A Passage through the Fog by Misho Yuzmeski

Misho Yuzmeski A PASSAGE THROUGH THE FOG

PUBLISHERâ&#x20AC;&#x;S NOTE This book is work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are the product of the authorâ&#x20AC;&#x;s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events and persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Misho Yuzmeski A PASSAGE THROUGH THE FOG Translated from the Macedonian by Dr. Michael Seraphinoff

National Institution LIBRARY “GRIGOR PRLICHEV” OHRID, 2009

Originally published as: Мишо Јузмески: ПРЕМИН ВО МАГЛАТА by Sovremenost, in Skopje, Macedonia, 2005 Copyright © 2005 – 2009 by Misho Yuzmeski. All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author‟s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. First printing of the English translation: August 2009 Published by: National Institution – Library “Grigor Prlichev” Bul. Makedonski prosvetiteli 4 6000 Ohrid, Macedonia Publisher: Tode Ilievski Photo on the Cover: “Fog above Lake Ohrid” by Misho Yuzmeski

____________ CIP - Katalogizacija vo publikacija Nacionalna i univerzitetska biblioteka „Sv. Kliment Ohridski“, Skopje 821.163.3-31 Yuzmeski, Misho A Passage through the Fog / Misho Yuzmeski; [Translator Michael Seraphinoff]. Ohrid: National Institution – Library “Grigor Prlichev”, 2009. – 164 pages; 20 cm. Prevod na deloto: „Premin vo maglata“ \ Mi{o Juzmeski // Slika i bele{ka za avtorot. ISBN: 978-9989-911-01-9 1. Seraphinoff, Michael [preveduva~]. - 1. Juzmeski, Mi{o vidi Yuzmeski, Misho COBISS.MK-ID 79019786

Translatorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s note on the book Misho Yuzmeski's novel invites the reader to join his young narrator on a journey of discovery through the heart of modern Europe. While this journey offers certain narrow insights into modern day city life in England and a few of the continent's major cities, it is the internal journey of the young traveler that is at the heart of this novel. Readers are liable to find parallels to some youthful search for meaning of their own in Michele's journey. He reminds us of a critical time in many of our lives, when childhood is finally behind us, but the road ahead is quite uncertain. It is during this period that so many critical decisions are made that will have lasting consequences on our lives. It is a time when one must face fears: of rejection, of addiction, of corruption, or simply of the unknown. This story would seem to be a confirmation of the old adage that 'the unexamined life is not worth living', but it also serves as a powerful reminder that to live the examined life requires both courage and determination. And while Michele longs to free himself from the terrors conjured up by his own active imagination, it is only through the active engagement of his imaginative mind that he eventually finds his way out of the fog that obscures his path to authentic selfrealization. Michael Seraphinoff Ph. D. Slavic languages and Literature Greenbank (WA), USA, July 2009

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Late autumn days are sometimes of surpassing beautycalm, sunny and warm in a way that spring days rarely are. On a day like that you‟ll just want to sit by the bank of the Big River. There‟s no better way to relax after a long hike about the town than to simply bask in the warm, sunny day. Completely at peace, lounging there with your eyes completely closed and with your exposed face soaking up the gentle rays of the sun. Your thoughts drift and transport you to far away places, whether from out of the past or from a time yet to come. It‟s all the same. Then, without warning your peaceful dream is interrupted by someone‟s voice: “Excuse me, is it alright if I sit here?” You can‟t imagine who would be so bold as to want to take up a seat right next to you! However, you can‟t think of anything else to say except: “Yes, of course. You‟re welcome to sit down.”

Chapter One The screech of the brakes was immediately followed by a chorus of slamming doors of the long line of metal cars (a thunderous roar from out of the blue that momentarily disturbed the peace of the drowsing train riders). And this was one of the old-fashioned English trains that had a separate, manually-operated entrance door to each coach. The passengers slammed the doors thoughtlessly as they rushed off in anticipation of soon being back in the sanctuary of their private homes or some other destination thereabouts. Since the majority of the passengers hustled off the train at the central station in Dover, the train was nearly empty now. Meanwhile, I was left in peace to continue my own journey, but that ended only five minutes later when the remaining passengers disembarked at the last station on English soil. Here at the last stop on the London-Dover line one approached the broad expanse of the sea. Although still hidden from view, there was the overpowering scent of the sea air that signaled the waterâ&#x20AC;&#x;s proximity. Since I was in no hurry, having no deadline to meet, I slowly made my way, calmly observing everything and everyone around me at the harbor. Suddenly a man who was sitting down caught my attention. His head was propped up by one of his arms and he appeared lost in thought. Am I in the right place? I wondered to myself. I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x;t have lost my way!

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The British border control officer opened my passport and began to study it with the usual careful attention. He gave me the briefest glance, to which I didn‟t react, in order to verify that the frowning fellow in the picture on the opposite page of the booklet was indeed me. Then he slowly proceeded to read each of the numerous stamps on page after page. He was in no hurry since I was the only traveler in line at the moment. So he carried out his duties to the British crown, her majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second, with particular attention to details in my case. Frequent travels afforded the possibility of frequent inspections of the kind I was going through. But the formalities of border crossing always got on my nerves. Why did border control officers always make me feel undesirable somehow, as if I were some kind of creepy intruder, who must be kept away from their homes and families. I could see the point in such suspicion upon arrival in their land, but why the fuss upon ones departure? Did they think that we were making off with some valuable? Some of the officers certainly did make much too big a deal of the inspection, acting tougher and stricter than necessary with ordinary, innocent travelers crossing the border. It didn‟t seem to matter what the country, the border guards all seemed to act about the same, behaving as harsh judges of the accused, who just had to endure it all. I suppose that they all take their duty and the exercise of their power very seriously, as protectors of the homeland. In the end, it seems to me that they all could be brothers from one and the same mother. While the officer in front of me went about his daily work I felt a churning in my gut. This border ritual was always the most unpleasant part of any journey, no matter how brief the inspection. I couldn‟t wait to get it

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over with and be on my way again. All the while knowing that someone else, much like the officer in front of me, would be waiting on the other shore. Once he had verified the authenticity of my documents, or maybe because he had simply lost interest in me, the British border control officer waved me through with a quick gesture of his hand as he gave my passport back to me. Then I heard the only words he would speak during our brief encounter: “Thank you, sir. Have a good journey,” he said to me as he shifted on his chair, as if stirring from a deep dream. I thanked him back in my most gracious of tones and then grabbed my passport with my one hand and my shoulder bag with the other. I could feel my spirits lift upon the successful conclusion of this unavoidable and inevitably annoying ritual. It could be that the entire thing took only a few minutes, but for me it felt like time had stood still and that I had endured an eternity. Even if I was prepared to believe that the officer was only half-awake or barely aware of my presence the whole time. All I knew was that I was free to go, and with a brisk pace I hurried on down a long tunnel that I imagined would deliver me into the bowels of the ship, the same one that had delivered me to the island the week before. I continued on down the level gangway until I arrived at what I thought would be the interior of a big ship. To my surprise and slight distaste, I instead arrived on the deck of a rather small boat, nothing like the ones I had sailed on during previous visits to Great Britain or back to the continent. This time I would be on a small, white vessel with an upper and a lower deck, that seemed tiny compared to the huge ships I‟d taken in the past.

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This one belongs on some lake or river, I thought to myself. What‟s it doing on the North Sea? I was none too happy when I went on board. (However, two hours later when the boat delivered us healthy and dry to the other shore, I had to admit that I had been unfair to the little boat. I felt obliged to make a little apology to the boat for underestimating her seaworthiness!) My anxiety may not have been prompted by the small dimensions of the boat so much as by only having sailed on much larger ships in the past. But at this moment I‟d had no other choice but to brace myself and plunge into the boat, one foot in front of the other. The boat proved to be a seasoned veteran of the open sea. It was a special kind of boat called a hydrofoil that skimmed along the surface of the water on a special airplane wing-like hull shape. I had seen them before on television and read about the boats in news articles, about their exceptional speed. But I‟d never expected to travel on one myself. The name of the boat was as strange as the boat itself; it was the Princess Stefani and Princess Klementina. Why two princesses names on one boat? Or even two names on one boat? Was there some argument over whose name would go on the boat, and someone decided to solve the dispute by putting both names on it? Or some such story… The interior of the vessel consisted of a wide, open space filled with rows of chairs, arranged in distinct clusters. It gave the impression of a conference room of sorts before the opening of some important meeting. As I pondered various features of the boat, the room filled up with fellow passengers who settled into the arranged chairs. The time approached for our departure. Suddenly a young woman, one of the crew who scurried

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about the boat, stepped into the middle of the room. She had the classic features that I associated with the “Belgian type”, if such existed, with plump cheeks and a roundish head and attractive full figure. I have no idea why I thought such a thing at the time. She took a relaxed stance, almost like a military at ease posture, waiting for something? It wasn‟t long before something did happen. An unseen woman‟s voice came over a loudspeaker system. She first of all welcomed us all aboard and introduced the captain of the boat and the boat we were sailing on, and the details of our travel. She repeated all of this four times in several languages: English, French, Flemish, and German. While the unseen woman explained various safety features of the vessel (where our lifejackets were stowed under the seats and how to use them, etc.) the young woman in front of us gestured with her hands, indicating how to fasten the lifejacket. We paid close attention to her instructions. Each of us donned a lifejacket and fastened the belt around us, prepared if need be to swim ashore. The lifejackets and the calm faces of my fellow passengers served to relieve some of my initial doubt concerning the Princess Stefani – Princess Klementina. My stomach started to settle back down. My confidence in the competence of the crew and the seaworthiness of their boat was again undermined, however, by the next thing the young woman had to say. It brought a new bit of pressure to my throat. My emotions bounced around like a ping pong ball. She went on to describe the abandon ship procedure in the event of a disaster at sea, and the young woman in front of us acted it all out for us, indicating in some detail what we would need to do. The image of the ship sinking and all of us floundering in the water was all too vivid now in my mind.

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Why did she need to paint such a graphic picture of it? It brought back all sorts of stories I‟d heard of sea disasters and passengers drowning from around the world. Already, with the lifejacket firmly wrapped about me, my mind was racing, conjuring all sorts of images of drifting in the sea, waiting for rescue. I imagined what it would be like to be floating for hours or even days in the cold waters of the North Sea with no idea if or when help might arrive. After a time sharks would come. They would be attracted by the salty scent of my legs in the water. They would probably nibble at my fingers first, and then work their way piece by piece until all that remained was bare bones. … What a feast for the sharks and what a horrible end for me! Meanwhile, as we fastened on our lifejackets I heard the sound of the boat‟s motors come to life. From a faint rumble the sound slowly grew stronger, and when they reached their peak I could feel the hydrofoil lift the boat up in the water. It was as if we were flying rather than plowing through the water. The boat made excellent speed. The way we skimmed swiftly over the surface of the sea made it feel as if we were on an airplane instead of a ship. Only the presence of the broad sea dispelled the illusion. I began to relax again. I was reassured by the speed of the boat that we would soon arrive, safe and sound above all, on the opposite shore. The weather that day was heavenly. The sky was an incredibly peerless blue reflection of the sea. Only a few small streaks of white cloud on the distant horizon broke the spell of an endless blue world. The clouds were distant and thin and they appeared to be breaking up and disappearing into mist. „It‟s highly

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unlikely that these thin mists could turn into heavy storm clouds with rain and strong winds,‟ I reassured myself. I wanted the weather to be in our favor, at least, let it be calm for our crossing. Only the light waves hinted at the sea‟s restless nature. I knew that the sea was only a sleeping giant that could awaken on short notice. We were but playthings, easily tossed about or swallowed up, if the sea awoke. We were always at the sea‟s mercy. Many men who had failed to respect its power had been swallowed up by the sea, and it was always prepared to swallow others. I tried to get my mind to focus on other, more pleasant things. I thought back to all that I had done in recent days and how my plans for the future would depend on that. It was all a bit muddled in my mind and hard to think through. There wasn‟t much to do on this particular boat trip. There wasn‟t much room for a stroll around the decks. The larger boats I‟d sailed on in the past had afforded me many more opportunities for a stroll along the deck or a visit to a shop or bar. There were more opportunities to mingle with the other passengers and share some stories from our lives. On this boat I was forced to sit in my seat and watch the rather monotonous scene outside my window. There really was not much at all to see! Once the boat was well under way the young women crew attendants tried to interest the passengers in little offerings. First they sold cups of coffee and other light beverages to those who were interested. Then they came around with a cart with liquor and perfumes in colorful little boxes. I took an interest in everything. At least it was something to do. (I had tried to read books or newspapers in the presence of other people, but never with any success. I could never get myself to pay enough attention to the words, and I always gave up after a short while.)

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I was a bit startled by the unexpected arrival of one of the young attendants with her cart. “Good day, sir. Would you like anything?” I started to look over the contents of her cart. From up close I could see everything much better now. It was a bit disturbing. The expensive alcohol and perfumes in their fancy wrappers that aroused long slumbering passions (products of skillful merchants) were of no great consequence in life. Nor would they be sources of much joy or happiness. I was even less interested in the expensive cigarettes. I had never had much use for any tobacco products. But they had chocolates. I would certainly enjoy munching on a piece… I knew that the young attendant needed to move on, that I shouldn‟t take up too much of her time deciding on something. So I had to make up my mind quickly, although quick decision-making wasn‟t my strong suit. It always upset me to have to try and do that, and it disturbed shopkeepers who had to wait for me to decide. “No thank you,” was all I was able to get myself to say. The girl nodded her head and gave me a slightly sour little smile, as if she had just tasted a lemon. Although I probably deserved it, that little gesture caused a sudden wave of bitter regret and even a touch of jealousy to pass through me. I immediately grew angry at myself for any kind of jealous thoughts. I felt a bit humiliated at some sense of my diminished status in comparison to the other passengers. I knew, of course, that these attendants were expected to smile and show a certain courtesy to all of the passengers in any event. (Smiles of this sort were just part of the game when people sold you things, the world over.)

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That‟s why the passengers who bought the fancily wrapped items on her cart received the biggest, sweetest smiles from the attendant. They also received the most attention, engaging in little conversations with her as they bought her wares. What else would one expect? To add to my sense of misery a passenger a couple of seats over stopped the young woman to ask about something. As I watched her sort through and package up some purchases, I could feel a gnawing sensation deep in my gut. The experience made me want to cry out… It was all happening in my head at lightning speed. My rational brain was trying to keep my emotional response in check, but there was the devil prodding me from behind with his nasty three-pronged pitchfork. Goading me into doing something I would later regret. My stomach churned and the bile rose in my throat. I was on the verge of crying out: “Ma‟am, Please! I would like to buy something!” „And what is it you would like to buy?‟ I knew how tempting it all was. „Would you like one of these lovely little packages? Or maybe you‟d like a package of the very best cigarettes?‟ I could hear her say. „You don‟t smoke? You‟re sure you wouldn‟t like to try it on occasion? Look at how attractive the package is. Isn‟t that pretty? And the cigarettes inside are so nicely made, with the softest paper you‟ll ever find. Why not become the proud owner of such a lovely package?‟ It‟s lovely enough all right, but what would happen when you lit one up? It would send foul-smelling smoke billowing in all directions. It would stink up your clothes, turn your fingers yellow, and seep into your very soul. Do you really want to live with that stench? So, do you want to be stinky? Eh, stinky? Ha ha ha…!‟

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„But there are always the perfumes. Take a look at all the delicious scents we have here! With lovely names and decked out in the most beautiful attire… Don‟t tell me that you don‟t want at least one of them!‟ I could imagine the words... „Why the package alone is worth it! Ha! It‟s amazing! Such a tiny bottle with just a few drops of liquid!‟ Don‟t you want to smell nice? It‟s better than stinking like tobacco. Certainly you‟d prefer the fine scent of perfume on you!‟ „Are you ready to spend so much money on a few drops of perfume? Then go ahead and buy it, if you want! Eh.‟ „Or take a look at all of the fine drinks. All kinds of lovely little bottles… Ah, wait a second, let‟s think this over. What‟s the old saying: a fool and his money are easily parted. Or something like that, isn‟t it? Oh, no, wait a second! The girl is rushing away! Order something quick! What will the people around you think? That you are some poor, pathetic wretch, a nobody! Take a lesson from those around you. Why can‟t you do what they do? … You‟ll be a laughingstock…‟ The imagined scene prompted me to search around in my pocket for some cash, to show my power and prestige to all those around me. The girl had taken another shopper‟s money by then and rewarded him with a broad smile with a subtle gleam in her eye (Was it a sign of gratitude, appreciation, or…) and she continued on. She turned to the passengers to her left and right as she went between the rows of seats, repeating the same question: “Sirs, ladies, Sir…‟ I just couldn‟t shake the temptation of it all. See what‟s happened now? You stupid, indecisive jerk, I said

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to myself. She‟s gone! All you can do is hope that she comes back! And if she does, you‟d better not waste any more time. Get her attention, and don‟t lose your chance… As the girl and her cart full of attractive wares moved farther away I could feel the pressure in my throat and the pain in my gut ease. Already I felt a sense of relief as she disappeared from sight. Slowly I forgot my humiliation. Quit worrying. She‟ll be back, and when she comes back you can buy some fancy gift from her… The girl did, in fact, reappear, but this time she wasn‟t carrying anything or pushing the cart around. She was hurrying around the room and trying not to disturb the passengers or tempt them with the temporary pleasures of the wares from the cart in the process. So I was no longer tempted down that path. I tried to take it all in stride, but it felt like I‟d been run through a wringer. „It must be the temptation of it all,‟ I thought to myself as I slowly melted back into my chair, my spirits somewhat restored. No doubt there would be other devilish temptations awaiting me in the deep, dark waters ahead. I felt at the time that I would never again venture out onto the sea if I could help it. I soon forgot all about the misery I‟d just passed through, and for the remainder of the voyage I enjoyed a restful calm. The other passengers seemed as caught up as I was in their own little dream worlds and private thoughts. Not one wanted to strike up a conversation! The Stefani and Klementina was indeed a swift boat. Previous voyages between Dover and Ostende had taken as much as four hours. This time we traversed the breadth of this sea in an hour and forty minutes. The ship‟s young women attendants who had given me such a trial earlier on were now stationed by the exit

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passageway, where they bid us each a pleasant farewell. Each attendant had a broad, bland smile fixed on her face (like something off a picture post card, I thought) as they dutifully bid us each adieu. “Au revoir… Auf Wiedersehen… Good Bye…” they repeated over and over, until every last one of us had passed them by. “Arrivederci!” I replied in Italian. It was a silly little bit of sarcasm prompted by their bland smiles (much broader than the Mona Lisa‟s) that seemed tinged with a bit of sadness. „They can‟t really be all that enamored with all of us passengers. They‟re probably a bit sad because they try to be kind to us all, but it is a challenge… No, they‟re just tired of us all by now. They just want to be done with us for now… To forget all about us! They‟ve had enough of tending to crowds of nameless people for awhile…‟ The sea was at my back and in one small step I was on the great continent of Europe again. But there was no smiling face greeting me on this shore… “Good day”… Belgian passport control… Now it was a Belgian border guard who studied the faces of each passenger in turn and compared them with the stern picture of their double on the passport page. The flood of passengers gave a sense of urgency to his work, and he tried to deal with each of us as quickly as possible. He made some feeble attempt at a smile with each new traveler‟s presentation of documents at his booth. But it was a less than convincing attempt. As I neared his booth, waiting for my own turn, I studied him in his work. „Here was one more weary, harried worker. Fate had trapped him here in this cage, where he was forced to spend his days examining the papers of thousands of wandering strangers from all over, like

myself. When he has the chance, I‟m sure that he tries to escape all memory of his work world, in some place away from here, no doubt with his family, a wife and kids. In the evening he must drag himself home exhausted and then rise the next morning to face this dreary routine again. He must follow the same prescribed route to work each day of his life…‟ The broad expanse of the city met my gaze in all directions. I had no idea what secrets it concealed. Ostende had never been anything more to me than a dock for ships, a landing and departure point in my travels. Despite a certain curiosity, I had chosen to spend the two hours until my train‟s departure, sitting in the station rather than roaming the streets of the city. I strolled the station instead, with its ticket booths and several loading platforms, and waiting areas, gaping at the advertisements and notices and my fellow train travelers, who like myself, were bound for destinations all over the heart of Europe. The train was right on time. Within minutes it had swallowed up the flood of new passengers, and then it departed without much fanfare or demand on travelers, making its way along the coast, north to Amstel.

Chapter Two I‟ve always loved trains, and I can‟t imagine a more wonderful way to travel. For me the most exciting moment is when the train begins to move out of the station. I enjoy the way the train very slowly picks up speed until finally it is racing down the track at break neck speeds. That‟s when the real enchantment of train travel begins… Once we are out of the station at Ostende I begin to see the first panoramas of the lovely Belgian countryside with its small woodlots and pastures and rolling green meadows. As the train rushes on its way the scene changes from moment to moment as isolated farm houses and animals and people appear and then disappear from view once again in a constantly changing and endlessly fascinating scene from my window. It is all so different than the scenes from my home in southern Europe. Here the church steeples rise to the heavens in tall thin spires and the architecture of all the buildings looks so lovely and so different than what I grew up with back home. Unfortunately, the night descends on southern Belgium all too soon, and within an hour all of the lovely scenes outside my window are plunged into darkness. As the sky darkens and the countryside fades away, I am only left the twinkling of the far off pinpoints of light of the stars as a consolation for the pleasure of the view that I‟ve lost. It is the beginning of November, and in this part of the world the days are short and the nights feel endlessly long to me. I had no choice but to turn my thoughts and vision to the interior of the train. This train consisted of a series of open

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cars instead of the separate classes of closed compartments I‟d seen in antique trains. So I was able to take in the entire car in one sweeping gaze from where I sat. And everywhere I looked in this particular car all I saw were young people. They seemed to be on their way or returning from some adventurous excursion. They were pulling things out or stuffing them back into their backpacks. They were gathered in small groups that were thoroughly engaged in merry, animated discussion. There were other travelers who also sat alone and seemed absorbed in their own thoughts. Others still seemed to be unable to keep to their seats and flitted about the car from place to place, peering here and there, and occasionally gazing out the windows. This made things a bit harder for the conductor who, like a bee that moves from flower to flower, moved among the passengers asking to see their tickets and repeating the same words over and over: “Good day. Your ticket please… Thank you. You‟re welcome…” Once he had verified all of the tickets of the passengers in our car, he moved on to the next and the next until he reached the last one. His work required constant travel from one end of the train to the other. He would hurry to his microphone and announce our arrival at the next station. Then he would search the cars for passengers whose tickets needed verification. There always seemed to be new passengers who would board at each new stop, thus requiring his attention. Did he like his work? Only he knew. Once I had satisfied myself that there was nothing to really engage my attention in the car, I again began to miss my window on the world outside. All that one could see out the window was pitch black night. Trapped bet-

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ween the limited world inside the car and endless dark outside, my thoughts readily turned to my plans for the future or a return to some moment in the past. The recall of memories was beyond my control. They simply came and went as they pleased. All they had in common was the fact that they were all water under the bridge. And for all I might try to avoid the memory of unpleasant times, they swirled in my mind‟s eye and erupted into consciousness like a lava flow destroying all the pleasure of the moment‟s journey. *** I was back in Amsterdam. I had picked up the telephone in a public booth and dialed the number. The excitement rose in me as I sensed the presence of someone on the other end of the line. It was her voice. “Fiona?” “Eeeeh! Hello! How are you?” She also immediately recognized my voice. “I‟m doing just fine, thanks… Listen, I just wanted to let you know that I‟m on my way to England, and I was just wondered if it would be okay if I came by for a visit. If that wouldn‟t interfere with your plans.” “Really? You‟re serious? When?” “I‟m in Amsterdam at the moment and I could be on my way as soon as this afternoon. It all depends on what kind of connection I can make in Ostende, taking the next available boat to Dover. I‟ll check the schedule for trains to London and Nottingham. Then I‟ll let you know exactly when it looks like I‟ll be arriving, right down to the hour.

