Absinthe

by Guido Eekhaut

  Still, hundreds of people passed by. Thousands of people. It seemed the whole of Amsterdam was on the move. And none of them wanted a tram. Still, there was a sign telling him this was the stop for the number 4 line.

  Two uniformed police officers approached him. His escort, royally late? Had he not sent a message to the AIVD that he would be arriving at Amsterdam Central Station at ten?

  “Waiting for the tram, sir?” one of the officers asked. The other eyed the crowd lazily.

  Eekhaut nodded. “I am. Unless you want to give me a ride?”

  “The tram stops moved six months ago to the other side of the square, sir. Not very visible from over here, but there they are. Moved on account of the work being done to the station building.”

  He wanted to ask why this simple fact, this small and insignificant detail, wasn’t announced at the old and temporarily redundant tram stop so the incidental visitor, not acquainted with the local situation, would be brought up to date. But the officer simply said, “A good morning to you, sir,” and both of them walked off.

  Yes, he thought, and a good morning to you too.

  He grabbed his bag and walked toward the temporary tram stop. Almost at once, a number 4 tram arrived. He bought a ticket and sat down in the middle of the carriage. A handful of colorfully attired kids, in white woolen sweaters and black and white caps, fooled around at the end of the carriage. One of them had a small digital camera, and he was filming the others. They were a noisy bunch. A day out in the big city, Eekhaut assumed. Not unlike him. Except that he was going to stay here for a while. More or less on a permanent basis, even. And if he got bored with Amsterdam, he could always take a train to Belgium for a weekend or so. If he got homesick. Which probably wouldn’t happen. He had never felt homesick in his life. He felt more or less a stranger in any place he happened to be.

  There was nothing to return to anyway. Dust would gather in his apartment, on his furniture and on his books, and nobody would care. The occasional weekend back in his hometown would be more than enough. Finally, he would end up spending all of his weekends elsewhere. In a forest. At the seaside. In the Ardennes. He kept the apartment because he was sure this assignment wouldn’t be forever.

  The tram passed the Damrak and the Rokin in the direction of Muntplein, and then along Rembrandtplein, where crowds had gathered on the terraces of the pubs and restaurants and in the side streets, in spite of the mediocre weather. Then the tram turned right onto Utrechtsestraat. He alighted at the Prinsengracht stop and walked the short distance toward his apartment.

  He consulted his map. The good people of Amsterdam had never doubted the sensibility of social order and hierarchy. They knew what made the world turn. Therefore, the first canal from the center was called the Herengracht, the gentleman’s canal—referring to the rich citizens that had, in Amsterdam’s Golden Age and beyond, governed the city and made it rich—and only after that came the Keizersgracht, the Emperor’s Canal. Citizens before nobility. To each his own in this orderly society.

  The neighborhood seemed likable, in a broad cultural context. There was a literary bookshop on a corner, and down the street he saw a wine merchant—Gall & Gall—Café Bouwman around the corner on Prinsengracht, and a fancy restaurant, Quartier Latin. He wouldn’t die of thirst or hunger and wouldn’t have to go without books.

  The apartment was three flights up above a clothing boutique in a house with a black facade. The shop’s window enlightened him on the incomprehensible excesses of youth’s fashion. Black leather, nails, crosses, black army boots, chains. Across the street, a computer store sold secondhand digital equipment. A few houses down was a store that sold washing machines and fridges, which might come in handy if he had trouble with one of his own appliances.

  He inspected the building. He had no expectations as to what his apartment was going to be like and therefore wasn’t disappointed. A tall, square facade without adornment. It probably dated from around early last century. Well-kept, most likely. Like so many buildings in this city.

  He entered the shop. A girl in her very early twenties—cut-off red jeans, shrunken T-shirt showing the contours of breasts without a bra, five piercings in one ear—didn’t even frown. This was Amsterdam. She was used to a lot more than a fifty-year-old man stepping into a punk shop. “I’m here for the apartment,” he announced. “On the fourth floor. You have a key for me.”

  “Mmm,” the girl said as if she wasn’t sure about his real intentions. “Fourth floor? Well, yes. I’ll have a look.” She rummaged in a drawer and appeared again with a key attached to a pink ribbon. “Here it is. Success!”

