The Night Ferry

this were a proper police tail, we’d have two cars, a motorcyclist and two, maybe three officers on foot. Every time the target turned, someone new would be behind him. We don’t have that luxury.

Crossing over Sint Jansbrug, I walk quickly along the canal. Ruiz is a block farther east, heading toward me along Stoofsteeg. The teenager is going to walk straight past me.

The pavement is crowded. I have to step left and right, brushing shoulders with passersby. The air is thick with hashish and fried-food smells.

I don’t see him until the last moment. He’s almost past me. Gaunt-cheeked, hair teased with fingers and gel, he skips from the pavement to the gutter and back again, dodging people. He’s carrying a canvas bag over his shoulder. A bottle of soft drink protrudes from the top. He looks over his shoulder. He knows he’s being followed but he’s not scared.

Ruiz has dropped back. I take over. We reach the canal and cross the bridge, almost retracing my steps. The boy walks nearer the water than the buildings. If he wants to lose a tail, why take the open side of the street?

Then it dawns on me—he’s leading Ruiz away. Someone at the station must have known Samira. He didn’t want Ruiz finding them.

The teenager stops moving and waits. I walk past him. The DI doesn’t appear. The kid thinks he’s safe but doubles back to make sure.

When he moves again he doesn’t look back. I follow him through the narrow lanes until he reaches Warmoesstraat and then Dam Square. He waits near a sculpture until a slender girl appears, dressed in jeans and a pink corduroy jacket. Her hair is short and straight, the color of tea.

He argues and gesticulates, miming with his hands. I call Ruiz on the mobile. “Where are you?”

“Behind you.”

“Was there a girl at the station in jeans and a pink jacket? Dark haired. Late teens. Pretty for now.”

“Samira?”

“No. Another girl. I think he was trying to lead you away. He didn’t want you finding her.”

They’re still arguing. The girl shakes her head. He tugs at her coat sleeve. She pulls away. He shouts something. She doesn’t turn.

“They’re splitting up,” I whisper into my mobile. “I’ll follow the girl.”

She has a curious body, a long torso and short legs, with slightly splayed feet when she walks. She takes a blue scarf from her pocket and wraps it over her head, tying it beneath her chin. It is a hijab—a head covering. She could be Muslim.

I stay close behind her, aware of the crowds and the traffic. Trams joust on tracks that divide the wider roads. Cars and bicycles weave around them. She is so small. I keep losing sight of her.

One moment she’s in front of me and the next—Where has she gone? I sprint forward, looking vainly in doorways and shop windows. I search the side streets, hoping for a glimpse of her pink jacket or the blue of her hijab.

Standing on a traffic island, I turn full circle and step forward. A bell sounds urgently. My head turns. An unseen hand wrenches me backward as a tram washes past in a blur of noise and rushing air.

The girl in the pink jacket is staring at me, her heart beating faster than mine. The smudges beneath her eyes are signs of the premature or the beaten down. She knew I was following her. She saved me.

“What’s your name?”

Her lips don’t move. She turns to leave. I have to sprint several yards to get in front of her.

“Wait! Don’t leave. Can we talk?”

She doesn’t answer. Perhaps she doesn’t understand.

“Do you speak English?” I point to myself. “My name is Alisha.”

She steps around me.

“Wait, please.”

She steps around me again. I have to dodge people as I try to walk backward and talk to her at the same time. I hold my hands together as if praying. “I’m looking for Samira.”

She doesn’t stop. I can’t make her talk to me.

Suddenly, she enters a building, pushing through a heavy door. I don’t see her use a key or press a buzzer. Inside smells of soup and electric warmth. A second door reveals a large stark room full of tables and scraping chairs. People are sitting and eating. A nun in a black tunic fills bowls of soup from a trolley. A bikie type with a long beard hands out plates and spoons. Someone else distributes bread rolls.

An old man at the nearest table leans low over his food, dipping chunks of bread into the steaming mixture. He crooks his right arm around the bowl as though protecting it. Beside him a tall figure in a woolen cap is trying to sleep with his head on the table. There must be thirty people in the dining room, most with ragtag clothes, body tics and empty stomachs.

“Wou je iets om te eten?”

I turn to the voice.

In English this time: “Would you like something to eat?”

The question belongs to an elderly nun with a narrow face and playful eyes. Her black tunic is trimmed with green and her white hair sweeps back from her brow until it disappears beneath a wimple.

“No, thank you.”

“There is plenty. It is good soup. I made it myself.”

A work apron, the width of her shoulders, reaches down to her ankles. She is collecting plates from the tables, stacking them along her arm. Meanwhile, the girl has lined up metal tins in front of the soup pot.

“What is this place?”

“We are Augustinians. I am Sister Vogel.”

She must be in her eighties. The other nuns are of similar vintage although not quite so shrunken. She is tiny, scarcely five feet tall, with a voice like gravel spinning in a drum.

“Are you sure you won’t eat?”

“No. Thank you.” I don’t take my eyes off the girl.

The nun steps in front of me. “What do you want with her?”

“Just to talk.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Why?”

“She will not hear you.”

“No, you don’t understand. If I can just speak—”

“She cannot hear you.” Her voice softens. “She is one of God’s special children.”

I finally understand. It’s not about language or desire. The girl is deaf.

The soup tins have been filled. The girl screws a lid on each tin and places them in a shoulder bag. She raises the strap over her head, adjusting it across her chest. She unfolds a paper napkin and wraps two pieces of bread. A third piece she takes with her, nibbling at the edges.

“Do you know her name?” I ask.

“No. She comes three times a week and collects food.”

“Where does she live?”

Sister Vogel isn’t going to volunteer the information. There is only one voice she obeys—a higher authority.

“She’s done nothing wrong,” I reassure her.

“Why do you wish to speak with her?”

“I’m looking for someone. It’s very important.”

Sister Vogel puts down the soup dishes and wipes her hands on her apron. Rather than walking across the room she appears to float a fraction above the wooden floorboards in her long tunic. I feel leaden-footed alongside her.

She steps in front of the girl and taps the palm of her hand before making shapes with her fingers.

“You can sign!” I say.

“I know some of the letters. What do you wish to ask?”

“Her name.”