(1) Prologue: ‘Be Careful in Amsterdam’ 3 страница

Like this one, they were all addressed to Justine, and she read them with the carefully composed expression she adopted for anything concerning her husband’s death. She would sometimes hand one to Edith, murmuring something about ‘people’s kindness’ or how a particular feeling was ‘well expressed’. And generally Edith didn’t pay too much attention to them. The people who wrote them seemed distant from her life. And there was nothing of the father she knew in the letters. Nothing of the sharp oil and wood smells that permeated his hair and clothes; nothing of the comical expressions he unwittingly wore as he worked on a painting. None of the odd Dutch ditties he sang as he stretched canvas over a frame and hammered in the nails.

But now she was going to Amsterdam, this one piqued her interest. It was clearly a card inside a thick, cream envelope. Probably a flowery message of condolance, she thought, turning the letter over. But then she saw on the back the sender’s name and address. ‘Lies Henning’ was written in an extravagant hand above the envelope’s seal.

‘Lies’. Wasn’t that the name of one of the people in Edward’s sketches? The only other letters from the Netherlands that Edith had noticed were from distant members of Edward’s family. Cousins she had never met and probably would never see. She didn’t think any of them were called Lies. Was this Lies Henning one of the Collective? Or someone close to it?

Edith busied herself in the kitchen as much as she could, trying to stay around Justine when she opened the letter. But Justine subtly took herself away and when she came back, in a change of clothes, the letter was nowhere to be found.

Edith realised she was going to have to be direct. She reminded herself that this wasn’t one of the Victorian novels she was so fond of reading. Justine wouldn’t swoon into a dead faint at the foot of the stairs, requiring smelling salts to bring her round and a week in bed to recover.

Drying her hands on a cloth, Edith smiled and said, ‘Who was the letter from Amsterdam from?’

‘Just a friend of your father’s.’ Justine set to straightening things Edith had already straightened. ‘Saying how sorry she was to hear about… well you know.’

So Lies was a woman. A tiny step forward, thought Edith. An old girlfriend perhaps? But she couldn’t ask this, she decided.

‘Is she someone who I should get in touch with while I’m there, do you think?’

Justine whipped round from the pointless little task she was busying herself with at the sink, looking for all the world as if she been caught riffling through someone else’s drawers.

‘No…no. She’s… I don’t think that would be a good idea.’ Justine adjusted her hair, and gave Edith a false smile. ‘She’s an agent – I think. An artist’s agent. She probably wouldn’t have time anyway.’

‘Ok. I was just thinking it would be good to meet some people that Dad used to know.’

Justine’s smile looked as if it might slip into a grimace. But she held onto it, approaching and putting her fingers through Edith’s hair now.

‘I’ve been thinking, honey. I’m not sure Amsterdam is such a good idea. If you want art and all that bohemian stuff, London is great – or Berlin? And for the weather, I hear Barcelona is beautiful. All those Gaudi buildings.’

‘But I want to see where Dad lived. That’s the whole point of going there.’ Edith had to be careful now. If her mother protested too much at her going to Amsterdam, Edith might find herself letting slip her true concerns.

‘Or Mexico,’ Justine went on, injecting a false brightness into her voice. ‘You could take a friend down there. Your father loved Mexico. And don’t forget, it’s where he went when he left Amsterdam. He wanted all that sunshine. Beach life. He was such a hippy, you know. You should have seen that bus he lived in. I sometimes wonder if it’s still there. Why did we never go and look if it’s still there?’ She moved around the kitchen now, uncharacteristically manic. ‘Why don’t you go see if the bus is still there? I’m sure I can find the bay on a map for you. Imagine that. What an adventure!’

Edith raised her eyebrows. It was like being a dog, with her owner tempting her with a stick. Except that Justine’s forced enthusiasm was painful, her face almost imploring.

‘Mom. I’m going to Amsterdam. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.’

Justine’s face twitched, refusing to hold the smile now. ‘Just… Just think about Mexico will you? For me. If something happens it will be easier to get back from there.’

Edith couldn’t help a small, almost scornful laugh. ‘Mom, I’ve checked. There are direct flights from Amsterdam to Boston. It takes six hours. It’ll be much more difficult to come back here from Puerto Vallarta.’