  He accepted the key. “Thanks. Can I assume electricity is turned on and that sort of thing?”

  “I think it is. Can’t be a problem. I’m Tanja, by the way. Something wrong, you ask me.”

  He wasn’t sure of the real meaning of that last sentence, assumed no hidden message, and thanked her again. There was no elevator, of course, so he climbed the three flights, glad his bag wasn’t heavy. The key fitted the black front door of his apartment perfectly. The corridor’s walls were painted a gray that bordered on purple, and the whole of the building needed taking care of, but he had seen worse. He entered the apartment. There was only one apartment per floor. He would not be bothered too much by neighbors.

  “Neighbor?” a voice inquired from down the stairs. Eekhaut turned. He stepped outside the apartment again. The head and shoulders of an elderly man, seventy or so, had appeared on the stairs. “Neighbor?” the man repeated.

  “Yes?” Eekhaut said.

  “Van Leers,” the man announced. “Call me Toon. Your neighbor one floor down. Heard you moved in today. From Belgium?”

  “Ah, yes, indeed,” Eekhaut said.

  “Oh, that’s not surprising. A lot of different nationalities in this city and in this area. At least you are … well, nice to meet you. If you can spare the time, do come by for a drink. I’m always at home.”

  “Right,” Eekhaut said. “I will. Later on. Can’t today. Unpacking and so on. And an appointment.”

  “I understand. Busy. Always busy. You’re still young, there is plenty of time. Well, see you soon.” The head and shoulders disappeared as suddenly as they had appeared.

  Eekhaut retreated back into his apartment. The two steel trunks with his things stood in the center of the living room. The apartment wasn’t a large one, there wasn’t much in the way of furniture, and what there was had been there for a long time, serving many previous occupants. But Eekhaut practiced the belief that his state of mind was so much more important than physical surroundings.

  Not that he had been a firm believer of any philosophy or religion.

  In the front room next to the windows stood two leather couches and a tall, looming cabinet with an old-fashioned TV set. Around the corner, he found a dark table, four chairs, and another cabinet. A short corridor accessed a small kitchen—strictly utilitarian but with a microwave, a freezer, and a stove. Behind it was a toilet and a bathroom, and at last a large bedroom containing a formidable bed and wardrobe.

  He opened the windows. He opened the cabinets. He found bed sheets and blankets. He found towels in a variety of sizes in the kitchen and in the bathroom. Everything was perfectly clean but far from new.

  He knew somebody was paying a heap of money for this apartment, whoever that was. But he had stipulated he wanted to live in the center of Amsterdam, not in some far-off suburb.

  He opened the trunks and started unpacking. It was close to eleven. He still had time. His new boss wanted to have lunch with him. He knew what lunch meant in Holland. He knew it meant something different (and so much less) than in Belgium.

  His main problem concerned his books. He didn’t have an extensive library, but what he had was still in his apartment in Leuven. He had brought only a few, and he would probably buy more here in Amsterdam, but there appeared to be no bookcase anywhere in the apartment. What he had brought he stacked next to the TV. He wasn’t going
to watch much TV anyway. Half an hour later, his trunks were empty, his things stashed away. He set the trunks next to the wardrobe in the bedroom. Not a nice sight, but it bothered no one but him.

  He undressed, showered—the water was hot but the pipes gurgled—dried himself and dressed in another outfit. A gray suit over a pale blue shirt, no tie. He seldom wore a tie.

  He closed the windows. Lunch was planned, the paper told him, at half past noon in the Krasnapolsky café. It was a bit of a walk from his apartment, but the weather was fine and he wasn’t tempted by another tram ride. Cities invited trips on foot; such was his rule. Even in London, a city much to his taste, he rarely used the tube, and never a bus or cab.

  He carefully closed the door to the apartment and descended the stairs. Utrechtsestraat was narrow and busy on account of the passing trams and cars. He walked toward Rembrandtplein and then all the way to the Dam. The inner city was crowded, with lots of tourists. Cyclists rode past him, ringing their bells. Was he in their way, or did they have priority everywhere? He wasn’t sure about the rules.

