Nomads on the Amstel
34. Story of the year
The Conference room was very seldom full. Normally, it was an ostentatiously large, cold and unfriendly space, despite the expensively acquired Italian conference table and chairs and the tax deductible abstract spanning the far wall. Editorial meetings were relatively small affairs, where a small but select group met to discuss their particular areas of expertise. That was deliberate of course; Huub Janssen fervently believed in divide and rule; it encouraged departmental secrecy and prevented any large scale rebellion. Today, of course was different for two reasons; one, the owner had made an unexpected appearance and two; the subject for discussion was about as big as it could get. The paper’s entire editorial staff, plus underlings had crowded into the room and several huffy sub-editors found themselves perched on benches at the back because they hadn’t been early enough to grab a place at the oval table.
Albert Huilbrechts shuffled his papers impatiently, waiting for the hubbub to subside, then stood and stared at the back wall until his sheer presence commanded full attention. That wasn’t difficult; he was a giant of a man, unusually for a Belgian almost two metres tall, although by now somewhat pyramid-shaped through over-eating, as a result of a generously self endowed, expense account. Almost completely bald, with protruding eyes, bulbous nose and fleshy lips, he inspired a certain revulsion amongst both male and female employees alike, though this was tempered by an almost universal respect bordering on fear. Too many people in the past had been summarily dismissed for merely hinting at dissent. He was therefore, treated like an exotic snake and with the utmost caution.
Despite being well aware of his reputation, Huilbrechts rarely came up to Hoofddorp. He preferred to leave the daily running of The Tribune in Huub Janssen’s capable hands while he attended to other areas of his empire. Janssen was also no push-over and could be relied on to run the paper ruthlessly when necessary. He had the full confidence of his boss although he was never told that.
This disaster however, was something different. Huilbrechts was well aware of its ramifications and possible pit-falls. To all intents and purposes, a story like this was manna from the gods but the potential for being wrong-footed and left behind in the race for sales was all too evident. Huilbrechts knew he had to shoulder ultimate responsibility, partly to cover his editor’s back and partly because he wanted to dictate the tone of the reporting himself. Should it all go pear-shaped then of course, Janssen was expendable but he felt that between the two of them, the risks could be minimised.
Huub Janssen was equally alert to the possibilities and was torn between being resentful and grateful for his boss’ presence. This was a once-in-a-lifetime story and had world-wide potential. The faint possibility of moving up into something much bigger as a result of a successful campaign was very seductive but the dangers were equally evident and not to be underestimated. On the whole, he was glad Huilbrechts was here. If the shit hit the fan, he wouldn’t be the only one covered in it.
“People,” Huilbrechts began in that cultivated, soft tone of his. If they wanted to hear what he was saying, they would have to be extra attentive.
“As I’m sure you’re all fully aware, this story has everything a newspaper could want and could take our sales figures into the stratosphere. I say ‘could’, because we could just as easily lose out to our competitors if we don’t get it right. The purpose of this meeting is to make sure we get it spot on but we have to move fast. We have to decide precisely how we’re going to approach it; what moral tone we’re going to take. We know exactly what De Postiljion will do. I can predict their mealy-mouthed, liberal, new age headlines word for word, right now! They’ll take the sympathy-for-all, nobody’s-to-blame angle and milk it until the cream turns sour; that’s what they do and to some extent, it’s difficult not to go with them. It strikes me however, that the one thing the Dutch public cream their pants for, is a scapegoat and preferably more than one. Look at Volendam and Enschede, even Srebenica! This disaster has the potential for several very soft targets and if we’re sharp enough, we can hang them, draw them and quarter them before our rivals have chance to take breath. My advice is to be hard-hitting right from the start. Sympathy’s fine for the dead, and we should show them sufficient reverence, although a hint of life-style criticism should set people thinking and give us leverage against the bad guys. It’s a thin-ice area, so tread carefully. I don’t want weeping relatives on the TV, calling us insensitive okay? For the rest, it’s open season. Bar owners, Fire service, Police, town council and especially the Mayor; go get them! The buck has to stop somewhere but we can pass it around a bit first. The gays themselves will be more difficult. They’re used to a bad press, they’ve got plenty of experience but with a bit of luck, a few decades of Dutch tolerance has made them soft. There’s a soft and particularly sleazy underbelly to gay life and it’s an easy target. Don’t forget Aids though. We got hammered then for criticising the lifestyle. I don’t want you openly saying that it’s their own fault but there are ways and means of hinting at precisely that. I’m sure I don’t need to remind anyone in this room of how that’s done.”
Dozens of heads nodded. They knew exactly the route to take. Everyone here had taken a job at De Tribune, with full awareness of its tone. If you didn’t have a sadistic streak, you didn’t belong. There was a positive licking of lips as various people saw the bigger picture and their roles in it. This was a world where everyone thought in clichés and every ambitious editor in the room was scanning his or her personal dictionary for the most appropriate loaded phrases and double meanings. They were also well aware of Huilbrechts’ renowned generosity when things went well. The bonus potential just before Christmas set everyone’s juices flowing.