Justine shook her head, opening her mouth, but unable to make proper words.

‘And anyway,’ continued Edith, ‘what do you think’s going to happen? It’s not Afghanistan or Colombia. It’s Amsterdam. Mexico’s far more dangerous, isn’t it?’

Justine sighed, leaning her hands against the countertop. Edith observed her carefully. Was she going to divulge something? Was she going to hint at why she was so determined that Edith shouldn’t visit the Netherlands? Was she going allude to the argument in Mexico?

But Justine had clearly made a decision. She stood up straight. ‘OK. If you’re set on going, I’m not going to try and stop you.’

For a moment Edith felt outplayed. These past few days she had been vaguely wondering whether simply the threat of her going to Amsterdam might push Justine to tell her what she wanted to know. But Justine had been cleverer than that. Or perhaps more determined.

Or perhaps it was a simple as there was nothing much to know. Edith gave her a mother a tight hug. Maybe life wasn’t all intrigue and mysterious notes.

But as she climbed the stairs to her room, she reminded herself of the spelling of the sender of today’s letter. Lies Henning. She would start her investigations online and perhaps have enough for a new section in her Amsterdam file.

(6) Bicycle Pleased to be Home

It was raining as Edith stood next to her bicycle on the double decker train into Amsterdam. She peered out of the window and looked at the highway that ran parallel to the tracks. The cars flew by, seeming to be in a race with the train, desperate to get into the city.

Stuffed into her backpack were some clothes, her journal, her laptop and a folder of research she had been working on, neatly divided into sections – one for each of member of The Collective.

Edward Frank had the most information, of course. It had been a strange task to research her father as if she were some college art student, which, of course, was what she would have been, had he not died. Her planned entry to a Boston liberal arts college had been deferred for a year. Who made the decision that a year was enough for a young woman to grieve? And what had they expected her to do with the time?

The college would approve of this little adventure, she supposed. A summer spent in Europe, broadening her mind; gaining new experiences; widening her cultural landscape.

Jaap Knol’s section of her file was the next most comprehensive. He was a well-known artist still working in Amsterdam. He had a thriving studio and numerous commissions for murals in the lobbies and boardrooms of corporations’ international headquarters.

Lies Henning was a gallerist. As far as Edith could see, she was a leading light in the international art scene. The images of her Edith had found showed a chic, middle-aged woman, most often standing next to, and a little behind, a variety of hirsute young artists, always with glasses of wine in their hands, the background a mixture of paintings and people. Was she the muse the collective referred so much to in the manifesto? It would make sense: the woman on the periphery of a group, now turning the tables and guiding young artists herself. And at least Justine had told Edith the truth about Lies Henning. But she had also seemed to want to steer Edith away from her. Was there a reason for this? Had Justine replied to the letter? Edith made a mental note. Lies might turn out to be tricky.

Nigel Hutchinson was an aberration. The only Nigel Hutchinson she could find living in Amsterdam – or the Netherlands for that matter – was an established accountant, working in a large telecommunications firm just outside the city. Edith had searched and searched, but could find no evidence of a Hutchinson working with art in any capacity. But the accountant Hutchinson was the right age, and by his slightly blurred mugshot on the firm’s website, bore a resemblance to the young man Edward had sketched. It had to be him.

And then there was Rafael Von Kamp. He couldn’t be found anywhere. There was not a trace of him on the internet. Edith reasoned that perhaps he had left the art scene before the web came to dominate everyone’s lives. But it still seemed odd to her that there wasn’t even a mention of him.

It was these last two figures that interested Edith most. The mysterious, absent Von Kamp – the man Edward had recorded in paint, ink and pencil so many times, but who now seemed to have been erased. And the artist-turned-accountant. Could something have happened between Edward and Rafael, or between Edward and Nigel, that stunted their artistic careers? It seemed a good place to start her investigation. And sitting in her father’s studio, in her usual corner, her laptop open and the shoebox beside her, Edith had taken what she thought was a sensible, rational decision. She would work with what material she had. Her first port of call, once she was settled down in Amsterdam, would be the accountant.

