“I simply want to spend some time with people I consider to be my brothers,” said Jip. But the two other interlocutors were bored and fed up with him. He was a perfect stranger. “Another pint of lager, please,” ordered Jip. He binge drunk until he spent every single cent he had in his pocket. He then went to watch TV in the corner of the pub and, after a while he dissolved himself in the crowd outside.
In a hospice in the outskirts of the city, a doctor and a nurse were examining some samples of blood. At first glance it seemed blood of a monkey because of the composure of the cells, but their instinct made them consider it the blood of a man. They were working in disguise. They had been informed by the sender of the sample that it was a matter of urgent secrecy. The sender was Araon, of course. The doctor and the nurse were doing their best to find the DNA out of it. It was not a matter of great difficulty. The given note didn’t say that it was the blood of a murder without a corpse. It smelt badly and it remained in the lab for a couple of days. The personnel were very professional and well-organized to sort out the matter. Maybe it would take a couple of weeks before they could tell something about the DNA. Araon was the only link between them and the outside world. But what was Araon doing? They decided to contact him soon to inform him that they had no peculiar news yet. Only the blast of the wind was able to distract them and calm them down. The usage of their logic was not a trespass like they used to say.
Araon was cuddling himself at home with the heater switched on at full blast. He was not one of those men who used to enjoy the freezy and the ice of the winter. “What a bastard I am!” he said well aloud. He was thinking of Jill, of course. He was sure that when he would see her again, he would be speechless. A relationship that was going to collapse couldn’t be mended by further lies. He crossed his fingers and started his day all at once. He bumped into a typewriter machine with which he used to take notes of his own ideas. He was writing nonsense as dazed as he was. He was absorbed by the silence of the room that allowed him to stay in peace with his senses. He had a glance out of the window and he saw in the snow the perfect thing for his troubles to be sorted out. Typing and typing was part of his melancholic romanticism. But to start with a bang he decided to go to the Van Gogh Museum where the imprints of the murderers had already been vanished. He was all soaked and sweating. He watched for the first time The Sunflowers in disbelief. Its colour had been shaded a bit despite all the work of restoration which had been taken. The surveillance in that room of the museum wasn’t strangely strict. Any trace of blood must have been found by somebody else. The queue outside made Araon feel strong again. He had disguised himself as an ordinary worker. He believed in legends, so he had some special acid with him which he wanted to use to separate the imprints of the murderers from the ones of all the hundreds of people who had come in that room. “To collect imprints from the floor is such a good idea,” he rummaged. Araon hadn’t found himself so dumb in his life. He believed that somebody else must have seen the blood on the floor of the museum before him. A crowd of people from every walk of life and from every part of the world were going to visit the famous painting of Van Gogh right now. He wasn’t a good linguist, which made it difficult to help people to better understand the story of The Sunflowers. He forced his way to the crowd and went ahead with his experiments in a bizarre way. A man in his eighties distinguished himself in the throng. He had a peculiar shirt with the drawing of a chess set. He wanted for all reasons to be the first to approach that work of art to dispel any doubts about the genuine provenience of the painting. With the mastery of a thief, Araon would have liked to do the job to distinguish the imprints of the murderer from the ones of any other walker-by. He just pretended to be in awe in front of those flowers like the average Joe. Exhausted and forlorn he gently disappeared into another room. He was well-equipped with a suitcase with all the instruments of his delicate operation. He made a tour of the museum and he got down on his hands and knees. To be steady and drawn was a golden rule not to attract the people nearby. He treated himself with an ice cream bought in the foyer of the museum. “Well, now I have more information about the murder. The assassin’s imprints were visible among the other ones.” A good crime lover should make disappear all the traces of his deeds in a few seconds but that one of the Sunflowers was an absent-minded one. He was deafened by the incessant talking of the visitors but lucid enough to stand by for his cause. He had other small things to undertake before he could go back home. He had to go to the dry-cleaner and fetch some old pajamas and a scarf. Apart from this he wanted to go to the local library and have a look at the recently committed murders in Amsterdam. He was not a keen Google expert but he could manage the situation so that to get the point. “Jill, where are you now?” He felt to be an old bloody beast in search of his prey. He didn’t know what to think about his wife’s disappearance. He had just to wait and see. He went for a pause to the nearest fast food where he was meditating a way to face reality with great courage and wisdom. He was a man of little ideas. He devoured a hot-dog just ordered and enjoyed the silence of the place. He dreamt of being on horseback in the countryside chasing the notes of an Orphean music. The presence of a fat lady sitting next to him made him face reality again. She was eating two sandwiches with a lot of fries and large glass of Coke. He had not the courage to pronounce any word of friendship to the woman who was a perfect stranger. He tried to get the best out of his imagination to have some clues to mentally solve the murder mystery. He was creative enough to penetrate the scene of the murder but he decided to have a rest. He waved goodbye to his next-of-kin with subtle manners and went out the fast food immediately. He enjoyed the stroll among the crowd in the street and the beauty of the canals he passed by. All that beauty marked the coming of new ideas and thinking. His mind flew over the imagine of Baron Van der Baast, a powerful figure in the medical profession. He had travelled a lot in the European continent where his skills got him immediate success. He had been living in Amsterdam since he was a twelve-year-old child. Here he had developed the skills he put into practice in his work at the hospital. He didn’t want to get the risk of making mistakes which could be dreadful to his out- patients. As healthy as a rabbit he was a master in finding subterfuges to act clandestinely to help patients who needed treatments against the law. He was the boss of the mental health department and the gynecological one. He was an enviable work-alcoholic but always sensitive to the cries of pain of his own patients. That day was a peculiar one. He found poison for mice in a bottle of blood soon to be examined. He rushed to the top floor to question the personnel on the dreadful mistake. His career was at stake and, sure, he didn’t want this. A nurse was inhaling some vapour to better analyze some faeces. Van der Baast interrupted her and he poured all the content of the bottle into the sink asking the lady to disinfect the bottle. “I hope this won’t happen any more,” he spoke with rage. “Now see that blood: It has been poured into the sink in order to be good for testing again, but you have first to get it free from any trace of poison for mice. Have I been clear?” he shouted leaving the room slamming the door.