35. Arjan faces his demons
It was already five in the morning and Arjan rocked back and forth in his chair, battling to restore his famed composure. It was a struggle against his own worst fears and nightmares. His whole, carefully constructed world was threatening to cave in and he had to force himself to believe that he could pull himself out of this one. Recalling previously-used, self-motivating techniques, he convinced himself once more of his invincibility. It was all he had; a supreme arrogance that the worst the world could throw at him could be brushed off, so long as he kept cool and allowed no doubts to worm their way under his skin. His conscience was more or less clear. Not for a moment did he believe that he was responsible for what had happened. It was unfortunate that so many had died but why should that be his fault? He provided a service, just the same as all the other bar owners. He was no more or less negligent than everybody else, despite what the police had tried to suggest. Controlling his irritation and expressing suitable remorse at the results of what he called, ‘a terrible and tragic accident’, he had sat stoically through two and a half hours of questioning. He knew how to play the game and understood exactly what sort of problems he was about to face but inwardly he seethed at the injustice of it all. There was no way, he was going to allow himself to be set up as the scapegoat in this business and that was precisely what both he and the police knew was the key aim. It was a challenge but as such became a game and Arjan relished this sort of situation; this was what he was best at. Granted the odds seemed insurmountable but the seeds of a plan were already forming in his head.
When the doorbell to the bar rang, he ignored it. At this time of the morning it could only be drunks or jokers. When it persisted, he wondered whether the police were back again to play more mind games. If that were the case, he was more than ready for them. Bristling with cultivated aggression, he ran down the stairs and strode purposefully across the bar to the door.
“Hallo son.”
Arjan was floored and for once in his life, speechless. Of all the possible scenarios he had imagined, seeing his newly-found father at the door was the least credible and the least desirable.
The blue eyes were still watery but recognisably determined behind the rimless glasses; the hair still wavy and a plaster on the chin reminded Arjan of their last meeting. The police would have been far easier to deal with!
“What the fuck do you want? I thought I made it clear…”
With surprising strength, Arjan’s father pushed past him and headed for the bar.
“I need a drink; I don’t know about you.”
To his astonishment, Arjan felt his resistance ebb away. He suddenly felt deathly tired.
“I’ll have a whisky; make it a double.”
It was barely above a whisper but his father heard, poured the drinks, perched himself on a bar stool and looked hard at his son.
“Bit of a mess eh!”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
Arjan looked and sounded anything but convincing.
“I’m sure that’s true son, normally but it strikes me that you’re up against it this time.”
“And just how the fuck would you know? You know fuck all about me, about my life and what I’m capable of.”
Despite the aggressiveness, Arjan felt like a teenager confronted with the truth but desperate to avoid confession.
His father looked unwaveringly and directly into Arjan’s eyes. Arjan knew the look and guessed the intention. He used the same tactic. It unsettles the other, puts them on the spot and immediately on the defensive.
“You can insult me as often you like son. You can reject me out of hand but the fact is that I am your father and like it or not, I don’t intend to disappear from your life again. I’m here to help and there’s no denying you need it at the moment.”
Arjan’s jaw dropped. Very few people spoke to him like that these days but nevertheless, he was being challenged and his first instinct was to hit back. He took a few seconds to assess the situation. He really didn’t want this man in his life, especially now when he needed to concentrate completely on himself and what he was going to do. It was a complication and an irritating distraction. He searched his soul for any signs of an emotional bond with his father; there were none. He took his time, spoke quietly but firmly and returned the piercing stare with one of his own.
“Now listen carefully pal. I don’t know you and I don’t want to know you. I’m not even going to waste my breath by going into reasons, or the past, or whatever the fuck you feel you need to rake up. You mean nothing to me, do you understand? Less than nothing and if you think I’m in denial, forget it, I’m not that soft. Now here’s a warning. In exactly one minute’s time, you’ll be leaving and you won’t be coming back. This is a one-way instruction. You’d do well to heed the warning pal. If you know anything about me, you’ll know that I’m not one to be messed with. Now can I make myself any clearer? I don’t think so. You know where the door is.”
His whole body language bristled with the necessary aggressiveness and negativity and his father got up from his stool. The expression hadn’t changed but nevertheless, it seemed that he was going to leave without further comment. Arjan relaxed his guard for a second and turned towards the whisky bottle. Before he knew it, his father had him in a vice-like grip from behind. His arms were wrapped around Arjan’s upper body, pinning his own arms to his side. For a relatively slight-built man, he was surprisingly strong and however much Arjan struggled, he couldn’t break free. These were moments filled with grunting and heavy breathing but neither man spoke until finally and frustratedly, Arjan’s resistance faded and he accepted that he was trapped.
“What the fuck… You’re making one hell of a mistake here mister!” he hissed through gritted teeth.
His father spoke directly into his left ear and Arjan couldn’t help but recognise the tone and the intent.
“Now it’s your turn son. Are you going to relax and listen to what I have to say?”
Arjan made one last bid for freedom but his father had anticipated it and merely tightened his grip. Arjan could feel the heat of the man’s body through the clothes and he shuddered. That shuddering triggered emotion that he tried desperately to control but there was no stopping the tears that ran down his cheeks. Frustration, exhaustion and pent up tension began to break down. His body went limp and he gave up, at least temporarily.
“That’s better.”
