by James Bailey
My heart sinks.
She doesn’t recognize me.
And I don’t recognize her.
Clara is indeed an English girl in her twenties with dark hair, but she’s not Sunflower Girl.
I stare at her, trying to hide my disappointment.
“Hello?” she says. “Can I help you?”
“Um, no, sorry, I’m OK, thanks.” I walk up the steps and read her name badge in disbelief.
How can this be?
I was so sure that this was the shop, that this was the moment we were to be reunited.
I bounded into the store with such enthusiasm that I decide I need to buy something so I don’t look too weird. I pick up one of the postcards of Anne Boleyn by the counter and pay, without saying anything. Although, as I leave, I realize someone coming into a shop that excited to buy a postcard of a beheaded Tudor queen looks pretty mental.
I trudge back out into the street, feeling despondent. If anything, I feel further away from finding her than I did before arriving in Germany. I am back to not even knowing her name.
Did I really think it would be that easy?
I am tempted to go straight back to the airport and head to Amsterdam, before wondering if I should give the art gallery a try. The coin tells me to go for it. I spot a bakery on the way and step in to buy myself a small birthday cake to cheer myself up and put it in my bag to eat later.
In the midst of festival fever, the Museum Quarter seems to be the most tranquil part of Munich. The collection of several museums, dedicated to different art periods dating from the Roman times to modern day, are surrounded by lush gardens. I’m looking for the Neue Pinakothek, which focuses on European art from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. I do an entire loop of the large brutalist building before I work out how to get inside. There are no signs pointing you in the right direction. Eventually I find the entrance and head in. The old lady at reception greets me and gestures toward the rusty lockers downstairs to store my bag. This isn’t quite the Louvre.
I check the plan of the gallery and see that Van Gogh is displayed in the penultimate room, so I speed through the other rooms, bypassing Gainsborough, Reynolds, Goya, and Delacroix without giving them a second glance. I am immediately struck by how quiet the gallery is. When I say quiet, it is completely empty. By the time I reach a room full of Greek landscapes, I still haven’t seen another person. I presume everyone else in Munich is getting drunk, and the few cultural visitors are probably still circling the gallery trying to find the way in.
Manet, Cézanne . . . I’m getting closer. As I finally reach the lilac-painted room containing Van Gogh’s works, I half-expect Sunflower Girl to be there, admiring the painting. But, as in the rest of the gallery, there is no one to be seen. I am alone with three more of Van Gogh’s works, a couple of Gauguins, a Sérusier, and a sculpture by Rodin. I am alone with my thoughts.
As the humidity machine ticks away in the corner, I sit on the couch in the center of the room admiring Sunflowers. For the first time I truly appreciate the colors, the thick brush strokes, and its simple beauty.
I look at Sunflowers, wondering if she has sat in this very seat, similarly admiring the painting. If only art could talk.
23
I hear the commotion before I see what is causing it.
And it’s fair to say what I see is not what I am expecting.
A short, middle-aged man, clinging to a long-lensed Nikon camera, is sprinting along the terra-cotta-paved street, sidestepping through the crowds. Behind him, and running even more quickly, is a six-foot-tall, blonde sex worker wearing black skimpy lingerie. Above her head, she is waving an oversized dildo as if it’s a truncheon. The crowd clears considerably more quickly for her.
As she catches up with the man, she prizes his camera out of his hands and throws it in the canal before launching into a four-letter tirade. He clearly didn’t read the graffitied signs declaring “No Fucking Photos,” which decorate the red-light district. Almost anything goes in the De Wallen neighborhood, but the one rule is it must not be captured on camera. The man, stunned and confused, stands on the spot, petrified. The woman turns around and walks back to her booth to return to work.
Welcome to Amsterdam.
Even if I had wanted to, I couldn’t have afforded to stay in Munich for another night, and once I realized that Sunflower Girl wasn’t there I had nothing else to stay for. I headed straight from the gallery to the airport and on to the Dutch capital, having booked a B&B online.
I continue past the neon-lit glass booths dotted alongside the canal, subtly checking my phone for directions to my accommodation, ensuring it doesn’t look like I’m taking any photos. A woman adorned with tattoos, piercings, and not much else taps on the window and beckons me in. I decide not to pose the question to the coin. I feel strangely flattered that a sex worker wants to have sex with me, and then almost heartbroken thirty seconds later when I hear her also knock on the window for the obese man twenty yards behind me.
A young family are walking alongside me, presumably having taken a wrong turning.
“Daddy, what are all these shops?” the girl, probably no more than seven years old, asks.
I can see his brain whirring, trying to think of an explanation.
“They’re barbers, this is where men come to get their hair cut.”
For a second he looks relieved and thinks he has got away with it.
“But why does a man with no hair need to have a haircut?” she replies as a large, bald man disappears into one of the booths.
They avoid walking past the sex club and scuttle off, taking the next turning. I’m almost tempted to go into the club just to get warm for twenty minutes, because the breeze blowing from the canals is making me shiver. It doesn’t help either that all the canals and bridges look exactly the same, meaning it’s almost impossible to get your bearings. I end up walking past the same sex worker three times. By mistake, honestly.
