Nomads on the Amstel
45. An Autumn chill
October
Marcel stared at the tree opposite his window. Autumn was definitely here; the leaves had long since crinkled and browned in the draught of the Summer but now they were spinning and curling as the wind caught them and played with them one last time before casting them towards the ground. The two pigeons that had bored him stiff with their complacency and the crows that used the tree as a base for launching attacks on passing seagulls were all gone. Where to, he wondered and come to mention it, where did birds go to die? You rarely saw their corpses on the ground and yet hundreds must die everyday! It was another of life’s mysteries which had only recently struck him as being important to solve.
He twisted himself painfully round to watch the News. It was only six weeks ago and yet it was never mentioned any more. He’d scanned the newspaper columns, using the magnifying sheet, until his eyes were so sore he had to ask the nurse to do the rest for him but day after day, nothing! It was as if it had never happened and his anger was building. They’d got that bastard bar owner of course but even Marcel could see that he wasn’t directly responsible. Nevertheless, he fervently prayed for a life sentence for the bar owner.
His psychologist kept patting his hand, telling him that the anger was good, that it showed he was alive, in spirit as well as body and that it was a way of outing his frustration but that bitch didn’t know the half of it. He was still confined to a hospital bed most of the day; still subjected to agonising dressing changes and skin grafts; still a guinea pig for the burns surgeons. He’d seen himself in the mirror, naked and exposed and felt like a dead cow hanging in a slaughter house. He’d honestly not recognised himself, which was easier because he wouldn’t have to identify with that malformed body. He’d seen muscular structure and bone, not as it was supposed to be seen, in a medical text book but in detail as it was reconstructed. Nothing was as it was before. Marcel van Ommen, who used to take pleasure in looking good didn’t exist anymore but his mind did and it was trapped in eighty kilo’s of butcher’s meat on a slab and that woman who claimed to understand the workings of the human mind told him his anger was good! He wanted to dig her eyes out with a spoon! Now that would be ‘good’ anger!
Tomorrow was the big day of course; tomorrow he was going home. Not that he was going to his own home; that was out of the question. Apart from that, despite his protestations, Tinnie had given up his lease and moved all his furniture into storage. That had been a slap in the face and another sort of confirmation that his life had changed for ever. He’d hated the idea but could see the logic. What was the point of hanging on to the flat and its possessions? He couldn’t live there now, or for years to come for that matter; his injuries were far too debilitating. He needed looking after and he felt sick at the idea. It was bad enough in the hospital where all ideas of dignity where regularly washed away with the contents of the bedpan and the urine flask but at home…? He shuddered and allowed himself two minutes of quiet weeping. That was the ration for the day. Apart from stinging his eyes so badly that they puffed up and restricted his already limited vision, he refused to give in to self-pity. It wasn’t always easy but his friends were wise enough never to state the obvious. He knew he should be strong; he knew he should find the positives in it all but more than once he wished he had died in the flames, like all the others. Most of the time he saw little reason to carry on; he couldn’t work, he couldn’t enjoy a normal life but most importantly, he couldn’t have sex any more and although his intellect told him that was no reason to stop living, it bloody well was!
Tinnie and Amália kept his head just above water and by not trying to point out how wonderful life was going to be, gave him just enough reason not to do anything silly. All they asked him to do was wait a while before deciding anything about anything and he saw the sense in that. Logically, he knew that in six months, things would be less traumatic, he would be physically feeling better and he would perhaps see things for what they were. Apart from all that, the main reason he didn’t jump out of the window of his room was an insane curiosity about John. In ten minutes or so, the man would arrive to talk about the practicalities of going home; of going to John’s home.
In the early days after he’d regained consciousness, when Tinnie had introduced him as the man who had saved his life, he had been churlish and rude, petulant and stubbornly ungrateful. He’d refused to talk to the man and had been dismissive of any attempts by John to establish contact. Surprisingly, he’d recognised him more or less straight away, even through the gauze and the reddish haze covering his eyes. He’d remembered the quickie they’d had in the sports club and he’d remembered being irritated by the Canadian’s glances in the Anvil and he’d recognised that this was an appealing and decent man with absolutely nothing to gain by persevering with Marcel but still, he couldn’t help being a complete bastard to the man.
In retrospect, it was all to do with the timing. In those early days of consciousness, he’d more or less shut down all his emotions except grief. Tinnie he still loved instinctively; Amália he tolerated but the rest of the people around him he hated fervently and let them know it at every available opportunity. The trouble was, the rest included the man who’d risked his own life to save his. Many times, he directed his anger almost exclusively at John. He’d even asked him how he dared save his life when the only result of surviving was that he had no quality of life left at all! John was clearly shocked but generally kept quiet, unlike Tinnie who let her feelings be known. That had some effect but in the beginning not much. He’d been in such pain, both physically and mentally and blaming John seemed the obvious thing to do. If it hadn’t been for his intervention, he’d be dead and wouldn’t be suffering the way he was then.
That it had all changed had been almost exclusively due to John’s unflustered persistence. He’d arrived every day with flowers, or a CD or one of those classic English books on tape that Marcel had grown to love listening to. What’s more, he often came alone and because Marcel didn’t have an audience who would respond, he soon gave up ranting at him. That was followed by days of awkward silence when Marcel refused to speak more than was absolutely necessary and John gave up trying. They were such difficult days. Marcel knew he was in the wrong but couldn’t help the way he felt. Eventually they both instinctively realised that this was a sort of healing process; one where Marcel had to learn to accept that John hadn’t condemned him to invalidity, the fire had. He also had to learn how to overcome his resistance to gratitude. During one rainy evening after Tinnie had rushed in sopping wet just before the end of visiting time, she had reminded him that the old Marcel was mostly a pretty nice sort of person and would be shocked at his new apparition’s lack of regard or sensitivity for others. That had shaken him enough to realise that if he was going to live, he had the choice between being as sour and bitter as was humanly possible, or coming to terms with things in some way. He chose the latter but it was painfully hard. Slowly but surely, he’d let John know that he was relieved if not glad, he was still alive and by beginning to show some concern for John’s well-being, he let it be known that the seeds of a friendship were growing. John responded to every encouragement and when Marcel broke down one afternoon after yet another blister burst and soaked his bandage and apologised for being such an incredible jerk, John’s eyes also filled with tears for the first time. He couldn’t speak. All he could do was screw up his face and give Marcel the thumbs-up sign, over and over again. After that, trust was established and they could move haltingly forward.
