Amsterdam, 2005
Bessel Kok is a major businessman. It shows: he has presence, composure, style and a keen eye. He’s a chess fanatic like my father, and a connoisseur of fine flesh and lovely women. His wife is young and ravishing, he has the pot belly of a gourmand, and his dream is to become President of the World Chess Federation.
He is also generous and – as luck would have it – a nostalgic fan and kind patron of little old me! I met him a few years ago at a smart dinner after a private view. He kindly invited me to the Karlovy Vary Film Festival in the Czech Republic, of which he was a sponsor. Bessel has become a thoughtful and protective friend.
This summer he offered to subsidise me.
‘Why?’
‘I will provide you with financial support for a few months, so you can devote yourself to your own project.’
‘What kind of project?’
‘A book.’
‘A book?’
‘The story of an ageing Dutchwoman, a former goddess of love, in fragile health and living in a tiny apartment …’ He laughed, adding: ‘Give it some thought …’
*
The sun was shining brightly on the Amsterdam canals, and life was cutting me some slack. My mind roamed freely in my convalescing body – I had time to live, to think. My pale skin soaked up the sun, turning more golden by the day and slowly showing up a scar on my left arm. Four white spots came gradually into relief, each smaller than the last.
‘Give it some thought …’ Bessel’s words kept running through my mind, refusing to fade.
I couldn’t take my eyes off this scar of mine. So old. Forgotten. Four spots, like a secret code, the code of my childhood, of my life perhaps. A code I had never tested.
But now I had to; it was time.
I phoned Bessel in the middle of that hot summer and announced: ‘I’m going to test the code.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve been frightened that I’d forgotten everything, on purpose or because I had to, but now it’s all coming back, the words are on the tip of my tongue …’
‘I can’t understand what you’re saying.’
‘I accept your support, Bessel! I’m ready to do the book.’
The last train has screeched noisily into Utrecht station, as it does every evening just after nine. Daytime was over hours ago, but night arrives only with this silence. A brutal cold snap started today.
‘Winter is here, that’s for sure!’ declared a customer in the overheated hotel restaurant.
Utrecht station is enormous, the biggest in Holland, a great entangled fork leading to a huge, well-ordered platform. Travellers arrive here from all countries, for a day or a month, for the cattle market, the trade fairs, the hopes and encounters of big city life.
I walk slowly down the main staircase, the floorboards creaking despite the lightness of my tread. I am trying not to make any noise, in case the hotel is full – although the lights in the lobby are off. There’s only that red light seeping in through the bay windows, lending a glow to each piece of furniture, each line, to the Chinese vase standing on the reception counter. This red light blinks on and off, banishing the nighttime dark. In the hotel the dark is never black, it’s purple.
The show is scheduled for ten o’clock. I cross the empty restaurant; the customers must have eaten early on account of the sudden cold. I walk towards the counter. It’s the end of the week and the customers have left, tired.
I’m disappointed. I enjoy doing my little show. Usually the two of us do it together, it’s better that way – we smile and protect each other. We always use the same song, ‘Only You’ by the Platters. I get on my bicycle and pedal around the bar, turning in the wide aisle. I fix each customer with a perfectly neutral smile, neither happy nor sad. I stretch out one leg, then the other. My skirt flips back over the saddle and I turn my head slowly from side to side, trying to make the curls of my short hair flutter. Marianne is behind me on the rack, waving. I meet the amused eyes of the customers without reading them. I check that everyone is happy. The recipe usually takes – they laugh out loud, encouraging me and calling out:
‘Bravo, Sylvia! Do it again, both legs together this time!’
That’s how it usually turns out, but not tonight. I am alone and I won’t be doing a show for anyone. I decide to go back up to my room.
The lounge door opens, letting in a patch of bright light. I jump.
‘Ah, you’re here, Sylvia! You came. Is it only me? Come over here, Peter! Sylvia’s going to do her show, just for us.’
I nod slowly, minimally. I can’t refuse, can’t say no to ‘Uncle’ Hans. I’m already wearing my performance outfit – the short wool skirt and a slightly faded pink T-shirt matched to my tights.
Peter is still wearing his apron. He’s the sous-chef. He has a red, puffy face and large, deep-set, glittering eyes. ‘Uncle’ Hans always wears the same grey suit, unironed and too short, revealing spotless white socks. His face is round. His hair is