The Night Ferry (21 page)

Women tap on the glass to get Hokke’s attention. A Moroccan shakes her breasts at him. Another slaps her rump and sways to a song that only she can hear.

“Do you know them al ?” I ask.

He laughs. “Once perhaps, yes. I heard al their stories. Now there is a kind of wal between the police and the prostitutes. In the old days most of them were Dutch. Then the Dominicans and Columbians moved in. Then the Surinamese. Now we have Nigerians and girls from Eastern Europe.” Each of the streets is different, he explains. The Oudekerksteeg is the African quarter. The South Americans are on Boomsteeg; the Asians on Oudekennissteeg and Barndesteeg, while Bloedstraat has the transsexuals. The Eastern European girls are on Molensteeg and along the Achterburgwal.

“It is getting harder to make money. A prostitute needs at least two clients before her rent for the window is paid. Another four clients are needed for the pimp’s share. Six men have used her and she stil hasn’t earned anything for herself.

“In the old days prostitutes would save up to buy a window and then become the landlady, renting to other girls. Now companies own the windows and sometimes use them to launder money by claiming the girls earn more than they do.”

Hokke doesn’t want to sound melancholy but can’t help himself. He yearns for the old days.

“The place is cleaner now. Less dangerous. The problems have gone out farther, but they never disappear.”

We are walking alongside a canal, past strip clubs and cinemas. From a distance the sex shops look like souvenir sel ers. Only up close do the bright novelty items become dildos and fake vaginas. I am fascinated and disturbed in equal parts; torn between looking away and peering into the window to work out what the various things are for.

Hokke has turned into a lane and knocks on a door. It is opened by a large man with a bulging stomach and sideburns. Behind him is a smal room barely big enough for him to turn around. The wal s are lined with porn videos and film reels.

“This is Nico, the hardest working projectionist in Amsterdam.”

Nico grins at us, wiping his hands on his shirtfront.

“This place has been here longer than I have,” explains Hokke. “Look! It stil shows Super-8 films.”

“Some of the actresses are grandmothers now,” says Nico.

“Like Gusta,” adds Hokke. “She was very beautiful once.”

Nico nods in agreement.

Hokke asks him if he knows of any Afghani girls working the windows or clubs.

“Afghani? No. I remember an Iraqi. You remember her, Hokke? Basinah. You had a beating heart for her.”

“Not me,” laughs the former policeman. “She had problems with her landlord and wanted me to help.”

“Did you arrest him?”

“No.”

“Did you shoot him?”

“No.”

“You weren’t a very successful policeman, were you, Hokke? Always whistling. The drug dealers heard you coming from two streets away.” Hokke shakes his head. “When I wanted to catch them I didn’t whistle.”

I show Nico the photograph of Samira. He doesn’t recognize her.

“Most of the traffickers deal with their own. Girls from China are smuggled by the Chinese; Russians smuggle Russians.” He opens his hands. “The Afghanis stay at home and grow poppies.”

Nico says something to Hokke in Dutch.

“This girl. Why do you want to find her?”

“I think she knows about a baby.”

“A baby?”

“I have a friend.” I correct myself. “I
had
a friend who faked her pregnancy. I think she arranged to get a baby from someone in Amsterdam. My friend was murdered. She left behind this photograph.”

Hokke is fil ing his pipe again. “You think this baby was being smuggled?”

“Yes.”

He stops in mid-movement, the match burning in his fingers. I have surprised him—a man who thought he had seen and heard it al after thirty years in this place.

Ruiz is waiting outside, watching the carnival of need and greed. There are more people now. Most have come to see but not touch the famous red light district. One group of Japanese tourists is shepherded by a woman holding a bright yel ow umbrel a above her head.

“Samira had a brother,” I explain to Hokke and Nico. “He went missing from the care center at the same time. Where would he go?”

“Boys can also become prostitutes,” says Hokke, in a matter-of-fact way. “They also carry drugs or pick pockets or become beggars. Look at Central Station. You’l see dozens of them.”

I show them the charcoal drawing of Hassan. “He had a tattoo on the inside of his wrist.”

“What sort of tattoo?”

“A butterfly.”

Hokke and the projectionist exchange glances.

