The Reunion

I’m outside in the blink of an eye, but he still finds an opportunity to blow his horn again.

I stalk across the road. Olaf is blocking the narrow street without bothering to leave any room. I pull open the door and snap, ‘Drive.’

‘Yes, miss! You look as pretty as a picture.’

I turn away and remain silent.

‘What’s the matter? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to say when you take a lady out?’ Olaf is genuinely surprised.

‘When you take a lady out you shouldn’t honk in the street like a crazy person!’ I regret my remark instantly. I don’t want to give him the impression that he’s picked up his granny from the retirement home. And he does have that feeling; I can see it in the way he is looking at me. Worse, he hasn’t driven off, but remains blocking the street.

‘You could have rung my bell,’ I suggest, more gently.

‘But then I’d have had to double park,’ he defends himself. ‘Have you seen those wheel clamps in the street?’

‘Then call me on my mobile. Why don’t you drive off? There are five cars behind us!’ I look over my shoulder. One of the drivers gets out, another begins to toot his horn.

‘Oy, don’t do that! You should call me on my mobile!’ shouts Olaf out of the window. He puts his foot down and the car roars out of the street.

I can’t help it, I have to laugh. ‘You feel at home in Amsterdam, don’t you? No one would think you were actually a beachcomber from Den Helder.’

‘In Den Helder, they might call me a beachcomber, here I’m an Amsterdammer. Do you know what they call people from Tilburg by the way?’

‘No idea.’

‘Pot-pissers. It comes from when Tilburg was the centre of the textile industry. In order to make felt you needed urine, amongst other things. In Tilburg it was collected from the inhabitants, they were paid to fill a pot. Gross, eh?’

‘Hilarious,’ I say.

This makes him laugh. ‘You’re a dry one.’

‘I’m just happy I’m not from Tilburg. I know exactly what nickname you’d have given me then. That’s what you used to do.’

‘Me?’

‘Don’t you remember what you used to call me?’

‘Sabine, perhaps?’

‘No. Little Miss Shy.’

Olaf slaps his chest. ‘That’s true! God, you’ve got the memory of an elephant. You were a real Little Miss Shy.’

We turn onto the Nassaukade and into a traffic jam. Olaf looks in his rear view mirror but there are cars behind us and we can’t turn round.

‘Shit.’ Olaf turns the wheel to the left and mounts the tram lane. A tram behind us complains with a loud tinkling noise. Olaf gestures that he’ll get out of the way soon and drives on. The Marriott Hotel comes into view.

I straighten up. I’m not dressed for that place.

But we drive on past the Marriott and turn left onto the Leidseplein. The Amsterdam American Hotel then. Damn, if I’d known that. I pull down the sun visor and inspect my make-up. I’ll pass.

Olaf turns into a side street and parks illegally.

‘What on earth are you doing? They’ll tow you away.’

‘No, they won’t.’ Olaf brings out a card and puts it on the dashboard.

‘Since when have you been an invalid?’

‘I always get a terrible stitch in my side when I have to walk too far,’ Olaf explains. ‘A friend of mine couldn’t bear it and sorted out this card for me.’

Shaking my head, I throw the card back onto the dashboard and climb out. ‘Hasn’t the Amsterdam American Hotel got a carpark?’

‘Probably.’ Olaf locks the car. ‘But only for guests.’

I go to cross the tram rails but Olaf turns around and gestures for me to follow him.

I spot a garish pancake stall with a terrace full of plastic chairs.

‘Where would you like to sit? There, in the corner? Then we can watch everyone go by.’ Olaf springs onto the terrace and pulls out a bright red plastic chair. His eyes question me, the chair dangling awkwardly in his hands.

His eyes are shining and I find myself moved. On second thoughts, the pancake place seems much nicer than the Marriott or the American. You don’t have to worry what you are wearing at least.

A waiter takes our order. Two large portions of mini pancakes, extra icing sugar and two beers.

Olaf reclines. The small chair nearly tips backwards. He folds his arms behind his head.

‘Good idea of yours.’ He looks pleased. ‘It’s been ages since I had pancakes.’

‘I can’t remember having suggested it.’

‘You did, this afternoon near the canteen. You said you really fancied pancakes.’

‘I said that I could smell pancakes.’

He leans forward. ‘Would you rather eat somewhere else?’

‘No,’ I reassure him. ‘This is perfect.’ I relax into my chair.

And then there’s silence. It’s the kind of silence that happens when you’re both scouring your minds for things to say. What have we got to talk about? Do we even really know each other?

‘How do you find it at The Bank?’ I ask. Stupid question, Sabine.

‘I like the guys I work with,’ Olaf says. ‘Sometimes the humour is a bit dodgy, but that’s what you get in a department full of men.’

‘But don’t two women work with you?’

Olaf grins. ‘They’re a bit overwhelmed by all the male jokes. It’s exactly the opposite for you, isn’t it? Only women.’