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 her closely, touching and stroking her arms and shoulders, looking trustingly into her brown eyes with their golden sparkle, and 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 car with bouquets.

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.

In Amsterdam we stayed aboard the Amsterdam—a large, well-worn fishing schooner converted into a floating hotel, moored near the Dutch capital's Central Station. Our cabin was on the middle deck, and there was a large porthole that 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, right in the center of Amsterdam, which 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 full head taller when she wore shoes with high heels.

And as we walked along the Oudezijds Canal—a slender, short white man with a touch of gray hair and a striking, beautiful Black woman with anthracite-colored hair—young people glanced at us, probably envious: the girls at Vera, the guys at me. As a couple, despite the recent COVID-19 pandemic, 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!’” Brain said he was envious of me as a man and probably regretted that he was just my brain and nothing more.

He wasn't wrong when he called Amsterdam “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 examples of Dutch architecture, especially the dancing half-timbered houses of the seventeenth century, Vera and I approached the Basilica of St. Nicholas within the Walls.

Looking at this 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 flanking the entrance seemed like honorary guards of the Catholic faith, keeping watch over Christ and the four interpreters of his teachings.

“Looking at this basilica, 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 basilica’s intricate design.

“I don’t see the main dome—the one that receives signals on Holy,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

At that moment, I, as Leo—who had been watching from 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.

Leaving my brother's body, I began to ascend the cathedral's façade, considering its moldings and decorative details.

When I rose higher, I saw another bas-relief that caught my eye: a human figure in lavish ecclesiastical robes, wearing a tiara and holding a staff in his left hand. Its silhouette reminded me 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?” I wondered. And finding no answer, I continued his ascent.

Soon, the basilica's main dome came into view, its central cross rising ahead. This was precisely what Leonid had been looking for. Gazing down on the dome, I realized why it wasn't visible from the Oudezijds Canal embankment: it was simply located in a different wing of the building.

As I studied its outline—which looked remarkably like an alien flying saucer flattened at the top—a thought crossed my 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 I heard melodic, drawn-out, low-pitched sounds.

 “There! The communication session has begun!” he thought, feeling the tingling vibrations in the air. At that very moment, they resonated with the substantial ephemeral form he inhabited on the roof.

This threatened the complete disintegration of his ethereal essence, and 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. “There! The communication session has begun!” I thought, feeling the tingling vibrations in the air. They resonated with the ephemeral substance I inhabited on the roof.

This threatened the complete disintegration of my essence, and I shot down.  Watching Vera from behind, I suddenly unlocked a hidden truth about women: from this angle, they look much sexier than from the front. But I decided to keep this discovery to himself.

 

"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.

"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 — the ones 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. Firstly, these were two universities—Amsterdam and Free—within whose walls hundreds of foreign students studied.

The next in line were 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 Congress of African Women. Thanks to Tanya, Vera was allocated her own office, and the work went as planned.

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…