His father’s tone was softer and more conciliatory. Arjan felt his breath on his neck and broke down completely as he felt his father’s lips on his skin. The kiss on the temple was the final straw and he subsided into a dead weight in his arms. The grip was tentatively relaxed but Arjan had no more spirit for the fight. He slumped on the bar completely drained. There was no resistance as he was once more taken into an embrace. He was acutely aware of the leanness of his father’s body but accepted the warmth. He could hear the man’s heart pumping, could feel the bristles of his chin and each individual finger as the hands caressed him. He was a young boy again as he felt the softness of his father’s groin against his hip. That emotional discomfort returned as if it were yesterday. It felt like he was crawling back into the womb and he was comforted and repelled at the same time.
“Okay, what now?” he mumbled, “I don’t know what you know. I don’t know how you think you can help me but I’m not going to fight you about it. Not right now; I don’t have the energy any more and I don’t know why.”
“Right now, we do nothing. We sit here and we do nothing okay? Right now, I just want you to have some peace of mind and think about nothing at all.”
His father still held him tight and despite the voice that told him to respond with some comment about emotional clap-trap, he stayed quiet. There was comfort in the silence; he couldn’t deny it and comfort in the fact that he was being embraced for the first time in years in a non-sexual way.
The Conference room was very seldom full. Normally, it was an ostentatiously large, cold and unfriendly space, despite the expensively acquired Italian conference table and chairs and the tax deductible abstract spanning the far wall. Editorial meetings were relatively small affairs, where a small but select group met to discuss their particular areas of expertise. That was deliberate of course; Huub Janssen fervently believed in divide and rule; it encouraged departmental secrecy and prevented any large scale rebellion. Today, of course was different for two reasons; one, the owner had made an unexpected appearance and two; the subject for discussion was about as big as it could get. The paper’s entire editorial staff, plus underlings had crowded into the room and several huffy sub-editors found themselves perched on benches at the back because they hadn’t been early enough to grab a place at the oval table.
Albert Huilbrechts shuffled his papers impatiently, waiting for the hubbub to subside, then stood and stared at the back wall until his sheer presence commanded full attention. That wasn’t difficult; he was a giant of a man, unusually for a Belgian almost two metres tall, although by now somewhat pyramid-shaped through over-eating, as a result of a generously self endowed, expense account. Almost completely bald, with protruding eyes, bulbous nose and fleshy lips, he inspired a certain revulsion amongst both male and female employees alike, though this was tempered by an almost universal respect bordering on fear. Too many people in the past had been summarily dismissed for merely hinting at dissent. He was therefore, treated like an exotic snake and with the utmost caution.
Despite being well aware of his reputation, Huilbrechts rarely came up to Hoofddorp. He preferred to leave the daily running of The Tribune in Huub Janssen’s capable hands while he attended to other areas of his empire. Janssen was also no push-over and could be relied on to run the paper ruthlessly when necessary. He had the full confidence of his boss although he was never told that.
This disaster however, was something different. Huilbrechts was well aware of its ramifications and possible pit-falls. To all intents and purposes, a story like this was manna from the gods but the potential for being wrong-footed and left behind in the race for sales was all too evident. Huilbrechts knew he had to shoulder ultimate responsibility, partly to cover his editor’s back and partly because he wanted to dictate the tone of the reporting himself. Should it all go pear-shaped then of course, Janssen was expendable but he felt that between the two of them, the risks could be minimised.
Huub Janssen was equally alert to the possibilities and was torn between being resentful and grateful for his boss’ presence. This was a once-in-a-lifetime story and had world-wide potential. The faint possibility of moving up into something much bigger as a result of a successful campaign was very seductive but the dangers were equally evident and not to be underestimated. On the whole, he was glad Huilbrechts was here. If the shit hit the fan, he wouldn’t be the only one covered in it.
“People,” Huilbrechts began in that cultivated, soft tone of his. If they wanted to hear what he was saying, they would have to be extra attentive.
“As I’m sure you’re all fully aware, this story has everything a newspaper could want and could take our sales figures into the stratosphere. I say ‘could’, because we could just as easily lose out to our competitors if we don’t get it right. The purpose of this meeting is to make sure we get it spot on but we have to move fast. We have to decide precisely how we’re going to approach it; what moral tone we’re going to take. We know exactly what De Postiljion will do. I can predict their mealy-mouthed, liberal, new age headlines word for word, right now! They’ll take the sympathy-for-all, nobody’s-to-blame angle and milk it until the cream turns sour; that’s what they do and to some extent, it’s difficult not to go with them. It strikes me however, that the one thing the Dutch public cream their pants for, is a scapegoat and preferably more than one. Look at Volendam and Enschede, even Srebenica! This disaster has the potential for several very soft targets and if we’re sharp enough, we can hang them, draw them and quarter them before our rivals have chance to take breath. My advice is to be hard-hitting right from the start. Sympathy’s fine for the dead, and we should show them sufficient reverence, although a hint of life-style criticism should set people thinking and give us leverage against the bad guys. It’s a thin-ice area, so tread carefully. I don’t want weeping relatives on the TV, calling us insensitive okay? For the rest, it’s open season. Bar owners, Fire service, Police, town council and especially the Mayor; go get them! The buck has to stop somewhere but we can pass it around a bit first. The gays themselves will be more difficult. They’re used to a bad press, they’ve got plenty of experience but with a bit of luck, a few decades of Dutch tolerance has made them soft. There’s a soft and particularly sleazy underbelly to gay life and it’s an easy target. Don’t forget Aids though. We got hammered then for criticising the lifestyle. I don’t want you openly saying that it’s their own fault but there are ways and means of hinting at precisely that. I’m sure I don’t need to remind anyone in this room of how that’s done.”
