Nomads on the Amstel
39. The unhappy civil servant
Ton Bak had just pulled on his pyjamas after an unsuccessful attempt at masturbation. The combination of over-tiredness and stress had defeated the need for physical release once again. Shrugging his shoulders, he turned off the flickering, repetitive video and thought about going to bed. It was like a well-thumbed book; he didn’t need to look to know what was happening on the screen but it was necessary as stimulation. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep; the fire and its consequences had wrecked his routines. In the last few days he had frequently asked himself why. The hospital was by definition always busy, always hectic and problems arose as a matter of course. His ability to put everything in perspective and deal with things in a calm and efficient manner had landed him in the job in the first place. It was no accident that he was the longest serving hospital administrator in the country. Normally, nothing fazed him and no problem was too great to handle; until now that is. Perhaps it was the enforced news blackout and the constant presence of police, reporters and assorted, interfering politicians both local and national, that had thrown him. The hospital just wasn’t equipped for a semi-permanent encampment of non-medical personnel. They got in the way, demanded the impossible and generally interfered in the running of almost all departments. Even that should have been no more than an irritation to the normally imperturbable administrator, yet he was definitely rattled. He couldn’t see the big picture; couldn’t see the outcome and had the uncomfortable feeling that he was one of several prominent civil servants who would soon be thrown under a glaring spotlight but didn’t really understand why. During the last few days, several instructions and memos had been ignored, or returned without comment. Certain people were suddenly unavailable when he needed advice and he was becoming convinced that orders from above were bypassing him and being given to departmental heads without his knowledge. Although day-to-day administrative decisions flowed through the chain of command as usual, he felt he was losing control in key areas and thus overall control of the whole situation. At the moment all he had were suspicions but they were enough to give him a rarely felt, sense of insecurity.
The other reason for his disquiet lay in the fact that this disaster primarily affected his own people. Thanks mainly to his age and 1950s upbringing; he had never been a great one for gay rights and communal gay protest and because of his position at work, he never advertised his sexuality. This was not to say that he was ashamed or embarrassed; quite the contrary but his inherent pragmatism saw no reason to take unnecessary risks. He saw it as his business, a private matter and absolutely nothing to do with his work. Consequently, only a select few knew for certain he was gay though his single status in later life gave rise to sufficient rumours, none of which he cared to substantiate. This disaster however, had touched him deeper than he had thought possible. He’d done the rounds with the assembled dignitaries and had seen maimed and disfigured men lying in great pain, trying to maintain some dignity in the midst of the world’s reactions. He’d recognised one or two faces from his past and suddenly counted his blessings. If this had happened twenty years previously, it could have been him lying there. Through determination, hard work and some luck, he had climbed the career ladder and made a conscious decision to lead a discreet sexual life but he was well aware that this was a mere accident of fate. He knew there were so-called respected members of society amongst the dead and injured and the irony was not at all lost on him. At the moment though, he was battling to maintain control of his professional status and the last thing he needed was his sexuality providing unwelcome ammunition for his detractors, whoever they may be.
The doorbell shattered the silence and jangled his nerves. He opened the door somewhat reluctantly, to find a determined looking Wil on the doorstep. His heart sank; he was just too tired to contemplate the idea of Wil lecturing him on anything at all at the moment and Wil’s face made it clear that a lecture was just what he was going to get.
“Can I come in then?”
“If you must!”
He turned away grumpily. Wil was one of the very few people he ‘owed’ in life. There was a moral obligation that would take years to repay but that didn’t mean that he had to be pleasant about it.
“Drink?” The resentment in his voice was all too obvious.
“Just water please. Listen Ton, I’ve not come to fight and I’m not here to rake over the past but I would like a few minutes of your time and to pick your brains. Is that okay?”
Jan was confused. Wil normally came in like a gale of wind, aggressive and antagonistic but it was clear from his face that there was no subtle plan of attack here. If anything Wil looked dangerously tired and vulnerable; his whole face drooped. On the other hand, that little-boy-lost look reminded him of the attraction all those years ago. For a moment, he felt a rush of tenderness that was quickly overtaken by a nagging fear of what was to come. He poured the water and handing it over without further comment, listened to his visitor’s story.
After several minutes, Wil slumped back in the chair and rubbed his forehead. He had a blinding headache.
“Much as it pains me to say it, you’re our last hope. If you can’t tell me anything, I don’t know who can.”
Ton didn’t respond straight away; he needed a moment to collect his thoughts. It was almost always irritating for others but the time was used to analyse the situation and decide on the best response. That way, he made fewer mistakes than most. He couldn’t help a momentary feeling of triumph. Here was Wil van Rossum virtually begging him for help. This was a first. He had once been the man’s lover but had made an uncharacteristic error of judgement which had resulted in the loss of thousands of guilders, none of them his own. Since the inevitable break up, Wil had launched a crusade of relentless revenge. Despite a relatively speedy repayment of the money, plus interest and countless apologies and emotional reparations, Wil maintained the vendetta. It was part of the reason for Ton’s reluctant and discreet participation in Amsterdam’s gay circuit. Thanks to Wil, his name was not exactly associated with trust and reliability. Eventually he had come to the conclusion that it had suited his purpose to be anonymous and considering the events of the last few days, it had maybe even saved him from a fiery death in a darkroom but nevertheless it hurt. After Wil, he was more than cautious in his relationships. The truth was, nobody got past the second date. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.
Yet here sat his nemesis, clearly fragile and needy. The sudden role reversal and feeling of power was irresistible.
“Now Wil, you know I can’t tell you anything. It’s more than my job’s worth.”
He knew he sounded patronising; knew it was a mistake but enjoyed the moment nevertheless.
“And just what is your job worth Ton? Listen, it’s true what I said, I didn’t come here to fight but I do need some information and not for selfish reasons. Well, actually, yes I do have a personal interest but I’m not the only one…Oh shit I’m not making any sense am I? Fuck Ton, I need to know what you know and I’m not leaving until I do. That’s not meant as a threat, really it’s not but some things are more important than petty feuds, or jobs, or reputations; sometimes you need to stand up for what you really believe in and I can’t imagine you have become so hard-hearted that you’ll put your job before people’s lives.”
Wil subsided into the depths of the leather Chesterfield; his last shot spent and out of ammunition. He’d run out of ideas.
“Are you finished with the clichés Wil? Not everything in this life is morally-speaking, Oprah-Winfrey-pink you know. I will tell you what little I know and will find out a little more but I’m not the enemy here.”
“No but you are in charge of the largest hospital in Amsterdam; you are on every health committee going and you have contacts with everybody who’s anybody in this city. If you can’t help, nobody can.”
Jan poured himself a generous whisky, walked slowly to the fridge and carefully pressed out two ice cubes into his glass. If Wil suspected his usual delaying tactics, the expression on his face changed his mind. The man looked completely out of sorts, depressed and down-trodden; most unlike the Ton Bak who Wil knew of old.
“What is it Ton? There’s more to this than meets the eye isn’t there? What’s going on?”
The administrator took a deep gulp and looked Wil straight in the eye; each man’s tiredness reflected in the eyes of the other.
