Chapter Fourteen
I remember very little of what happened to
us during our trips to the cities and villages of Europe: Berlin, Amsterdam,
Copenhagen, Brussels, Paris... There was so much of everything — meetings,
conversations, unforeseen situations — and it all passed, flying by like a
dream!
Only a few details remain etched in my memory. For
instance, how Vera Mason was greeted and seen off by refugees from Africa. To
them, she was like a queen bee, gathering a large African swarm around herself.
People pressed around Vera in a dense mass, some approaching closely, touching
and stroking her arms and shoulders, looking trustingly into her brown eyes
with their golden sparkle, whispering something frantically or plaintively.
This was all the more remarkable given that she herself suffered from
haphephobia.
But the most astonishing thing, at least to my
untrained eye, was that Vera tried not only to understand them all but also to
respond, as if she knew at least half of the three thousand languages spoken
across the African continent. And, amazingly, everyone who addressed her left
satisfied, nodding their heads in gratitude. And when we drove down the street
in the Cadillac, African refugees and migrants would happily shower our
single-car "motorcade" with bouquets of flowers. Once — it was an
evening in Amsterdam — one of the bouquets of velvety tulips, hot as African
blood, was intended for Vera but hit me square in the face, leaving a bruise
under my left eye — matching the deep violet undertones of Vera's skin.
She laughed like a child who’d seen something
extraordinary and funny, but I wasn't in the mood for laughter. True, later,
when we got to the hotel, she spent the entire evening applying compresses of
some African herbal tincture to my face and chanting something in her devilish
tongue. And, imagine, the next day I could actually open my eye, although the
bruise took a week and a half to fade.
We stayed at the Amsterdam — a large, well-worn
fishing schooner converted into a floating hotel, moored near the Dutch
capital's Central Station. Vera and I rented a cabin on the middle deck, where
a large porthole offered picturesque views of the canal and the embankment. At
night, as we drifted off to sleep, we listened to the water lapping against the
side of our little ark. The schooner's location was incredibly convenient.
Being moored right in the center of Amsterdam gave us easy access to any part
of the city. Vera loved strolling the streets, past the enticing shopfronts and
cafes, or simply popping into fashion boutiques to check out the latest
styles—only to leave without buying anything.
She was half a head taller than me, and a whole head
taller when she wore high heels. Together, we made quite a striking pair as we
walked along the Oudezijds Canal: a slender, short white man with a touch of
gray hair, and a beautiful Black woman with anthracite-colored hair.
Young people glanced at us, probably envious: the
girls at Vera, the guys at me. Despite the recent COVID-19 pandemic, as a
couple we exuded stability and confidence in the future—something valued and
envied by those less fortunate, and not only in the Netherlands.
“Don’t get too cocky, you’re not the only lucky guy in
this ‘sin city’!” my Brain said, envious of me as a man and probably regretting
that he was just my brain, and nothing more.
But he wasn't wrong when he called Amsterdam a “sin
city." However, these days, any city, even the most provincial, could be
considered sinful — the only difference being the scale of the sins, whether
real or perceived.
One day, while chatting and admiring the Dutch
architecture — especially the iconic, seventeenth-century leaning houses — Vera
and I approached the Basilica of St. Nicholas.
Looking at the sacred building from the front, your eyes are instantly
drawn to the enormous, celestial-hued stained-glass rose window. Its
bas-reliefs of Christ and the four Evangelists looked as though they had
stepped straight from the pages of the New Testament to see what was happening
on this sinful earth.
The two majestic twin towers like guarding the
entrance seemed like honorary guards of the Catholic faith, keeping watch over
Christ and the four interpreters of his teachings.
“Looking at this temple, I don’t see the defining
feature of Christian architecture,” Leonid said skeptically, tilting his head
back to study the church.
“What do you mean?” Vera asked, peering at the
intricate design.
“I don’t see the main dome — the one that receives
signals from On High,” he said, narrowing his eyes.
At that moment, I as Leo — who had been watching from
with our common body with my brother— felt an urgent desire to see the temple
from a bird's-eye view, to check if Leonid was right.
