44. A city mourns

They began arriving just after the sun slid its first, cleansing rays through the mazes of the Red Light district and piled-up detritus in the Chinese quarter. It was one of those summer mornings where the warmth of the previous evening still hung in the air but was moistened by a palpable dew, as if the city perspired from the exertions of the night. Brushing off yet more pestering, insomniac junkies, a few surviving English revellers who had never made it back to their hotels, blinked in astonishment as the scene slowly unfolded before them. The pilot of a traffic helicopter, lazily circling above the centre while waiting for the onset of the Saturday traffic, reached for his camera to record what he saw.

Still only half awake and with a headache from the torments of the night, John pulled on his dressing gown and wandered into the living room, following the enticing coffee aroma that drifted through the flat. He smiled as he saw his larger than life friend busy at the kitchen sink. Guus had arrived the evening before and had slept uncomfortably on the settee. The women had gone to bed early in preparation for the early start of the next morning and the two men had sat and talked for the first time in quite a while, as well as finishing off two bottles of wine left over from the meal. John had needed it. He had needed to talk to Guus, who viewed things from a different perspective and whose ideas weren’t tinged with gay bias. It had done him good though had solved nothing. Guus didn’t really understand how John felt about Marcel and couldn’t remember what it felt like in the first stages of infatuation but he intuitively understood the effects of the trauma and gave him the male support he subconsciously craved. Tinnie and Amália had offered him a haven, a nest where he could lick his wounds in peace but although they wrapped his emotions in cotton wool, they didn’t instinctively understand the assault of the last few weeks on his masculinity the way Guus did.
“You’re up then? Coffee? You look as though you need it. There are croissants, ham, cheese and a few other things I found in the fridge. Shall I wake the ladies?”
“Oh, give them a few minutes more eh! I need to wake up in peace before Tinnie starts bullying me into getting dressed. This is great Guus, have you been up long?”
“Nah, but I couldn’t go back to sleep; that settee’s not made for my bulk I’m afraid; it creaked all night long in protest. I thought I’d make myself useful. Hope they don’t mind me taking over their kitchen.”
John looked up and roared with laughter. Guus was standing arms akimbo by the breakfast bar. He was wearing one of Amália’s voluminous night gowns, bedecked in huge red peonies; his hair stuck out in all directions and some bright red jam stuck to the corner of his mouth.
“Have I said something funny?”
“No no, but have you looked in a mirror this morning? God I needed that. I haven’t laughed like that for so long it seems. I can feel the relief tingling through my whole body. Guus, you’re better than pills any day!”
Guus put the coffee down on the table and sat next to his friend.
“Are you ready for today? Can you handle it? You only have to say the word and we can get the hell out of there if you want.”
“I don’t know I really don’t. I have no idea what’s going to happen, or how big a thing it’s going to be. It’s not as if it’s a funeral or a memorial service or anything is it? It’s just a sort of…well, I’m not sure really. I think it’s important that I go though and Tinnie and Amália really want to do it. It’s about time I gave them a bit of support instead of the other way round.”
“Talking about us behind our backs are we!”
Tinnie burst into the room closely followed by Amália looking every bit her age and rubbing her eyes.
“My god, Guus, you’re an angel! And may I say, you look like an angel too! Breakfast! What a luxury! Okay guys, I’ve laid out as much white as I can find on the bed, plus what Guus kindly brought. You’ll have to make it up as you go along. We’ve got one hour precisely, then we must all be dressed and showered and out of here. We don’t want to miss the beginning.”
John and Guus looked at each other, grinned and shrugged. In this sort of mood, Tinnie was not to be argued with.

First a trickle and then little by little, streams of people were snaking their way along the canals and as yet unpolluted main roads towards the Dam. From above, it seemed like a firework, slowly imploding on itself. The water sparkled blindingly, flanked by the hazy, dusty green of the late summer trees but the abiding impression was of ribbons of white converging on the square. Gay organisations had half-heartedly suggested that everybody try to wear white as a unifying element to the gathering but the people had taken it to heart. Most people had seen moving pictures of a ‘white’ march a few years earlier in Belgium and although the reasons were greatly different, the effect was the same. White had the power to neutralise pain and was a symbol of purity and peace; a contradiction and rejection of the fury of the fire and although a few multicoloured and rainbow elements stood out here and there, the predominate colour was white.