Dozens of heads nodded. They knew exactly the route to take. Everyone here had taken a job at De Tribune, with full awareness of its tone. If you didn’t have a sadistic streak, you didn’t belong. There was a positive licking of lips as various people saw the bigger picture and their roles in it. This was a world where everyone thought in clichés and every ambitious editor in the room was scanning his or her personal dictionary for the most appropriate loaded phrases and double meanings. They were also well aware of Huilbrechts’ renowned generosity when things went well. The bonus potential just before Christmas set everyone’s juices flowing.
35. Arjan faces his demons
It was already five in the morning and Arjan rocked back and forth in his chair, battling to restore his famed composure. It was a struggle against his own worst fears and nightmares. His whole, carefully constructed world was threatening to cave in and he had to force himself to believe that he could pull himself out of this one. Recalling previously-used, self-motivating techniques, he convinced himself once more of his invincibility. It was all he had; a supreme arrogance that the worst the world could throw at him could be brushed off, so long as he kept cool and allowed no doubts to worm their way under his skin. His conscience was more or less clear. Not for a moment did he believe that he was responsible for what had happened. It was unfortunate that so many had died but why should that be his fault? He provided a service, just the same as all the other bar owners. He was no more or less negligent than everybody else, despite what the police had tried to suggest. Controlling his irritation and expressing suitable remorse at the results of what he called, ‘a terrible and tragic accident’, he had sat stoically through two and a half hours of questioning. He knew how to play the game and understood exactly what sort of problems he was about to face but inwardly he seethed at the injustice of it all. There was no way, he was going to allow himself to be set up as the scapegoat in this business and that was precisely what both he and the police knew was the key aim. It was a challenge but as such became a game and Arjan relished this sort of situation; this was what he was best at. Granted the odds seemed insurmountable but the seeds of a plan were already forming in his head.
When the doorbell to the bar rang, he ignored it. At this time of the morning it could only be drunks or jokers. When it persisted, he wondered whether the police were back again to play more mind games. If that were the case, he was more than ready for them. Bristling with cultivated aggression, he ran down the stairs and strode purposefully across the bar to the door.
“Hallo son.”
Arjan was floored and for once in his life, speechless. Of all the possible scenarios he had imagined, seeing his newly-found father at the door was the least credible and the least desirable.
The blue eyes were still watery but recognisably determined behind the rimless glasses; the hair still wavy and a plaster on the chin reminded Arjan of their last meeting. The police would have been far easier to deal with!
“What the fuck do you want? I thought I made it clear…”
With surprising strength, Arjan’s father pushed past him and headed for the bar.
“I need a drink; I don’t know about you.”
To his astonishment, Arjan felt his resistance ebb away. He suddenly felt deathly tired.
“I’ll have a whisky; make it a double.”
It was barely above a whisper but his father heard, poured the drinks, perched himself on a bar stool and looked hard at his son.
“Bit of a mess eh!”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
Arjan looked and sounded anything but convincing.
“I’m sure that’s true son, normally but it strikes me that you’re up against it this time.”
“And just how the fuck would you know? You know fuck all about me, about my life and what I’m capable of.”
Despite the aggressiveness, Arjan felt like a teenager confronted with the truth but desperate to avoid confession.
His father looked unwaveringly and directly into Arjan’s eyes. Arjan knew the look and guessed the intention. He used the same tactic. It unsettles the other, puts them on the spot and immediately on the defensive.
“You can insult me as often you like son. You can reject me out of hand but the fact is that I am your father and like it or not, I don’t intend to disappear from your life again. I’m here to help and there’s no denying you need it at the moment.”
Arjan’s jaw dropped. Very few people spoke to him like that these days but nevertheless, he was being challenged and his first instinct was to hit back. He took a few seconds to assess the situation. He really didn’t want this man in his life, especially now when he needed to concentrate completely on himself and what he was going to do. It was a complication and an irritating distraction. He searched his soul for any signs of an emotional bond with his father; there were none. He took his time, spoke quietly but firmly and returned the piercing stare with one of his own.
“Now listen carefully pal. I don’t know you and I don’t want to know you. I’m not even going to waste my breath by going into reasons, or the past, or whatever the fuck you feel you need to rake up. You mean nothing to me, do you understand? Less than nothing and if you think I’m in denial, forget it, I’m not that soft. Now here’s a warning. In exactly one minute’s time, you’ll be leaving and you won’t be coming back. This is a one-way instruction. You’d do well to heed the warning pal. If you know anything about me, you’ll know that I’m not one to be messed with. Now can I make myself any clearer? I don’t think so. You know where the door is.”
His whole body language bristled with the necessary aggressiveness and negativity and his father got up from his stool. The expression hadn’t changed but nevertheless, it seemed that he was going to leave without further comment. Arjan relaxed his guard for a second and turned towards the whisky bottle. Before he knew it, his father had him in a vice-like grip from behind. His arms were wrapped around Arjan’s upper body, pinning his own arms to his side. For a relatively slight-built man, he was surprisingly strong and however much Arjan struggled, he couldn’t break free. These were moments filled with grunting and heavy breathing but neither man spoke until finally and frustratedly, Arjan’s resistance faded and he accepted that he was trapped.