The heavy summer rain had stopped falling when Edith arrived at Centraal Station. In the fog of jet lag, it was probably not wise of her to cycle to the apartment she had reserved with only a folded map to guide her. But she was determined to use the bicycle as soon as she arrived in Amsterdam. And getting on and off the train had been tricky enough. Hauling it onto one of the trams that snaked across the station forecourt was more daunting than possibly getting lost.

When she had started researching her trip, Edith had noticed that Centraal Station is perpendicular to the main canals and streets that form the middle of the city, the hub of a half circle. She’d remember that if she ever got disorientated.

What she hadn’t bargained for was the disorientation hitting her so soon. The front of the station was a riot of activity. After the forecourt full of trams, a wide canal full of pleasure craft separated the station from the city, and after the canal a broad road full of traffic needed to be negotiated.

But what brought Edith up short, so she was almost hit by a tram, were the bicycles parked outside the station. She took in the view with her mouth open. It was as if a plague of locusts had descended upon the city. What seemed like thousands of omafiets stretched out in front of her, lined up, one after another. They were locked to the bike racks outside the station; they were leaning, unlocked, against the railings that framed the waterfront; they were everywhere.

Edith suddenly felt very small, and very insignificant. Riding her omafiet on the wide green streets of her Boston suburb, she had been an oddity – something and someone to point at, for cars to slow down and let past. But here, she was one of many. A group of girls her age, their hair in unusual bunches, their clothes worn in colourful combinations, approached a phalanx of bikes, hauled them out of the stack, mounted and rode away, all without any apparent regard for the traffic, and all while continuing a loud and animated discussion. Edith had a tiny urge to turn and get straight back on the train. She quashed it with a shake of her head. And as she followed the girls across the broad canal bridge, she thought of the plain clothes she had in her backpack – perhaps she would have to buy something a bit more colourful if she was going to be treated like a real Amsterdamer.

It took Edith nearly an hour to find the apartment. Each curving canal seemed to look much like the next, and the tall houses lining them all looked equally similar. What threw Edith even more was the sense she was riding in the wrong direction. Sticking religiously to the paths marked with painted white bicycles, she found cars and trams swept past her in the opposite direction, only to join her after the next turn. Fellow cyclists flew by, though, ringing their bells at pedestrians. So she pedalled on doggedly, ringing her bell too, and finally enjoying the feeling that she was one of a wheeled herd.

Following the instructions she had downloaded from the accommodation website, she finally stopped at a café called The Blue Bridge Bar, and prepared herself to ask for the proprietor, Mr Lucas Remnant. Her new apartment was on one of the floors above the bar, and Lucas Remnant held the key.

The Blue Bridge Bar was an old neighbourhood tavern, overlooking a minor canal that was crossed by a busy road leading into the centre of town. It was the ground floor of a traditional Amsterdam merchant’s house, complete with tall windows, gabled roof and a pulley bracket that had been used for hauling goods up out of boats. As Edith looked it up and down, she couldn’t help smiling a little. She might be feeling alone and a little apprehensive, but she couldn’t have found a more perfect place in which to experience those feelings.

Inside, the bar was styled as a tribute to American Jazz and the sounds of the early 1960’s – the kind of music her father had listened to while painting in his studio. Photographs of Miles Davis and John Coltrane lined the walls, but as Edith wheeled her bike to the bar, she heard distinctly 1980’s pop music wafting from the illuminated jukebox in the corner. As she looked around, trying to size up whether she should try saying ‘hello’ in Dutch, a tall young man appeared behind the bar and spoke to her in English.

‘Can I help you?’

Edith again felt the disappointment of being assumed not to be Dutch. She wondered what it was about her that screamed ‘American’ so loud. She thought again about the girls in their vibrant clothes. She would have to learn how to bunch her hair and dress in a nonchalant motley.

‘Are you Lucas Remnant?’

‘That’s the owner. I’m just the barman, my name is Stefan,’ he said, and gave her a sudden broad smile.

It took Edith a moment to realise he was holding out his hand across the bar and staring at her, his dark eyebrows slightly raised above his penetrating blue eyes. He was very, very good-looking. Edith took his hand and shook it. He seemed to hold it for a little too long for general politeness. She could feel herself blushing and was glad the bar was dim.

