The Next Stop

by Dimitris Politis

  “Good afternoon. What is scheduled for tomorrow? Shall we have a quick look?” said Palmer in the old-fashioned English of his generation, strongly admired by Kasja. It reminded her of the BBC World Service broadcasts back in Poland in the dark ages of communism, when she had tried to improve her poor English by illicitly listening to radio broadcasts from the West on her father’s old Russian-made radio. She imagined that the aristocratic heroes of Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters had spoken just like the chief.

  “A Mr. MacFarland from the Directorate General of Agriculture wants to make a complaint about an internal fraud case. His appointment is at ten,” said Kasja, opening the blue binder and quickly searching its contents. “The complaint came in only yesterday. He was very cautious, didn’t want to give many details over the phone. The call came through the anonymous complaints line. He sounded very nervy. He said only that the case is very important and relates to issues about the Commissioner for Agriculture and his Cabinet.”

  “Very well,” replied Palmer thoughtfully. He raised an eyebrow and stared at Kasja for a while. His face suddenly became serious, warning her that he was about to say something important. “I must warn you that we may be facing a very odd business that could get out of hand, if what you suspect is true... This is not the first time we’ve heard about this. We must be extremely careful,” he said, looking straight into Kasja’s eyes. The tone of his voice gave great weight to his words.

  She in turn looked at him with a slight wondering smile. A question was written all over her delicate face though, as always, she was perfectly ready to face anything with sobriety and concentration. Palmer was suddenly convinced that she could be trusted even with this, as she had already demonstrated that she could maintain confidentiality; her seriousness and commitment to service were beyond question. He bent down and pulled out the second drawer of his desk and withdrew an orange folder with SECRET in bold black letters on its cover.

  “There’s already a complaint on the same subject from Mme Anna Aggerblad, a director in the Directorate general for Agriculture. The report has only been made orally so far and is most peculiar. Mme Aggerblad claims she has serious evidence that some other high-ranking individual besides the commissioner’s cabinet is involved. Someone from within her directorate perhaps. Her investigation is not yet complete. Mme Aggerblad asks us to wait until she gathers additional evidence. She will make a comprehensive written report in a day or two. Everything she has given us until now has been typed up and is in this folder.” He gently pushed the file towards her. “Please have a good look at it for our meeting tomorrow with Mr.… er…”

  “MacFarland,” supplied the fascinated Kasja.

  “Thank you. And please look over the personal files on MacFarland – and Aggerblad – as well. See if there is any special relationship between them. They both seem to be in the same department... I don’t know what’s going on. They both have excellent service records and seem above suspicion – but why are they both making similar reports on this matter? It’s bloody odd! Oh, sorry, Mrs. Kac-Kaz-Katzinski... Oh dear…”

  Kasja chuckled. “It’s all right, sir. I know who you mean! Please, just call me Kasja.”

  Palmer looked relieved. “Thank you, Mrs.… Ka-sia. There’s a recording of Aggerblad’s verbal report in the file. You’ll want to cross-check every detail very carefully tomorrow with MacFarland’s statement.” He sighed. “If there’s anything to this, steps will have to be taken.” His tone was grim.

  “Certainly, sir,” replied Kasja calmly. “Let’s just see what Mr. MacFarland has to say and then see what needs to be done.”

  Her unflappable composure never ceased to amaze him. She always kept her head, undistracted by personal reactions. His previous assistant had been liable to burst into gossiping speculations – or tears – all too often. This one was a treasure. He could congratulate himself yet again on having found and hired her. He closed the orange folder and handed it over.

  She looked at Palmer inquiringly. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “Not just now, thank you,” he replied. “Everything else is less important and can wait. Tomorrow will be crucial. Have a look at the case and the papers I’ve given you and we'll talk tomorrow. Be here at a quarter to ten, so we have a few minutes to prepare our meeting and coordinate our questions for this MacFarland man.”

  Kasja understood that the conversation was over and slowly stood up.

  “As you wish, Mr. Palmer. See you tomorrow morning then, around a quarter to ten,” she agreed with a slight smile and quietly left the office, closing the door carefully behind her. She returned to her office and opened the orange case folder and plunged into reading.

  When she had finished, there were still the personal computer files on both MacFarland and Aggerblad to study. She immersed herself in the black and white world of documents and her computer screen.

  After some time, instinctively, her attention was caught by a change in her surroundings; a shadow was watching her from some distance... someone was standing in the half-open door of her office. A blonde head was in the room, waiting patiently without speaking. She raised her eyes suddenly to see the smiling face of Marita, her Finnish colleague from the next office. Kasja remembered suddenly that while she had been with Palmer, her phone had been switched to Marita’s office.

  “Sorry to interrupt... you seemed so absorbed in what you were doing! A personal call came in for you earlier. He said you have his phone number: a Dr. de Vrier. He said he’d be in his office until five thirty and would appreciate it if you returned his call today,” said Marita in her slow, accented English. “I did not want to forget to give you the message... as it is a doctor.”

  ...” She stopped as she saw Kasja’s reaction. On hearing the message, Kasja’s face had paled and taken on an expression of near panic.