John walked into the hospital foyer and headed first for the cafeteria as he always did. Not only did he find the tram journey stressful but the walk through the streets, through the masses of uncaring people, only served to reinforce his position in life at the moment. He understood that ninety nine percent of the people weren’t hurting like he was but he resented it none the less. It was human nature to forget pain; if you didn’t you would go mad but that’s just what it felt like these days because the trauma was so prolonged; it seemed never ending. Then he would submit himself to the agonies and torture that Marcel served up.
In some ways, the yelling and the insults had been infinitely preferable to what was happening now. Then he’d been hated and that he could deal with. Then he didn’t have to confront Marcel with how he felt; there wouldn’t have been any point but now, now they had a relationship of sorts and the feelings were warmer. What now? The problem was, Marcel still had no idea how John really felt. He had never found the right moment, or the right conversation to tell him and the truth was he didn’t know himself. He felt that he was in love but how could he be sure? He needed time too, to establish what was real and what was a by-product of the disaster and the traumatic aftershocks. He understood perfectly that he was ill too; not in the same way as Marcel of course but crippled nevertheless. He didn’t sleep at nights and could replay the recurring dream endlessly.
He’d lost all the kilo’s he’d ever wanted to lose and had sufficiently worried Amália that for a week, she had produced endless supplies of pancakes, even going to the English food shop to find exorbitantly priced Canadian maple syrup to drown them in. He chuckled at the thought as he ordered his coffee and sat down by the window. He needed this short break in between the travel and the confrontation; a few minutes to gather his thoughts and his composure before facing the unpredictable.
If he was in love with Marcel, why was he in love with him? If he was ill himself, could any emotions at the moment possible be real? He didn’t know him beyond his own limited experience but what Tinnie had told him over the last few weeks had confirmed every optimistic instinct he’d had about the man. Strangely, neither Tinnie nor Amália had offered any resistance to the thought, or even tactfully suggested that he was out of his mind. They’d actively supported him, even when he’d firmly told them that he may never say anything to Marcel and that they were very definitely not to ‘help’ in any way! Even Guus had backed him up and although admitting to not understanding completely, had told John that as far as he was concerned, if John felt that way, then it must be a genuine feeling. However, that didn’t explain why he felt he was in love. Why Marcel? Did he feel this way before the fire? Not really, if he was honest and why now, when Marcel was irreparably damaged? Was it out of pity, or a need to adopt a puppy? Could he love someone without any physical attraction whatsoever? The fact that he could ask himself such calculating questions convinced him that he wasn’t just caught up in an emotional fantasy, like a prisoner who falls for his captor or something like that. He felt that if his first reaction to the idea of loving Marcel, without the slightest prospect of sex, was one of embarrassment, or of not worrying about that till later, then it was most likely not genuine. He’d been pleased that he’d examined the facts as they were. He’d just discovered sex with men and was enjoying it. Could he commit himself to someone and deny himself that? Could he provide the care that Marcel was going to need? Could he put up with the inevitable frustrations on both sides and the less appealing functions of the body for instance? He’d asked himself everything as honestly as he could and had decided that he thought he could but that he would make sure that Marcel knew that an effort had to be made on both sides.
Then again, it was all academic because Marcel didn’t know of his feelings and might run a mile at the thought. For the second time, John chuckled over his coffee; Marcel wasn’t going to be running anywhere! What they had agreed on, to everyone’s surprise, was that Marcel should move into John’s apartment to live. It was logical really. Marcel couldn’t go back to his own place, it was too inaccessible and besides that Tinnie had persuaded him to give it up. He couldn’t live with the women; their apartment was too small and it wouldn’t really be fair on their relationship which had covered some rocky terrain already. His own flat was large enough and with enough rooms for himself to escape if necessary and Marcel to have some privacy when he needed it. It was close to the hospital and all other necessary amenities. The social services had inspected it and pronounced it very suitable. Marcel would get professional help seven days a week at first and regularly after that, so John wouldn’t be permanently ‘on call’. Tinnie, Amália and Guus had insisted that they would all do their ‘bit’ along with a friend of Marcel’s called Mia, who John didn’t entirely trust but swore she would do anything necessary; he only had to pick up the phone. So all in all, it seemed a workable arrangement. Marcel had even shown mild enthusiasm when he’d taken photos into the hospital. In his usual way, he’d maintained that it didn’t matter where he was, nothing much would change but Tinnie had reassured John that he really was quite positive about the whole idea. So, declaring his love for the man seemed a very risky strategy indeed.
On the one hand, Marcel was hyper-sensitive about seeming a charity case but if he sensed a hidden agenda, that would be just as bad and might jeopardise the whole plan. Better not to say anything then! Better to keep quiet like he’d done for weeks but then again there were always going to be good reasons for keeping his mouth shut; would there ever be a time when he could express the irrational longings he kept hidden? Would it end up being too late and he would become the latest victim of unrequited love? His chest hurt at the idea. He loved Marcel; he didn’t really comprehend why but there was no escaping the facts. When he looked at the broken body on the bed, he didn’t see the bandages or the wounds; he saw what lay behind the eyes and that he loved. Giving his cup to the girl behind the counter, she thanked him and strangely wished him good luck; so she understood too? Clutching the talking tape of ‘A Passage to India’, he hurried towards the lift.
Today just very well may be a good day; in these times, a very rare sort of day indeed.
October
Marcel stared at the tree opposite his window. Autumn was definitely here; the leaves had long since crinkled and browned in the draught of the Summer but now they were spinning and curling as the wind caught them and played with them one last time before casting them towards the ground. The two pigeons that had bored him stiff with their complacency and the crows that used the tree as a base for launching attacks on passing seagulls were all gone. Where to, he wondered and come to mention it, where did birds go to die? You rarely saw their corpses on the ground and yet hundreds must die everyday! It was another of life’s mysteries which had only recently struck him as being important to solve.