She stuttered out her arrangements, dropping any idea of trying to communicate in Dutch.

Stefan seemed unphased, and unlocking a glass case holding cigars, he pulled out an envelope and handed it to her.

‘There you go, Miss Frank.’

‘Thank you. It’s Edith.’

‘Will you be with us long, Edith?’ Stefan leaned over the bar, so his face was level with hers. Edith was becoming strongly aware of her inexperience with men. She knew she was being flirted with, but was unsure how to join the dance.

Stefan blinked at her languidly, not seeming to demand an instant answer, quite happy to look at her.

She opened her mouth to say she wasn’t sure, when a gruff voice barked something in Dutch. Stefan stood up straight and a fat, grizzly bear of a man walked out from a back room.

‘I’m just giving the young lady the keys,’ Stefan said, in English.

The fat man put his belly up to the bar. ‘Ah, you must be Miss Frank,’ he said with a much more official smile than Stefan had used. ‘I’m Lucas Remnant. May I see your passport, please?’

Edith rummaged in her bag, half pleased with the diversion from her encounter with Stefan. She handed her passport to Lucas and then, while he looked at it, sneaked a glance at Stefan, who was wiping some glasses and placing them on a shelf. He gave her a wink that made Edith blush all over again.

Lucas Remnant handed the passport back. ‘Welcome to Amsterdam, Miss Frank. In the envelope are the keys for the apartment and the street door, plus a letter of contract for your stay.’

Edith opened the envelope and pulled out the keys. She was now excited to go and look at her summer home. The first door in her life she could lock and everyone else had to knock to gain entry.

‘The bicycle has to stay outside,’ Lucas Remnant said, turning away.

‘Oh?’ Edith looked down and thought how foolish she must look, wheeling a bicycle into a bar.

‘Many things are legal in Amsterdam, Miss Frank – drugs, hookers, gambling – but a bicycle in my bar is something my insurance does not cover, so will you kindly take it outside?’

‘Can I keep it in the apartment?’ Edith asked, but when Lucas turned with a laugh she immediately wished she hadn’t.

‘You think you’ll be able to carry that up and down four floors? Have you seen our stairs in Amsterdam? No, Miss Frank, you’ll have to lock it up outside.’

Edith nodded politely and walked her bicycle to the door, annoyed with herself. This was an eventuality that, in her innocence, she hadn’t considered. Of course she wouldn’t be able to keep a bicycle in a top-floor apartment. But right now, completely alone, on the other side of the ocean from everything that was familiar and safe and comfortable, the idea of being separated from her omafiet, even if it were by only a few floors, made her feel insecure.

She felt someone beside her. It was Stefan, holding the door open, and standing so close she could feel his body heat.

‘Don’t worry about Lucas,’ he murmured. ‘He seems like a grumpy old man, but he has a good heart.’ Stefan held his hand over his own heart for a moment and again looked at Edith for slightly too long. ‘You can lock your bicycle over there – against the canal railing.’

Edith looked to where he was pointing, and saw what she hadn’t noticed when she arrived at the Blue Bridge Bar – at least thirty bicycles were standing against the railing, locked in a casual manner, facing each other, or in little groups, as if they were having a summer drink at the bar. Some of them were a dark green, or, like her own omafiet, black. But at least half were painted in different colours and decorated with ornate patterns – flowers and stars and spirals.

‘My bike looks so dull compared with those,’ she said as she trundled it over the cobbles.

‘People do it to make them easier to find. We have a lot of bicycles in Amsterdam,’ said Stefan, who was still close beside her. ‘And they think it stops them from being stolen, although I’m not sure about that. A good lock is better. Do you have a good lock?’

Edith dived into her backpack again and pulled out the simple chain she’d brought with her from Boston.

‘I’m here most of the time. I’ll keep an eye on your bike for you,’ said Stefan, with another wink.

Edith found a gap for her bike and locked it carefully to the rail.

‘The door to the apartments is just here,’ said Stefan, indicating it with a flourish of his hand an a slight bow of his head that made him look very gallant. ‘I hope you enjoy your stay.’