  “I hope everything is all right,” said Marita, worried. Her concern was evident.

  “No, no, everything is fine,” said Kasja, trying to smile through the thick cloud of anxiety rising to choke her. “Thank you, I'll call him right away.” She turned back to the stack of official documents, politely dodging any further discussion.

  “Okay! See you tomorrow. I have to leave a little earlier today. Good night!” Marita replied cheerfully and disappeared behind the door.

  Kasja waited a few seconds and then, realising that Marita had already left the office, she got up and closed the door. She loped back to her desk and tapped the doctor's number into the grey office telephone. She had called the gynaecologist so many times in the last two years, she knew the number by heart. After three long rings, the bass voice of Dr. de Vrier responded.

  “Good evening, Doctor. This is Kasja Kaczynski,” she said, trying to hide the apprehension all too evident in her voice. “I got your message...”

  “Hello there!” interrupted the doctor. “I have some unexpected news for you,” he added meaningfully, but before he could continue he was interrupted by Kasja in her turn.

  “Doctor, if it’s something serious, please tell me immediately!” she demanded, too keyed up to wait another minute.

  “Serious, yes, but so very, very pleasant!” replied the doctor, not waiting for another interruption. “Your test results were completely unexpected! My dear Mme Kaczynski, you are almost three months pregnant!”

  Kasja collapsed onto her chair as her knees buckled. She opened her mouth to speak, but all she could utter were breathless, inaudible squeaks.

  “If all goes well, in six months you'll be the proud mother of a healthy baby,” continued the doctor. He went on happily reciting technical details, to be met with absolute silence, as Kasja stared at the phone, wondering if she was dreaming. Gasping for breath, she tried to think logically. According to all that the doctors had said in the past after the terrible accident, her becoming pregnant was a chance in a million. But against all the odds... could it be? A huge wave of joy overwhelmed her, and tears began trickling down her face.


  “But, Doctor,” she whispered, “It was such a tiny chance... you and your colleagues kept saying... are you absolutely sure?”

  “Well, it appears my colleagues and I were wrong on this occasion!” he assured her. “Our predictions aren’t always perfect. We can only estimate according to the laws of probability and what information we have about previous medical conditions. We must not forget that there are always exceptions. Nature itself manages often enough to defy medical forecasts based on statistical data and medical histories. And when the results are so pleasant, we ourselves are delighted to accept that we were wrong. In your case we’re actually talking about a miracle. A true miracle, making you a mother against all our expectations. Believe it! You’re going to have a baby, my dear! Enjoy it!” concluded the doctor triumphantly.

  Kasja, for once in her life, had lost her habitual calm sobriety. She was flooded with an intense joy that completely overwhelmed her. Finally, she found enough breath to barely murmur, “Thank you! Thank you from the depths of my soul, Doctor... thank you!” Trembling, she pressed her body against the back of her chair to steady herself.

  “It would be a good idea to come by the clinic one day soon, so we can check a few things. Everything looks fine now. Your only problem was the difficulty of conception, but from now on it should go along perfectly normally. In six months or so, and against all our previous expectations, you’re to become a mother. Congratulations again!” He added, “I leave you now to relax and enjoy your good news in privacy. Please call my secretary tomorrow and set an appointment, as I suggested. Have a very pleasant evening!” He rang off with a chuckle; no doubt he was imagining her breaking the news to her husband...

  All the years of bitter regret, all her anguish coming to David as a defective, barren wife, all the times she had longingly watched the mothers in the park as they walked through it on a Sunday afternoon, welled up inside her and emerged in a storm of tears, washing away the pain in a joy she could barely contain. She had wept years ago when she had been told, and her sister had tried so hard to comfort her... she must write to her. She smiled, realising that the documents on her desk looked as though they’d been left out in the rain. She managed to calm herself and glance at them, but before anything else, she must share this wonder with David. She pushed the papers aside and groped for the telephone. She had dialed half the number when she stopped.

  No, this was not to be shared in a phone call. She must tell him face to face, to be beside him and hold him tight and feel his heart pounding with hers in amazement and happiness.

  “Tomorrow is his birthday.” She had been wondering what to give him to celebrate. And now she was cherishing a secret that would be the most unique and wondrous gift of all. She alone in all the world could offer it to him. His thirty-eighth birthday would be one he’d never forget.

  Now, could she hold her tongue for a whole night? And all day too? There wouldn’t be time in the morning... Of course she could. She’d had so much practice on the job at maintaining her placid surface. Looking into the rosy morrow, she thought she must buy fresh candles, and flowers for the table, and maybe she could finally fix the pierogi like his mother’s... and then... she just might stop at that shop and actually buy that shockingly transparent nightdress...

  Just twenty-four hours away, when she came home from work tomorrow. Her inner clock had already begun the countdown to that glorious moment. She cupped her hands over her abdomen and prayed to God to bless her baby.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  First Stop: Roodebeek – Keith

  It was the end of the week at last and Keith was anticipating a long-awaited break. A mighty clap of thunder suddenly tore the sky apart and the windows rattled, catching Keith unawares and jerking him out of his lethargic absorption in his computer. Alarmed, he threw a curious look out the window. The weather gods seemed to be thoroughly angry. Heavy clouds hung low and threatening over the city of Brussels, ready to release the terrible storm that would break that afternoon.

