(1) Prologue: ‘Be Careful in Amsterdam’ 1 страница

A Bicycle in Amsterdam

(1) Prologue: ‘Be Careful in Amsterdam’

Edith Frank had never thought of herself as adventurous – in no way did she see herself as a heroine in training. Yet here she was looking down at a whole new country, mapped about below her like a simple sketch. She gripped the handles of her seat as clouds came between her and the grid of canals and fields that were her first sight of Holland. She would need some steel to get through this. There was no one else to help her.

‘Are you ok Miss?’

The baggage reclaim attendant spoke to Edith in English, so that she felt a little stab of disappointment: he realised she was an American – not a Dutch girl coming home for the summer. Preparing for the journey the night before, she had thought she was choosing clothes that were European – simple, elegant, stylish, but practical. On the plane she’d read a thriller by a Scandinavian. She’d asked for tea when the attendants had walked through with the big flasks. In total she thought she’d begun to paint a new Dutch persona for herself. Someone new, who would stride through this difficult trip.

‘I’m waiting for my bicycle,’ she said in a rush. ‘My omafiet.’

‘You’re bringing an omafiet to Amsterdam?’ The attendant raised his eyebrows. ‘You don’t think you’ll find plenty of those to ride here?’

‘This one’s special.’ Edith looked away quickly to hide her rising colour. This was not how she’d wanted her first interaction in Amsterdam to go.

The attendant shrugged and wandered over to the family who’d sat behind Edith on the plane from Boston. Why doesn’t he ask about what they’re bringing to Amsterdam? Edith thought. But her hurt swiftly dissolved as she saw, bumping along the luggage carousel, behind the family’s battered boxes, the almost undignified shape of her father’s wrapped-up granny bike – in Dutch, an ‘omafiet’.

In a rush to see if it was damaged, Edith pulled the parcel onto the floor and unwound the wrappings, until it stood, proudly naked, almost as if it were pleased to be back on its home ground.

With a hefty mudguard and wide handlebars, the omafiet was ridden in an upright position. You braked by pushing back on the pedals. Edith’s father, Edward, had given her lessons on the sidewalk outside their home, pushing her along from behind and shouting out encouragement in his round, mid-Atlantic accent.

Over the back was a small rack for carrying parcels or a briefcase. And, of course, on the front was the white plastic basket, still bent from when Edward had made Edith sit in it that last time they’d gone to the beach.

Edith’s shoulders drooped, and she felt the familiar knot in her throat as she thought again of that final day.

‘Please don’t make a mess of Schiphol Airport, Miss.’ The attendant was tapping Edith’s shoulder and standing far too close for comfort. ‘We Dutch like things neat and tidy, you know.’

‘My father was Dutch,’ Edith muttered. And bent over to scoop up the pile of wrapping and tape that now littered the floor. Taking it over to the nearest bin, she kneaded it together so it would fit, and as she did so, a small piece of writing paper fluttered to her feet.

Even before she had picked it up, she could see that the elegant, upright writing was her mother’s. It was just two lines. A note slipped in as they had packed up the bicycle.

‘My darling Edith. Good luck. And be careful in Amsterdam.’

(2) Too Old For Fairy Tales

Edith was a summer baby. Her mother, Justine, said it was what made her ‘outdoorsy’. Edward, her father – always more poetic – said it made her ‘unafraid of both sun and rain’.

Every year, Edith’s birthday was marked not just by a notch in the kitchen doorframe, but by the end of school and the preparations for a month in Mexico, where the family took their annual vacation, and Edward took a self-enforced sabbatical from his painting.

It took a whole week for Edward to close up his studio – putting the finishing touches to the various canvases he was working on; sorting sketches, sweeping the paint-spattered concrete floor; arranging the fat tubes of paint in a spectrum of colour.

Edith would help him. Her main job was cleaning his brushes – dipping them in heady-smelling turpentine, then washing them in the deep white sink in the corner of the studio. It was always a wonderful surprise to press her thumb into the hairs and find an unexpected colour bloom out into the water.

The day she turned eighteen, while Justine and her younger sister, Leila, piled suitcases with thin summer clothes, Edith stood over the studio sink, her hands stained with paint, the turpentine tickling her nose.

