Albert leaned over the window-sill and pensively gazed straight down. As he raised his head towards the horizon, the network of streets, alleyways and canals below him gradually thinned into a hazy sheet of red and brown rooftops. The melodious sound of Mozart’s Requiem from inside his room mingled with the outside clamour of urban clanks and rattles from moving trams, rising and falling wails of sirens, revving engines and an impatient double concerto of tinkling bells and honking horns. Rokin, a major artery, seemed even more congested on this eve before Easter weekend. It was Albert’s final afternoon in Amsterdam. There was no need to stay any longer. He had received the merchandise for which he had made this long journey.
These late afternoons by the window gave him the same solace as when he was a child spending hours observing the movements within the confines of his homebuilt ant colony. Albert felt a gust of cold breeze on his face. From the vantage point of his top floor window, the world below seemed much like another ant colony, streaming by mechanically on either legs or wheels in life’s endeavour for continuity. They seemed so well acquainted in their routes and yet so completely lost in their routine. To him, their freedoms and rights were all a sham for they were nothing but slaves to their perfunctory existence.
The flow of his wandering thoughts was disrupted by the increasing pain in his abdomen. He rushed to his medicine pouch and gulped down several pills from a bottle. Following yesterday’s meeting with Doctor De Munch, Albert was relieved to know that his suffering would end soon. It could only be the doctor’s approach that made him so trusting for he was still unsure whether the doctor’s name was real or a pseudonym. Their doctor-patient consultations had only taken place in public areas.
On their second meeting Albert had said, “...but, I would feel more comfortable if we met at your clinic or my hotel rather than on this crowded floor of the Van Gogh museum.”
“My dear man, what better mise-en-scene than this,” the doctor chuckled. “You see Albert, usually I never see foreigners as it is very dangerous and they could revoke my license, but I could not refuse my dear friend when he called me from your cold country.
“Albert, please understand, the Dutch only care about the rights of their own people. By consulting a foreigner, I am putting my whole career at risk.”
At their very first meeting at Vondelpark, the doctor, whilst explaining his terms, had told Albert that the actual act must only be carried out upon his return to his native Canada, thus severing any connection.
Upon Albert’s acknowledgement, the doctor offered him two choices. The first, a self-administered suicide where he could overdose himself with sedative-hypnotic drugs that would gradually put him into deep sleep. At the very beginning of drowsiness, Albert would need to cover his head with a strong garbage bag and seal it around his neck with a tape. “But, let me warn you Albert,” the doctor continued, “the success rate for this procedure is not at all like the other foolproof method I am going to recommend. However, there is no cost involved in it as it does not require a professional like me to get further involved.”
He stopped to light a cigarette and deeply inhaled continuing, “You see, often the drugs are intense enough to put one into a deep sleep, but they may not be powerful enough to stop the body from naturally reacting, even in a comatose state and instinctively tearing the bag from the face for the oxygen deprived to the body.
“Have you ever watched an animal struggle and fight against its predator?” Responding to Albert’s nod of acknowledgement, he went on, “Yes, here the predator is the absence of oxygen. I had done much research in the field of survival instincts. We have some genes in us whose lineage can be traced back to 3.7 billion years. Of course, in different species they have mutated differently, but it has never lost its purpose which is the continuation of life and more specifically, the species, the individual and the gene itself.” With a mischievous look, he added, “Among my colleagues we call it the Machiavellian genes, as at least in us, it achieves its purpose by tricking us with feelings of love, jealousy, community and so on.
“We take our rituals, duties and obligations to our family and society so seriously that everything selfish is made to look altruistic, but they are just a means to an end for survival and continuation.”
Albert impatiently interrupted, “So Doctor, what else do you suggest with a bit more assurance?”
“You must have heard of the famous story of Socrates being given the Hemlock to put him to death. If you read the Phaedo, you…”
“Yes, I have read it.”
Suddenly the doctor turned and looked right into Albert’s eyes and continued, “Ok, so similar to the Hemlock, my potion is in a liquid, colourless form and to avoid the slight bitter taste, it can be injected into any edible item like a roast or sausage or even mixed in a soup. Within fifteen minutes of what I refer to as the last supper, you will experience a slight fatigue in your body and gradual loss of speech. At that point it is best to lie down as once in coma, the brain becomes totally dead and within minutes the heart also stops.
“I developed this compound and it is far superior in many ways to even the conventional Potassium Cyanide pill used by governments. There is neither pain nor struggle nor any awareness in the final moments.”
“Doctor De Munch, tell me, what can go wrong here?” said Albert gravely.
“Absolutely nothing, not even the Almighty can save you after it is swallowed. Like the poison Ricin, my compound has no antidote. Plus, I make my potion two hundred times stronger than necessary and the bottle I would give you, the size of your finger, can kill over a dozen elephants.
“You see Albert, I developed this drug myself and without the lobbying power of a big pharmaceutical name, the government will take over twenty years to consider granting it approval or not. You see, bureaucracy is often maintained to protect the interests of the powerful.
“Well, at the end, it is only the people in real need who suffer.”
The doctor and Albert had met yesterday for the final time on a bench outside Paleis op de Dam where De Munch gave specific instructions to Albert for collecting the bottled liquid hidden under a particular stairwell in a building in Jordaan. At their final parting both men greeted each other with tremendous sincerity and warmth though without any embrace or shaking of hands.