“The problem is Wil; I’m not sure what’s going on. You’re right; normally, I’d be able to access all the information you need but I’m being blocked in all directions and I’ve only just realised it. I’m facing the wall of silence too and it’s most unnerving. I don’t understand it; I don’t know who’s behind it but it’s certainly frustrating and alarming. It’s as if they’re trying to divide and rule. Different people and departments are getting e-mail memos with instructions specific to their own tasks but nobody gets the full picture, least of all me. The problem is I don’t know who ‘they’ are. I’ve rung the people immediately above me and Marinus Eckhart, who has a direct link to the Mayor’s office but they either don’t know or won’t say. Whatever’s happening is coming straight from the Ministry, or even higher. My people are grumbling like hell and it’s all I can do to keep a lid on it by babbling on about keeping misinformation from the press. Everybody’s used to that sort of thing but a hospital doesn’t exactly run smoothly when the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand’s doing. It makes my blood boil. Although I say it myself, this place runs like clockwork most of the time but only because I know exactly what’s going on right down to the smallest details and can put out fires before they begin. This…whatever…it’s not my style; it’s like walking through a fog. Clearly the bastards feel I’m not to be trusted and that pisses me off.”
It was now Wil’s turn to take a moment.
“Jesus Ton, I don’t know what to say. I came here looking for information that might lead us to Jacco and that’s still my number one priority but what you’re saying is pretty dramatic. This fire’s opened a particularly nasty can of worms by the looks of it and some people seem to want to get the lid back on as soon as possible. Fuck, no wonder conspiracy theories are so popular. Listen, if you’re open to it, I’d like to help if I can. I don’t know what I can do but I can at least provide you with a listening ear. I’m sure Ruud would help too; he’s pretty good at this sort of thing. He’s got an amazing intuition sometimes. He’s a lateral thinker and can spot things that I certainly can’t. I’ll call him and get him to come over.”
Before Ton could react or even work out how to react, Wil was talking in that rapid fire manner of his on his mobile.
“Now wait a minute…Wil.”
He was not sure he wanted Wil’s help; certainly not sure that he needed it and recoiled at the idea of a virtual stranger, who also happened to be Wil’s partner, adding to the complications.
Wil closed off his mobile and without warning gathered Jan into his arms for an obligatory cuddle.
“I know, I know…don’t worry, we’re not going to bulldoze into your life and make things more difficult for you but as far as I can see, you’re pretty much on your own here. You’re being isolated, or sidelined, whatever and I can imagine what that feels like. Ruud’s not that happy about the idea either but I reckon if we sit down and talk for a while maybe a couple of objective opinions might help you to see things more clearly. After that, if you decide you don’t need our help then we’ll leave you alone okay? That’s a promise! We’ve got our hands full too but maybe three heads are better than one. It’s worth a try isn’t it?”
Wil had quickly realised that his all too typical impulsiveness could be counter-productive. He knew Ton would be pulling down the shutters and putting up barriers as they spoke but then again maybe not; the man clearly needed support. He genuinely wanted to help but realised he also needed to concentrate on finding Jacco. The whole thing was intriguing and confusing but he couldn’t help feeling that everything was linked in some way; part of the same puzzle. Helping Ton might just be the quickest way to finding Jacco.
40. Friends pull together
Amália closed the door, took a deep breath, poured water into the coffee maker and lingered in the kitchen a while, enjoying the quiet gurgling as the coffee percolated. She could hear Tinnie still at full volume regaling John with the story of the Florence Nightingale at the hospital and Marcel’s miraculous awakening. It was not that she wasn’t interested but she’d already heard the story twice and needed a few moments away from Tinnie’s intensity. She realised that she suddenly felt a bystander at a great event; something she wasn’t used to. Normally centre stage; it was a novelty to be on the fringes of the action. She was a friend of a friend of someone slap in the middle of an enormous tragedy and thus almost irrelevantly far removed. It wasn’t altogether a pleasant feeling. Tragedy appealed to her; it fitted with the image. She responded well to drama; it brought out the best in her and yet here, she was reduced to the role of witness and support-giver and there was little she could do to become more involved. Such feelings gave her an uncomfortable, guilty feeling. The whole situation was naturally much bigger than any of the individuals and she was playing her part by doing what she was able to do, that should have been enough. She couldn’t help wondering though, how many people in Amsterdam were reassessing their roles and examining their motives at the moment; she was almost certainly not the only one who needed to adapt to events.
Her thoughts were interrupted as John came into the kitchen, gingerly closed the door behind him and whispered,
“She’s asleep on the couch. One minute she was talking and the next, her eyes closed and she was gone. That coffee smells really good.”
Amália slumped against the sink in relief, the tension draining out of her body
“Oh thank God for that! At last! I was beginning to get really worried and of course she wouldn’t listen to my advice. I’ve never known anyone go without sleep for so long. She looks like a ghost don’t you think? So pale and unhealthy. Maybe later you could help me lift her into the bedroom; she needs undisturbed rest.”
“So do you I suspect.”
John put his arm around Amália’s shoulders and squeezed gently. She smiled weakly, poured his coffee and they sat down at the small table by the window. Amália stared out at the rooftops, her eyes glazed and far away.
“We all do! This is so amazing don’t you think? It’s almost as if we’re living through something historical; something that will be written about in the history books but it’s so tiring; my body aches with the tiredness.”
John’s face reflected his own exhaustion. The lines and bags around the eyes were etched deeper and the skin on his neck hung loose. He hadn’t shaved for two days and looked all of his age but nevertheless, to Amália, he was still a handsome man; a man with a past and character written in his face.
“I know what you mean but we’re writing our own histories too. I’ve never known my life change around so quickly. It feels as though I’m on a conveyor belt and can’t get off.”
Amália gave him with one of her famous gypsy stares and shook her finger gently at him. Sometimes the recipient was transfixed by her ‘looks’, like a rabbit in the headlights but John inwardly chuckled. Amália’s expression seemed a little comical, clichéd even. Nevertheless, with appropriate seriousness, he politely returned the look.
“You’re taking a big risk aren’t you? You’re in love with Marcel I think; you’ve saved his life but he doesn’t realise any of it does he? What will you do if he wakes up and doesn’t want to know you? What if he’s so damaged, he’s incapable of love any more? Are you prepared to care for someone whose heart’s been cut out? Have you thought it all through John?”
“Whoa, wait a minute Amália; you’re jumping the gun a bit here. I haven’t thought that far ahead yet. My God, I’m not sure what I feel at the moment. Just getting through the day’s hard enough.”
