Sun of the Sleepless (2 page)
Wednesday, January 6th 2010.
- Den Haag, The Netherlands.
The man expelled a deep world-weary sigh and watched in thoughtful silence as the exhaled smoke from his cigarillo wafted up into the frigid night air. The vaporous mix rolled and coiled before expanding and fading into a thin mist that even then rapidly evaporated after the buffeting thrust of a sharp gust of wind.
The Hague was cold tonight, too cold to simply be standing on the pavement outside his hotel, vacantly watching the occasional trams, cars, scooters and bicycles scything by and delivering their occupants to warmer destinations. The few pedestrians that did walk by marched with determined purpose, not engaging his dark brown eyes beneath the heavy brow as they tilted their heads against the chilling wind and possibly contemplated a cosy greeting from a loved-one in some welcoming abode. Every passing marked the passage of time for him, as if the falling embers of tobacco ash did not do that well enough.
He was irked. The little voice inside him ranted pointlessly at the ban on smoking in public buildings. The disembodied voice ranted even more at the fact that even if he walked across the street to the coffee-shop with the big moulded fibre-glass native-American chieftain standing guard outside, his smoke would only be tolerated if not actually legal if it had a good wad of weed mixed in with the tobacco. As a rule he did not drink and he certainly did not do drugs, at least not what he regarded as recreational drugs. The cigars were medicinal, self medication to alleviate boredom and to quicken his mind when he required some extra insight. Sudoku would have probably had the same effect but the satisfaction to be gained from meditating over isolated digits in a minefield of empty squares just did not compete with nicotine.
He could do the ubiquitous puzzles well enough, his reputation for sharp wits and cool clever thinking in tight corners attested to an IQ that was also entirely belied by his gruff appearance as a heavy. He just could not overcome what he regarded as the mind-numbing tedium of filling in blank spaces with numbers with no specific goal in mind except to move on to more of the same. The success of completion was purely academic. It served no greater truth, it provided no insight. It was mental masochism sans the climax of discovery. As far as he was concerned, the only interesting aspect was the divisibility of the Sudoku square by three.
His current pastime was no less ridiculous of course; standing in the lightly fluttering snow, occasionally staring at the night sky, filling his lungs with carcinogenic fumes and freezing his backside off. At least the snow was not settling in spite of the frigid temperature.
Moments earlier he had sat, bored and irate on his hotel bed and had decided to have a smoke to break the monotony. A few years ago he would have shaken off the tedium with a vigorous session of callisthenics; press-ups, sit-ups, squats. Now, he exercised out of necessity in order to hold off the decline of his body rather than as an effort to enhance it.
He had been in a bad mood since the beginning of the week, having been told to prepare for a trip to be taken at short notice; probably Western Europe, possibly The Netherlands, and then actually having it confirmed that very morning. A late afternoon flight to Amsterdam Schiphol and a short train ride down to The Hague had brought him to this moment. An impromptu jaunt for what was probably a waste of time, dragged away from work that really did require his attention.
His spirits had been dampened even further upon hearing the voice-mail from his cleaner telling him that his boiler had broken down again only hours after he had left. Her soft Edinburgh lilt helped to soften the blow of bad news, but it did not change the fact that she could not get a plumber in to fix it before the weekend, that in the midst of the worst cold spell England had seen in, perhaps, thirty years, he could look forward to a complete lack of hot water and heating upon his return home. On top of that, his stomach was grumbling, reminding him that he had not had the opportunity to get some good food into his belly when the nearby restaurants were still open.
These niggling complaints were symptoms of a greater malaise. Deep down he was fuming as the professional man of action made to mark time on a pointless exercise. He had a nagging feeling that the master craftsman was about to be asked to euphemistically serve the teas and coffees at a meeting of the board of directors. He had received the orders to prepare for a short-notice trip on Monday; he had already had a good couple of days to ponder events and to consider the worst of his senior officers in underestimating the burden of his current workload. The threat to take him away from the preoccupying preparations for what he understood to be the biggest project of his life so far had now been realised. His team was to play a critical role in an even bigger venture, the ultimate target of which even he was not allowed to know and as far as security was concerned, he did not need to know, not just yet in any event. With so much at stake, this was the last kind of diversion that he needed.
Although he did not have much information about this outing, he was in no doubt that it was a side-show. More likely, it was not even on the periphery of the main event to which he had been concentrating his effort for the last five months. Still, he was a professional and he would act accordingly, doing what was necessary as if his life depended on it. No matter his gut instincts, for all he knew, his life did depend on it and this was what grieved him even more.