  He had come home from work early and was about to set off for his regular Friday shopping trip; his life was almost ritually organised in an automatic routine requiring no planning. He’d stroll through the chaotic supermarket aisles with his half-empty basket, observing that everybody seemed to be in a hurry, pushing past him and leaving him heedlessly behind. Compared with their rich cargoes of goods, his own always seemed pathetically meagre with its handful of necessities, just enough to prolong the monotonous misery of existence for seven more days. And what for? Hiding his envy behind a mask of indifference, he’d watch from a distance as strangers loaded trolleys with all the goodies of the world to feed their loved ones, their families, their kids, to fill their homes with all the blessings of God, while his contained just a few cans of milk and a loaf of processed bread.

  The sudden thunderclap rattled him, wrenched him momentarily from the hypnotic pull of the bright computer screen. Only then did he notice the threatening darkness which overshadowed the evening, and wondered if he should take an umbrella when he left. “Maybe I should forget the shopping for tonight,” he thought vaguely, uneasy at the break in routine. He got up to look out the window. After a long dry summer and high temperatures – there had been no rain for weeks – a good deal of moisture had accumulated in the stratosphere and was eagerly awaiting a chance to make a triumphant re-entry. A strong breeze was whipping the robust chestnut trees in the courtyard garden, which so pleasingly broke up the concrete uniformity of the buildings. The first fat raindrops had already begun to splash with increasing fury on the parched and thirsty earth. Well, what did it matter to him? His accounts were awaiting his attention.

  He returned to his computer and quickly dived once more into the fascination of cyberland and became absorbed in scrutinising the banking transactions where he had left off. At intervals, the interior of the narrow room he was using as both office and library lit up with a tremendous flash of lightning. The storm seemed to be ripping out the sky. At one point, a violent thump of extraordinarily swollen raindrops pounding the building in a frenzy, penetrated his trance and piqued his curiosity. He left his chair and headed for the French window which opened onto the balcony on the other side of the building. He had lived through heavy rains in the past, tropical monsoons and storms on his travels, but nothing like the turmoil now visible from his apartment window. The sky was a huge barrel of water surging furiously over the city. The sturdy old trees in Avenue de Broqueville were bent over like weak reeds by the power of the elements.

  Half an hour had passed by the time he realised he had finished his job on the computer. Outside, the rain and thunder continued unabated. It was already seven thirty. “If I’m to catch the supermarket I’ll have to get moving. This can’t go on much longer,” he said to himself. “Summer storms are intense but don’t last long. How much water can be left to come down?” He grabbed a heavy green waterproof hanging by the hall door, which was always there for emergency use in the cloudbursts so characteristic of mildewy Brussels, picked up a large black umbrella from an abandoned heap, and prepared to open the door.

  Outside on the landing, his eye fell on the plastic rubbish bag, forgotten by the morning cleaner. He picked it up with a sigh to deposit it in the bins in the basement, closed the door of his flat and entered the lift, pressing the B button. Another Friday, another dreary trudge to the supermarket for the dreary bachelor. These cheerful thoughts were accompanied by the hum of the motor as the lift began to sink slowly from the sixth floor to the basement. At least his sums had finally come out right. Maybe he would treat himself to a slice or two of select prosciutto this time.

  If this crazy rain goes on I’ll just take the rubbish down and come back up here... He hadn’t the slightest desire to get soaked to the bone out there. The lift passed briefly by the ground floor and then continued lazily on down.

  But just below ground level, there was a strong SPLAT! and the lift dropped sickeningly into the filthy black rainwater t
hat had flooded the basement level. Keith watched in panic as his legs sank into the brown effluent as the lift went right on sinking, filling swiftly. Before he understood what was happening, he was up to his waist in foul and stinking water as it continued its gradual descent. It was the first time he had ever felt total panic. He began pounding furiously on the alarm and stop buttons, but nothing responded. Then the electricity failed, and darkness fell. Possessed by terror, he flailed about in the dark, screaming, splashing filthy liquid everywhere and surrounded by absolute blackness.

  The lift at last came to rest on the basement floor, but the door was sealed. Before he could think at all, trapped and blinded, the water had crept a hand’s breadth above his belt and was still rising. He started shouting for help as loud as he could, hammering at the metal walls of the cage until his palms burned. In vain. Nobody could hear him. The end of July was everybody’s holiday in Belgium and even the resourceful concierge who lived on the ground floor was away. The only other tenant on the ground floor was Mme de Vichsser, a pleasant old Russian widow who lived alone, but she was long past eighty and it had become clear in their encounters in the lobby that she was very hard of hearing. Despite repeating his words and raising his voice, still she watched closely as his lips moved. With the din prevailing outside in the storm, and all the doors between the basement and her own all closed, there was little hope that she would hear, no matter what he did.