He was genuinely shocked. Amália had tapped into something he hadn’t identified and yet in the space of a few short words, she seemed to have summed up a huge chunk of his subconscious emotions. He had refused the offer of psychological help after the fire, for much the same reasons as he had refused to talk to the press or TV. He had no wish to be a hero, or a media novelty and certainly didn’t want to lay himself open to an examination of his gay life. He’d hardly begun to understand it himself and the idea of his life being investigated, either by reporters or a well-meaning psychologist filled him with horror. Fortunately, Tinnie and Amália had offered him a refuge and theirs was all the support he needed. Actually, in many ways, they needed more support than he did. Tinnie was determined to devote her entire life to Marcel’s well-being and was burning herself out in the process and Amália was clearly in search of a role other than being Tinnie’s better half. Her sweeping, dramatic gestures and deep sighs made him laugh and thus provided some light relief. She was however, pretty insightful at times and they’d had time enough to sit and relate their stories to each other. In his opinion, hers was far more interesting than his but she was clearly listening when he explained his past. Several times she anticipated events before he told of them and just as now, she occasionally saw right through him, cut out the bullshit and got straight to the crux of the matter. Fortunately, now she let him off the hook.
“Okay, I won’t press the matter any more but think about what I said won’t you? You now feel that Marcel owes you an emotional reward, big time! As far as he’s concerned, he owes you nothing of the sort right now; from what you’ve said, he’s barely aware you exist. This is a very dangerous situation for you. Anyway, if you’ll give me a hand with Tinnie, I think I’ll lie down with her for a while. Maybe you should try to rest too; your brain must be buzzing. You haven’t slept much at all in the last few days have you? I can see it in your eyes. Don’t underestimate the shock you’ve had John; you’re brain’s going to need quite a while to sort it all out.”
He knew exactly what she meant. He hadn’t slept more than a few hours since the fire and then only fitfully but had reached the stage where he was too tired to sleep. He did acknowledge he was dangerously low on reserves though and decided to take her advice. There were still a few hours before he was due to go to the hospital. He could at least lie down and rest his eyes.
The tunnel loomed out of his subconscious again, although it was more of a funnel, with a broad beginning tapering away to a tiny dot in the distance. The effect was just like in those pop videos, where a haze was created above laser lights so that the plane appeared multi-dimensional. The sides swirled with smoke and flame but the centre was safe. The figures scrambled towards him, wild-eyed and with mouths open in horror. Some were disfigured, mutilated by the fire. Some screamed in agony and others looked blank as if the trauma was too great. He fought his way through them, a single figure against the tide. One man grabbed him by the shoulders and shouted directly into his face,
“You’re not like us, go back; go back!”
Painfully he fought his way through towards the tiny hole at the end of the funnel. The heat was intense; his lungs and throat burned with the effort and his hair singed but he eventually made it and peered through the hole into the greater Hell beyond. Once more, he saw Marcel’s unconscious body under the others. Those above him lay mangled and scorched but that had been his salvation. John reached through; the hole reluctantly expanding to allow hands, arms and then his upper body to reach in and grab the body he hardly knew. His lungs were bursting, he couldn’t remember ever being in so much pain but nothing would dissuade him from hauling Marcel out of the inferno.
With a juddering start and a yelp he woke up, as he always did at this point. His body was drenched in sweat and he had to force himself to return to reality and the comforting four walls and beamed ceiling of Amália’s attic. He’d been asked countless times by others why he’d done it and had demanded an answer from himself but couldn’t find a logical reason. All he remembered was that he’d been watching Marcel, trying to catch his eye even and had been roundly ignored. He’d seen him go downstairs and knew he was still down there when the fire started and had then been overwhelmed with the urge to find him and help him to safety. There was no understanding precisely why he’d felt the need to risk his own life, when everyone around him was desperately trying to get out. He just knew he had to do it and now he was the most reluctant of heroes. One moment did stick in his mind though and that was the expression on Marcel’s face just before he descended to the darkroom. It was an image of pure loneliness, empty desperation almost. There was no lust or pleasure of any kind in Marcel’s eyes; the very act of descending those stairs had seemed to John an abandonment of dignity, almost suicidal. There was no satisfaction in the cruel irony of that thought or its seeming prophecy but it gave him the nearest thing to a reason he could think of.
Ton Bak had just pulled on his pyjamas after an unsuccessful attempt at masturbation. The combination of over-tiredness and stress had defeated the need for physical release once again. Shrugging his shoulders, he turned off the flickering, repetitive video and thought about going to bed. It was like a well-thumbed book; he didn’t need to look to know what was happening on the screen but it was necessary as stimulation. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep; the fire and its consequences had wrecked his routines. In the last few days he had frequently asked himself why. The hospital was by definition always busy, always hectic and problems arose as a matter of course. His ability to put everything in perspective and deal with things in a calm and efficient manner had landed him in the job in the first place. It was no accident that he was the longest serving hospital administrator in the country. Normally, nothing fazed him and no problem was too great to handle; until now that is. Perhaps it was the enforced news blackout and the constant presence of police, reporters and assorted, interfering politicians both local and national, that had thrown him. The hospital just wasn’t equipped for a semi-permanent encampment of non-medical personnel. They got in the way, demanded the impossible and generally interfered in the running of almost all departments. Even that should have been no more than an irritation to the normally imperturbable administrator, yet he was definitely rattled. He couldn’t see the big picture; couldn’t see the outcome and had the uncomfortable feeling that he was one of several prominent civil servants who would soon be thrown under a glaring spotlight but didn’t really understand why. During the last few days, several instructions and memos had been ignored, or returned without comment. Certain people were suddenly unavailable when he needed advice and he was becoming convinced that orders from above were bypassing him and being given to departmental heads without his knowledge. Although day-to-day administrative decisions flowed through the chain of command as usual, he felt he was losing control in key areas and thus overall control of the whole situation. At the moment all he had were suspicions but they were enough to give him a rarely felt, sense of insecurity.
The other reason for his disquiet lay in the fact that this disaster primarily affected his own people. Thanks mainly to his age and 1950s upbringing; he had never been a great one for gay rights and communal gay protest and because of his position at work, he never advertised his sexuality. This was not to say that he was ashamed or embarrassed; quite the contrary but his inherent pragmatism saw no reason to take unnecessary risks. He saw it as his business, a private matter and absolutely nothing to do with his work. Consequently, only a select few knew for certain he was gay though his single status in later life gave rise to sufficient rumours, none of which he cared to substantiate. This disaster however, had touched him deeper than he had thought possible. He’d done the rounds with the assembled dignitaries and had seen maimed and disfigured men lying in great pain, trying to maintain some dignity in the midst of the world’s reactions. He’d recognised one or two faces from his past and suddenly counted his blessings. If this had happened twenty years previously, it could have been him lying there. Through determination, hard work and some luck, he had climbed the career ladder and made a conscious decision to lead a discreet sexual life but he was well aware that this was a mere accident of fate. He knew there were so-called respected members of society amongst the dead and injured and the irony was not at all lost on him. At the moment though, he was battling to maintain control of his professional status and the last thing he needed was his sexuality providing unwelcome ammunition for his detractors, whoever they may be.
The doorbell shattered the silence and jangled his nerves. He opened the door somewhat reluctantly, to find a determined looking Wil on the doorstep. His heart sank; he was just too tired to contemplate the idea of Wil lecturing him on anything at all at the moment and Wil’s face made it clear that a lecture was just what he was going to get.
“Can I come in then?”
“If you must!”
He turned away grumpily. Wil was one of the very few people he ‘owed’ in life. There was a moral obligation that would take years to repay but that didn’t mean that he had to be pleasant about it.
