A Rush of Blood

You stand in a horizontal waterfall of cascading twisted metal. You stand with a spark of vexation, but you’re too stubborn to move. A cyclist goes whizzing by. Instead of ducking for cover, you stick your face in theirs the split they pass and yell, “BLEGH!”

This provokes a trickle of curses.

You add a strand of pearly wisdom to alleviate the bloke: “Did you know that polar bears can smell a baby seal from 20 miles away?!” Okay, maybe that isn’t wisdom. The words flutter in the air like a broken banner. The cyclist probably never tasted them.

You giggle all the same.

What else can you do? You’re stranded, a lone human island in the center of a river of bicycles that just keep coming. In a city that doesn’t know your name. You barely know its name. Someplace in the Netherlands, right? Instagram? No. Anti-tram? Hm, no.

Oh. That’s right. Amsterdam.

You huff a puff of disappointment. Come on. Sure geography had never been your strongest subject, but you bought and paid for the tickets here. Damn short-term memory loss. Now, here you stand, on the paper edge of what a nearby sign tells you is Rembrandt Square, ambushed by bicycles.

“Blargh!!” you tear out.

A pedaling art student sniffs indignantly.

In your opinion, Amsterdam has way too many bicycles. Sure, bikes are cheaper and healthier – back home, you rode one to work – but haven’t these people heard of cars? Why must there be so MANY bikes?! It’s a nuisance. Especially when the best cars in the world are made in a country right next door. And it’s not normal for a city to be so environmentally-minded.

More than just bicycles exist here, though, believe it or not. Amsterdam is a city of unfortunate expectations. People think rather low of this place. Stained by patches of excessive drug addiction and sex slavery, it’s hard to disagree with them. And on top of everything else, the whole town is below sea level. If it weren’t for some very precarious dikes, it’d all be a big, salty cesspool.
You make a mental note to check out the red light districts later. Those sorts of things intrigue you, and it might not be around for much longer.

In spite of all the human ugliness, Amsterdam itself takes pride in being a hub of fashion and class, as well as a testament to the individual. Its buildings are of a kind unique to the Dutch community – all soft browns and succulent maroons and adorned by gently geometric stone accents around the edges. Completely color-coordinated, of course. Amsterdam’s sense of style rivals that of Paris. The slews of designer threads clamor to prove it.

You, however, are more interested in the red light district. Beauty’s great and all, but a place like that really makes a person think. And do other things. All in all, your hopes for humanity hang pretty low.

Where is he?

You glance at your watch, a nifty little gadget with a proud, wide face and a broad leather strap fastened steampunk style: with a big ol’ metal buckle. Its hands tell you it is approximately thirty minutes to high noon.

He’s late. That’s most unlike him. You’d worry, but you know he can take care of himself, no matter what happens. He’s a grown Country, after all.

That being said, he’s still late.

You heave a sigh the size of a houseboat (plenty of those in the canals of Amsterdam) and you tap your foot to the quickening beat of a techno tune. Basshunter. Something jumpy, to reflect your swelling impatience.

It’s not like he didn’t know you were coming. You had made ample use of available technology to ensure he did. You called him before and after every takeoff and touchdown (to inform him of your progress). You emailed him while you were up in the air (to check if he was paying attention in his ‘meetings’). And you texted him during all the in-betweens (more to annoy him than anything – your favorite pastime).

What a journey it had been. You had really outdone yourself this time, putting up with so much just to be in the same city as him.

You had come from Marseilles. Francis had been giving you a personal tour as a little vacation. From there, you flew to Paris, to quite possibly the most stressful, frantic airport on the planet. The passenger waiting areas were designed to resemble curved variations of the Louvre pyramids, by you thought they looked more like upturned arks. It certainly felt like Noah’s ark in there – like a zoo. People everywhere. A solid conglomeration of ripe human flesh. Barely enough room to put your feet down without trampling an appendage or two.

