Chapter 4: Puddle…

Albert.

Amsterdam, April 20th, 2022…

I heard what she said.

I see you.

Three words from the most beautiful set of lips I've ever seen. Three words from a face lit up like sunrise.

I'm turning to puddle. I shouldn’t turn to puddle. I’m Albert fucking Bethel. I haven’t turned to puddle since I was six, when I cried for mum and that was twenty nine years ago.

Yes, I see her too.

Beautiful set of eyes on the prettiest face.

Skin the color of brown chocolate. Her baby hairs, peeking out of her bun.

Her lips wear a cherry color. I want to taste them.

I raise my eyes to hers. Pool of tears cloud her beautiful eyes.

I sit beside her on the sofa, offering her my handkerchief. She cautiously looks at the white cloth, before she receives it.

My associates, who I had been engrossed in a meeting with earlier eye me, curiously. I ignore them. It’s rude, but I don’t care. They are here, because of me.

We’ve been in a meeting since 7am this morning and just concluded with it. I had called for the meeting, yesterday, because I needed reports on ISA BETHEL HOLDINGS in Netherlands. We are currently in my hotel. ISA.

A monstrosity of a hotel that intimidates all the other hotels in Netherland and most cities of the world. We were heading for breakfast, when I noticed this girl in the lobby, crying.

Am regarding the girl now, wondering her reason for crying. Wondering why this beauty would mar her beautiful face with tears. I pick the phone on the desk beside me and call for the kitchen. Someone comes.

“Good morning Sir.” The manager of the kitchen greets.

“Good morning. Brew some tea for us, would you. My preference.” I instruct him.

He nods, returning in the way he came.

“I don’t need tea.” The girl speaks, in between sobs.

She cleans her eyes with my handkerchief. “I don’t even like tea. I like coffee.” She grumbles.

I find that cute, her grumbling.

I like coffee too, but I need her to be calm at the moment, so I asked for chamomile tea.

“You need chamomile tea for your calmness.” I tell her.

She spares me a glance now. Her eyes holding something there. I don’t know, fascination.

“You’re like my sister. She loves chamomile tea.” She sniffs again. I find that cute too.

A man approaches and I raise my eyes to him. Are they together? Suddenly I feel like an intruder.

He addresses her in Dutch. She looks at him confusedly.

“I don’t understand.” She shakes her head.

I do.

The man was asking her to come pay for her hotel suite. That he got her an affordable rate. I turn to her.

“Is he your boyfriend?” I ask her.

She turns to me, astonished.

I stand corrected.

I turn to the man and speak in fluent Dutch.

He tells me he’s a cab driver and she stopped him at Oud-Zuid neighborhood. She had been crying on their way and couldn’t say anything understandable apart from best hotel. So naturally, he brought her to ISA. I thank the man and ask him to leave. I call the hotel manager to pay him handsomely and to ask my associates to go have breakfast.

“What did you tell him?” She finally asks.

I turn to her.

“I told him I’d handle things from here onward.” I hold her gaze, letting my words sink in.

She’s staring at me, like am an interest to her. She’s really beautiful and I’ve now turned to puddle.

The tears in her eyes constrict my chest. Squeeze life out of it.

“Are you going to tell me why you're crying.” My voice comes out above a whisper.

The tea arrives and we are served our cups.

“I didn’t expect I’d find anyone who speaks English without a struggle.” She’s just changed the subject.

Her voice is rueful. It doesn’t suit her beautiful face.

“There are some English speaking people here. But am not Dutch. Am an American; from New York.” I inform her.

She raises her eyes to me, surprised. I know she’s American. I heard it in her accent.

“Am an American too. Chicago.” She lets me know.

“I knew that.” I smile. I caught her accent. She smiles too, sipping her tea, quietly. Her tea sipping manner is appealing. She’s prettier when she smiles.

“Why are you wearing gloves. It isn’t that cold.” She observes.

I look down at my hands, cladded in black leather gloves. Revulsion climbs my face, pushing back the pleasantness of having this girl by my side.

“I was here to see my boyfriend.” Her voice brings me out of the disquiet that suddenly invaded me.

I listen to her. Her breath is shaky as she speaks.

“He’s sick. I wanted to alleviate his pain, show him he’s still special to me.” She breaks down. “Now he sent me away and says he has booked for suicide on Tuesday. Who does that?”

She’s crying so hard. Something stings in my chest and I think that is the sign of my heart feeling sorry for this girl. I pull her into me, holding her. Quieting her.

“I mean… how am I human, if I couldn’t even save someone I care about from such a pain. If I couldn’t even save…someone from such selfishness.” She cries into the front of my black thigh length coat.

I let her cry out. Drown her sorrows in my strength. I allow her draw strength from me. I give her my courage, my essence. I let her rest her tormented soul in mine.

Then I speak. I tell her what I know of people. What I recall of people. About all I’ve learnt in all my 35 years.

“People will be who they are. They never change. They will always put themselves first. And that's the human mind. That is the complexity of man.”