by James Bailey
“So yeah, that’s the bad news. She quit her job a few weeks ago.”
Why did I leave it so long to come and find her?
My heart sinks, knowing that I was so close. Now she could be anywhere again.
“OK, does he know where she’s working now?”
“Um, this is the really bad news. He said she talked about moving to New Zealand.”
New Zealand? I can’t afford to fly there to find her. Why couldn’t she have moved to Newcastle? Or Newquay?
“And there’s something else you should probably know.”
“Yes, what is it?”
Eva looks hesitant. It’s the first time I’ve seen her lost for words.
“Apparently she was moving there with . . .”
She doesn’t want to end the sentence.
“She was moving there with . . . her . . . boyfriend.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me that first? Clearly that was more important. There’s no good news, then, is there?” I vent at Eva, even though it’s obviously not her fault.
“Sorry, I . . .”
“So, I guess that means the email Jessie got was from the right girl,” I interrupt her.
“I guess so. I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you, Josh. I really wanted to help.”
In the self-help section of an American bookstore, I hug a Dutch girl dressed as Sherlock Holmes whom I met outside a brothel.
28
I sit on the train to Amsterdam Airport Schiphol, feeling like a complete fool.
I’ve spent most of our winnings on a fruitless search. Of course she was going to have met someone else. Or maybe she secretly had a boyfriend all along?
Rain hammers against the train windows. I look around the carriage at the couples holding on to their luggage and to each other. They are preparing for exciting, romantic foreign getaways. I am heading back alone to the UK, feeling like I’ve been through this all before.
Is this why British men end up being dredged out of the canals?
As the train arrives at the airport, I check the electronic boards for information about the next departure. I am happy to fly to whichever UK airport is cheapest. It’s not like I have anything to rush back for. I’m in the queue at the easyJet counter when my phone rings.
“Hey, Jessie,” I answer, in a downbeat tone.
“Hello, Josh? Are you there?”
“Hello, can you hear me?” I say as I examine my phone to check how many bars of signal I have.
“Yep, just about, where are you right now?”
“I’m at Amsterdam Airport about to come home.”
“I can’t hear you. Can you speak up? Are you at the airport?”
The loudspeaker announcer rudely talks right over me.
“Yes, I’m at the airport, I’m on my way home,” I shout into the phone to try and be heard over the hubbub in the terminal, which is getting busier and busier as people flood in from the incoming trains.
“Why are you coming home? What’s happened?”
“It’s all over. The last shop we went to, the manager told us there was an English girl working there who has just left to move to New Zealand with her boyfriend. It fits with the message you received,” I summarize solemnly.
She is silent on the other end of the phone.
“OK, I’ll admit that does sound disappointing. But we don’t know for certain that this girl is her, and, well, the message could have come from anyone.”
“I don’t know. I think I should just leave it now. I’ve given it a go, but I think it’s time to come on home.”
“You can’t stop now.”
“But Jessie—”
“I’ve got some news for you. I was calling to say Sunflowers isn’t currently in Philadelphia. It’s on loan to the Musée d’Orsay in Paris and has been for the last six months. The exhibition is ending there this month.”
I don’t really know what to say. I think back to that time I searched the Bristol Museum with Nan and Pap for the painting that had been loaned to a gallery elsewhere.
“Did you hear me?” Jessie asks. “I was telling someone at work about you, and they’d seen it in Paris a few weeks ago.”
“Yep, thanks for letting me know, but between what we found out today and the message you got, it seems like she was here in Amsterdam.”
“But just think if—just if—that message is wrong, you’ve already ruled out three of the five paintings now. So there’s a fifty-fifty chance she’s in Paris. Isn’t it worth one last shot?”
“Yeah, but that is only if what she told me in the first place was right, and she’s not moved, and a million other possible scenarios. She could be anywhere in the world, to be honest. And she clearly doesn’t want to be found, otherwise she’d have responded to your Instagram page.”
“I don’t think that’s the right attitude. We don’t know she’s even seen the page. Aren’t you meant to flip your coin for decisions like this?”
I’m shocked that Jessie tells me to trust the coin.
What’s happened to her?
I don’t want to put this decision to chance, or fate, or whatever higher force is controlling my life. I just want to go home. I can’t do this anymore.
“Come on, do it,” she says, sensing my hesitation.
I reluctantly get the coin out of my pocket and awkwardly try to flip it while holding my phone between my head and my shoulder. It falls onto the floor.
“Sooo?” I can hear Jessie saying.
I bend down to see which side is facing up.
“It says I should go to Paris,” I reply quietly.
29
A woman—short, red-haired, and petite, with tattoos covering her arms—taps me on the shoulder, as soon as I end the call to Jessie.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to listen in, but do you need to get to Paris? My friend who just dropped me off is driving to Girona. He will be going via Paris if you need a lift?”
She has been standing behind me all this time in the queue for the easyJet counter, listening in to my love-life ramblings.
“Oh my God, yes. I do. That would be amazing. Thank you so much. That is so kind. I’ve barely got any money left, so if I can get to Paris for free that would be a massive help.”
“OK, I’ll just check he’s not left already.”
