Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2) (3 page)

“You don't sail with Pieter.”

“No, but we share everything else.”

He raises a disbelieving eyebrow, then shrugs.  “Maybe you're right.”

“Of course, I'm right.  I get really close to one of your girlfriends, and then you dump her, and I have to sneak around to see her.  That makes me feel like I'm cheating or something, so I finally have to let the friendship go.  It's not fair to any of us.”

“I know.”

“Why don't you settle down, Rafik?  What on earth are you waiting for?”

“Another Jana,” he says, grinning.  “You made that far too easy.”

Jana smirks, trying to scowl, and elbows his ribs, but Katrien knows he means it.

Jana hands him a large porcelain serving dish to wash.  “My grandmother used to say, 'It is not so important who you love, but that you choose someone and commit to them.'”

“Practical woman.  Sicilian, wasn't she?”

“From Puglia.  Not so different.  We still have family in Lecce.”

“That's in the heel of Italy?” 

Jana nods. 

Rafik pauses a moment, then scrubs methodically.  “Maybe one summer the four of us could take a sailing vacation along the coast of Croatia.  Pieter has been talking about upgrading to a Salona 42 for ages.  We could pick up the boat in Split, stop at all the islands, visit Dubrovnik, then cross the Adriatic to Lecce to see your family.  Katrien would love it, wouldn't you?”

Katrien is surprised to be suddenly included in the conversation.  Being the only child among grownups makes her feel special, but also has its disadvantages.  The image of a rubber bumper comes to mind, thrown over the side to keep two approaching boats from scraping their hulls against each other.

This flirting between married couples, full of sparks, alarms and confuses her.  Yet she also realizes her parents are most alive with their friends.  A touch of naughtiness challenges them and brings them to life. 

Katrien finishes her chores and leaves the kitchen.  She is tired of being a bumper. 

She passes through the rooms, listening to one adult conversation, then another, everyone discussing politics and art and culture.  She imagines concentric transparent globes, one within another, all spinning in different directions at different speeds, creating a wonderful hum. 

“If a woman can't get a job because she covers her face, why should the state support her?  I say cut her welfare.  Take off your burka and get a job!”

“It really is getting out of hand.  Twenty-six percent of Brussels is Muslim. Twenty-four percent of Amsterdam.  Twenty-five percent of Rotterdam.  The schools are like eighty percent Muslim.  When they get old enough to vote, we'll really be up shit creek.”

“It's still only six percent for the country.  Not many in Enkhuisen.”

“When have you ever seen a Muslim in a sailboat?”

“I read
that the Schilderswijk district of The Hague has become a sort of mini-caliphate.  Even non-Muslims have to comply with sharia law on the street.  Women have to cover their heads.  No smoking, no alcohol, no sale or consumption of pork.  They won't let Dutch police in the neighborhood.” 

“Is that so unusual?  The Mafia ruled Italian neighborhoods in New York City for decades.”

“This is the twenty-first century.  We can't have a country within a country.”

“The government is so damn politically correct, they even changed the names of school holidays.  Christmas Vacation is Winter Vacation, Easter Vacation is Spring Vacation.  My favorite is Lenten Vacation.  They call it Rest and Relaxation Leave.”

“Wouldn't want to offend anybody.”

“God forbid.”

“The Protestant Church of the Netherlands has closed almost half of its two thousand churches.  Guess who bought them up?”

“NOS television says we're the major European supplier of Islamic jihadists.  They recruit them at train stations and homeless shelters, trying to persuade them to join ISIS in Syria.”

“We should take their passports.”

“And keep them here?  Are you crazy?  Let them go and get themselves killed.”

Katrien has heard much of this before.  It no longer shocks or worries her.  Her best friend, Joury, is Muslim.  Rafik is Muslim.  The Netherlands is made up of immigrants.  They have always gotten along.  Or so she has been told.

