THIRTY - REMISSION
I feel as if my consciousness is drowning in the silent waves of the canal. I can only cling to my question: should I be heading for the airport? There are voices and the rumble of a wheeled suitcase in the corridor behind me. I dodge across the small high room, which has space for very little besides its furniture and my suitcase and me. 'Hello?' I shout as I fumble the chain out of its socket and open the door in time to halt an overcoated man who is towing a suitcase that bulges almost as much as its owner. 'Are you on the Heathrow flight?'
His stare suggests that the answer isn't worth voicing, unless he disapproves of my nakedness. The door hides most of it, including my worse than irrelevant erection. I struggle to ignore that while I try again. 'What day is it, please?'
Surely I can't have slept so long that the date becomes an issue, but the man doesn't respond. As I open my mouth to repeat or reword the question he shrugs and lets himself into the room opposite. I have to assume he didn't understand, since the address on his suitcase is in an entirely unfamiliar script. I chain the door shut and sprawl across the bed to seize the phone. 9 is the key for the reception desk, and I nearly triple the digit in my haste. It raises such a silence that I'm about to jab it once more when a light genderless voice says 'Halo.'
I hope it only sounds like that, but I'm prompted to ask 'Do you speak English?'
'Most certainly.'
'Forgive me, there was someone before. Can you tell me what day this is?'
Perhaps that could be taken as another gibe at their abilities, but that's no excuse for the receptionist to pause before saying 'This is Mr Settler, yes?'
'It isn't, no. Nothing like. It's Lester. Simon Lester. Mr Lester.'
'Of course,' the receptionist says in a tone that suggests the distinction isn't worth making. 'You are a passenger on the flight that was diverted to Schiphol, yes?'
'That's me. I mean, I'm one of many.'
'We believe you are legion,' the receptionist says, presumably to impress me with some obscure English. 'We are told no flights to London are expected for at least twelve hours.'
Natalie may well be checking the arrival times, but I ought to let her know. Frugojet is paying only for the room, and email will be a good deal cheaper than phoning. I thank the receptionist and get dressed from my suitcase. I retrieve my coat from the hook on the door and remove the key from the slot that powers the lights. As I step into the corridor, the tang of some especially potent cannabis seeps out of a room.
I'm certainly in Amsterdam. I have to hold onto the unsteady banister all the way down the stairs, which are so close to vertical it's more like descending a ladder. In the token lobby two chairs with tapestry seats confront the reception counter. The man behind it is so tall and long-faced that he might have been selected to fit in with the proportions of the hotel. As soon as I bid him good evening, which makes me feel more adrift in time and space than ever, he says 'Ah, Mr – '
'Lester,' I say to head off anything else. 'Can you tell me where's the nearest Internet access?'
'Very close. In the street.'
As the glass doors toll behind me, an illuminated barge full of sightseers trails its waves along the canal. I can't help wishing that the similarity to the boats that pass Natalie's apartment would transport me home, an instant link. An icy breeze that feels like a reference to the blizzards that have much of Britain in their grip snatches at my face as I step onto the cobbles. Ranks of pale skinny houses topped by extravagant gables stretch in both directions to bridges bearing cyclists and pedestrians. In a moment I notice the Internet sticker on the window of the café next to the hotel.
It's the kind of establishment for which the city is renowned. Before I've even pushed the heavy door open I'm greeted by an intense smell of cannabis. The brightest light in the gloomily panelled room is shed by half a dozen computer screens on tables just inside. Beyond them lower tables are surrounded by padded chairs and couches shaded by plants in pots, no doubt one reason why the place is called the Pot of Gold. To the left of the entrance a blackboard behind the counter displays the deals on varieties of marihuana and hashish. The topmost and presumably most potent is called Waking Dream. A large man in a moss-green pullover at least two sizes larger blinks slowly but not unwelcomingly at me across the counter. 'Could I buy some time on the Internet?' I ask him.
'Pay when you finish. Anything else for you?'
I'm tempted to enquire whether they sell single joints, but I don't know how the effects might combine with my jet lag. 'Not just now, thanks.'
He eases himself off his stool and immediately vanishes, opening a section of the counter to reveal that he only just comes up to my waist. He sways like a recently disembarked sailor as he leads me past a monitor that shows an unnervingly young girl at solitary play and logs me onto the adjacent computer. As he wanders off, sandals flapping on the bare boards, I type my Frugonet password to find that Natalie has emailed me.
Well, you are having adventures, aren't you? It's not like you to fall asleep in a film, though. It was hardly worth waking up by the sound of it. You might as well have stayed in case there was anything else for you to do. Let us know if you get the chance where you are now and for how long if it's going to make a difference. Mark says he's got something to show you besides him in the school play. He's hoping you'll be back for that at least.
N/M
Perhaps she typed this in a hurry, but it isn't just the untypically brusque signature that makes the message seem accusing. I have to remind myself that I didn't give away too much in my hasty email from the terminal beside the Chicago departure gate. Much that I omitted resembles a dream, not least my being wakened by one of Willie Hart's performers. 'Do we need to get you to the airport anytime soon?' Both of them were in my room, and as I strove to open my eyes I wasn't sure if I was more apprehensive of seeing them naked or dressed – as cheerleaders, perhaps, or high-school students. In fact they were wearing shorts and T-shirts, though not a great deal of either. One of them proved old enough to drive a Punto when I'd flung my belongings into my suitcase and thanked Willie at length while returning the hug she was in no rush to finish. All the way to the airport I was aware of very little beyond the girls, the one in the rear seat leaning forward to rest her bare arm on my shoulder, the driver's hand straying close to my thigh. Otherwise I'm left only with the fancy that all the glimpses I had on my drive to Limestones were replayed backwards. I may tell Natalie some or all of this, but not now.
Dear N/M:
Looks like I'm grounded for at least the next half-day. Don't worry, I'm behaving myself. Maybe I'll linger over a lonely Indonesian feast if they do those for one, and then I may even retire to my room. Mark, it's still two days until your play, isn't it? They're bound to have cleared the runway at Heathrow by then unless the world's reverting to an ice age. Which it isn't, so you needn't start performing any rituals to wake the world up or raise the sun or whatever people used to do for Christmas.
Love –
S
As soon as I've sent the message it makes me feel I was less than awake. Instead of sending a revision or a postscript I check the newsgroups, and at first all I can do is laugh.
So Mr Questionabble thinks everyboddy has to hush now he's finnished making stories up about himself and commedians, does he? I'll bet I'm not the only one that's noticced Mr Questionabble spells Quotabble, er, Simon. (The er's because he's not sure of his own name.) If everyboddy else wants quiet I'll leave him allone as soon as he addmits he hasn't been telling the truth. Let him say he hasn't got an edditor or a pubblisher for any book. He just needs to be hummble and I'll wrap up my sillence and send it him for Christmas.