He twisted himself painfully round to watch the News. It was only six weeks ago and yet it was never mentioned any more. He’d scanned the newspaper columns, using the magnifying sheet, until his eyes were so sore he had to ask the nurse to do the rest for him but day after day, nothing! It was as if it had never happened and his anger was building. They’d got that bastard bar owner of course but even Marcel could see that he wasn’t directly responsible. Nevertheless, he fervently prayed for a life sentence for the bar owner.
His psychologist kept patting his hand, telling him that the anger was good, that it showed he was alive, in spirit as well as body and that it was a way of outing his frustration but that bitch didn’t know the half of it. He was still confined to a hospital bed most of the day; still subjected to agonising dressing changes and skin grafts; still a guinea pig for the burns surgeons. He’d seen himself in the mirror, naked and exposed and felt like a dead cow hanging in a slaughter house. He’d honestly not recognised himself, which was easier because he wouldn’t have to identify with that malformed body. He’d seen muscular structure and bone, not as it was supposed to be seen, in a medical text book but in detail as it was reconstructed. Nothing was as it was before. Marcel van Ommen, who used to take pleasure in looking good didn’t exist anymore but his mind did and it was trapped in eighty kilo’s of butcher’s meat on a slab and that woman who claimed to understand the workings of the human mind told him his anger was good! He wanted to dig her eyes out with a spoon! Now that would be ‘good’ anger!
Tomorrow was the big day of course; tomorrow he was going home. Not that he was going to his own home; that was out of the question. Apart from that, despite his protestations, Tinnie had given up his lease and moved all his furniture into storage. That had been a slap in the face and another sort of confirmation that his life had changed for ever. He’d hated the idea but could see the logic. What was the point of hanging on to the flat and its possessions? He couldn’t live there now, or for years to come for that matter; his injuries were far too debilitating. He needed looking after and he felt sick at the idea. It was bad enough in the hospital where all ideas of dignity where regularly washed away with the contents of the bedpan and the urine flask but at home…? He shuddered and allowed himself two minutes of quiet weeping. That was the ration for the day. Apart from stinging his eyes so badly that they puffed up and restricted his already limited vision, he refused to give in to self-pity. It wasn’t always easy but his friends were wise enough never to state the obvious. He knew he should be strong; he knew he should find the positives in it all but more than once he wished he had died in the flames, like all the others. Most of the time he saw little reason to carry on; he couldn’t work, he couldn’t enjoy a normal life but most importantly, he couldn’t have sex any more and although his intellect told him that was no reason to stop living, it bloody well was!
Tinnie and Amália kept his head just above water and by not trying to point out how wonderful life was going to be, gave him just enough reason not to do anything silly. All they asked him to do was wait a while before deciding anything about anything and he saw the sense in that. Logically, he knew that in six months, things would be less traumatic, he would be physically feeling better and he would perhaps see things for what they were. Apart from all that, the main reason he didn’t jump out of the window of his room was an insane curiosity about John. In ten minutes or so, the man would arrive to talk about the practicalities of going home; of going to John’s home.
In the early days after he’d regained consciousness, when Tinnie had introduced him as the man who had saved his life, he had been churlish and rude, petulant and stubbornly ungrateful. He’d refused to talk to the man and had been dismissive of any attempts by John to establish contact. Surprisingly, he’d recognised him more or less straight away, even through the gauze and the reddish haze covering his eyes. He’d remembered the quickie they’d had in the sports club and he’d remembered being irritated by the Canadian’s glances in the Anvil and he’d recognised that this was an appealing and decent man with absolutely nothing to gain by persevering with Marcel but still, he couldn’t help being a complete bastard to the man.
In retrospect, it was all to do with the timing. In those early days of consciousness, he’d more or less shut down all his emotions except grief. Tinnie he still loved instinctively; Amália he tolerated but the rest of the people around him he hated fervently and let them know it at every available opportunity. The trouble was, the rest included the man who’d risked his own life to save his. Many times, he directed his anger almost exclusively at John. He’d even asked him how he dared save his life when the only result of surviving was that he had no quality of life left at all! John was clearly shocked but generally kept quiet, unlike Tinnie who let her feelings be known. That had some effect but in the beginning not much. He’d been in such pain, both physically and mentally and blaming John seemed the obvious thing to do. If it hadn’t been for his intervention, he’d be dead and wouldn’t be suffering the way he was then.
That it had all changed had been almost exclusively due to John’s unflustered persistence. He’d arrived every day with flowers, or a CD or one of those classic English books on tape that Marcel had grown to love listening to. What’s more, he often came alone and because Marcel didn’t have an audience who would respond, he soon gave up ranting at him. That was followed by days of awkward silence when Marcel refused to speak more than was absolutely necessary and John gave up trying. They were such difficult days. Marcel knew he was in the wrong but couldn’t help the way he felt. Eventually they both instinctively realised that this was a sort of healing process; one where Marcel had to learn to accept that John hadn’t condemned him to invalidity, the fire had. He also had to learn how to overcome his resistance to gratitude. During one rainy evening after Tinnie had rushed in sopping wet just before the end of visiting time, she had reminded him that the old Marcel was mostly a pretty nice sort of person and would be shocked at his new apparition’s lack of regard or sensitivity for others. That had shaken him enough to realise that if he was going to live, he had the choice between being as sour and bitter as was humanly possible, or coming to terms with things in some way. He chose the latter but it was painfully hard. Slowly but surely, he’d let John know that he was relieved if not glad, he was still alive and by beginning to show some concern for John’s well-being, he let it be known that the seeds of a friendship were growing. John responded to every encouragement and when Marcel broke down one afternoon after yet another blister burst and soaked his bandage and apologised for being such an incredible jerk, John’s eyes also filled with tears for the first time. He couldn’t speak. All he could do was screw up his face and give Marcel the thumbs-up sign, over and over again. After that, trust was established and they could move haltingly forward.