I’m not the only one circling the area. As darkness has descended, large groups of over-excited men flood the red-light district. I try to maneuver my way through the crowds of gawping blokes, egging each other on.
My mobile data is refusing to work, and I realize there’s no point in asking any of the intoxicated stag groups for directions. I can’t keep on walking around in the freezing cold, so I approach one of the booths. The woman behind seems a bit more demure than the others, slightly older and wearing a few more items of clothing.
“Hey darling, you want suck and fuck? Fifty euros.”
When I said demure . . .
“Um, no.” I panic.
“Come in,” she says, ignoring my response. She is caked in makeup and fake tan. Her teeth glare bright white in the luminescent lighting.
I step inside, and she shuts the door behind me immediately. She stares at me expectantly, waiting for me to hand over a wad of notes.
“You been busy this evening?” I try to make chitchat, realizing this line has different connotations to a hooker than to a taxi driver.
“What you want? We go upstairs.”
“Actually, I was just wondering if you knew where this place is?” I point to the name on my phone, not wanting to attempt the Dutch pronunciation.
“Are you taking a piss? Fuck off!”
I check my fly, wondering what she means, until I realize she has just misused her articles. Taking the piss.
“Josh?” a voice calls out.
Of all the places you could be recognized, coming out of a brothel is not the best. Especially with your hands on your flies.
“Oh my God, Josh, it’s you, right?”
As I stumble onto the street, and the door is slammed behind me, I look up, panicking about who has caught me in the most compromising of positions. How do I explain this one? No one is going to believe I was asking for directions.
Who is it?
Please tell me this isn’t the moment when I find Sunflower Girl.
In the darkness, I don
’t recognize the girl standing in front of me. She’s plump, pretty, and has short blonde hair. I quickly search my memory for who she is—someone I’ve worked with? Went to primary school with? A friend of a friend?
This is now even more awkward. Do I pretend to know her?
“Don’t worry, you don’t know me!” she says. I realize I’ve stared at her and not spoken for the last thirty seconds.
“Ah, OK, so can I ask how do you know me?” I laugh nervously.
“I’ve been following your search.”
“What search?”
“You’re searching for Sunflower Girl, right?”
I look at her suspiciously.
“How do you know about that?”
“I’m following the search online.”
“Sorry, I’m really confused, how are you following my search online?”
Who is this stalker?
She takes her mobile phone from the front pocket of her navy jeans, types in her passcode, and opens up Instagram. After clicking a few times, she shoves the phone in my face.
“Look!”
I’m looking at an Instagram account with pictures of me. But it’s not my account.
#FindSunflowerGirl.
I take the phone and click on the first photo to read the caption.
“Josh is now in Amsterdam, can you help him find Sunflower Girl? If you have any information please DM us or email [email protected]. J+J.”
Of course, it’s them.
4,327 followers. Wow.
I scroll down through the various posts: photos of me, Sunflowers, the marathon, a Photoshopped Wanted sign. The first one was uploaded two days ago.
I can’t believe Jake and Jessie have done this. I am speechless.
I want to call them immediately but remember my phone has no signal. After I scroll through the rest of the Instagram posts, I hand her phone back.
“Thanks for showing me. I actually didn’t know anything about this.” I’m still flabbergasted, and pretty furious.
“It’s nice of your friends, no, to try and help?” she says, sensing my reaction.
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“Maybe you need some more help? Do you fancy going for a drink? I’d like to hear more about your search.”
“Well, I was actually hoping to go . . .”
“Might be useful to have a local guide.”
“Yes, but I was . . .”
“Come on!”
She’s not going to take no for an answer. It’s not even a choice.
She leads me away from the hordes of tourists, and the sex workers, and fortunately doesn’t bring up what I was doing exiting a brothel.
24
We walk to the more hipster area of the city, and she gives me an impromptu guided tour as we go. I think we’re getting farther and farther away from my B&B, but I don’t object as I gaze through the windows of the stylish open-plan office blocks that line the street. We walk into what looks like a large converted cinema that now operates as a trendy café. The menu reads like a vegan’s dream.
“I’ll have a decaf Aussie skinny latte, thanks,” she says as she takes a seat.
I order and take our coffees to where she’s sitting, counting how many euros I have left.
“I should really ask your name.” I’m learning from my mistakes.
“It’s Eva. Nice to meet you, Josh.” She sticks out her hand and shakes mine. She’d get on well with Uncle Peter. “You’re British, right? I was reading an article the other day which said eighty-three per cent of British men who die in Amsterdam are found in the canals, so you better watch out,” she says smiling.
Nice to meet you too.
“Is that how you always start conversations, with facts about death?”
I make a mental note not to stray too close to the water.
“Not always, but it’s a good fact, no?”
I laugh at her kookiness.
“So, how did you find out about my search, then?” I ask.
“I just broke up with my girlfriend, or I should say she broke up with me. This was a few weeks ago. And I was having a conversation with one of my best friends about romance being dead. . . .”