‘This could be your last year in Bahía de la Luna,’ said her father, holding a canvas at arm’s length, his brush of blond hair standing up from his forehead, giving him a boyish look.

‘Why? Aren’t we going next year?’

‘I’m sure we are. I just thought, now you’re eighteen, you might want to go somewhere on your own.’

‘I guess,’ replied Edith, hesitantly.

She turned the tap on and splayed a brush against the bottom of the sink. Eighteen had sort of crept up on her. All the talk at school was of what people would do, once they reached majority. And Edith, along with the crowd, had already learned to drive and was expecting to go to college. But in a vague way, she knew she was a little behind her classmates. She had no clear idea of what she wanted to make of her life. She had a few friends – but she wasn’t part of one of those tight-knit groups that meant everything to her. And she’d never had what she would call a real boyfriend. Barring a few dry kisses, she was totally unexperienced in love.

What she enjoyed more than anything was what she always had: time spent at home, chatting with her father, watching him work, reading in a corner of his studio, surrounded by the pungent scents of paints, wood and canvas. She had no urge to be an artist herself, but paintings, sketches, art books and galleries were as much a part of her life as TV, YouTube, Twitter and Facebook were to her classmates. She couldn’t imagine a life without them. And her birthday still meant cleaning her father’s brushes, preparing for the long journey down to Bahía de la Luna. Looking forward to a month spent in the searing heat of a Mexican summer.

‘What are you two talking about?’ Justine was at the door.

‘Dad was saying this might be my last summer with you guys in Mexico.’

‘Edward! What makes you say that?’

‘She’s eighteen now. Maybe she doesn’t want to do kids’ things.’

‘She can still enjoy a vacation with her family can’t she?’ Justine’s voice was unusually shrill.

‘In the Netherlands kids go off on their own at eighteen. I was taking trains across Europe at Edith’s age.’

Justine’s face looked a little pained. ‘They do things differently in Europe, though, don’t they? Mexico is still an adventure.’

‘I was only saying she might want to do something different. Find out something about the world. Make her own way.’ Edward’s face had turned pink.

Edith looked from her mother to her father. They almost never argued like this and certainly not over something so trivial.

‘Do you want to come to Bahía, Edith?’ Justine said it while still holding Edward’s gaze.

‘Well… yes, I guess…I mean, I just expected…’

‘There. That’s settled,’ and Justine turned on her heel.

Edward lurched off into a corner of the studio. Glancing at him while drying the brushes, Edith saw him repeatedly rub his hands over his face and across his blond hair, staring at a pile of canvases, but clearly seeing something else.

She took extra care to fan the hairs of the brushes, placing them in their pots in order of size. She had no idea why this would help the situation. And she felt very young – really not eighteen at all.

*

Bahía de la Luna is some hundred miles north of Puerto Vallarta. The journey from Boston is long, and for the Frank family, with a month’s worth of clothes and a heavy, awkward bicycle to check in, it was quite a struggle.

At last, however, they were in Mexico, had picked up the hire car, stuffed it with boxes of goods from the supermarket on the highway and everyone seemed to relax.

Their villa wasn’t a sprawling place, but was big enough, with two bedrooms overlooking the sea and a terrace from which you could peer down the hill into the village, a good ten-minute walk away. The pueblo was stuck in time, a handful of side streets off a main road with a general store, two bars and a fish restaurant next to the bus stop. In the 70’s it had been a place hippies fled to when they realised they were wrong about free love. And it was the place Edward had first come to when he’d left the Netherlands.

Without television or broadband, Leila would often complain of boredom, but Edith was happy with the beach; exploring the rocky gardens around the villa; playing board games in the hot afternoons; joining her father to pick through the rock pools that were filled and drained each tide by the cold Pacific. And most of all reading uninterrupted by studies or school. This year, she had had to make room in her case for her most recent discovery – the hefty novels of Trollope – and was looking forward to a summer of heroines, inheritances and intrigue.

What all the family enjoyed were the long evening meals on the terrace, watching the sun set into the sea. The first night was always Edith’s birthday celebration – usually a week late, so made more special because she’d had to wait. Justine would have smuggled a cake into the luggage. Edward would have dashed to the pueblo’s little store, and if he could, caught the fruit and vegetable seller, buying up tomatoes and avocados from the baskets on her stall.