John walked into the hospital foyer and headed first for the cafeteria as he always did. Not only did he find the tram journey stressful but the walk through the streets, through the masses of uncaring people, only served to reinforce his position in life at the moment. He understood that ninety nine percent of the people weren’t hurting like he was but he resented it none the less. It was human nature to forget pain; if you didn’t you would go mad but that’s just what it felt like these days because the trauma was so prolonged; it seemed never ending. Then he would submit himself to the agonies and torture that Marcel served up.
In some ways, the yelling and the insults had been infinitely preferable to what was happening now. Then he’d been hated and that he could deal with. Then he didn’t have to confront Marcel with how he felt; there wouldn’t have been any point but now, now they had a relationship of sorts and the feelings were warmer. What now? The problem was, Marcel still had no idea how John really felt. He had never found the right moment, or the right conversation to tell him and the truth was he didn’t know himself. He felt that he was in love but how could he be sure? He needed time too, to establish what was real and what was a by-product of the disaster and the traumatic aftershocks. He understood perfectly that he was ill too; not in the same way as Marcel of course but crippled nevertheless. He didn’t sleep at nights and could replay the recurring dream endlessly.
He’d lost all the kilo’s he’d ever wanted to lose and had sufficiently worried Amália that for a week, she had produced endless supplies of pancakes, even going to the English food shop to find exorbitantly priced Canadian maple syrup to drown them in. He chuckled at the thought as he ordered his coffee and sat down by the window. He needed this short break in between the travel and the confrontation; a few minutes to gather his thoughts and his composure before facing the unpredictable.
If he was in love with Marcel, why was he in love with him? If he was ill himself, could any emotions at the moment possible be real? He didn’t know him beyond his own limited experience but what Tinnie had told him over the last few weeks had confirmed every optimistic instinct he’d had about the man. Strangely, neither Tinnie nor Amália had offered any resistance to the thought, or even tactfully suggested that he was out of his mind. They’d actively supported him, even when he’d firmly told them that he may never say anything to Marcel and that they were very definitely not to ‘help’ in any way! Even Guus had backed him up and although admitting to not understanding completely, had told John that as far as he was concerned, if John felt that way, then it must be a genuine feeling. However, that didn’t explain why he felt he was in love. Why Marcel? Did he feel this way before the fire? Not really, if he was honest and why now, when Marcel was irreparably damaged? Was it out of pity, or a need to adopt a puppy? Could he love someone without any physical attraction whatsoever? The fact that he could ask himself such calculating questions convinced him that he wasn’t just caught up in an emotional fantasy, like a prisoner who falls for his captor or something like that. He felt that if his first reaction to the idea of loving Marcel, without the slightest prospect of sex, was one of embarrassment, or of not worrying about that till later, then it was most likely not genuine. He’d been pleased that he’d examined the facts as they were. He’d just discovered sex with men and was enjoying it. Could he commit himself to someone and deny himself that? Could he provide the care that Marcel was going to need? Could he put up with the inevitable frustrations on both sides and the less appealing functions of the body for instance? He’d asked himself everything as honestly as he could and had decided that he thought he could but that he would make sure that Marcel knew that an effort had to be made on both sides.
Then again, it was all academic because Marcel didn’t know of his feelings and might run a mile at the thought. For the second time, John chuckled over his coffee; Marcel wasn’t going to be running anywhere! What they had agreed on, to everyone’s surprise, was that Marcel should move into John’s apartment to live. It was logical really. Marcel couldn’t go back to his own place, it was too inaccessible and besides that Tinnie had persuaded him to give it up. He couldn’t live with the women; their apartment was too small and it wouldn’t really be fair on their relationship which had covered some rocky terrain already. His own flat was large enough and with enough rooms for himself to escape if necessary and Marcel to have some privacy when he needed it. It was close to the hospital and all other necessary amenities. The social services had inspected it and pronounced it very suitable. Marcel would get professional help seven days a week at first and regularly after that, so John wouldn’t be permanently ‘on call’. Tinnie, Amália and Guus had insisted that they would all do their ‘bit’ along with a friend of Marcel’s called Mia, who John didn’t entirely trust but swore she would do anything necessary; he only had to pick up the phone. So all in all, it seemed a workable arrangement. Marcel had even shown mild enthusiasm when he’d taken photos into the hospital. In his usual way, he’d maintained that it didn’t matter where he was, nothing much would change but Tinnie had reassured John that he really was quite positive about the whole idea. So, declaring his love for the man seemed a very risky strategy indeed.
On the one hand, Marcel was hyper-sensitive about seeming a charity case but if he sensed a hidden agenda, that would be just as bad and might jeopardise the whole plan. Better not to say anything then! Better to keep quiet like he’d done for weeks but then again there were always going to be good reasons for keeping his mouth shut; would there ever be a time when he could express the irrational longings he kept hidden? Would it end up being too late and he would become the latest victim of unrequited love? His chest hurt at the idea. He loved Marcel; he didn’t really comprehend why but there was no escaping the facts. When he looked at the broken body on the bed, he didn’t see the bandages or the wounds; he saw what lay behind the eyes and that he loved. Giving his cup to the girl behind the counter, she thanked him and strangely wished him good luck; so she understood too? Clutching the talking tape of ‘A Passage to India’, he hurried towards the lift.
Today just very well may be a good day; in these times, a very rare sort of day indeed.
46. Turkish delight
The hotel was by necessity basic. Half way down a hill, on a dusty and anonymous side street full of anonymous, hastily built warehouses and garages; it was barely more than a working man’s pension. In fact the rest of the guests, apart from one, were men from the countryside who worked in the city during the week and went home to their families in the hills at the weekends. The exception was a large, voluptuous woman in her forties Arjan guessed who, apart from her evident psychological problems, entertained the men for a small fee and thus kept herself from social isolation.