“What the fuck… You’re making one hell of a mistake here mister!” he hissed through gritted teeth.
His father spoke directly into his left ear and Arjan couldn’t help but recognise the tone and the intent.
“Now it’s your turn son. Are you going to relax and listen to what I have to say?”
Arjan made one last bid for freedom but his father had anticipated it and merely tightened his grip. Arjan could feel the heat of the man’s body through the clothes and he shuddered. That shuddering triggered emotion that he tried desperately to control but there was no stopping the tears that ran down his cheeks. Frustration, exhaustion and pent up tension began to break down. His body went limp and he gave up, at least temporarily.
“That’s better.”
His father’s tone was softer and more conciliatory. Arjan felt his breath on his neck and broke down completely as he felt his father’s lips on his skin. The kiss on the temple was the final straw and he subsided into a dead weight in his arms. The grip was tentatively relaxed but Arjan had no more spirit for the fight. He slumped on the bar completely drained. There was no resistance as he was once more taken into an embrace. He was acutely aware of the leanness of his father’s body but accepted the warmth. He could hear the man’s heart pumping, could feel the bristles of his chin and each individual finger as the hands caressed him. He was a young boy again as he felt the softness of his father’s groin against his hip. That emotional discomfort returned as if it were yesterday. It felt like he was crawling back into the womb and he was comforted and repelled at the same time.
“Okay, what now?” he mumbled, “I don’t know what you know. I don’t know how you think you can help me but I’m not going to fight you about it. Not right now; I don’t have the energy any more and I don’t know why.”
“Right now, we do nothing. We sit here and we do nothing okay? Right now, I just want you to have some peace of mind and think about nothing at all.”
His father still held him tight and despite the voice that told him to respond with some comment about emotional clap-trap, he stayed quiet. There was comfort in the silence; he couldn’t deny it and comfort in the fact that he was being embraced for the first time in years in a non-sexual way.
36. Letter from Vancouver
Hi buddy,
Arend, I just heard! I turned on the TV after work and there it was in all its horror. I can’t believe how many nights I spent in that bar but then again that must apply to half the gay population of Western Europe. My God, it’s terrible! It’s inevitable that there’ll be many dead though nobody seems to be putting a figure on it! I hardly dare ask but have you heard anything about anyone we know? The stupid dumb, blond TV reporter gave us very few details but the pictures were enough. It looked chaotic but I’m not surprised considering how narrow the streets are there and how busy they are. I can’t even imagine a full-size fire engine getting close to the Anvil but they seem to have managed in the end.
I’m not surprised I haven’t heard from you for a few days; you’re probably completely caught up in the drama. I know it sounds corny but do you think there’s anything we can do to help? Luc has offered to pay for us both to fly over but I only want to come if we can do something useful. Amsterdam’s probably swarming with disaster tourists. On the other hand, maybe I can rustle up the gay community here to do something; the only question is what? Any ideas?
I know it’s easy with hindsight but it was a disaster waiting to happen wasn’t it? How many times did we used to moan about the lack of a fire escape, or even decent sanitation in that place? One narrow entrance! Why wasn’t that spotted by the health and safety people years ago? Then again, it’s by no means the only gay facility in Amsterdam that acts the ostrich and buries its head in the sand. From what I can see on the Net and from what friends have told me, Amsterdam’s most definitely not the place to go anymore. Years of high prices and refusal to put any money in to improve facilities! It’s no wonder really but it does make me a bit ashamed to be a Dutch homo. They seem to still be living off the image of thirty years ago but the truth is, quaint just don’t cut it any more. The gay businessmen in Amsterdam have assumed that easy sex means you don’t have to improve anything; people will come anyway. Well, that’s all changed. You can get easy sex virtually anywhere these days and it can be had in clean and attractive surroundings. You don’t have to crunch the cockroaches and splash around in the piss anymore, (although I’m fully aware that you can if you want to!) Gays have money these days but they’re not going to throw it away on shitty service and slum conditions. Oh my God, I’m preaching again aren’t I? I can hear myself! Okay, I’d better get off the soap-box. None of it’s really important when you think of what’s happened. I just hope those responsible get what’s coming to them and that means gays as well as straights!
Anyway my friend let me know what you know. We’re just getting skeleton information here (if you’ll forgive the tasteless reference!). I’m not sure whether it’s CBC being prudish or the fact that the Dutch are giving out very few details. Either way, I’m sure you’ll be able to tell us more. You can always be relied on to have the latest inside information.
Lots of love,
Rob (and Luc)
37. Never give up hope
It was only a finger but Tinnie whooped loudly enough to bring the night duty nurse rushing in from the corridor.
She had just been about to leave. After six days, Marcel had shown no signs of life whatsoever and despite the bleeping machine providing proof that he was still fighting, she had begun to doubt a happy ending. Indeed, she was the last to hold out any hope at all. Both John and Amália had been more or less convinced by the doctors, who had given him very little chance of recovery. Tinnie had stubbornly insisted that despite the gravity of his injuries and despite the seriousness of the burns and the incredible shock to his system, Marcel was a fighter who would somehow come through. Actually, she didn’t believe that at all, or at least she didn’t believe that Marcel could do it on his own. The truth was that she was the fighter and not him but if there was a way to transmit her bloody-minded determination to the mass of bandages and tubes that lay before her; she was going to find it. Intensive care or not, they couldn’t keep her out and she sat for hours by his bed, chatting and bullying until John, Amália, or one of the nurses would drag her away to get a few hours sleep.