Is everyone heartbroken these days? I thought I had a patent on it.
I try to console her, but she talks so fast that I can’t get a word in.
“So yes, to cut a long story short—isn’t that what you guys say?—this friend told me about your page, and, well, I’m kind of hooked now to see what happens. I think it’s very romantic. I wish someone would come and look for me. How strange I actually bumped into you. Hang on a second, I just need to message my friend to let her know.”
Before I can object, she shoves her mobile in my face and takes a photo, blinding me with the flash.
“Oops, don’t know why the flash was on. Let me take another one.”
Is this what it’s like being a celebrity?
“Julia is going to be so jealous. Actually, I should see if she wants to join us now.”
She starts texting her friend.
“So, what was I saying? Ah yes, that’s how I found your account after my breakup.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. You doing OK now?”
“We don’t want to talk about me. You’re the famous one, Josh. So you think this Sunflower Girl is here in Amsterdam, do you?”
“Well, she wasn’t in Munich so I’m hoping so. I’m running out of options. I can’t afford to go to Tokyo or Philadelphia.”
“You know, if she’s not here, there are lots of other good-looking women in Amsterdam. And you don’t have to pay either. . . .” She winks dramatically.
“Oh no, I wasn’t . . .” I nearly choke on my peppermint tea.
“It’s OK, we’re very open-minded here, Josh.”
“Good-looking, open-minded—what other traits do people have here?”
“We’re all quite, um, how do you say it, to the point?”
“Yes, to the point. Like blunt?”
“Yes, we’re all quite blunt in the Netherlands. We say what we think. The good thing is you don’t have to worry whether I’m telling the truth or not. I am always honest. If I don’t want to see you, I’ll tell you to fuck off. But I won’t be blunt with you today, it’s your birthday!”
With the excitement of the day, I’d almost forgotten it was my birthday. I presume Jake and Jessie must have notified the world of this fact too.
“Is there anything you don’t know about me?”
“I’m not sure. This sounds like a good game. Tell me something that I don’t know about you.”
“I’ve been flipping a coin to make big decisions this year.”
I regret saying it before it even comes out of my mouth, especially as Jake told me to never mention it, but I am tired, and it’s the first thing I can think of.
“I did not know that. That’s so weird . . . but so cool. Oh, this sounds so much fun. Come on, let’s ask the coin something.”
I don’t know whether Eva is on something or she’s just naturally this manic.
“It’s not a toy.”
“Ask it if I should have another drink.”
You can use your own coin.
I flip it to please her. Tails.
“Ask it if I should go out with Julia on Friday.”
We could be doing this all night at this rate.
Heads.
“Ask it if I should start dating again.”
“I think the coin is a bit tired now.”
“So, Josh, what time are we starting the search tomorrow?”
“You’re coming with me, are you?”
“Well, you’re going to need a local to help you, and you will probably need some help when you actually find this girl. You don’t seem a natural with women, may I say.”
Blunt, indeed.
“It will also look better if I ask after her, rather than you. You look a bit like a stalker, to be honest.”
And again.
/>
“Do you not have a job, or something better to do tomorrow?”
“No, I have the day off tomorrow. Perfect, isn’t it? So shall we, say, meet at nine by the Van Gogh Museum and we can go from there?”
She picks up her handbag and coat in one movement and rushes off before I can ask for directions to my B&B.
Significantly later than I had expected, after logging into the café’s free Wi-Fi—Martin Router King—to seek directions, I stumble into the reception. I crash on the bed as soon as I get to my room. I’m too tired to call Jake and Jessie and I remember I never called Pap back. As I reach down to unzip my bag I realize I forgot all about my birthday cake. I take the now broken and battered cake out of my bag and blow out an imaginary candle.
I wish that I will find her tomorrow.
25
Hello?”
That is definitely not Jessie’s voice. It is deeper, more northern, and, well, simply put, a man’s voice. I look down at the screen of my iPhone to check I’ve called the correct number. I have.
“Er, hi, is Jessie there?”
“Sure, will just get her for you. It’s a bit early, isn’t it, though, mate?” He sighs. His voice is familiar, but I can’t pinpoint it.
I look at my watch, which reads 8 a.m. I forget that I’m an hour ahead. As Jessie takes the phone, I go to apologize but then I realize I’m meant to be mad at her.
“Hey, Josh, you OK?” That is Jessie’s voice.
“Who was that?”
There is a muffled noise, which sounds like Jessie is moving.
“Hello, sorry, it’s nobody.”
Well, it’s obviously somebody.
“What do you call this Instagram page?”
“Good morning to you, too, Josh. Yes, I’m very well, and you?”
“What’s going on with this page?” I repeat.
“Is this an inquisition? I take it you’ve seen the page, then?”
“Yes, I’ve seen it, only because I bumped into someone here who is following it and she recognized me. I’m now going to be spotted as a weirdo everywhere thanks to you guys.”
“I think everyone thought you were a weirdo before this, Josh.”