He had met her in the corridor one evening as he climbed the steps to his floor. She lolled out of the doorway of her room, holding a cigarette in a long holder in one hand and twiddling the strap to her chemise with the other. He nodded to her as he tried to get past but she thrust her chest out and expertly swung her hips into his path. It was admittedly a chest to be reckoned with, dominated by pendulous Rubenesque breasts but all he saw were the wrinkles and folds. She was a woman whose best years were sadly gone but clearly still believed in her sexual persuasiveness. Obviously used to easy conquests among the swarthy and moustachioed labourers from the hills, who by Thursday or Friday were missing their wives just a little too much, she set her sights on Arjan. His dark good looks gave no hint that he wasn’t Turkish and she looked forward to a little pleasure with what seemed to be a better class of man. It was a distinctly puzzled temptress then, who glared at him as he politely smiled and eased his way past her and walked away without looking back. During the next few days, a similar scenario was repeated two or three times before she decided to say something. Turkish was clearly lost on him so she tried various phrases in various languages picked up over a lifetime. Finally settling on broken German, she eventually got through.
“You German Turk? You don’t think I’m attractive? Why don’t you think? What is wrong with me that I don’t make you horny?”
Arjan chose the easiest route.
“I’m married I’m afraid and I love my wife very much.”
She snorted derisively, spraying his cheek before wiping her nose with the back of her hand.
“They all love their wives! What difference? Lonely men need a friend. I need a friend too sometimes. Why not together? Is normal eh?”
“No, I’m sorry; I want to stay faithful to my wife... and we’ve only been married a few months but thank you for the offer, I’m very flattered.”
The latter was an afterthought but he hoped it would be enough.
“Maybe I teach you a few things and then you teach your wife eh! Then everybody happy. She don’t need to know and if I guess right, she don’t want to know. They expect it. They know their men do this in the city. They just don’t want to see it but they are women; there are worse things in life. You boys don’t know how to please a woman. I show you a few tricks. Come inside a while.”
She turned into her room and catching the strong odour of old perfume and new sweat drifting into the corridor Arjan had a glimpse of one of his more unpleasant nightmares.
“No, no I really can’t. I’m sorry, I’m tired. I need to go to bed.”
Arjan should have remembered that a woman scorned can be a fearsome sight. She turned on him and spat on the floor. The smile was gone, the lipstick looked smudged and she showed every year of her age.
“Ach, you a sissy boy I think! Whatsamatter, you not like women eh? You not like the pussy? Maybe you bend over for the men eh! Maybe you take it up the ass! I tell the men. Maybe they take turns and you suck them dry and they fuck your ass I watch! “
‘If she only knew,’ grinned Arjan as he hurried back to his room her voice echoing accusingly along the hall. He was glad it was the weekend; the other men weren’t around but it wasn’t really funny and he decided that it may be better if he found somewhere else the next day.
As it turned out, that was the first of three such hotels, each presenting different but irritating problems. He was sick of living like this and sick of the boredom. Every day was much the same. He had nothing to do except wander round the city, or read books in English from a second hand stall he found at the market. Ankara surprised him. He’d had an image in his mind of an ancient Turkish city, its spired mosques and fragrant bazaars giving tons of local flavour. He hadn’t been prepared for a modern, fast-paced city with high-rise apartments, gleaming government buildings and snarled traffic rising from the flat expanse of the Anatolian Plateau. Very soon the novelty of Ankara’s cosmopolitan bustle and the incessant smell of traffic fumes disappeared and his longing for a bit of comfort led him to check in at the largest hotel he could find. Sinking onto a bed of international standard softness and cleanliness was such an unexpected luxury. There was a coffee maker in the room and a modern shower and clean towels. The hotel restaurant served international food and he rapidly came to the conclusion that he’d done exactly the right thing.
Boredom was still a factor though. He was a man used to hard work and the stresses of running several businesses at once. This enforced rest was frustrating to say the least. He tried ringing his father virtually every day, sometimes more than once but the phone was never picked up, or was disconnected. Two days of blaming Turkish telecommunications were quickly replaced by the realisation that his father wasn’t going to speak to him yet. To be fair, this had been more or less the arrangement and he could see the sense in maintaining radio silence but he couldn’t avoid the sneaking suspicion that he was being slowly but successfully screwed. After three weeks, he was becoming paranoid. What had he been thinking! He’d signed everything over to a man he barely knew but suspected was the reason he himself was a mover and shaker. He was the chip off the old block and his father was very definitely the old block itself. Genetic ruthlessness passed on through the generations! It did nothing to still his worries. He’d had no choice at all but now realised that he just might have been thrown to the sharks without a life belt. If that truly was the case, a tiny part of him admired his father’s audaciousness; he would have been proud of such a manoeuvre himself. What should he do next then? It took the clever hands of a young masseur in the local Hammam to revive his initiative.
He had wandered into the dense heart of the city, past dusty markets hidden among the skyscrapers, filled with rugs, water pipes and assorted exotica. He hardly noticed kebab shops and small houses, each blasting out piercing Eastern music from transistor radios, any more. Eventually, he came across a small sign marking the oldest existing bathhouse in Ankara. It seemed a pleasant way to spend an afternoon and held the promise of perhaps a little excitement as well.
The facade was modest except for the door, painted in bright, traditional designs. He pushed through arched portals into a smothering steamy oasis of peace, completely shut off from the noise of the city outside. Standing under a high domed roof beside a murmuring fountain that gurgled up from a tiled basin, he heard a door open behind him. Like a neophyte in a spacious sanctuary, he held his breath and waited.
A young and attractively built man wandered in and glancing impassively at Arjan; established that he could communicate in English and led him to dressing rooms on the perimeter of a round, ceramic vestibule. He explained that he was more than an assistant; he was also the ‘bouncer’. Should anyone ‘act indecent’ or display his private parts, he would be ejected. Arjan took careful if slightly disappointed note of the hint. He took off his clothes a little self-consciously and the young guy laid towels over his head, shoulders, and wrapped one around his waist. Then he gave Arjan wooden clogs and indicated that he should wear them.