He carried on the duty of the day undisturbed. He was a slave of his imagination. He dreamt of a place full of sand haunted by evil spirits in the south of Arizona. The bell announced time for lunch and the doctor came back to reality again. He went in his own studio where he was thinking of a legal battle between the family of a patient and the doctor in Chelsea Hospital in London. He went close something similar he, hopefully, sorted out soon thank to his acumen and insight. He had a word for that stupid misanthropy. which was an enemy to him. How many times had he seen patients leaving the hospital in tears? He needed to be strong-minded to stand such a misadventure. Nevertheless, he had always been good at placating the fears of the relatives of terminally ill patients. After this pause he went back to the personnel of the top floor. They explained to him that they didn’t know where that poison came from.
“Mr. Van Deer Baast, can you come here, please?” said
the nurse. “I’m dealing with a case which is too difficult for me. Please, don’t blame me for eventual inconveniences. I have to deal with another problem. Look at this picture: a guy with pores all throughout the body which seems to be a form of allergy,” she said with a nervous laugh.
“It’s a form of allergy to studies,” answered the doctor with a placatory tone just to dismiss the nurse’s expectations. He didn’t want to cope with the duty of somebody else in the hospital.
Van Deer Baast went for the tour of visiting the patients abandoning the poor nurse to her own puzzle. He had just remembered to have used primary objects to disentangle himself in a case of recent death. All the figures of recent deaths were fake. It was impossible to establish how many people died recently. And Van der Baast’s main concern was to save his position as the head of the hospital. But something weird was worrying him that day. He saw the hospital as a prison he wanted to escape from, if it was not for the good news that had just arrived. He had recently received a letter from the Head of Amsterdam Medial University, who told him he had been chosen to direct a session of doctors in the foreseeable future. He remembered he had experienced something similar years before and this was a source of joy. The theme of the day was euthanasia. But now he had to attend a meeting concerning lethal substances. The environment of the hospital he was working in was very distressing. He definitely needed more energy to be happy at work. He classified two categories of doctors: the ones who aim at the full honour for the profession and the ones who were keen to do their best to reach the process of healing of the patients without difficulties. He put himself in the middle of those categories. He let the letter drop to the floor when he realized he had been honoured with full praise. He used to work from eight-thirty am to eight-thirty p.m. He had finished in that hell against his will. The approach to the problem was a difficult choice for him who wanted to have more time to watch TV. And read the newspaper. And that was the reason for his sleepless night, time he used to do things he couldn’t do during the day. Hopefully he was always ready to direct the work he used to do in the hospital every day. “Gosh, the poison!” he said to himself. How can I manage to get it analyzed by my dumb staff?” The poison matter was an absurd menace to his career. For that day it was enough. Satisfied and dull he went back home where his wife and children were waiting for him. He didn’t live alone and his nuptial ring was a sign of pride for him. The smell of candor aspersed all the things which had been fully cleaned by the housekeeper for him.
