Chapter 1
Ikasia hospital, Montessoriweg Rotterdam.
End of August, heat wave.
It felt like bubbles of consciousness floating up, one bubble for being warm, one for being on my back, one for the sensation of being cosy in bed, there is a smell I am not used to and the feeling of a sting, the need to stretch sleepy muscles; they are like happy little champagne bubbles rapidly floating up to wherever, never there long enough for one to focus on them, it's the accretion of them that makes one aware: Hospital bed, hospital room, hospital. I will learn later the name of the place and the town it is situated in. I wake up like you do, I am feeling sluggish and numb but content, staring at a bland ceiling with standard issue overhead lamps, there is an articulated arm reaching out from the wall at the head of the bed, it carries a small flat screen it is switched off, a large window occupying most the wall to my left, top of a tree with leaves and very blue sky beyond it. The light hurts my eyes, I close them and look at what can go through the pink membrane of the lids. I do not know where I am or why I am here. What I do know however is that I am in a hospital, that I am hooked up to a device monitoring my vitals but I am not intubated. Should it mean something. I am, I don't know... There is something odd here, something is missing or something has been displaced. I try to feel my body, maybe I was in an accident, maybe I lost some limbs. Legs and arms, feet and hands, it is all here. I can feel them. I push the light hospital sheet off from my body and lift the blouse, I run my hands on my chest, hips and stomach, I reach for my balls and dick, no incisions, no cuts, no plasters or bandages, I am whole but something I missing. I feel like I should tell someone, call someone but I can't remember who. The nurse and the intern who come in are very nice, they chat gently with me while I struggle with he language, is it confusion or is Dutch a foreign language. The nurse begins speaking in English and it feels much more natural, Dutch is a foreign language.
"What is your name."
That question is an end in itself, I don't know. What is my name?
"How old are you?"
"I should know the answer to that question."
"You should know the answers to the first question too. Do you know what is today's date?"
"August the 24th, 2021."
"Interesting, you are three days out."
"What happened to the twenty fifths, twenty sixth and twenty seventh?"
"You spent them here, unconscious."
"Was I in an accident?"
"I don't think so, you have no apparent trauma. A three days long coma is not to be overlooked though, and temporary memory loss is not uncommon upon waking up."
"You are saying I will remember my name and my birth date."
"You should."
I am staring at the ceiling again, I feel fine. I am perfectly fine. I just don't, I don't know who 'I' is. There is nothing wrong with my body the intern said, I am a perfectly healthy egghead. I sit up on the side of the bed, it is too high for my feet to touch the ground, I'm not very tall am I? I don't know that either.
Enters the psychologist, she is a little on the bullying side, but I guess she has to make certain that I ain't faking it, am I faking it? She goes on about the causes or reasons for a complete psychological breakdown resulting in amnesia, her take on it is that there is no physiological reasons: trauma, blunt force hematoma, concussion or suffocation, further more the blood work came back clean for traceable drugs, she even goes to check with the intern if it is correct because as they put it looking at me with that typical medical professional mixture of doubt and surprise when something doesn't fit the usual pattern, I am in perfect health, even my cholesterol is that of a "new born". Then I ask the fateful question.
"How old am I supposed to be?"
"Anywhere between forty and fifty, my guess, and it is very much likely that you are in your mid forties, sir"
"Let's settle for forty-five for now," I reply with a smile trying to make light of the particularly weird predicament I find myself into. I see the psychologist open her mouth to say exactly that, humor used as a coping mechanism probably means something. Should I know that? Have I been subjected to trauma before in my life? I have already forgotten her name and her tag isn't visible on her blouse, I have already forgotten the name of the intern as well and she wasn't wearing her tag at all.
I was found, naked, unconscious on the weather deck of a 72.4 meter long Japanese supply freighter for sale somewhere in the labyrinthine Rotterdam harbor, it is called Marujirushi, it had been 7am three days before, on the twenty fourth of a particularly warm august week. Neatly folded on a rusted sea chest were a crispy white t-shirt, a pair of leather pants and a pair of colorful basket sport shoes. No sox, no underwear, no ID, no phone, no wallet, nothing else. I was in a catatonic sleep for seventy two hours during which I accepted food and drinks. The psychologist told me to get dressed since I was being discharged and that I was to check with her in her office one floor up on the right once out of the lifts, when I was ready.
There are pictures of ugly red faced children in flowery frames all over the filing cabinets and spider plans are hanging their long tendrils from pots suspended from the ceiling.
"How do I know these are called spider plants?" I asked.
"You mean how do you remember that and not who you are?"
"I guess."
"It may be about the contentious nature of the memory, assuming that your loss is of a traumatic nature, you should be able to access whatever is general knowledge even of a precise kind because it is harmless, the rest may remain locked inside."