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“Great! I‟ll be looking for you. Come as soon as you can…” Amsterdam had been such a trial for me, that hearing Fiona‟s voice was like hearing an angel call my name out of the dark, perilous night. At that moment when I badly needed a helping hand, there she was for me. I didn‟t hesitate. I took the next train to Ostende, and as it carried me down the coast of the North Sea I felt filled with an indescribable joy at the thought of our meeting. I took passage on a ship that departed at midnight and arrived in Dover early enough for me to be in London yet that morning. Before catching the train to Nottingham I had enough time to let Fiona know exactly when I would be arriving. So I found the nearest phone booth and dialed her number. But this time the only thing I heard was the soft intermittent ringing of her phone. A cold shudder passed through me as confusion replaced the joy I had felt until that moment. „Of course, she must be at work,‟ I told myself. „I shouldn‟t lose any more time, but just board the next train to Nottingham. I can look for her at her workplace once I arrive.‟ I did arrive in Nottingham at a time when I knew she would be at work. So I immediately rang up her office and a female voice answered the phone. “I‟m sorry, but Fiona isn‟t here.” “But when do you expect her to come in?” “As far as I know she won‟t be coming in at all today. Try again tomorrow.” “Did she by any chance leave a message for me?” No, there‟s nothing that I know of. She didn‟t say where she would be today. I only know that she plans to

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be in the office tomorrow. I‟m sorry that I can‟t be of any more help.” I was growing more upset. I had a mind to catch the next train back to the city. I was free to go wherever I pleased in the country or even go back to the continent. But I needed to do as I‟d promised. I‟d said that I was coming to see her. I had to be sure that she knew that I had come by and that I had been true to my word. Wherever she was, she would probably be returning home by evening time. So I decided to wait. I left my baggage at the station and went into town. I was getting a bit hungry, so I immediately went off in search of something to eat. I went in to some kind of Chinese food shop. I bought something that looked good, but when I stepped out on the street and took a bite, I realized that it had been a bad choice. With a rather disagreeable taste still in my mouth, I proceeded on past the bus station. There was a long-haired musician out front, playing a tune on his guitar from some period before I was born. I soon arrived in the downtown area, where there were shops of all sorts, and lots of places to buy food, and people everywhere. It was a lively scene of hustle and bustle. My attention was drawn to one darklooking elderly man who was sprawled along the edge of the street. He was trying to talk to the passersby, but no one seemed to be paying him any attention. People would walk by him and act as if he didn‟t exist. And those who did acknowledge him, did so only by deliberately veering away from him as they passed. I paused to listen more closely to the words of the angry old man. “Heed my words, good people! He is coming! His time has come! He is coming! Jesus is coming!”

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„And what about Fiona? Is she coming back?‟ I wondered to myself as I left him to preach to others about the return of our savior. What he had to say didn‟t seem very relevant to my own more earthly problems at the moment. I hadn‟t gone much further before I spotted a board with a map of the city streets on it. I studied it carefully until I finally found the side street where Fiona lived. It was on the edge of town, but I felt energetic enough to make the trek. Unfortunately, there was no sign of anyone at the house, nor was there any sort of sign that could have raised my hopes of her return any time soon. „What could have happened to her? Did she forget that I was coming?‟ I wondered. I spent the whole day roaming the streets of Nottingham like some vagrant. I might have otherwise been regarded as a tourist of sorts, if I‟d been possessed of something more than the sour feeling that consumed me. My thoughts had turned disturbingly dark, and I couldn‟t seem to shake a feeling of gloom and doom. I kept asking myself what I was doing here. Was I expecting something good to come of this visit to Fiona? Would it be better if I just left now? Should I move on without seeing her? I waited around all day, occasionally checking in at her house to see if she had returned. When I made my last call to her house at around ten that evening and there was still no answer, I knew it was hopeless. I was stuck out in the cold, alone and friendless at night, and with no idea what to think. The last train for London had left by then, and they would be closing the doors to the station by midnight, leaving me to contend with the awful prospect of a night out on the city streets. I didn‟t have much choice but to take a room at a hotel near the station. I finally had

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a place to rest my weary legs and my even more exhausted mind. After several days of constant travel I finally had a chance to wash with warm water and get the grime of travel off me and to lie in a bed for the night. What I couldn‟t wash away with mere soap and water was the terrible blight that had settled on my spirit. The next morning I was treated to a sumptuous and tasty English breakfast of fried sausage with potatoes, mushrooms, beans and milk… It was a good beginning to the day, but I had no idea how it might end. I started off for the train station after breakfast, planning to catch the next train to London, but something stopped me. Something told me that I would regret it if I didn‟t stay a bit longer, and try and reach her one last time. I found a booth and nervously dialed Fiona‟s work phone number again. The same receptionist answered the phone. “One moment please,” she said, and then suddenly I heard the familiar voice of Fiona. “Fiona?” “Yes. Hey! Well, hello… Where are you?” “Here in Nottingham. At the train station.” “You‟ve arrived? Listen, I‟m at work, and I won‟t be able to get away for a while. But at noon I can take a break. Then I‟ll come get you. Just wait till then… okay…” “Fine! I‟ll wait here. I‟ll be at the main entrance to the station right at noon.” All I had to do was wait until noon. In order to shake off some of the nervousness that pressed at my throat, I decided to roam the town at a leisurely pace and just take in the sites and sounds around me. Eventually, as it does, the time passed and I found myself at the “Nottingham

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entrance” just as my watch showed that it was exactly 12 noon. Ten minutes later a car pulled up in front of me. And a familiar face appeared at the window. “Come on, get in!” She called out to me. I climbed into the passenger seat next to her. Before entering the car I could feel chill in the air, although I thought it might warm a bit after I got in. I realized then that it wasn‟t the weather. She greeted me with a light press of her hand and we briefly exchanged glances. She tried to smile at me, but didn‟t quite succeed. There was a bit of a change from the tone of her voice on the phone two days before. There was no longer the warmth and joy I‟d heard then. A certain coolness had replaced it, as if I were a stranger… No, she would have been kinder to a stranger or at least made an attempt to be friendlier. I suddenly found myself in a somewhat awkward and unpleasant situation. I felt a heavy weight descending upon me, and my head felt like it would burst from the growing pressure. I could also feel the misery in my gut. I immediately regretted my decision to stay, even though nothing had really happened yet. It was just so unfair, the way my earlier joyous anticipation had so thoroughly vanished now. I had no choice but to get in, although for a moment there I had seriously considered fleeing. What could I do? Whatever was to come, I would have to face. I was with her now in the confines of the automobile. We were moving along the half-familiar streets. I was with someone I had once considered a friend. Although I couldn‟t turn the clock back in order to regain some of my old feelings, I had to bear up and accept the uncertainty of the moment, for better or worse. “Has something happened?” I had to ask her.

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“No, nothing‟s happened. What do you mean? Why ask that?” „Really, is it true, nothing‟s happened?‟ I had to ask myself. Her face told me much more than her few words. This wasn‟t the same person that I had expected to meet. All the same, I didn‟t want to read too much into our meeting. I held my tongue. Time would tell, I told myself. Best to take our time. “I don‟t know. You just seem different somehow...” “When did you get here?” She asked, turning our conversation away from the uncomfortable direction it had taken. “I‟ve been in the town since yesterday…” “You arrived yesterday?” She asked, obviously startled by what she‟d just learned. “But where did you stay last night?” “I was fairly lucky. I found a decent hotel room near the station for not too much. I got a bed and breakfast for only 16 pounds.” “No, that‟s not bad at all. But I‟m really sorry I wasn‟t here! After we talked on the phone, I got called away from town for a meeting, and I wasn‟t able to be here to meet you. When I got back last night I returned to my workplace and stayed until late in the evening. I should have thought to warn you about my work schedule.” As she drove me to her home on the edge of town, she pointed out some of the sights. I didn‟t tell her that I was familiar with this route, having passed this way twice already.

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“Here is my house… It‟s not much really… Just a cottage. Not so big as your house! Let me show you inside…” We went inside. It really was quite small. There were two bedrooms upstairs and a bath and the downstairs consisted of one large, open room. It was clean and very tastefully furnished, and exuded a kind of warmth. Everything had been carefully chosen and placed with great care, as if they were objects of great value. It was a cozy and inviting little house, to be sure, in a quiet part of town. “This is your room and the bath is right next to it. You‟ve seen the kitchen already downstairs. If you need something more… It will have to wait till later; I need to get back to work now.” Fiona said as she departed. I spent the time until she returned getting a bit more acquainted with her little neighborhood. I was hungry again. All I found in Fiona‟s fridge was a bottle of wine with a little left in the bottom, just enough for a welcome toast. There was nothing I could eat. She lived on a modest vegetarian diet which did not appeal to me at all and which I doubted that I could thrive on. During my walk I found a local shop that sold all sorts of little items for home use, including foodstuffs. Uncharacteristically (for the country I was in) the shopkeeper was quite talkative, friendly and helpful in suggesting foods I might like. “Here is a tasty sausage sandwich. You just need to heat it up a bit for it to be even tastier. It won‟t take a minute.” And he placed two helpings in the little oven. “There you go,” he said, as he wiped his hands and turned to me. “Where are you from? I haven‟t seen you here before.”

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“No, I‟m not from here,” I answered, noncommittally. “You don‟t talk like the people of Nottingham, I noticed. Are you from some other part of the country? It doesn‟t matter. I‟m from elsewhere myself. I‟m from Scotland, Edinburgh. I‟ve been living here in Nottingham for about twenty years now.” “I‟m from a lot further away. Not only not from this country, but even a different part of Europe.” This admission made the shopkeeper curious to learn even more about me. We got into a deeper conversation. It seemed like the fact that we were both foreigners here in Nottingham helped forge a bond of sorts. Major differences between us were that he was from nearer by and had been here for some time, and he would probably stay for the rest of his life, while I would soon be moving on. I needed to take my leave from his shop even sooner than that. “Thank you for your help, but I have to be going now. I‟m expected elsewhere…” “Fine. I‟ve enjoyed our chat. Come back anytime you‟d like.” I said goodbye to the friendly Scottish shopkeeper and promised to come back soon, but I had a feeling that this might be our only meeting. I hurried back to Fiona‟s house. She could come home anytime now and she would probably not like it if I were out somewhere when she arrived. We‟d talked about going out to a pub. “Hi, how did the day go?” She greeted me as she came through the door. Right away she went on to our plans for the evening. “I talked to a girl friend about joining us. She‟ll meet us in town.”

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“Fine, that won‟t be a problem!” I said, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary, although I was thinking that it was strange that she should invite a friend to join us when we hadn‟t seen each other in months. “You‟ll have to excuse how busy I am, the fact that I won‟t have much time for you while you‟re here… You know, I told you that this was my house, but the truth is that I still owe a lot on it, so besides my usual work, I‟ve taken on some extra work in the evenings at a restaurant in a hotel.” “Poor dear, Fiona! So that‟s why you‟re so overwhelmed and tired-looking. Is there anything else?” “I just have a big debt to pay off. Otherwise I could lose the house…” She tried to smile as she spoke, but the attempt was in vain. There wasn‟t a trace of the carefree, happy girl that I had known. There was something else as well, that caught my eye. Each time my gaze met hers, she would immediately avert her eyes. She would look at the floor or anywhere but me. I knew that her sad and secretive manner had something to do with me. It had to, but I had no idea what it might be. We went out and found her friend, and then we all made our way to the pub as planned. It turned out that there was just time for only a brief encounter between Fiona and I before she had to be off to work again. We had a pint of beer and then she announced, “I have to be going now. As I mentioned earlier, I have an evening job. If you want you can stay here for a while longer…” “No, I should be going too. I‟d like to get some rest. I‟ve been on the road for a number of days, almost two weeks. I‟ve been in Spain, France, Belgium, Hol-

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land… Always on the move, and my brain has been overloaded by it all.” “You must have seen some great things. I wish I could do some traveling, but… it‟s not possible at the moment. I‟ve got to work, and to pay off the house…” “Travel can be great, but it always involves some hassles as well… Well, I don‟t want to hold you up if it‟s time for work. Come, let‟s go.” After we‟d said goodbye to her friend she still had time to drop me off at her house. It was an opportunity for one more sign of our estrangement... “Now I have to go. When I get back you‟ll probably already be asleep...” “Tomorrow is Saturday and we should have a little more time to talk then. I can tell you a little more about my trip and all that has gone on since we were together…” She was hard put to come up with words to answer me. It was as if she was afraid of hurting my feelings, or… “I‟ll be on the road again tomorrow, to Liverpool this time. I‟ll be back on Sunday.” “But tomorrow is Saturday. You don‟t have to work then, as well, do you? You‟ll exhaust yourself…” “No, it‟s not for work. I‟ll be visiting a friend… He‟s not a friend, like you, but something else to me,” Fiona said, with her eyes cast down, as if the words weren‟t meant for me. “New or old friend?” “I‟ve told you about him before.” “The one who is twenty years older than you?” Fiona did not reply. She pursed her lips and gave a slight nod to let me know I was right. I could feel a rush of energy through my brain. It was as if a dark cloud of emotions had lifted.

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This led me to the troubling thought that if she had no intention of spending even an hour‟s time with me, why had she urged me to come visit in the first place? “It means that you haven‟t been able to break things off with him. What do his parents think of this? Weren‟t they unhappy about your spending time with him? Maybe you need to reconsider the situation. You‟re the „defiant girl‟ who is less than welcome with them. Isn‟t that so?” “More or less.” “Since that‟s the way it is, I think I should be going. If you‟re not going to be here, there really isn‟t much reason for me to stay around. I came to see you, but obviously you don‟t have time for me this time.” But now her gaze washed over me. “I‟ll come back to see you on Sunday. We‟ll spend some time together on Sunday. We might go off and do something then. Besides, I called my parents and told them that you‟re here. They want to see you and they‟ve invited you over to their place for dinner. I‟ll come along with you to have dinner with them and then leave for Liverpool after that. After dinner I‟ll drop you off at my sister‟s place, to spend some time with her and her friends. You‟ll be busy visiting with people while I‟m gone. That is, if you want to. But I thought you might enjoy that…” It seemed like she was trying to think of everything to make my stay here pleasant. She did seem to want me to be here in this town in this her house. But she didn‟t want to be here with me. What was she afraid of? Fiona and I visited her parents the next day. They greeted me warmly and treated us to a delicious meal, and generally behaved as perfect hosts. While we talked about various things as we ate the meal, Fiona seemed to ner-

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vously glance this way and that about the room, one more sign of her distressed state. It was as if she were expecting the worst. Eventually Fiona drove me on over to her sister Vanessa‟s. She and a friend rented the house together. It seemed like I might have an enjoyable time visiting with these friendly and curious hostesses. And it would free Fiona to go spend time with her lover, after leaving me in the hands of new friends. “I have to get going now. I hope that you‟ll enjoy your visit here. So, bye for now, until tomorrow!” she concluded with a forced smile, and then left. I couldn‟t shake thoughts about how anxious she had been to be on her way in order to spend her limited free time with her boyfriend in Liverpool. What was I doing here? The simplest answer was that I should have never come. Later that afternoon several of their friends joined us and we made a party of it. We spent the evening at a pub and when it closed at midnight we strolled the town. The group changed over time. Someone had to go off to work or do something else, and then someone new would show up and join us. Their circle of friends made me feel so welcome that instead of feeling like I was a foreigner in a foreign land, I felt as if I were among friends back home. Sometime in the middle of the night one of these new friends took me to his place. I stayed there until Sunday morning when we got up and had a typical English breakfast with coffee and the usual full course of salty, fried, toasted or roasted complement of foods. Then Vanessa and one of her friends came by and picked me up and we continued the party. We stopped and had our first beer of the day and then went for a long drive that took us through Sherwood Forest and ended at Fiona and Vanessa‟s parents house. This time it was Vanessa‟s turn to visit her

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parents. The question kept running through my mind: how long should I stay here? The very fact that that question weighed on my mind meant that it represented some deeper conflict within myself that I needed to resolve. I felt as if her parents were hinting at this very question that Fiona was avoiding, and that made me resolve right then and there to declare, without any further vacillation, and a certain degree of relief, that I planned on leaving tomorrow. Even though that wasn‟t quite true. I‟d spoken too quickly and without giving it much thought, because I felt that I had to. But I, in fact, didn‟t have any plan for what I was going to do next. I was just living day to day. However, once I‟d said it, the declaration seemed to take on a life of its own. When I saw a look of what seemed like satisfaction on my host‟s face, I knew that I would have to carry through on my words. I could have been wrong, but that‟s what I thought I read in my host‟s expression at the time. We didn‟t stay very long. Just long enough to be polite. We finished up our tea and swallowed the last of our cake and headed back to Nottingham. I was feeling a bit upset. I was tired and anxious. I felt a certain obligation to my hosts, who seemed to want to engage me in their conversations, when all I really wanted to do was be silent for a while. I had to struggle to get myself to respond to their questions. “Have you heard of Robin Hood? If you‟ve heard of him, then you must have heard of Sherwood Forest.” My hosts were trying to be good hosts, giving me considerable attention, and trying to entertain me with stories from their local history. “Of course I‟ve heard of Robin Hood,” I said. Not wanting my hosts to think that I was ignorant of English

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history. “And I‟ve heard of Sherwood Forest. Wasn‟t the forest Robin Hood‟s hideout from the wicked Sheriff of Nottingham?” Then my hosts laughed and said: “So now you‟ve seen it for yourself. There it is, Sherwood Forest!” “But where is it?” “It‟s all around us! On both sides. The road runs right through the middle of the forest!” I looked at the scene passing by outside our windows. It was a scene of fields with an occasional grove of trees. “Are you sure this is Sherwood Forest?” I asked. “This is Sherwood.” “But I don‟t see how Robin Hood could have hid out in this countryside. He would have needed thick forest cover.” “That‟s right. But nowadays all that‟s left of the original forest is the name. The real forest was cut down a long time ago and turned into cultivated fields and this road was built through here.” “What a terrible loss! There‟s hardly a trace of Robin Hood and his band‟s old hideout. It‟s a good thing that he doesn‟t need to hide out here today. There would be no place for him to hide. He would easily be caught and thrown in jail. He would have to take on some other line of work, not necessarily to his liking. Maybe going in to entertainment, become a musician or a movie star. In any case, without the forest he wouldn‟t have much chance as an outlaw and protector of the people.” I mostly chattered on for the benefit of my hosts, not wanting to offend them in any way, despite my mood that favored silence. While my words said one thing, my mind was really miles away from the car and the remnants

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of the forest and the road we were traveling at the moment. We soon arrived back in town and they drove me back to Fiona‟s place, and I said goodbye to my new friends. I was glad to have some time to myself for a while in Fiona‟s quiet house. She was liable to return any time now, and then we would probably go out again for food and drinks, as planned. I was more than happy to have some real rest now after the long night out on the town. I sat on the floor and put some music on that reminded me of past times. The music seemed to perfectly fit my mood and thoughts. After a time my reverie was interrupted by the sound of a key being turned in the lock on the door. Fiona was back, with her moodiness. It was much worse than it had been before her trip to Liverpool. What had happened there? She was unable to conceal just how unhappy she was. The look on her face and the nervous manner in which she shuffled things about the room made it clear that things were very bad with this friend in front of me. I couldn‟t help but feel that her unhappiness had something to do with me. “Fiona, is something wrong?” I said as calmly as I could, although the words seem to catch in my throat, in anticipation that I might not like what I was about to hear. “What? Is everything alright? I guess so…” Fiona answered me, although everything about her manner and actions seemed to suggest the opposite. “I need to tell you something,” I began to slowly report my latest news. She paused to listen more carefully now, expecting that I probably had something important to say to her.

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“The key you gave me yesterday. I seem to have lost it while I was out in the town last night.” “What? Then how did you get in?” “Your sister had a spare key that she gave me.” She started to pace around in a kind of nervous, angry agitation. (I didn‟t think that she would be so upset.) Suddenly she went over to the music player and shut it off and then retreated to the other side of the room to nurse her anger. “I left you here alone in the house and you lost my key? “I‟m sorry. Really. I don‟t know how it happened. It must have fallen out of my pocket. But I‟ll pay for a replacement.” “No, no…I‟m just thinking that it‟s time that you should go.” “Fiona? What are you saying?” I asked in shock, although I had heard her quite clearly. I just didn‟t want to believe it. “I said that I think that it‟s time for you to leave my house…” She repeated in a barely audible voice. The room was very quiet. Her face took on a stricken expression, as if she had done something she immediately regretted. And she seemed to be expecting some sort of punishment. She was twenty eight years old, but at the moment she appeared to me like a frightened little girl. I could feel a pain passing up through my stomach and pressing at my throat. Her words had wounded me deeply. It seemed like they had come out of nowhere and I needed some time to collect myself. I was quite upset, and the thoughts whirled around in my head in a sudden con-

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fusion. I still somehow wanted to believe that she hadn‟t uttered the words she had said. “Fiona, I hope that you understand what you‟re saying to me…” Instead of answering me in words, she just nodded her head, making it utterly clear to me. “Just so you know that this means the end of our friendship. I won‟t be back in your life ever again. So long as you understand that.” She continued to sit there in total silence, but I could see that her anger was turning into some kind of fear of the consequences of her action. Or was it just pain for what had happened? While I was trying in my hurt and humiliation to maintain some degree of self-control and not to say anything wild or foolish. “It‟s all right, Fiona. I‟ll be going shortly. But I think you owe it to me to tell me the truth. Why you‟re treating me this way. A couple of months ago you sent me a very sweet letter urging me to come visit. Or am I wrong?” “That‟s right. I invited you because I wanted you to come.” She found the strength to continue in a quiet, calm voice, And then just a few days ago, I called you from Amsterdam to be sure that you were serious about your invitation and to make sure that you knew when I would be arriving. And I again thought that you sounded happy to have me coming to visit.” “Because I really did want you to come!” “I answered your invitation and I came. But you‟ve been avoiding me ever since I arrived, as if I were some monster. And now you‟re telling me it‟s time for me to leave your house. Yes, I‟ll do that. I‟ll go. But don‟t go

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telling me that this is all because I lost a key. I won‟t swallow that! Nobody would! Have done something to offend you?” She fixed her gaze on me, and with a grimace she gathered the strength to get this off her chest. “He told me that I had to kick you out of my house.” “He? Who is that?” “My friend. When you called me from the train station in Nottingham, I called him right away and told him about your coming. He told me not to take you to my house. He didn‟t want to have to imagine me alone with you, another man, in my house.” “So that‟s what this is all about? Why didn‟t you say something sooner? I would have left that very same day. But instead you convinced me to stay. At least I thought that‟s what you wanted. Or am I wrong again?” “I told you to stay because I really wanted you to stay. And I thought that his anger with me would pass! But yesterday when he learned that you were still here at my house he got real mad at me and he said: „Either kick him out of your house or don‟t bother calling me again!‟ “ “And you did as he said when you came home and showed me the door. The lost key just served to help you get your nerve up to do it!” Fiona just nodded her head. There wasn‟t anything left to say. The whole picture was clear now. “Fiona, Fiona. You shouldn‟t invite someone from far away and then tell them that they shouldn‟t have come, unless you give them a very good reason. You can‟t play games with people like that. You shouldn‟t have invited me here.”

