Chapter 10: The Yellow Rows of Taxis
I awoke this morning feeling uneasy. My usual daily routines did nothing to steady the sudden jangle of nerves lying just beneath my composure. The warm weather of late summer had cooled, darkening as a storm stalled over the coast from northern Africa. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps it was the overcast skies.
As I have been writing these past months, depression, melancholy, passion and revelation had been some of my many companions in this review of my life's journey. But today the weather was steering me, taking me from my comfortable room to a dark, panicked time I had almost forgotten.
Something was there, barking at the edge of my memory when the teapot's song called me to the kitchen. As I searched through the teas in the cabinet, I tried to put my finger on what it was that was drawing me from this relaxed sojourn away from my travels and friends. It made me wonder about my self-imposed exile I had decided upon. An exile to confirm that I was still the "me" I had started out as, so many years ago at University.
Simple and silly as I see it now, the image jumped from my mind like the flash of a camera. When I selected a teacup from the cabinet and added the steaming water to the chamomile, a roll of distant thunder echoed against the house, shaking glasses and silverware gently. I reacted by looking up at the window and seeing tiny drops of water streak against the glass blown by gusts of wind and suddenly I was at another window, dreaming.
A rolling darkness pounded at me in waves. It felt thrilling, like something alive rubbing up against me. I felt as though I was flying low, moving through a world of wet green plants that clutched at me purposely, trying to make me let go and fall. A distant green horizon beckoned out of the darkness. My breath increased to a panting, raking down my throat. My body was alive with a dark, wet sensation, jumping at me, kicking me, bruising me. I held on for dear life to the mass of warmth beneath until…a slow relaxation urged me to let go, lean back and be free. I tilted my head back in the wind, smiling.
I opened my eyes. I couldn't see. Darkness presented itself. I sucked in my breath. My hands flew to my face. Soft. I pulled at the softness. A light near me blurred and danced. I blinked and rubbed my eyes. The low drone of the engines brought me back to reality. I was still on the plane. I raised the window shade and looked out into black night. Tiny droplets of moisture trailed wet paths across plastic blown by gusts of wind. It was raining outside.
I took the sleeping mask off my eyes and the pillow from around my neck, laying them on the arm of the chair. A light, wool blanket still covered me, keeping me warm from the chill of the air conditioning. I stretched my hands over my head, tightening my legs and pointing my toes. A cleansing breath woke my mind up, clearing the last vestiges of the green darkness.
Next to me, a man slept. His hands in his lap and his head tilted away afforded little of my usual opportunities of assessment that I received when presented with such scenarios. I had arrived early for the four o'clock departure and none of the other first-class passengers were present when I climbed the stairs to take my place. So, the sleeping man was a surprise.
Who was he? Where did he come from? Why was his light still on? This was a game I played with myself from time-to-time when I was waiting in lobbies or stations. Not much to go on. I looked him up and down, unclogging the corner of my mind where detective traits were stored. He had on bluejeans (Levis), black silk shirt (nice), shoes? No, they were off. White socks and not shoes, but cowboy boots on the floor. The wool blanket was bunched over his legs. He had dark hair, but little flecks of gray peppered his temples. The lines at the corners of his eyes testified to time spent outdoors. Forties…fifties? I looked at his physique. No real flab to speak of. Either he worked outside or spent all of his time at the gym. Interesting.
How long had I been lying next to this man?
Quietly, I opened the chair's arm and pulled the video monitor into its upright position. I clicked it on and immediately the graphic of our flight path appeared. We were somewhere just northeast of Nova Scotia, arcing southwards towards Lake Michigan. The clock was still synchronized to our departure time. It was now 8:30, morning in Holland. Four hours had past and still eight more to go to reach Mexico City.
I wondered if Dr. L was still asleep.
For the past week, I had been staying at the house of an old benefactor of mine, Dr. Ottmar Liedermann. He had called and asked me to assist him in playing host to several visiting technology companies with which he did business throughout the year. I gladly accepted, Dr. L was always generous, letting me come-and-go as I pleased. Time with him was more like a vacation than work.
The annual technological convention, IDC, was in Amsterdam and everyone "in the business" as he said, "was coming to my town. Please help me, Erica." How could I refuse such an honest plea?
Just last night, I had taken several of his guests out on the town. We went to Die Milchebar, dancing, drinking and carousing with half-dressed natives until late in the evening. After that, we walked to the red-light district and had fun just cruising the streets, viewing the flesh for rent in the windows along the canal. Around 2:30, someone suggested getting a meal and a fresh start, so I took a taxi back to my hotel near the park. As usual, I stopped at the front desk for messages, not expecting any, but there was one. A message from my assistant Suzette to call her immediately. It was marked "urgent."
I hurried to my room and got comfortable, throwing off my sweaty clothes and donning one of the hotel's fluffy white robes. I dialed the number and waited. The phone rang four times before a very weary Suzette answered, "Allo?"
"Suzette, wake up. It's me, Erica." I heard sheets rustling and bed springs creaking.
Through the window I could see trolleys stop and pick up passengers. That was one of the many wonderful things about Amsterdam, it was moving and alive twenty-four hours a day.
"Erica?" said the whisper that was Suzette.
"Yes, you left a message for me…marked urgent. I wouldn't have phoned at this time of night, but you said to call immediately." A long pause of silence ended with a stretch and a yawn.
"Please…just a moment." The phone settling on something wooden was followed by a loud thump. I think she fell out of the bed. I heard her footsteps walk away and then return. Pages flipped as she searched for something.
"I'm sorry, Erica. I will wake up in a moment," she said apologetically.
"It's okay. Do you have the message?" I wondered what made this call so urgent. Was it a relative in trouble? A friend in need?
"Yes, yes, here it is…A Señor Alamondro called earlier today. He says that you must call him immediately." She read the words, but it took a moment for me to realize their significance.
I could feel the blood drain from my face. At last, I thought. It was for a friend.
"He says that the judge has set a date for the review, but that you must record your testimony in the presence of an officer of the court or it will not be accepted as evidence. Does this make sense to you, Erica?"
"Yes, yes…go on. Do you have the date?" I loved Suzette, but sometimes her skills as my assistant really tasked my patience.