Edith nodded her thanks. And was sure Stefan was watching her all the while she found the right key and opened the tall heavy door.

It was a one-bedroom apartment overlooking the canal. It had cost Edith a small fortune – almost all her savings – but she had decided early on that if she were going to take this trip, if she were going to behave like an adult and find out what had happened to her father – possibly even confront what ugly thing he had done – she had to live like an adult, and not stay in a grotty hostel like the rest of the 18 and 19 year-olds, coming to Europe for their year out.

Unpacking her bags, stacking her clothes neatly in the fitted wardrobe and laying out her books and file on the tiny bureau, she noticed all the hallmarks of a European experience: a tiny espresso maker; a half-eaten jar of Nutella; separate cold and hot water faucets in the bathroom; ceilings so high she couldn’t make out whether there were cracks or spider-webs above the bed.

The apartment was smaller than the photos on the website had suggested. But there was a bright, striped rug covering the sitting area, and a rail, about an arm’s length, in front of the floor-length window that created the impression that she had a balcony. An armchair was placed perfectly for looking down on the canal. Exhausted by the flight, the bike ride across the city, her encounters with Lucas and with Stefan, she unlatched the window and flopped into the armchair.

The warm evening air curled into the room, bringing with it the smell of a city’s suppers being cooked and the sound of an after-work crowd congregating outside the bar. Looking down she saw Stefan serving some customers sitting at the tables. Lucas was smoking and reading a newspaper. He looked up to greet a similarly aged, similarly chubby man, passing on his bicycle. The cyclist dismounted and propped his bike against the railing. It was, like Edith’s, a black omafiet.

For a second she panicked. How would she know which was hers? She scanned the line. There it was. Even from here she could see the buckled white basket.

Her eyes wandered over the houseboats moored along the canal. Most of them were decked out with patios, garden furniture and even barbecues. One black-and-red boat – she could see its name, Stolen Kisses, painted in English in elaborate gold lettering – was fitted with a walnut trim and a captain’s cabin at the top.

Edith stretched out her tired legs and propped her feet on the rail across the window. She wondered whether her father had ever cycled down this very canalside. Taken a drink in The Blue Bridge Bar. Exchanged a word with a slimmer, younger Lucas. She tested how she felt about that. Sad, of course. It was a sad thing that had happened. But she was past the acute pain of his loss now. She was used to the ache – she lived with it every day. And now she was doing something to address it. And that felt satisfying and right.

She could feel her eyes becoming heavy, the music and the guttural Dutch chatter from the bar below beginning to lull her towards sleep.

Before she finally dropped off, she reached for her cellphone. She should let her mother and Leila know that she was OK.

‘Bike & me both arrived safely. I’m already loving Amsterdam. Bicycle pleased to be home!’

And then she turned the phone off. She was determined to do this alone.

(7) Amsterdam is Full of Artists

The next day Edith woke up to sunshine. It was her birthday, and, as if in honour of her nineteenth year, the previous day’s dull, damp weather, which had fulfilled her expectations of Northern Europe in summer, was transformed into dazzling heat.

She could not figure out how to work the espresso machine so she decided on a birthday morning coffee at The Blue Bridge Bar. Stefan was already serving, looking smart in a clean white apron and t-shirt. He caught Edith looking over at him and nodded. She bit her lip and tried to focus on a houseboat negotiating a mooring on the canal.

‘Happy Birthday, Edith Frank.’ Stefan was beside her, bowing and placing on the table a tray with a large, bowl-shaped cup of coffee and a plate of dark bread, in the centre of which was a small blue candle. ‘With the compliments of the Blue Bridge Bar.’

Edith looked up, smiling and startled. ‘How did you know?

‘Lucas noticed the date of birth on your passport last night. I told you his heart is good.’

‘Thank you.’

‘So what does a nineteen-year-old do for her birthday?’ Stefan squatted down beside her, rested his folded arms on the table and looked up through his dark hair.

‘I hadn’t planned on anything. I didn’t think I’d have any birthday here.’

‘We can’t have that. Lucas will let me off at six, I’m sure. You’ll come for a drink with me. Just a small celebration.’

