REKT - Chapter 8

== Amsterdam ==

We ride bikes. We go to museums. We smoke huge conical joints and listen to jazz. Neither of us really love jazz, but this has become a thing we do in Amsterdam. In the middle of a record, we make love then fall asleep in the late afternoon. Each time I wake Niko is in the big bay window overlooking the canal. She’s painting a houseboat. It’s an old beat-up thing, long and skinny with cracked white wood and portholes missing glass. There’s a ring of tires drilled into the side of the boat. 

Niko works with a small set of watercolors. She’s set the easel facing the wall, turning to the side to see the boat. I watch her. She’s hunched, close to the canvas, holding the paintbrush like a pencil. I know little about painting but can tell this approach is unorthodox. The sun scatters across her copper hair setting off the natural highlights in her thick tangle of curls. 

On the canvas the boat is pristine, bright and welcoming. There are flower boxes hanging off the sides. Green vines tumble down to the waterline, pink blossoms sprouting from them. A cat leans over the side, peering down at a fish. Outside the window a faded detergent bottle bobs up and down. I prefer her version.

“You’re getting fat. You should take up smoking or start running,” she says.

“Excuse me?”

“I lost weight for you, to seduce you that day with the diamonds. That took work you know. Now, the next time I see you, you are all flab. That is not fair or attractive.”

I look down at myself. The road has put weight on me. It’s hard to eat right when you are on the go or in strange places. Your body calls for comfort food, the only places to eat are out, then there’s the drinking, so much drinking. After the drinking there’s the convenience store chicken. Thank God they don’t have Nando’s in the States.

What’s with Nikola fat shaming me? That’s not cool. If we don’t like someone’s looks, we are supposed to pretend it’s not that big a deal while slowly disappearing from their lives. Only she can’t ghost me, we work together. Remember the complications. Besides, she’s European. Maybe they still speak their mind. 

“Well, you’ve cut me, so let’s hear the rest of it while I’m bleeding out on the comforter.”

“Your hair. Let it grow out some more and stay out of the sun. You are getting too tan.”

“So, you want a tall, skinny, pasty kid with long hair?”

“It reminds me of London.”

“You should go raid the incoming class at university. I’m thirty-four Niko, that look is more and more of an uphill battle these days. Besides, I don’t want you starving yourself for me.”

“How chivalrous. Now keep an eye on your waistline and start using SPF 70.”

She’s serious. No one has ever talked to me that way. People always judge me for my brain. Never my looks. At least if they do, they never say. I find myself liking it. There’s something very direct, very basic about it. A fresh set of problems to worry about. That’s what it is.

“When were you in London?” I ask.

Her back stays turned to me. She’s busy with her watercolors. 

“A couple of times. We spent six years there when I was growing up. Left just before A levels. My father didn’t like the way business was going. Too many Russians coming in, it stopped being family.”
“What did your father do?”

“He cooked books. Where do you think I learned all my tricks from? How do you think I know how to run these little games of ours?”

“That was the family business?”

“Three generations. We worked for a Greek shipping magnate. My father followed one of his sons to London, but like I said, dad was traditional and didn’t like the new ways.”

I stand up and admire myself naked in the mirror. I am sucking my gut in, my thumb and pointer finger grabbing at flesh just over my hip. She’s right. This isn’t my best look. More walking, less beer. 

Salads. Time to switch to vodka sodas. 

“And the second time in London?”

“Six years ago. Part of me missed it. I didn’t feel Cypriot enough, wasn’t sure there was a place for me at home. I entered the management training program at HSBC. That’s where I met Andy. He was in sales, I was in finance, but we were in the same year one group. We ran around in the same circles.”

“He didn’t last long,” I say.

“No, he was hustling Paddy Power on the side. Did a lot better at talking punters into the app than he did selling bonds. That’s what got him started on the whole sports betting thing.”

“Did you two?” I ask.

Ha, I finally got her to turn around and pay attention to me. All I had to do was ask if we were Eskimo brothers, not that she knows the term. I’m back on the bed, goose down comforter wrapped around my gut, curious but not really caring which way the answer goes.

“I was engaged at the time.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No.”

Niko pulls back, turns her attention to the painting, but that’s just an avoidance tactic. She’s not really looking at it. The past is a minefield, and I’ve stepped on something.

“I didn’t mean to pry. Sorry if that was coarse.”

“You coarse.” Niko laughs, husky and dismissive. “You’re a pussycat Ryan. You have no idea.”
She stands up from the easel, lights another joint and puts on Coltrane. She’s had enough talking for the day. I’ve taken from her, and now she is about to take back.  


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