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“I invited you because I really did want you to come. I swear it‟s the truth. I wanted you to be here. I never meant to play games with you! Believe me!” I felt as if she really was crying in her heart, but the tears had long ago dried up. “What did you expect? Here I am, after having traveled all this way at your invitation. And then you tell me to leave because your friend told you to do that. You can‟t let your friend tell you what you should or shouldn‟t do in your own house! And who is he to do that? To tell you what you should do. He‟s not one of your family, your brother or sister or father.” “But I don‟t know what it is I really want. Do you understand? That‟s my real problem. I don‟t know what I want! I wanted you to come and be here with me. I‟ve thought about that plenty of times… and my parents tell me that… there‟s no future with this guy. But I can‟t get myself to let go of him. Honestly, I don‟t know what I want! I don‟t know what to do with my life.” “Then, you do have a real problem, Fiona. I‟ll be going now. And I won‟t be back. You won‟t be seeing me again. But that won‟t solve your problem. You‟ll still be stuck with that. You can get rid of me, but not yourself! And I‟m not your problem!” “I know. I know that! You‟re right about all of it. And what you said earlier. But… I can‟t. I don‟t have the will or the determination. I can‟t make up my mind about what I want in life. I‟m sorry that it‟s turned out this way. I never meant to hurt you.” “Good bye, Fiona!” “Wait… Listen… You don‟t have to go just yet! Stay at least until tomorrow. You can sleep here this evening… With a sad look on her face she tried to salvage

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some shred of our former friendship. But it was too late. A deep, unbridgeable gulf had opened up between us. We were just a few steps apart, but so very far away from each other in our feelings. “No, I can‟t stay, not another hour longer! I feel that I have to go…” “Where will you go at this hour? You have every right to be mad at me! But if you won‟t stay here with me, then stay at my sister‟s house or at one of her friend‟s houses. They have the room and they won‟t mind, even if you stay several more days.” “They were kind to me and I had a good time with them. Let them know I said thanks for everything and goodbye to them, and to your parents. Thank you for the concern, but really I should go.” “Will you at least let me take you to the hotel where you stayed your first night here?” “I had planned on staying a few more days, but now I don‟t know, whether it really would like to spend any more time in this town. Most likely I‟ll catch a train to London or some other town.” “Then will you let me take you to the station?” “No, thanks, I prefer to walk.” “But you have a lot of baggage. It‟s heavy.” “I‟ll walk. I really like to walk, you know that!” “Then take something to make a sandwich from the fridge.” “I‟m not hungry, Fiona. I‟ve had plenty to eat.” “Then take something for later! You‟ll get hungry on the train. There‟s some lunch meat, and I don‟t eat meat. I‟ll have to throw it out.”

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“Throw it out to the dogs. They‟ll probably eat it. You‟ve done enough for me, Fiona. You‟ve hurt me too much…” “I really am sorry about that. I didn‟t want this to happen!” “Good bye. I wish you well in life. I hope you figure out what you want in life some day.” I was harsher with her than I wanted to be. I could see her pain, but my own hurt was even deeper. So what could I do? I was not selfless enough to go to her. My pride was injured, and I was too filled with my own pain to offer any solace to her. I wasn‟t sure what I felt for her at the moment. I knew that she never meant to hurt me, but that didn‟t excuse what she had done. The hurt was more than I could endure. I just wanted to get away. I couldn‟t see how there was any place for me in her life. Not even as the most ordinary friend. “But it‟s so late now…” She made one more effort to hold me. Whether I meant to cause further drama between us or not, I couldn‟t seem to control my own emotions well enough to keep myself from provoking her a bit more at this moment of our parting. “Don‟t worry about me. I‟ll find my way in the dark just fine. Don‟t blame yourself! There‟s nothing to be done about it. I should have known enough to leave that first day. Maybe I‟m the one to blame, and that‟s why I should be going. Ours was just one of those chance acquaintances in life. We just need to let it go. I should have known better. “I‟m really sorry about all of this! It shouldn‟t have happened… I didn‟t expect it to. (Now her eyes were

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filled with tears and her face showed all of her pain). Are you sure that you won‟t stay just one more night?” “Do you want me to sleep with you?” “No.” Finally after so much time, she gave me an embarrassed little smile. “I was thinking more that you would stay in the room where you‟ve been staying until now.” “You see, he is far away, but you still remain faithful to him. That means that you really are attached to him. You only called me to relieve some of your loneliness. You really don‟t want to be alone in your house. I don‟t know why he won‟t come live here with you. And you simply can‟t accept that you invited me for that reason. Maybe you really did hope that I would stay for a while, but now that I‟m here you don‟t know what to choose. You‟re caught. Whether you like it or not, you have to choose. There is me, younger, and probably better looking as a result, and there is your older and not so good looking friend. But as an older, more mature man, he can offer you more safety and security than I can in your unsure life. It doesn‟t matter if I stay here in someone else‟s house or some nearby place, we wouldn‟t be able to be ordinary friends, because he wouldn‟t approve of that. And you don‟t have the will to go against him. You say yourself that you don‟t know what you want. Really you don‟t know what you want more, him or me! I‟ll have to leave sooner or later, better that I do it now. You‟ll be able to make up your mind easier when I‟m gone. I‟m tired of this. So good bye!” I was sorry to be leaving her here by herself, to suffer. I was sorry that I had to go, but I didn‟t know what else to do. I was confronted all of the sudden by an unpleasant situation that had to be resolved.

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Fiona had always been the fairest of girls, tall and slim, with creamy clear, smooth skin, all aglow. But not now, she was like a crumpled and cast off piece of paper. How quickly beauty can fade when fate goes against a person. It was as if she had been turned into some waxen figure in a museum. The life had bled out of her, leaving her looking like a mere figurine of a real human being, a figure that could melt away in the warm sun. Fiona‟s pain and powerlessness shuddered visibly through her body. Her spirit hung precariously on the edge of a deep precipice. She was truly in mortal danger, with no idea what to do next, or how to ease her pain. I was not much better off myself. It would take every ounce of my strength to get myself to step out into the dark, cold night and the unknown that would face me there. But I knew that I must, because remaining in Fiona‟s home would only invite further suffering. My banishment from Fiona‟s house was an act that felt to me like the banishment of Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden, and as final. We, like them, would both suffer as a result. Nothing could change that, neither her pleas or arguments, nor anything else she might do. The proof of that was written all over her suffering face. The pain, the humiliation, and the injury that had been inflicted were too much to be easily undone. It could now only be endured. I expected the house around me to come crashing down at any moment and bury me. We were like a pair of cold, tired, hungry birds with broken wings, whose need was beyond their means. A storm was raging around us, but we were helpless to save ourselves. The dark, cold night held only fear and suffering and the unknown. Our salvation, our healing would have to come, if it would, in some separate future, in a time yet to come.

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Out of options, I turned my back on her and the heavy, painful burden she had become, and walked out of the house, to make my way across the town to the train station. With each step I took my path was lit by new lights coming on in houses and along the streets, as darkness fell. A light fog slowly turned the autumn night darker still. I passed by the Scotsman‟s shop, but I couldn‟t bring myself to go in and say another goodbye, although it wouldn‟t seem to involve any pain. Later, as I approached the hotel I realized that part of me had grown attached to the town in the few days I had been here. I felt as if I‟d known this place and its people far longer, and that made this final parting all the harder to endure. The warm, bright hotel room was a solace from the cold, dark, misty night. I took a pleasingly warm shower and climbed into bed. But there was no way to cleanse my mind of the troubled thoughts that swirled around in my head. Sleep eluded me until far into the night. Thankfully when I did finally drift off I was not plagued by the bad dreams that I had feared might come with sleep. All the same, I awoke in the same painful emotional state of the day before. The gnawing pain in my gut and the bitter taste in my mouth were proof enough that there would be no quick and easy overnight mending of my injured spirit. Once I‟d had a chance to wash my face and wipe the sleepiness from my eyes, I made my way to the hotel restaurant to get full value from the bed and breakfast I had paid for. The kind waitress, the same woman who had greeted me at the reception desk the evening before and who also tended to the rooms and, no doubt, any number of other chores, served me a sumptuous meal. She also blessed me with a sweet smile that, under any other cir-

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cumstances, would have raised my spirits, but there was no escape from the bitter, painful memories of yesterday. Just as I was preparing to eat my breakfast a slight shadow appeared at the edge of my vision. Someone else was present. I lifted my eyes and saw him. “Good morning. May I join you?” “Yes, please, if you‟d like.” There were free seats around us, but I didn‟t want to appear unwelcoming… “My name is Tom…” He remained standing as he introduced himself. My strange guest sat down and immediately began to launch into a monologue that might be leading to a dialogue between fellow travelers. A quick glance around told me that there were plenty of free tables, so he really had wanted company for breakfast. I thought of the Scotsman or some Irishman. From past experience I didn‟t expect an Englishman to be quite so bold. They tended to be reserved in public. But I would be proven wrong, as I had in the past and will likely be in the future, when it comes to stereotyping those I meet. “You know, people think I‟m probably a foreigner, on account of my looks…” I studied him carefully and noticed that he was a bit shorter than average and had a slightly tanned look to his face and a generally darker complexion than the local people. “You‟re right. I would have said that you were probably Spanish, Portuguese or maybe Italian.” I said, although I actually didn‟t see anything particularly unEnglish about his face. “But I am English…” Tom continued. “So what brought you to Nottingham?”

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“I‟m from Manchester. I came here yesterday to watch the soccer match at the stadium.” Tom talked about his stay in the city and his experience at the game… Why was he telling me all this, when I never asked to hear about it? But I didn‟t want to appear rude, and I wanted to engage in some sort of conversation that would take my mind off my dark thoughts and bitter, angry feelings from the previous day. As much as I tried though, I couldn‟t get my mind off her and what had happened. I felt guilty, somehow, that there were things I could have or should have said, that I had exaggerated things, and that I had been too hard on her. I should have been more careful. She was more fragile than I had treated her. I imagined her as a delicate, beautiful porcelain vessel that required great care to avoid any damage or injury. I was convinced that I had been too harsh with her. I hadn‟t made any effort to understand her side of things, nor to reconcile things. Was it too late to mend things between us? It was almost ten o‟clock. She would be leaving for work soon, I said to myself. How hard it must have been for her alone in her bed last night. She must have thought that I left the city, as I‟d said I would. But what if I were to show up and see her one more time? How would she react to that? Would she regret that we parted the way we had? Maybe she would appreciate it if I came back. Maybe I should wait and see her this evening… What if it was just a repeat of the bitter, painful time we had yesterday? I felt completely torn. I didn‟t want to leave things as they were, but I also didn‟t want to risk adding more misery on to what I already felt.

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“Sorry, what did you say?” I asked, my mind having wandered far from the story Tom had been telling me. “I asked if you were also here for the game.” “No, I came a few days ago.” “Are you here on business then?” The question was simple enough, why was I here, what was I doing here…? A few days ago I thought I knew, but now I wasn‟t so sure. It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn‟t really been honest with myself about it. I hadn‟t admitted to myself the real reason for my visit. “I came here as a tourist… I wanted to see the city. I‟d heard enough about it that I wanted to see it for myself. But today I‟ll be leaving, right after breakfast.” Just as the train had brought me here, it returned me to the coast and the shore of the sea from whence I had come, and the distance brought me a measure of peace of mind. The bright light of day and the bustling crowds somehow managed to distract me from the dark thoughts that had plagued me alone in the dark of night. It was at night that the fresh wounds would open and the pain would become almost unbearable. I had to escape somehow from the darkness and the loneliness. *** There was only one other passenger seated with me on the long bench. He was sorting through his pack, as if this were the most interesting thing he could be doing. He was, like myself, traveling on his own. After a time it occurred to me that we had been on the same boat, and now we had boarded the same train. So it only seemed natural at some point that we, as solo fellow travelers, should strike up a

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conversation. It would help to pass the time, and, in my case, it might distract me from some of my pain. “Excuse me, would you happen to know when we will be arriving in Amsterdam?” He was the first to ask, which initiated our conversation. During the next several hours Jim and I had a chance to get fairly well acquainted. He was slightly younger than myself at 26. He was not only from another continent, but from the most distant end of it, California. “I work at the airport… But I don‟t have anything to do with flying. I work in a bar at the airport…” At first I thought he must be one of the million Americans who fly to Europe every year in search of the spiritual or familial roots of their ancestors. But I soon learned that he was different. “My girl friend has been living in England for some time now. I‟ve been visiting her. But it occurred to me that it would be easy to go visit the continent. It‟s so close by.” “So you decided to explore Europe before returning home…” “No, not really. I just wanted to see a bit of Amsterdam for a day or two before I have to head back to London and catch my plane home. I have to be back at work!” Centuries ago the people of the region began building dikes along the Amstel River (along with many others). The largest commercial center in the Low Countries is located on the river. In order to reduce the damage from seasonal flooding the people of Amsterdam also began to create a vast system of canals that has become a highly effective way to transport goods to and from the port and around the city. One sees ships laden with logs and furs arriving from the Baltic region and others that bring wine and salt from the South of Europe. Other ships

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bring raw materials and goods such as diamonds from as far away as Africa and Asia. Businesses of all sorts flourish alongside the canals, which has allowed a large population to flourish in the surrounding communities. The prosperity of the region has attracted a large immigrant population. Many thousands of Indonesians and Surinamese have come here to make a better life for themselves in the land of their former colonial rulers. It is one way for them to reap the rewards for the colonial exploitation of their homeland‟s tropical resources. Everyone is here to improve their lives, including foreign workers from Turkey, Greece, Morocco, Spain, Italy, America, China and Japan, and many other lands too numerous to name. Some stay for a lifetime, others are here for only a day or two to trade in diamonds or flowers or various other industrial or agricultural products. There are those who stay for many years and then return home to live out their lives on the savings from those years. Others return home after only a brief time, finding life in a foreign land too difficult. Others still find it hard to earn enough to return home. Some of the girls end up as prostitutes in the red light district. Some of the young men can be seen peddling small wares from stalls on the streets. Each person has his or her own individual fate and fortune. With all of its charms and defects, Amsterdam is a destination for millions of people from the four corners of the earth, hungry for a better life and fate. They all come with their various dreams and longings. “And you, Jim, what is it you want to do in Amsterdam?” Whether out of sincerity, or maybe naiveté, or simply a desire to be open with me… Who knows? It could have been for all of the above. Jim answered me

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spontaneously, without forethought, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, which, for all I knew, might be the case where he came from. “In England I heard that they don‟t have strict drug laws in Amsterdam. You can get stoned without any hassles. Is that true?” Jim assumed that I knew all about the subject, since I‟d traveled the continent and been in Amsterdam in the past. He seemed to want a straight answer to his question. “Yes. That‟s true, Jim. You can legally buy and use certain drugs in some of Amsterdam‟s cafes. Not the hard drugs, but even those are readily available on the streets.” Confirmation that the information he‟d gotten was correct seemed to give Jim genuine satisfaction. A broad smile spread across his face. “Do you know Amsterdam very well?” “Yes, sure. I‟ve been there many times. I visit whenever I can… I bragged to the new American visitor about Europe‟s sin city, not wanting to be less than a perfect host. “Are the prices good?” Jim continued, obviously more interested in this subject than any other. “Well, you know…” I tried to answer him about something that I really didn‟t know much at all, but I felt as if I couldn‟t disappoint him, since I‟d set myself up as such an expert in his eyes on life in the sin city of my continent. It didn‟t help matters that the city, with all its temptations, was about to be the next station on my way in life, and at a time when I was looking for escape from painful memories of the recent past. No matter how I tried, my thoughts kept returning to those awful moments.

Chapter Three The sin capital of Europe could readily corrupt the more open-minded visitor, and it had its way of corrupting even the more resolute morally upstanding visitor. The line between harmless fun and the morally degenerate was very fine there. The open-minded visitor could easily end up straying onto one of the streets of the red light district. Or upon sitting down at some outdoor cafĂŠ to order a local Amstel or Heineken beer, he was liable to see the ash remains of a marijuana cigarette on his table. I must confess that I was always open to the new experiences that travel afforded, in whatever city or country I found myself, including Amsterdam. I was willing to explore new places and to try new things and to take the risk that sometimes that would not always lead to the most pleasant experiences. A few days before my departure for England I wanted to roam the dim streets of Amsterdam. (Something I had done many times in the past.) I made my way from the central train station across the Damrak Harbor to the southern part of the city, as night descended and the crowds thinned to a few passersby. I actually welcomed the calm, quiet solitude of evening in downtown Amsterdam. With the end of the working day the vast majority of the cityâ&#x20AC;&#x;s inhabitants would crowd on to trains or buses or into their private cars or take up their bicycles for the ride home. They would leave the city to those with evening trades to ply, the street walkers, prostitutes, the homeless,

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and the tourists who were eager to enjoy the sin city‟s nightlife. I considered myself among that latter group, one of those travelers who roamed the city‟s streets in search of new experience, amusement or distraction. I considered myself among the more elite of the city‟s night visitors, and as such, I expected to be courted and served by the local merchants. In keeping with what I considered my special status, I made my way toward the Krasnopolski Hotel. Out of the gloom there emerged an unshaven face with a wild shaggy mane of hair that had not seen a pair of scissors for a long time. His appearance could have suggested a student or possibly even a fellow tourist, but that didn‟t fit his origin… “Hello there!” He called to me, inviting me to take part in one of those typical little dramas that played themselves out on the evening streets of Amsterdam. The fellow in front of me didn‟t seem particularly odd, and it wouldn‟t be the first time I had struck up a conversation with someone on a strange street or in some unfamiliar town. People would stop me all the time, begging for spare change or “something to buy a haircut with” or ask directions or ask for some thing else needed in life. This particular stranger struck me more as a troubled foreigner. His greeting in English and his appearance reminded me more of someone from the southern coasts of Europe instead of a Dutchman of the lighter skinned northern branch of peoples. And I wasn‟t far off… “I am Paolo, from Brazil. And you? What is your name? ... Where are you from? ... (It was a strange entrance, my new “friend” made, with all of his rapid-fire questions for me.)

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“I‟m from southern Europe, Italy,” I murmured reluctantly. “An Italian? Really? I really like the Italians! I have a lot of friends in Italy. And what part of Italy are you from?” “You‟ve been to Italy? I‟m from the south…” “No, I‟ve never been there. Not yet! But I know a lot of Italians, here in Amsterdam…” Paolo went on in a casual, friendly manner, while never really getting to the point, the real reason for stopping me on this evening on this dim Amsterdam street. But I didn‟t have to wait very long before I caught on. “Listen, pal… You want some drugs? I‟ve got some great stuff. Quality goods!” Paolo seemed to forget to pour on the personal charm as he launched into his sales pitch. It was obvious that he was just one more street vendor peddling his illicit wares to anyone he could get to listen. I‟d brushed them aside like so many annoying buzzing flies in the past on these same streets. I‟d had my first glimpse of the destructive power of the products such people sold on a visit to my friend Fabrizio in a small provincial town in Tuscany. You could see that the druggies, who couldn‟t get enough of their favorite weed, were on a downward path that was leading them to hell. Groups of young people spent their time prowling the streets in their cars, in search of a little excitement, to relieve the boredom of their daily lives. Their choice most often was to score a bag of marijuana and then seek out some remote alley, away from the prying eyes of the police or their families, and get high on the illicit drug. I‟d asked Fabrizio how this was possible:

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“Where do they buy it?” “Everybody knows who sells it.” “Do their families know about their smoking the weed?” “No, they don‟t.” “And… if they get caught at it, what happens then? “If they get caught, then they have some big problems… Their parents might throw them out of the house! It can cause all sorts of problems. I‟ve seen some marriages break up. They can get into real trouble with the police as well.” I‟d seen enough of the bleary eyed, spaced out young people, high on marijuana or some other drug, aimlessly roaming the streets, going nowhere, to have decided long ago that I didn‟t want to have anything to do with their world. So I knew with certainty what my answer to Paolo‟s question was going to be: “No thanks. I don‟t want any.” “Why not, man? I‟ll let you try some, no charge. Just a sample to see what you think…” Paolo persisted, seeming a bit surprised at my response. “No thanks, I said.” I shouldn‟t have even said that much. I should have just been on my way without another word. But I didn‟t realize that until it was too late. “Come on, man. How can you refuse a free sample,” Paolo argued. Then he pulled out a small paper packet that he proceeded to unwrap until he finally produced a small quantity of some white powdered substance. It was at that moment, as he unfolded the piece of paper, that I should have walked away. I could have escaped his grasp, if I had left right then. But my curiosity proved my downfall. He urged me to stay, and I did!

