Thursday, September 18
Caz
Schiphol
Of course the bloody lilac suitcase was the last one to emerge from the jaws of the baggage carousel. Apart from the obvious link with Lilah, she had specifically chosen lilac in the hope that it would make the bag easy to spot. She had just been proved wrong. About five other lilac travel cases had already rolled past.
The thought of Lilah reminded her to switch on her phone. She had put it on roaming in Cape Town. A few messages about the roaming procedure came through. She sent Lilah a short message, telling her she was at Schiphol. Lilah replied almost at once that she was flying to Miami in an hour.
Timing sucks, but see you soon, MaCaz.
Five kisses ended the message.
Pushing her luggage trolley, Caz aimed for the green exit. Surely Mrs. Ball’s didn’t have to be declared.
Her hand luggage was a nightmare. By the time she found the trolley, the bag of books had numbed her fingers. Her coat kept dragging on the floor and the strap of her handbag kept slipping off her shoulder. Only the backpack was manageable, though it seemed to be getting heavier by the minute.
The arrivals hall was a huge moving, waving, greeting throng. Schiphol was even bigger than Caz had imagined. And much bigger than she remembered Charles de Gaulle.
She knew Fien was on her last legs, but hell! Couldn’t Tieneke have made an effort to meet her? It would have been so much easier. It’s only two hours by car, after all: the same distance as Cape Town International from Stanford.
Now she had to find the train station. Tieneke had sent a detailed message yesterday morning. Caz had to make sure not to take the expensive high-speed train, Thalys. She should buy a ticket at a vending machine at the station. To buy one on the train was much more expensive.
What Tieneke obviously didn’t know was that Caz had a dire relationship with vending machines. Drawing money at an ATM was about as far as her skills went. But in Stanford, where there wasn’t a single traffic light in a radius of twenty-five kilometers, there was no pressing need for mechanical skills.
According to the website, the station was directly below the airport. Searching for a staircase seemed a good place to start. She read the noticeboards. Metro? Was that what she was looking for? She wished she wasn’t such a bloody useless traveller. Perhaps she should take a moment to regroup. Gather her wits. Focus. She could see the exit and she longed to breathe air that hadn’t been recirculated until it smelled like a vacuum-cleaner bag.
It was much warmer outside than she had expected. Warmer than Cape Town even, where it was supposed to be spring. Too warm for the sweater she was wearing, but there was no way she was carrying that as well.
The smokers huddled together and plumes of smoke rose up in the air. For the first time in years she longed for a cigarette. Not for the taste, but for that feeling a non-smoker could never understand, one that has nothing to do with nicotine or tar, and everything with addiction.
Even if the air outside was almost certainly polluted by much worse substances than cigarette smoke, it was still better than the air in the plane and the airport. She drew a few deep breaths.
Water. She had to get a bottle of water. One more thing to carry, but she was parched.
She turned the trolley round to go back inside.
“Ma’am?”
Caz looked over her shoulder and realized she was being addressed. The voice belonged to a well-built youngster of about eighteen in tight-fitting jeans and a crisp white T-shirt. Adidas on his feet. His red backpack looked reasonably new. On his cap was a Blue Bulls emblem, the light blue in sharp contrast with his ebony skin.
It took her a second or two to realize that the Blue Bulls were a complete anomaly in the place where she currently found herself.
“So sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I’m in a bit of a fix.” The boy’s English was faultless, though he spoke with an accent.
“My name is Njiwa and I’m a student. I want to buy a train ticket, but I’m five euros short. I’m not a beggar, ma’am.” His brilliant white teeth gnawed at his lower lip. “Truly, I’m not. If you give me your phone number or email address, I’ll make sure you get your money back. My grandfather will refund it with pleasure. He’s meeting me at the other end.”
The boy sounded genuine. The product of a good school, she guessed. It would explain the stilted, almost affected English. Embarrassment probably accounted for the bashful expression in his eyes. “Blue Bulls?” Caz asked, pointing at the cap.
He gave a shy smile. “Where I come from, it’s a rugby team, ma’am.”
Caz hesitated only a moment. “I’ll tell you what. I have to catch a train as well. If you push the trolley for me, get me to the right platform, and show me how to buy the ticket, I’ll give you five euros.”
The smile broadened. “It’s a deal, ma’am. Why don’t you put your backpack on the trolley as well? It looks heavy.”
It was a relief when he helped her slide the backpack off her shoulders. He turned and headed back inside, pushing the trolley.
She fell into step beside him. “You look as if you know your way around?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve been to Amsterdam before. But this time Schiphol is just the first leg of my journey.”
“Something to drink?” she asked when they passed a kiosk. She took her wallet from her backpack.
“A Coke would be nice, thanks, ma’am.” He looked somewhat embarrassed.
“Call me Caz.” She bought a cool drink for him and a bottle of water for herself before they set off again.
“And your final destination is?”
“Ghent, ma’am. Ghent-Sint-Pieters to be precise.” He tilted his head. “You don’t happen to be South African as well? The accent is familiar.”
“I am indeed. Coincidentally, I’m also on my way to Ghent, but to Dampoort.”
He stopped and stared at her, surprised. “No way!”
“Yes.”
Njiwa shook his head and resumed walking. “I’ve heard of this kind of coincidence when you travel. My grandfather once met a random stranger in Berlin and they found out they lived about ten houses apart in the same street in Sandhurst. It’s hard to believe.”