CHAPTER FOUR
The standard-gauge railway was a symbol of freedom in Amsterdam. It helped the arrival of tourists to enjoy the draw of canals all over the city. It was not by chance that Araon hid himself far away from his wife over there. A secret was not synonymous of lie but it sort of left the couple sweet memories in a burial. But their marriage was not going to break over a discussion they had recently. He took a day off from those thoughts and started reading the newspaper as usual. He loved to read about politics and foreign affairs. His favourite party was leading the country with great difficulties with all the consequences coming out of it. With the arrival of the first train of the metro he went to the first track where he could admire commuters pulling over there. He couldn’t resist the temptation to go and catch the first train arrived. It was meant to be a trip of fantasy in the first place. It had the power to bury all his sadness and mediocrity. His mind was split in two regions: one for the safety of his secret, the other for his love for Jill. He was missing their cuddles and kisses while the freezy temperature made him hide himself in a woollen coat. The train was chugging at fast speed and it was going to a destination unknown to Araon. He was in a carriage surrounded by five people who didn’t utter a single word during the journey. This encouraged Araon to puzzle himself with the conspiracy of terror coming from the fear of a worse break with his adored wife. But again, it came to his mind the image of the murder without a corpse in the Van Gogh Museum. And again, he was thinking of Albert and Sylvanus wondering if they would see Jill somewhere during his absence from home. He had recently noticed something weird about his two best friends but he didn’t know what. But it was just a sensation that derived from the grace and steady posture of the two during their last hanging out. The beautiful landscape he could admire through the windows helped him to gain wisdom and composure towards all his puzzling thoughts. A man out of the carriage was smoking a pipe, which upset Araon a lot. “It’s forbidden by law to smoke on the train,” he shouted with anger and indignation.
The man pretended not to hear him and went ahead undisturbed. Hopefully the train arrived at the first stop and Araon decided to get off. He was living like a vagabond. He almost forgot the date of the day. He was thinking that it was probably a Saturday, the day when Jill used to go to the hairdresser like any respectable wife. The stop at that point made Araon admire the beauty of nature outside Amsterdam. But Araon suddenly got on the train again before it started to move again. He went in the same compartment as before, where he was alone now. It seemed that also the man with the pipe had disappeared. Outside it was raining. It was a pity for green Holland. Once in a blue moon a strong bang attracted the passengers’ attention. Apparently, somebody had left unattended luggage in the first carriage of the train. Araon considered it a joke and he didn’t worry too much about it. Facts showed he was in the right.
Jill used to count the stars during the day. She was amazed by the fact she hadn’t have the temptation to contact Araon during all that time. She was not even nosy to know where he was hiding himself right now. Sure, it was not lack of love from her side but need for independence and loneliness for a while. Her emotions for him were stronger than ever, but she didn’t need to go home for the moment. The old lady she had met in that private building was a teacher of life for her. She had to cope with the situation carefully if she wanted her marriage to be saved. Now she made her way to the supermarket where she picked the best food, rifling through the shelves. She hadn’t enough money with her, as she realized at the moment she had to pay. She had to leave half the shopping at the check desk just to leave the place with a subtle smile from the cashier. Jill didn’t want to find that accident as an excuse to go back home. She simply went to the first cashpoint and fetched some money. She was now free to carry on her adventure into the unknown. Her heart never stopped beating at great speed whenever she thought of Araon. She was frightened by her own feelings. She didn’t want to make the mistake of going back to her husband soon, though. So she summed up her ideas, helped by her own state of being in the open air. She stopped in the middle of the street with her heavy bags just to decide about her next move. Her brain was half-empty despite the fact she had always been a fast-thinker during her life. She was going to cry when people around inhibited her passion. “The train,” she thought but she didn’t even know why. To be innocent and pure at her own age was like living safely in a cage with lions. Jill was the perfect mate for Araon but, somehow, they were now missing the point. Araon firmly believed he hadn’t married a virgin but he didn’t care. Jill called that mercy. Now she wanted to approach the grand canal with all her shopping bags. She saw the water like a baptismal font. She didn’t know if her bags were heavier than the consciousness of her own sins. She still thought that Araon adored her, but she didn’t know why he was a keeping a secret from her. She was struggling to make a journey in her unconscious just to purify her soul and see things more clearly. She grabbed a biscuit from her bag to the enjoyment of her own senses. It had been two days that she had skipped meals and her stomach was empty now. She scratched the skin of her face with her long nails and she started to cry, shrieks similar to dogs barking. She was going slightly mad. She had to listen to the by passers complaining just to stop that burst of emotions. She wasn’t able to tell herself why she had left that stupid note to Araon. Somehow, she thought he hadn’t even found it but that didn’t make her feel relieved. She knew that the most important thing was that their marriage was safe. Dir
ty and filthy she realized for the first time she hadn’t washed herself for two days.
“You have to grind the hen deck,” a man approaching her shouted aloud.
“That’s bizarre!” she replied. Her eyeballs became as big as tennis balls. She was frightened by the presence of that stranger but she was not touched by the thought of going back home, though. On the contrary, she thought not to see Araon for at least other two weeks.
The man narrowed the gap between Jill and himself and pronounced another strange sentence. “You have to meet the marshal,” he said trying to embrace Jill.
The Red Box Page 4
