(1) Prologue: ‘Be Careful in Amsterdam’ 4 страница

Edith went upstairs to take a shower and change for her date with Stefan. She had brought so few clothes with her, it didn’t take long to make a selection, and when she was ready she regarded herself in the mirror and appraised herself with what she thought of as new, Amsterdam eyes.

She had always considered herself a plain girl. Dowdy compared to her over-made-up school mates, dusky compared to her blond-haired, blue-eyed sister. And, of course, always in the shadow of the shimmering beauty that was her mother.

But now, in the evening light reflected off the canal, she pushed back her dark, curly hair, pulled at the canary-yellow summer dress she’d brought because it was so light it took almost no room in her backpack, and allowed herself to feel a little pleased with what she saw. She was trim, full in the right places, and her dark eyes and hair set off her clear complexion perfectly. She picked up her eyeliner and lip colour and added another layer. No harm in enhancing the effect, she thought.

Putting her make-up away, she picked up her file, and pulled out the pages on Nigel Hutchinson. Tonight was for fun. But tomorrow she would definitely go to see him. No excuses. She put the papers on the bureau, ready for the morning.

Downstairs, Stefan looked like he had spent a little time in front of the mirror himself, his dark hair combed back and a loose white shirt and pale cotton trousers just the right attire for a casual date. He seemed to have this remarkably worked out. Edith gulped, her excitement turning into the feeling that she was out of her depth. But it was too late to turn back. Stefan had already seen her and was approaching with a slow, relaxed gait.

‘I thought we’d take a walk first,’ he said. ‘We don’t get too many evenings like this in Amsterdam – we should make the most of it.’

They set off along the canal, Stefan calling something to Lucas in Dutch. Edith turned to wave goodbye, and as she did so, was sure she saw Lucas shaking his head as he went back into the darkness of the bar.

Edith’s worries were soon allayed – Stefan seemed the perfect gentleman. As they walked he kept just the right distance from her, but when the crowds became tight near the narrow bridges that leaped over the canals, he put a confident hand on Edith’s back and guided her through.

As they walked he chatted – telling her a little history of this or that house. Pointing out the churches. He even showed the school he’d gone to. ‘I’m an Amsterdam boy – born and bred, am I saying it right?’

‘Yes,’ said Edith. ‘You’re saying it just right.’

And he was also right that Amsterdam was making the most of the heat. The office workers Edith had seen the previous day had disappeared, jackets were abandoned, as were ties, collars and tights. Everywhere people had peeled themselves, layer by layer, displaying long bare legs and arms. And everyone seemed more tactile: on every bridge and against every railing couples embraced. Even the cyclists seem to be riding their bicycles in a different way. Some faster – trying to stir a breeze in their hair; others slower, wading through the heat.

Their route took them to the Bloemenmarkt, the floating flower market, illuminated for the evening with colourful strings of lights. Edith had never seen so many bulbs. And as she stared in wonder, almost overcome with the scent of blooms and earth, Stefan disappeared, then returned with a small potted plant.

‘A gift for your birthday. Something to put in your new apartment.’

Edith took it with a blush, stammering out a thank you.

‘Now. I think that’s enough walking,’ said Stefan. ‘How about that drink?’

Somehow in all the crowds, Stefan seemed to know just the bar, and just the right person to ask to secure a canal-side table. Sitting with their tall glasses of blond beer, satisfyingly slippery with condensation, Stefan put his head to one side and looked at her for a while.

Finally he spoke. ‘So, Edith Frank. I’ve talked about me. What about you? What brings a nineteen-year-old across the Atlantic by herself?’

Edith turned her glass and looked into the dark water below. It was a perfect evening, but his question made her feel suddenly sad. Because it was unusual – a young woman, still a teenager, alone in a foreign country. For a moment she didn’t want to tell him why. Telling the story out loud felt like it would bring her down. But he was waiting and she didn’t want to lie or brush him off.

‘My father was Dutch.’ She sat up a little straighter. Had she used the past tense about Edward before?

‘I thought so – your name.’

‘He died.’ She rushed out. She wanted it over with. Tomorrow she would need to face all this. Tonight was about her.

‘I’m sorry.’ Stefan turned his mouth down. ‘Are you here to see his family?’