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Having made the mistake I would now have to pay for it. Paolo dipped the finger nail of his little finger into the white powder and lifted it to my nose before I knew what was happening. I tried to pull myself away, but he already held the powder directly under my nose. “Don‟t worry. Just take a whiff of this… Did you get some? How did it feel?” “I don‟t know… I didn‟t sniff any.” “What do you mean, you didn‟t sniff it? Go ahead, try again. There‟s still some on my finger...” I glanced down at Paolo‟s finger, mere inches away. It still had a dusting of the white powder on it. He seemed to think it was no big thing, offering samples like that, on the street. What in the hell was I doing? I couldn‟t believe that I‟d been so naïve as to let myself be taken in by one of these street dealers of drugs. How could I have been so stupid as to let him draw me into a conversation, and now this, wanting me to snuff some of his drug? My brain started to work in high gear now. This guy was real slick. He had learned how to get the attention of passersby and draw them in to sample and then maybe buy his illegal wares. I had obviously let my guard down and he had taken advantage of that fact. Something he apparently was very good at doing. Now I made my best effort to get away from him, but… “No, wait, please… You‟ve got to buy something from me now! After handing out a free sample to you, how can I face my boss? He‟ll kill me when he finds out that I didn‟t make the sale.” Paolo‟s voice was filled with despair as he pleaded his case to me. It worked on me. I thought about the fact that he was one of the lost souls who had come from far away in search of a better life and

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had ended up on the streets of Amsterdam trying just to survive by peddling drugs. Who was the victim here, him or me? A man without a home and family, roaming the streets, trying to survive anyway he could, or me? I wasn‟t afraid of him. I was more afraid of the dark night that enveloped us both. The dark night in which he roamed in desperate search of a living, and in which he had met me this evening. Terrible things happened in that dark and it was only in the morning that the returning light revealed the truth of it. How many times had I heard on the radio or read in a newspaper of a body being found floating in one of the canals, or on this or that street corner or behind a building a body was found… I wanted to escape, to get as far away from Paolo as I could. He didn‟t pose any immediate threat to me, but the dark night in which he operated was a danger to me, all the same. I wanted to flee to some lighted place. I looked around for some evidence of fellow human beings. I tried to muster the courage to flee from the darkness that was clutching at me. Paolo could see the fear in my eyes. He tried to offer me some kind of reassurance. “Don‟t get scared. I won‟t do anything to you. But if you could just pay me for the little sample I offered you…” But I really wasn‟t afraid of Paolo. He didn‟t look crazed or vicious or hostile to me. His face just spoke of hard times and a hard life. He wasn‟t threatening. He was more a victim of fate, something that we are all subject to and that no one can control. There, in Paolo‟s place, but for fortune, could go you or me. It could happen any time to any one of us. I looked all around me, knowing that danger could be lurking anywhere. I wanted to be ready for anything. I

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was trying to think of how to extricate myself from the situation. “Fine,” I said. “How much do you want for it?” I had decided that I should just play this game out to the end. This seemed like the best course of action, the easiest way to mollify Paolo and get out of this tense situation. “It‟ll cost you 150 guilders!” “150 guilders? I don‟t have that kind of money!” “So… how much do you have?” “A lot less than that…” “Fine… Listen… Just pay me for the amount I gave you to snuff… That‟ll be 50 guilders!” “I‟m not sure I even have that much!” I felt that I had to lie. I didn‟t want him to know how much money I was carrying in the pouch that hung from my neck down onto my chest. I was carrying Italian lira, German marks, Dutch guilders and British pounds in that pouch. The total value of all of it might be two or three thousand guilders, maybe more. It was a substantial sum. That was the real source of my fear. If Paolo knew that I had so much money, then he certainly would put the squeeze on me. He might get really nasty. Even the most placid and reasonable of people can sometimes lose it if they are too tempted. It just makes sense sometimes to throw a dog a bone if you want to shut him up, I thought to myself. I decided that I would just give him the 50 guilders and be done with it. Even though I knew damn well that I hadn‟t even snuffed his white powdered drug, there was no point arguing with him if he wanted to claim that I had and that, as a result, I owed him for it. This seemed like the easiest way to just get rid of him and the trouble he was causing

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me. I didn‟t like the idea of paying him off, in fact, giving him something for nothing. But it wasn‟t going to prove that easy. All of my money was in the pouch that hung from my neck. How was I going to extract 50 guilders without exposing the fact that there was a lot more than that in the pouch? That fact had me scared. “Don‟t look so scared… I won‟t take your money. Just show me what you have.” Paolo spoke in a calm, quiet voice, but his words hurled me into a wild raging sea of conflicting emotions. “I‟ve spent just about all I had on my latest trip…” I was afraid that he might leave me without a cent to my name, but it scared me even more to think what he might do if he learned just how much money I really was carrying on me. I could imagine myself becoming one more body with a slit throat dumped in a back alley or canal of Amsterdam. I was feeling caught in a trap. I decided to play my last card, to pull out all of the money in my pockets and see what it amounted to. I knew that I had a lot of small change from my travels that no bank would be willing to exchange. I had no idea what all of those small coins would amount to, but I dug down into my pockets and pulled out all that I had. In hopes that I might just divert Paolo‟s attention from my real stash of substantial cash. “This is all I have,” I said, as I showed him the extent of the contents of my pockets. “Fine… Fine… Let‟s see what it all adds up to…” I had managed to divert Paolo‟s attention to the spare change in my hand. “There‟s some Italian lira, Spanish pesos, Belgian francs, German marks, Dutch guilders… It‟s all I have…

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Really!” I lied again, trying to sound as sincere as possible and unhappy for myself that that was all I had to give him. “This stuff… all these coins… what‟s it all worth?” Paolo asked, obviously unsure of what I had, as he struggled to count it all. “This is lira, and these are pesos, which you can convert into guilders…” I tried to make it sound like there was something of some value to Paolo here. And to my relief he seemed to swallow it. He appeared to be genuinely happy with what I had offered, and he seized it readily. “Okay… We‟ve got a deal! Here, go ahead… You can have this.” And he handed me the packet filled with the white powder. “Good night to you. See you around!” I stood there, rather stunned at the turn of events, as I watched Paolo walk off in to the dark. I was momentarily at a loss. I didn‟t know what to think, but I could feel a release of the tension that had built up in me. Only moments before I had feared that Paolo might be transformed into a raging beast who would tear me limb from limb. But now I knew that he was just one more of the unlucky people who lived on the dark side of Amsterdam. So all of my anger turn inward, I only blamed myself for being so naïve and gullible, to let myself be taken in so easily. I still held the white paper packet in my hand. I studied it. Then I sniffed at it. What should I do with it? Was it really some drug like those I‟d seen on TV? Then again, could Paolo have just given me something that looked like a drug in order to fool me? I had no way of knowing. Instead of worrying about that, I should be trying to decide what to do with it. It seemed like I was inviting trouble by my actions lately. I also had to make some

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changes in that regard. For the moment though, I realized that I had better get out of there. Get as far away from this place as I could get. I started running in the direction of the central train station. As I hurried along I encountered other drug dealers who called out “Coca-coca!” to me, referring to the cocaine they were selling. But they would lose interest in me as soon as they saw they I didn‟t look their way or slow my pace. I had enough sense at least to do that now. I thought of the station as some kind of refuge in this dangerous environment. As the building loomed up out of the dark in front of me I began to relax, only to discover as I drew nearer that the building was closed. Two policemen stood at the doors, asking questions of anyone who approached them. I grew frightened as it occurred to me that they might decide to search me, in which case they would find the white packet. How could I ever convince them that I was the victim of a drug dealer instead of being one of them? Why should I end up paying for the crimes of others? All of this ran through my mind as I approached the doors and made every effort to conceal my fear. The policemen seemed to only be letting the occasional traveler on a night train enter the building. Those without tickets were told that they had to go purchase one at the sales window before they could come in. Everyone else was being turned away, sent back out into the uninviting dark night beyond the station. Several homeless people hovered near the entrance without any hope of ever enjoying the warmth and light within. “No one is allowed in the station except those with tickets for the 1:15 train for Rotterdam,” announced the policeman.

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“That is where I am going!” I said, and once I had shown them my train pass, they let me into the station. I didn‟t really care where the train was going. I had just sought the shelter of a warm, bright room. I arrived at the assigned track just as the train for Rotterdam was getting ready to pull out of the station. The train car that I entered was nearly empty. Who traveled at this late hour? There were only four or five others, talking loudly and joking among themselves. The other cars had only two or three people in them as well. But it was bright and warm inside. I basked in the warmth of the car, as if I were on some pleasant Mediterranean beach. My body relaxed, and I felt a sense of calm well-being. All of the fear and anxiety of earlier that evening was gone now. I was thoroughly relieved of it all. I don‟t know what had happened to me that evening out on the street, but whatever it was, I had survived it, and I was the wiser for it. All the same, I realized that all of my extensive schooling in mathematics, physics, chemistry and the like, had not really prepared me for life in the real world. There was still so much that I knew nothing about. And one of those things was the secret of the little packet of white powder in my pocket. Would there really be any harm in my trying it? Just to see what it was that others found so appealing about it. „Go on, try it. It is just one of those things in life that you have yet to learn about. Maybe there is some hidden secret world that it unlocks for you. One that you have had no knowledge of so far,‟ I said to myself as I looked furtively about me to see if my fellow passengers were watching me. I felt for the little package in my pocket. Should I try it? Did I know enough about how to use it? Maybe not.

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But my fingers had already folded around the small package without my realizing it. I wanted the experience. But were all new experiences worth the trying? Perhaps not, but this one had me curious. I was being enticed by its siren call, as if I were one of those sailors drawn to what they thought was an inviting shore in the old myth, only to have their ship founder on treacherous, rocky shoals. Or it seemed to be attracting me like some beautiful mushroom that hid a terrible poison inside. What was it? My mind went back and forth, round and round. I removed my hand from my pocket. I had to think this through. It seemed that manâ&#x20AC;&#x;s reach had always exceeded his grasp. We were always reaching for things or doing things without fully understanding the implications. People all around me in the 21st century were constantly seeking solace in substances like tobacco or alcohol, without ever considering what they were doing. At least in some past times there was some sense of the sacred, the mystical or the religious in the use of mind-altering substances. The ancients treated these things differently, with a higher consciousness that allowed them to derive real benefit from the experience. I wanted that experience. I wanted access to that secret knowledge they had once had. On the other hand, I seemed to sense that there were other ways to obtain such knowledge, whether through the study of psychology, astronomy or maybe astrology or other sciences of the occult. Drug use held obvious risks to the mind and the body. I had to admit to myself that I had seen plenty of evidence all around me of the consequences of drug abuse. That is why I had turned down all of the offers friends in Tuscany had made to try one or another drug in the past. And I had resisted all of the offers by drug dealers here on the streets of Amster-

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dam, where so many openly flaunted the law. I had always turned my back on them. I simply knew too much to want to be drawn into the casual use of these drugs. Now, however, I wondered, was it fate that had led me to have this package in my possession? „So why not try it now?‟ a voice was asking me in my head. But another voice was saying, „Who is that talking? Yes, who?‟ I asked myself as I looked all around me. „Obviously it is you yourself, or is it? Does the devil speak to us this way sometimes?...‟ What stupidity I was talking to myself now. There is no such thing as a devil who enters us that way. It‟s just part of my own mind, that has a certain attraction to these drugs that is talking to me. Part of me wants to know more about the world that I had visited this past evening. No, that wasn‟t true. I‟d been taken in, hustled by someone who had tried to dupe me. It was all just a chance encounter. An accident. I‟m not so naïve to think that everything that happens is meant to be and has some great significance to be read into it. Then again, Paolo hadn‟t really tried to deceive you. He‟d offered you something, and, unlike previous times in Tuscany and here when you‟d turned your back on such people, you‟d let him talk you into taking the drug from him. You‟d always refused such people in the past. Always! This evening you hadn‟t. Paolo called out and you had stopped to listen to him. You can‟t pretend that you hadn‟t been unconsciously drawn to what he was selling. Now you had it. You may as well go ahead and use it. No! Stop it! Sorry, but there isn‟t anyone else here. It‟s only you, talking to yourself. This is only yourself, trying to sort out what it is you really want in life, to live, to do, to be. Only you decide what you will do. If you

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can‟t deal with the pressure of it, why don‟t you just throw yourself under the train, end it all. Or would you rather just decide what it is you want to do. Now make up your mind, what‟s it going to be? The voice resounded in my head, and I couldn‟t believe that others didn‟t hear it. Was I going crazy? Or had I actually imbibed some of the drug and it was affecting my mind? When the train arrived in Rotterdam around three in the morning, I again felt a terrible need for the bright light. I feared the darkness. I decided to remain on the train, where it was so warm and bright. So I did. The train returned to Amsterdam, and then it turned around and headed back to Rotterdam, and I stayed on it. I don‟t know how many times I rode the train back and forth between the two cities. I just knew that I didn‟t want to leave the safety of the brightly lit train car. It was as if nothing was more important than that lighted space. And the morning at this time of year in this part of Europe would be late in coming. With the arrival of daylight I finally reentered the street, where I continued to roam aimlessly, still feeling the weight of the small, white packet of white powder in my pocket. It might have been less than a gram in weight, but it felt like a ton to me. And I had the most vivid image of how the unbearable weight of it would, any moment now, cause it to tear through my clothes and come tumbling out onto the street for all to see. I thought that everyone on the street was staring at me. Somehow they all knew my secret. I was at a total loss as to what to do next. Why was it that I kept carrying it around? I must have wanted to use

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it? Otherwise I would have dumped it in the trash long ago… I had to make up my mind. I entered a washroom. I stood in front of one of the sinks. I opened the packet. I don‟t know how much time passed. Ten… twenty minutes? I stood over the sink and struggled with my internal conflict over the white powder. The voice of experience or my own subconscious, or the two combined, perhaps, but something told me that I should refuse this offer to enter the world of the drug users. I summoned all of my strength and I succeeded! The foaming water carried the white powder with it down the drain to end up somewhere in the putrid waters of some section of the city‟s canals. That‟s where I believed it belonged. Just to be sure, I rinsed the washbasin a final time with a swipe of my hand. Then I washed my hands thoroughly with soap and water to remove all final traces of the drug. I felt such relief. I was free of the pressure, finally, completely rid of it.

Chapter Four The bitterness of my experience with the Brazilian drug dealer Paolo, an unsavory type found on the streets of big cities all over the world, was still fresh in my mind. The meeting of Jim brought it all back to me now. I was reminded of how alien the drug world was to outsiders like myself. It was an ugly world, inhabited by so many unlucky people like Paolo, who were victimizers as well as victims. After my encounter with Paolo I could see that all too well now, and so I tried not to simply dismiss such people, as if they were somehow less human than the rest of us. My first-hand experience with Paolo had made me wary, but less afraid of them somehow. In the past I might have simply dismissed Jim as one more pathetic loser to walk away from, but now I saw him as someone who couldn‟t hurt me if I didn‟t let him, and his drug use, if it hurt anyone, it hurt him. I could feel a bit sorry for such people, knowing that they were the victims of some tragic fate that others such as myself had somehow escaped. For whatever reasons, foolish curiosity, impulsiveness, a lack of willpower, they had fallen into a trap that others had managed to avoid. Now here was Jim, who was rather naïve and innocent. He was quite casual and open about his drug use. Although he was an obvious druggie, who assumed that others shared his enthusiasm for drugs, he wasn‟t a hardcore user like some, but just a smoker of weed. It meant that he wasn‟t as far gone as some. He could still function

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in the world of everyday people, but it was a tenuous normalcy. He and others like him could, at any given moment, plunge over the edge into hard drug use, into a nightmarish world from which there was no easy return. Or they might simply whither away until nothing remained but a hollow, discarded husk, like some dry yellow leaf that falls to the ground in autumn. Jim‟s innocence served to reassure me, and so I wasn‟t at all reluctant to talk with him. He assumed that we shared more than we did, that his world and mine were the same. I happened to know that wasn‟t true, but I felt as if I could meet him on some common ground that existed between us without having to necessarily leave my own or fall into his world. He was blithely unaware of my own enthusiasm for subjects like the history of the Roman Empire or the medieval or baroque periods in Europe. He probably would have thought that my interest in such things was a complete waste of time. Utterly pointless. His own sincerity and openness about what did interest him, made it all seem less threatening to me. If his drug use was a problem, it was his problem, not mine. And who was perfect? What did it mean to be perfect, anyway? Who was I to go around condemning the behavior of others? Did I really know so much about the difference between good and evil? There was always some gray area that was hard to discern, just as there seemed to be some fuzzy boundary between the dark of night and the light of day. So we conversed in a rather easy, relaxed manner. I treated him like I would any other normal person. It was a friendly conversation that lasted the whole length of our shared journey.

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We arrived in Amsterdam after dark, around seven in the evening. The city was already hidden behind a veil of gloom. Normal everyday people had long ago abandoned their workplaces and returned to their homes. Those few who remained on the streets were hurrying in order to reach the comfort and safety of their homes. The nighttime belonged to the homeless and to the street people who peddled illicit wares, and to those who had come here from all over the world to seek out those wares. Painted ladies, ranging from the palest white to a rich brown coffee color, displayed themselves ostentatiously in the storefronts of the red light district. “So what are your plans? Are you sticking around Amsterdam or do you plan to keep traveling?” asked Jim, most directly, after our much more general conversation. “That‟s a good question. But to be honest, Jim, I really don‟t have definite plans. I might stay around here for a few days and then go east and finally head south to Italy again. I‟m not sure though.” I wasn‟t really prepared to make up some answer, so I just told him the honest truth, without thinking. “If you decide to stay here in Amsterdam, why don‟t you join me for some beer later?” Jim said, and then he continued to lay out the full extent of his thinking. “You‟re familiar with Amsterdam, so you might know of a good bar, and maybe you can give me some advice about a hotel to stay at.” Did I want to spend more time with him? If I understood him correctly, he was a bit worried about making his way here in a strange city all by himself. He knew enough to know that there were hidden dangers here for the inexperienced visitor. The dark, foggy night was no time for a stranger to be roaming the streets alone.

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It would be easy enough for him to roam the streets of the city by day. I knew because I had experienced the city at night. There was a certain beauty to it that attracted me, but the daytime was easier on the nerves. If I had been alone I probably would have left the city and its nighttime dangers behind me, but not now that I had a companion to share the risks. It would be safer, in any event, if we roamed the city together. It was a cold autumn evening, more like winter to someone from the south of Europe. So I preferred to stay in town and find some shelter from the cold. “Sure, let‟s go have a beer and then see what else there is to do,” I agreed, although I didn‟t have much of an idea of what that might be. I wasn‟t even sure I wanted to stay in Amsterdam, but here I was taking on the role of host to a stranger to the city. So I showed Jim where he could stow his baggage in one of the rental lockers in the central train station. Then, free of our loads, we headed out onto the dark streets of the city. We wanted to get ourselves some beer, although by then we were more in need of a good meal. We found a bar that looked appealing to us and went in and sat down and ordered some beer. We took our time, slowly and silently sipping the beers. When we‟d finished our glasses we went back out onto the street and searched until we found a good place for a meal. The whole time we ate we carried on a rambling conversation about life in general. “I say to hell with our government‟s policies. It seems to have to stick its nose in everybody‟s business all over the globe. Why do we have to be the cops of the world? Don‟t we have enough problems at home, that we have to go looking for things to do elsewhere? Here we

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are getting ready to invade Kuwait, to save them from the Iraqis! What the hell is that all about? I‟ve got a younger brother who is among the troops going over. And to tell you the truth, I‟m a little worried about him…” I appreciated Jim‟s open, thoughtful conversation. He was good company, and I was beginning to understand some of why he had decided to take a break and go out roaming the world a bit. “”Well, have you decided what you‟re going to do? Stay or move on?” My companionable new friend suddenly blurted, awakening me to the immediate question at hand. I glanced down at my watch. “Hmm. It‟s already too late to catch an evening train for cross-border travel. The station will be closing down soon and I won‟t be able to travel until morning anyway. So I think I‟d better find a place to stay here tonight as well.” “Okay, then. Let‟s go find some weed to smoke, and then go find a hotel to stay in.” Suddenly Jim had put me on the spot. He just assumed that I was part of his world. “Weed?” “Yeah. That‟s what we‟re here for, isn‟t it?” Somehow, without realizing it, I had given him a false impression of myself. Or maybe he was too eager to want to believe that everyone around him shared his enthusiasm for „weed‟? I couldn‟t see any point in trying to explain myself to him. He probably wouldn‟t understand or be all that interested in hearing what I had to say anyway. So I accompanied him to another bar, which Jim thought would be a place to find what he was looking for. “Let‟s try here,

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it looks like a place where we can find something,” he said. And he turned out to be right. I don‟t know if it was just luck, or maybe he had a feel for these things from past experience, and it didn‟t matter if it was in London or Amsterdam, he knew how to sniff out the drug scene. Right there on the counter there were two menus. One had a list of the drinks available, which Jim immediately tossed aside. The second was a list of the various types of weed available here, along with their prices, which he began to study carefully. Now it seemed that our roles were reversed. Jim was the one in charge, and I was now an unintended guest in his drug world. It was a world that I had previously rejected with mind and heart. However, I found the warmth and comfort of the place soothing despite the dim lighting. And the cold, dark autumn night outside the window looked so uninviting. I didn‟t want to be cast back out into the darkness that filled the bar windows. How had I gotten myself into such a spot again? It seemed like the drug world that I had been so determined to avoid just wouldn‟t leave me be. I seemed to be inviting it in, while part of me was repulsed by it. I couldn‟t seem to escape it. I felt like a colony of ants was crawling all over my body, invading and conquering me, and I was helpless to resist. I had wandered uninvited into a world that was alien to me, and it seemed that I would have to pay for that blunder. I stood there helplessly waiting for whatever was to come. I didn‟t seem to have the will to resist. It was cold and dark outside, while here… Jim turned to the bar tender: “Do you speak English?”

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“Sure. I can speak English,” was his terse reply, which visibly pleased Jim, since it meant that he wouldn‟t need any more help. “What can I do for you?” They understood each other quite well. They conversed in English, but they used some words that I‟d never heard before. I assumed that these were words from the drug world that only insiders would know. I didn‟t want to sound naïve or ignorant, so I didn‟t ask what some of the words meant. They might even get upset to have someone from outside their world sticking his nose into their business. Though I felt so foolish to be there with them. It seemed like such a mistake. I had passed this bar a hundred times in the past and had had no idea of what went on in here. And here a first time visitor from overseas seemed completely at home in this place, while I was completely in the dark about its activities. The hidden world of drugs had been right there in front of my nose all these years, and I had been clueless of its existence. It had looked like any other hole in the wall bar in this district to me, and I had assumed that they were just serving the usual alcoholic drinks to the usual crowd. How could I have been so wrong? The bar tender pointed over to a small table over in one dark corner of the room. A bearded man with a shaved head was working under a table lamp, stuffing dried, shredded marijuana leaf into small packages. We had seen the man upon entering the bar, but I hadn‟t paid him any attention. Apparently Jim had. He had known right away that he had found what he was looking for. Jim thanked the bar tender and, without the least hesitation or communication with me, he immediately ma-

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de his way over to the table. I silently followed him over to the seated figure. We sat down, Jim directly opposite the dealer and me slightly off to the side. The dealer, who seemed quite calm and relaxed, smiled briefly at Jim as he offered him a sample pinch of the dried weed in his hand along with a cigarette paper. Jim expertly rolled the weed into the paper and sealed the joint. There was the familiar scratch of a match and the sudden spark and the smell of sulfurous smoke quickly followed as the match flared in the dim light of the room. Jim took a deep drag on the joint and exhaled a puff of thick, dark smoke. Jim looked please with the results. He smiled with satisfaction. He had arrived at his goal. “Great! I‟ll take it!” He said. The dealer handed Jim a small plastic bag filled with the dried weed. He smiled broadly as we returned to our previous seats at the bar, with the bag clutched firmly in his right hand. He was obviously totally content. I sat down next to him, continuing in my role as a silent observer of all that took place. I politely refused his offer to roll my own joint, as well as his subsequent offer to take a drag off his. I tried to appear as sincerely grateful for the offer as possible. I was determined to maintain my observer role. Jim seemed to lose interest in me then. His eyes, that had turned cold and leaden, began to take in his surroundings, as he shifted his gaze away from me. He was lost somewhere in the clouds in his drugged mind. “Are you sure you don‟t want a drag?” He asked once again in a sleepy voice, gesturing with the smoking joint. “No thanks, Jim,” I said in the kindest voice I could muster. I felt a bit bad about refusing his offer. It

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was clear that he only meant to be generous and kind to me. He wasn‟t trying to „hook‟ me on the drug, or force it on me. It was as if he had offered me a soft drink or some such ordinary treat. Nothing more. That did not, however, make me feel any less resolved to refuse the addictive drug he was offering me. I was too firmly convinced that nothing good ever came from such an addiction. We sat there, opposite each other, in total silence, for some time. There seemed to be nothing to say. We were each of us shut off in his own separate, alien parallel world. What did we possibly have to share with each other? Jim continued to smoke his joint and I drank my beer. After an hour or two Jim seemed ready to go. It was getting late, and the bar was getting ready to close. The street outside was nearly empty of people or cars. “I‟m really tired. Let‟s go find a place to sleep at some hotel,” he said. Jim moved slowly and awkwardly. I was afraid that he might collapse on the street, and then what would I do? But my fear was unfounded. He may have teetered a bit, but he kept his footing, and we made our way without much trouble from the bar on down the street to the station, to pick up our bags. It was a cold night, and the wind seemed to cut through our thin jackets like a sharp knife. (Jim‟s jacket seemed particularly unsuitable for the weather.) It felt especially good when we finally arrived inside the warm, brightly lit rail station to gather our things. “Jim, I‟ve got an old but clean spare jacket in my pack. Why don‟t you go ahead and take it and put it on? You‟ll be a lot warmer with it on,” I said.

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Jim took the offered coat and put it on. He seemed pleased. “That really is a lot warmer! Thanks!” We soon gathered all of our things, and with our packs loaded on our shoulders we headed out onto the main street. We hiked on past the big hotel “Krasnopolski” and made our way down the narrow side streets of the “red light” district. We chose the district where the sex and drug trade flourished because that was where we were liable to find the cheaper hotels. I knew that Jim and I couldn‟t afford a room in one of the fancier downtown hotels. “All I need is a bed in a warm, dry place. Nothing more! I don‟t want to pay a lot of money for just one night‟s sleep!” Jim declared, and I fully agreed on that subject. It was clear though that the district we‟d entered was another world entirely than that of the Dutch people. In fact the Dutch were nowhere to be seen here. There was a mix of peoples from all over the world here. They stood or strolled along the streets hawking their wares. I just kept moving, which was the best way to avoid them and their sales pitches. The painted women of the night posed in windows or stood provocatively outside on the main street, trying to lure a customer from among the passersby, who mainly consisted of well-heeled tourists who had ventured out of their comfortable hotel rooms for a taste of this strange world. The women looked more like desperate souls with nothing left in life than to sell their bodies for a few dollars. They were all quite sad seeming rather than appealing. Who would actually choose to sell their body for money at the expense of all else? “As you can see, Jim, women are easy to get here!”