And it was when the sun had set that, by tradition, Justine and Edward would retell the tale of how they met. Since Edith was a little girl, almost any story had delighted her – but this was particularly special because it was true, and it was about her, in an indirect way. And it was an extra little birthday present she knew she would always receive. It brought her father and mother together for a moment of affection, for an embrace, or – if Edward told the story particularly well, with embellishments or new remembrances – a kiss. Edith was particularly pleased when the kiss was initiated by Justine, who would shake her blonde hair, throw out a laugh, then kiss her father as she cupped his face and whispered something to him that the sisters were not meant to hear.

Edward would begin by telling his girls how he’d escaped the grey, dreary climate of northern Europe seeking light, adventure and space. What he hadn’t bargained on finding was love. Justine found him living in a converted school bus, on a beach the other side of the village – a long strand where the hippies would pitch their tents among the dunes.

‘I was a gringita tourist,’ Justine would say, ‘in my last year of college. I slung on a backpack, said goodbye to my friends, and flew alone down to Mexico.’ People did things like that in those days, she always liked to say – as if they couldn’t do them anymore. As if now everyone had to take more care.

She’d been travelling for three weeks when she stumbled across Edward. He was sitting, sketching in the sand in front of his bus, accompanied by a cat and a sea gull, which he’d rescued from the surf. It had a broken wing.

He always liked to claim that he’d spotted her the previous evening, arriving from the airport with the rest of the long-haired, tie-dyed crowd. He would say that he’d told her so, to show that he’d noticed her.

‘And then she stood in front of me, her hands on her hips, and said “Actually, I came on the bus. From San Antonio via Durango.”

“That’s a long one.”

“Especially if you’ve eaten a bad gordita beforehand.” ’

Edward would say that then he laughed and offered her his hand.

And then Edward and Justine would do exactly that – shake each other’s hand and laugh. ‘I fell in love that moment,’ Edward would say.

And when Edith once asked her mother what it felt like to fall in love, Justine told her that it wasn’t like fireworks – explosions and flashing lights – it was shaking someone’s hand, looking into their eyes and realising that you felt completely safe.

*

On the night of her eighteenth birthday celebration, with the sun still colouring the horizon pink, the village lights clustered below and the evening breeze cooling the terrace, Edith sipped at her one permitted glass of wine, and tipping her glass at Edward and Justine said, ‘Now for the story!’

‘Come on, you don’t want that,’ said Edward, with an exaggerated comic frown.

‘Of course I do. This my birthday meal. You always tell the story.’

‘Aren’t you too old for fairy tales?’

‘Dad!’ Leila squawked.

But Edith was more alarmed by Justine’s reaction. She had suddenly pulled out of Edward’s encircling arm, and was giving him a look of annoyance.

‘Don’t spoil the evening, Edward. The girls love the story. I love the story.’

‘Let’s have a different story. I’m an artist, I’m sure I can think of something more colourful. Something for an eighteen-year old?’

‘Edith wants the story – she just said. I thought we’d left all that “now she’s eighteen” stuff back in Boston.’

‘What “now she’s eighteen” stuff?’ Leila asked, her eyebrows high.

Edith opened her mouth, waiting for the answer.

‘Nothing honey,’ said Justine. ‘Start the story, Edward. Don’t make a fuss.’

Edward stood up and leaned on the wall of the terrace looking out at the sea for a moment. Then he turned. ‘What if we met in a different way? On a ship, maybe?’ He threw his arm out towards the dark sea. ‘Or in a romantic city. Somewhere far away.’

‘But that wouldn’t be true would it?’ said Edith. ‘That’s what’s good about this one. We know it’s true. We know it’s about us.’

Edward looked at her, seemingly somewhat saddened, but unwilling to come round. Edith put her glass down, feeling her birthday was suddenly tasting a little bitter this year. Whatever happened, it wouldn’t end in a handshake and a kiss.

‘What’s wrong with telling the story, Dad?’ she said, gently. She thought she knew her father. She thought she knew how to ask him for things. But a frown was tightening his features now. It was an expression he reserved for his studio, for a problematic painting.

