The Night Ferry (22 page)

The prostitute sips from a can of soft drink. “My name is Eve—just like the first woman.” She laughs sarcastical y. “Welcome to my Garden of Eden.” Leaning down she picks up a packet of cigarettes beneath her stool. Her breasts sway. She hasn’t bothered closing the curtain. Instead she stays by the window. I look at the bed and the chair, wondering where to sit.

Eve points to the bed. “Twenty euros, five minutes.”

Her accent is a mixture of Dutch and American. It’s another testament to the power of Hol ywood which has taught generations of people in distant corners of the world to speak English.

I hand over the money. She palms it like a magician making a playing card disappear.

I hold up the photograph again. “Her name is Samira.”

“She’s one of the pregnant ones.”

I feel myself straighten. Invisible armor. Knowledge.

Eve shrugs. “Then again, I could be wrong.”

The thumbprint on her forearm is a bruise. Another on her neck is even darker.

“Where did you see her? When?”

“Sometimes I get asked to help with the new ones. To show them.”

“To show them what?”

She laughs and lights a cigarette. “What do
you
think? Sometimes they watch me from the chair or from the bed, depending on what the customer has paid for. Some of them like being watched. Makes it quicker.”

I’m about to ask about why she needs a chair, when I notice the strip of carpet on the floor to protect her knees.

“But you said she was pregnant. Why would you need to show her this?”

She rol s her eyes. “I’m giving you the
five
-minute version. That’s what you paid for.”

I nod.

“I saw her the first time in January. I remember because it was so cold that day.” She motions to the sink. “Cold water only. Like ice. They brought her to watch. Her eyes were bigger than this.” The prostitute makes fists with her hands. “I thought she was going to throw up. I told her to use the sink. I knew she was never going to make it as one of us. It’s only sex. A physical act. Men come and go. They cannot touch me here or here,” she says pointing to her heart and her head. “This girl acted as though she was saving herself. Another fucking virgin!” She flicks the ash from her cigarette.

“What happened?”

“Time’s up.” She holds out her hand for more money.

“That wasn’t five minutes.”

She points to the wal behind me. “You see that clock? I lie on my back and watch it for a living. Nobody judges five minutes like Ido.” I hand her another twenty euros. “You said she was pregnant.”

“That was the next time I saw her.” Eve mimes the bump. “She was at a doctor’s clinic in Amersfoort. She was in the waiting room with a Serbian girl. Both of them were pregnant. I figured it was a welfare scam or they were trying to stay in the country by having a baby.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“No. I remember being surprised because I thought she was going to be the world’s last virgin.” The cigarette is burning near her knuckles.

“I need the name and address of the clinic.”

“Dr. Beyer. You’l find him in the book.”

She crushes the cigarette beneath a sling-back shoe. A knock on the glass catches her attention. A man outside points first to me and then to Eve.

“What’s your name?” she whispers conspiratorial y.

“Alisha.”

She reaches for the door. “He wants both of us, Alisha.”

“Don’t open it!”

“Don’t be so shy. He looks clean. I have condoms.”

“I’m not a—”

“Not a whore. Not a virgin either. You can make some money. Buy some decent clothes.”

There is a smal commotion outside. More men are peering through the window. I’m on my feet. I want to leave. She is stil trying to convince me. “What have you got to lose?” I want to say my self-respect.

She opens the door. I have to squeeze past her. Her fingernail runs down my cheek and the tip of her tongue moistens her bottom lip. Men crowd the passageway, where the cobbles are slick and hard. I have to shoulder my way past them, smel ing their bodies, brushing against them. My foot strikes a step and I stumble. A hand reaches out to help me but I slap it away irrational y, wanting to scream abuse at him. I was right about Samira. Right about the baby. That’s why Cate faked her pregnancy and carried Samira’s photograph.

A smal patch of gray sky appears above the crush. Suddenly I’m out, in a wider street, drawing deep breaths. The dark water of the canal is slashed with red and lilac. I lean over a railing and vomit, adding to the color.

My mobile vibrates. Ruiz is on the move.

“I might have found someone,” he says, puffing slightly. “I was showing Samira’s photograph around Central Station. Most people didn’t want to know but this one kid acted real strange when he saw the picture.”