“Drink?” The resentment in his voice was all too obvious.
“Just water please. Listen Ton, I’ve not come to fight and I’m not here to rake over the past but I would like a few minutes of your time and to pick your brains. Is that okay?”
Jan was confused. Wil normally came in like a gale of wind, aggressive and antagonistic but it was clear from his face that there was no subtle plan of attack here. If anything Wil looked dangerously tired and vulnerable; his whole face drooped. On the other hand, that little-boy-lost look reminded him of the attraction all those years ago. For a moment, he felt a rush of tenderness that was quickly overtaken by a nagging fear of what was to come. He poured the water and handing it over without further comment, listened to his visitor’s story.
After several minutes, Wil slumped back in the chair and rubbed his forehead. He had a blinding headache.
“Much as it pains me to say it, you’re our last hope. If you can’t tell me anything, I don’t know who can.”
Ton didn’t respond straight away; he needed a moment to collect his thoughts. It was almost always irritating for others but the time was used to analyse the situation and decide on the best response. That way, he made fewer mistakes than most. He couldn’t help a momentary feeling of triumph. Here was Wil van Rossum virtually begging him for help. This was a first. He had once been the man’s lover but had made an uncharacteristic error of judgement which had resulted in the loss of thousands of guilders, none of them his own. Since the inevitable break up, Wil had launched a crusade of relentless revenge. Despite a relatively speedy repayment of the money, plus interest and countless apologies and emotional reparations, Wil maintained the vendetta. It was part of the reason for Ton’s reluctant and discreet participation in Amsterdam’s gay circuit. Thanks to Wil, his name was not exactly associated with trust and reliability. Eventually he had come to the conclusion that it had suited his purpose to be anonymous and considering the events of the last few days, it had maybe even saved him from a fiery death in a darkroom but nevertheless it hurt. After Wil, he was more than cautious in his relationships. The truth was, nobody got past the second date. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.
Yet here sat his nemesis, clearly fragile and needy. The sudden role reversal and feeling of power was irresistible.
“Now Wil, you know I can’t tell you anything. It’s more than my job’s worth.”
He knew he sounded patronising; knew it was a mistake but enjoyed the moment nevertheless.
“And just what is your job worth Ton? Listen, it’s true what I said, I didn’t come here to fight but I do need some information and not for selfish reasons. Well, actually, yes I do have a personal interest but I’m not the only one…Oh shit I’m not making any sense am I? Fuck Ton, I need to know what you know and I’m not leaving until I do. That’s not meant as a threat, really it’s not but some things are more important than petty feuds, or jobs, or reputations; sometimes you need to stand up for what you really believe in and I can’t imagine you have become so hard-hearted that you’ll put your job before people’s lives.”
Wil subsided into the depths of the leather Chesterfield; his last shot spent and out of ammunition. He’d run out of ideas.
“Are you finished with the clichés Wil? Not everything in this life is morally-speaking, Oprah-Winfrey-pink you know. I will tell you what little I know and will find out a little more but I’m not the enemy here.”
“No but you are in charge of the largest hospital in Amsterdam; you are on every health committee going and you have contacts with everybody who’s anybody in this city. If you can’t help, nobody can.”
Jan poured himself a generous whisky, walked slowly to the fridge and carefully pressed out two ice cubes into his glass. If Wil suspected his usual delaying tactics, the expression on his face changed his mind. The man looked completely out of sorts, depressed and down-trodden; most unlike the Ton Bak who Wil knew of old.
“What is it Ton? There’s more to this than meets the eye isn’t there? What’s going on?”
The administrator took a deep gulp and looked Wil straight in the eye; each man’s tiredness reflected in the eyes of the other.
“The problem is Wil; I’m not sure what’s going on. You’re right; normally, I’d be able to access all the information you need but I’m being blocked in all directions and I’ve only just realised it. I’m facing the wall of silence too and it’s most unnerving. I don’t understand it; I don’t know who’s behind it but it’s certainly frustrating and alarming. It’s as if they’re trying to divide and rule. Different people and departments are getting e-mail memos with instructions specific to their own tasks but nobody gets the full picture, least of all me. The problem is I don’t know who ‘they’ are. I’ve rung the people immediately above me and Marinus Eckhart, who has a direct link to the Mayor’s office but they either don’t know or won’t say. Whatever’s happening is coming straight from the Ministry, or even higher. My people are grumbling like hell and it’s all I can do to keep a lid on it by babbling on about keeping misinformation from the press. Everybody’s used to that sort of thing but a hospital doesn’t exactly run smoothly when the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand’s doing. It makes my blood boil. Although I say it myself, this place runs like clockwork most of the time but only because I know exactly what’s going on right down to the smallest details and can put out fires before they begin. This…whatever…it’s not my style; it’s like walking through a fog. Clearly the bastards feel I’m not to be trusted and that pisses me off.”
It was now Wil’s turn to take a moment.
“Jesus Ton, I don’t know what to say. I came here looking for information that might lead us to Jacco and that’s still my number one priority but what you’re saying is pretty dramatic. This fire’s opened a particularly nasty can of worms by the looks of it and some people seem to want to get the lid back on as soon as possible. Fuck, no wonder conspiracy theories are so popular. Listen, if you’re open to it, I’d like to help if I can. I don’t know what I can do but I can at least provide you with a listening ear. I’m sure Ruud would help too; he’s pretty good at this sort of thing. He’s got an amazing intuition sometimes. He’s a lateral thinker and can spot things that I certainly can’t. I’ll call him and get him to come over.”
Before Ton could react or even work out how to react, Wil was talking in that rapid fire manner of his on his mobile.
“Now wait a minute…Wil.”
He was not sure he wanted Wil’s help; certainly not sure that he needed it and recoiled at the idea of a virtual stranger, who also happened to be Wil’s partner, adding to the complications.
Wil closed off his mobile and without warning gathered Jan into his arms for an obligatory cuddle.
“I know, I know…don’t worry, we’re not going to bulldoze into your life and make things more difficult for you but as far as I can see, you’re pretty much on your own here. You’re being isolated, or sidelined, whatever and I can imagine what that feels like. Ruud’s not that happy about the idea either but I reckon if we sit down and talk for a while maybe a couple of objective opinions might help you to see things more clearly. After that, if you decide you don’t need our help then we’ll leave you alone okay? That’s a promise! We’ve got our hands full too but maybe three heads are better than one. It’s worth a try isn’t it?”
Wil had quickly realised that his all too typical impulsiveness could be counter-productive. He knew Ton would be pulling down the shutters and putting up barriers as they spoke but then again maybe not; the man clearly needed support. He genuinely wanted to help but realised he also needed to concentrate on finding Jacco. The whole thing was intriguing and confusing but he couldn’t help feeling that everything was linked in some way; part of the same puzzle. Helping Ton might just be the quickest way to finding Jacco.