I put my phone back in my pocket and pause. Is this mad? Am I actually doing this? What would Mum say if she knew I was accepting a lift from a complete stranger? Not just down the road but to another country?
As the woman turns her back to call him, I decide to ask the coin whether I should accept the lift. My head is a mess. One minute I’m going home, now I’m going to Paris.
She talks on the phone in Spanish, complete with lots of vigorous head nodding.
“It’s fine, he’s still here.”
“Thanks so much, this is incredibly kind,” I repeat as I follow the friendly woman out of the airport terminal. She explains that she is flying to Spain, but her friend has to take their luggage in the car.
“It sounds like you’re looking for a girl?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Well, I hope you find her. I’m happy to help anyone searching for love.”
We head into the short-stay car park, where a brand-new white Audi is waiting. The engine is still running. As we approach, a tall, tanned, dark-haired man in his late thirties jumps out of the driver’s seat. He’s wearing a Barcelona football shirt and has his long brown hair tied up in a topknot.
“Hola. Jesus,” he says, tapping his chest emphatically to indicate that it is his name.
“I’m Josh,” I respond, slightly underwhelmed by my own name. “Thank you very much for giving me a lift. It’s very kind of you.” I shove my bag on the back seat of the car, piling it on top of the large suitcases and folded-down furniture that already occupy the seats.
“Sorry, I no . . . talk much English.”
“It . . . is . . . very . . . nice . . . of . . . you . . . to
. . . take . . . me . . . to . . . Paris. Thank . . . you . . . very . . . much,” I repeat as slowly and clearly as I can.
“It is OK.” He smiles.
“Sorry his English isn’t the best,” the woman says apologetically to me as she picks up her small carry-on bag. “But he will drop you off in the center of Paris.” I thank her again before jumping into the front seat, accidentally muddying the pristine floor mat with my rain-soaked shoes. She says something to him in Spanish, or perhaps Catalan, and waves us both goodbye.
As we pull out of the airport car park, I have an idea. I get out my mobile and start typing a question into Google Translate.
“Eres parti . . . partidario del club de fútbol de Barcelona?” I say in the worst Spanish accent ever.
This confuses him more than my English.
I decide to shove my phone in his face instead so he can read the translation.
“No.” He points to his eyes.
“Um, eyes . . . glasses?” I suggest, as if we’re playing a game of charades and I’m guessing the answer.
“Sí, no glasses.”
“You like Messi?” I point toward his shirt.
“Messi. Yes. The best.”
And that is the end of our conversation.
I decide I should let him concentrate on driving, especially if his vision isn’t the best. I sit back into the seat and look out the window, resigned, hoping there is some nice scenery to keep me company for the next five or so hours. The main thing is I am on my way to Paris. There is still a glimmer of hope, however small, that I might find Sunflower Girl.
As I stare out at the motorway, it strikes me as incredible that a man called Jesus has saved me.
Admittedly, this isn’t quite how I envisaged the Second Coming.
Given I have to flip a coin to choose which bottle of water to buy, choosing a faith is beyond my decision-making capability. As a family, we have always been twice-a-year Christians. We celebrate Jesus’s birth and his resurrection, and we don’t think about him for the rest of the year. Dad typically spends these two services altering the lyrics of the hymns to football chants and was keen that our attendance dropped further after the local council appointed a severely overzealous “goddamn” parking attendant who started towing away cars parked on the double yellow lines outside the church. I did take confirmation classes when I was younger but was kicked out for asking too many questions, and the vicar, a man who preaches forgiveness, still refuses to give me a chocolate at the end of the Easter service. Yet when you’re stuck in need of a miracle at Amsterdam Schiphol Airport and a man called Jesus offers you a lift, you have to wonder.
I can tell he’s been trying to think of how to say something for at least twenty miles now. I look across at him, in his modern clothes, thinking it’s about time he got a makeover. He must be embarrassed that he is always portrayed in stained-glass windows wearing the same outfit.
“Eeee, Jesus forgive you.” He laughs, pointing to the mess I have made on the floor mat.
“Oh, I’m very sorry,” I say, trying to pick up the mud and throwing it out the window, but he’s already turned his eyes away, and we revert to silence again.
I check Google Maps on my phone to see the route we will be taking, and how many more hours the journey will take. We have to go through Utrecht, Antwerp, Ghent, and Lille, but before we’ve even left Amsterdam I am fast asleep.
It’s about an hour later when I am swiftly awoken by Jesus shouting.
“Fucker!”
What’s happened?
“Jesus. Fucker!” he shouts again. I look around to see if a car has cut him up, but there are no other vehicles nearby.
I don’t know where we are or what’s going on, but I am not expecting the Son of God to speak like this.
He starts slapping his own face, leaving just one hand on the wheel. I preferred when he didn’t speak.
Who have I got in a car with? Maybe I have been too trusting, hitching a ride with a complete stranger.
He continues to speak very quickly in Spanish, and the only word I can make out is fuck.
I suddenly worry that this is aimed at me. I agree it’s a bit rude falling asleep in the car, but this seems a bit harsh. I stare straight ahead, not wanting to look at Jesus.