  He passed the Bijenkorf department store and mounted the stairs of the Krasnapolsky. In spite of its name, it was part of an Italian hotel chain, but it remained the most famous Grand Café in the center of the city. He turned left into the café area and announced himself to the waiter: “My name is Eekhaut. I have an appointment with Mr. Dewaal, at half past twelve.”

  The man, in his forties with a high balding forehead and sporting a small mustache, searched on a page of an impressive book. His finger followed a line. “Dewaal? That’s correct. Your table is number thirteen, sir.”

  He sat at the designated table, which was set out for two. A young woman dressed in severe black and white appeared out of nowhere. “Can I get you something to drink, sir? While you wait?”

  An aperitif seemed appropriate, but his new boss might get the wrong impression. These Dutch did not go all out on food and drinks, not like the Belgians. He wanted to avoid rubbing Dewaal the wrong way. “A fruit juice, please,” he said.

  “Right away, sir.”

  In no time, a fruit juice appeared on his table. Real fruit juice, not the sort of stuff you got out of a bottle in a supermarket. Freshly squeezed oranges. With ice cubes. He assumed the new boss wanted to impress him. Lunch in what was probably the most expensive Grand Café of Amsterdam. Or perhaps this was the new style of the Dutch civil servants.

  The café was very busy. The upper class came here for tea or lunch. There was ample room for many people, but the acoustics were poor.

  A young woman approached his table. She looked very businesslike. Maybe she worked at a high level in a bank. “Mr. Eekhaut?” she said.

  “That’s me,” he said.

  “I am Chief Superintendent Alexandra Dewaal. Welcome to Amsterdam. I see you helped yourself to a drink?”

  4

  NICK PRINSEN RODE HIS bike at considerable speed southward through Spuistraat. It was a quarter to nine in the morning, and this part of Amsterdam was on the verge of waking up. At the moment, it still appeared sound asleep: only a few early strollers and some bold bikers used the streets. The late echo of the night still hung in the air. At the Magna Plaza, Prinsen turned left and then followed Kalverstraat, not because this route was logical but because he wanted to defy common sense. The pedestrian street would be crowded in a few hours, but for now, it was almost silent. It seemed like a nice idea to be the only biker in Kalverstraat. A bit like being the last person on earth—his favorite fantasy.

  He ignored the foul smells in the street. From a distance, he noticed the street cleaning machines that moved at the other end of the street. He drove by some early tourists and salespeople. Some of these stores had already opened. Two young salesclerks in jeans and striped T-shirts drank coffee from green cardboard cups.

  Why do I bother? he thought. He could have ridden all the way through Spuistraat and then on Kerkstraat, instead of being stubborn and using this damn pedestrian area. But that’s what he wanted to do. The unusual route. He never felt sufficiently challenged by the common solutions in life, by the easy way. He was stubborn.

  Riding his bike was another of his stubborn habits. The bike was by far the most convenient means of transport within the city limits of Amsterdam—and thus used by thousands of its inhabitants, people of all ages and persuasions. Nevertheless, he could as easily have walked, taken the tram, or whatever. But no, he chose to ride his bike. Not for the most common reasons, but because the fast ride was a refreshing experience, even in summer, although not in the physical sense. His small and cramped apartment at the northern end of Spuistraat was a sort of prison cell to him, where he did little more than sleep. And even after a night and a lukewarm shower, he was in need of really fresh air. So he rode his bike. And fast, too.

  He had been working for the Bureau of International Crime and Extremist Organizations for six months now. Its offices were situated in Kerkstraat, separate—for reasons he couldn’t fathom—from those of the rest of the AIVD. It probably had something to do with discretion: the Bureau was entrenched in a war against some of its most ruthless enemies, even more so than the AIVD itself. Prinsen had studied the Bureau’s archives and had found nothing but histories of infiltration, counterintelligence, blackmail, and physical threats as the means by which large international criminal organizations countered the police and his new employer in particular.

