The Road to Amsterdam

It was still dark when William woke me with a lick to my face.

“Go away!” I said, pulling the duvet over my head.

“Get up, lazy bones. It’s time to go!”

While I was sleeping, he’d been out who knows where and one of his contacts had told him about a truck that would be taking a consignment of wine to Amsterdam. We could get a lift, but we had to leave early.

We rushed through the streets of Paris just as dawn was breaking. Shop owners in white aprons were sweeping the pavements in front of their stores and unpacking their merchandise. Waiters flipped stacked chairs from little tables and spread red-and-white tablecloths over them. A few early-risers were already drinking coffee and reading their morning papers.

We slipped through a narrow alley to the back lot of a large wine shop. A few strong-looking men were loading the last boxes of wine onto the truck. Our driver sat watching them, enjoying a large mug of coffee.

He called us over and poured me some. “Bonjour,” he said, smiling. “I am Monsieur Poivre, Pierre Poivre.”

He showed me how to have a real French breakfast, dunking slices of baguette into the hot, milky coffee.

Monsieur Poivre was a cheerful fellow with arms like tree trunks and a belly that pushed against the steering wheel of the truck. William hopped unto the seat between us, I stacked his backpack between my legs, and we were off!

The truck bumped along through the early-morning traffic. It was lovely to ride up high and look down on everything below us. It was noisy inside the cabin, but that didn’t stop Pierre from chattering away in French. I kept nodding in agreement, though I didn’t really understand much of what he said.

Soon William was fast asleep. I patted his spotty back. The poor little guy was exhausted from the night’s activities. At the best of times he was a dog that liked to nap.

I watched the French countryside roll by as we drove. Now and then we’d stop in one of the little villages we passed to visit the local bakery and stretch our legs. We also made some deliveries along the way. It seemed to me that Monsieur Poivre was friends with everyone, and he had long chats with them all. It was slow going, but it was fun.

By nightfall, Monsieur Poivre pulled off onto the side of the road. He went to sleep on a small bed at the rear of the truck’s cabin, snoring loudly. William and I made ourselves comfortable on the front seat, William resting his head, as usual, on his teddy’s tummy.

The next day we crossed the border into Belgium. Inside the European Union nobody made a fuss about passports, but I started to wonder how I was ever going to make it back home without mine.

The landscape became flat. It was very green, with pretty little villages hidden among thick forests. We passed herds of fat cows lazily ruminating in the sun, their udders swollen with milk.

“Tell me more about Brumbum’s cat, William,” I asked. “I’m sure you charmed the socks off her, but there must have been another reason for her to help you.”

“Oh, that cat was rather special, I admit. Not too stupid. And she hates Brumbum.” William explained. “You see, he once stepped on her tail and didn’t bother to apologise. Cats hold a grudge, you know!”

William believed that most cats were selfish and spiteful, but this feline was something else. She had a sense of justice. When she heard about the tulip bulbs that Brumbum has stolen from Carl Cloghopper, she was ready to help. From her favourite spot on the carpet in Brumbum’s study, she had watched the master criminal open his safe time and again to count all his money. He liked doing that. She was a smart, observant kitty and it was easy for her to remember the combination code that opened the safe.

“She waited until everyone was asleep and then she slipped into the study, opened the safe with her clever cat paws and found the small linen bag that contained the three tulip bulbs.”

It was neatly done. No one could have guessed the cat burglar was a real cat.

William said her cooperation had almost made him reconsider his whole attitude toward cats in general. But that only lasted until he met the nasty ginger cat that lived across the road from us. Cats may have their place in the world, he said, as long as it was elsewhere.

I gave my spaniel a hug. He was one of a kind. The red fez drooped over one eye and I straightened it carefully.

Inside the fez, I knew, the precious Silver Tulip bulbs were hidden. We were on our way to hand them back to their rightful owner, and I was part of the adventure.

At that moment I felt like the luckiest guy in all of Western Europe.