Burning bridges
When poetry pays the price
You were locked up in a stylish spacious North-facing room on a sunny Thursday in September, redesigning a home page, together with another dozen people. The clock had just struck half past, Jan had just given you a call to inform you that he has one spot left for you right before 5, and he gently warned you that he would have to leave on time as “dinner at his is usually served around quarter to”. You hurried back, poured all heartfelt apologies on your team, and departed.
With furrowed brows, you left every tram that dared to chase you trailing behind. Runners’ fastest pace was a beat behind your ringing bell, passersby could swear they caught sight of a ghost whiz past on two wheels. The streets were bustling and the clock was ticking relentlessly. No one would go out of their way for my sake in this country, you reminded yourself as you tighten your grip on the handlebars. I gotta do it. And I will. Before 5. I’m unbreakable. You glided past a handful of avenues, a few streets and more bridges than you remember crossing in a single city trip. A whole life was unfolding here among many figures you had never known existed. They all have names and, as it seems from where you stand, dogs too. And the cargo bikes, mini-camper vans that occasionally blocked your way! You saw more in a day than in three years - if only you had half of their engines!
It was unusually sunny for a September afternoon. Of course, you could not afford to stop and snap a picture of the geraniums hanging from the bridge fences - their lily pad-like leaves swaying, lingering in the breeze to air-dry, and their red, white and pink petals gazing dreamily at the horizon. And you knew it had rained quite a few times this month - or did it stop raining at all this year? Half way through, the afternoon golden glow looked you straight in the eyes, and the smell of fresh rain paved your trail, like the petrichor you used to smell once a year by the upper gate of the AUB* on Bliss street, or by your dad’s resting cherry trees after a fruitful summer, in your hometown.
A breezier, more subtle and volatile type, the one you wouldn’t be able to snap on your camera even if you had all the time in the world. But you hadn’t anyway. Also, you knew it - this would not be the last time you would meet with dusk eye to eye. So you kept crossing the city horizontally, you swam with a river of buses, cars, trams, and unsheltered fleeting humans too, weaving between overpopulated bike lanes and quiet courtyards, determined to make their way home.
And just like that, you found yourself in front of Potgieterstraat. You did not know back then that Potgieter (2) was the one who wrote this about the journey home:
“I lead the beloved where moss surrounds the oak,
Where ’tis dark in the green, where ’tis green in the dark.”(3)
… and that he was in love with home:
“Gray is your sky and stormy your shore,
Bare are your dunes and flat your fields,
You created nature with a stepmother’s hand,
Yet I deeply love you, oh my Land!”(4)
You finally put some backwards pressure on your pedals, hopped off, rested the frame on the street rack, swiftly retrieved your keys from the back wheel lock like a real Dutch lady, and crossed the street.
The door was showing a quiet threshold. You rested your palm on the teal-colored frame, pushed in and revealed clean steep but rather wide wooden stairs. You climbed up, stopped by the first door you saw and stepped in.
“Hello, u bent Jrinwa, toch?” Jan greeted, extending his hand. You always suppress a giggle at how people pronounce your name on these lands, and you come across quirkier attempts almost everyday. “Ja, precies”, you confirmed that it was you, and you put very little effort to conceal your French accent - perhaps to make a favourable impression, especially since you both knew that God lives in France (5). Or were you hinting at your limited Dutch proficiency, implying a likely switch to French unless Jan transitioned to English? But as a seasoned salesman with his eyes on the price, Jan showed you the balcony, the living space and the canal view, not het uitzicht op de gracht (6).
A mid-century rectangular warm teak wood table with extendable leaves stood opposite the open kitchen, basking in a rare sunny afternoon. You switched off the bathroom lights, turned right to the farthest leather chair, pulled it back, emptied your pockets of a keychain that was locking your waist, dropped it on the surface of the table and sat down without asking for permission. Acknowledging your own audacity, you admitted to Jan, “It feels like my own chair”.
Exactly after fifty-seven days later, you popped a bottle of Champagne together with your friends, sitting around the mid-century rectangular warm teak wood table.
And for years, it was your crossroads of celebrations, infatuations and mate-infused heartbreaks (5), or long wine-coloured evenings with a cigarette in hand that fit any occasion. And also occasionally, it sheltered people you’ve once sat next to in a classroom or a cubicle, now leaving their other planet and your previous life for a day, to just crash on your couch.
And your fridge was never empty until Danielle showed up. “Does it have a ground lease?”, she asked, her eyes fixed on a paper where she was scribbling notes. You hastily shook your head and you explained the full ground ownership, and the view on the canal, and how it is the crossroad of the world. Danielle smiled. She suggested you take photos of the blooming tree in front of the building as it will increase the value of the place. “I’ll send you an offer by email tonight”, she said on her way out. You were at this moment on your own in the empty-fridge apartment. You could also feel how hollow the closet was, and the cupboard, and all the cabinets. You did want to set the bridge on fire. But you never guessed that by the time Danielle would slam that door, Potgieter would turn into a commodity.
I'm still figuring out what happens next to Potgieter. Part two to follow. Stay tuned!
(1)American University of Beirut.
(2) Name of the poet that gives his name to the street. Not using the street name or number as it should in the full address, the character always named the apartment by its poet name.
(3-4) Machine-translated from Dutch.
(5) An expression used to express the love for French country and its culture
(6) Dutch word for canal view
(7) Argentinian drink