"I can't remember your name, or the doctor's or the nurse... you still think it could be fake?"
"I have not been able to place diagnostic that proves or disprove that possibility."
"What do I do now?"
"Your Dutch is basic, that tells us that you are a foreigner and that is why we are speaking in English together. You have a meeting with the police at 3pm at this address," she slid a piece of blue recycled paper in my direction, there was an address a name and a number.
"What's the number for?"
"It is the case number."
"Is there a case? Am I in trouble?"
"The dockyard isn't pressing any charges, it is standard procedure in case of foul play coming to the surface at a later time."
"Can we go over the circumstances of me being found, what was it like, do you have pictures like in the tv shows?" I remember TV.
"You weren't dead. There was no need to snapshot the site. We only began investigating when you would not wake up."
"What do you mean?"
"Our investigations were exclusively of a medical nature: blood works to check for substances, alcohol or chemical imbalances, physical examinations, scans and MRI."
"What does it look like inside?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I don't know who I am, so I don't know the back story of my body, if I have pathologies, sicknesses, I could have cancer I wouldn't know."
She began taking notes on her computer and when she was finished she turned back to me to say:
"You have nothing, you had minor dental work done, otherwise you are in perfect health. Have you had a look at your face in a mirror?"
"Yes, I brushed my teeth ten minutes ago, why?"
"Did you recognize your own face?"
"I don't know, not really I suppose. When I close my eyes it feels familiar, when I touch it it feels mine, the man looking back in the reflection could be anyone."
"You have no pilosity."
"Yeah I noticed that too, I though it might be a particularly hard chemo or something."
"So you know that about chemotherapy, the mental link in the context of a hospital ward make sense, you were depilated less than twelve hours before you were found, we suppose you had a full head of hair and a beard or at least a midnight shadow because the follicles are perfectly removed."
"You mean someone shaved the fuck out of me."
"Standard shaving would already have given you a stubble, any normal depilation mechanical or chemical same, this is something different. An absolute depilation of your whole body."
I found nothing to reply to that so I allowed for a moment to pass and then asked:
"Anything else?"
"We found dried up viscous liquid on your thighs and belly and some on your hands, after analysis it turned out to be the semen of two other men."
"I had sex just before."
"Probably the last thing you did before passing out, there were no traces of the fluids in your pants, there were fine fibers around the toenails so we know you had socks and probably underwear, my guess is that the people you had intercourses with are the ones who folded your stuff neatly and arranged you in a sleeping position."
I don't know why but being gay makes sense.
"You are saying I got myself in a dodgy fuck and got myself robbed and somehow knocked over by neat guys who did my laundry but took my underwear as a memento..."
"You weren't robbed or knocked over for what matters," she said reaching into a drawer at her back from which she takes a paper envelope that she places in front of me next to the blue paper note. I took it and opened it, there were euro notes in it.
"One thousand and twenty five euro twenty two cents, in the back pocket of your pants, the one with the zipper, it is a substantial sum, I am surprise no one from the paramedics to the ambulance drivers took it from you. You partners certainly did not."
"Was there... evidences of penetration?"
"You are asking if you were raped? No there was no evidence of anal intercourse but you had traces of lubricant on your penis, which might indicate that you were the active one, the distribution of the semen stains would concur to this."
"I am sorry if this appears random but going back to the hair, shouldn't I see some growing back, and why would someone do that?"
"In a sense your notion of chemo wasn't all wrong there seem to have been some form of growth repressing agent used on your follicles that will slow the regrowth, there are no chemical traces of it, our hypothesis is that some form of luminous rays have been used, some salon use them in permanent depilation attempts. As to the why, it could range from purely esthetic choices to very specific sexual games."
"I seem to be some hardcore fucker that's what you are telling me. Why do the police want to see me, then?"
"There was a key in one of your pocket as well, with a hotel logo, they searched for it. They might have found it, they would not tell me anything."
"That's something to look forward to."
The police Station in Maashaven Noordzijde 5, manages to have at the same time too much light grey brick walls and too many windows, the police deputy who sees me is at the same time curious about my predicament and bored: deputy Bram Dehaan is in his mid fifties and according to the rainbow flag and pride stickers he is the poor sod who has to deal with the sorry tales and misadventures of us alphabet people, at least I knew that about myself and I have to confess that I am pretty pleased with it. I just couldn't decide if I was pleased because that is one thing I knew about myself or if I am glad to be gay.
His English was heavily accentuated by dutch pronunciation,
"We took this from the hotel room the key corresponds to," he hands me a passport flagged with the arms of the republic of Ireland, for an instant I feel petrified as if the air of the room has ran out. I am going to lose the mystery of myself, I am soon to have a name, a birth date and an address, hell I already have a nationality for all I can tell.
