St Paul's Labyrinth

by Jeroen Windmeijer

  12

  Friday 20 March, 9:55pm

  Peter crossed the Harlemmerstraat, then went down narrow alley of the Vrouwensteeg which took him directly onto the Kipppenbrug. When he reached the middle of the bridge, he stopped; on his left, he could see the blue lights of an ambulance or police car bouncing off the houses on the Nieuw Rijn.

  A few seconds later, he set off again, turning right onto the Boommarkt.

  There were still lots of students making their way to the Quintus Student Association with their parents. That had been the almost unconscious connection he had made earlier that had put him on the right track.

  His ex-Quintus colleague had once told him about the two ravens on the society’s crest. They were even called Hugin and Munin, after Odin’s ravens. The members of Quintus often compared themselves to these two birds: during the day, they went their separate ways, and in the evening, they returned to the nest of the society to share their experiences and the wisdom they had gained. Many things at Quintus were named in reference to the ravens, like the Raevenzaal function room, the meeting room which was called the Raevenest, and their annual gala, the Raevenuesse …

  Quintus was relatively new compared to the other student associations in Leiden. It had been established in 1978. The oldest association was Minerva, founded in 1814, whose membership had included members of the royal family, politicians, directors and captains of industry. After that came the SSR, created in 1886 for members of the Dutch Protestant Reformed Church. These days however, its fundamental principles were based on the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Augustinus was originally established as a Roman Catholic Association, in 1893. For more than fifty years, until 1952, to be precise, these were the only student associations in town until they were joined by a fourth, Catena, an idealistic society that sought to move away from the traditional divisions of gender and religion. In 1978, the Fifth, or Quintus in Latin, was founded. They chose ‘Numquam Desperate’ as their motto. ‘Ne’er Despair’ or – in simpler language – ‘Never give up’.

  Peter felt foolish for not having made the connection sooner. He was amazed that even Google had completely failed to see the link.

  He recalled something else his colleague had told him: there were two stuffed ravens in the boardroom, just standing in the bookcases, not even next to each other. That was enough to convince Peter that he was on the right track. He was certain that this was what had been meant by the instruction to ‘follow the black raven’.

  Peter decided to introduce himself as the father of one of the members. And just hope that none of the people on the door are studying history or archaeology, he thought.

  Which name should he use? For a son … Egbert? Or Diederik? Laurens? Johan? He couldn’t decide between Fleur, Frederique and Johanna for a daughter.

  A surname, a surname … Lammers was the first one that came to mind. Johan Lammers, somehow the name sounded familiar.

  He merged into the dozens of people who were heading towards the Quintus building.

  The door was manned by what appeared to be association members, judging from the ‘Parents’ Day Committee’ T-shirts they were wearing. They seemed very preoccupied with welcoming the guests.

  When one of the students looked at him curiously, he waved enthusiastically to an invisible person in the distance. ‘Hey, Fleur!’ he shouted, just a little too loud. ‘Here I am! Mummy’s on her way!’

  The boy glanced behind him and gave Peter a friendly nod.

  ‘Just hanging my coat up!’ he called, determined to play his role convincingly. But he kept hold of his coat. He didn’t want to waste time in the long queue for the cloakroom.

  He followed the lead of some of the other parents and slung the coat over his arm so that he wouldn’t stand out.

  He went up the ten or so steps of the wide staircase that led to a spacious hall. A staircase on the left led to large upper room. A steady stream of people passed each other as they made their way up and down the stairs.

  Peter carried on walking until he arrived in another room, a hall with a bar on the right-hand side. Beyond the bar was a corridor leading to the Breestraat side of the building.

  ‘Hi,’ he said to a random student. ‘I’d like to see the boardroom. Is it open this evening?’

  ‘It certainly is, sir,’ the boy replied, folding his hands at chest height as though he was enormously pleased to be able to give the right answer. ‘But there are guided tours, actually. You can just join one of those.’