Edith hesitated. Stefan’s offer was appealing. It was just that her birthday was bound up now with that other event. She had assumed – with no real sadness, just acceptance, like finishing a so-so novel – that she would not celebrate her birthday anymore.

‘Unless you are one of those who prefer to spend their birthday alone? That’s fine. Don’t worry.’ Stefan stood up and looked like he might move away to the next table where a tall woman in dark glasses was waving a manicured hand for service.

‘No. No. A drink would be lovely. Six o’clock?’

‘Perfect. I’ll see you right here.’ Stefan took the woman’s order, then went back into the bar, cooling observing Edith as he did so.

She picked up a dark slice of bread, thick with butter, and bit into it, feeling suddenly ravenous. The bread was dense and surprisingly spicy and sweet – more a cake than a loaf. She finished off the plate in no time at all. Amsterdam was certainly unexpected. And suited her very well, she thought.

Back upstairs in her apartment Edith picked up the material from her file on Nigel Hutchinson that she had laid out on the bureau the night before. She had planned to make a start on her investigations straight away. But looking out at the beautiful day, with the sweet taste of the breakfast cake still on her lips, and the prospect of a date that evening with a good-looking guy, she pushed the pages back into the folder. One day spent touring Amsterdam wouldn’t hurt. After all, she would need to understand its ebb and flow. As her father had always said, ‘before you dive in, know what you’re diving into.’

She changed into the shorts and t-shirt she hadn’t expected she would ever need here, put on some sun glasses, picked up a map and dashed back down to make the most of the weather.

Putting her chain around her torso like a beauty pageant sash, she pushed off. Giving Stefan an ill-advised wave, she wobbled and found herself heading for the canal. Pulling at the handlebars and pushing back on the pedals, she managed to avoid catastrophe. Sweating already, she put her head down and turned the first corner she came to. What a klutz, she muttered under her breath.

She didn’t have time to worry much about what Stefan thought, however. Amsterdam was busy. The sun seemed to have increased the traffic threefold. The car lanes and bicycle lanes were all filled to bursting, and with trams rushing along, it took a while to orientate herself to the dangers.

She made her way across town, on no particularly planned route, enjoying taking a turn onto a quieter canal or following another cyclist who seemed to have a clear purpose. Finally, however, she had to admit she was lost. She couldn’t tell which direction home was – it could have been one block away, or twenty, for all she knew. She took out her map and looked at it from various angles, glued to the spot, next to a tram junction, trying to build up the courage to ask a passer-by for help. But by the time someone crossed her path, she was unsure of what to say in Dutch, or whether it was rude to assume that the person spoke English. Finally, a tanned young man, his blond hair in dreadlocks, stopped and looked at her.

‘Are you lost?’ he said in perfect English, with a hint of an accent that may or may not have been Dutch.

‘Kind of,’ Edith said, with a grimace.

‘Where do you want to get to?’ he said, motioning at her map.

It may have been the lingering jet lag, the suddenness of her pleasure at finding Amsterdam so welcoming, or even the chill of guilt at not keeping to her plan of investigating The Collective – perhaps a combination of all three – but suddenly the young man’s question seemed very, very loaded.

As she looked at him, open-mouthed and without a ready answer, a gust of wind blew the map from her hands and into the road. The young man looked both ways and then bounded into the path of an oncoming tram, scooped the map up and leapt out of the way as the tram rang its bell angrily at him.

‘Could you tell me where I am?’ said Edith as he handed the map to her, pushing his locks behind his ears and smiling.

‘Right here,’ he pointed a dirty finger at the map.

‘That’s great. I can find my way now.’

He nodded and held her gaze for a moment, and, as she pedalled off, shouted, ‘Nice to meet you!’ after her.

It took two more hump-backed bridges for Edith to realise what had just happened. She allowed herself a pleased smile.

By the time she returned to the Blue Bridge Bar late in the afternoon, the heat seemed to have transformed it from a quiet, dark tavern into a bright, outdoor café. Lucas and Stefan had filled the space outside with extra tables at which the customers were stretched out like cats. A busker with a guitar and a backing CD added to the mood and, as Edith approached, a group of couples stood up and began to dance as if it were too hot to stay still an instant longer.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04