Edith shook her head. Edward hadn’t been that close to his Dutch family. He’d seemed to make a clean break when he’d left Amsterdam all those years ago. She wondered again whether this was something to do with what he said he’d done.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m just here to see where he lived. He was an artist, you see.’

‘Ah, yes,’ replied Stefan. ‘Amsterdam is full of artists. I have to confess that I don’t know a lot about art. Of course, I know Rembrandt, Vermeer. And when I was at school we were always visiting the Rijksmuseum to look at the paintings. But I’m afraid,’ Stefan lowered his voice to a whisper and half-covered his mouth with his hand, ‘I always used to get a little bored. Does that make me a bad Dutchman?’

‘I’m sure it doesn’t,’ Edith laughed.

‘Do you think less of me?’ Stefan took a long drink of beer and looked over his glass at her. ‘With your father being an artist?’

‘No. Not at all.’

‘Good,’ said Stefan, putting his glass down with certainty. ‘Because I couldn’t have that.’

After a couple of beers, Stefan took them home by a different route. It wasn’t until the Blue Bridge Bar was in sight, that Edith knew where she was.

‘Oh, here we are,’ she said. ‘I’ve been completely lost this last half hour.’

Stefan stopped in the shade of a row of plane trees, leaned against the railing by the canal, and regarded Edith with a faint, appraising smile on his handsome face. She stood in the road way, unsure whether to approach him, to stay where she was or to keep walking. In fact she didn’t know what on earth she should do.

Finally, Stefan raised his eyebrows, pushed himself off from the railings and stepping up to her side, draped an arm over her shoulders. They slowly walked like this the remaining distance to the bar.

‘Thanks for a great night,’ she said taking her key out by the door.

‘You’re welcome Miss Frank,’ said Stefan, stepping away from her.

She paused with her key in her hand, uncertain what to say.

Stefan put his hands in his pockets and made a tiny bow.

By the time she’d climbed the four floors to her apartment, she was overcome with the feeling that she’d behaved awkwardly. She threw herself on her bed, feeling like a dumb teenager.

(8) Nigel Hutchinson

When Edith arrived at Nigel Hutchinson’s office on her bicycle the next afternoon, she began to worry that the plan she’d constructed for meeting him might not be a very good one.

The communications firm where he worked was situated on a large industrial estate on the edge of the city. The large, modern blocks standing amid almost sterile banks of bushes, lawns and trees were a stark contrast to the homely crush of houses in the city centre. The firm’s ‘campus’ looked almost like a prison, with its guard gates and razor-topped fences. And Edith noticed that there was no space for pedestrians to enter, only a gate for cars,

She had decided to pretend she was a bicycle messenger delivering an envelope to Hutchinson. Inside the envelope was a scanned copy of the manifesto, with his signature. But faced with the guardhouse, the thought occurred to her that, even if she got through into the building, she might not be able to convince the receptionist to ask Nigel Hutchinson to come downstairs. She started to feel a panic spreading through her chest. Not only was this plan stupid, so was the whole idea of coming to Amsterdam. This was her first step in her search for some answers, and there was a strong possibility it was going to fail.

‘Can I help you?’ the guard asked in Dutch.

‘Koerier,’ Edith said, in her best Dutch accent. Her father had often joked that the best way to speak Dutch was to pretend you had some saltines in your mouth that you were having trouble spitting out. How she wished at that moment that she’d paid more attention when her father had tried to teach her Dutch when she was little.

The guard didn’t so much as blink. The gate opened and Edith wheeled her bicycle inside the compound, following the signs to ‘Receptie’.

The receptionist was smiling but officious. It took all of Edith’s confidence to request to speak to Nigel Hutchinson, to state that she couldn’t leave the envelope with the receptionist, and that she’d been given strict instructions to hand it to him in person.

The receptionist made a call, and had a long conversation in Dutch, after which she said, in English, ‘He’ll be down in a few minutes, if you’d like to wait.’

Edith took a seat and spent the next fifteen minutes avoiding the receptionist’s gaze and wondering, once more, how she knew Edith was not Dutch.