40. Friends pull together
Amália closed the door, took a deep breath, poured water into the coffee maker and lingered in the kitchen a while, enjoying the quiet gurgling as the coffee percolated. She could hear Tinnie still at full volume regaling John with the story of the Florence Nightingale at the hospital and Marcel’s miraculous awakening. It was not that she wasn’t interested but she’d already heard the story twice and needed a few moments away from Tinnie’s intensity. She realised that she suddenly felt a bystander at a great event; something she wasn’t used to. Normally centre stage; it was a novelty to be on the fringes of the action. She was a friend of a friend of someone slap in the middle of an enormous tragedy and thus almost irrelevantly far removed. It wasn’t altogether a pleasant feeling. Tragedy appealed to her; it fitted with the image. She responded well to drama; it brought out the best in her and yet here, she was reduced to the role of witness and support-giver and there was little she could do to become more involved. Such feelings gave her an uncomfortable, guilty feeling. The whole situation was naturally much bigger than any of the individuals and she was playing her part by doing what she was able to do, that should have been enough. She couldn’t help wondering though, how many people in Amsterdam were reassessing their roles and examining their motives at the moment; she was almost certainly not the only one who needed to adapt to events.
Her thoughts were interrupted as John came into the kitchen, gingerly closed the door behind him and whispered,
“She’s asleep on the couch. One minute she was talking and the next, her eyes closed and she was gone. That coffee smells really good.”
Amália slumped against the sink in relief, the tension draining out of her body
“Oh thank God for that! At last! I was beginning to get really worried and of course she wouldn’t listen to my advice. I’ve never known anyone go without sleep for so long. She looks like a ghost don’t you think? So pale and unhealthy. Maybe later you could help me lift her into the bedroom; she needs undisturbed rest.”
“So do you I suspect.”
John put his arm around Amália’s shoulders and squeezed gently. She smiled weakly, poured his coffee and they sat down at the small table by the window. Amália stared out at the rooftops, her eyes glazed and far away.
“We all do! This is so amazing don’t you think? It’s almost as if we’re living through something historical; something that will be written about in the history books but it’s so tiring; my body aches with the tiredness.”
John’s face reflected his own exhaustion. The lines and bags around the eyes were etched deeper and the skin on his neck hung loose. He hadn’t shaved for two days and looked all of his age but nevertheless, to Amália, he was still a handsome man; a man with a past and character written in his face.
“I know what you mean but we’re writing our own histories too. I’ve never known my life change around so quickly. It feels as though I’m on a conveyor belt and can’t get off.”
Amália gave him with one of her famous gypsy stares and shook her finger gently at him. Sometimes the recipient was transfixed by her ‘looks’, like a rabbit in the headlights but John inwardly chuckled. Amália’s expression seemed a little comical, clichéd even. Nevertheless, with appropriate seriousness, he politely returned the look.
“You’re taking a big risk aren’t you? You’re in love with Marcel I think; you’ve saved his life but he doesn’t realise any of it does he? What will you do if he wakes up and doesn’t want to know you? What if he’s so damaged, he’s incapable of love any more? Are you prepared to care for someone whose heart’s been cut out? Have you thought it all through John?”
“Whoa, wait a minute Amália; you’re jumping the gun a bit here. I haven’t thought that far ahead yet. My God, I’m not sure what I feel at the moment. Just getting through the day’s hard enough.”
He was genuinely shocked. Amália had tapped into something he hadn’t identified and yet in the space of a few short words, she seemed to have summed up a huge chunk of his subconscious emotions. He had refused the offer of psychological help after the fire, for much the same reasons as he had refused to talk to the press or TV. He had no wish to be a hero, or a media novelty and certainly didn’t want to lay himself open to an examination of his gay life. He’d hardly begun to understand it himself and the idea of his life being investigated, either by reporters or a well-meaning psychologist filled him with horror. Fortunately, Tinnie and Amália had offered him a refuge and theirs was all the support he needed. Actually, in many ways, they needed more support than he did. Tinnie was determined to devote her entire life to Marcel’s well-being and was burning herself out in the process and Amália was clearly in search of a role other than being Tinnie’s better half. Her sweeping, dramatic gestures and deep sighs made him laugh and thus provided some light relief. She was however, pretty insightful at times and they’d had time enough to sit and relate their stories to each other. In his opinion, hers was far more interesting than his but she was clearly listening when he explained his past. Several times she anticipated events before he told of them and just as now, she occasionally saw right through him, cut out the bullshit and got straight to the crux of the matter. Fortunately, now she let him off the hook.
“Okay, I won’t press the matter any more but think about what I said won’t you? You now feel that Marcel owes you an emotional reward, big time! As far as he’s concerned, he owes you nothing of the sort right now; from what you’ve said, he’s barely aware you exist. This is a very dangerous situation for you. Anyway, if you’ll give me a hand with Tinnie, I think I’ll lie down with her for a while. Maybe you should try to rest too; your brain must be buzzing. You haven’t slept much at all in the last few days have you? I can see it in your eyes. Don’t underestimate the shock you’ve had John; you’re brain’s going to need quite a while to sort it all out.”
He knew exactly what she meant. He hadn’t slept more than a few hours since the fire and then only fitfully but had reached the stage where he was too tired to sleep. He did acknowledge he was dangerously low on reserves though and decided to take her advice. There were still a few hours before he was due to go to the hospital. He could at least lie down and rest his eyes.
The tunnel loomed out of his subconscious again, although it was more of a funnel, with a broad beginning tapering away to a tiny dot in the distance. The effect was just like in those pop videos, where a haze was created above laser lights so that the plane appeared multi-dimensional. The sides swirled with smoke and flame but the centre was safe. The figures scrambled towards him, wild-eyed and with mouths open in horror. Some were disfigured, mutilated by the fire. Some screamed in agony and others looked blank as if the trauma was too great. He fought his way through them, a single figure against the tide. One man grabbed him by the shoulders and shouted directly into his face,
“You’re not like us, go back; go back!”
Painfully he fought his way through towards the tiny hole at the end of the funnel. The heat was intense; his lungs and throat burned with the effort and his hair singed but he eventually made it and peered through the hole into the greater Hell beyond. Once more, he saw Marcel’s unconscious body under the others. Those above him lay mangled and scorched but that had been his salvation. John reached through; the hole reluctantly expanding to allow hands, arms and then his upper body to reach in and grab the body he hardly knew. His lungs were bursting, he couldn’t remember ever being in so much pain but nothing would dissuade him from hauling Marcel out of the inferno.
With a juddering start and a yelp he woke up, as he always did at this point. His body was drenched in sweat and he had to force himself to return to reality and the comforting four walls and beamed ceiling of Amália’s attic. He’d been asked countless times by others why he’d done it and had demanded an answer from himself but couldn’t find a logical reason. All he remembered was that he’d been watching Marcel, trying to catch his eye even and had been roundly ignored. He’d seen him go downstairs and knew he was still down there when the fire started and had then been overwhelmed with the urge to find him and help him to safety. There was no understanding precisely why he’d felt the need to risk his own life, when everyone around him was desperately trying to get out. He just knew he had to do it and now he was the most reluctant of heroes. One moment did stick in his mind though and that was the expression on Marcel’s face just before he descended to the darkroom. It was an image of pure loneliness, empty desperation almost. There was no lust or pleasure of any kind in Marcel’s eyes; the very act of descending those stairs had seemed to John an abandonment of dignity, almost suicidal. There was no satisfaction in the cruel irony of that thought or its seeming prophecy but it gave him the nearest thing to a reason he could think of.