I began to ascend, the cathedral's façade to examine,
the moldings it and decorative details
“Don’t get too cocky, you’re not the only lucky guy in
this ‘sin city’!” my Brain said, envious of me as a man and probably regretting
that he was just my brain, and nothing more.
But he wasn't wrong when he called Amsterdam a “sin
city." However, these days, any city, even the most provincial, could be
considered sinful — the only difference being the scale of the sins, whether
real or perceived.
One day, while chatting and admiring the Dutch
architecture — especially the iconic, seventeenth-century leaning houses — Vera
and I approached the Basilica of St. Nicholas.
Looking at the sacred building from the front, your eyes are instantly
drawn to the enormous, celestial-hued stained-glass rose window. Its bas-reliefs
of Christ and the four Evangelists looked as though they had stepped straight
from the pages of the New Testament to see what was happening on this sinful
earth.
The two majestic twin towers like guarding the
entrance seemed like honorary guards of the Catholic faith, keeping watch over
Christ and the four interpreters of his teachings.
“Looking at this temple, I don’t see the defining
feature of Christian architecture,” Leonid said skeptically, tilting his head
back to study the church.
“What do you mean?” Vera asked, peering at the
intricate design.
“I don’t see the main dome — the one that receives
signals from On High,” he said, narrowing his eyes.
At that moment, I as Leo — who had been watching from
with our common body with my brother— felt an urgent desire to see the temple
from a bird's-eye view, to check if Leonid was right.
I began to ascend, the cathedral's façade to examine,
the moldings it and decorative details.
As Leo climbed higher, another bas-relief caught
his eye: a human figure in lavish ecclesiastical robes, wearing a tiara and
holding a staff in his left hand. Its silhouette reminded him of Pope Urban II,
the instigator of the Crusades, though it was more likely a depiction of some
Dutch bishop who had funded the cathedral's construction.
“But why is his figure placed above Christ and
the apostles?” Leo wondered. Finding no answer, he continued his ascent.
Soon, the basilica's main dome came into view,
its central cross rising ahead. This was exactly what Leonid had been looking
for. Gazing down at it, Leo realized why it wasn't visible from the Oudezijds
Canal embankment: it was simply located on a different wing of the building.
As he studied its outline — which looked
remarkably like an alien flying saucer flattened at the top — a thought crossed
his mind: “What if the rector of this church uses the dome as a transmitter to
communicate with higher realms?”
As Leo climbed higher, another bas-relief caught his
eye: a human figure in lavish ecclesiastical robes, wearing a tiara and holding
a staff in his left hand. Its silhouette reminded him of Pope Urban II, the
instigator of the Crusades, though it was more likely a depiction of some Dutch
bishop who had funded the cathedral's construction.
“But why is his figure placed above Christ and the
apostles?” Leo wondered. Finding no answer, he continued his ascent.
Soon, the basilica's main dome came into view, its
central cross rising ahead. This was exactly what Leonid had been looking for.
Gazing down on dome, Leo realized why it wasn't visible from the Oudezijds
Canal embankment: it was simply located at a different wing of the building.
As he studied its outline — which looked remarkably
like an alien flying saucer flattened at the top — a thought crossed his mind:
“What if the rector of this church uses the dome as a transmitter to
communicate with higher realms?”
Suddenly, the temple's metal roof began to hum, and
Leo heard melodic, drawn-out, low-pitched sounds.
“There! The transmission has begun!” he thought,
feeling the tingling vibrations in the air.
They start resonated with his substantial ephemerality
what was threatened him the complete disintegration. That's why he shot down
like ball lightning, returning to the body he shared with Leonid — his place of
power and protection.
Back on the ground, I watched through Leonid's
eyes as he and Vera-Virginia stood at the entrance to St. Nicholas' Basilica.
From there, as if from a cool, dark womb, an unstoppable stream of organ music
poured out into the street. Rejoining them, and seeing Vera-Virginia from
behind, Leo suddenly unlocked a hidden truth about women: from this angle, they
look much sexier than from the front. But he decided to keep this discovery to
himself.
"The Netherlands, and Amsterdam in
particular, are impossible to understand without being immersed in their
past," Vera said as we browsed the stalls at the city's floating flower
market, where we had arrived after visiting the basilica.