“It’s a massive coincidence, yes.” Caz couldn’t fathom why the boy made her feel uncomfortable. He was well-spoken, polite and smart. He could very well have a grandfather who lived in Sandhurst and was waiting for him in Ghent at this moment. Had her reclusive lifestyle made her suspicious of everything? Or was it still the aftermath of the burglary?
That was what it was, she concluded when Njiwa continued to help her with her luggage and settled her on the train even after the machine had spat out the ticket and she had given him the five euros.
“I won’t intrude any further, but I’ll be in the next carriage if you need me. I’ll come back to assist you when we reach Antwerp. Thank you for coming to my aid. I really appreciate it.”
“You’ve already earned every cent. Thanks, Njiwa, you’re very kind.”
He raised his index and middle fingers to his cap, and smiled.
Luc
Damme
Amelie de Pauw, Annemie Pauwels. Luc was haunted by the two names.
His research skills and access to sources were handy, but very little information was forthcoming on Amelie de Pauw. He did find out that her father, Albert de Pauw, worked as an accountant in Leopoldville, as it was known at the time, for the business conglomerate Société Générale de Belgique.
Her mother was Hortense Baert. No profession. Died of blackwater fever in 1952, when Amelie was nineteen. A little more than a year later her father married Hortense’s sister Constance.
A few months before her father’s death three years later, in 1956, Amelie married César Ronald Bruno Janssen, a businessman of Leopoldville. The nature of the business he conducted was unclear. Early in 1957 their address changed to Elisabethville.
The cause of Amelie’s father’s death was simply given as an aircraft incident near Bakwanga in the Kasaï-Oriental province, which also claimed the lives of Constance and the pilot.
Luc’s chair creaked as he leaned back.
Annemie, Amelie.
Pauwels, De Pauw.
Congo, Congo.
The same date of birth.
Annemie: No paper trail.
Amelie: Death certificate.
Annemie: Lived in Elisabethville.
Amelie: Moved from Leopoldville to Elisabethville.
Interesting. Very, very interesting.
Caz
Antwerp/Ghent
Caz couldn’t imagine how she would have managed without Njiwa.
He had to wake her for the change and here, at this vast station in Antwerp, she would never have made it in time for the first train to Ghent if he had not found the right platform, saving her another hour’s wait. And that was above and beyond his indispensable help with her luggage.
An angel must have pitied her and sent the well-mannered boy.
There wasn’t much time to appreciate the grand station building. She got a vague impression of an enormous vaulted ceiling and impressive architectural features.
The train was almost full, but Njiwa helped her find a seat and arranged her luggage around her before going off to look for a seat in another carriage.
The nap before Antwerp had done her good. For the first time she felt alert enough to take in the scenery.
What she had expected she didn’t know, but she’d never imagined that Belgium would be so green. Or that there would be so many small farms. Or maize fields.
Around the stations it looked like it probably looked near stations everywhere in the world. But the rest was lovely.
At Ghent-Dampoort, Njiwa stepped out of the train to help her get to the main exit of the station. When she protested that he would now have to take a later train, he shook his head.
“Not a problem. I just wish I could return your five euros.”
“You were worth much more to me, don’t worry. Actually ...” She unzipped her handbag.
“No, no, please, ma’am,” he protested when she took out her wallet. “I don’t need money. My grandfather is a wealthy man and he looks after me well. It was just a misjudgment on my part. I bought him a present on the plane without realizing I’d be five euros short for the train. Really, I’m going to be very embarrassed if you give me any more money. We’re compatriots, after all.”
Reluctantly Caz put her wallet away. “Njiwa, you’re too good to be true,” she said, smiling. “Well, off you go.”
He nodded, then paused and took his cellphone out of his pocket. “I know my grandfather will want to call to thank you. Would you mind giving me your number?”
Caz got the same uncomfortable feeling she’d had earlier. She didn’t like handing out her cellphone number, but the boy had certainly saved her a lot of trouble and misery. “There’s no need for him to call. I can only receive messages anyway.”
He lowered his eyes and nodded. “Okay.”
Now he thought she didn’t trust him. What the hell was wrong with her? She wasn’t in a crime mecca anymore.
“Oh, very well.” She gave him the number and he keyed it in so fast that the two slim thumbs looked like one.
“Let me put my number on your phone as well. Then you can call me if you run into a problem. I’ll help if I can. You never know what might happen in a strange country.” He held out his hand. Reluctantly she gave him her phone. Deftly he repeated the procedure.
He frowned and brought her cellphone closer to his eyes. “I see your WhatsApp wants to update. Shall I give permission?”
Were today’s young people born with cellphone manuals embedded in their brains? “Okay.” Lilah used WhatsApp, but Caz had never bothered to find out how it worked.
After a while he looked up and handed back her phone with a broad smile. “There you go. Goodbye, Caz. Maybe we’ll run into each other again here in Ghent. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
He took off his cap and held out his hand. A cool hand, Caz noticed.
“Njiwa!” she called after him as he began to walk away.
He turned.
“Your name ... it’s unusual.”
“It’s Swahili. A nickname, actually.”
“What does it mean?”
He laughed. “My grandfather says I’m the peacemaker in the family. He gave me the name. It means dove.” He raised his cap in a final greeting and jogged down the steep staircase.
Suddenly Caz felt completely alone. One more bus ride and she would come face to face with the two women she hadn’t seen for thirty-one years.