Still by the open window, sitting and resting his chin on the sill, Albert recognised the woman with her usual red scarf. If the pain was not recurring so frequently, he would have run down and followed her like he did so often to discover the multitude of lost worlds. She waited at her regular tram stop. Her grocery bags seemed bulkier than usual. Even from a distance, she exuded an existence of endless drudgery. Was she a single mother struggling at some mindless job to sustain her family and leave a nest for the next generation, Albert wondered? What tricks Mother Nature played to perpetuate her own existence? Suddenly he felt the intense heat and pressure of a hot flash and he automatically got up to take some more pills. When he returned the tram was already there and fully eclipsing the queue. As the tram moved on, he noticed that she was gone too. Leaning out of the window, he stretched to catch the last glimpse of her tram. He was suddenly engulfed with a feeling of sadness for he would never see her again or be able to rescue her from the agony of existing. Suddenly this feeling of loss and emptiness about the woman overwhelmed him. Was this too another trick? This entire needless endeavour in life to what end? Or was it all just a purposeless addiction? He left the window to start packing.
The old adage, never to put all eggs in one basket, was engrained in him. He injected a third of the potion into a large sausage he had purchased. The balance was divided between its original bottle and a perfume sample bottle. This way it would be equally distributed between the suitcase, handbag and the inside pocket of his jacket. Doctor De Munch had assured him that beyond a bitter taste, it did not have any identifiable smell and hence passing it through customs should be his least worry.
As Albert’s turn came closer in the customs and immigration line-up, he felt the growing tension. He mopped his brow as he approached the counter.
“Purpose of your trip?”
“Business...er, I am a financial consultant.”
“Any goods to declare now or to follow?”
“Absolutely nothing...I did not purchase any gifts or duty free.”
A loud thump on the passport and a nod to the next in line gave Albert the clearance to proceed.
Soon he was by the carousel waiting for his luggage feeling a tremendous sense of relief. In a few hours he would be up at his cottage in Muskoka. In less than 24 hours he would be in the same state of oblivion from whence he came. Albert had settled on using his side lawn under the big oak tree as his final resting place. This would keep him out of sight from any back road traffic and the canopy of the branches would hide the view from low flying recreational aircrafts. By the time his remains were discovered, he would be swallowed to fill several ravenous appetites leaving no trace for the forensics to link his death to De Munch’s potion.
Mingling with the crowd that went past the green light, he got glimpses of waving hands beyond the opening and shutting exit doors.
“Sir, do you mind coming this way?” A sudden electrical jolt went through Albert’s body. Taking him towards a partially enclosed booth, the young official very politely requested to see his passport. Viewing it like one peruses a new book, he handed it back and asked, “Did you visit any other countries besides the Netherlands?”
“No, I was just there on business, you see I have my own financial consulting business and I am carrying out this feasibility study, er, for this ...”
“How long were you away from Canada?”
Feeling confident that this was just a routine random check, Albert regained his confidence and said, “Little over a fortnight and I think I may return back there after this long weekend.”
“No purchases at all?”
“No absolutely none.”
“I just need to check your hand bag.
“What are these?”
He now felt his second jolt and much stronger, but with a shivering smile he made every effort to portray his confidence.
“Oh, just some sausages I picked up for the plane. You know how they starve you these days on the long flights. Well, maybe I did not finish them all.”
“Sir, by Canadian law no meat items are allowed to be brought in from anywhere else except the U.S.
“We will not fine you this time for not declaring them Sir on your form. But, they will need to be confiscated and destroyed.”
“But...”
“Any other food items?”
“Er, no, but, er, these sausages.”
“Sir, take this as a verbal warning that in the future, you are not supposed to bring any food items into Canada.” As he was completing his sentence, he disposed of the sausages into a big black garbage bag by his desk.
“Thank you. You may continue through the exit doors.”
Albert was a bit shaken by this encounter but equally relieved that there was still sufficient left in the remaining two bottles and he congratulated himself for his cautious planning.
The drive to the cottage was far from being comfortable. He stopped several times for medication and rest as the pain was intensifying its hold and expanding to several new places. Life no more could fool him and make him see death as the dreaded devil. In truth, he thought, it was life that was the conniving manipulator which had stolen him first from the cradle of death. As he approached the dirt road leading to the cottage, he again thought of the woman with the red scarf. Life had pitilessly even blinded her and turned her into a slave so it could waltz to the next generation and then again the next. Oh what an evil, cruel force the universe had created.
As Albert entered the cottage, he went to the phone and dialled the local grocer;
“Joe? Albert. How are you? I just arrived. Can you arrange to send me some eggs, sausages and bread by 9 tomorrow morning?
“Oh yes, also include the morning paper
“Don’t run a tab this time. Just send me the bill and I will settle it with your boy right there. Thanks. Goodnight.”
--------------------------------------
Promptly, the next morning the items were delivered. Albert carefully removed them from the box including the rolled newspaper. After the breakfast was prepared he carefully injected half of the remaining potion into the sausages and went a distance into the woods to bury leftover and the syringe. Returning to the cottage he had his hearty breakfast. Feeling slightly dizzy, he moved towards the side lawn. Like Socrates, Albert too thought he should be offering a cock to Asclepius. With a deep calm engulfing him, he removed the rubber band from the rolled newspaper the grocer had sent. As he read the headline, a peaceful smile crossed his face while his eyelids started to droop. At this point he was not sure if he had really read correctly or whether he was hallucinating. With increasingly more effort, he reopened his eyes and reread the headlines:
13 Airport Custom Officers die mysteriously while on duty
No comments:
Post a Comment