“You think he knew her?”

“Maybe. He wouldn’t tel the truth if God Almighty asked him for it.”

“Where is he now?”

“He took off. I’m fifty yards behind him.”

The DI rattles off a description of a teenage boy in a khaki camouflage jacket, jeans and sneakers.

“Damn!”

“What’s up?”

“My mobile is running low. Should have charged it last night. Nobody ever bloody cal s me.”

“I do.”

“Yeah, wel , that just goes to show you should get a life. I’l try to give you a cross street. There’s a canal up ahead.”

“Which one?”

“They al look the same.”

I hear music in the background and a girl shouting from the windows.

“Hold on. Barndesteeg,” he says.

Standing in the ocher glow of a streetlight, I open a tourist map and run my finger down the names until I find the street grid reference. They’re not far away.

Movies and TV shows make it look easy to fol ow someone and not be seen, but the reality is very different. If this were a proper police tail, we’d have two cars, a motorcyclist and two, maybe three officers on foot. Every time the target turned, someone new would be behind him. We don’t have that luxury.

Crossing over Sint Jansbrug, I walk quickly along the canal. Ruiz is a block farther east, heading toward me along Stoofsteeg. The teenager is going to walk straight past me.

The pavement is crowded. I have to step left and right, brushing shoulders with passersby. The air is thick with hashish and fried-food smel s.

I don’t see him until the last moment. He’s almost past me. Gaunt-cheeked, hair teased with fingers and gel, he skips from the pavement to the gutter and back again, dodging people.

He’s carrying a canvas bag over his shoulder. A bottle of soft drink protrudes from the top. He looks over his shoulder. He knows he’s being fol owed but he’s not scared.

Ruiz has dropped back. I take over. We reach the canal and cross the bridge, almost retracing my steps. The boy walks nearer the water than the buildings. If he wants to lose a tail, why take the open side of the street?

Then it dawns on me—he’s
leading
Ruiz away. Someone at the station must have known Samira. He didn’t want Ruiz finding them.

The teenager stops moving and waits. I walk past him. The DI doesn’t appear. The kid thinks he’s safe but doubles back to make sure.

When he moves again he doesn’t look back. I fol ow him through the narrow lanes until he reaches Warmoesstraat and then Dam Square. He waits near a sculpture until a slender girl appears, dressed in jeans and a pink corduroy jacket. Her hair is short and straight, the color of tea.

He argues and gesticulates, miming with his hands. I cal Ruiz on the mobile. “Where are you?”

“Behind you.”

“Was there a girl at the station in jeans and a pink jacket? Dark haired. Late teens. Pretty for now.”

“Samira?”

“No. Another girl. I think he was trying to lead you away. He didn’t want you finding her.”

They’re stil arguing. The girl shakes her head. He tugs at her coat sleeve. She pul s away. He shouts something. She doesn’t turn.

“They’re splitting up,” I whisper into my mobile. “I’l fol ow the girl.”

She has a curious body, a long torso and short legs, with slightly splayed feet when she walks. She takes a blue scarf from her pocket and wraps it over her head, tying it beneath her chin. It is a hijab—a head covering. She could be Muslim.

I stay close behind her, aware of the crowds and the traffic. Trams joust on tracks that divide the wider roads. Cars and bicycles weave around them. She is so smal . I keep losing sight of her.

One moment she’s in front of me and the next—Where has she gone? I sprint forward, looking vainly in doorways and shop windows. I search the side streets, hoping for a glimpse of her pink jacket or the blue of her hijab.

Standing on a traffic island, I turn ful circle and step forward. A bel sounds urgently. My head turns. An unseen hand wrenches me backward as a tram washes past in a blur of noise and rushing air.

The girl in the pink jacket is staring at me, her heart beating faster than mine. The smudges beneath her eyes are signs of the premature or the beaten down. She knew I was fol owing her. She saved me.

“What’s your name?”

Her lips don’t move. She turns to leave. I have to sprint several yards to get in front of her.

“Wait! Don’t leave. Can we talk?”

She doesn’t answer. Perhaps she doesn’t understand.

“Do you speak English?” I point to myself. “My name is Alisha.”