Hutchinson wasn’t anything like the dashing figure her father had cut. He was not even the slim figure in her father’s sketches. He’d clearly let himself go in middle age, with a bulge of fat hanging over his tight belt. His hair was combed down, parted on the side, and looked like it could use a good shampoo and cut. This was not the picture of a man who was going to change the world with the power of his art.

‘Hello,’ he said as she stood to meet him.

‘Are you Nigel Hutchinson?’ Edith asked in English, her voice breaking with nerves.

‘I am,’ he replied.

Edith was starting to panic. She had to get this over with as soon as possible.

‘I’m Edith Frank, you were in an artists’ collective here in Amsterdam in the late 1980’s with my father, Edward Frank.’ Hearing herself, it suddenly sounded like a terrible accusation.

And Hutchinson seemed to take it as such – his eyes moved around the lobby and settled on the receptionist, almost in a plea for help.

‘You’re Edith Frank?’ he said finally, still not meeting Edith’s gaze.

‘Yes. You knew my father, Edward Frank. He’s dead.’ Edith blurted out. It was the second time in twenty-four hours that Edith had had to say this. Her throat began to tighten. She coughed to loosen it. She had to see this through.

Nigel Hutchinson looked distraught – rubbing his face and looking out of the plate glass onto the landscaped courtyard.

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t…’ His face tightened and twitched, as if he were being subjected to a painful procedure. ‘This is…’

He turned away and took a couple of steps towards the window, leaving Edith standing in the middle of the foyer exchanging a look with the wide-eyed receptionist.

Finally Hutchinson turned back, an artificial smile decorating his features.

‘I’m very sorry, but I’ve never heard of Edward Frank,’ he said. He blinked rapidly and Edith knew he was lying. ‘Now, I thought you had a parcel for me?’ His smile was looking like it hurt him now.

‘But you were my father’s friend,’ Edith stressed, trying to fight back her nerves. ‘It was a long time ago but you definitely knew him. I’ve seen sketches of you. And in here – I have your signature.’ Edith offered him the envelope.

Nigel Hutchinson raised his hand as if he were tempted to take it, then diverted his hand towards his nose, rubbed it hard then pushed his fingers into his greasy hair. ‘I’m sorry, young lady, but you’ve clearly mistaken me for someone else. Now I’m afraid I have a lot to do.’ And he turned on his heel, and walked rapidly towards the lift bank.

Edith stared after him. Should she chase him? Insist he was who he said he wasn’t? She glanced at the receptionist dumbly. The receptionist held her gaze for a moment, then picked up her pen and seemed to find something important to write on her note pad.

Edith looked back to where Hutchinson was waiting for the lift. He was staring at her intently, with what seemed to be both fascination and fear. Then he quickly looked away.

Edith made it past the guard gate and across the street to a bench where she sat down, resting her bicycle next to her. She sat for a long time with head in her hands, paralysed by the thought that her plan was a fool’s errand, conceived by a naïve girl – a naivety she had clearly demonstrated the previous night.

And now she’d mismanaged something else. Hutchinson had clearly been lying. He was alarmed that she wanted to question him about The Collective. And she’d seen that he was on the point of telling her something, admitting to his relationship with her father. But then, in the moment he’d turned away, had decided that he would lie. But why? He was obviously interested in her. That much he’d revealed by his penetrating parting look. If only she had dealt with him differently, perhaps she would now know.

The first day in Amsterdam had been so promising. But now, within twenty-four hours, she had made a mess of things. She looked up in the air and groaned. Airplanes overhead lined up for their descent into Schiphol. Should she have even bothered coming here?

The bench was in the shade of some young trees, and the day being even hotter than the previous one; Edith hadn’t the energy to get on her bike and cycle back into the city. Instead she sat watching the planes, sipping from her water bottle.

Finally she came to a decision. She would wait where she was and try once again to speak to Nigel Hutchinson. As far as she could see, there was only one entrance to the office campus. If she had to wait until the end of the day she would. And this time she would insist he told her what he knew about her father.

At around four o’clock, Edith noticed streams of employees leaving the office, some on foot, some in cars, but the majority on bicycles. She started counting them, looking for omafiets like hers. At last, around four-thirty, her persistence was rewarded: Nigel Hutchinson appeared on a red beater bike – the kind of rattily old bicycle Stefan had told her many office workers used to get around the city.