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“Yeah, well, I‟ve got my own woman waiting for me; I came here for the dope!” And, in fact, it seemed like now that he had his drug high, nothing else seemed to matter. Jim seemed content to just follow my lead through the narrow, winding backstreets of the district with its seedy, old buildings slowly being eaten away by the harsh winds of the north country.

Chapter Five We silently and purposefully plodded along one after the other with our heavy packs on our backs, growing ever wearier with each step. Neither conversation nor the lively street scene around us held any interest at the moment. All we wanted was a place to lay down our burdens and sleep. The scene that surrounded us was rather surreal, filled with seductive illusions created by the night. The bright light of day served to shatter all of those appealing illusions created by the dark. The ugly and the grotesque, in people and things, so well-hidden by the night, could not stand exposure to the bright light of day. A small white sign at the entrance to one of the buildings caught our attention. We looked at each other, and I said to him: “Well, what do you think? Should we check it out?” “Yeah, let‟s take a look,” Jim replied. The modest nature of the sign and the building suggested that this was the kind of place we were looking for, since neither of us was prepared to pay for a room in one of the fancier hotels. So we pushed at the door and soon found ourselves in a dimly-lit, long, narrow room with tables and chairs scattered about. It had a dinginess about it that I associated with all of the buildings in this district. A middle-aged man stood behind a long counter near the entrance. Judging by the slovenly, apathetic look of the desk manager, this was not one of those places where you could expect genteel treatment. He made no attempt to win our

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business with a friendly smile. His general manner suggested that dealing with us was just an annoyance that he had to endure as part of his job. Was it our sudden, unexpected appearance that annoyed him, or did he simply find his whole job tedious and annoying? Who knew? Maybe he had his own problems that plagued and kept him up nights? We may have appeared a bit strange, as well, bursting in unannounced as we had. “Can I help you?” he asked without the least bit of enthusiasm. “We saw your sign outside advertising hotel rooms… We thought maybe… But we might have been wrong, excuse us!” My fellow traveler tried to explain himself in as normal a voice as he could muster, although it actually sounded rather strained and weak. We were poised to turn on our heels and plunge back out into the dark night, but it wasn‟t really necessary… “Yes, this is a hotel. It‟s on the next floor up. Is it for just the two of you?” “Yes, just for the two of us. And can we take a look at the rooms?” We were expecting him to lead us up to the rooms, but instead he pulled out a booklet with photographs in it, and calmly opened it to some pictures of a room and turned the page toward us. I had traveled considerably all over Europe and stayed in all sorts of hotels, but this one was something else and totally unlike anything I‟d seen. “You say this is the room?” “Yes, This is the men‟s room, and we have another for women.” It was a new concept to me. The picture showed a long room with rows of beds, ten altogether. It looked

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more like an army barracks than a hotel to me. Or maybe a jail cell. “How much do you charge per night?” “25 guilders for a bed and breakfast. If you want to stow your valuables in a safe you‟ll need to pay an additional deposit of 25 guilders. When you bring back the key you‟ll get your deposit back.” “A deposit. What for? And why would you need a safe? Is it necessary?” “No, not everybody wants to use one. But with so many people from all over in one room, you can‟t be sure that someone won‟t try and steal some of your personal items.” “And the safe is secure?” “Of course, we can‟t guarantee that someone won‟t try and break the lock on it…” The price was right, but it was not a very appealing prospect, staying there. It was all so strange to me. I thought I had seen every sort of hotel there was. But I‟d never imagined there was anything like this out there. But then, I‟d seen all sorts of things that evening that I‟d never known existed. “Let‟s look a little further, see what else we might find,” my companion and I agreed in a quickly whispered conversation. “We‟ll see you later,” we tried to reassure the desk manager, not knowing that it would be sooner than we thought. We visited two or three similar dormitory-like hotels. The price and the conditions were about the same as the first one, but we were shocked to learn that they were all filled up, and Jim was too tired to continue looking.

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“I can‟t keep this up. I can barely stay on my feet. I‟ve got to get some sleep… Let‟s go back to the first one…” I wasn‟t in much better shape myself. We had to backtrack, before we lost our chance for a bed for the night. “We‟ll serve breakfast here in the morning,” the manager announced as he pointed to the tables arranged about the room. “Just try and be up and at the table before ten, if you want breakfast. Now let me show you to the sleeping room.” We followed him up a steep, narrow, wooden stairway, not unlike those in the neighboring houses. A couple of thin fellows might have been able to squeeze past each other on the stairs, but heftier guests, especially if they were loaded down the way we were, would never manage it. The entire house, like the others in the district, was from a bygone era, when they favored smaller spaces. There was a bar at one end of the second floor landing and a door leading into what appeared to be a bathroom at the other end and the door to a larger room. “This is the women‟s sleeping dorm and that is their bath” our guide announced rather matter-of-factly. We were too tired and bowed under the weight of our heavy packs to react to this. We continued on up the stairs, which creaked ominously beneath our heavy steps, to the next floor, which was the men‟s floor. “Here‟s the bath, with plenty of hot water, if you want a bath,” he said. We couldn‟t help but stare at the antique fixtures of the bath. This was like a tour of old Amsterdam, featuring the architecture and way of life nearly a century ago. Jim and I exchanged looks that suggested that neither of us would be using the bath.

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“And this is the sleeping room you‟ll be staying in.” When he opened the door it allowed the dim light in the hall to reveal narrow rows of beds like those we had seen in the photograph down below. There was a metal barrel with a wash towel arranged next to each bed. “Here‟s the safe,” he whispered to Jim. There were no other furnishings in the room. There was no room for anything else! There were a number of other guests, some were already asleep and others were in the process of getting ready for bed. “Okay! We‟ll take it!” “In that case, you‟ll need to come back downstairs and show me your passports and get signed in. If you don‟t want a safe, it‟ll cost you 25 guilders for the bed and breakfast. You‟ll also need to give me a home address and telephone number for a contact person, in case of an emergency or accident,” he whispered. Wonderful, I thought to myself. It‟s so safe at this hotel that they need information to notify your next of kin if anything should happen to you here! Now I couldn‟t shake the thought of death here in this strange place. My mind started to review some of the more morbid possibilities. I even began to imagine some of the phone calls that must have been made to the next of kin of some of the unluckier guests! How many had paid for breakfast but never got to eat it? I was starting to spook myself, imagining the worst. I wasn‟t particularly prejudiced against any racial or religious group, but I didn‟t particularly like the look of our host. I couldn‟t say for sure that he was some monster, but I imagined how, if he wanted to, he could sneak into our room late at night and rob and kill one of us and dump the body in a nearby canal.

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After we‟d finished checking in, we returned to the sleeping room. We stowed our gear under our bunks and covered everything with our jackets. There was no way to really protect our gear from theft. There was only the “safes” that cost as much as a bed and breakfast. We climbed into bed and hoped that no one would try breaking into our stuff. However, our most valuable item, our lives, couldn‟t be safely locked away here. Jim soon fell asleep after our exhausting evening‟s trek. But I couldn‟t seem to. I lay awake for the longest time, my mind still in a whirl. I stared all around me, peering out the window, studying the walls, and some of those who slept nearby. Then I examined the bedspread. It was so thin that it could almost have served as a net for fishing instead of a protection against the cold. Fortunately I had my warm sleeping bag with me. I thought about the fact that this house had once been an ordinary home to some family, not unlike homes elsewhere in the Netherlands. The family probably felt increasingly out of place as the neighborhood changed over time. Were they overwhelmed by the flood of new immigrants? Or did the illicit trade in sex and drugs chase them out? Amsterdam was no longer a Dutch city. The majority of its people were foreigners who had come from all over the world to settle here. The Dutch had retreated to the countryside where they could raise their families in peace. That is what my friend Anton had told me before I ever visited the city. He had once lived here, but he had moved away in order to raise his family in a safer environment. I was badly in need of sleep, but I was not at all happy at the prospect. I couldn‟t help but wonder what might happen while I was unconscious. I felt a terrible

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dread of sleep that I couldn‟t seem to shake. How had I gotten myself into such a fix? Here I was, deep within an alien underworld filled with drug addicts and criminals of every sort and description. I had known of its dangers, and I had always felt a deep repugnance for the way of life here. Yet, despite all that, I had let myself stumble right into the middle of it. Eventually sleep overtook me. I don‟t know when I fell asleep, but I later awoke rather abruptly to the smell of aromatic smoke. Some of my roommates were already up, and almost immediately they had lit up their cigarettes, filling the room with a pungent haze of smoke. Jim was still fast asleep. I was a bit reluctant to open my eyes and take in the scene around me. When I finally did, I saw a sight to the left of my own bed that drained all of the pleasure out of my morning. A young man with a long, shaggy mane of hair, sat up in bed, half naked from the waist up. He was in the process of injecting a drug into a vein in his arm with a syringe and needle. The drug must have already begun to take effect, since his face was already fixed in a drug-induced trance. He was happy for now, but it would all end very badly. He didn‟t seem to notice my watching eyes at all. Or if he did, he really didn‟t seem to care. I shuddered at the thought of his needle being plunged into my own body. Who knew where it had been until now or what poison or plague it could pass on? How could I have been so naïve? I had thought that I knew all about the dangers of the world of the drug addict. I had heard all about the way the drugs seemed to possess the addicted, so that nothing else mattered to them in life except the next high. I silently retreated back into the covers of my sleeping bag. I

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pretended to be asleep, although my heart was pounding in my chest like a church bell. What in Christ‟s name was I doing here? I cursed to myself. I didn‟t belong here. Every last one of the men in this room were druggies. I was just a foolish, naive drifter who had stumbled into their world by accident. What would they do to me if they knew that? My neighbor quickly dressed himself and left the sleeping room. I followed the sound of his departing steps on the stairway until I was fairly certain he was gone. In the meantime Jim began to wake up, and that gave me some bit of hope that I might soon be out of here and on my way as well. He was the intermediary between my world and the world of the drug addict. As such, he was much more at home here than I was. That fact made me feel like I had a fair chance of getting out of this hellish place without too much trouble. “Good morning!” He greeted me with a broad smile, while still snugly tucked in his bed. “Good morning, Jim. How did you sleep?” “I slept fine. How about yourself?” “Me too,” I lied, because I didn‟t want to let him know just how wrong it all felt to be here in this alien world, and just how badly I wanted to get back to the world of normal everyday life that existed just a few streets away from here. „The sooner, the better, to be out of here!‟ I said to myself. We went down to the first floor where they were serving breakfast. As soon as we were seated they brought our breakfast. The same fellow who had checked us in the night before now approached our table. “Good morning. What would you like to drink? Coffee or tea?”

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In addition to the hot tea, we were received a bit of nourishment in the form of sliced bread with butter and marmalade. The desk manager, now serving as waiter, unceremoniously tossed all of this onto the bare table in front of us. As we ate I studied our surroundings. The room contained a number of other tables, and not far away I spied our roommate who had preceded us down the stairs. I recognized him by his shaggy red hair, tied in a ponytail. In this setting, seated by himself, quietly eating his breakfast alongside us, he appeared no different than anyone else. If I hadn‟t known any differently I would have taken him for an ordinary enough young man. He was not unlike many others one sees on any big city street. But I knew that he wasn‟t a normal young man in any way. He was a member of an alien species. „He belongs to a secret genus of vampires,‟ I thought to myself. „During the day they might appear to be ordinary people, like you or me, going about their work or business like others. Most of them probably have families somewhere. But once night falls they go out in search of the sustenance that they crave. Instead of the blood sought by other vampires, they seek out the addictive poison that they inject into their veins, or snuff into their noses in powder form or smoke as dried leaves in pipes or cigarettes. And in order to keep their whole support network, of suppliers, drugs and money, flourishing, they try to recruit new addicts. That is what makes it possible for them to survive in a hostile world. How much longer could I stay in their world without becoming one of them?‟ I decided that it was time for me to be moving on. To return to the normal world on the other side of Main Street, where I was more at home. I had other troubling

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thoughts that I couldn‟t share with anyone here, not even Jim. I actually liked Jim. He was a decent enough person. There was nothing to fear with him. But especially when he was high on weed, I felt like we were of different species. If it came to a conflict between my world and that of the drug addicts, I didn‟t know which side he would come down on. All I really knew was that I had to get out of that place, where I clearly didn‟t belong and certainly didn‟t want to have any part of, before it was too late.

Chapter Six We joined the throngs of ordinary people out on the street. I was content to let Jim lead the way as we made our way through the maze of city streets. I preferred to simply ruminate and observe and to let his more obvious desires guide us. Again I was amazed at the diversity of the people on the streets of Amsterdam. There were people from all over, each with his or her own tale to tell and dreams and ambitions. It was approaching noon, and Jim wanted to find something to drink. He wanted something typically American - a milk shake! We approached a bar along one of the streets. After peering into the open door we concluded that the long, narrow, airy space, presently devoid of customers, appealed to us. We liked having the space all to ourselves. “Can I help you boys?” the bar tender asked cheerfully, with a broad smile rarely seen in these parts. “You don‟t happen to have a milk shake, do you?” asked Jim. “I‟ll have the same,” I said, relieved that Jim had ordered something normal instead of trying to get more infernal „weed‟ to smoke. But my relief was to be short-lived. “Sorry, boys, but we don‟t offer that here. You wouldn‟t want something to smoke, would you?” “No, we really need something to drink at the moment. We don‟t need anything to smoke right now,” I hurried to say, hoping it would be true.

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“If you want to drink something you‟ll have to go next door. They serve drinks over there. This is just a bar for marijuana smokers.” Since they didn‟t have what we wanted, we tried next door. The long, narrow interior of the bar looked quite similar to its neighbor, suggesting that maybe the two establishments had once been joined into one, but they had perhaps been divided into two halves (by the same owner?) in order to cater to different tastes, one crowd preferring alcoholic beverages and the other preferring marijuana. This bar was overflowing with people, drinking coffee and beer, and smoking cigarettes of ordinary tobacco. All of the smokers had succeeded in creating a thick haze of tobacco smoke that hung in the air. This fact did not sit well with my companion. “Damn it, look how smoky it is in here. You can barely breathe!” said Jim as he backed away from the door. What a joke. Here was Jim, afraid of being poisoned by cigarette smoke, but not the least bit concerned about filling his lungs with the poisonous smoke of marijuana. Was his narcotic drug of choice, with its short-lived high and temporary flight from reality really so preferable? We retreated back into the marijuana bar next door. “You wouldn‟t mind if we just sat here and rested for a few minutes, would you?” asked Jim “Sure, go ahead, sit down… My name is Jan!” We got a bit acquainted with the friendly bar tender in the conversation that followed. From time to time, in the most pleasant way, he would remind us of his wares. “Are you sure you don‟t want to try something? I‟ve got some great weed,” he would say, smiling broadly

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all the time, until Jim could no longer resist showing him his left over stash of weed. “We already have some weed, as you can see. … Would you mind if I light up?” The two of them rolled a joint while I stood quietly by, once again being the silent observer of their activities. “Hmm! Not bad, not bad at all!” shouted the bar tender Jan, vigorously nodding his head and smiling in obvious contentment. However, Jan stayed at his post behind the bar, and said, “When you run out of weed, I hope that you‟ll come buy some from me. I have some top quality stuff!” “You can count on it,” replied Jim. After a time we got up to leave, with handshakes all around, and with sincere promises to return to his shop soon. “Don‟t forget now, boys, when you need a refill of your weed, you come to me! I‟m here every day. I‟ll be here from noon till midnight.” He made his sales pitch with the same words he might have used if he were selling fines cheeses instead of marijuana. But it was Jan‟s fate to be a dope peddler, a seller of a short-lived mind-altered dream state. It was a way station on the way to hell for too many drug users. If this enterprise should prove a success, who knows, maybe he would have a whole chain of such shops in years to come. We continued to roam the streets of Amsterdam. Jim wasn‟t interested in the European Renaissance art on display here, or the fine examples of Dutch architecture all around us. We spent the day eating and drinking and just roaming the streets. Eventually it was time to look for a place to sleep again. I‟d been traveling by myself for

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several weeks by then, (something I‟d done for some years now). I‟d always been my own boss, going where I wanted and when I wanted without having to consult others. Now, without really meaning to, I‟d taken on a travel companion for an extended time. It seemed to suit my lack of initiative at the moment. I seemed to be content to just be led around by the whims of my companion. I let Jim make the decisions about what we would do next. And this time, it was my misfortune to be led along, despite my grave doubts about the path he had chosen. That we thought very differently was quite clear to me. When Jim once more veered off in the direction of the Hotel Krasnopolski, I knew that he was leading me back into his strange world. That morning I couldn‟t wait to get as far as I could from the vile place, and here we were going there again, despite my hatred of it. I seemed to be getting more used to the world of the drug addicts, because I no longer had quite the fear of it that I had once had. Their ways were beginning to become more familiar. I no longer saw them as some distant, frightening abstraction, but as real people, who just happened to have fallen into drug addiction. Their ways were somewhat predictable, and it was possible to avoid most of the danger from them if one used caution and good sense. I also felt a bit protected by my connection to Jim, who seemed to float between my world and theirs rather easily. If there was any trouble, I felt strong enough and confident enough to deal with it. However, my confidence was short-lived. I just couldn‟t shake some gnawing anxiety, a sense of dread of dangers yet to appear. I feared being cornered or trapped in some situation I couldn‟t get out of. I knew that such

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fear could beget even more fear, and the result might be a downward spiral into panic. I had to get a grip on myself. As Jim crossed the Main Street I considered going my own separate way. I could tell him that I had decided to leave the city. I had decided not to stay any longer. However, I didn‟t seem to have the will power to carry that out. My sense of inertia seemed to be stronger than my will to resist. I just kept on following him on across the street despite my fear of the place he was leading us into. And at some point there seemed to be no turning back, I had made my choice. We didn‟t go back to the same place we‟d stayed the night before. This time we chose another place, not unlike the previous one, another improvised hotel or hostel in someone‟s old house. And the face that greeted us behind the door proved to be a particularly cheerful one. “Do we have any space? Yes, of course, for 100 guilders you can have a room that sleeps four…” “We just need space for the two of us. We don‟t need more beds than two.” “Okay, you‟ll pay 25 guilders each then. But you‟ll have to leave the door unlocked in case other guests arrive and want the other two beds. Now if you want to pay me 75 guilders altogether, I would consider letting you have the whole room to yourselves. What do you say?” We looked at each other. It seemed that Jim and I were of the same mind. “No. We‟ll just pay for the two beds.” “Okay. Just remember to leave the door unlocked. There is a key in your door, on the inside. There‟s nobody else at the moment, but there may be someone show up later in the evening, you know.”

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We agreed to leave the door unlocked. Then we made our way up the creaky old stairs to our room. This time we seemed to have had better luck. For the same price as the night before we had a semi-private room. The room was much smaller, just big enough to hold the four beds. It was also much cleaner and brighter. And once we had shed our heavy packs and sprawled on the beds we noticed the key that was in the lock on the door, and a clean white paper sign tacked onto the upper portion of the door. In big black hand-written letters it read: NO HEROIN NO HARD DRUGS PLEASE

While it wasn‟t totally convincing, given where we were, it did increase my sense of security. It seemed like a good omen. I was already feeling a bit better. The owners of this hostel seemed to be trying to create a more respectable atmosphere. They didn‟t want to cater to the more disreputable element out on the streets. I like that, I thought to myself, rather naively, it would seem. About then Jim‟s voice interrupted my thoughts. “It seems a little early for bed. What do you say we step out for a bit yet?” On our way out we were greeted again by a friendly smile from the desk manager. I was beginning to relax a bit and to feel pretty good about the place. It seemed like a small oasis of human decency in this mean, dark part of town. It seemed that we would be all right here. I had no idea at the time, just how wrong I might turn out to be. We stepped out onto the street, and after we‟d taken only a few steps in the open air, we were confronted by my boogeyman.

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“Hello there, boys, how you doing?” called the friendly, cheerful voice of what would be a monster in disguise. “Where you boys from?” “I‟m from Italy and he is from America.” “Aaah! That‟s great!” the stranger called out and then got right to business. “I have some great stuff for you: heroin, cocaine…” “No, no we‟re not interested. Thanks, but we don‟t need anything. We‟ve got everything we need for the evening!” I hurried to reply, so that he wouldn‟t have any doubts about our interest. This time I made it clear, without any hesitation and with no fear in my voice. I had learned something from my past experience. It also helped that I wasn‟t alone. I had Jim with me. He was just a few steps away, and I could see the concerned face of the manager of our hotel peering out the window behind us. He appeared to be watching out for us, to see that we didn‟t fall prey to one of the sharks that roamed the nearby canal streets and bridges. He was already at the door and stepping out to intervene: “Hey, you two, come here,” he called in a concerned voice, frowning. “What does that guy want from you?” “Nothing really. He just asked who we were and where we were from…” I answered in a hushed voice, not sure how much I should say. “No, no! He was trying to sell you something, wasn‟t he? What was it?” “Selling something? What? I don‟t know about that. Really…” “Drugs? He was trying to sell you drugs, wasn‟t he!” I was starting to get nervous. It was obvious that he wasn‟t going to let go of this. No doubt, he knew all of the

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local drug dealers, and what they sold on the nearby streets. There was no way to fool him, and he made himself clear with his next words. “So, do you want to buy drugs?” We didn‟t know what to say. We weren‟t at all sure of what the manager meant by this. I took him for someone who was opposed to drug use, considering the sign he‟d posted in the room. I was afraid that he would take us for some of the drug users that he was trying to keep out. He might decide to throw us out, or turn us in to the police, or maybe turn physically violent. “Listen guys, if you do want to buy some drugs, I‟ve got them for sale. Whatever you want: hashish, heroin, cocaine… You name it.” I couldn‟t believe what I was hearing. What a disaster. We‟d delivered ourselves right into the hands of one of these monsters. He was just angry at his competitor on the street. He wanted to be our dealer. In any case, we had to find a way to refuse him without upsetting him. “That‟s good to know. So we know where we can buy some…” “Come on in and let me show you what I‟ve got. You can try a little…” “Not now, we‟re fine. We‟ve already got something for now, but we‟ll come to you when we need something more.” “But, don‟t go buying from anyone else! Agreed! Okay?” “Okay. We promise. We‟ll only buy from you.” This seemed to satisfy him, though he was obviously disappointed. When we returned later from our walk and passed by his desk, he only had the briefest “good night” to say to us.

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I couldn‟t help but ponder his hypocrisy as I lay in bed studying his sign. Here was a sign forbidding the use of hard drugs in his hotel, while at the same time he was offering to sell those same drugs to his guests. I suppose he meant guests were forbidden to use drugs that he hadn‟t sold to them. In that case, he ought to have been more specific! I hoped that I could fall asleep with these strange thoughts swirling through my mind. This was turning out to be some vacation! We left the door unlocked, as he had requested, but, fortunately, no one else came in. At least we hadn‟t had to pay for the empty beds, and it didn‟t seem like he would try and claim that they had been used. He could claim, if he wanted, that he had favored us by not sending anyone else to our room. That would be fine, so long as he didn‟t charge us more money. So we had a rare peaceful night‟s sleep in a quiet room without any potentially troublesome roommates. Although I was becoming ever more used to the world of the drug users, it no longer frightened me the way it once had, I sensed that it would be wise for me to get out of this world at the first reasonable opportunity. The next morning when we went back down to the desk to turn in our key, we were greeted by the less than amiable manager, who only seemed capable of a frown this time. “Good morning!” Our own pleasant greetings seemed to have no effect on his mood. He was clearly quite angry with us. “What the hell happened to you two? Why didn‟t you come to me last night? I waited up for you all night!” “Why would you do that?”