  ‘Ah, excellent,’ Peter said, mirroring the way the boy was holding his hands, ‘but I’d like to take a quick look myself. Is it here on the ground floor, or should I …’

  ‘Yes, it’s here on the ground floor. You walk along the bar, down the corridor, and the boardroom is on your left.’

  ‘Thanks awfully. I’m much obliged.’

  ‘Not at all, sir.’

  It took Peter a great deal of effort to squeeze his way through the mass of people in the room, but when he eventually reached the corridor, it was much calmer. The boardroom was open. A student in a smart suit and association tie was explaining something to a handful of parents.

  The boy glanced at Peter, briefly distracted, but continued his story. ‘So, as I said earlier, this is Hugin and this is Munin.’ With the flourish of a consummate tour guide, he stretched out his arm to indicate the two stuffed animals. ‘But which of them is Hugin and which Munin, I honestly couldn’t say.’

  Everyone laughed politely.

  ‘And over there …’ the boy turned around and his audience followed. He walked over to a case in the corner of the room. A red velvet cloth, embroidered with the Quintus crest, was draped over the case, obscuring something from view. It looked like a chest or box, about half a metre wide and half a metre tall.

  ‘This is … This is the Quintus secret, and we’re forbidden to reveal what lies beneath this cover.’ He positioned himself between the object and the parents, to show how very serious he was. ‘And this is what we drum into the new members when they’ve survived their initiation period … In the old days, we still had hazing and the potential members were really put through the mill … It was only after they’d proved their worth in a series of test that they were considered worthy of joining our society. That practice was abolished, but we still haze our new members. It’s more playful these days, though.’

  He pointed to the cloth that hid the case. ‘When new students become official members, the chairman of the association pulls back the cloth to reveal what non-members will never see. And they must never breathe a word of it to anyone.’

  ‘Could you lift the veil just a little?’ asked a father. ‘Literally.’

  The woman standing next to him jabbed him in the ribs.

  ‘No, that’s only for the initiated,’ the boy said solemnly, taking pleasure in the words. ‘Besides, not even I can say with certainty that the secret is actually under the cover. It may have been removed to prevent the uninitiated taking a peek when no one is looking.’ He gave the father who had asked the question a stern look. ‘There may be something under the cloth, or there may not be. A bit like Schrödinger’s cat … Anyway, if you’d like to follow me.’

  The group left the room. Peter made sure to let them all go ahead of him. When they were gone, he went over to examine one of the ravens more closely. He saw nothing in its beak. He ran his fingers along the feathers, gently lifting some of the looser ones up. Then he picked it up to study it from all angles, but found nothing out of the ordinary. Nor was there anything on the plinth.

  What did you expect, he thought dejectedly. A letter in its beak? A little canister on its leg?

  He examined the other raven, but there was nothing to see on it either. ‘Follow the black raven,’ he muttered. ‘This must be it. There’s nothing else in Leiden that it could be.’

  He walked over to the case that held the secret object the boy had been talking about earlier.

  Just as he was about to lift
up a corner of the cover to take a look, a girl came into the room, with a group of parents trailing behind her.

  She looked at Peter in surprise. ‘Hey, Mr De Haan,’ she said. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘I, er … Yes … I wanted …’

  ‘You were my lecturer in my first year, Introduction to Archaeology.’

  The parents looked on in amusement.

  ‘Fleur,’ she reminded him.

  Peter smiled, but with the best will in the world, he was unable to remember her. Blonde hair, shoulder-length, a pretty, open face … not particularly distinctive. But he said, ‘Yes, of course I remember. How lovely to see you here, Fleur. I had no idea you were a member of Quintus.’

  ‘I joined straight away, in freshers’ week – and never regretted it.’

  ‘Very good, very good.’

  ‘But you … Is one of your children a member? I might know them.’ She turned to look at her group, aware that she was supposed to be giving them a tour.