"What persistence, efficiency, and ingenuity
it took to turn tulips into a profitable export." But my own thoughts
drifted elsewhere. “Control the elements, sure,” I mused, remembering my past.
“I'd like to see your Lucas in a Danube rowboat when a wave hits the hull so hard
the timbers crack. This is all just a show...
They think they've tamed the planet, but Vera
wants to turn it inside out.”
“Leonid, why are you so quiet?” Lucas glanced at
me, noticing my aloofness. “Perhaps dinner is served differently on your
eastern ships?”
“In a word,” Brain intervened in the
conversation, “the Dutch pulled themselves up by their own bootstraps, like
Baron Munchausen...”
"But let's not get carried away with Dutch
history," Vera said the next day, as we sat at a table in the legendary De
Koffieschenkerij café. Having stumbled upon the place by chance while strolling
around the Oudezijds Canal, we learned that the café occupies part of the Oude
Kerk church's former sacristy, built back in 1515.
My favorite part was the monastery garden,
rightfully considered one of Amsterdam's best "secret spots."
Stepping into this courtyard from the bustling streets of the De Wallen Red
Light District felt like falling into a world of absolute silence, guarded by
ancient brickwork and blooming roses. I had experienced something similar in my
youth, at a friend's dacha in the coastal Bolshoy Fontan area of Odessa.
Back on the ground, I watched through Leonid's eyes as
he and Vera-Virginia stood at the entrance to St. Nicholas' Basilica. From
within, as if from a cool, dark womb, an unstoppable stream of organ music
poured out into the street. Rejoining them and looking at Vera-Virginia from
behind, Leo suddenly unlocked a hidden truth about women: from this angle, they
look much sexier than from the front. But he decided to keep this discovery to
himself.
"The Netherlands, and Amsterdam in particular,
are impossible to understand without being immersed in their past," Vera
said as we browsed the stalls at the city's floating flower market, where we
had headed after visiting the basilica.
"What persistence, efficiency, and ingenuity it
took to turn tulips into a profitable export." But my own thoughts drifted
elsewhere.
“Control the
elements, sure,” I mused, remembering my past.
“I'd like to
see your Lucas in a Danube rowboat when a wave hits the hull so hard the
timbers crack. This is all just a show... They think they've tamed the planet,
but Vera wants to turn it inside out.”
“Leonid, why are you so quiet?” Lucas glanced at me,
noticing my aloofness. “Perhaps dinner is served differently on your eastern
ships?”
“In a word,” Brain intervened, “the Dutch pulled
themselves up by their own bootstraps, like Baron Munchausen...”
"But let's not get carried away with Dutch
history," Vera said the next day, as we sat at a table in the legendary De
Koffieschenkerij café.
Having stumbled upon the place by chance while
strolling around the Oudezijds Canal, we learned that the café occupies part of
the Oude Kerk's former sacristy, built back in 1515.
My favorite part was the courtyard garden, rightfully
considered one of Amsterdam's best "secret spots." Stepping into this
courtyard from the bustling streets of the De Wallen Red Light District felt
like falling into a world of absolute silence, guarded by ancient brickwork and
blooming roses.
I had experienced something similar in my youth, at a
friend's dacha in the coastal Bolshoy Fontan area of Odessa.
Заметки по ходу текста:"It's okay, we'll have some fun and then get
back to work," I said, reassuring Vera. Only after a moment's thought did
I understand why she was so nervous.
The last time we had walked into a café and sat down
at an empty table, I’d ordered four coffees and four servings of apple pie. Vera
couldn't hide her surprise upon hearing the order.
"Are you really going to drink two cups of coffee
and eat two servings of apple pie?" she asked.
I stared back at her, equally perplexed, as if to say,
What's wrong with you? Only later did it dawn on me where I had blundered. When
I ordered four coffees and four apple pies, besides Vera and myself, I had
automatically included Leon Lupo and Brain.
Yes, in everyday life, they are only present
indirectly: Leon Lupo exists as a phantom, identified solely by the fake
Romanian passport Vera gave Leonid. And Brain is the mind that Leonid and I
share — one brain for both of us, split equally. But in our world, that is more
than enough.
However, for me personally, this oversight highlighted
an important psychological point: I had begun to perceive all of us as distinct
individuals, full members of our small community. So, it wasn't really about
coffee and apple pie, but something much bigger...