"We talked to the embassy people they checked and the document is genuine. There was no missing people filed under your name either locally or with Interpol." He stopped talking and I had the feeling that he was done with me.
I hailed a cab and went to the hotel, Baan in Rochussenstraat 345, Delfshaven, 3023 DH. It is a nondescript neat little two star hotel and I have one of the few room with a private bathroom. According to the very tall, bright blue eyed, blond clerk at the desk I paid cash when I arrived and he did not remember any further interaction after that point.
The room. It is small with a window facing yet an other stretch of harbor water which isn't a rarity in Rotterdam port, there is a sport bag of a brand I do not recognize with socks and underwear, I am happy for it because going commando in the tight fitting leather pants had proven less pleasant than what could be believed. I shower and take time looking at the reflection of the body in the mirror, the large upper arm tattoo in brown ink that looks like vines, the perfectly hairless body, the face with no eyebrows, the sharp chin, the smooth chest, the tits looked like they had been stimulated and the response in the groin is a clear sign that the body remembered what it likes, the dick is nice, thick and heavy feeling, uncut. The smooth butt's good too, I ain't fit but I look like I do some form of exercise, maybe push ups and crushes or something. It all feels like I am touching someone else, disembodied and I am being touched by a stranger's hands, the experience is oddly arising and I am soon fully engaged in a weird dissociated session of masturbation as a body akin to mine responds to stimulations by hands and fingers that belong to a different person and myself at the same time, I almost wrote 'himself. I feel like I am the incarnation of otherness, I am having sex with an other while inhabiting his body, the feeling is not as pleasant as it might sound either.
There are no other pants than the brown leather ones I was found with so I slipped a pair of white nylon undies and put them back on, there is an other pair of colorful sneakers, orange black and pink or something, I put on some socks and the shoes and I sit on the bed and open the passport.
Seabhac
Rugadh
Éireannach/Irish. 19 Feabhra/February 1975
Baile Átha Cluath/Dublin
That is the name of a man born in 1975 in Dublin, on the 19th of February, Pisces, (Neptune, water) I am thinking and then how do I remember stuff like that. So, that was me. Forty Five indeed, nice guess. The guy in the picture looks nothing like me now. He had dark hair, and a dark beard with a dash of white on the chin, I liked the look of him but there is this strange disassociating feeling again, like I am looking at the picture of a man I once knew, I once loved maybe, I once desired but who has fallen away from me and is no more. I suddenly think that I do not know how to pronounce Irish, that name I could not say it. I try to relax, to breathe deeply to empty my mind: the only pronunciation that comes is influenced by Dutch. I ask the receptionist to call me a cab for downtown Rotterdam telling him I need a cyber café. The driver takes me to the Amstel, the gay quarter and I quickly spot a cyber café where I take a spot on a computer. I begin by googling myself there is no traces of Rugadh Seabhac anywhere, finding pronunciations guides to Irish names proves to be very arduous and I quickly give up. I remove myself to the nearest gay leather bar since I am dressed for it and order the first thing that strikes my fancy, a glass of sweet white wine from the Gascogne region, I sit there lost in my thoughts looking at the sibylline pages of the passport, it had been issued five years before, I might have changed a bit since then but damn I did not look a thing like that man. I cursed myself for not checking the address on the internet while I was at it and a shadow falls upon me. The man casting it is a bright blond bearded smiling man who is addressing me in German.
"Ich glaube, ich habe noch nie jemanden gesehen, der so sexy in einer Bar war und so aussah, als ob er nicht da wäre."
I surprise myself not only in understanding what he said but in replying.
"Ich habe nur darauf gewartet, dass du kommst und dich auf meinen Schoß setzt, um mich zu unterhalten."
He laughs. The world appear to stop for a fleeting second and all my concerns vanish, I feel light and easy and I burst into tears, one instant I am drinking a mild glass of sweet wine the other I am sobbing uncontrollably surrounded by the arms of a man I have no memories of ever seeing before.
"I am so sorry," I manage wiping snot and tears from my face with my bare hands and fumbling with my drink, most of the patrons are watching us now and I feel myself blush furiously, he smiles and pulls an immaculate white cloth handkerchief from his back pocket and apply himself to clean my face as if I am a five years old child. He begins to speak with a strong German accent but in good English.
"I wasn't expecting that kind of reaction but I am happy to help you if you want me too."