41. Arjan’s way out
Arjan woke to the sound of his father on the telephone. It was a strange sensation. The voice in the distance was exactly as he remembered from his childhood and yet it was monumentally out of context here and now. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he realised how tired he was. His whole body ached and his head pounded with tension. He quickly stripped off the clothes he’d lain in and dived under the shower to try to sluice away the hangover feeling. He had to get a grip on this situation, he really had! His father had apparently exposed a weakness he’d thought long buried but whatever their relationship from now on and however his father thought he might be able to help, he was the only one responsible for getting himself out of this mess.
As the shower pounded him with hot water and the steam fogged the shower walls, he tried to put things in perspective. The Anvil was gone and it remained to be seen what the insurance would pay out; probably not enough to rebuild or start again just yet but maybe enough to consolidate what he had left. It had probably been time for some financial pruning anyway and the summer had hardly been record breaking in terms of visitors. Did he miss it? Not in the slightest. Was he heartbroken over the deaths of his barman and cellar man? Hardly, though the manner of their deaths made him shudder. Did he feel responsible for any of it? No fucking way! Why should he? His innate aggressiveness returned as he bristled at the thought that in some circles he was being held responsible. The inescapable truth however, was that he may inadvertently have been responsible and may yet be held to account. It all depended on what was determined to be the cause of the fire. They could only get him if the wiring was faulty, or that the extinguishers didn’t work. There was a door to the back alley but he had no idea if that had been opened or not. The police had told him very little, just tried the usual strong-arm psychological tactics, which were bread and butter to Arjan who was far better at it than they were. He had the uneasy feeling though that disaster was just around the corner and his father’s arrival just seemed to compound it. He was well aware of the witch hunts after Volendam and Enschede and equally well aware that the press camped outside his door were not there just to ask a few polite questions. He supposed it was too much to hope for that it was an act of God, or better still a terrorist organisation dedicated to wiping out gays. He’d tried Jurien Veldhoven of course, who as his over-paid lawyer was used to extricating Arjan from sticky situations but he wasn’t reachable on his house or cell phone. That was disquieting enough but when he’d rung Jackie Bruin, he’d been left in no doubt that he could expect little support from the rest of Amsterdam’s bar owners as a whole. That didn’t surprise him, everyone would be covering their own backs and laying low but Jackie had virtually inferred that this was a mess of Arjan’s own making. So much for so-called friends on the circuit, not that he had many; his business tactics had endeared him to very few of his competitors over the years. So there was a distinct possibility that this could all go wrong and he could end up with a massive fine at best and maybe even a prison term at worst. His mind wandered over the possibilities without panicking but for the first time for years, he felt that control was slipping out of his hands and that his fate depended on the outside world. Distinctly pessimistic, he stepped out of the shower, put on his dressing gown and headed into the living room where the smell of fresh coffee and croissants was almost impossible to resist.
His father said very little as he wolfed down his breakfast, a meal he virtually never saw but now was grateful for. As soon as he wiped his mouth and sat back with a cigarette and a fresh cup of coffee however, the virtual stranger sitting opposite began to speak.
“Okay, I’ve made a few phone calls and spoken to my lawyer, who’s a very good one by the way. Basically you’re up the creek without a paddle son. They’re going to hang you out to dry, if for no other reason than that they’ve got to blame someone. From what I can gather, they may well find enough negligence to send you to prison for some time and that’s apart from the civil law suits from the victims and relatives, not to mention the Council, who’ll want to divert attention from themselves and God knows who else. You may be even facing manslaughter charges if the press have their way. You’ll lose everything and still owe plenty. This is not a worst case scenario; this is the only scenario I’m afraid. My lawyers will defend you but don’t hold out hopes of getting off lightly. It’s one of those situations where a scapegoat is needed and you’re prime candidate number one; the easiest of targets.
It’s no use looking as though you’re not interested boy; these are the facts and you’d better get used to them.”
Arjan hadn’t meant to look disinterested; he was shocked. This wasn’t one of his normal ‘difficulties’ that he could wriggle out of then! Everything his father said made complete sense. Of course he was an easy target, it was obvious and he’d do exactly the same if he was in everybody else’s shoes. However, Arjan hadn’t built a small empire without having a few survival techniques to fall back on and although he seemed to be in deep shit, the seeds of a plan were already forming in the back of his mind.
“So what now then Pops? What incredible rescue plan have you put together to save your wayward son?”
The sarcasm dripped from his words like snake venom but he reckoned he might as well give the man a chance to see if he did have any bright ideas.
“I see the coffee’s brought back the wit then son. You should have realised by now that I’m more or less impervious to your insults. I don’t really give a shit how you react to me, or this, or whatever but I’m going to do my best to give something back for all the missing years.”
“Fine words pal but you said it yourself, I don’t stand a chance, they’ve got me by the short and curlies!”
“Those are the bare facts yes but I didn’t say that you had to give up did I? At the moment nothing’s changed for you apart from a few hacks outside the door. You’ve still got your business minus one bar and most importantly of all; we’ve got a bit of time before the authorities make up their minds that you’re the one they’re going to crucify. I suggest we put that time to good use and get both you and your money out of the country as fast as possible. There’s one thing we’re good at in this country and that is getting all indignant and wanting heads to roll, until the next big story comes along. Then you’re yesterday’s news and later, nobody can be bothered to follow up and close the case. The media will forget you existed tomorrow and the authorities not long after that. They can still accuse you all they like; build up evidence whatever but if they can’t reach you, they’ll rant and rave for a while and then something else’ll come up and grab their attention. It’ll eventually be quietly forgotten that you’re a wanted man and you’ll be able to broker a deal and return. I’ve seen it happen more than once but in those days, people got away to the Costa’s and lived it up a bit until the heat died down. The problem nowadays is that Spain is within judicial reach, what with all the European Union agreements and so forth, so we’ve decided you’re going to Brazil or Cuba, or maybe even Turkey. I’m working on it at the moment.”
Arjan’s jaw dropped and he looked at his father in complete disbelief. The man had read his own thoughts exactly and already taken action.
“Why are you doing this for me? What’s the real reason? Please don’t ask me to believe you’re doing it out of the goodness of your heart, or out of guilt. I don’t get it.”
His father pulled a chair up close to where Arjan was sitting and looked him directly in the eye. The sympathy and warmth were gone and once again Arjan felt he was looking into a mirror.
“Right and wrong son. I do feel guilty, yes, especially about your mother but slightly less about you. As far as I’m concerned, you’re one arrogant prick who needs to be taken down a peg or two and probably deserves all he gets. However, you’re still my son and I owe your mother so I’m going to help you climb out of this shithole but when all’s said and done, you’re a chip off the old block and I’m the old block. I’m sure you won’t be surprised to know that there’s a price to pay.”
“Now hold on…if you…”
“Save your breath my friend. I’m now going to tell you what will happen. You have no choice in the matter and if you’re half as bright as I think you are, you’ll do exactly as I tell you. You won’t come out of it badly; your future will be secure but if you thought that you could shake me out of your life pretty easily, you’re sadly mistaken.”