Nigel took off at some speed along the cycle path. Edith hopped onto her omafiet and followed him.

She must have cycled behind him without detection for almost three miles down the generously proportioned bicycle lanes. At first she considered putting on a spurt of speed, catching him up and trying to speak as they moved. But after a while, she thought she might benefit more from the fact he hadn’t seen her.

His journey ended at a set of allotments, buffered by two narrow canals. It was a collection of vegetable gardens, many of them with wooden cabins, decorated with weather vanes or signs that said ‘Home Sweet Home’ in Dutch. Standing on the road, Edith saw Hutchinson prop his beater bike outside one of them, unlock the door and go in.

Edith found a post to lock her bicycle against and then wandered around the perimeter of the allotments, trying to look like she was taking a legitimate evening stroll, but filled with a mixture of the absurdity that she was like a detective on a stake-out and the nervousness at being discovered – how would she explain her presence to Hutchinson if he saw her? Yet his odd behaviour at the office seemed important. She was sure that her initial instinct was right – something had happened in The Collective that had turned this promising artist into a dull, greasy, allotment-tilling accountant.

Taking the little paths between the allotments, Edith found a place to sit. A bench made of logs that was far enough away so that Hutchinson didn’t immediately see her, but close enough that she could hear the classical music that was drifting out of the open window of Hutchinson’s shed and see him if he emerged.

A couple of minutes later, he did. He had changed his clothes, and was now wearing jeans, a white t-shirt, and canvas sneakers. He looked very different from the corporate accountant she had met. His glasses were off and there was a glass of red wine in one hand. Under the other arm was a portfolio. He put his wine on the doorstep, unzipped the portfolio and began to arrange a set of pictures on the ground, propping them up along the wall of the shed. When he was done, he lit a cigarette, took a deck chair from inside, and as the classical music wafted from the open door, sat and looked at his collection.

From where she sat, Edith couldn’t make out exactly what the pictures showed. But as far as she could tell, they were water-colour, charcoal and pencil sketches, much like her father’s. And much like his, they depicted figures, standing and sitting. The Collective?

Finally, Hutchinson rose to his feet, stretched, then went back inside. A few moments later he returned, carrying something large in his hands. Edith squinted her eyes to try to make it out and after a few moments, she knew what it was. Hutchinson was setting up an easel and preparing some paints

He returned to his shed another time, and re-emerged with an enormous, half-finished canvas under his arm, almost too big for the easel to support. He stood and looked at it for a long time, drinking his wine, his shoulders rising and falling a few times, suggesting a few deep sighs. At last he began to mix some paint on his palette.

Edith need to get a little closer. Hutchinson had his back to her, so she was able to wander over to the shed nearest his, and stand half-concealed beside it.

She could clearly see the painting now. It was an almost life-sized portrait of a young man. He was seated in a slouched position, which suggested he was either louche or exhausted. He was thin in body and face and had long, dark, curling hair. But what struck Edith most was that, even in the portrait’s unfinished state, there was something of a haunted look in his eyes.

Edith watched Nigel paint until the sky grew too dark for him to see.

(9) A Bike Isn’t Yours Forever

When Edith arrived back home her head was so full of The Collective, Nigel Hutchinson, and the man in the portrait at the allotment that she forgot she was sweaty from her ride across the city, that her hair was sticking to her neck and that her clothes were grubby. She locked up her bike and was making her way to the door when Stefan got up from a table and stepped in front of her, looking her up and down with an amused expression on his face.

Edith smiled, wondering what the joke was, then realised that the table he’d been sat at was occupied by a group of girls her own age – all with straight, glossy hair, and perfect summer outfits. She suddenly became very aware of her dishevelled state.

‘Where have you been all day then?’ said Stefan.

‘Oh, out and about. I must look a state.’

‘No you look…’ he examined her again and twitched his eyebrows. ‘Do you want dinner?’

‘Now?’ she said, glancing at the perfect girls.

‘Not right now. But if you can wait until I finish my shift at eleven?”

Edith pulled at her clothes and pushed her hair about. If he was working, why was he sitting with those girls? She decided not to answer the question. He was asking her out to dinner, after all.