Somewhat sheepishly, Rafik ambles out of the kitchen and joins Evi.  He puts his arm around her and kisses her cheek.  Katrien senses that if it weren't for sailing, Rafik would not bother making the short trip from Amsterdam to see her. 

Later, Katrien watches Evi eye Rafik from across the room, willing him to look at her, hoping he senses her gaze, the way lovers do.  When he doesn't look up, Evi turns away, disappointment showing in her face.

Katrien wants Rafik to love only her and her family.  She does not want to share him.  Even at eleven, she knows that is unfair and feels ashamed.  Evi has done nothing to deserve getting hurt.  Except wanting to be loved.  She feels sorry for her. 

Finally the guests leave.  Rafik says goodnight to Jana as if he intends to take Evi home, but Evi gently lays a hand on his forearm, saying, “No, you should stay.  I'll catch a ride with the van Loons.”  He doesn't argue about it.  He walks her to the door, kisses her, and says he'll see her soon. 

Tension leaves the room.  Everyone relaxes.  The strangers have all gone.

Hans and Marta excuse themselves and head up to bed.  Jana, Rafik, and Pieter settle by the potbellied stove and chat softly, the three entirely at ease with one another. 

Fog settles in the stonewalled courtyard, dahlias and cornflowers, overgrown, need to be cut back.  Pine logs pop, smells of dinner linger.  On the stereo, Andre Segovia strums Scarlatti. 

A lovely cocoon of music, love, full bellies, wine-fuzzy minds.

While the adults whisper, Katrien snuggles in Rafik's lap, dozing.  Too old for it, but she hangs onto the ritual.  She folds herself into his body.  His solid torso and muscular legs are so much more comfortable than her father's bony lap.  Perhaps it is because he is a
politieagent,
a cop, that she feels so safe.  Pehaps it's because her parents trust him so implicitly.  Perhaps because he smells of pipe tobacco and cumin and salt air and the deep woods. 

He is a big brown bear, and she his cub.

She wants this evening, this feeling, never to end.

14E Montessorischool de Jordaan

The children gather in groups of five, attempting to rebuild the great city of Petra out of terracotta-colored clay. 

Their model of Petra—walls and towers, streets and courtyards, pools and fountains—covers an entire cafeteria table.  For half a year the children have been working on it, every lesson—math, geology, ecology, history, art, political science—center around the city.

“Remember,” says Gertruda, “Petra is in a desert.  You need to find water for thirty thousand people.  Where are you going to find it?  All around you is nothing but sandstone.”

Gertruda is young with long honey-colored hair, which she wears in a thick braid down her back.  She has hiked all around the world by herself, and spent last summer mountain climbing in Switzerland.  Just looking at her you can feel cool Alpine breezes on your cheek, or so Katrien imagines.  All the children are in love with her.

Katrien and Joury have already figured out they have to pipe in water, and have found a nearby spring on the map.  Gertruda then gives them a problem to solve: at what angle should they lay the pipe to provide maximum flow?  Already their team is busy with white PCV pipes, buckets of water, and stopwatches.  At first they think that a higher angle will create a faster flow, but discover that is not the case.  They are close to finding an answer, and already Katrien has realized that once they get water to Petra, they need a reservoir to hold it until the city needs it.

The principal, a thin woman with short brown hair, walks into the room, tapping on the door jamb with her knuckles.  She often wanders in to watch the classes, but today she motions Gertruda to the door.  Katrien thinks she looks nervous, and hopes no one in Gertruda's family is hurt.

After a short intense exchange, the principal leaves, and Gertruda claps her hands.  “That's all for today, children.  Neaten your stations, please.  We are cutting school short today.  Your parents have been called and will come to pick you up soon.”

“My mother and father work in Haarlem,” says one girl.

“Why do we have to leave?” asks a boy.  “We have a math test today.”