Slightly embarrassed, Arjan followed him, clicking his way down a short passageway, through a set of swinging doors, and into the steam room where he was told to shed all but the waist towel. Apparently there was an Islamic rule against nude bathing. Seemingly out of character, the youth then let out a prodigious shout that made him jump. His shouts were to purge the room of dijans, or phantoms traditionally believed to inhabit the clouds of steam. As the reverberations subsided, he felt like a phantom himself as he penetrated that stifling, steamy world where frail rays of light struggled to reach the stone floor.
After undergoing a series of procedures, including heat, scrubbing, soaping and so called relaxation, (he drew the line at the removal of body hair), he was told to lie on the massive octagonal marble slab that rose one meter above the floor. The slab was even hotter than the air and he immediately broke into a profuse sweat. His limbs became soft and rubbery and he was told he was now ready for a Turkish massage.
With calloused hands, the young giant began pulling; twisting, kneading and pummelling him like a lump of dough. He seemed determined to see how many different pretzel shapes he could make out of the exhausted Dutchman. Arjan almost decided enough was enough and made ready to bolt from the place. He was slapped down on the slab and told to be patient because it was nearly over; so he decided to stick it out just a little longer if only out of stubborn pride.
The masseur’s style and control were remarkable. He was powerful and relentless. With joints cracking and muscles stretching, he pushed and urged the tips of Arjan’s toes to touch the back of his neck, just to the point of excruciating pain, and then a quick release, triggering a flood of electric tingles down his spine, cancelling his urge to scream. A surging pleasure rushed in where the pain had been. Some minutes later, with a last twist of ears and jerk of his neck, the big Turk stepped down from the marble platform, leaving him limp on his stomach. Except for a glow of sublime peace on his face, he seemed lifeless.
A sexual experience it most definitely wasn’t but Arjan found himself experiencing pleasure like never before. His body had been pounded into submission but in the process all the stresses, all the aches and pains and the tensions of the last few weeks, had been expunged. He was left in a state of complete physical relaxation and supreme mental alertness. It was during those few minutes of bliss, in the peaceful cocoon of the Hammam that he made the decision to return to Amsterdam!
Handing over his money in the changing rooms, he grasped the young Turk’s hand and shook it warmly and was given a toothy smile in return. As he turned to leave he received a sharp slap on the buttocks as a sort of bonus. Yelling in surprised pain, he saw the man wink at him and then whole heartedly laugh before disappearing through the door again. There was a definite spring in his step as he once more entered the cauldron of the city.
There were a few nervous moments as the plane landed in Brussels. Zaventem airport wasn’t particularly busy due to air traffic control problems in Spain and he couldn’t help feeling a little exposed as he made his way from collecting his baggage to the customs post. He was stopped and his heart pounded but the application of his renowned self-control revealed no nervousness at all. Yes, he was a businessman and yes, he was just back from a business trip to Istanbul and Ankara. His case was opened and the contents given a cursory inspection and then he was allowed to go. With an inward sigh of relief, he made his way to the meeting point, where he hoped his father would be waiting.
It hadn’t been an easy telephone conversation. His father had railed against his return. What was the point? It was far too soon and far too risky. The police were still nosing around and asking awkward questions and were threatening to close all the concerns down. Far better that he stay in Turkey, however frustrating that might be, until it was safe to come back. If he wanted, maybe it could be arranged for him go to South America instead? His father then promised to top up the bank balance to ensure that he had enough funds to live comfortably. It all fell on deaf ears of course. The more his father resisted the idea, the more Arjan was determined to go back. Every reason the man offered suddenly seemed suspicious. His sixth sense had strongly urged him to follow his instincts and return to protect what little he had left.
The exact location of the meeting point in the arrivals hall was a little vague to say the least and he wondered if he was at the wrong place but then again, the place wasn’t that big; his father couldn’t miss him. Half an hour went by and Arjan began to feel distinctly uncomfortable. He was certainly now in evidence on airport security cameras and the longer he hung around the more uneasy he felt. It took a while before it sunk in that his father had no intention of picking him up. Why it had taken so long mystified him; he normally became suspicious about things the minute they didn’t feel right and this hadn’t felt right since he had enquired if there were any delays on the motorways. There was little doubt he was on his own and a rising sense of anger began to drive his movements. Right then, there was little choice but to make his own way to Amsterdam. He wanted to hire a car but his driving licence lay in his father’s safe, so he opted instead for the train. He could have flown but figured the risks of being ‘controlled’ would be less if he was on the train.
After buying the ticket and a couple of magazines and glancing at De Tribune, he made his way to the trains, pausing at a kiosk for some sandwiches. He still had fifteen minutes before the train departed and felt slightly relieved that there had been no mention of the fire on the front page as far as he could see.
“Give me a salad and a ham and cheese please; oh yes and a sausage roll and a cappuccino too.”
He suddenly had a longing for ordinary Dutch food.
The girl handed him his purchases, took the money and turned to help someone else. He retired to a table just outside, sugared his coffee and unwrapped the sandwiches. It was a real pleasure to choose what to eat first.
He saw them coming, out of the corner of his eye. The coffee and food went flying across the floor as he leapt to grab his case but it was too late.
“Mr de Clerck? I wouldn’t do that if I were you. I’m here to tell you that you are under arrest on suspicion of financial irregularities and maybe some other things too. You need to come with us please and I’m afraid it will be necessary to handcuff you. Better that you say nothing until you have contacted a lawyer at the station okay?”
The man flashed an Interpol badge and smiled in a reasonably friendly manner. They’d got their man; there was no need to be heavy handed in the airport. As Arjan was led away, a surge of anger grew to boiling point inside but he controlled it like he’d never controlled it before. One thing was absolutely certain; no matter how long it took, he would have his revenge.
It crossed his mind that he’d underestimated his mother all those years. She had fully understood the extent of evil in the male side of the family.
The hotel was by necessity basic. Half way down a hill, on a dusty and anonymous side street full of anonymous, hastily built warehouses and garages; it was barely more than a working man’s pension. In fact the rest of the guests, apart from one, were men from the countryside who worked in the city during the week and went home to their families in the hills at the weekends. The exception was a large, voluptuous woman in her forties Arjan guessed who, apart from her evident psychological problems, entertained the men for a small fee and thus kept herself from social isolation.