‘Ok. I’ll see you here,’ she said. And she hurried towards the stairs.

Wallowing in a cool bath, she returned to Nigel Hutchinson. His reaction and the way he had decided to deny he knew her father – a process she had almost seen him sketching out as she watched – made her feel like her whole project was thrown off course. But he was an artist. And his odd behaviour made him a clear candidate for the person who Edward had said he’d hurt. All this warranted further investigation. If she’d learned anything from her years spent reading in her father’s studio, it was that the heroine never solves the mystery at her first try.

At eleven, as she strolled along the canal with Stefan, freshly bathed and wearing her summer dress, Edith tried to put the search out of her mind.

‘What I need tonight is a big, fat burger!’ she said. ‘Is that bad?’

‘How long have you been away from the US?’ Stefan laughed.

‘I know it’s only days. And I usually don’t eat junk food. But I’ve had a difficult day.’

‘I’m sorry. What was difficult?’

Edith hesitated. Did she want to describe her emotions? There were so many moving parts, and she wasn’t even sure whether she’d settled on one response yet.

‘Burger first,’ she said.

They ate sitting on a canal wall with their legs over the water, a box of fries and ketchup between them. It was a comfortable silence, watching the houseboats mooring for the night and the trails of lights as bikes seemingly flew over the bridges on either side. They sat opposite a row of houses that were more modest than the grander examples that lined the large canals. The windows of these smaller dwellings were all lit up – no curtains to prevent Edith seeing the activities going on inside.

A couple were watching TV in one house. In another a group of people were still sitting around a table. Edith thought she could see the remains of a meal, and the pushed-back chairs suggested a long after-dinner discussion. Further along an older woman sat alone in the window, paying close attention to something in her lap.

‘It’s fascinating,’ Edith nodded towards the view. ‘In the US they would have the drapes closed – or nets, especially with houses right on the street like this. Everyone can see what you’re doing.’

Stefan raised his eyebrows. ‘In the Netherlands we think it’s the responsibility of the person on the outside not to look.’

Edith frowned, and then grimaced guiltily. ‘So I shouldn’t be looking?’

‘No. But it’s not your fault. A lot of tourists get it wrong.’

‘But if they don’t want to be seen…?’

‘It’s different here. It’s how we like to live. People are open and honest about their lives. But you only look if someone invites you in.’

This was interesting. Edith licked her fingers and looked into the dark water below her feet. Did she want to invite Stefan in? Was he hinting – hoping she would tell him about herself?

Perhaps she did not need to tell him everything about what had brought her to Amsterdam – just provide an outline. She turned to look up at the trees above, lit from below by the street lamps.

‘I met one of my father’s old friends today.’

She felt Stefan nodding, waiting for her to continue.

‘Another artist – well a former artist. He’s an accountant now.’

‘That’s a big change.’

‘Yes. Yes it is.’ Edith paused.

‘And this you found difficult?’

Edith played with the empty burger packets.

‘I wonder how long someone can hold on to hurt. What could make them refuse to discuss it.’

‘He didn’t want to talk to you?’

Edith shook her head. ‘He denied even knowing my father.’

Stefan grunted – Edith heard the vibration in his chest, and was gratified that he at least shared her sense of indignation.

‘Perhaps it’s between your father and him. We’ve all done something to hurt someone at some point in our lives.’

This was a new thought. Edith had been so intent on finding out the truth about her father and what it meant for her, she hadn’t considered it might not, in fact, be her business.

‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘It just threw me a bit – his attitude towards me.’

She stopped herself. She could easily have told Stefan now about following Nigel to the allotment. About his strange transformation back into an artist. About the haunting portrait. But it seemed that the Dutch didn’t spy on people the way she had that day. And she wouldn’t have been able to describe why the gaunt figure in the picture had stayed with her all these hours.

Instead she said something more simple. ‘He made me feel I wasn’t wanted here, in Amsterdam.’

Stefan twisted round so he could look at her. ‘You are wanted here.’ He leaned his face closer to hers. ‘I’m happy to have met you even if some middle-aged accountant isn’t.’