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“Didn‟t I tell you to come by for some heroin? I also had some cocaine for you!” “But we told you that we didn‟t need anything else. We would come to you if we did. But we never needed it. We still have some of what we bought yesterday!” We both lied to him, since there was no way either one of us was going to buy those damned drugs from him. “Well, hell, I thought you would come by last night. So what now? Are you leaving? Where to?” “We‟re leaving the city! We‟ll see you next time!” “See you!” the manager replied, visibly disappointed and angry with us because he hadn‟t managed to make any more money off us. And we had been right there in his hands. “Heroin? Cocaine? What did he think, that I was crazy enough to use those hard drugs? I like weed, but there‟s no way that I would use any of those others!” Jim declared as we strode down the street. I wasn‟t so sure that I shared his point of view about the difference between weed and the other drugs, but I was still glad to hear him express that opinion of our recent experience. It made me think that he wasn‟t so far gone. That he might one day decide to even give up marijuana, which wasn‟t so safe as he liked to think. It approached ten o‟clock. There was just enough time for some coffee and a snack, before we would be going our separate ways. “I‟ll have to catch the train for Ostende in order to get the boat back to Dover yet tonight. And what do you think that you‟ll do now? Do you have any plans?” “I‟ve come up from the south of Europe, and like you, I‟ve already been to England. The north countries aren‟t particularly appealing to me. It‟s too cold up there

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for someone like me, used to milder climates. So I am thinking of heading east. I‟ve never been to the countries of Eastern Europe, the former communist bloc. I‟m sort of curious to know what they are like today, with some remnants of the past still visible. I‟ll probably only stay there for a few days before heading south again, back to Italy.” “Well, it‟s been good to travel with you for a while. I wouldn‟t mind seeing some more… But I have to be back home. Oh, I almost forgot your jacket, to give it back!” “Don‟t worry about it, Jim! Keep it on. You‟ve still got a long trip ahead of you, and you might want it. It‟s cold outside! You need it more than I do. You see, I‟ve got a good warm jacket… I don‟t need it.” “Are you sure? But how would I get it back to you?” “Listen, there‟s no need for that. Let it be a gift from me. Use it as long as you need to, and don‟t feel bad about tossing it if you don‟t need it anymore! Or better yet, find somebody else who could use it.” A smile spread across Jim‟s face, obviously pleased by my words and my friendly gesture. He would appreciate use of the warm jacket. He really would be freezing without it. “I really appreciate that. Thanks for the jacket… You‟re a real friend!” He spoke rather slowly and seemed to be struggling a bit to choose his words, as if he might still be under the influence of the drugs he‟d been using during his stay in Amsterdam. The drug certainly limited what Jim could do, but there were signs that the effects were wearing off. He seemed to be able to express more of what he was feeling. At least he seemed more like the person I‟d

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met several days ago on the train. I listened to him patiently. There was also something in his smile and the expression on his face that suggested a growing sense of embarrassment. It seemed to me that it was increasing as he talked. Jim apparently wasn‟t as stoned as I had thought. He was emerging from the drugged stupor that his marijuana cigarettes induced. He seemed to be aware of this himself as he talked and I listened. “It‟s really been great, meeting you and hanging out together these past few days. I‟ve really appreciated it… Everything you‟ve done for me during our time here… You‟re been a real friend…” Jim didn‟t have to say all of that. His face said it all. He peered down at the floor as he spoke. I couldn‟t have understood him better. He had been in a not so pleasant situation. On his own he might have easily fallen victim to some of the sharks who roamed the streets here. And someone else might have even taken advantage of his vulnerable condition. He could have ended up in some canal, one more victim of the drug trade. Someone who would have been an easy target once they had gotten him high on drugs. He probably knew that he‟d been lucky that it was me he‟d met and befriended instead of some others here. But I didn‟t like seeing his embarrassment, as he grew more aware of what I had done for him. So I tried to change the subject. “It‟s okay, Jim. I‟ve appreciated your company! I hope that when you come back to Europe someday that you‟ll come visit me… I‟d really like that.” “The same goes for me. Here, let me give you my address. If you‟re ever in San Diego, look me up. You‟ll have a place to stay. I‟ve got plenty of room in my apartment.”

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I pulled out a pen and a piece of paper and Jim began to write, in a slightly shaky hand, first his name and then his address and telephone number. It wasn‟t long before we had to say goodbye to each other. I saw Jim off at the train station. A couple of minutes before we heard the whistle announcing his train‟s arrival, I helped him on with his backpack. “I‟ll be seeing you, Jim! Good luck! Hope your trip home goes well!” And he waved to me through the window as the train departed. And so ended our time together on the banks of the Amstel. As his train pulled out of the station and disappeared from sight, I couldn‟t help but think that it would probably be the last we would see of each other. All that would remain would be a few memories of our time together. I made my way out of the Central Train Station of Amsterdam with my gaze fixed on the port of Damrak and beyond, the street by the same name. I watched the daily life of the city as it occurred before my eyes. „It‟s almost noon,‟ I thought to myself. „It won‟t be long before another night approaches. The days are short in autumn, and the nights are long.‟ I could feel a cold shiver go up my spine at the mere thought of another long night here like those I‟d already endured. And I was all too aware of the hazards of the night here. The unsuspecting could all too easily end up in the cold, dark waters of one of the canals, and even the warier visitor risked slipping into the netherworld of the drug user here. The line between the two worlds was so blurred. The streets held such a crazy mix of people; drug dealers, prostitutes, homeless people, and the steely-eyed predators who hid among them waiting for the chance to

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strike. The more I saw of it all, the less I thought I belonged here among them. What was I doing here among these unhappy people, caught in a trap not of their making? I had no real business here among the treacherous and deceitful sharks on the streets. Or was there yet another world here that I was still unaware of, where I might have a place, but where was it? I wanted to find my own way in the world, that path that was mine alone, that would take me where I truly wanted to go. “Sei Italiano?” The voice interrupted my contemplation of the meaning of life. I turned and studied the owner of the voice. He was perched on the metal railing that bordered the canal, bracing himself against the wall with his hands. The voice and the man certainly appeared Italian. He probably thought the same about me, which explained his choice to call out to me in Italian. “What did you say?” I asked him, although I had heard him quite clearly the first time. “I asked if you were Italian.” “Yes, I‟m Italian. Why?” “Do you want something good to snort?” He asked me his foul question in the most matter of fact voice. I didn‟t even bother to answer him. I normally pay due respect to people who address me, but I didn‟t feel the least obliged to respond to such a question. I had had my fill of these drug dealers. I didn‟t want to engage one more of them in their all too predictable conversation. By now, all I wanted was to get as far away from them as possible.

Chapter Seven That afternoon, as Jim Larson traveled by train to Ostende, I was crossing the Dutch border into Germany. I barely noticed the crossing, because there was no significant border post or travel control to deal with. All that control consisted of was a couple of German policemen who passed through the train, glancing at passenger documents, as we continued to travel on into German territory. I spent the afternoon pleasantly watching the German countryside pass by outside my train window. The train almost soundlessly wound its way through the lovely, well-ordered countryside of gentle ridges and valleys, passing through big cities and clean, inviting verdant landscapes. Whatever defects existed here, human or otherwise, were well-hidden from the eye. And the day was short here. All too soon the shadows lengthened and the light grew dim and my thoughts returned to unpleasant memories from the recent past and uncertainty concerning the future. It was well past midnight before we finally arrived at the German-Czech border. This was the former demarcation line, for over half a century, between the Western democracies and the Eastern bloc of communist countries. I thought about my recent travel companion. About now, Jim would be on a boat half-way between Ostende and Dover. What was he finding to occupy himself, now that he was denied his drug of choice, marijuana? It wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x;t be very long before he would be landing in Dover and boarding the train for London, and then what? He would

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get on a plane bound for America. And then he would soon be back in his bar at the airport in San Diego, California, serving shots of liquor from an assortment of bottles. No doubt, he would dream at times of Amsterdam, and the easy access to drug-induced highs, as he passed his days in the dreary confines of an airport bar, with only his drug to console him. Not much to envy there! Part of me regretted having spent so much time with someone who didn‟t really share my values. I could have spent that time far more to my own liking. But then again, he had allowed me a rare glimpse into his own strange world and that of his drug-addicted brethren in Amsterdam. I wouldn‟t have had the courage to venture into that strange world on the opposite side of the city‟s Main Street on my own. There was no trace of the old Iron Curtain here. It had apparently been torn down long ago. The examination of travel documents proved no more thorough here than in the West. There were, of course, the usual questions of the sort: “Where are you from?” and “How long do you intend to stay?” But the tone wasn‟t at all hostile. The train arrived in Prague about six in the morning. I had arrived just as the city was awakening from its night-time slumber, and it was also at a time when it was still awakening from the deep, dark nightmare of its communist past. After I‟d passed out of the station doors, I paused momentarily to survey the city that spread out before me. It was a drab, gray city; the buildings, the sky, even the faces of the passersby seemed grayer than I‟d encountered elsewhere, as if the color had all been drained out of this place by some unseen hand. It must just be this particular spot, I thought to myself, certainly there are more colorful, inviting places to be found here. So I set out to find that

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more beautiful face to the city. I had no real idea where I was going. I was just walking to exercise my stiff limbs and warm my body on this cold November morning. „A hotel!‟ It was my first thought of any significance that day. „I have got to find a hotel,‟ I thought to myself. I was desperate for some sleep. I hadn‟t had a decent night‟s sleep in days, given all the anxiety I had felt in those „flop house‟ hotels in Amsterdam. I decided that only after I‟d had a good rest, would I go see what there was to see in this city. But first I needed sleep. I had no idea where to look for a place to stay. My stubborn pride didn‟t allow me to ask for help from those around me, even if that only meant a request for some simple advice. I roamed the streets around the train station in all directions, first veering right, then left, while keeping the station in sight as a landmark. It wasn‟t long before the fog began to burn off, and the first rays of the morning sun began to warm me up. Eventually I saw the sign I sought: HOTEL OPERA

The hotel was located in an old building. It was built in a distinct style from the city‟s past. It didn‟t look like a place that would be all that expensive. „What the hell do I care, whatever it is, I‟ll pay!‟ I told myself. I was that desperate for a good night‟s sleep. Circumstances sometimes remind us that money isn‟t everything. With no second thoughts, I plunged into the hotel, to be met by the cold gaze of a young woman at the desk. She just stared at me, without a word, as I recited my need for a room. There was none of the fake smiling in order to sell some product that one encountered in the West. If

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there was maybe less to smile about here, at least, people were more sincere. “You‟ll need to pay 25 German marks!” It didn‟t take much calculation to realize that it wasn‟t much more than I‟d had to pay for a bed in the drug dens of Amsterdam. The room was nothing special, but after sleeping in drug dives I had a new appreciation for such a room as this one. It was, at least, clean and tidy, and there was a sense of security. *** To travel the world alone gives one a great sense of freedom. There is no one that you have to consult with or answer to for your actions. You go where you want, when you want. But is there a cost? You bet there is! Just the fact that you are alone in a sea of strangers in a foreign land creates a certain degree of risk and danger. On the other hand, it forces you to reach out to those around you, out of necessity. We all need a certain sense of belonging for peace of mind, for a sense of security and safety. It is something that we normally take for granted in our home communities. “How you doing?” I heard over the noise of the music of the discotheque. They were the first friendly words I‟d heard in a while. First I looked off to my right, and then up into the smoky air above my head. Through the smoke and gloom I spied a slightly swarthy face that reminded me of the Mediterranean. He had a thick black head of hair.

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„He‟s got to be an Italian,‟ I said to myself. Only an Italian would blurt such a thing in his broken English. Though maybe he isn‟t… “Are you by yourself here too? The stranger shouted into my ear, to be heard above the loud music. “Yeah, I‟m by myself. Why?” I answered with a certain degree of reluctance. I had the bad feeling that maybe I was being set up for a robbery or some such thing. “It‟s just that I‟m here by myself as well, and I‟d just as well have some companionship. My name is Costas, and I‟m from Greece. Can I join you here at your table?” he asked as he pointed to the free chair next to me. “Sure, go ahead and sit down.” Costas sat down and immediately pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He was kind enough to offer me one before lighting one for himself. “Would you like a smoke?” “No, thanks. I‟m getting enough smoking in just by breathing the air in here!” “And where are you from? ... Italy? ... Great! I‟ve always liked Italians. …” “Are there any people you don‟t like?” I said, mostly just for something to say, but I also wanted to poke a little fun at what he‟d said. This wasn‟t really the place though, for conversation, and he didn‟t appear to really want to talk. “It‟s not really possible to talk in here. The music is way too loud!” he shouted into my left ear, confirming, I assumed, what I had just been thinking. “I know that for sure!” he continued. “And I actually don‟t care that much for places like this! But I only came here to meet girls. There are these two Austra-

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lians girls I just met, but I was by myself! That‟s why I wanted to get somebody to join me. Do you want to check these girls out? I‟ll talk to the one and you the other. How about it?” Costas shouted to me in the dark room. It cheered me a bit to hear something from someone with more normal needs and desires. “Sure, Costas! Let‟s go over there!” “My new friend immediately leapt from his chair as if he‟d been stabbed. Two minutes later we were seated opposite two girls from Terra Australis, the land of the kangaroo, the koala and the eucalyptus tree. The conversation was predictable. There were the usual, not very original questions: When and how did you arrive here? What have you seen and what do you still want to see? … After a very brief time we all concluded that this place wasn‟t a very good choice. We readily agreed to find somewhere else where we could talk and be heard, and where the smoke wasn‟t so thick. We found a suitable place, but the time passed all too quickly! A couple of hours later Costas and I were left in the middle of Prague, by ourselves. Our female companions had abandoned us. “We have to get going! We just arrived today and we‟re quite exhausted. … See you soon? Maybe tomorrow? If you‟re still here?” the two girls said to us as they hurried off to some unknown place. Costas said that he had to leave the next day, which would be the end of our time together. Maybe it wasn‟t all that bad a thing, since I was beginning to get tired of his obsessive fixation on sex. It was not unlike the sick condition of someone addicted to alcohol or drugs. He couldn‟t seem to think about anything else. He talked constantly of the girls he‟d met, on the train, on the streets

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of Prague or back home during summer work at the beach on the island of Rhodes. Didn‟t he have any other interests in life? Was that it? He especially liked to reminisce about all of the girls who visited Rhodes during the summer; the Scandinavians and Germans, and, of course, the Italians! “I have so many friends from Italy. I love the Italians. You know, every year they come…” “Costas, excuse me, but we‟d better be going! It‟s getting late.” “Just let me finish…” “Costas, I really am tired, and you‟d better get some sleep. You‟ve got a long trip ahead of you to Athens.” “That‟s true. I just wanted to tell you a little about my friends from Italy…” He went on about them for almost another hour. I had grown weary of listening to him long before that, and I was just waiting for him to run out of steam. I don‟t quite remember the details, but eventually around midnight his monologue ended. “Oh boy, sorry, but I‟ve forgotten your name.” “Michele… My name is Michele dal Pozzo. Most of my ancestors lived near a great well. We got our family name, dal Pozzo, meaning, „the well,‟ from that place.” “Good, Michele, Good night to you and good luck!” said Costas as we parted in the middle of Prague, which was mostly fast asleep by then on that cold November night. It was time that we went off on our separate ways as well. ***

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The next morning was a busy one. I had to rise early and vacate my room so that it could be made ready for another guest. The hotel had only allowed me to stay two nights without a reservation. All of the rooms, after that date, were reserved by others, as the desk clerk had told me upon my arrival: “We only have one free room, and that‟s only available for two nights. After that you‟ll have to give up the room…” That‟s what the woman at the desk had offered me, and I had accepted, assuming that I would find something else after that. Fortunately, she had been good enough to call around and find me another hotel. This one was actually a bit cheaper and the room was a lot bigger. She had even drawn a map for me so that I could find my way to the new hotel. After a half hour walk I arrived at a house in a peaceful out of the way neighborhood of Prague. I rang the bell on the door and a middle-aged woman opened it and peered out. She had been expecting me. “Maria” she asked. “Maria!” I answered. It had been agreed that that would be my password for entry. I gave her my passport and a hundred German marks, at twenty a day that would allow me to stay there five days. I figured that would be long enough for me to rest my weary bones after a trying journey across Europe. I had suffered stresses both mental and physical. I felt a need to cleanse myself both physically and spiritually. Both my clothes and my skin needed a good washing to remove the accumulated grime of my days on the road. And in the process I hoped that it would serve to refresh my sagging spirits as well. My hostess collected the money with a broad smile and handed me a key.

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The apartment was spacious and tastefully furnished. It consisted of three rooms: a sleeping room, kitchen and bath. I almost felt like a normal human being in this setting. This was the least I had paid during my entire trip of some thirty days, and it was the most luxurious of all my accommodations. I immediately began to wash my dirty clothes in warm water, and then I prepared some hot water for myself. I spent all afternoon this way, shedding every last bit of the dirt that had accumulated during my travels. And finally I laid myself down for a good, long rest. *** The Berlin Wall fell. Piece by piece it was picked apart until now you would never know it ever existed. With it disappeared the Iron Curtain as well, that notorious divider of Europe into two hostile halves. I was too late to see it. The Iron Curtain that I had heard so much about during my lifetime no longer existed. I must confess that I regretted the fact that I had never seen it. I had never paid any attention to its existence and now it was gone. Now that it no longer was there, thousands of Americans, Germans, and others from the West came pouring in. Prague was among the first Eastern Bloc cities to experience this friendly invasion because it was so close to the border. While the open border caused the half-empty stores of the city to lose even more business as people went west to shop, the restaurants and other similar establishments were booming. At least those in the center of the city were overflowing with people of every description from all over the world. I often would pause to simply take in the broad outlines of the gray buildings along some main street or

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city square. I also took in the people. I studied the expressions of the people that I would pass on the streets. I relied on these people to guide me to various parts of the downtown. I would simply join the flow of people in some particular direction, and this would eventually lead me to some quite attractive places. The city was a treasure trove of medieval historical architecture. It had retained more of its history than just about any major city in Europe. These historical monuments would serve the city well in the future. Most of the city‟s inhabitants, however, were preoccupied with their immediate needs. The rivers of humanity that flowed through the city generally led me to the streets lined with bars and restaurants. The prices were low and the food excellent, so it was no wonder that they were overflowing with customers. From the moment I arrived in Prague I began to try each of the restaurants in the downtown area. Each one had delicious aromas wafting out their doors. The food was always delicious and abundant, and there was always excellent wine to wash it down. It should have been enough for me, but I was still hungry for new experiences. The night before Costas had pointed out one particular building that he suggested was a great place for its girls, but he had also mentioned a show that had piqued my curiosity. I wanted to see it for myself. There was a doorman, dressed in fancy attire, who greeted visitors: “Good evening, sir! You will need to pay an entry fee…” Based on what I had paid I expected the place to be quite special. At least it was somewhat exclusive, given the price of admission. The room was dominated by a stage, from which, I assumed, the show would take place. Only a few of the tables in the room were occupied. I took a seat at an empty one. I read the menu on the table and

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discovered that the drinks here were, maybe, double or triple what I had paid elsewhere in Prague. To be honest, Costas had warned me that I might not like the cost of a visit to this place. “It‟s really interesting. The girls are gorgeous! But they really do soak you for it! Everything there is really expensive! You might not want to go in there! The drinks are outrageously expensive! Everything is!” Although I‟d been forewarned, I was shocked by the prices. But it didn‟t deter me. I decided to stay for the experience. “Good evening, sir! Would you like anything to drink?” asked the waitress who served my section of the room prior to the performance. I certainly did intend to have something to drink. I had already paid an entrance fee, and I was seated at a table. It was too late to change my mind and leave now. “Could I have a gin and tonic, please? And could you please tell me when the program will begin?” “It will begin in a few minutes.” In fact, it was more than a few minutes before the program got underway. I just had to swallow my annoyance and wait around until the show finally began. A group of skimpily clad girls entered the room and passed before me as they made their way to the stage area. They swayed in unison to various Western melodies played on old records. And as they danced, with each new twist and turn to the beat of the music, they would shed another article of clothing until they were completely naked. I started to shiver a bit at the thought that they must be getting chilled! The program was the most ordinary fulfillment of the male fantasy to gaze upon the naked female body. The slow undressing was all part of the experience. It was a typical Western strip tease act, with a slight Eastern Euro-

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pean flavor to it all. The program that followed included some circus acts that weren‟t all that original. I was mostly bored by some tired old routines. After a time I realized that this was not my idea of good entertainment at all. I suppose we just had very different tastes, but I couldn‟t help but wonder what he saw in this show. I began to wish that I hadn‟t come here on Costa‟s recommendation. The other guests at nearby tables were mainly pathetic old men with huge paunches who seemed to delight in the girls‟ performance. There were other women, nicely dressed, who roamed among the tables and engaged the tourists in conversation. They were probably hired to see if they could pry additional money out of the rich tourists who had been lured in for the show. I was really not into this scene at all, but it didn‟t seem worth it to roam the streets at this hour in search of something more interesting. So after a time I got up and went over to the bar and sat down on one of the stools at the counter. I ordered another gin and tonic. I had a good vantage point from there to observe the scene in the entire room. I had only taken a sip of my drink when a very pretty young woman approached me. She had raven black hair, tied in a ponytail. She was nicely made up and wore a very becoming outfit that suited her trim frame. She seemed awfully young and innocent to be working here. Such a heavenly creature seemed out of place here. “Hello,” I managed to utter. She replied in one of the sweetest voices I‟ve ever heard. I was thoroughly captivated by her smile and her first tender, melodious hello to me. She was such a picture of feminine beauty and grace.

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“Can I offer you a drink?” “Why, that would be nice. A martini!” she answered as she sat down beside me. I watched her slowly and quite carefully lift the glass in her two hands. We exchanged several brief glances and then quickly looked away. I turned my eyes toward the scene in the room, but as quickly returned them to her, and we smiled at each other. “Are you from here?” “Yes, I live here in Prague. My name is Elena.” “Very pleased to meet you, Elena. I‟m from Italy…” “Where exactly do you live in Italy?” “Do you know Italy very well? Have you been there before?” “No, I‟ve never been there. I‟ve never been out of the country. But I‟ve learned all about it!” “I‟m from southern Italy, from Sicily. From a town called…” Sicily! Isn‟t that where the Mafia is?” “As far as I know, they are present there. But most people aren‟t involved with them.” “Yes. And what do you do?” “I have… Or more precisely I should say, our family has a restaurant. I work there!” “It seems like Italians always open restaurants everywhere they go and make pasta and pizzas…” “That‟s true! There are a lot of Italians who do that, but they do other work as well.” I thoroughly enjoyed hearing her questions, posed in that sweet voice of hers. She was so sweet and lovely, like a fairy princess. I savored every word of our conversation, choosing my own words with great care. I felt com-

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pletely caught up in the moment. All of the unpleasantness that had occurred in the past, or worries about the future were thoroughly pushed out of mind. The whole time I kept wondering what on earth was a heavenly creature like her doing in a place like this? The hour was so late and she was all by herself. It didn‟t make any sense to me. “And what is it that you do?” I finally dared to ask her such a personal question. The question caught her off guard, and she hesitated slightly before answering. She looked a bit embarrassed, and a small smile slowly crept over her face as she answered me: “Why, I work here!” “Here?” I blurted much too loudly, unable to conceal my astonishment. Her answer had been quite simple and matter of fact. But it seemed so strange to me. There was certainly a mystery here. It caused a brief pause in our conversation. I studied the scene around me and then sought more of an answer in my own mind. She couldn‟t happen to work here at the bar, could she? But then would she be on this side of the bar, then? Was she a dancer or a waitress here? No, I couldn‟t imagine that. She didn‟t seem like the girls who were doing that here. Now if she had told me that she was waiting for her grandmother here, or that she had just come in to warm up while she waited for the bus to Karlovi Vari, or some similar tale, I would have been more liable to believe it, no matter how far from the truth. But that she worked here? That sounded utterly unbelievable to me.‟ “I‟m sorry, but I can‟t imagine you in any of the work roles here,” I finally said, as I surveyed the room. I watched one rather stout, blond haired woman as she

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roamed among the tables engaging the rich, fat old German and Austrian tourists in conversation in German. „Could she by any chance be…?‟ the disturbing thought crossed my mind. I looked at Elena. She drained the last few drops of her drink, and then she looked me square in the eye. She had no idea about the thoughts that were racing though my mind at that moment. But she certainly had noticed my upset at hearing her words. Now she stood there awaiting my response. I had watched the women who roamed the streets of Amsterdam or could be seen on certain street corners throughout Italy. I had also looked at the women who posed in the windows of houses in Amsterdam. But Elena didn‟t remind me of any of them. She appeared utterly unblemished and uncorrupted. I simply couldn‟t imagine her as part of that world. She certainly appeared far too beautiful and bright to belong to that sordid profession. She had to have better options than that. It just couldn‟t be! As unpleasant as it was to have to admit what was becoming obvious, I finally risked asking: “And are you paid well for your work? How much do you earn?” “50 marks an hour… And that‟s just for me, but guests have to also pay for the hotel room.” “What about for the whole night?” “For the whole night he‟ll pay 150 marks “And the guest also pays for the room.” “Yes, that‟s right.” “Hmm.” I was annoyed with myself for not catching on sooner, and I was momentarily at a loss for words. “That‟s not bad pay, Elena! You make as much in an hour as some girls in the shops make in a month. I met a girl in a furniture store today who told me that she earned about 50 German marks a month.”