“Look, he moved. He moved his fingers. I saw it. I’d just told him to get off his fat arse. I told him that all those months in the gym would be wasted if he just lay here; that he’d turn into a Bear and I know how he dreaded that. Then, just as I got up, he waved his fingers at me. He did! Don’t look at me like that! I know what I saw and no, I’m not suffering from over-tiredness or hallucinations. He moved his frigging fingers!”
She danced up and down, unable to control her excitement as the nurse examined the machines and Marcel alternately.
“Okay, Miss Stiksma, I believe you but please give me a little space here. Are you sure it was deliberate movement and not just a twitch?”
Instantly deflated, Tinnie stopped for a second.
“Oh, I never thought of that. Could it just have been a twitch then; just his hand jerking? Oh shit, I don’t know. I suppose it could have been yes but then again, he seemed to respond you know? My instinct tells me he was responding to what I’d said but maybe he wasn’t. Well, I’m not going home now. He may do it again and I can’t miss it. Will you stay? Will you call the neurologist?”
She could hear the hysteria in her voice and tried to calm herself. She needed the support of the support staff. They’d seen miracles before and had encouraged her not to give up hope quite yet. She trusted the nurses who looked after the wards every day. She trusted them more than the so-called experts. She knew that they saw the people and not the symptoms and although they didn’t contradict the specialist’s gloomy prognosis, she let them encourage her that patience might bring its own rewards. She was slightly disappointed that John and Amália had less faith than she did but understood it. They were both older and more pessimistic, although they called it realism.
“I’m not sure I can justify calling the neurologist quite yet Miss Stiksma.”
She put a reassuring hand on Tinnie’s drooping shoulder.
“But I will stay here a while. Who knows, maybe he’ll do it again. It’s difficult to tell when he’s so wrapped up but with these sorts of extensive burns it has to be that way. We’ll try to watch his hand and foot and the eye. If there’s any conscious movement it will show up there. In any case, I promise I’ll note this down and any other signs we get.”
With that, she pulled up a chair and sat close to Tinnie who slumped back down and stared fixedly at the body on the bed.
“Please call me Tinnie. Miss Stiksma sounds so odd.”
“Okay Tinnie. Listen, I’ll go and get us each a coffee and do a quick check on the other patients. One of my colleagues will be here soon and she can take over on the ward while I’m here.”
Seeing Tinnie’s worried expression, the nurse knelt down and took her hands in her own.
“Don’t worry, I won’t be long. I’ll be as quick as I can. I hope you’re right about mister van Ommen, I really do. We could do with some good news around here. It was so unnecessary if you ask me; such a tragedy. I’ve got a gay friend too and I don’t know what I would do if anything were to happen to him.”
She got up and hurried out of the room leaving Tinnie to ponder about this much older woman having a gay best friend. It was a welcome distraction.
38. Frustration for Ruud and Wil
Looking dishevelled, frustrated and above all, exhausted, Ruud staggered in through the front door.
“Nothing; no trace whatsoever. Nobody official is saying anything we don’t already know. I’ve been everywhere and asked everyone I can think of, apart from Arjan de Clerck. I’d love to get hold of him. I’m sure he has the answers but there’s no trace of him; probably caught the first available plane out of here. The bastard! He’s got a lot to answer for. I do have some news though and none of it’s good.”
Wil held his hand and snivelled miserably, as Ruud told him of the deaths of three of their friends and two others who they both knew by sight.
“What do you think we should do next? His parents have been on the phone again, plus the police. I’m sure they think we’re hiding something. You know part of me wishes we’d never met him in the first place but if anything’s happened to him, I’m not sure I can forgive myself. We didn’t do enough did we? We gave up on him too soon; or at least I did. You never stopped caring did you? That’s just the sort of person you are Ruud and that’s why I love you so much but I’ve got a very bad feeling about Jacco. Everything points to him being there doesn’t it? Are they going to do DNA tests or something? Why won’t they tell us? We’ve got to know!”
Ruud knew one of them had to remain calm, gripped his partner’s hand and held the back of his neck with the other one.
“Now listen Wil, take a deep breath here. There’s no point in blaming ourselves; none at all. We don’t know anything yet. Until we do, there’s no point in guessing. He could be anywhere. There’s absolutely no concrete evidence that he was in the Anvil and until there is, we’ve got to keep looking and asking. I don’t understand why there’s such secrecy though. Why can’t they tell us who they’ve found and who’s missing and what’s going on? The only information I’ve got is from people who know for sure that guys were in there and never came out but officially, there’s a wall of silence. I don’t get it at all. I’ve never seen a COC meeting so full but thank God they’re trying to do something. It seems to me the only way we’ll get accurate information is if the gays themselves seek it out and that’s what COC is trying to do. On the other hand, if the police are phoning us about Jacco then at least we can safely assume that they don’t know he was there either.”
“Yeah but probably the only reason they’re interested is because his parents will be pestering the hell out of them. You’re right though. I’ll try not being a hysterical queen and doing something useful instead. Hey, I’ve just had an idea I wonder if Ton knows anything or at least if he’s prepared to tell me.”
“Wil, you’re a genius, that’s brilliant! Why didn’t I think of him?”
“Possibly because you hate his guts that’s why!”