Miraculously, you managed to escape. Once on the plane, you flew directly to Amsterdam, but your troubles end there. During your flight, the guy beside you kept tapping an uncomfortably affectionate palm to your shoulder. He called you “Lassie.” Lassie. Like the dog. But even he shriveled in comparison to the chump who picked you off in the baggage wing of the airport.

He dressed cleanly enough, but when he came up to you, a cloud of robust smoke odor followed, along with a razor edge of alcohol breath. He offered to take your bag and call you a taxi, and stupidly, you had trusted him. The Thing led you through the labyrinth of escaladers and baggage belts, scrambling you so thick that at one point, you almost expected a dark alley to pop up. But it didn’t.

Eventually, you ended up on the curb of the airport drop off zone, a taxi ready and waiting…driven by a second Thing. Thing One and Thing Two. Thing One packed your bag away nice and tight in the trunk while you hopped into shotgun beside Thing Two and told him the address of your hotel. He had a voice like Rocky Balboa and chugged Red Bull the whole ride through.

You were lucky to escape with your life.

But no biggie. Adventures like that are what get you going in the morning.

“He’s still not here,” you mutter. Talking to yourself is another one of your favorite pastimes.

“Out of the way!!” a belligerent cyclist snarls.

You flip him the bird before sidling to the left, just a hair to spare.

“Damn tourist!”

“I am not a tourist,” you say in perfect Dutch.

You decide to exit the bike lane anyway. Dodging metallic lizards is growing tiresome.

Yanking out your earbuds, you meander over to a place out in the open, in the rough center of this godforsaken square. Why do they even call it a square? It’s a rectangle. Not even. It’s a blob. You come to a small landscape garden, chock full of pine green shrubs and doily patterned bushes. A couple trees dapple the edges. All of this frames the square’s main focus: a grouping of metallic statues depicting men in that ridiculous, frilly trash that dead people wore. Each statue strikes a different pose. Many of them have accessories. You rush up to one and pretend to impale yourself on his spear. You sneak up on another and bang his drum. You stick your face into a third’s visage. “Got a problem?” you ask the hunk of metal.

The surrounding tourists don’t know what to make of you. A few of them shout angrily for you to pry yourself from their photo shoot, but all are afraid to approach the girl with a gleam in her eye.

“(Name)!”

Wait a second. You know that voice. That voice isn’t messing around.

“Get out of there, (Name)!”

A sturdy pair of hands reaches in through the tangled metal limbs and detaches you from the steely embrace of a frozen soldier. They then proceed to drag you across the square to a place less likely to tempt you into trouble.

“What were you doing?” Ludwig demands.

“Having fun. You should try it sometimes,” you grumble, brushing yourself off. Who knew statues were so dirty? “While I was waiting for you, I tried to preserve a little of my sanity.”

“I am sorry I am late,” he concedes. “But nothing gives you the right to act so immaturely.”

“Then how come your brother gets away with it so often?”

“Mein bruder is… a special case. And you can see where his behavior has gotten him. Most of the Countrykind have little respect for him in peacetime. Do you want the same reputation?”

“That depends… what kind of rep does he got during a war?” you ask snidely, prodding for an explosion. You love setting him off. It gives you little tendrils of thrill.

But he’s not taking the bait today. He ignores the question. “Where would you like to have lunch?”

“I don’t know. I practically just got here. You tell me.”

Ludwig pans around, glancing at the flurries of people shuffling to and fro. He does not smile. He rarely does. His steel blue eyes just don’t look the same above a smile. Thinking, he runs a hand through his peeled lemon hair. “Hm… I know a good Italian place.”

“Nope.”

“What about sushi?”

“Eh… nein.”

“McDonald’s?”

“HELL no.”

