on his shoulder. Five neat fingers applied a gentle pleasure to his shoulder; the smallest finger had a bright scarlet-painted nail.
“Umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu,” Umuntu laughed.