‘In a land where demonstration and protest are accepted forms of democratic choice until they get out of hand that is, what you see happening behind me is unusual even for Amsterdam. Thousands of people have taken to the streets as a tribute to the dead in the tragic fire of last week but also to demonstrate their displeasure with both local government and the police and the emergency services administrators. We were here to cover an entirely different story but the extent and power of this march are clearly of some significance. Maybe the pictures on your screen don’t convey it very well but I can assure you that the atmosphere is dignified, restrained and respectful yet powerfully charged with emotion. It has taken everybody by surprise; organisers, police and local shops who were expecting to open up for a normal Saturday’s business. That they have all now voluntarily closed their doors bears witness to the strength of feeling engendered by this unique event. The gathering in the Dam Square was planned of course but it was expected to be a mainly gay event with only several hundred in attendance. What is happening here represents a spontaneous expression of public feeling. It’s the Princess Diana effect all over again. It has taken on a life of its own and we will be here the whole day to report on events as they happen.
This is Görtz Heinrich reporting for ZDF in Amsterdam and now back to the studio for a summary of the rest of today’s news.’

Within a couple of hours, the square was filling up; first tens and then hundreds and eventually thousands of men, women and children making the streets impassable for traffic. Looking on askance, the riot police babbled on their walkie-talkies, asking their superiors for advice. White shirts, trousers, skirts, coats, even sheets draped toga-like around shoulders. Balloons, banners, flags and streamers drifted along the lines of slowly moving people and the city slowly ground to a halt.

Picking disconsolately at the oily omelette on his plate, Arjan glanced up at the TV perched above the bar. Outside, the traffic hooted and honked and belched fumes into the air. The café filled up with workers from the local engineering factory and the smoke from their pungent cigarettes quickly gave the air an ochre tint. It was noisy and boisterous and nobody paid attention to the CNN pictures from Amsterdam. The constant babble echoed meaninglessly around his head; he couldn’t understand a word. Not for the first time in his life, he felt totally alone. A suburb of Ankara may have been a safe haven but it was no place to hang around for long. He got up, scraped his stool under the table, left the grainy coffee and the half-eaten egg and wandered out into the noise and smells of Turkey.

The abiding impression was one of peace and quiet. They weren’t laughing and joking, or shouting and dancing around. Most had expressions on their faces that reflected the gravity of the occasion; many held their heads down as if to avoid the intrinsic joy of the sunny day. City officials, working overtime on this stressful Saturday, looked out of their windows and at the rapidly emerging TV images and felt a sinking feeling in their stomachs. This was one of those moments in history, where irrespective of how they were being influenced by others, the people were determined to demonstrate their will and it was a gathering force that couldn’t be stopped.

Wil rubbed his cheeks furiously but no matter how he tried the white make-up had left a ghostly shadow on his face.
“You look like shit! I told you didn’t I; it’s not the fucking Carnival!”
Ruud had completely lost patience with his partner. They’d rowed more or less continually since they’d been woken at four in the morning by ‘I am what I am’ belting out from Wil’s new clock radio.
Crestfallen, Wil turned his tear-stained face away from the mirror and mumbled miserably.
“I know, I know, it was a mistake alright! I can’t get it all off.”
“Trust you! Ever the drama queen! Can’t you just for once let the attention focus on something else apart from yourself? God, you look like bloody Pagliacci!”
Ruud didn’t mean to be harsh, he just couldn’t help himself. He was tired, desperately tired. It had been a hellish week rushing around from one person to the other, trying to establish truth in the fog of half truths and rumours that was enveloping the city at the moment. The discovery of a possible reason for all the secrecy only increased the tension and he half wished someone else had found it out and not them. There was still no trace of Jacco and it was him they were going to remember on the Dam that morning. The pains in his chest and the constant headaches reminded him that he wasn’t getting any younger and that all this wasn’t good for his health but then again, who wasn’t under stress in Amsterdam at the moment!
Still in his underwear, Wil got up and put his arms around Ruud, laid his head on his shoulder and kissed him gently on the neck.
“I’m sorry, you’re right, I am a selfish cow. I wanted to look right and forgot what today is all about. We’ve had another hard week but we shouldn’t take it out on each other should we? Now let’s see, you’ve got two pairs of white jeans; I’ll use one of them and just roll the legs up. We’ve got white trainers and white shirts. I don’t think t-shirts are smart enough do you. I’ve got a white bow tie and you can use the white scarf. If we get a move on, we can be ready in half an hour. I love you by the way.”
It might have seemed a throw-away line but Ruud knew that he meant it and his own frustration and anger dissipated as he watched Wil move into action mode. They left the apartment hand in hand and waved happily to the group of Moroccan teenagers clustered on the corner. Today, even they waved back.

Although the Anvil was still cordoned off, many hundreds headed to the site to lay flowers along the edge of the red and white tape and yet more bouquets, wreaths and even single flowers donated by children were piling up in an ever-increasing circle around the National Monument. The phallic symbolism was lost on nobody.
A podium also draped in white but now festooned with Dutch and rainbow flags had been erected to one side of the monument and it was from there, at precisely ten o’clock that Rick Theunissen called for a minute’s silence to honour the dead.