He sighs resignedly. “(Name), don’t be difficult…”

You sense his fatigue. Normally, this game would wander on for a couple more minutes, but today, he doesn’t seem to have the energy. These meetings with Abel must be pretty serious business. “That place over there looks good,” you say, pointing to a sidewalk café across the square. You charge toward it, towing your Country three paces behind.

“’St. James’ Gate,’” you read off the flapping umbrellas. The tables and chairs are sturdy and solid. Varnished cedar, maybe. You can’t see any “Please wait to be seated” sign, so you plunk yourself down on one of them straight away, your purse thudding to the ground by your feet. Atop the table is a sprig of some sort of red artificial flower in a vase, and next to that, an advertisement for Guinness beer. This must be an Irish restaurant.

Ludwig lumbers in shortly after, taking his time to pick his way through the heavy furniture. The place is fairly empty. Surprising, considering it’s around twelve thirty. He collapses into the chair adjacent to yours. For the first time, you notice black pouches hanging from his eyes.

“Good afternoon. Can I get you some menus?” a waiter says, bouncing out of nowhere.

“Yes, thank you,” you and Ludwig say in tandem. You frown at each other.

The waiter bustles off, moving with experienced efficiency through the maze.

“So, what’s eating you?” you ask Ludwig.

“Nothing,” he replies. As expected.

“Come on. You’re worn out from something. Tell Auntie (Name) what’s wrong.”

He doesn’t respond.

“You know you can tell me anything. That’s what I’m here for.”

He still doesn’t respond.

“Now who’s being immature?”

That gets him. “If you really must know, I had an argument with Abel.”

“And…?”

“An argument that could jeopardize German-Dutch relations.”

“So?”

Just then, the waiter returns with your menus. He hands one to each of you. “What’d y’like to drink?” he asks. You notice he doesn’t carry a notepad.

“Guinness for me,” Ludwig says.

“Do you have Guinness shakes?” you ask.

The waiter looks at you blankly.

“Oo-kay then. Never mind. I’ll have a plain old Guinness, too.”

“You look a little young, lass.”

You clench your fist under the table and bite down hard on your swelling anger. “First, don’t call me ‘lass.’ Or ‘lassie.’ Or any other stupid pet name. Second, I am perfectly allowed to have a beer when I want a beer, considering that I’m much older than I look.”

The waiter’s eyes are wide and white. “Alright then. Two Guinness beers. Coming right up. I’ll give you two some time to look over our menu.”

You are much older than you look. Several decades older, in fact. Ever since you hooked up with a Country, you stopped aging. You don’t know how, but it is what it is. You’ve celebrated almost thirty twentieth birthdays now.  

Concealing your face behind the menu, you return to your inquiry. “So, what’s so bad about having a little spat with your dear cousin Abel?”

“(Name), you should understand this by now. We owe it to the people of our nations to behave civically and diplomatically with our fellow Countrykind. It’s bad enough that our leaders and governments fall into petty disputes. We’re supposed to be the more grown-up ones. But sometimes, national sentiments get in the way…”

“What was it this time? Did you ask him about his scar?”

“Nein. I know better than that, at least.”

Scars are a matter of sacred distance among the Countrykind. With abnormally potent healing abilities, they don’t collect superficial tissue flaws. Each scar has historical significance (usually negative) to the Country who bears it, and so asking about it is a surefire way to get on that Country’s bad side. Abel, the Netherlands, happens to have one on his forehead, right above his brow for all to see, all day, every day. It doesn’t help that his hair refuses to stay down.

“So, what then? What got the two of you going?” you press.

The waiter comes up with a platter bearing beer glasses. D’arvit! Once again, right at the wrong time. You could swear this guy is intentionally foiling your interrogation.

“There you are,” he says, setting your beer on a shamrock coaster. “Now, what can I get you to eat?”

You stop.

You’d been so focused on prying answers out of Ludwig that you had forgotten to give the menu a glance over. “Uh…uhm… what would you recommend?” you ask, lips fidgeting sheepishly.

“The stew’s good.”