She steps around me.

“Wait, please.”

She steps around me again. I have to dodge people as I try to walk backward and talk to her at the same time. I hold my hands together as if praying. “I’m looking for Samira.” She doesn’t stop. I can’t
make
her talk to me.

Suddenly, she enters a building, pushing through a heavy door. I don’t see her use a key or press a buzzer. Inside smel s of soup and electric warmth. A second door reveals a large stark room ful of tables and scraping chairs. People are sitting and eating. A nun in a black tunic fil s bowls of soup from a trol ey. A bikie type with a long beard hands out plates and spoons. Someone else distributes bread rol s.

An old man at the nearest table leans low over his food, dipping chunks of bread into the steaming mixture. He crooks his right arm around the bowl as though protecting it. Beside him a tal figure in a woolen cap is trying to sleep with his head on the table. There must be thirty people in the dining room, most with ragtag clothes, body tics and empty stomachs.

“Wou je iets om te eten?”

I turn to the voice.

In English this time: “Would you like something to eat?”

The question belongs to an elderly nun with a narrow face and playful eyes. Her black tunic is trimmed with green and her white hair sweeps back from her brow until it disappears beneath a wimple.

“No, thank you.”

“There is plenty. It is good soup. I made it myself.”

A work apron, the width of her shoulders, reaches down to her ankles. She is col ecting plates from the tables, stacking them along her arm. Meanwhile, the girl has lined up metal tins in front of the soup pot.

“What is this place?”

“We are Augustinians. I am Sister Vogel.”

She must be in her eighties. The other nuns are of similar vintage although not quite so shrunken. She is tiny, scarcely five feet tal , with a voice like gravel spinning in a drum.

“Are you sure you won’t eat?”

“No. Thank you.” I don’t take my eyes off the girl.

The nun steps in front of me. “What do you want with her?”

“Just to talk.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Why?”

“She wil not hear you.”

“No, you don’t understand. If I can just speak—”

“She
cannot
hear you.” Her voice softens. “She is one of God’s special children.”

I final y understand. It’s not about language or desire. The girl is deaf.

The soup tins have been fil ed. The girl screws a lid on each tin and places them in a shoulder bag. She raises the strap over her head, adjusting it across her chest. She unfolds a paper napkin and wraps two pieces of bread. A third piece she takes with her, nibbling at the edges.

“Do you know her name?” I ask.

“No. She comes three times a week and col ects food.”

“Where does she live?”

Sister Vogel isn’t going to volunteer the information. There is only one voice she obeys—a higher authority.

“She’s done nothing wrong,” I reassure her.

“Why do you wish to speak with her?”

“I’m looking for someone. It’s very important.”

Sister Vogel puts down the soup dishes and wipes her hands on her apron. Rather than walking across the room she appears to float a fraction above the wooden floorboards in her long tunic. I feel leaden-footed alongside her.

She steps in front of the girl and taps the palm of her hand before making shapes with her fingers.

“You can sign!” I say.

“I know some of the letters. What do you wish to ask?”

“Her name.”

They sign to each other.

“Zala.”

“Where is she from?”

“Afghanistan.”

I take the photograph from my pocket. Sister Vogel takes it from me. The reaction is immediate. Zala shakes her head adamantly. Fearful y. She won’t look at the image again.

Sister Vogel tries to calm her down. Her voice is soft. Her hands softer. Zala continues to shake her head, without ever lifting her gaze from the floor.

“Ask her if she knows Samira.”

Sister Vogel tries to sign but Zala is backing away.

“I need to know where Samira is.”

The nun shakes her head, scolding me. “We don’t frighten people away from here.”

Zala is already at the door. She can’t run with the soup weighing her down. As I move to fol ow her, Sister Vogel grabs my arm. “Please, leave her alone.” I look at her imploringly. “I can’t.”

Zala is on the street. She looks back over her shoulder. Her cheeks are shining under the streetlamps. She’s crying. Hair has escaped from beneath her hijab. She cannot spare a hand to brush it away from her face.

The DI isn’t answering his mobile. His battery must be dead. Dropping back, I stay behind Zala as she leads me away from the convent. The streets and canals are no longer familiar.