The man’s tone was exactly that used by his son when laying down the law. Arjan recognised it and surprised himself by accepting it. He sat quietly and listened as his father hatched the sort of plan he’d thought only he was capable of.
“…so you see, you stay away for two years, maybe more and when things are settled, you come back and run it all with me. You can of course stay away and start again somewhere new; that’s up to you but I will be honest with you and I do keep my promises. I can ask you to trust me but there’s no need; you haven’t got a choice. Everything will be signed over to me by tomorrow morning. The lawyer’s arriving at eight this evening. At the same time, you’ll have flight tickets and your money will be transferred to a local bank. Your hotel for the first two months will be paid for and after that, you’re on your own. Now there isn’t much time as you can see, so I suggest you go and pack.”
To Arjan’s utter astonishment and without another word, he got up and headed for the bedroom to do exactly that!
42. The Press push on
De Postiljon
September 8th
Why?
The question Amsterdammers, the people of the Netherlands and probably many in the rest of the world, are asking, remains unanswered ten days after the tragedy that has shaken the city to its foundations.
Despite world-wide coverage and massive publicity, the causes and reasons behind the fire that killed so many remain frustratingly elusive. Despite the best efforts of the press corps and the television executives and despite the threats of law suits and protracted court cases, very few statistics have been released and the whole affair seems shrouded in mystery. We have no idea how many died; who they were and how many still lie critically injured in special burns units around the country. We have no idea what caused the fire and whether sufficient safety precautions were in place. There are no details available of the rescue operation; how many services were involved and the difficulties they faced. No idea whether short-comings led to unnecessary delay and further casualties and no hard evidence of where true responsibility lies.
Was it just a tragic accident? Was it arson? Was there a technical fault, human error or a premeditated act? Questions have been asked in the highest open forums of the land and still answers are not forthcoming. After ten days and on behalf of the victims and the many suffering families and friends, this paper demands to know why there is such a cloud of mystery surrounding the case; who has something to hide and why?
De Tribune (2nd Edition)
September 8th
Pink Power on the Dam
Gays in protest march
Far be it for us to criticise in the midst of tragedy but will the planned action in the Dam square tomorrow serve the purpose for which it’s intended? Shouldn’t the homosexual community be mourning its dead and examining its own behaviour before taking to the streets in protest? Hasn’t enough damage been done to reputations and the public image of a section of the community?
A COC spokesman told our reporter that the gathering was intended as a memorial to the dead but our sources reveal that militant tendencies within the gay community plan to use the occasion as an excuse for demonstration. Precisely the nature of this demonstration remains unclear but the police are sufficiently concerned to enlist the help of the ME in the event that things get out of hand.
In the programme Aktueelyesterday evening, Amsterdam North Councillor, Jos Blijlevens warned the homosexual community to clean up its act. He went on to point out that,
“All actions have consequences. Maybe the gays should ask themselves if their current behaviour isn’t putting them at risk of such a tragedy reoccurring. I’m not in the slightest bit prejudiced and my sympathy goes out to all the families of those who died but wasn’t it an accident waiting to happen and won’t it happen again unless we tighten up the regulations?”
The truth is that we don’t yet know how many homosexuals died in the sex bar but current reports suggest that up to a hundred men were down in the cellar. Before we pass the blame onto the health and safety authorities and the brave men and women of the emergency services, dare we suggest that so many people in such a small space increases the risk of a major disaster. Amsterdam’s famed tolerance of minority lifestyles is being severely put to the test. Expediency in such matters, whilst slightly curbing the rights of people to enjoy their freedoms, may in the long run save lives.
Arjan woke to the sound of his father on the telephone. It was a strange sensation. The voice in the distance was exactly as he remembered from his childhood and yet it was monumentally out of context here and now. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he realised how tired he was. His whole body ached and his head pounded with tension. He quickly stripped off the clothes he’d lain in and dived under the shower to try to sluice away the hangover feeling. He had to get a grip on this situation, he really had! His father had apparently exposed a weakness he’d thought long buried but whatever their relationship from now on and however his father thought he might be able to help, he was the only one responsible for getting himself out of this mess.
As the shower pounded him with hot water and the steam fogged the shower walls, he tried to put things in perspective. The Anvil was gone and it remained to be seen what the insurance would pay out; probably not enough to rebuild or start again just yet but maybe enough to consolidate what he had left. It had probably been time for some financial pruning anyway and the summer had hardly been record breaking in terms of visitors. Did he miss it? Not in the slightest. Was he heartbroken over the deaths of his barman and cellar man? Hardly, though the manner of their deaths made him shudder. Did he feel responsible for any of it? No fucking way! Why should he? His innate aggressiveness returned as he bristled at the thought that in some circles he was being held responsible. The inescapable truth however, was that he may inadvertently have been responsible and may yet be held to account. It all depended on what was determined to be the cause of the fire. They could only get him if the wiring was faulty, or that the extinguishers didn’t work. There was a door to the back alley but he had no idea if that had been opened or not. The police had told him very little, just tried the usual strong-arm psychological tactics, which were bread and butter to Arjan who was far better at it than they were. He had the uneasy feeling though that disaster was just around the corner and his father’s arrival just seemed to compound it. He was well aware of the witch hunts after Volendam and Enschede and equally well aware that the press camped outside his door were not there just to ask a few polite questions. He supposed it was too much to hope for that it was an act of God, or better still a terrorist organisation dedicated to wiping out gays. He’d tried Jurien Veldhoven of course, who as his over-paid lawyer was used to extricating Arjan from sticky situations but he wasn’t reachable on his house or cell phone. That was disquieting enough but when he’d rung Jackie Bruin, he’d been left in no doubt that he could expect little support from the rest of Amsterdam’s bar owners as a whole. That didn’t surprise him, everyone would be covering their own backs and laying low but Jackie had virtually inferred that this was a mess of Arjan’s own making. So much for so-called friends on the circuit, not that he had many; his business tactics had endeared him to very few of his competitors over the years. So there was a distinct possibility that this could all go wrong and he could end up with a massive fine at best and maybe even a prison term at worst. His mind wandered over the possibilities without panicking but for the first time for years, he felt that control was slipping out of his hands and that his fate depended on the outside world. Distinctly pessimistic, he stepped out of the shower, put on his dressing gown and headed into the living room where the smell of fresh coffee and croissants was almost impossible to resist.
His father said very little as he wolfed down his breakfast, a meal he virtually never saw but now was grateful for. As soon as he wiped his mouth and sat back with a cigarette and a fresh cup of coffee however, the virtual stranger sitting opposite began to speak.
“Okay, I’ve made a few phone calls and spoken to my lawyer, who’s a very good one by the way. Basically you’re up the creek without a paddle son. They’re going to hang you out to dry, if for no other reason than that they’ve got to blame someone. From what I can gather, they may well find enough negligence to send you to prison for some time and that’s apart from the civil law suits from the victims and relatives, not to mention the Council, who’ll want to divert attention from themselves and God knows who else. You may be even facing manslaughter charges if the press have their way. You’ll lose everything and still owe plenty. This is not a worst case scenario; this is the only scenario I’m afraid. My lawyers will defend you but don’t hold out hopes of getting off lightly. It’s one of those situations where a scapegoat is needed and you’re prime candidate number one; the easiest of targets.