The fact was, he had also considered the possibility that the trip was not just a waste of time, rather, a significant mission that should have been properly prepared and carefully planned; preparation and planning that he had not be given the opportunity to undertake. He had tried to dismiss the idea; growling about an operation that simply idled away time when there were more important jobs to be done was one thing, but, racing in with a high expectation of expiry due solely to an amateur approach was a possibility that did not need to be dwelt upon.
'Proper planning prevents piss poor performance!' he had thought to himself, paraphrasing the words of Confucius.
He had donned his steel toe-capped Caterpillar boots and laboriously laced them up, wrapping up in a scarf and his heavy coat, the whole process ritualised to make the moment seem more meaningful, to engender the effort with a sense of purpose in order to offset the banality of it all.
At that moment, standing outside and feeling his calloused knuckles ache from the cold wind as he brought the cigarillo to his lips for another drag, he was simply a spectator of life, a non-combatant in spite of his ongoing mission. If he went down now he would be collateral damage to somebody else's drama. It was likely that nothing would be happening for the next couple of days but he had to be prepared and preparation was always followed by becalmed stillness before the storm arrived, the action point to which all training and past experience was focussed.
Noting the lights flicker on in the apartment on the second floor of the building opposite, dreamily gazing at the listlessly wafting plastic sheeting covering some scaffolding adorning a building further along the street, the happening of ordinary events seemed to emphasise the steady leak of time, draining away to inevitability.
He held in a lungful of fumes, disregarding the accepted practise of only rolling the smoke about the throat and mouth before exhaling. It was a full inhale that warmed him against the bitter elements. It was frowned upon by his colleagues and superiors, however, his fitness levels were only just starting to suffer from a lifetime of physical engagement. At the age of forty-one, his joints cracked more often and he needed to warm up longer to really get going. He breathed a bit harder after extreme exertion and he had, perhaps, seen the last of the six-pack that was now ensconced behind the slight pillow of his belly. What galled him most was that he had reached the age whereby he would unintentionally let out a stifled grunt when bending down to pick up something off the floor. That was something that had crept up on him during the last five years.
His six foot athletic frame was showing wear, although ageing slower than most and still strong despite the slide in ratio from muscle to fat; still able to make use of the training and experience that enabled him to break bones, deaden limbs and splinter the features of opponents in hand-to-hand combat. In contrast, he worried that it was his mind that had gone 'soft'.
The man took a last drag and blew out the smoke with an exaggerated gasp of finality. He threw the butt to the ground and watched it bounce and roll off the pavement over the kerb before dropping into the darkness between the bars of a drain grating. He jammed his hands into his coat pockets and shivered as a tram rounded the corner of the street, his gaze fleetingly meeting the eyes of a few disinterested passengers as it sailed past with its warning bell clanging and its steel wheels rumbling their way along the prescribed and invariant route of the tracks in the street.
As he turned to the hotel entrance and started to fumble for the wallet containing the entry key card, he thought that what he really fancied right now was a mug of hot tea.
Passing into the small side foyer, he enacted a theatrical shudder to shake off the vestiges of the cold air outside before climbing the steps to the second floor. Was this really such an exciting life? Would people believe that it was filled with as much tedium as anybody else had to put up with in their daily grind? Hollywood was full of shit. Without hesitation he would truthfully declare that it was a lifestyle to him, not a job, he was as much totally integrated to his vocation as was a priest to his church. His loyalty was complete, his honour was assured, but, the stark reality was that he had to shit and piss just like everybody else.
After swiping the entry key card against the electronic door lock, he barged into his room and quickly flicked on the small self-service kettle to boil. Removing his coat and scarf he looked across to the bedside table where he had left his pre-paid mobile phone to recharge and saw that the screen was lit up. Picking it up he was pleased to see that he had a message from his commander, an innocuous text coded against accidental or deliberate intrusion. He understood its meaning. The previously open-ended waiting was coming to an end, the focus was becoming sharper. With any luck he would be home again by the weekend and if he had time, he might even be able to organise a plumber to fix his boiler. Maybe he could afford to believe that things were looking up?
The man deleted the text and settled on the edge of the bed to undo his boot laces. Some kip, a good breakfast and a meet with his boss at the Central Station in the morning. Things were on the move and that could only mean that he would now have something positive to do in spite of his misgivings. His spirits brightened and he remembered that he had a couple of
gevulde koeken
almond pastries that he had picked up from the station kiosk tucked away in his canvas day-bag. As he reached across to it and quickly located them in a side pocket, the fast boil kettle reached the high-point of its bubbling turmoil and clicked off.
'Time for that cuppa,' he thought to himself.
Thursday, January 7th 2010.
- Den Haag, The Netherlands.