“Oh forgive me for disliking the ‘ex’ who nearly bankrupts you. Then again, if anybody knows anything, he must and if anybody can get it out of him, you can.”
“You flatter me sir but not often enough I fear! God, it feels so wrong trying to be funny at the moment. I’ll go right now and drop in on him unannounced. If he knows I’m coming he’ll clam up for sure. He hates surprise visits but only because he likes to have time to plan his story. I bet I’m not the only one who’d like to find out what Ton knows but he owes me big time. If he knows anything at all, I’ll wheedle it out of him don’t you worry.”
“While you’re gone, I’ll phone around again. You never know.”
Wil had already grabbed his coat and was on his way out but Ruud intercepted him.
“Hold on, important things first.”
The hug and the kiss were of comfort to them both. In this crazy world, reassurances were doubly important.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Rarely had they both meant it so deeply.
Hi buddy,
Arend, I just heard! I turned on the TV after work and there it was in all its horror. I can’t believe how many nights I spent in that bar but then again that must apply to half the gay population of Western Europe. My God, it’s terrible! It’s inevitable that there’ll be many dead though nobody seems to be putting a figure on it! I hardly dare ask but have you heard anything about anyone we know? The stupid dumb, blond TV reporter gave us very few details but the pictures were enough. It looked chaotic but I’m not surprised considering how narrow the streets are there and how busy they are. I can’t even imagine a full-size fire engine getting close to the Anvil but they seem to have managed in the end.
I’m not surprised I haven’t heard from you for a few days; you’re probably completely caught up in the drama. I know it sounds corny but do you think there’s anything we can do to help? Luc has offered to pay for us both to fly over but I only want to come if we can do something useful. Amsterdam’s probably swarming with disaster tourists. On the other hand, maybe I can rustle up the gay community here to do something; the only question is what? Any ideas?
I know it’s easy with hindsight but it was a disaster waiting to happen wasn’t it? How many times did we used to moan about the lack of a fire escape, or even decent sanitation in that place? One narrow entrance! Why wasn’t that spotted by the health and safety people years ago? Then again, it’s by no means the only gay facility in Amsterdam that acts the ostrich and buries its head in the sand. From what I can see on the Net and from what friends have told me, Amsterdam’s most definitely not the place to go anymore. Years of high prices and refusal to put any money in to improve facilities! It’s no wonder really but it does make me a bit ashamed to be a Dutch homo. They seem to still be living off the image of thirty years ago but the truth is, quaint just don’t cut it any more. The gay businessmen in Amsterdam have assumed that easy sex means you don’t have to improve anything; people will come anyway. Well, that’s all changed. You can get easy sex virtually anywhere these days and it can be had in clean and attractive surroundings. You don’t have to crunch the cockroaches and splash around in the piss anymore, (although I’m fully aware that you can if you want to!) Gays have money these days but they’re not going to throw it away on shitty service and slum conditions. Oh my God, I’m preaching again aren’t I? I can hear myself! Okay, I’d better get off the soap-box. None of it’s really important when you think of what’s happened. I just hope those responsible get what’s coming to them and that means gays as well as straights!
Anyway my friend let me know what you know. We’re just getting skeleton information here (if you’ll forgive the tasteless reference!). I’m not sure whether it’s CBC being prudish or the fact that the Dutch are giving out very few details. Either way, I’m sure you’ll be able to tell us more. You can always be relied on to have the latest inside information.
Lots of love,
Rob (and Luc)
37. Never give up hope
It was only a finger but Tinnie whooped loudly enough to bring the night duty nurse rushing in from the corridor.
She had just been about to leave. After six days, Marcel had shown no signs of life whatsoever and despite the bleeping machine providing proof that he was still fighting, she had begun to doubt a happy ending. Indeed, she was the last to hold out any hope at all. Both John and Amália had been more or less convinced by the doctors, who had given him very little chance of recovery. Tinnie had stubbornly insisted that despite the gravity of his injuries and despite the seriousness of the burns and the incredible shock to his system, Marcel was a fighter who would somehow come through. Actually, she didn’t believe that at all, or at least she didn’t believe that Marcel could do it on his own. The truth was that she was the fighter and not him but if there was a way to transmit her bloody-minded determination to the mass of bandages and tubes that lay before her; she was going to find it. Intensive care or not, they couldn’t keep her out and she sat for hours by his bed, chatting and bullying until John, Amália, or one of the nurses would drag her away to get a few hours sleep.
“Look, he moved. He moved his fingers. I saw it. I’d just told him to get off his fat arse. I told him that all those months in the gym would be wasted if he just lay here; that he’d turn into a Bear and I know how he dreaded that. Then, just as I got up, he waved his fingers at me. He did! Don’t look at me like that! I know what I saw and no, I’m not suffering from over-tiredness or hallucinations. He moved his frigging fingers!”
She danced up and down, unable to control her excitement as the nurse examined the machines and Marcel alternately.
“Okay, Miss Stiksma, I believe you but please give me a little space here. Are you sure it was deliberate movement and not just a twitch?”
Instantly deflated, Tinnie stopped for a second.
“Oh, I never thought of that. Could it just have been a twitch then; just his hand jerking? Oh shit, I don’t know. I suppose it could have been yes but then again, he seemed to respond you know? My instinct tells me he was responding to what I’d said but maybe he wasn’t. Well, I’m not going home now. He may do it again and I can’t miss it. Will you stay? Will you call the neurologist?”