He had met her in the corridor one evening as he climbed the steps to his floor. She lolled out of the doorway of her room, holding a cigarette in a long holder in one hand and twiddling the strap to her chemise with the other. He nodded to her as he tried to get past but she thrust her chest out and expertly swung her hips into his path. It was admittedly a chest to be reckoned with, dominated by pendulous Rubenesque breasts but all he saw were the wrinkles and folds. She was a woman whose best years were sadly gone but clearly still believed in her sexual persuasiveness. Obviously used to easy conquests among the swarthy and moustachioed labourers from the hills, who by Thursday or Friday were missing their wives just a little too much, she set her sights on Arjan. His dark good looks gave no hint that he wasn’t Turkish and she looked forward to a little pleasure with what seemed to be a better class of man. It was a distinctly puzzled temptress then, who glared at him as he politely smiled and eased his way past her and walked away without looking back. During the next few days, a similar scenario was repeated two or three times before she decided to say something. Turkish was clearly lost on him so she tried various phrases in various languages picked up over a lifetime. Finally settling on broken German, she eventually got through.
“You German Turk? You don’t think I’m attractive? Why don’t you think? What is wrong with me that I don’t make you horny?”
Arjan chose the easiest route.
“I’m married I’m afraid and I love my wife very much.”
She snorted derisively, spraying his cheek before wiping her nose with the back of her hand.
“They all love their wives! What difference? Lonely men need a friend. I need a friend too sometimes. Why not together? Is normal eh?”
“No, I’m sorry; I want to stay faithful to my wife... and we’ve only been married a few months but thank you for the offer, I’m very flattered.”
The latter was an afterthought but he hoped it would be enough.
“Maybe I teach you a few things and then you teach your wife eh! Then everybody happy. She don’t need to know and if I guess right, she don’t want to know. They expect it. They know their men do this in the city. They just don’t want to see it but they are women; there are worse things in life. You boys don’t know how to please a woman. I show you a few tricks. Come inside a while.”
She turned into her room and catching the strong odour of old perfume and new sweat drifting into the corridor Arjan had a glimpse of one of his more unpleasant nightmares.
“No, no I really can’t. I’m sorry, I’m tired. I need to go to bed.”
Arjan should have remembered that a woman scorned can be a fearsome sight. She turned on him and spat on the floor. The smile was gone, the lipstick looked smudged and she showed every year of her age.
“Ach, you a sissy boy I think! Whatsamatter, you not like women eh? You not like the pussy? Maybe you bend over for the men eh! Maybe you take it up the ass! I tell the men. Maybe they take turns and you suck them dry and they fuck your ass I watch! “
‘If she only knew,’ grinned Arjan as he hurried back to his room her voice echoing accusingly along the hall. He was glad it was the weekend; the other men weren’t around but it wasn’t really funny and he decided that it may be better if he found somewhere else the next day.
As it turned out, that was the first of three such hotels, each presenting different but irritating problems. He was sick of living like this and sick of the boredom. Every day was much the same. He had nothing to do except wander round the city, or read books in English from a second hand stall he found at the market. Ankara surprised him. He’d had an image in his mind of an ancient Turkish city, its spired mosques and fragrant bazaars giving tons of local flavour. He hadn’t been prepared for a modern, fast-paced city with high-rise apartments, gleaming government buildings and snarled traffic rising from the flat expanse of the Anatolian Plateau. Very soon the novelty of Ankara’s cosmopolitan bustle and the incessant smell of traffic fumes disappeared and his longing for a bit of comfort led him to check in at the largest hotel he could find. Sinking onto a bed of international standard softness and cleanliness was such an unexpected luxury. There was a coffee maker in the room and a modern shower and clean towels. The hotel restaurant served international food and he rapidly came to the conclusion that he’d done exactly the right thing.
Boredom was still a factor though. He was a man used to hard work and the stresses of running several businesses at once. This enforced rest was frustrating to say the least. He tried ringing his father virtually every day, sometimes more than once but the phone was never picked up, or was disconnected. Two days of blaming Turkish telecommunications were quickly replaced by the realisation that his father wasn’t going to speak to him yet. To be fair, this had been more or less the arrangement and he could see the sense in maintaining radio silence but he couldn’t avoid the sneaking suspicion that he was being slowly but successfully screwed. After three weeks, he was becoming paranoid. What had he been thinking! He’d signed everything over to a man he barely knew but suspected was the reason he himself was a mover and shaker. He was the chip off the old block and his father was very definitely the old block itself. Genetic ruthlessness passed on through the generations! It did nothing to still his worries. He’d had no choice at all but now realised that he just might have been thrown to the sharks without a life belt. If that truly was the case, a tiny part of him admired his father’s audaciousness; he would have been proud of such a manoeuvre himself. What should he do next then? It took the clever hands of a young masseur in the local Hammam to revive his initiative.
He had wandered into the dense heart of the city, past dusty markets hidden among the skyscrapers, filled with rugs, water pipes and assorted exotica. He hardly noticed kebab shops and small houses, each blasting out piercing Eastern music from transistor radios, any more. Eventually, he came across a small sign marking the oldest existing bathhouse in Ankara. It seemed a pleasant way to spend an afternoon and held the promise of perhaps a little excitement as well.
The facade was modest except for the door, painted in bright, traditional designs. He pushed through arched portals into a smothering steamy oasis of peace, completely shut off from the noise of the city outside. Standing under a high domed roof beside a murmuring fountain that gurgled up from a tiled basin, he heard a door open behind him. Like a neophyte in a spacious sanctuary, he held his breath and waited.
A young and attractively built man wandered in and glancing impassively at Arjan; established that he could communicate in English and led him to dressing rooms on the perimeter of a round, ceramic vestibule. He explained that he was more than an assistant; he was also the ‘bouncer’. Should anyone ‘act indecent’ or display his private parts, he would be ejected. Arjan took careful if slightly disappointed note of the hint. He took off his clothes a little self-consciously and the young guy laid towels over his head, shoulders, and wrapped one around his waist. Then he gave Arjan wooden clogs and indicated that he should wear them.