At 05:59 in the morning the girl's bedroom was inviolably dark save for the hued glow of green numerals from a bedside radio alarm clock. The weak light cast a strange tincture of colour to her complexion as she laid sleeping, the warm sheets and blanket pulled up high to frame an archetypal vision of a beautiful Venusian at rest. She was still, so very still, her breathing barely audible and the movement of her chest hardly perceptible in the eerie aura of diodic light.
The morning was late in making its presence known and certainly would not make much more of an effort to rise noticeably earlier until well into February. As it was, the dark and overcast skies that shrouded the city at least prevented the nights from becoming too cold and helped to ward off the worst effects of frost and frozen streets. Although the low roiling clouds provided a partial reflection of the artificial yellow sodium glow of street lamps, it was no compromise for the promise of sunrise yet to come, even with the attendant deficiencies to be expected of a grey morning in The Hague. Safely ensconced behind heavy curtains and even heavier bedding, as far as the girl was concerned the world did not exist.
In stark and sudden contrast to the serenity that had pervaded the room a moment before, the ear-splitting blast of a radio jingle jolted the girl to sit bolt upright in her bed, the noise accompanied almost simultaneously by an exclamation of profanity from her as she swore at the resentful realisation that six o'clock in the morning had arrived and that it was time for her to get up.
She hit the 'off' button and the radio was dismissed to silence, then, as she fumbled for the bedside light power cable she threw back the covers and swung her feet to the soft carpet before leaning forward as her fingers found the switch. The instantaneous blast of white tungsten light had been a mistake and she screwed her eyes shut in a spasm of momentary pain. She hated that lamp, it was either too intense or it intermittently flickered bright and dim; between torturing her with white hot needles in the morning and irritating her with the cyclic fading effect of some spectral presence in the evening, it would be consigned to the back of her vacuum cleaner cupboard once she had made the effort to actually buy a new one.
Sharply inhaling and slowly releasing a deep breath then blinking her eyes both wide and rapidly, she gradually adjusted to the glare and launched herself from the bed, running her hands over her face and up into her hair to stimulate some feeling in her skin and scalp, shaking the remnants of sleep hangover from her head.
She padded around her bed and exited the bedroom straight into the long galley kitchen of the apartment, not bothering with any more lights as the reflected glow from the street lamps filtered through the windows. Flipping the switch of the coffee percolator as she passed, she glided over the chilled floor tiles, feet slapping as she pulled her well-worn sleeping T-shirt off over her head and threw it to land as a crumpled ball in front of the washing machine. Naked and slightly chilled, she nipped into the small bathroom and turned on the shower to heat up, engaging in some necessary ablutions as she waited.
Presently, she had immersed herself in the enveloping warmth of the aeration spray; languishing in the gentle comfort it gave before switching to the hot spiky rods of the massage setting for an invigorating wash and then finishing off with a few seconds of shuddering under an icy jet. Stepping out to towel herself down, she was ready for a coffee.
The percolator had vented a pleasant aroma which now permeated the kitchen but she guessed that some of the flavour would be lost from the coffee; she had spent too long in the shower. Coiling up a towel around her head and wearing it as a turban to dry off her hair, she slipped on a fluffy white bathrobe and a pair of cosy towelling slippers before shuffling back through the kitchen clutching a bulky make-up bag in one hand. Sniffing to clear her sinuses of the effects of the shower and wiping a few stray droplets of water from around her eyes, she paused to pour a cup of unsweetened black coffee and then ambled to the living room door. Jabbing the handle down with an elbow, she nudged the door ajar with the make-up bag and flicked it wide open with a shove from her foot, simultaneously blowing over the surface of the hot coffee to cool it down a little.
Standing in the doorway, she surveyed the neatly arranged pile of six plastic storage containers, each filled with books and periodicals stretching from the eighteenth century right up to quite rare modern publications. She had yet to lumber each box down the narrow staircase from her first floor flat to her van and she inwardly groaned at the thought of doing so although, mercifully, she had been able to find a parking space just outside her own apartment building the previous evening. She did not like to load up the van and leave it overnight, the collection of books represented her entire stock and she could not risk it being stolen or damaged in some unforeseen accident. She had plenty of time yet; another cup of coffee and some breakfast and she would be up to the task.
Nestling down onto the sofa and setting the hot coffee cup upon a coaster, she picked up the wad of papers lying on top of one of the containers. It was a full inventory of all the books contained within the boxes and scanning down the list she reminded herself of some recent acquisitions that warranted a special place on her stall at the antiques market that morning.