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“That‟s right! Wages are incredibly low here. It‟s hardly worth working for such wages!” “And your work is good…” I teased her a bit, although her situation actually seemed sad to me. “It‟s better than working for next to nothing in a shop somewhere.” I seemed to be unconsciously falling into the role of being her counselor or therapist. Here I was asking her a series of personal questions and drawing her out, so that I could understand her motivations and feelings that led her to such work. I simply couldn‟t help myself, since I couldn‟t imagine why such a pretty and charming girl would make such a choice. I could see that my questions were beginning to bother her. She had appeared so cheerful and carefree when I first met her, but now her brow was furrowed and her face took on a troubled look. My next question only seemed to deepen that mood. “And your parents? What do they think about your choice of work, Elena?” “They don‟t. I don‟t live with them.” “Where do you live?” “With my boy friend and his parents!” “Does he know where you are right now? What does he think of your work?” “They know. All of them do.” “And what do they say?” “Nothing… What could they say? When I bring home so much money!” She said this in a voice that expressed more a sense of justification than satisfaction. I know her answer didn‟t sound very satisfactory to me, for her family or her society. I felt bad that she didn‟t seem to be able to understand

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my concern for the toll this choice of work would have to take on her spirit. It seemed like she just saw me as an inquisitive shopper. But Elena was no longer exuding warmth and good cheer. She was beginning to doubt that I was a likely buyer of her particular product. And as it became clearer that there probably would be no sale, she began to look for some way to get away from me, to go looking for better prospects, likelier customers elsewhere in the room. She seemed to know just how to extricate herself from my unwanted questions, and she did so in the most practical no-nonsense way. “You‟re drunk!” she announced. “I don‟t like to have anything to do with drunks.” Those were the last words she had to say to me. It was a very unpleasant, but quite effective way, to get rid of me. She simply dismissed me, and then began scanning the room, before being on her way in search of someone more to her liking. “Who‟s drunk? Me? No way!” I responded, but there was no one there to hear my words. She was long gone by then. She had work to do, money to earn. And she didn‟t want to waste any more time with someone like me. She seemed to have better things to do than linger in conversation with an armchair psychoanalyst. Or so it appeared. I couldn‟t help but be bothered by the way she had rid herself of me. It was as if she were shedding some burr that had caused her a temporary irritation. I was nothing more than that to her. And in fact, she really was nothing more to me than a passing creature, one of the many I would meet in passing on my road through life. There was no real point in letting her words upset me. What was the point? But then again, I didn‟t want to view other people

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as mere objects in my path, without feelings or due my regard or respect. Such encounters also forced me to consider how I tended to misjudge those around me, to project my fantasies upon them. I had far too easily assumed that Elena was a person of high moral character simply because I wanted her to be that. On the other hand, I had seen some of the potential she had to rise above her present circumstances in life. She was young and beautiful and smart. There was no reason why she couldn‟t turn her life around. Get out of the sordid profession she had entered on. She could still make something of herself, and earn her way in the world in a more honorable and self-respecting manner. But what could she do? Was it all that easy? According to the Bible we are all born into a world of sin and misery as a result of the original sin that had caused the first people, Adam and Eve, to be cast out of the Garden of Eden. Was it an original laziness in us that began all of our problems? The Lord seems to have blundered when he made people lazy, and it justified his casting them out of paradise. This created the conditions, however, for further violation of His commandments. All sorts of sins came about as a result of our failure to obey his commandments: hatred, pride, selfishness, lying, stealing, murder… Casting the first people out of paradise didn‟t serve to teach them a lesson. It only seems to have led to even worse behavior. I grew up in a patriarchal Catholic home. That had been the way in my family for as long as anyone could remember. I had learned most of my values from the Bible‟s teachings from an early age. I‟ve never quite understood though, if God is all-powerful, couldn‟t he have just

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corrected Adam and Eve‟s behavior? It seems like he could have, at least, put some kind of barrier around the tree to keep them away, if he didn‟t want them to eat the fruit. Does this mean he isn‟t all-powerful? (What a heretical thought!) All he was willing to do was to ask Adam and Eve not to eat of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. He refused to do anything more to try and stop and them. Why would he do that, unless his plan was to leave it up to them to make the decision to obey him or not? And here is where I think that laziness was the root cause of their downfall. They were too lazy to even ask God something as simple as what the consequences would be if they ate from the tree. And even when the snake came to tempt them, they could have informed their mighty Creator of what the snake was telling them, to get his opinion, but they never bothered. What on earth were they thinking? It seems that they weren‟t thinking at all when they got themselves cast out of heaven for tasting of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of good and evil. They were simply too lazy to give the matter the thought it deserved. You know, I‟ve thought this for the longest time, but I‟ve never shared these thoughts with anyone. I don‟t think I would have dared mention such thoughts to my family when I was growing up. To suggest that an allpowerful God had to ask Adam and Eve what had happened just seemed absurd. Would an all-seeing, allknowing God have to ask them why were they now embarrassed to stand before their creator naked? All I can think is that he consciously set them up for their fall. Adam and Eve were originally no different than the other creatures on earth. They lived simple lives, eating and drinking whatever was at hand, going about with-

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out clothing to protect them from the elements, without cares or concerns. They had no particular responsibilities to fulfill, for themselves or for the world around them. They did not need Godâ&#x20AC;&#x;s help. They simply lived a carefree existence. It seems that God was not satisfied with his creation. He wanted to see them develop consciousness, the ability to develop character. Therefore, he concocted the plot, with the snake cast as the villain, to have them eat from the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil. And from that day on humanity has been obliged to strive for further fruit of knowledge. We need to understand things in order to survive. Adam and Eve built upon their first few kernels of knowledge to make the first tools in order to work the land, to hunt and to fish. And we have continued over the generations to build upon that knowledge until today we have all of the present-day inventions of civilization. Although many of the works of past generations seem like simple childâ&#x20AC;&#x;s playthings today, we are still far from any kind of perfection. We are still far from god-like in our abilities and understanding. Perfect enlightenment and everlasting life are but dreams. The farther we travel in the universe the more we discover the endlessness of the journey. At present a journey through time and space requires incredible efforts and courage. Only the hardiest and most courageous among us dare to venture into space today. The vast majority of people consider such bold exploration foolhardy. You can say what you like, but the feats of Marco Polo, Columbus, Magellan and similar explorers are beyond the abilities of most of us. We lack the courage and imagination of such men. Men like Einstein and Galileo receive the highest praise today for their

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bold vision, as well as other men like Alexander the Great, who achieved unbelievable feats. Such men did not let fear of death stop them. And as a result they achieved an immortality of sorts. Their spirits transcended the normal bounds of humanity, even if their bodies eventually perished like all others. Such people, however, are incredibly rare, those who have achieved a degree of immortality through bold and visionary feats. I can only imagine the scene when such a person comes before God: â&#x20AC;&#x17E;Lord, you cast us out of your home and denied us a life of easy abundance. And to make matters worse you have made us mortal and denied us understanding of the great mysteries of life and the universe. You havenâ&#x20AC;&#x;t made it at all easy for us to gain access to knowledge, but we will endure all of the suffering and the passage of time that it may require to unlock the great secrets of life and the universe. And one day we truly will attain wisdom and immortality. If our physical bodies are made to return to dust and ashes, our immortal souls are not. We will pass on our spirit to those who come after us, and someday they will stand at your side, your equals in their perfection!â&#x20AC;&#x; We know that you have decided that we must suffer, but as a responsible parent to your children you have given us the tools to think and do for ourselves. And you have provided us with the fundaments of knowledge for us to build upon and expand into broad and all-encompassing understanding. Those among us who succeed in overcoming our inherent fear and laziness will lead the way into a better future. Building upon the efforts of early pioneers in science, and the astrologers and alchemists of the past, the dedicated scientists of the present and of the future will guide us into a world that will come more and

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more over time to resemble your promise of heaven. Their achievements will include conquest of the darkest depths of the ocean and may soon include the creation of life itself! What is it, after all, that all of the humble supplicants of our world want? Most of all, they, the multitude of believers of all faiths throughout the globe, long for perfect union with you. They yearn for a return to the lost paradise you gave to the first people of your creation. They imagine some resurrection or reincarnation in an eternal life. The vast majority, however, feel lost and afraid. They do not know how to muster the spiritual power to overcome their cowardice and lack of ambition. And so the gates of heaven remain closed to them. They fall into grave error: they lie, they cheat they steal, and they murder one another. In other words, they violate all of your commandments. All because they lack the faith and courage to discipline themselves for the hard work demanded of them. And so they are denied the fruits of labor, the abundance that once was ours in the lost paradise. I believe that humanity must accept the fact that it is only through much difficult and demanding work that we will find salvation. We will have to muster the spiritual strength to overcome our inherent laziness and finally arrive in the promised land, the dreamed of paradise, where all will live in peace and harmony. Does that remind you of the utopian vision of those who once established communist states? They certainly envisioned a perfect, peaceful and harmonious society. Some of those whose ideas they tried to implement certainly were visionary thinkers and philosophers. However, the efforts to implement these ideas fell into the hands of

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greedy, self-serving individuals who turned the dream of utopian socialism into a nightmare. How will we ever achieve perfection if humanity has such difficulty distinguishing honest advisors from self-serving liars? While we reach for the fruit of the tree of knowledge, we never know when the fruit is just beyond our grasp on tender, slim branches that give way under our weight and send us once again sprawling in the dirt below. Once again to have to pick ourselves up and dust ourselves off and try again for success… With my mind still pondering the great mysteries of life, questions that troubled me, if not most people, I continued to follow Elena‟s progress around the room. Now she was engaged in a conversation with the chubby blonde woman and several gray-haired older men. „No doubt she is now offering her services to those fat, old men. Why else would a young woman like her, a third their age, engage them in conversation? She must remind them of their own lost youth,‟ I thought to myself. I suddenly had an image of Elena as the first woman, Eve. Like Eve, she had decided to gather the easily obtained, but forbidden fruit. She imagined that she could live a life of ease, without any demanding and difficult labors. But Eve‟s life, in my mind, was far more romantic than that of Elena. Unlike Eve, Elena was a flesh and blood person, there in the room for me to see, a real and also somewhat sad figure. I couldn‟t resist the temptation to look her way. (Strangely enough, she also occasionally glanced my way with a slight smirk on her face, as if she half expected me to decide to hire her services.) This was my first chance ever for a close up view of the „world‟s oldest profession.‟ I began to wonder what „made them tick‟? To me they just seemed to be unthink-

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ing parasites, people who didn‟t want to earn their money, but who were instead willing to engage in the most primitive animal-like relation to other people in order to reap a material reward. Most people would have had ethical or moral reservations about doing what they did. Did some of these prostitutes also sometimes have qualms about what they were doing? I could only understand their behavior through my own background, education and experience, and it didn‟t make much sense to me. In the meantime, the room had filled up with people. The smoke, the loud music and the chattering of the crowd were all too much for me. I was in no mood to enjoy such an atmosphere. My thoughts had turned dark and gloomy. So I got up and made my way out onto the street and headed back in the direction of my temporary home here. „The vast majority of the population is already asleep, dreaming of the new day, when they can once again take up the struggle to realize their life‟s ambitions. That is, all those who aren‟t out enjoying the city‟s nightlife. The streets, though, are empty. I‟m just about the only one out at this hour…‟ I thought to myself. Just about then my thoughts were interrupted by the nearby rumble of a car engine. Then the darkness was torn by the glare of headlights. The car slowly followed alongside me, keeping pace with my movements down the sidewalk. I kept expecting it to move on and leave me to ponder my thoughts in peace. I didn‟t think it would be wise to change my course or direction in order to evade it. Then I heard the worn brakes of the aging car catch and the sound of the engine slow to an idle as the car came to a halt close behind me. Then I heard the car door open and someone stepped out. This shook me out of my deep

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contemplation, and I decided to quicken my pace to avoid any kind of trouble this might represent. “Hey, you!” I heard a hoarse shout from behind me. I realized then that the call was directed at me, since I was the only person in the vicinity. So I stopped and turned around, in the direction from which the voice had originated. I was met by the angry, frowning gaze of a policeman, who was standing partially out the door of his car. He wore a green khaki uniform, and he was carrying a particularly long and menacing-looking truncheon. The policeman approached me, while shouting something in his own language. The hostile look on his face made me think that he might decide to begin hitting me with his truncheon before even finding out who I was or what I was doing. I couldn‟t think of any reason why he had singled me out. I certainly hadn‟t broken any law or caused trouble for any of the citizens of his country. Had I?... It was half past midnight. Did they have some sort of curfew here? A law left over from communist days, maybe? But there were still a lot of people out in the bars and cafes at this hour… The stern guardian of public order strode up to me and glared in my face. He kept asking me for something, but I didn‟t understand a word of what he said. My pleading look only seemed to further enrage him. I finally realized that he probably wanted to see my identification papers. But my passport was back in the apartment. I had to come up with something quickly, or he might decide to use his club on me. I had to make him understand that I was just an innocent tourist, a guest in his country. That I was someone who was here on a friendly visit, not a troublemaker or a vagrant of any kind.

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“Do you speak English? Italiano? Deutsch?” I asked in a trembling voice, hoping that we could find some mutual language to communicate in before he completely lost his temper with me. My body tensed, ready to accept blows from his rubber truncheon at any moment. He didn‟t seem to be responding at all to my words. He just continued to shout at me all the more angrily in his native tongue. Maybe he thought that I was just playing dumb with him, acting like I didn‟t understand what he was saying to me. “Tourist! Tourist! Passport! Hotel!” I called out, entreating him to grasp my meaning, while gesturing with my hands, begging him to understand me. I had almost given up hope that he would understand me when, to my great relief, he finally shouted at me: “Get out of here!” He must have finally decided that I really was an innocent tourist. He motioned for me to move along, and then turned and strode back to his car, while continuing to mutter to himself in an angry and disgusted voice. He slammed the door and raced the engine of the graylooking old Shkoda as he drove off. (In the dark I couldn‟t really see it all that well, but it seemed rather dilapidated to me.) Now I was left alone again in the dark and silence of the late night street. There was only the dimmest of light coming from distant street lamps. It took me some moments to regain my composure after such a frightening encounter. My body still trembled a bit, and the cold shivers that traveled up my spine made the cool night feel even chillier to me. And I had been so convinced that Prague would be more peaceful and pleasant than Amsterdam. But for all of its corrupt ways, at least the police were much more civil

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and decent there than they were here, I muttered to myself as I made my way back to my warm, temporary Prague home. It may have only been a temporary home here, but it felt like a safe haven after my time on the nighttime streets. I rushed to open the door and get myself safely inside. I lay there on my back in the pitch dark trying to get to sleep, but such peaceful rest seemed to elude me for hours. My need for sleep seemed to be overpowered by continuing thoughts of the terrible threat that had almost overtaken me on the streets that evening. I was also plagued by recurring thoughts of my encounter with Elena. One thing in particular kept bothering me. From the moment the lovely young woman approached me, I had noticed a glittering, finely crafted gold, if it was real gold, cross, fastened by a delicate chain around her neck. I had always understood this to be a powerful symbol through which believers in Christ recognized one another, through the powerful symbol of Jesus‟s crucifixion and terrible suffering for our sins. What did it mean, hanging from the lovely neck of such a person as this young woman? I had plenty of time to contemplate this, and all that had happened that evening in the restaurant, now that I was alone here in the dark of my room. I wasn‟t particularly religious, but even I had some sense of the powerful meaning of this symbol, and I couldn‟t help but be struck by the contradiction between her actions and her choice of symbols to display on her person. Christ‟s teachings were in direct opposition to her behavior, was all that I could think. How could she wear such a symbol and still do what she did? It seemed quite frivolous and unthinking on her part. But then who was I

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to presume to know what she thought and how she felt about her religion? Then again, like so many others, she could be just kidding herself about the hypocrisy of her actions, imagining herself to be a good Christian, while denying some of Christianity‟s most basic teachings. There were plenty of others who wore the symbol as if that somehow absolved them of some crude behavior or other. I had witnessed such hypocrisy myself as a kid. I remember the time when the men of the family would take up the Bible and quote some passage to their wives in a loud and dramatic voice to the effect of: “A wife must obey her husband in all things! You don‟t believe me? Here it is, right here!” they would say, and then use that as an excuse to go down to the local café and spend time in the evening with their pals while the women stayed home and slaved over the housework late into the evening. And we kids would laugh at the domestic drama as it unfolded, as if it were a funny scene out of some play. But it was really no different than the hypocrisy involved in Elena‟s display of the cross. She seemed to have more of a grasp of its deeper significance than the lazy men who quoted passages from the Bible out of context in order to shirk their responsibility to their wives. No doubt she shared much of their own shallow belief that men had some moral right to do as they pleased with women. This was so, because she had chosen to become a plaything for all men. Sure, she received a monetary reward for this, but it didn‟t change the fact that she was used by them in a way that no ethical or moral person could justify. No matter how she had smirked at me, as if I were the naïve one, it didn‟t change that fact. And her wearing of the gold cross around her neck only

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made the contradiction all the more evident to me. With the image of that cross in my mind, I suddenly fell asleep. *** I spent a few more days, that quickly passed, in the city of Prague. They were peaceful and calm days. I had a new awareness of the source of so much of the wrongful behavior that I saw around me now, and I made some new effort to avoid it. I took care to continue floating in the peaceful waters of a new-found spiritual calm that seemed to come to me in well-lit restaurants and behind the thick walls of my room in Prague. Although the apartment I had rented in the city was just a short-term home, it felt as if I were in my own home. During the day I roamed the streets and gazed at the medieval walls and facades of the churches and estates of Prague. I strolled the city squares and main streets. I tried to get a sense of the cityâ&#x20AC;&#x;s past through its public monuments and artwork. At night I would rest from my exertions, and gather my strength for the next dayâ&#x20AC;&#x;s excursion.

Chapter Eight The thick fog, that reminded me of the heavy droplets of mist that waterfalls create, put me in a glum mood as I set off on the next leg of my journey. All that I could see out of the train window were the vague outlines of the occasional tree trunk and the faint outline of a mountain range on the horizon. I strained to find traces of the beauty of the landscape that the fog hid from my eyes. All it did was tire me out. The only evidence I had that I had passed the border of one country and entered another was the lengthy delay while documents were verified by border authorities. I wondered how the border sentries knew where their land began and their neighborâ&#x20AC;&#x;s ended in this fog. It was the thickest I had ever seen it. The little that had been visible through the fog was totally swallowed up by the dark. The fog itself disappeared into the black night. The entire continent from the Bosphorus to Gibraltar, from Archangel to the British Isles, all of the seashores, rivers, lakes, mountains, plains, cities and villages were plunged into darkness. I sat in a small oasis of light in my railcar. My vision reached no further than the reflection off the compartmentâ&#x20AC;&#x;s window glass. All I had to look at during the long night journey was the reflection of my own weary, preoccupied face in the window. Nothing else was visible through the glass. This led, as it had at such times during other journeys, to my turning my attention toward the interior of the compartment and my fellow passengers. There were only two other passengers in the compartment,

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a husband and wife, sitting opposite each other close to the door. I hadn‟t paid much attention to their arrival in the car some time ago. The man had greeted me with a slight nod of his head when they came in, but I hadn‟t paid them much mind since then. Maybe he murmured something at the time, but if so, I hadn‟t heard it, because I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts, and, by nature, I‟ve never had much interest in small talk. But now that the darkness outside had robbed me of any connection to the outside world, I was drawn to my fellow travelers. Under the circumstances, the three of us were easily brought into contact and conversation. It was as if we were castaways together on a desert island, or desert travelers who chanced to meet at an isolated oasis as night fell, who had to make do with the limited number of people who shared the isolation. Under such circumstances the most unlikely fellow travelers will seek some sort of common ground in order to find solace in human companionship. Likely potential enemies can become temporary brothers when conditions demand it. Even so… I don‟t know where I heard it, or maybe read it, but a story came to mind. As a result of a terrible storm, the survivors of a shipwreck were cast up on a desert island. By chance (if there is such a thing), the two sole survivors were both Englishmen. After many months or years they were finally rescued by a passing ship. Much to the surprise of their rescuers, the two castaways had little knowledge of each other. They didn‟t even know each other‟s names. Incredibly, they had not bothered to speak a single word to each other during the entire time of their shared abandonment on the isolated island! How could that be? It was all quite simple. They had been taught their entire

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lives not to speak to strangers. And there had been no one there to introduce them to each other. Whether this story was true or not, it was a great bit of wit to laugh over, that had more than a little wisdom to impart. I was inclined to think that, if such a thing had happened, it was, all the same, highly unlikely. My fellow passengers and I certainly wouldn‟t have such trouble introducing one another and launching into some sort of conversation. I couldn‟t imagine that there were people who wouldn‟t manage somehow to break the ice and begin a conversation, even if it only led to their dislike of one another. The rattle of the door as it was being opened put a temporary halt to my musings. The shadow of a solitary figure appeared in the doorway. I heard something muttered in an unintelligible language. Was it a greeting or something of that sort? Although I didn‟t understand what he had said, it was clear from his uniform and leather pouch that he was here to see our tickets. My fellow passengers drew some foreign currency out of their pockets for him, while I searched for my ticket. After he had seen to our tickets he muttered something unintelligible to me once again, and he slammed the door behind him and departed as quickly as he had arrived, leaving us alone once again. Now it was obvious that I was the traveler from a more distant land, a foreigner who didn‟t know the language of the country we were in. This fact seemed to arouse the interest of my fellow passengers, especially the man. The husband openly studied me, and he looked for an opportune moment to engage me in a conversation. I tried to avoid his gaze, and, in so doing, put off our

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conversation. I knew it was inevitable that we would eventually talk, given the long hours that we were confined together in this narrow space. I just wasn‟t prepared to initiate it. “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” my fellow traveler ventured with a friendly look my way. “Ja.” I answered. Then he introduced himself. “I am from Romania, and this is my wife.” And she nodded her head, and then retreated back into her private thoughts. “Hello” I greeted them, with an uneasy feeling that I was liable to be drawn into a long and tedious conversation. “Where are you going?” he asked, with obvious curiosity. The question seemed friendly enough though, so I told him a bit about my recent travels. “Have you been to Romania before?” “No, I‟ve never been to Romania.” “Never?” “No, never.” “But do you think you might someday?” I studied the man a bit more carefully now. His questions were somehow making me uncomfortable. There was something about his voice and the way he kept staring at me as he asked one question after another that bothered me. What was he after? Why was he so intent on engaging me in conversation? Why was it so important to him that I should visit his homeland? “I don‟t know. Maybe some day I will. But I don‟t really know when.” “Any chance you might visit yet this year?” he seemed to want as precise an answer as he could possibly get from me.