‘Your father’s just being an ass.’ Justine said flintily and began piling plates on top of each other, squashing the remnants of the meal between them.

‘Justine, honey,’ protested Edward. ‘I’m not being an ass. I just thought we could do something a bit different. Things change, don’t they? Edith’s an adult now.’

‘For one thing, Leila isn’t an adult yet. And for another…’ Justine looked at a loss for moment. She turned to Edith with something approaching panic on her face. Then hid it quickly by wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, and continued noisily stacking plates and bowls. ‘And for another, I’m not discussing this. Tell the story or don’t say anything. It’s up to you, Edward.’ She got up quickly and stalked off to the kitchen.

*

Edith woke with a jerk – sure she’d heard a shout of ‘No!’ She couldn’t tell what time it was – or how long she’d been asleep. She knew she’d taken a very long time to drop off. Leila had hooked onto the tension in the villa, and reassuring her that everything was fine, without being at all convinced of it herself, had not helped Edith to sleep.

Sitting up she saw hair-thin lines of yellow light striping the space between her bed and Leila’s. The villa was primitive, and the floorboards of the bedroom formed the ceiling of the sitting room below. Someone was still up.

A low murmur told her that her father was speaking – quietly, so as not to be heard. Justine’s voice followed, in a similar low tone – but in short, urgent phrases. They had definitely not made up.

Edith lay back down, attempting to get back to sleep. But within a few minutes she realised it was pointless – her ears were alert to every sound, her body was tensed.

She had plenty of friends from broken homes. Divorce and separation, fights and domestic strife had all been ‘whatever’ topics at school. The Franks had been the exception – with their calm, loving, settled life. Cross words were almost unknown in their house. So now that they were happening, Edith had no idea how to handle them. Should she ignore the situation – put the pillow over her head, or earphones in her ears? Or should she dash down and get involved – perform histrionics so they stopped? She’d heard of both as ways of dealing with ‘domestics’ – but neither option was her.

She turned over and looked at Leila. She hadn’t woken. Carefully easing herself out of bed, Edith stalked to the window and slipped out onto the balcony. The doors downstairs would be open, and she might have a better chance of hearing what was being said from here.

The night air still held some of the heat of the day, but a breeze came off the sea, wrapping Edith in a curious blend of warm and cool currents. One moment she shivered – the next she flushed.

A chair was scraped below her – someone had stepped out onto the terrace. It was Justine – she was looking out at the sea. Edward said something from within the room, and Justine wheeled round in renewed anger.

‘Of course I’m being protective. She’s my daughter for God’s sake. Just because she’s a few days older – doesn’t stop me wanting to protect her does it!’ She raised her hand to emphasize her point.

Edward replied – but Edith still couldn’t make out the words.

Justine’s response made it clear: ‘I’m not saying you don’t want to protect her, Edward. I’m just saying I don’t see why she needs to know now.’

Another few words from Edward. It was infuriating only having half the conversation. And Edith felt she knew so little, she couldn’t even guess at what Edward was saying. All she did know was this was about her.

Justine turned and Edith dodged back from the parapet, fearful she would be seen.

‘Why would you want to ever go back to Amsterdam, anyway? I don’t even know why you’ve kept that damned bike all these years. Dragging it all the way down here.’

‘You know why.’ Edward was louder now. He was on the terrace too.

‘Yes I do. And that’s exactly why I don’t want her told.’

They stood close together now, staring into each other’s eyes. Perhaps they would hug. Would realise their argument was stupid – whatever it was about. Edith held her breath.

But Edward spun on his heel and clattered through the wicket gate that separated the terrace from the rocky garden. Edith followed his silhouette as he lurched through the bushes towards the cliff. Justine watched him too. Then disappeared inside.

Edith was rooted to the spot. Not caring now that one of her parents might at any moment look up and see her watching them. She almost wanted them to. Perhaps then she would get a sense of their disagreement. What was it that she wasn’t to know? What was it that made them disagree so violently?