While I was sorting myself out, Vera-Virginia was busy
fulfilling her immediate mission in the Netherlands. Roughly speaking, she was
working to find and unite into a single, cohesive group qualified and motivated
people willing to return to the African continent for its revival. Ultimately,
she aimed to initiate a reverse "brain drain" from Europe back to
their countries of origin.
One evening, during dinner with our ark's
administrator, Lucas van Janson — who had fallen head over heels for
Vera-Virginia the very moment we first boarded his vessel — Vera brought up the
topic of African refugees and migrants. She turned to me and said...
But wait! Let's get back to that dinner with Captain
Janson. As far as I remember, the schooner's small wardroom didn't smell like
other well-worn vessels of this type — of tarred wood, river dampness, and the
subtle, barely perceptible aroma of diesel rising from the engine room. There
was no table set with aluminum bowls of navy-style macaroni and faceted glasses
of steaming, strong tea...
No, here in Amsterdam, the rules of the genre were
broken. There was indeed a damp scent coming from the canal, but no smell of
diesel; the schooner was fully connected to the city's electricity and gas
grids.
However, the brass of the porthole was polished to a
mirror shine, reflecting the steady flame of the candles. In the center of the
table, on a heavy tablecloth, a baked halibut in white wine was beautifully
steaming, surrounded by plates of hot stamppot — roughly mashed potatoes with
cabbage, spinach, and carrots.
Captain Lucas van Janson, a tall Dutchman with a
weathered face and a neat skipper's beard, poured glasses of Jenever. But his
eyes were fixed entirely on Vera-Virginia. She sat upright, like a queen at
someone else's banquet, and in the dim light of the wardroom, her anthracite
hair looked as if it had been sculpted from solid basalt.
“In the Netherlands, we say: if you have the sea,
you'll never go hungry,” Lucas said, handing Virginia her glass, his fingers
lingering a moment longer than intended. “Here you go, Vera. This is halibut
from the North Sea. We Dutch are simple folk and love hearty food, but for a
guest as special as you, I asked the cook to add a few colonial spices.”
Virginia gracefully accepted the glass, took a sip,
and smiled — the kind of smile that leaves men breathless on the Amsterdam
embankments.
“You call this simplicity, Captain?” Her voice was low
and velvety. “It seems to me that a great strength lies hidden within this
simplicity. The strength of a people who have reclaimed their very land from
the ocean.”
“You’re absolutely right!” Lucas beamed, his eyes
glittering with excitement. “We built dikes and forced the waters back. We
control the elements...”
“Quite differently, Captain,” I replied calmly,
nodding toward the halibut. “Back in the Soviet Union, women worked aboard
massive fishing trawlers, gutting the fresh catch and packing it into tins. And
whenever a woman of Virginia's stature appeared on board, the compass needles
would go haywire. A magnetic anomaly, you understand?”
Lucas laughed loudly, appreciating the nautical
metaphor, and turned back to Vera: “A magnetic anomaly... Spot on! Vera, you're
making my compass needle spin nonstop. Tell me, what is a woman like you
looking for in our boring old Amsterdam?”
Virginia slowly lowered her fork. She looked at Lucas,
then at me, and for a moment her eyes flashed with that same terrifying depth
for which she had come to Europe — despite the growing movement of the
"European Patriots Against the Islamization of the West."
“I'm looking for people here, Captain,” she said
quietly but clearly. “People who remember what the real ocean is and are ready
to return to their roots. Those who have the courage to swim against the
current.”
Lucas paused for a moment, glass raised, mesmerized by
her tone. He didn't yet understand that this gorgeous woman was speaking not of
romance, but of a tectonic shift that would erase the comfortable world he
knew.
And I, in the person of Leonid Petrenko, looked at
them both and thought, remembering a future that had not yet arrived: “Mira is
right, the world is full of idiots. But Leo is also right — among them, there
are captains ready to go to the bottom for the sake of one woman's smile.”
“So, Lenya, you've truly proven yourself,” a slightly
tipsy Virginia told me when we returned to our cabin after dinner with Captain
Janson. “I chose you from among many and offered you a job at the Congress of
African Women. I hope you're happy you came to Europe with me...”