Slightly embarrassed, Arjan followed him, clicking his way down a short passageway, through a set of swinging doors, and into the steam room where he was told to shed all but the waist towel. Apparently there was an Islamic rule against nude bathing. Seemingly out of character, the youth then let out a prodigious shout that made him jump. His shouts were to purge the room of dijans, or phantoms traditionally believed to inhabit the clouds of steam. As the reverberations subsided, he felt like a phantom himself as he penetrated that stifling, steamy world where frail rays of light struggled to reach the stone floor.
After undergoing a series of procedures, including heat, scrubbing, soaping and so called relaxation, (he drew the line at the removal of body hair), he was told to lie on the massive octagonal marble slab that rose one meter above the floor. The slab was even hotter than the air and he immediately broke into a profuse sweat. His limbs became soft and rubbery and he was told he was now ready for a Turkish massage.
With calloused hands, the young giant began pulling; twisting, kneading and pummelling him like a lump of dough. He seemed determined to see how many different pretzel shapes he could make out of the exhausted Dutchman. Arjan almost decided enough was enough and made ready to bolt from the place. He was slapped down on the slab and told to be patient because it was nearly over; so he decided to stick it out just a little longer if only out of stubborn pride.
The masseur’s style and control were remarkable. He was powerful and relentless. With joints cracking and muscles stretching, he pushed and urged the tips of Arjan’s toes to touch the back of his neck, just to the point of excruciating pain, and then a quick release, triggering a flood of electric tingles down his spine, cancelling his urge to scream. A surging pleasure rushed in where the pain had been. Some minutes later, with a last twist of ears and jerk of his neck, the big Turk stepped down from the marble platform, leaving him limp on his stomach. Except for a glow of sublime peace on his face, he seemed lifeless.
A sexual experience it most definitely wasn’t but Arjan found himself experiencing pleasure like never before. His body had been pounded into submission but in the process all the stresses, all the aches and pains and the tensions of the last few weeks, had been expunged. He was left in a state of complete physical relaxation and supreme mental alertness. It was during those few minutes of bliss, in the peaceful cocoon of the Hammam that he made the decision to return to Amsterdam!
Handing over his money in the changing rooms, he grasped the young Turk’s hand and shook it warmly and was given a toothy smile in return. As he turned to leave he received a sharp slap on the buttocks as a sort of bonus. Yelling in surprised pain, he saw the man wink at him and then whole heartedly laugh before disappearing through the door again. There was a definite spring in his step as he once more entered the cauldron of the city.
There were a few nervous moments as the plane landed in Brussels. Zaventem airport wasn’t particularly busy due to air traffic control problems in Spain and he couldn’t help feeling a little exposed as he made his way from collecting his baggage to the customs post. He was stopped and his heart pounded but the application of his renowned self-control revealed no nervousness at all. Yes, he was a businessman and yes, he was just back from a business trip to Istanbul and Ankara. His case was opened and the contents given a cursory inspection and then he was allowed to go. With an inward sigh of relief, he made his way to the meeting point, where he hoped his father would be waiting.
It hadn’t been an easy telephone conversation. His father had railed against his return. What was the point? It was far too soon and far too risky. The police were still nosing around and asking awkward questions and were threatening to close all the concerns down. Far better that he stay in Turkey, however frustrating that might be, until it was safe to come back. If he wanted, maybe it could be arranged for him go to South America instead? His father then promised to top up the bank balance to ensure that he had enough funds to live comfortably. It all fell on deaf ears of course. The more his father resisted the idea, the more Arjan was determined to go back. Every reason the man offered suddenly seemed suspicious. His sixth sense had strongly urged him to follow his instincts and return to protect what little he had left.
The exact location of the meeting point in the arrivals hall was a little vague to say the least and he wondered if he was at the wrong place but then again, the place wasn’t that big; his father couldn’t miss him. Half an hour went by and Arjan began to feel distinctly uncomfortable. He was certainly now in evidence on airport security cameras and the longer he hung around the more uneasy he felt. It took a while before it sunk in that his father had no intention of picking him up. Why it had taken so long mystified him; he normally became suspicious about things the minute they didn’t feel right and this hadn’t felt right since he had enquired if there were any delays on the motorways. There was little doubt he was on his own and a rising sense of anger began to drive his movements. Right then, there was little choice but to make his own way to Amsterdam. He wanted to hire a car but his driving licence lay in his father’s safe, so he opted instead for the train. He could have flown but figured the risks of being ‘controlled’ would be less if he was on the train.
After buying the ticket and a couple of magazines and glancing at De Tribune, he made his way to the trains, pausing at a kiosk for some sandwiches. He still had fifteen minutes before the train departed and felt slightly relieved that there had been no mention of the fire on the front page as far as he could see.
“Give me a salad and a ham and cheese please; oh yes and a sausage roll and a cappuccino too.”
He suddenly had a longing for ordinary Dutch food.
The girl handed him his purchases, took the money and turned to help someone else. He retired to a table just outside, sugared his coffee and unwrapped the sandwiches. It was a real pleasure to choose what to eat first.
He saw them coming, out of the corner of his eye. The coffee and food went flying across the floor as he leapt to grab his case but it was too late.
“Mr de Clerck? I wouldn’t do that if I were you. I’m here to tell you that you are under arrest on suspicion of financial irregularities and maybe some other things too. You need to come with us please and I’m afraid it will be necessary to handcuff you. Better that you say nothing until you have contacted a lawyer at the station okay?”
The man flashed an Interpol badge and smiled in a reasonably friendly manner. They’d got their man; there was no need to be heavy handed in the airport. As Arjan was led away, a surge of anger grew to boiling point inside but he controlled it like he’d never controlled it before. One thing was absolutely certain; no matter how long it took, he would have his revenge.
It crossed his mind that he’d underestimated his mother all those years. She had fully understood the extent of evil in the male side of the family.
The Amsterdam Series
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45. An Autumn chill
46. Turkish delight