As we approach a service station, he pulls in and parks up. Is this where he is going to kill me, dismember me and dump my body parts? Am I going to be found in a few days’ time hidden around the back of the Belgian equivalent of Little Chef?
He smiles and signals that he is going to the café. I hesitantly smile back, completely confused, and decide to give Jake a call so at least someone knows my last location if I go missing.
Clearly Jake’s not very busy, as he picks up after just one ring.
“Jake, you will never believe what has happened to me.”
“You’ve found Sunflower Girl?”
“No, don’t be silly.”
“Um, you’ve decided you’re going to repay me the money I gave you?”
“No. I’m with Jesus.”
“Jesus? Oh God, Josh, what have you been smoking in Amsterdam? You didn’t go into any of those coffee shops, did you?”
“No, I did not. I was at the airport ready to come home and then Jesus came along and offered me a lift to Paris.”
“What, on his donkey?”
“No, Jake, he has a rental car.”
I suddenly start to feel as if I am Mary Magdalene, justifying to everyone that I have seen Jesus by the tomb.
“Of course he does. So let me get this straight: you’re saying you got offered a lift to Paris? By Jesus? What was Jesus doing in Amsterdam? It doesn’t strike me as his kind of place.”
“I don’t know. That’s not the point. Presumably he wouldn’t have had the chance to visit Amsterdam all those years ago,” I mutter.
“Good point. Probably just on a trip with the lads. I can imagine Judas would have his stag do in Amsterdam.”
“Anyway, I called you just to let you know I’m somewhere near Antwerp at a service station with Jesus, in case anything happens to me.” I leave out the part about his outburst.
“What is going to happen? Pontius Pilate is going to come after you? You’re with the Son of God, you should be pretty safe.” I can almost hear Jake rolling his eyes.
“Hilarious. Anyway, I’ve got to go, he’s coming back from the service station café now.”
“Let me know if he turns his bottle of water into wine.”
I say goodbye to Doubting Thomas, as Jesus gets back in the car with a takeaway cup of coffee.
“Coffee . . . help me to enfocar,” he says, pointing at the coffee, smiling.
I look back, nonplussed.
“Enfocar . . . I don’t know in English.” He’s now the one consulting his phone for the translation. “Focus?” He says, showing me the word.
And then I finally realize what he means. He hasn’t been swearing. He hasn’t been shouting at me. He is simply tired.
Enfocar, not fucker.
He was shouting at himself to focus.
That makes more sense.
I hope that the coffee will indeed help him, as we still have a few hours to drive. Rather than being murdered by a lunatic, I now fear I’m going to die in a head-on collision.
He points to the stereo system, presumably hoping that listening to some music will stop him from drifting off and sending us both to our deaths. He flicks through a selection of foreign radio stations before settling on a CD.
It turns out that Jesus can barely speak one word of English, yet he knows every lyric to Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Phantom of the Opera by heart, so we spend the remaining journey duetting to the soundtrack. He insists on being the Phantom, so I am Christine Daaé. Jesus has an angelic voice.
As we sing along, I barely notice our approach into the French capital, not until I start seeing the iconic buildings and boulevards. We take our curtain call as he pulls up, in the center of Paris, outside the Gare du Nord
. Darkness has descended upon the City of Lights.
“Thank you so much for your help. It means so much,” I say, shaking his hand as I am halfway out of the door. I finish the movement with a big thumbs-up so that he understands.
“Please . . . I not God. I just Jesus.” He chuckles.
I decide that when I see the vicar at this year’s Christmas service I should tell him I’m now ready to be confirmed.
30
I haven’t shared a bunk bed since I was a child and I now remember the reason why. I’m lying underneath a man who has a flatulence problem and snores all night. The other bunk in the small room is occupied by two large, intimidating, tattooed men who come and go, looking like they’re going to kill me at any given time. Unsurprisingly, I don’t get much sleep.
I call Jessie as I head out into the Parisian daylight, yawning. Despite the nagging voice in the back of my head, which says Sunflower Girl is currently bungee-jumping in Queenstown with her seven-foot-tall, male-model boyfriend, I’m feeling fairly buoyant. Third city lucky and all that. Plus, I have new friends in high places.
“I hear from Jake that you had an interesting journey.”
“Yes, what can I say? The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
“Oh God, he was right, you have lost it.”
“Please don’t use the Lord’s name in vain.”
I am unable to check the directions on my phone while speaking to Jessie and end up taking a much longer route across the city to the Left Bank, where the English bookshops are located. I smile to myself as I pass the impressive Palais Garnier, where Jesus’s favorite phantom resided.
“Didn’t you say there was a girl from Paris who got in touch? Maybe she’s the one.”
“Yes, you’re right. There was, I remember she emailed us rather than DM-ing, but I can’t find her message anymore, and I can’t remember what she said her name was.”
“You’re as bad as me, not knowing her name.”
“Sorry, I didn’t think she was Sunflower Girl. We didn’t think she could be living in Paris at that point. I’m sure I have the message somewhere.”
“What was the point in setting up this Instagram page if you’re going to lose the messages?” I vent.