Justine re-appeared below her, flopping heavily onto one the loungers. A second later her face was lit by the yellow flash of a flame. And then the orange spot of a cigarette-end glowed, moving between her lips and her lap. Edith caught the sweet scent of the tobacco. She was shocked all over again. She’d never seen her mother smoke. She’d never imagined she did.

She slumped over the balustrade. Just a few days ago she had been seventeen. Safe, comfortable and – she saw now – naïve. What had changed? Her becoming an adult? It was like her mother said – the passing of a week should make no difference. Edith suddenly felt very weak. It was as if she been presented with a broken machine, and a tool box that she found was empty.

Edward had reached the cliff-edge and was a still figure now, staring at the waves, almost indistinguishable from the rocks around him. Below Edith, Justine was a long grey shape, obscured by the bougainvillea winding round the terrace pillar.

Above was a sliver of moon, barely enough to illuminate the night.

(3) ‘Just tell me’

The local saying was that if you look at the sun long enough, it made you blind and stole your bread. Even at the age of eighteen, Edith had enough Spanish to know that translation was wrong, but as she stepped out onto the balcony the morning after the fight, it made sense to her somehow.

She’d hoped the new day would throw light on the confusion and upset of the previous night. But below her, Justine was slamming the doors of the car, watched by a sullen-looking Edward, his back bowed, his hands in his shorts pockets.

‘You’re up at last,’ Justine called up to Edith. ‘Quick, pull something on. I’m taking you two into town.’

The town was a good couple of hours drive away. The trip would take the whole day. Edward kicked at a rock, sending it scuttling across the dusty ground beside the house. He clearly wasn’t joining the party.

Leila appeared between Justine and Edward, wearing a wide sun hat and over-sized shades. ‘C’mon Edith. Mom wants to go.’

The three of them stared up at Edith for a moment, waiting for her decision. Edith pushed her hand into her hair. Any other day she would have been happy to go along with whatever plan was in the offing. Normally, choosing would have meant very little – either shopping with Justine and Leila, or at home with Edward, she would have been quietly content. But today the choice seemed an unpleasant task. Whatever she did she would be taking a side.

‘Don’t keep us waiting, Edith,’ said Justine, opening the driver’s door. ‘We can buy you some breakfast on the way through the village. Put on a dress and let’s just go!’ There was something insistent in her voice. Something that Edith instinctively resisted. The feeling came as yet another little shock.

The sun created a white patch on the sea. In the distance Edith could hear the waves against the rocks. She needed to talk about what was going on. What exactly she wasn’t supposed to know. Her best option was to speak to her father on his own.

‘It’s too hot to go shopping. I’ll stay at home with Dad, I think.’

‘Please yourself.’ Justine was clearly unhappy. She slung her bag into the back seat, pushed Leila in after it and drove off without a goodbye.

In fact, it proved more difficult to corner Edward than Edith had hoped. By the time she’d showered and come downstairs, he was out on the cliff-top sitting on a rock, sketch book propped up on his knee. Edith knew of old that he was not to be disturbed. She knocked around the villa for the rest of the morning, keeping out of the sun, and glancing periodically at the obstinate shape of her father.

‘How much sea can you draw, for god’s sake,’ she said out loud. And immediately hated herself for her moment of temper. She sloped upstairs and threw herself on her bed. What had happened to turn the world so sour? Mexico had always been the highlight of her year. But now she was hot, bored and confused.

It was not until lunchtime that Edward came back. In almost silence, they ate a salad with some stale bread softened by dipping it in oil. Nothing tasted as it should to Edith, and she left half her meal uneaten.

At last, Edward stood up and stretched. ‘How do you fancy a ride to the cove this afternoon?’

By this time Edith’s mood was so low, she couldn’t muster anything like her usual enthusiasm. She shrugged and drained her water glass.

‘C’mon. I’m sure you’ll still fit in the basket.’ He was trying to sound cheerful, but Edith could see the strain. She felt a sudden pity for him. He was struggling as much as she was.

‘Ok. I’ll get my towel.’

The cove was a ten-minute ride away down a rocky track. The most beautiful part of the coast for miles, the steep access path and its strong rip current kept most tourists away, so the Franks considered it their private beach for the summer.