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“It could be this year, or maybe next year. I don‟t know. I‟m just not sure.” I answered in a way that I hoped would avoid any possible insult to his native land, although his insistent tone made me feel like there was no way I would really want to accept the invitation. “So, you‟re pretty likely to go to Romania soon, is that right?” “Sure, why not? I‟ve heard that it is a beautiful country, and I wouldn‟t mind seeing it. I‟m sure I‟ll be visiting some day soon.” I thought that would reassure my fellow traveler that I had only the friendliest of attitudes and intentions toward his native land and people. But I was beginning to feel like maybe there was a darker side to his questioning that suggested that caution might be in order. „What if these were enemies of the Romanian state and they wanted to determine if I was a friend of their enemies? What then?‟ I thought to myself. “Good! In that case, I have a proposal for you!” he said in a decisive voice. And he leaned his head toward me, as if he was about to share some deep, dark secret with me. „Is he trying to recruit me for some secret service, or something?‟ I wondered anxiously. His wife momentarily raised her eyebrows and glanced our way. I could hear the pounding of my heart in my chest now, as my fear began to rise. “Do you have … any money?” Suddenly I felt a rising anger and bitterness. What was he up to? Did he want to borrow some money from me? No, it was more likely that he intended to rob me! “Money?”

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“Yes, do you have any money with you? American dollars, or German marks? Or any others?” What kind of question was that for a stranger to be asking another stranger? What kind of a person would be so bold? Not any one I would like to meet. And he certainly couldn‟t be up to anything good. It made the rage rise up inside of me. I was tempted to grab him by the neck and throttle the life out of him. I imagined that he could be the worst of monsters. Was this his wife, or a woman held captive for the sex trade? I had heard some terrible stories. Who knew what he might be into, selling body parts on the black market or procuring women for West European brothels. “I have a little cash with me, but not much,” I answered, while trying to keep my raging emotions under control. “And how much do you have?” he dared to ask me. “Wait a minute. Why do you want to know?” I was losing my patience with him. It was time for me to start asking the questions. He had certainly shaken me up, and I didn‟t like it one bit. “I have…” he began, as he leaned toward me so that I thought he might fall over. „A gun!‟ the terrible thought immediately flashed through my mind, followed within seconds by a series of calculations. „He must have a pistol hidden under his coat, and he‟s about to pull it out and threaten me with it, and demand money. If that‟s the case, I‟ll just have to give him what he wants. He can have it all, my money, my passport, my coat, everything! Just so he leaves me alive,‟ I consoled myself.

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“Lei!” he uttered sadly, as his eyes met mine in a penetrating gaze. “Lei?” I asked with a sudden sense of relief, after my terrible premonition. I had expected him to announce that he had a bomb, or a woman to sell… “Yes, I have Romanian money. I have lei. If you are going to Romania you could use it. You‟ll need it! We could exchange some…” Now he sounded much more like an ordinary human being to me. But why had he beaten around the bush about it? He could have just said that he wanted to exchange some money, right off. He must have been embarrassed to ask… “I don‟t need any lei,” I answered, once I‟d calmed back down. “But you said that you would probably visit Romania,” he expressed his surprise. “But I won‟t be going any time soon. I wouldn‟t know what to do with them.” “You see, I need some German marks or American dollars, but I don‟t have any way to get any in Romania.” “I‟m sorry, I really am, but I can‟t help you. I just won‟t need any lei where I‟m going.” “When you do finally go there, you could use them.” The Romanian just didn‟t want to give up on it. “Besides that, I just don‟t have any extra money to trade you. I don‟t have any more dollars or marks. I‟m out of money! I‟ve used it all up. All I‟ve got is my ticket, and I‟m on my way home now!” And I pulled out my ticket as some sort of proof of this, and that ended the conversation. I don‟t know whether he believed me or not, but he quit trying to convince me to trade him some money. He looked quite discouraged as he retreated back to his own

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seat. It was probably one of the softer seats he‟d known in his life. His wife gave me a brief dull glance, and then she also turned her back on me. Silence filled the wagon once again. There was only the distant rattle of the wheels on the tracks as a background sound. I never heard another word from my fellow travelers for the rest of the trip. I‟m not sure where exactly we were at the time, but some time in the middle of the night, the man nudged his wife and the two of them got off the train at some out of the way little station. He offered me a slight smile as he left, tinged with a bit of sadness. “Have a good journey,” were his parting words, as he gently closed the door after them, as if it might break in his hands. Then he disappeared into the dark, following in his life mate‟s footsteps. It was only a brief stop in the pitch dark, and I never even saw a sign indicating the station. I had no idea where they had come from or where they were going next. All we‟d had was a brief conversation about exchanging money. They appeared to be far from home. Maybe they had relatives here, or there was some sort of trouble in their lives that had forced them to make such a journey in the cold, dark night. I couldn‟t help but feel a bit sorry for the husband, whom I had, for a moment there, mistaken for a thug. He was just another poor man struggling to get by in life… I really wish I could have helped him out, but his troubles were beyond me. He would have to look elsewhere for relief.

Chapter Nine It is a challenging task to be a responsible, thinking person. But those who think too much can bring real misery upon themselves. This is especially true if a person doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x;t have a strong moral or spiritual compass. It can lead to really dangerous behavior. So I tried to just close my eyes and shut my mind down. I wanted to escape all of my fears and concerns in the dream world of sleep. Even with my eyes closed I could still hear the constant clatter of the train on its tracks as it passed the fields and crossed rivers and wove its way through the towns and villages. The sound of the trak-trak-trak of the train should have lulled me to sleep, but the fact that it never went silent must have meant that I never actually fell asleep. Or did I sleep, and I dreamed of the clatter of the train on the tracks in my sleep? I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x;t seem to sort my sleeping state from my waking state. And I had no clear sense of where I was or what, if any, connection I had to the rumbling train or the countryside beyond the track. That is, until the train finally came to a halt. Once the train grew silent I opened my eyes and began to focus on the waking world around me. It was the silence that brought me back to consciousness. I stretched my arms and legs, and wiggled my cramped toes, and finally exercised my entire body. I could hear my bones creak as I did this. I soon managed to work all of the sleepiness out of my body. I then stood and stretched and felt a pleasurable sensation as life poured back into my

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recently sleep deadened frame. Then I slid the window down and reached my head out to let waves of cool breeze lap over my face. The train had stopped at some unfamiliar, out of the way station. I couldn‟t see a station sign, and there was no one to ask where we were. As I peered out into the night landscape beyond the station I could see the multitude of tiny sparkling lights of a large city off in the distance. My attention was briefly drawn to the retreating steps of someone walking away from the train. Once the sound had completely gone away, I knew I was truly alone. The last of my fellow passengers had departed, gone off to wherever they had been bound for, leaving me by myself on the big, empty train parked in the equally empty station. The sense of sad loneliness that had settled over me suddenly turned into panic as the lights on the train, without any warning, were shut down. Obviously we had reached the end of the line. I had slept through all of the stops, and now here I was, God knows where, all by myself in the middle of the night on a dark, abandoned train. And as I peered out into the pitch black night I could see that the fog had again rolled in, enveloping me here as well. “And here,” I muttered half aloud, though there was no one else to hear. The gray fog mist, like swarms of tiny insects, had gathered around the distant street lamps, small outposts of dim light in the surrounding darkness. The fog seemed woven in a strange mix of light and dark patches as it meandered its way through the settlement. I strained to see what path I should take through the fog bound night land-

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scape beyond. Memories of past sights and sounds flooded my mind. Was I still dreaming? This dreaming, or longing for something beyond my reach, only served to weigh me down, even more than the heavy pack on my back as I trudged into the dark night in search of some refuge. „What is it, a river?‟ I asked myself as I approached the dim bank of the wide river that bisected the city beyond. This provided me with a solid landmark to follow along in the dark. I walked upstream in the direction of its source. Was my mind unconsciously leading me in the direction of the river‟s source, in some spring, high up in the distant mountains? After maybe a half hour of following the river‟s course, I decided to abandon it and cross over on one of its bridges. This led me to a broad city square. I stood in the center of the square for a time, unsure of where to go next. The facades of the surrounding buildings were so enveloped in fog, or my eyes refused to focus, I don‟t know which, but I was unable to even determine the era or style of their construction. Here too, there was no evidence of life. Everyone and everything seemed to have died away for the night. There was no sound or activity anywhere around me. Only the surrounding streetlights hinted at the city‟s life. It was like a ghost town, abandoned by all who had once lived there. If only I had some idea of where I was! A worker at the railway station had tried to warn me. He had grabbed me by the shoulders and said something to me, but I didn‟t understand what he said. I only knew that he wanted to warn me about something. Now I regretted that I had strayed into this strange city. I should have stayed put until morning.

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I had intended to get off at the central station in Belgrade, but I had blundered and slept through that stop, and now I was in some unfamiliar place. This certainly wasn‟t Belgrade. How far had I wandered off course, I had no idea. Caught up in my thoughts I stumbled into a shadowy figure. Although it was hard to tell for sure, it appeared to be a man. He looked at me, and I looked at him. We stood face to face, neither one of us moved in the least. “What are you, a devil or a man?” I mumbled. “You‟re not a statue, or I would have noticed you earlier.” I began to study him with the utmost curiosity. I couldn‟t take my eyes off of him for some reason. I noticed every detail of his person. I forgot all about the cold, damp night air, the fog that seemed to chill me to the bone. He wasn‟t the least bit pleasing to the eye. He was just a dirty, weather-beaten old tramp. It seemed like all of the misfortunes of this life were collected in his being. He was the personification of poverty and deprivation. But there was nothing threatening or hostile about him. “You might be an escapee from an asylum, but you‟re no devil,” I mumbled mostly to myself, and maybe to get some response out of him. If the devil roamed the earth after being cast out by God, he certainly didn‟t masquerade as a beggar like this man. He, no doubt, took the form of a respectable, upstanding citizen. He could lure people to their doom most easily by appearing to have fine things for them. He wouldn‟t take the form of someone who has nothing to recommend him, neither fine clothes, good looks, or material possessions. We stood there stock still, in the dark square in the middle of the night, opposite one another, for the longest time. We just stared at one another. At one moment, it

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appeared that his eyes were beginning to tear up, it seemed that he was about to burst into tears. He opened his mouth, as if he were about to laugh or maybe speak, but nothing came out, and it only revealed a further depth of his misery. It revealed a few yellow, rotting teeth, all that remained after most of them had fallen out. Then he began to extend his right hand. But just when I thought that he was about to offer me some greeting, he dropped his hand to his side. Palm out. I could see that his hand was empty. It had seemed as if he was about to offer me something, but he obviously had nothing to give. All of his movements were extremely slow. It required patient observation to detect any movement at all. The old man seemed frozen in time. He would occasionally begin some motion. His hand would rise slightly and then fall back down, and his gaze would drop down as well. It was hard to imagine what went through his mind. Was my own gaze simply too much for him to bear? “Can you speak? You must know some kind of human language. You must know the language in which your mother spoke to you. So why don‟t you say something?” But he still didn‟t utter a sound. He just stood there, as if he were deaf and dumb, and frozen in place. Maybe he really was deaf and dumb. But even such people know how to communicate something either through sounds or gestures. Even an animal knows how to express itself through barks or whistles or some such thing. This man who stood in front of me didn‟t make any sense. He didn‟t act in any way that I could understand, begging for help, sharing information, or the like. He didn‟t seem to want anything.

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I simply stood there transfixed. I also couldn‟t seem to just be on my way again. We were like two statues in the square, set face to face. Once again my thoughts raced out of control. Fiona is in a restaurant right now in the big hotel alongside the highway; she is gathering up the dishes, pushing the fragrant leftovers aside. By day she plays the role of the successful businesswoman, but during the night, unbidden, come unexpressed doubts to haunt her. She has her home with a view, but at what cost? ... Paolo is standing on a street corner again or in the middle of one of the many bridges across the canals of Amsterdam. He‟s waiting for his latest victim, somebody to buy his poisonous wares so that he can survive for another day. He sells the crumbs of a transitory dream, a bit of pleasure that, in fact, has costs that come due later. … And now I see Jim. I watch as he mixes the potion for customers who want an elixir that will transport them into a place where they can forget all of their cares and unfulfilled dreams in life. Or they simply want an escape from reality. And there is Elena in her „work place.‟ She is circling around the tables of white haired old men. She is waiting for one of them to bite. But then he‟ll have the bite, like a munch on a lemon, and then he‟ll spit it out and throw it into the trash. … And you, old wretch? What do you have to offer? You don‟t have anything to sell; what can an ugly old man give them? You don‟t have the ability to get what you want by lying or stealing. But who knows, maybe that is your great blessing. If you‟ve got nothing, you‟ve got nothing to lose. You‟re not liable to suffer all the petty vices and temptations others endure. So you are, compared to others, free as a bird…

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As I gazed at the old man, I began to hear the silence. I arrived here to be greeted by his silence, which answered more questions for me than words ever could. I only had to open myself to what he had to say to me. He, in fact, spoke to me in a voice that was purer and truer than any spoken language. Why hadn‟t I been able to understand it until now? His silence imparted the highest wisdom. The words I‟d been hearing all around me all of my life seemed like nothing more than the warbling of birds or the chatter of little children. It was all idle babbling that was either complete nonsense or of little or no real significance. The old man who stood before me seemed to have transcended all of that; he was immune to all of the sorrows and the joys of life. He didn‟t let his mind run wild. He kept his mind focused on the immediate present, and he kept his words to himself. He felt no need to capture the attention of strangers by shouting his thoughts into the night air. The old man was self-contained. With these thoughts the old vagrant was transformed in my eyes. His smile that had seemed so sad and filled with sorrow, his scraggly beard… Everything about him seemed quite delightful. He now appeared to me as a fully-enlightened master, when only moments before I had taken him for quite the opposite. The ragged beggar now seemed the personification of human perfection. The total detachment and peace of mind reflected in his being was, in fact, what so much of humanity longed for. I only regretted that I had no appropriate gift to honor him with. This encounter with him was one of the most pleasurable experiences I had had in a long time. To be in his presence was to know peace. It seemed like all I had known from those around me in recent times was a sense of threat or danger, but I felt none of this from him.

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All the same, he seemed a bit embarrassed by our chance meeting in the night. His face expressed a certain gratitude that I was not threatening to him, but his look was tinged with shame. He clearly had a sense of selfrespect. Fate had cast him out into the cold, dark night. He had preferred that over the scornful eyes that would greet him in the daylight. Yet, this only increased his purity in my eyes. He possessed true humility. There was no trace of greed, ambition, or false pride in him. These were replaced by inner peace. The old man finally chose to be on his way. But after only a few steps he stopped to briefly gaze at me once again with those sad, world-weary eyes of his. This was his final gesture of farewell to me. I thought I saw his lips move almost imperceptibly, but he remained silent to the end. Yet, I understood him perfectly. He had expressed his gratitude at my regard for him. It was all that truly mattered to him. He didnâ&#x20AC;&#x;t crave bread. He knew that there was always some scrap of food or drink available to him somewhere. He would not starve. What he didnâ&#x20AC;&#x;t want was the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x;s dismissal of him. I had given him my full attention, without judgment or scorn. I could tell that he had seen that, and that he had been grateful for it, and he probably only hoped that there would be others who would offer him the same in the future. I could hear his slow footsteps echo lightly on the stone pavement as he made his way off into an anonymous solitude in the dark night. I had no idea who he was or how he had arrived before me so suddenly and unexpectedly, with barely a sound, but he left as mysteriously to continue his lonely pilgrimage from street to street or town to town, roaming as freely as any bird.

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I found myself actually envying him! He was one of the few human beings I had met who seemed to have found any real degree of peace of mind and spiritual enlightenment. That which I, and so much of humanity yearned for, this penniless beggar had possessed. Life had cast him out onto the streets. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x;t think that he chose that at all. He had somehow been subject to a cruel fate. However, he had accepted that condition of absolute poverty and made what he could of it. He had discovered a certain power in it. He had achieved a detachment and peace that I had to envy. There I was in a strange city in the middle of the night, lost, almost helpless, an easy victim for the first stranger who wanted to plunder or harm me. And there he had come and gone from me with no need or demand of me. I was no threat to him, and he, despite his look of utter need, had had no need of anything from me. In fact, he had given me something, an inkling of what it was that tormented me. What it was I was so desperately searching for, and where it truly resided. Where true peace and contentment were to be found. I was beginning to see things I had not seen before, to understand things I had not understood. The night no longer held the terrors it once had for me. The real darkness was ignorance of what truly mattered in life. Those who craved things that would never make them truly happy and obtained those things at the expense of those around them, they suffered the worst ignorance. They were the ones cast into real and truly terrifying darkness. They often preferred the dark, because it served to hide the obvious truth of who they were and what they truly did. These were things that could not survive exposure to the light of day.

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The morning was still far off, but already there was a certain lightening of the night sky. I could see gaps in the clouds, revealing the broad expanses of the heavens, and the fog had almost vanished. After so many foggy days and nights I might see the sun again tomorrow. It would again cast its light over the continent from Gibraltar to Malta and on to the Bosphorus, and from the shores of the North Sea on over to Archangel. If it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x;t shine brightly over the entire continent, at least it will be bright enough for me to find my way home from here. I will have the light I need to guide me home. The morning came sooner than I had expected. I had journeyed south, whether intentionally or not, to lands where the sun rises earlier and sets later. Already I basked in the warmer, sea-scented air that blows in off the Mediterranean Sea. The sun warmed me here as it would if I were in Sicily. The train from the previous night had carried me far south of the station I had intended to disembark at. I had ended up at the final stop for the night at the end of the line. With the coming of the morning I was able to orient myself and make my way to the nearest station, where I learned that there wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x;t be a train for Venice until late in the evening. So I had the whole day ahead of me to roam the city. My student days had ended that year, and upon my return home I would have to take work more seriously. Who knew when I would have a chance to visit this town again? So I shrugged off my weariness and shouldered my heavy pack and plunged back into the city. I eventually ended up here at the bank of the river.

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I wasn‟t the only one who had come down to the Vardar River‟s edge that morning. Some, like me, sat on benches, others strolled the broad sidewalks, others still were trying to catch fish. The river drew them all to it; such was the power of the river on people‟s spirits. Everywhere it is the same. We are drawn like a magnet, to stop and gaze into the flowing water. And I was no exception. I too preferred to linger here by the bank of the river. I had spent my entire life, as far back as I could remember, by the banks of a river. This particular river was a raging torrent compared to the little stream near my home. We could leap across our little river in a couple of steps. All the same we liked to consider ours a river. We never referred to it as a stream or a brook. It had been such a delight to grow up alongside the river. I had spent many happy hours playing in our river. I slept and woke again in the morning to the murmur of the water. I frolicked in the cool, clear water on hot summer days. I had seen much bigger and more powerful rivers when I grew up and began to travel. Some were so broad and deep that great ships were able to navigate them. So I knew how modest our own little village river really was. However, there was no more beautiful river in the world to me. I had grown up in that river. It had become part of me after so many days spent bathing and swimming in its cold waters. I carried some part of the river inside me everywhere I went. I had also seen many different seashores in my life, but they all blended together in my memory. It didn‟t matter whether the sea was rough or calm or shallow or deep, they all seemed alike to me. But rivers were different. Each had its own unique personality and beauty. They are constantly flowing and they also change with the

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seasons. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x;ve always felt like I could think most clearly and calmly alongside their banks, in the presence of their flow. That is why I spent this day by the river side. I sat on the bank for hours and just watched the river flow. Its waters had originated somewhere high in the distant mountains and flowed past me on its way to the sea, somewhere in the distant south. And I think of the source of the river as the beginning of its life, and the arrival at the sea as its end. The flow of the water is no different than the flow of time. So the water that is in front of my eyes is only a small part of the life of the river, no matter how long or short it may be. But I know there is a beginning and an end to it. Rivers flow swiftly or slowly depending upon whether they tumble down out of high mountains or meander through broad plains. They all have something in common, but they are each unique in their own way as well, much like people. We also have a beginning and an end, and some people are more liking raging mountain streams, while others are more like the slow, steady rivers flowing through the plains. And all of us eventually end up disappearing into the broad depths of time. Rivers, on the other hand, arenâ&#x20AC;&#x;t born in quite the same way we are. The river is constantly renewing itself with fresh water flowing out of the mountains as it pours itself out into the sea at the other end. We are born and eventually die, but we never let go of the dream of an eternal life. I have often wondered why we are so drawn to rivers. It just seems to be the truth! In school, of course, we are taught about the importance of rivers in our lives. How they are sources of irrigation water for our crops, or an energy source when we construct hydroelectric dams

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on them, or a means of transport of goods and people, among other things. That is all well and good, but there is also a spiritual dimension that canâ&#x20AC;&#x;t be so easily expressed in words. I think that all of humanity has a special spiritual connection to rivers. And we see in the eternal flow of the riverâ&#x20AC;&#x;s waters a source of eternal life that we wish to identify with. For many thousands of years people have contemplated the possibility of human reincarnation or resurrection, or in other words, some kind of eternal life. The waters remind us of this and more as they constantly flow and change, gathering strength at times and losing it at others, much as we also do in the course of our lives. Among the many qualities of river water is its clarity or lack of the same. While rivers sometimes run almost crystal clear, most become increasingly dark and murky as you penetrate into their depths. We again can identify our own nature with that of the river water. As we try to peer into our lives, to see into our pasts or into the future, our vision becomes increasingly blurred or murky as the distance or depths of the time increase. What has already happened in our lives becomes increasingly difficult, with the passage of time, to see clearly. That which is to come, the fulfillment of our dreams and ambitions, becomes increasingly difficult to see as we try to reach out and imagine how things will be in the increasingly distant future. Thus, we are always struggling to make sense of what we have experienced and of what is right in front of our eyes and of what will be. We are always struggling to distinguish between what is real and what is an illusion in our lives. When there is a fog over the land the sun can burn that off or the wind can carry it away, but the fog that can

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enter our minds is not so easily dispelled. It can dim our awareness of things and impair our judgment. It is a tremendous challenge to see what is real and what is an illusion through the fog that can enter the mind. I have tried in vain it seems to see clearly through the fog that has shrouded the time and space that has surrounded me in my passage through life. It is often the turbulence in my own mind that creates this fog. I have yearned for the clarity that I once knew in the pure, clean waters of the river of my childhood. The waters around me are so much murkier now. It is so much more difficult to see the truth through the depths that I inhabit as an adult today. There is so much filth, corruption and deceit to try and see through. Forgive me… for going on like this. I‟m sorry if you‟ve grown weary of my story. Sometimes I just prattle on without meaning to. I doubt that you really wanted to hear such a long, drawn out tale when you sat down here beside me hours ago. I never meant to monopolize your time the way I have, with my endless soul-searching and the silly thoughts that seem to constantly stream through my mind. So, please, forgive me for prattling on the way I have. I won‟t boor you with any further tales, I promise!

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR Misho Yuzmeski was born in the city of Ohrid, Macedonia. He has lived nearly his entire life by the shores of the beautiful, historic Lake Ohrid. He has worked as a tour guide, travel agent, radio broadcaster and editor, and as an interpreter. (He is fluent in a number of European languages). At the beginning of the 21st century he has also become involved in publishing activities, as an editor, author, graphic designer, and photographer. He is the author of several books and a variety of other publications. A Passage through the Fog is his first novel, now available in English, as well.