This was enough for Edith. She smiled and Stefan stood up, putting out his hand to help her. As he pulled her upright he drew her towards him with a strong arm and placed a strong kiss on her lips. She blinked and smiled and they walked back to the bar.

Edith woke up late, and in a sweat. The apartment didn’t have any air conditioning so she opened the window overlooking the canal. As she surveyed the morning traffic and watched a boat drift sluggishly by, she heard a song wafting up from The Blue Bridge Bar. It was Martha and the Vandellas ‘Love is like a Heat Wave’. Looking down she saw Stefan skilfully negotiating the tables, holding a tray high on one hand and serving coffees and charm to a group of female tourists; they let out a gale of laughter as the Vandellas sang, ‘Could it be the devil inside me? Or is this the way love’s supposed to be?’ Lucas appeared and swivelled on the spot in time to the music, and then pointed up toward her apartment. Stefan looked up, a grin on his handsome face.

She turned, swinging her hips and walking rhythmically to the bureau. What to do until the evening? She didn’t want to hang around the bar for too long. Lucas and his customers were clearly already on Stefan’s case, and she didn’t feel like being the focus of all that attention. She wanted to keep this bright, smiling feeling to herself for a while.

She opened her file. She had already decided on the next step in her search when riding back from Nigel Hutchinson the previous evening. She turned to the section marked ‘Jaap Knol’ – he was her next target.

But somehow, overnight, something had changed. She now knew that barging in on someone, unannounced and on a false pretext, did not get her where she wanted to be. She would have to make a new plan. Something more honest and open. She would spend the day working on that. She closed the folder and danced towards the bathroom, humming the Vandella’s refrain from ‘Heatwave.’

Taking a slow cycle across town with her file in her dented basket, Edith found herself in the Jordaan district. Here, the atmosphere seemed to be more leisurely, there were fewer cyclists speeding by, the bridges were less crowded and it was easier to roll down the streets unimpeded than it was in the more frenetic central area. Even the houses seemed to be more relaxed. They were the same tall, flat-fronted buildings, but there were potted trees and shrubs outside the doors, and here and there a house seemed to bulge, as if it were leaning lazily against its neighbour.

Stopping at a bar that bore more than a passing resemblance to The Blue Bridge, she sat down with a coffee and a jug of iced water and began to study and plan for a possible encounter with Jaap Knol.

What was clear was that Jaap Knol was both one of the most prominent artists working in the Netherlands, and one of the most controversial. Did this make it even more surprising and strange that her father had never spoken about him? Or was there something about the man and their former relationship of which Edward was ashamed?

While he wasn’t as celebrated as some of his more famous American or European contemporaries – exhibiting in Tate Modern, the Guggenheim or the Museum of Modern Art – Knol seemed to have been very shrewd at doing one thing: making money.

Early in his career, he had benefited from a relationship with an older woman, Lady Behre, who sat on the board of one of Holland’s largest shipping companies. She commissioned a number of new works for their new headquarters in Rotterdam.

He delivered five murals, 20 large oil paintings and several other sketches – output that made his name. For many years it was assumed that, to be able to produce so much art in such a short space of time, Knol must have had a great creative surge, as well as tremendous strength and skill. However, what had recently been revealed was how Knol had done it – he’d employed a team of art students to fill out his ideas and put together the pieces in an assembly line. Knol was able to then put the finishing touches to each piece, and pocket the money that came from Lady Behre. Knol had only admitted to his method when American and Chinese artists began working with a large studio of designers and young artists.

Edith looked up from her study, realising that her approach to this man was going to have to be cautious and respectful. She didn’t want a repeat of the Nigel Hutchinson fiasco. At the next table, a man with long legs and blond hair met her eye and nodded at her. Edith felt herself go red and fumbled through the pages, trying to find her place.

Knol’s studio was located not far from where she sat now. She was tempted to finish her drinks and call in. At first she thought she needed a success to neutralise the Hutchinson failure; but, thinking about it with her pen in her mouth, watching the world pass by the cafe, she realised that yesterday hadn’t been such a disaster. She had new information, pieces in a puzzle. They didn’t fit together right now, but if she handled Jaap Knol with care, she may discover pieces that did. And she might also be able to learn what it was that made Nigel Hutchinson behave so strangely.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-04