  ‘Me? No, I …’ he stammered. ‘I was walking past and saw all those people coming in. I’m working on a book. A, um … There’s a chapter about student societies and I’d never been to this one before. A colleague told me about the ravens, so I thought … Maybe it would be better if I made an appointment and came back when it was quieter.’

  ‘Oh it’s no problem. You can stay if you like.’ She faced her group again. ‘Sorry folks, I do apologise … Is everyone inside? This here … This is the boardroom.’

  Peter decided to stay, hoping that he might get a chance to take another look under the velvet cover. He tried to look interested in what Fleur was saying, nodding every few seconds as though he was enthralled by what he was hearing.

  She was telling them about the configuration of the Quintus board, the structure of the association, and eventually, about the two stuffed ravens. She took the little group over to the corner where Peter was standing and told them the same story Peter had heard from the boy earlier.

  At last, the group left again. The last parent to leave, a mother, bumped into a boy as he rushed into the room. When she didn’t move aside for him he was forced to take a few steps back.

  Peter swiftly took advantage of their awkward moment to lift up the velvet cover. He caught a glimpse of the object which had been hidden from outsiders.

  But then his attention was distracted by something falling onto the floor. At his feet lay a paperback copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams. He stared at it in confusion but, aware that he didn’t have time to stop and ponder what it might mean, he bent down to pick it up. He was just quick enough to put the book inside his jacket before the boy saw him.

  ‘Sir,’ he asked, his voice trembling slightly, ‘shouldn’t you be with the group that just left?’

  Peter walked towards him. ‘I wasn’t with a group. I’ve already explained to Fleur, one of my students. I’m working on a book … I mean, a chapter about student societies … I thought I might have a quick look at your famous ravens … I happened to be in the neighbourhood and you were open, so …’

  ‘Why didn’t you make an appointment?’

  ‘Of course. You’re absolutely right. You know what, I’ll arrange an appointment tomorrow instead …’

  Another boy came into the room. He had a familiar face.

  ‘Is he still here?’ he asked, but then he noticed Peter. ‘Ah, good. Hello Mr De Haan, Fleur told me you were here … You remember me, don’t you? I’m on your course.’

  ‘Ah, Egbert, yes. How nice to see so many students from my course here,’ Peter said as he headed for the door. ‘How are you doing, old chum?’ He started to feel warm. Old chum? What sort of nonsense is that, he thought. I’m not usually so jolly with my students.

  ‘Well I’m just fine, but the thing is, Mr De Haan …’ He took his phone from his pocket, tapped on the screen a few times, and then showed it to Peter. It was a short article with Peter’s photograph next to it on a local news website. Above it was the headline: POLICE SEARCH FOR LEIDEN UNIVERSITY LECTURER.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what’s going on, but one of our members is calling the police now. I would like to suggest that—’

  ‘It’s just a misunderstanding, Egbert, you know who I am, don’t you? It’s—’

  ‘I’m sure that’s true, sir, but then surely it won’t be a problem if the police come, will it? Then the misunderstanding can be cleared up.’

  ‘This really isn’t necessary, Egbert.’

  Egbert straightened his back, and made himself look broader, like a man readying himself for a fight. A group of people had gathered in the hallway.

  Peter realised that pushing them out of the way and escaping down the hall wasn’t an option.

  ‘Would you please come with us?’

  ‘Yes of course, not a problem,’ Peter said, trying to sound as casual as he could. He could see that he had no choice but to follow the two boys. ‘There’s really nothing wrong.’

  He was surprised by how calm he was. Maybe he had it in him after all … Straight opposite the boardroom was another door. Egbert unlocked it with a key and showed Peter into a large room full of desks, computers, and bookcases overflowing with binders. Empty bottles of wine littered the floor, and beer crates were stacked against a wall. It smelled of stale booze.

  Once Peter was inside the room, Egbert started to close the door.

