The five-floor building on Koestraat where Cristina lives stands amidst the seedy neighborhood of old Amsterdam. Like a huge square box, with narrow arched windows, its walls are of big stone slabs blackened and ravaged by years, maybe even the war, with little gargoyles spaced between floor windows eerily gawking at the streets below. The ground floor is a venue for sex shops, as are most buildings in the area. The three shops fronting the building are prostitution parlours where women display themselves, much like mannequins in a clothier's display window, their images framed by imitation lace curtains and bright neon lights. A woman, much older than fifty, sits in one of the display wndows: she wears a tight black corset and black stockings held up by black satin garters, sagging skins in her arms and the ripply, stretch-marked thighs repulsively on display. Her heavy make up sadly betrays the coarse wrinkled skin, caked aquamarine eyelids drooping like leather hanging in a tanner's shop. She watches jealously yet another prostitute, overweight, but younger, her plump breasts almost bursting out of the cups of her scarlet bustier, haggling with two American tourists.
In the third booth, a couple sits on an old meridien armchair. The man wears only a pair of cut-off denim shorts, a thin gold chain hangs around his neck, the small gold cross resting on his chest hairs which becomes thicker as it reaches his half-openedfly. He is young; his tanned skin glistens in the bright neon ligts. His partner fixes the terry towel wrapped around her and sits on his lap. The man pops the gum in his mouth as Cristina passes by, then licks the coloured bubble gum mess off his lips in an obscene way, at the same time rubbing his partner's crotch. Cristina looks away, her face expressionless, as if this everyday sight has rendered her senses numbed.
She enters the building's lobby and nods at the old man sitting at the run-down concierge's desk in the corner; the old man does not really look at her but nods back in acknowledgement. Three men, sitting on the beat up sofa on the opposite side, their eyes glazed, high on dope, make small sounds of wolf whistles as she passes. She hurriedly crosses the lobby to the elevator, her heels making loud clicking noise as they hit the concrete floors. She presses the "up" arrow button and the elevator doors open. She steps inside, presses the number 5 button and waits for the elevator to move. The elevator smells of fresh paint and she takes care not to lean on the walls: there had been graffitis on them,most prominently a large black swastika which was painted over sloppily with dark blue paint when one of the residents complained. The overhead light flickers as if gasping for life, making small crackling noises in the process. The elevator jolts then creaks its way up.
Cristina's apartment is a total contrast to the chaos of that outside world. Her sanctuary opens to a spacious living room: the floors are covered with off-white shaggy carpeting, the glass wall overlooking the city is covered by sheer lace curtains and off-white heavy drapes, a suite in soft white leather and tables decorated by white marble sculptures of horses' heads dominate the room. The fourth side of the room has floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with books. German, French, Dutch and English volumes, of all topics: engineering, literature, sex, philosophy, whatever. The only sign of disarray is a stray little book strewn open on the floor: "Le Petit Prince" is still damp with red wine stains from the previous night.
She opens a cabinet and reaches for an almost empty bottle of Chateauneuf de Pape, pulls the cork up and drinks straight from the bottle. She swirls the red liquid in her mouth, the bitter taste of tannin assaulting her palate - she could never get used to the taste of alcohol. She slumps on one of the armchairs, breathes in deeply as she closes her eyes, soaking in the peace and quiet and for a while forgetting the reality of her dark, sad world.
c.v.summerfield, 1986
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