It’s no use looking as though you’re not interested boy; these are the facts and you’d better get used to them.”
Arjan hadn’t meant to look disinterested; he was shocked. This wasn’t one of his normal ‘difficulties’ that he could wriggle out of then! Everything his father said made complete sense. Of course he was an easy target, it was obvious and he’d do exactly the same if he was in everybody else’s shoes. However, Arjan hadn’t built a small empire without having a few survival techniques to fall back on and although he seemed to be in deep shit, the seeds of a plan were already forming in the back of his mind.
“So what now then Pops? What incredible rescue plan have you put together to save your wayward son?”
The sarcasm dripped from his words like snake venom but he reckoned he might as well give the man a chance to see if he did have any bright ideas.
“I see the coffee’s brought back the wit then son. You should have realised by now that I’m more or less impervious to your insults. I don’t really give a shit how you react to me, or this, or whatever but I’m going to do my best to give something back for all the missing years.”
“Fine words pal but you said it yourself, I don’t stand a chance, they’ve got me by the short and curlies!”
“Those are the bare facts yes but I didn’t say that you had to give up did I? At the moment nothing’s changed for you apart from a few hacks outside the door. You’ve still got your business minus one bar and most importantly of all; we’ve got a bit of time before the authorities make up their minds that you’re the one they’re going to crucify. I suggest we put that time to good use and get both you and your money out of the country as fast as possible. There’s one thing we’re good at in this country and that is getting all indignant and wanting heads to roll, until the next big story comes along. Then you’re yesterday’s news and later, nobody can be bothered to follow up and close the case. The media will forget you existed tomorrow and the authorities not long after that. They can still accuse you all they like; build up evidence whatever but if they can’t reach you, they’ll rant and rave for a while and then something else’ll come up and grab their attention. It’ll eventually be quietly forgotten that you’re a wanted man and you’ll be able to broker a deal and return. I’ve seen it happen more than once but in those days, people got away to the Costa’s and lived it up a bit until the heat died down. The problem nowadays is that Spain is within judicial reach, what with all the European Union agreements and so forth, so we’ve decided you’re going to Brazil or Cuba, or maybe even Turkey. I’m working on it at the moment.”
Arjan’s jaw dropped and he looked at his father in complete disbelief. The man had read his own thoughts exactly and already taken action.
“Why are you doing this for me? What’s the real reason? Please don’t ask me to believe you’re doing it out of the goodness of your heart, or out of guilt. I don’t get it.”
His father pulled a chair up close to where Arjan was sitting and looked him directly in the eye. The sympathy and warmth were gone and once again Arjan felt he was looking into a mirror.
“Right and wrong son. I do feel guilty, yes, especially about your mother but slightly less about you. As far as I’m concerned, you’re one arrogant prick who needs to be taken down a peg or two and probably deserves all he gets. However, you’re still my son and I owe your mother so I’m going to help you climb out of this shithole but when all’s said and done, you’re a chip off the old block and I’m the old block. I’m sure you won’t be surprised to know that there’s a price to pay.”
“Now hold on…if you…”
“Save your breath my friend. I’m now going to tell you what will happen. You have no choice in the matter and if you’re half as bright as I think you are, you’ll do exactly as I tell you. You won’t come out of it badly; your future will be secure but if you thought that you could shake me out of your life pretty easily, you’re sadly mistaken.”
The man’s tone was exactly that used by his son when laying down the law. Arjan recognised it and surprised himself by accepting it. He sat quietly and listened as his father hatched the sort of plan he’d thought only he was capable of.
“…so you see, you stay away for two years, maybe more and when things are settled, you come back and run it all with me. You can of course stay away and start again somewhere new; that’s up to you but I will be honest with you and I do keep my promises. I can ask you to trust me but there’s no need; you haven’t got a choice. Everything will be signed over to me by tomorrow morning. The lawyer’s arriving at eight this evening. At the same time, you’ll have flight tickets and your money will be transferred to a local bank. Your hotel for the first two months will be paid for and after that, you’re on your own. Now there isn’t much time as you can see, so I suggest you go and pack.”
To Arjan’s utter astonishment and without another word, he got up and headed for the bedroom to do exactly that!
42. The Press push on
De Postiljon
September 8th
Why?
The question Amsterdammers, the people of the Netherlands and probably many in the rest of the world, are asking, remains unanswered ten days after the tragedy that has shaken the city to its foundations.
Despite world-wide coverage and massive publicity, the causes and reasons behind the fire that killed so many remain frustratingly elusive. Despite the best efforts of the press corps and the television executives and despite the threats of law suits and protracted court cases, very few statistics have been released and the whole affair seems shrouded in mystery. We have no idea how many died; who they were and how many still lie critically injured in special burns units around the country. We have no idea what caused the fire and whether sufficient safety precautions were in place. There are no details available of the rescue operation; how many services were involved and the difficulties they faced. No idea whether short-comings led to unnecessary delay and further casualties and no hard evidence of where true responsibility lies.
Was it just a tragic accident? Was it arson? Was there a technical fault, human error or a premeditated act? Questions have been asked in the highest open forums of the land and still answers are not forthcoming. After ten days and on behalf of the victims and the many suffering families and friends, this paper demands to know why there is such a cloud of mystery surrounding the case; who has something to hide and why?
De Tribune (2nd Edition)
September 8th
Pink Power on the Dam
Gays in protest march
Far be it for us to criticise in the midst of tragedy but will the planned action in the Dam square tomorrow serve the purpose for which it’s intended? Shouldn’t the homosexual community be mourning its dead and examining its own behaviour before taking to the streets in protest? Hasn’t enough damage been done to reputations and the public image of a section of the community?
A COC spokesman told our reporter that the gathering was intended as a memorial to the dead but our sources reveal that militant tendencies within the gay community plan to use the occasion as an excuse for demonstration. Precisely the nature of this demonstration remains unclear but the police are sufficiently concerned to enlist the help of the ME in the event that things get out of hand.
In the programme Aktueelyesterday evening, Amsterdam North Councillor, Jos Blijlevens warned the homosexual community to clean up its act. He went on to point out that,
“All actions have consequences. Maybe the gays should ask themselves if their current behaviour isn’t putting them at risk of such a tragedy reoccurring. I’m not in the slightest bit prejudiced and my sympathy goes out to all the families of those who died but wasn’t it an accident waiting to happen and won’t it happen again unless we tighten up the regulations?”
The truth is that we don’t yet know how many homosexuals died in the sex bar but current reports suggest that up to a hundred men were down in the cellar. Before we pass the blame onto the health and safety authorities and the brave men and women of the emergency services, dare we suggest that so many people in such a small space increases the risk of a major disaster. Amsterdam’s famed tolerance of minority lifestyles is being severely put to the test. Expediency in such matters, whilst slightly curbing the rights of people to enjoy their freedoms, may in the long run save lives.
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