  He passed three men in suits, each carrying a black leather computer case—the uniform of the business person and the manager. They spoke some foreign language, he heard in passing. Maybe Romanian, maybe a Slavic idiom. Amsterdam had in recent years become the center of trade and transactions with countries that didn’t even exist as independent states before the disappearance of the Soviet Union, or that at least had never been part of the local financial scene. Mostly countries that prided themselves on being European now but at the time had been fully under the Soviet umbrella.

  New Europeans, bringing new hopes, and new troubles as well.

  He arrived at the Munttoren. He rode across Rembrandtplein and into Reguliersgracht, avoiding tourists who still seemed unaware of the potential danger that bikes and their riders represented for them. He slowed down when he reached the Amstel Church, but only because the pavement didn’t allow for speed. He stopped and glanced at his watch. It had taken him only ten minutes. A decent time. For a moment, he rested. If he slowed down like everyone else he wouldn’t arrive in a sweat, but he needed the adrenaline surge.

  Even after six months, he was still wondering about the building in front of him. It seemed like nothing more than a large, functional house from the early nineteenth century, recently converted into offices. The facade was the only part that still was authentic. The rest had been torn down and completely rebuilt and modernized years ago. An underground parking space had been added, where he could park his bike.

  His badge allowed him access to the side entrance. He took his bike to the lower floor where the lighting was functional but no more. He took a deep breath, shoved the front wheel of his bike into the steel brace mounted against a wall, locked the vehicle, and walked toward the lift. Under his arm he had his briefcase containing the files he’d taken home to read at his leisure. He couldn’t manage much reading at the office, in spite of the fact that information was their most valuable weapon against criminals.

  There was the catch, however: information was a raw commodity, sometimes authentic, sometimes fouled by external sources and as such untrustworthy. Or, to make things worse, partly true and partly a bunch of lies. He lived with every police officer’s dilemma: recognizing truth amid a confluence of lies and fabrications.

  But he wasn’t complaining. He was twenty-five, and he had a job that fascinated him. An inspector already at his early age, thanks in part to his academic degree and his excellent results at the police academy. At least he didn’t have to do traffic duty at the Central Station.

  And on top of that, he worked for a h
ighly specialized police unit. That meant a lot to him. It made it worth living in a cramped apartment in the center of Amsterdam.

  On the second floor, he walked over to his work space. As a newcomer, he didn’t occupy a spot at the window, where the veterans had their desks, those who had enough seniority to be allowed some privileges. Not that windows meant that much: the glass was obscured and fitted with a film that kept sound waves inside. The view wasn’t grand either: the Amstelveld was no more than a small disorderly square, bordered by trees, with a playground, and benches for the local pensioners who occasionally walked their dog along the central path. Swinging Amsterdam was nowhere in sight.

  Van Gils, the eminent senior member of the small group, occupied one of the window desks. He always was the first one present in the morning. Prinsen suspected the man had no private life worth mentioning, didn’t sleep, and actually might live on the premises. None of this would prove to be true, of course. “We should call it the new Russian Mafia,” Van Gils announced. “To distinguish it from the, well, the old Russian Mafia, as it were.”

  “It doesn’t make any difference to me,” Prinsen said, sitting down. They were continuing a conversation they’d had the day before. “I never had anything to do with your old Russian Mafia. That was before my time, obviously.”

  “We had them all the way back since the fifties,” Van Gils said. “The Russian mob. There were more of them in Rotterdam, but those same Russians dropped by in Amsterdam to have fun and drink and fuck their way through the red-light district. Big spenders, especially in those days. It was all about drugs then. I don’t know what else they did and what sort of business they were in, but they were a tough lot and you didn’t want to meddle with them.”

  “And they all wore long black coats, hiding a machine gun underneath.”

  “That was much later, kid. In the eighties. You think you know better than us?” Van Gils grinned kindly. “You youngsters have no idea. You have no grasp on history. You assume all these Russians to be communists, followers of Marx and so on. Well, they weren’t. They were all, every single one of them, staunch supporters of capitalism—in their own fashion. State capitalism it was, to them. They loved it. In the end, it just amounted to the same thing everywhere: you grab what you can and hope to get away with it. And when Gorbachev came along and shouted glasnost, they saw many new opportunities, and even more when the old Soviet Union fell apart and they could buy the meaty chunks.”