“I’ll have the stew then.”

There better not be any peas in it…

“And you, sir?”

Ludwig looks thoughtfully down upon the splayed menu before him. “Soda bread with a baked potato on the side.”

“That’s it, sir?”

“That is all.”

“You got it. I’ll get that right away,” he says, swiping the menus as Ludwig hands them to him.

“Why do they always say ‘right away’?” you wonder aloud. “It’s never really ‘right away.’”

“And they don’t always say ‘right away,” Ludwig replies with a contemplative sip of beer.

“True, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

“It does.  Your question included the word ‘always.’”

“Never mind.” You wave away the flaring argument. “Let’s get back to the matter at hand. Why’d you get angry at Abel?”

“It wasn’t that I got angry at him, he got angry with me,” he clarifies quickly. This is too good. He’s almost pouting.

“Okay then. Why’d he get angry at you?”

“Nothing important,” he says, using a similar gesture to the one you had used moments ago and waving the question away. He nips at his beer. That right there is a sign that something is dreadfully wrong: Germany drinking beer slowly.

“I’m waiting,” you warn, tapping your foot. Realizing that he probably can’t see your foot, you add a few wriggling fingers.

He continues his tentative sipping.

You’ll have to wait him out. Ugh. You look around for something interesting to watch. At a table nearby, an American family sits dazed. One of the children, a young teenage girl, takes out a small purple book and begins scraping a pencil through it. Your eyes flit to the subject capturing her attention: an intricate lamp woven into a wrought iron fence. If only you had brought your sketchbook.

Looking out to the actual square, you pick up details you hadn’t bothered with before. A giant television screen attaches itself to the side of one of the centuries-old buildings. It plays the same commercial over and over again and nothing more. Around the perimeter of the cobblestone square, the bikes are still going at it, more crowded than a Floridian superhighway during Disney season. In the corner, an accordionist strikes up a tune. It’s lively stuff, but not quite a polka. Thank goodness. You get enough of those back home in Berlin.

Returning to your companion, he’s progressed from beer-sipping to self-inspection. He isn’t vain, so he doesn’t carry a mirror with him, but as you watch, he combs his hair, adjusts the collar of his dress shirt, tightens his tie, and brushes the imaginary dust off the shoulders of his suit jacket. It’s midsummer, 80-degree weather, and he’s still wearing a suit jacket.

You give. “Are you going to answer me or not?”

The waiter arrives with the food.

“God d’arvit!!” you cry, throwing your hands up.

Your food almost goes flying, but lucky for you, this waiter is well-versed in the field of dealing with easily excitable people (read: Irish pub goers). He grips the platter firm, and your knuckles almost burst through your skin when they hit it.

“Here you are,” the waiter says as if nothing happened. He places a steaming ceramic bowl in front of you. Inside, a whole potato and several full grown carrots bathe in a thick, floury paste. This is what it means to be Irish stew, apparently. Before Ludwig, he sets a platter of strangely textured bread and a potato. With that, he retreats, clutching his serving tray almost like a shield.

“Yum,” you remark, eyeing your mudslide. “Well, at least there aren’t any peas.”

You pick up a fork (yes, a fork) and slough off a slice of potato. You gingerly pop it into your mouth. “Not bad.”

“Would you like to try some soda bread?” Ludwig asks.

“Sure,” you say and reach for a hunk. Wait a second. This feels like a trap. You got distracted by all the food in front of you. Wasn’t there something you needed to do? Think. Think.

“You still need to tell me what got Abel so mad at you!” you exclaim.

Ludwig smiles.

He actually, legitimately smiles.

It even reaches his eyes. “I suppose I should tell you.”

You lean forward. “Yes?”

“What got Abel so mad at me…I told him that even the lowliest German swill was far superior to Heineken. And then he socked me in the face. So I knocked him out.”

Silence.

Even the accordion stops playing.

“I love you,” you tell him.