She could hear the hysteria in her voice and tried to calm herself. She needed the support of the support staff. They’d seen miracles before and had encouraged her not to give up hope quite yet. She trusted the nurses who looked after the wards every day. She trusted them more than the so-called experts. She knew that they saw the people and not the symptoms and although they didn’t contradict the specialist’s gloomy prognosis, she let them encourage her that patience might bring its own rewards. She was slightly disappointed that John and Amália had less faith than she did but understood it. They were both older and more pessimistic, although they called it realism.
“I’m not sure I can justify calling the neurologist quite yet Miss Stiksma.”
She put a reassuring hand on Tinnie’s drooping shoulder.
“But I will stay here a while. Who knows, maybe he’ll do it again. It’s difficult to tell when he’s so wrapped up but with these sorts of extensive burns it has to be that way. We’ll try to watch his hand and foot and the eye. If there’s any conscious movement it will show up there. In any case, I promise I’ll note this down and any other signs we get.”
With that, she pulled up a chair and sat close to Tinnie who slumped back down and stared fixedly at the body on the bed.
“Please call me Tinnie. Miss Stiksma sounds so odd.”
“Okay Tinnie. Listen, I’ll go and get us each a coffee and do a quick check on the other patients. One of my colleagues will be here soon and she can take over on the ward while I’m here.”
Seeing Tinnie’s worried expression, the nurse knelt down and took her hands in her own.
“Don’t worry, I won’t be long. I’ll be as quick as I can. I hope you’re right about mister van Ommen, I really do. We could do with some good news around here. It was so unnecessary if you ask me; such a tragedy. I’ve got a gay friend too and I don’t know what I would do if anything were to happen to him.”
She got up and hurried out of the room leaving Tinnie to ponder about this much older woman having a gay best friend. It was a welcome distraction.
38. Frustration for Ruud and Wil
Looking dishevelled, frustrated and above all, exhausted, Ruud staggered in through the front door.
“Nothing; no trace whatsoever. Nobody official is saying anything we don’t already know. I’ve been everywhere and asked everyone I can think of, apart from Arjan de Clerck. I’d love to get hold of him. I’m sure he has the answers but there’s no trace of him; probably caught the first available plane out of here. The bastard! He’s got a lot to answer for. I do have some news though and none of it’s good.”
Wil held his hand and snivelled miserably, as Ruud told him of the deaths of three of their friends and two others who they both knew by sight.
“What do you think we should do next? His parents have been on the phone again, plus the police. I’m sure they think we’re hiding something. You know part of me wishes we’d never met him in the first place but if anything’s happened to him, I’m not sure I can forgive myself. We didn’t do enough did we? We gave up on him too soon; or at least I did. You never stopped caring did you? That’s just the sort of person you are Ruud and that’s why I love you so much but I’ve got a very bad feeling about Jacco. Everything points to him being there doesn’t it? Are they going to do DNA tests or something? Why won’t they tell us? We’ve got to know!”
Ruud knew one of them had to remain calm, gripped his partner’s hand and held the back of his neck with the other one.
“Now listen Wil, take a deep breath here. There’s no point in blaming ourselves; none at all. We don’t know anything yet. Until we do, there’s no point in guessing. He could be anywhere. There’s absolutely no concrete evidence that he was in the Anvil and until there is, we’ve got to keep looking and asking. I don’t understand why there’s such secrecy though. Why can’t they tell us who they’ve found and who’s missing and what’s going on? The only information I’ve got is from people who know for sure that guys were in there and never came out but officially, there’s a wall of silence. I don’t get it at all. I’ve never seen a COC meeting so full but thank God they’re trying to do something. It seems to me the only way we’ll get accurate information is if the gays themselves seek it out and that’s what COC is trying to do. On the other hand, if the police are phoning us about Jacco then at least we can safely assume that they don’t know he was there either.”
“Yeah but probably the only reason they’re interested is because his parents will be pestering the hell out of them. You’re right though. I’ll try not being a hysterical queen and doing something useful instead. Hey, I’ve just had an idea I wonder if Ton knows anything or at least if he’s prepared to tell me.”
“Wil, you’re a genius, that’s brilliant! Why didn’t I think of him?”
“Possibly because you hate his guts that’s why!”
“Oh forgive me for disliking the ‘ex’ who nearly bankrupts you. Then again, if anybody knows anything, he must and if anybody can get it out of him, you can.”
“You flatter me sir but not often enough I fear! God, it feels so wrong trying to be funny at the moment. I’ll go right now and drop in on him unannounced. If he knows I’m coming he’ll clam up for sure. He hates surprise visits but only because he likes to have time to plan his story. I bet I’m not the only one who’d like to find out what Ton knows but he owes me big time. If he knows anything at all, I’ll wheedle it out of him don’t you worry.”
“While you’re gone, I’ll phone around again. You never know.”
Wil had already grabbed his coat and was on his way out but Ruud intercepted him.
“Hold on, important things first.”
The hug and the kiss were of comfort to them both. In this crazy world, reassurances were doubly important.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Rarely had they both meant it so deeply.
The Amsterdam Series
Home
- Story of the year
- Arjan faces his demons
- Letter from Vancouver
- Never give up hope
- Frustration for Ruud and Wil