Katrien sees Gertruda struggling to answer, trying not to lie—children must never be lied to—worried about upsetting them.  “You will make up your classes tomorrow.  Your parents will explain everything.  Put away your books and get your coats quickly and quietly.  Everyone . . . single file into the lunchroom.”

As the children march down the hallway, teachers lean against the walls, talking on cellphones, whispering heatedly to one another.  Other teachers crowd in the principal's office, watching the news on television.  Katrien cannot hear what the newscaster is saying, but sees a clip of a crowd pushing and shoving down a smoke-filled street. 

Dismissed from classes, students grab their cellphones out of their lockers.  It isn't long before a boy from a higher grade taps into his Twitter account.  Word spreads quickly around the lunch room.  Groups huddle around cellphones to watch live video.

Joury's mother is one of the first parents to arrive.  She gives a percussive greeting to Katrien, then tells Joury to get her things.  She gathers several other Muslim boys and girls, telling them to follow her.  Her
headscarf
,
usually pinned carefully below her chin, slips as she takes the smaller children's hands, leading them out.  Joury waves to Katrien.

Katrien overhears two teachers arguing with the principal.

“I can't get ahold of half of the parents.”

“Call their emergency numbers.  We will give them an hour to pick up the children, then we will take them to safety.”

“Where?  The church?  If they are bombing churches and synagogues, we can't take the children there.”

“The police station?  Where
is
our bombshelter?”

None of them know.  They practice fire drills, not bomb drills.

The bells of Westerkerk clang in the distance.

Allahu Akbar

Katrien sits between her parents on their bed to watch television.  They sit close, even though the evening is warm. 

The newscaster for NPO Nieuws reports that six
young actors from the avant-garde Jenever Theater group have been murdered while dining in a private home on the outskirts of Amsterdam.  “The troupe is renown for their biting satire of politics and religion, and often present sketches highly critical of the way Muslims treat women and homosexuals.”  Their throats were slit ear to ear.  A note, pinned to the chest of one of the men, stated that the Jenever Theater group was “a sacrilege to Allah,” and that the actors were killed because they “terrorized and mocked Islam.”  It was signed
Allahu Akbar,
written in blood—Allah is greater. 

An Islamic terrorist group closely linked to al Qaeda, and dedicated to restoring a global caliphate under Islamic law, takes credit for the murders.

School is canceled the next day, and Jana stays home from work.  At 10 AM, Katrien answers the phone—Rafik calling from the
politiebureau.  He calmly asks how her science project is going, then asks to speak to Jana.  Katrien hunts down her mother, who walks quickly to the phone.  Rafik tells Jana that neither she nor Katrien should leave the house.  “Everyone is going nuts,” he says.  “We're getting calls from all over the country.  Twenty-six mosques and a dozen
madrassahs
have been torched.”
 

In the days that follow, it becomes a ritual, sitting together to watch the evening news. 
Muslim districts in Amsterdam, Rotterdam, and Utrecht have erupted in heavy violence.  “I don't want you to go anywhere near
Oud-West,” Rafik says, calling again after 9 PM.  The Oud-West is southwest of Jordan, not far.  “The neighborhood around the El-Tawheed mosque is a major war zone.  They blew up the Portuguese Israelite Synagogue and the Jewish Historical Museum.”  By “they” he means Muslim extremists.

“Are you still at work?” Jana asks.

“We're sleeping in shifts at the station.  I haven't slept in twenty-four hours.”

“Would you like a change of clothes from your apartment?  Some food?  How can I help?”

“No, no.  I'm fine, Jana.  Please don't leave the house.”

The Dutch prime minister interrupts
NOS Journaal to
declare a state of emergency for the entire country.  He tells everyone to stay home and to stay calm.

The following day separate jihadist cells blow up three dikes and two train stations.  Dozens of blocks are flooded.  Public transportation is completely shut down.  Ten thousand people march in a demonstration at the Dam in front of the Royal Palace.  The demonstrators demand a change of government.  They demand sharia law.