  ‘You really don’t need to do this, Egbert,’ he protested weakly. But Egbert closed the door without a word and turned the key in the lock.

  I can’t deal with this on top of everything else, Peter thought. If the police come and take me to the station, I’ll be there for hours.

  Now that he was alone, he took the paperback out of his pocket.

  Peter had read The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy in the eighties. He had been carried away by the adventures of Arthur Dent, who travelled the universe with his alien friend, Ford Prefect, after escaping the destruction of earth when it made way for an intergalactic highway.

  The book must have been left there for him, he decided, otherwise it didn’t make any sense for it to be there. He couldn’t imagine that this old paperback had anything to do with the Quintus initiation rituals.

  But why this particular novel?

  Peter held it in his right hand and riffled all the pages with the thumb on his left hand.

  ‘Ah!’ he said aloud, as though he wanted someone else in the room to know that he had found something.

  Tucked between pages 42 and 43 was a piece of paper, folded in half.

  He opened the book properly and took it out.

  Its posts are silver, its canopy gold; its cushions are purple.

  It was decorated with love by the young women of Jerusalem.

  The young women of Jerusalem …

  The Song of Songs, Peter recognised it at once. You didn’t need to be a biblical scholar to see it. It was unmistakable. The love poem attributed to King Solomon, the Song of Songs, was one of the shorter books of the Old Testament. People who were unfamiliar with the bible were often shocked by the overt eroticism of the verses. The breasts like fawns, the lips dripping with honey, the tongues as sweet as wine …

  A canopy, or a chuppah … the tent-like covering that a Jewish bride and groom stood under during their marriage ceremony.

  But now he had to find a way out of here. When the police arrived, he couldn’t just nonchalantly say: It’s not what it looks like, believe me, but I’ll pop by some time to explain everything.

  He put his ear against the door to listen for noise in the corridor, but could hear nothing. It sounded completely empty. He could hear music and chatter from the bar room in the distance.

  The only way out was through the window. The window frame went all the way up to the ceiling and was divided into six equal panes with narrow wooden rods.

  He had to act fast.

  He took a half-empty bottle from a beer crate and shook the content
s out onto the bottom right-hand corner of the window, just above the frame. It was dark outside, but the window gave a good view of the Breestraat. The street was quiet, except for the odd bus going by.

  He took a newspaper from a desk, took out the middle page, unfolded it and pasted it against the wet window. It was an old trick that would prevent the shattered glass from flying into his face.

  Leaning against one of the bookcases was a ridiculously large hammer. Its shaft was at least a metre long. Peter could only guess at what it might have been used for.

  He picked it up, gripping it close to the head, and took it over to the window. He looked outside to make sure nobody was walking by, and then smashed the hammer into the glass. It broke immediately. The wet paper tore.

  After two more blows, the corner of the window smashed and a large crack spread across the glass. Peter aimed two more precise taps at the damaged window, sending the cracks across the whole pane like fissures in ice. He put down the hammer then grabbed a tea towel from a desk, wrapped it around his hand and jiggled the large pieces of glass back and forth to remove them. He quickly managed to knock out most of the pane this way, creating an opening that he hoped would be just big enough for him to fit through.

  He dug a few more pieces of glass out of the frame and threw his coat outside. He turned his face towards the outside of the frame, and then with his cheek pressed against the glass, stuck his leg through the empty pane. He carefully lowered his foot until it touched the pavement. The street was still quiet.

  But the hole wasn’t quite big enough after all: pieces of glass pricked his back. He briefly wondered if he should abandon the attempt and stay in the office.

  But the choice was made for him; at that moment, the office door swung open. He craned his neck around to look – as far as that was possible – and then kept going. His jacket snagged on the broken glass.

  A policeman entered the room, followed by Egbert. They both froze, with stunned looks on their faces.

  Peter took advantage of their confusion to squeeze all the way through the window.

  As soon as he was outside, he grabbed his coat from the ground.