Some years ago, I started to write a few short stories. They sat on my computer for a long time until recently I discovered them again. I decided to post a few of the better ones on the Blog – I hope you like them. This one is based on a real experience in 2005.
I come to a part of Amsterdam which I never saw before, after taking a wrong tram. Instead of turning back to familiar ground, I stop at a corner bar, buy a beer, and sit outside in the cold summer air. The whole weekend has been pretty miserable weather-wise. Earlier that day I told me friend Rogier “I love the misery of the Amsterdam weather”, knowing he is also a lover of melancholy. “You’re right, David”, he said, “but not in July…”
As I look across the road, I see some police in discussion with a few drunks, presumably to ask them to move on, or stop hassling the passers-by. One of the drunks wanders off from the police, and comes in my direction. I hide in the refuge of ipod earphones and a book, but to no avail. He says something, catching my eye, and I take one earphone out. He repeats, but I don’t understand his slightly slurred Dutch.
“I have to translate,” he says, antagonistically. “You don’t have to do anything”, I say in similar tone.
“Is there a difference between lonely and alone?” he asks.
It's a question worth stopping the music for, and I take the other earphone out to concentrate on my answer. After a moment’s thought, I tell him my idea.
“I think being alone does not mean you are lonely – and some of my loneliest times have been at the side of another, when our values are not shared”.
“We are looking one another in the eyes” he announces obscurely. We are. He goes on. “There is a man, who does nothing but kill. He kills everybody. He walks free in Paris."
Then he deepens his stare carefully into my eyes and quietly says “I want to learn the pain behind your eyes”.
I don’t know what to say, but it’s ok because he continues, seemingly at another tangent.
“I am not independent. I love women! I lived in Rivendale in New York. I lived with a Madame.” He gives me a conspiratorial nod. “You know what I am saying?”
He looks at me, again straight in the eyes, searching. I expect the question “do you have a bit of change to help me out?” but my thoughts do him a disservice. He smiles, extends his old, dirty hand. I shake it, and he walks away with a wave.
I come to a part of Amsterdam which I never saw before, after taking a wrong tram. Instead of turning back to familiar ground, I stop at a corner bar, buy a beer, and sit outside in the cold summer air. The whole weekend has been pretty miserable weather-wise. Earlier that day I told me friend Rogier “I love the misery of the Amsterdam weather”, knowing he is also a lover of melancholy. “You’re right, David”, he said, “but not in July…”
As I look across the road, I see some police in discussion with a few drunks, presumably to ask them to move on, or stop hassling the passers-by. One of the drunks wanders off from the police, and comes in my direction. I hide in the refuge of ipod earphones and a book, but to no avail. He says something, catching my eye, and I take one earphone out. He repeats, but I don’t understand his slightly slurred Dutch.
“I have to translate,” he says, antagonistically. “You don’t have to do anything”, I say in similar tone.
“Is there a difference between lonely and alone?” he asks.
It's a question worth stopping the music for, and I take the other earphone out to concentrate on my answer. After a moment’s thought, I tell him my idea.
“I think being alone does not mean you are lonely – and some of my loneliest times have been at the side of another, when our values are not shared”.
“We are looking one another in the eyes” he announces obscurely. We are. He goes on. “There is a man, who does nothing but kill. He kills everybody. He walks free in Paris."
Then he deepens his stare carefully into my eyes and quietly says “I want to learn the pain behind your eyes”.
I don’t know what to say, but it’s ok because he continues, seemingly at another tangent.
“I am not independent. I love women! I lived in Rivendale in New York. I lived with a Madame.” He gives me a conspiratorial nod. “You know what I am saying?”
He looks at me, again straight in the eyes, searching. I expect the question “do you have a bit of change to help me out?” but my thoughts do him a disservice. He smiles, extends his old, dirty hand. I shake it, and he walks away with a wave.