She enjoyed buying and selling antiquarian books, although most of her best sales were in fact only a few decades old. She had to admit to herself that this line of business was a lot harder than she had initially imagined and for the foreseeable future she would have to continue subsidising her business income and more importantly the expenditure, with her wage from a part-time clerical job. Even so, she enjoyed getting out and about and hunting for viable stock or combing the internet for gems that she could turn a profit on. She had even started to receive requests to find specific books and enjoyed the personal aspect of providing such a service, although she was under no illusion that she was still a tenderfoot in the unprincipled and somewhat merciless world of antiquarian book trading. She guessed that her outgoing personality had helped in balancing the negative affects of her lack of experience and, certainly, combined with her looks it aided in establishing new contacts.
She regarded herself as lucky in that her father had been an avid book collector and so she had grown up at least aware of the rather quirky trade in dusty old tomes, however, the few amateur transactions that her father had engaged in gave no hint of the painfully slim margins that differentiated sales of simply obscure printings from the really rare impressions. Above all, her childhood and adolescence had imbued a love of old books; the feel of ageing paper, the smell of leather bindings, the history that they epitomised.
After draining her cup and completing a cursory check of the boxes against her inventory, she wandered back to the bathroom to dry her hair and to apply a dash of mascara and lip-gloss. Hanging up her robe ready for the next morning, she slunk back to her bedroom and dressed, preparing for a cold day outside at her stall. Soon enough, she was warmly attired and ready for the task of loading her van.
She unlocked the front door of the apartment and leaving it wide open started the laborious task of carrying the containers full of books down the stairs to her van. She pushed the first box over the carpet of the living room, the small plastic castors on the bottom dragging against the pile. The smooth tiles of the kitchen were easier to scoot across but at the landing at the top of the stairwell she had no choice but to lift the box up and carry it down.
At just under six feet tall she was long limbed and strong, but she knew that the weight of all that paper and leather binding would feel twice as heavy during the last run and that she would probably be wheezing a bit; she really had to give up smoking.
Hefting the load down the narrow flight of stairs, her footing was not helped by the narrow depth of each step and she cursed the lack of a lift in her building. At the bottom, she balanced the container on her raised thigh held steady with her knee cocked against the wall to take the weight. Fumbling with the latch, she finally pulled open the shared entrance door to the street where the sight of her Citroën 2cv van presented a very welcome finish line. Lugging the box a couple more paces, she lowered it somewhat heavily onto the pavement, swiftly unlocked the rear doors of the van and jerked the box back up, practically throwing it to slide into the cargo cabin. She looked up to the window of her apartment and puffed a sigh; only five more trips to go.
By the end of the fourth trip, she was thankful that she had her second wind and was making good time, in spite of a couple of occasions where she had nearly lost her balance. After the fifth trip she was inspired by the simple fact that the whole task was almost over and the sixth and final run was completed with the grim determination of a sprint finish. She considered that she had been right; the last container had felt as though it was twice as heavy as the first.
In spite of the cold weather she was sweating a little and so took a moment to cool down, inhaling and exhaling a couple of deep breaths to credit her oxygen deficit. After locking the doors of the van, she turned and walked steadily back to her apartment, relishing the airy lightness of step that her previous exertions had given her. She just had to fill a flask of hot coffee to see her through the morning and pick up a small bag of snacks to nibble as the pangs took her. At least she could get her breath back before driving.
After locking up her apartment and skipping down the stairs for the seventh time that morning, she finally settled into the driver's seat and sat for a moment before switching the ignition. The tinny engine peaked and then settled into its familiar rattling thrum, sounding like some outrageously converted sewing machine on wheels.
She loved her little van in spite of the fact that it was almost a decade older than her and could be temperamental in not only starting but also in running. Painted a deep purple colour and proudly illustrated with the name of her fledgling antiquarian book business, it held a special place in her heart. She had fallen in love with the van the first time she had seen it, advertised as fully restored and ideal for a business vehicle, although in truth, in dire need of some rust inhibitor and an extensive engine overhaul. Ignoring the disparity between the description and the reality, the price was within her budget and it made sense for her to go with an economical vehicle, although it was the imploring eyes of the headlamps that had decided the deal for her.
Even before she had signed the paperwork, she had named her little van
Willem
after the Prince of Orange. It was a quickly conceived but convoluted decision, based on her reasoning that since she considered that the car looked like a frog and because she had always loved the Brothers Grimm's books of fairy-tales, the handsome little frog car might be a prince in disguise. Certainly, she regarded her van as a noble fellow and trusted him to look after her on the highways.
Releasing the handbrake and slotting into first gear, she checked the mirrors and pulled out into the relatively quiet street. Although cold and frosty, she was sure that today was going to be a good day, the day that she could look back upon as the point at which her business took off. She smiled to herself as she gently motored away heading for the market and intermittently fumbled with the radio to find some songs that she could sing along to.