As they bounced along on the heavy granny bike, Edith could feel the plastic basket underneath her buckling with her weight. But the cooling breeze from the sea and the jerks and twists of the ride made both her and Edward laugh out loud, so that by the time they’d reached the sand, they seemed their old, relaxed selves.

Edith needed a pull to extricate herself from the basket. They stood back and looked at the damage.

‘Maybe you are too big for it, after all,’ said Edward, attempting to ease the bars back into shape.

Edith looked at the pink patch on top of her father’s head, burned from sitting in the sun all morning. ‘Dad…’ she began, seriously.

‘Yes, honey.’ Edward didn’t look up.

‘Dad. Look at me.’

He turned, a worried look on his face.

‘What were you and Mom arguing about last night?’

‘Last night?’

‘I woke up in the middle of the night and you were arguing.’

‘No, honey. You must’ve misheard.’

‘I didn’t mishear. And all that stuff at dinner. What was that about?’ Edith wouldn’t normally press a point like this. If was as if she had something unmanageable in her hands, but the last thing she felt she could do was drop it.

Edward turned away without speaking and bashed violently at the plastic basket.

Edith took a few steps towards the sea, drew in a long breath and then turned around.

‘What doesn’t Mom want me to know?’

Edward sighed and let the bicycle lie down in the sand. It look exhausted, as if the Mexican heat were too much for its North European constitution.

Edward moved towards Edith, put his head on one side and rubbed the back of his neck.

‘I never told you I was once a thief, did I?’

‘A thief?’ Edith crinkled her nose into a squint against the sun.

‘It was a long time ago, before you were born. When I was still in Amsterdam.’

Edith shook her head back and forth.

‘I was living in a squat with a group of other artists. We called ourselves ‘The Collective’.’ Edward stopped, huffed and laughed. ‘It sounds so pretentious now. But then we thought we were so smart, so superior. We had this little statement that argued our cause. A manifesto. And we were into stealing. We thought it was justified.’

Edith frowned with incomprehension. ‘How can stealing be justified?’

‘You’re right. Mostly it’s not. But there are times when – when circumstances mean that it’s the only choice.’

Edward bent down and picked up the towels. He threw one into Edith’s hands and began to walk towards the water’s edge.

‘We were very poor, you see. We weren’t able to make a living from our work. So we stole from grocers, we stole the odd bit of clothing. We stole light bulbs. We stole electricity. We stole the things we needed. But we didn’t think of ourselves as thieves. We thought it was what we had to do to support our work. And our work was going to change the world.’

‘But what about the people you took stuff from? What about stealing just being wrong?’

‘We didn’t see it that way. And we used the theme for our work – stealing techniques from other artists, stealing ideas from other art forms. It was actually incredibly exciting.’

Edith felt herself frowning more deeply. Edward took a step towards her and rubbed his thumb over her brow. ‘Don’t make that face, darling. Sometimes in life, you have to do things that you think are right. Not what others tell you are correct. You have to make your own choices. Decide what’s more important. You see this bicycle?’ Edward turned and pointed at the black shape relaxing on the sand behind them. ‘That’s stolen.’

‘It’s just an old bicycle, I suppose.’

‘It was the first thing we stole as The Collective. We decided we should have some wheels. But stealing a car was too much, even for us. So we took this bike and anyone who needed to could use it. So in a way it went from being one person’s bike to belonging to several people. You could argue that was a positive thing.’

Her father stopped and looked at the waves breaking on the rocks. ‘But then, when I left, I took it with me. Maybe that was wrong, I don’t know. Because we’ve all used it for years haven’t we?’

Edith wasn’t sure she was following him now. She wasn’t even sure how much he was talking to her and how much he was talking to himself.

‘I’m not saying we were saints. And I suppose our work didn’t change the world. But I don’t regret it, Edith. It’s made me what I am.’

Edith took her father in. His thinning blond hair. His big, bearish body – still solid, but sagging a little now with age. He was the person in her life who’d always made her feel safe. Justine’s love was warm and attentive, but it was Edward who had always represented security. Ever-present in his studio, standing with his big feet wide apart, brush in hand, surrounded by canvases, she had always known that, come what may, there was a place for her in the corner. That there would always be a couple of kind words and a smile to be had.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04