“No comment,” I said, pulling her close. She leaned
against me, and our lips met in a kiss. After a minute, she pulled back, looked
into my eyes, and then pressed herself against me again, our bodies becoming
one.
We loved each other with the joy and despair of young
lovers. And when she turned her back to me, so that my two ping-pong balls
rhythmically collided with her two rugby balls, I realized she had read and
learned Leo's thoughts near the Basilica of St. Nicholas-within-the-Walls
—about women looking sexier from behind than from the front...
Tired and happy, we leaned back on the pillows. In the
ensuing silence, only our heavy, intermittent breathing and the sound of the
water lapping outside our ark could be heard.
While making love to Vera-Virginia, I caught myself
thinking something unusual. I thought it was a bit strange to share the love of
the same woman with another man — even if that other man was your twin brother,
and you shared a single, common body with him. Nevertheless, I was jealous of
Leon Lupo, the Romanian with the fake passport. He was probably just as jealous
of me. However, I knew that Vera was aware of this and didn't object.
"Yes, Leonid, I chose you from among many. It's
no coincidence that you ended up in the Congress of African Women and became my
right hand," Vera-Virginia admitted, stroking my hair. "On our 'ark,'
you are the most reliable, proven friend. I believe it's people like you who
can give Africa a boost greater than any financial subsidy."
“Here it is, the truth! And it burst open like a
cotton boll, from which they spin a strong thread only to weave a deadly
noose,” Brain immediately quipped.
Ignoring his words, I reflected on the fact that
representatives of over one hundred and thirty nationalities coexist peacefully
in the Netherlands. Most of them hail from former Dutch colonies. The African
diaspora, for instance, has settled in the Bijlmermeer district, southeast of
Amsterdam.
Having soberly assessed the social and economic
situation of the inhabitants of this “Dutch paradise,” Brain casually remarked:
“It’s going to be a hell of a job convincing them to return to their
homeland...”
Nevertheless, Vera and I developed a clear action
plan, focusing on key communication hubs. First and foremost, these were the
University of Amsterdam and Vrije Universiteit, where hundreds of African students’
study.
Then came the cultural, national, and religious
communities, including Afrocentric churches whose services resembled rock
concerts yet remained sanctuaries of trust. We didn't overlook local cultural
platforms either. Furthermore, we received invaluable support from
international organizations overseeing programs for the voluntary repatriation
of refugees, migrant workers, and expats.
The Amsterdam-Zuidoost community leadership, led by
its chairperson, Tanya Yadhanishansing, immediately backed the mission of the
African Women's Congress. Thanks to Tanya, Vera was allocated her own office,
and the work began to flourish — just as it had in Germany.
At the meetings, Vera delivered a keynote speech
entitled "Africa is Our Home," showcasing films and photographs that
revealed the continent's incredible beauty. She paid particular attention to
the virgin jungles of the Congo Basin and the Gulf of Guinea.
"The African jungle is an entire continent within
Africa itself!" Vera said, her eyes shining as she pointed to the screen,
where images of leopards, herds of forest elephants, and majestic gorillas
shrouded in thick fog flashed by. "But the paradox is that the indigenous
people themselves know almost nothing about it. We are cut off from our roots!
And yet, this is our shared home."
She paused, scanning the audience's faces, before
locking eyes with a young man in the front row. He sat motionless, mesmerized
by the vibrant photographs of lush greenery.
"Take you, for instance, young man," Vera
said, stepping toward him, her voice softening. "What is your name? Abas?
Tell me, Abas, have you ever seen a jungle like this? Heard its sounds?"
The hall fell silent. Abas was flustered by the dozens
of eyes suddenly fixed on him, his shoulders tensing. He lowered his gaze in
embarrassment, as if he had done something wrong, and said quietly but clearly:
"I'm
from Somalia, Vera... We don't have jungles. Where I come from, there is only
scorched earth and endless red sand. I've never seen so many trees in my life
as I have in your photos."
A quiet sigh swept through the hall. The young man's
words struck a raw nerve, exposing the exiles' deepest pain: they were
rediscovering their native Africa here, in a foreign land, in the chill of
Amsterdam…