“It is a property tattoo,” says Nico, scratching his armpit. “Somebody owns him.”

Hokke stares into the blackened bowl of his pipe. Clearly, it is not good news.

I wait for him to explain. Choosing his words careful y, he reveals that certain criminal gangs control areas of the city and often claim ownership over asylum seekers and il egals.

“She should stay away from de Souza,” says Nico.

Hokke holds a finger to his lips. Something passes between them.

“Who is de Souza?” I ask.

“Nobody. Forget his name.”

Nico nods. “It is for the best.”

There are more windows open. More customers. The men don’t raise their eyes as they pass one another.

Prostitution has always confused me. When I was growing up, movies like
Pretty Woman
and
American Gigolo
glamorized and sanitized the subject. My first glimpse of real prostitutes was with Cate. We were in Leeds for an athletics meeting. Near the railway station, where most of the cheap hotels could be found, we saw women on street corners. Some of them appeared washed out and unclean—nothing like Julia Roberts. Others looked so carnivorous that they were more like angler fish than objects of desire.

Maybe I have a naïve view of sex as being beautiful or magical or otherworldly. It
can
be. I have never liked dirty jokes or overtly sexual acts. Cate cal ed me a prude. I can live with that.

“What are you thinking, sir?”

“I’m wondering why they do it,” Ruiz replies.

“The women?”

“The men. I don’t mind someone warming my toilet seat for me but there’s some places I don’t want to come second, or third…”

“You think prostitution should be il egal?”

“I’m just making an observation.”

I tel him about an essay I read at university by Camil e Paglia, who claimed that prostitutes weren’t the victims of men but their conquerors.

“That must have set the feminists afighting.”

“Rape alarms at ten paces.”

We walk in silence for a while and then sit down. A swathe of sunshine cuts across the square. Someone has put up a soapbox beneath a tree and is preaching or reciting something in Dutch. It could be
Hamlet
. It could be the telephone directory.

Back at the hotel we start making cal s—working through a list of charities, refugee advocates and support groups. Hokke has promised us more names by tomorrow. We spend al afternoon on the phones but nobody has any knowledge of Samira. Perhaps we are going to have to do this the old-fashioned way—knocking on doors.

On Damrak I find a print shop. A technician enlarges the photograph of Samira and uses a color copier to produce a bundle of images. The smel of paper and ink fil s my head.

Ruiz wil take the photograph to Central Station and show it around. I’l try the women in the windows, who are more likely to talk to me. Ruiz is completely happy with the arrangement.

Before I leave I cal Barnaby El iot to ask about the funerals. The moment he hears my voice he starts accusing me of having burned down Cate and Felix’s house.

“The police say you were there. They say you reported the fire.”

“I reported a break-in. I didn’t start a fire.”

“What were you doing there? You wanted her computer and her letters. You were going to steal them.”

I don’t respond, which infuriates him even more.

“Detectives have been here asking questions. I told them you were making wild al egations about Cate. Because of you they won’t release the bodies. We can’t arrange the funerals—

the church, the readings, the death notices. We can’t say goodbye to our daughter.”

“I’m sorry about that, Barnaby, but it’s not my fault. Cate and Felix were murdered.”

“SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!”

“Listen to me—”

“No! I don’t want to hear any more of your stories. I want you to leave my family alone. Stay away from us.” As soon as he hangs up my mobile chirrups like a fledgling.

“Hel o? Alisha? Hel o.”

“I can hear you, Mama.”

“Is everything OK?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Did Hari cal you?”

“No.”

“A Chief Superintendent North has been trying to reach you. He said you didn’t turn up for work.”

Hendon! My new job as a recruitment officer. I total y forgot.

“He wants you to cal him.”

“OK.”

“Are you sure everything is al right?”

“Yes, Mama.”

She starts tel ing me about my nieces and nephews—which ones are teething, smiling, walking or talking. Then I hear about the dance recitals, soccer games and school concerts.

Grandchildren are at the center of her life. I should feel usurped but the emotion is closer to emptiness.

“Come round for lunch on Sunday. Everyone wil be here. Except for Hari. He has a study date.”

That’s a new name for it.

“Bring that nice sergeant.” She means “New Boy” Dave.

“I didn’t
bring
him last time.”

“He was very nice.”

“He’s not a Sikh, Mama.”

“Oh, don’t worry about your father. He’s al bark and no bite. I thought your friend was very polite.”

“Polite.”

“Yes. You can’t expect to marry a prince. But with a little patience and hard work, you can
make
one. Look how wel I did with your father.” I can’t help but love her. She kisses the receiver. Not many people stil do that. I kiss her back.

As if on cue I get a cal from “New Boy” Dave. Maybe they’re working in cahoots.

“Hel o, sweet girl.”

“Hel o, sweet boy.” I can hear him breathing as distinctly as if he were standing next to me.

“I miss you.”

“A
part
of you misses me.”

“No. Al of me.”

The odd thing is that I miss him too. It’s a new feeling.

“Have you found her?”

“No.”

“I want you to come home. We need to talk.”

“So let’s talk.”

He has something he wants to say. I can almost hear him rehearsing it in his mind. “I’m quitting the force.”

“Good God!”

“There’s a little sailing school on the south coast. It’s up for sale.”

“A sailing school.”

“It’s a good business. It makes money in the summer and in the winter I’l work on the fishing boats or get a security job.”

“Where wil you get the money?”

“I’m going to buy it with Simon.”

“I thought he was working in San Diego?”

“He is, but he and Jacquie are coming home.”

Simon is Dave’s brother. He is a sailmaker or a boat designer—I can never remember which one.

“But I thought you
liked
being a detective.”

“It’s not a good job if I ever have a family.”

Fair point. “You’l be closer to your mum and dad.” (They live in Poole.)

“Yeah.”

“Sailing can be fun.” I don’t know what else to say.

“Here’s the thing, Ali. I want you to come with me. We can be business partners.”

“Partners?”

“You know I’m in love with you. I want to get married. I want us to be together.” He’s talking quickly now. “You don’t have to say anything yet. Just think about it. I’l take you down there.

I’ve found a cottage in Milford-on-Sea. It’s beautiful. Don’t say no. Just say maybe. Let me show you.”

I feel something shift inside me and I want to take his large hand in my two smal hands and kiss his eyelids. Despite what he says, I know he wants an answer. I can’t give him one.

Not today, nor tomorrow. The future is an hour-by-hour panorama.

4

Once more I walk past the Oude Kerk and Trompettersteeg. Hokke was right—the red light district is different at night. I can almost smel the testosterone and used condoms.

As I pass each window, I press a photograph against the glass. Some of the prostitutes shout at me or shake their fingers angrily. Others offer seductive smiles. I don’t want to meet their eyes, but I must make sure they look at Samira.

I walk through Goldbergersteeg and Bethlemsteeg, making a mental note of those windows where the curtains are closed so I can return later. Only one woman tries to encourage me indoors. She puts two fingers to her lips and pokes her tongue between them. She says something in Dutch. I shake my head.

In English this time. “You want a woman.” She shakes her claret covered breasts.

“I don’t sleep with women.”

“But you’ve thought about it.”

“No.”

“I can be a man. I have the tools.” She is laughing at me now.

I move on, around the corner, along the canal through Boomsteeg to Molensteeg. There are three windows side by side, almost below ground. The curtain is open on the center one. A young woman raises her eyes. Black lights make her blond hair and white panties glow like neon. A tiny triangle barely covers her crotch and two higher on her chest are pul ed together to create a cleavage. The only other shadows darken the depression on either side of her pubic bone where the bikini is stretched tightly across her hips.

A bal oon hangs from the window. Streamers. Birthday decorations? I hold the photograph against the glass. A flash of recognition. Something in her eyes.

“You know her?”

She shakes her head. She’s lying.

“Help me.”

There are traces of beauty in her cheekbones and the curve of her jaw. Her hair is parted. The thin scalp line is dark instead of white. She lowers her eyes. She’s curious.

The door opens. I step inside. The room is scarcely wide enough for a double bed, a chair and a smal sink attached to the wal . Everything is pink, the pil ows, sheets and the fresh towel lying on top. One entire wal is a mirror, reflecting the same scene so it looks like we’re sharing the room with another window.