I know I should not let on too much of my particular situation to a complete stranger, particularly in a gay bar when the last two guys I had sex with abandoned me on a ship naked and stoned out of my mind. So I remain generic and ask more questions than I give answers, at the end he has to leave and ask for my phone number and when I tell him I do not have one he has the predicable reaction:
"It is ok you don't like me. I am happy I met you. You are nice person, you need to care for yourself." He says place his left hand on my cheek with tenderness and I just want it to remain there and to be in his arms again.
"No, you misunderstand, I really do not have a phone but please give me your number and I soon as I get one back I'll give you a call, I promise. I do like you." Why am I so forthcoming, it feels at the same time natural and cringeworthy to me. He smiles and goes off to the bar to pick a scrap of paper and a pen and he hands it to me saying,
"The old fashion way, it is then. I like you a lot Rugadh, I am Nisse, I am from Hamburg in Germany."
"I guess that much. I promise I'll call you." I feel desperate to watch him leave the bar.
The cab drops me off in front of the hotel and a woman is waiting for me. I know that she is because she begins waving as soon as she spots me inside the cab. She is a fuchsia colored haired woman dressed in a black flowing dress, she rushes at me and begins to speak while I climb out of the cab.
"Finally, almost gave up on you for the day," she shouts above the noise of passing cars and it is as if she knows me although she means nothing to me, but would anyone?
"I am Marit, I was sent by the Psychological Support Association of Rotterdam for Victims, the PSARV," she adds needlessly, "I am a volunteer but I am here to be available at any time of the day and of the night if you feel like talking to someone. Here is my card." She hands me a little red square of card paper with her name and a phone number hand written on it, "I was just with a police patrol they left a message for you at the reception desk, I mean this is not the kind of hotel where one leaves anything at the front desk but they did and the guy there he has it for you, so maybe you should go and check it first and then I'll be waiting for you in the pub next door, will you come and see me then?"
I nod, my head spinning a little from the verbal onslaught but I guess I need the humanity I want to follow her directly into the bar but I check myself and I go in the hotel instead, the receptionist hands me my key and three envelopes with headers from the embassy of the republic of Ireland. The consulate wants to know if I need their assistance and inform me of their helpline number for stranded residents in the Koninkrijk, there is one message from the legal support team of the embassy in case I would need their assistance and three from a woman named Sinead Flynn who, it seemed, works for me. I shove them in the pocket of my pants and heads to the pub to meet Marit. She is waiting for me behind an oversized margarita and she begins by asking if I am comfortable if she place her hand on mine. I repress the involuntary urge to pull my hand back while wanting her to hug me at the same time, I am not really comfortable being touched like that but it feels like it would be rude not to allow her to do so. It is a new experience for me, but at the same time, all of it is new. She goes on at length about the dangers of remaining isolated after such an experience as mine, I couldn't agree more, that the health services would not commit to any support or monitoring was mind boggling to her, she rolls her eyes each time she says the word 'boggling'. Marit wants to make certain I have an agenda and purpose, that I ain't left to my own devices heedlessly in Rotterdam. She has checked with the embassy and they could see me tomorrow in the morning if I want to, there is the question of going back to Ireland but she thinks I still could do a few things to trigger my memories of the days before the 'black out' she calls it. I agree, because my mind is blank and I want to see where any of it could lead, is it hope? Marit asks me what the messages from the police are and pulling the envelopes from my back pocket I place the on the table and tear the first one open I read those from the Flynn woman she is back in Dublin, she is clearly irked that I haven't been giving her the attention that she needs. We have a short conversation about it and Marit hands me her Lilly of the valley scented kitten shaped phone cover with furry tail and pointy ears telling me to call the woman up which I do with no little amount of inexplicable dread. What follows is an onslaught of informations she, Sinead Flynn, has a very strong voice and an unstoppable flow of tight informations to impart to me her boss it seem.
I hand the kitty phone back and try to sum the conversation up to Marit, it helps organize my thoughts: I have hired her after creating a business of science pelagic exploration cruising, that's how she called it, that it is her role to put on track, she is a 'Business Hatcher' as she called herself, it sounded like it was meant to be capitalized. Ten days before I have contracted her to create a database of universities and scientific organisms that would be interested in cruises aboard a freighter, she was to make contacts and brush up with them the questions of requirements and budgets and durations of the cruises while I went ship shopping. Apparently she is having unexpectedly positive responses as it seem the universities of the Baltic are in high demands for flexible freighters with reasonable rates. She is desperate for feedback since I left Ireland to go and visit such a freighter for sale in Rotterdam about a week ago. I am meant to hire more people for the secretariat and the running of things once she is done with the hatching. She is on a four month mission of creating the links between the new business itself and the universities and she needs particulars of the ship as soon I can give them to her. Marit had advised me to remained discreet as to my particular predicament and I only informed Sinead that I had been sick and got mugged and was without resources and means of communications, I gave her the address of the hotel and the number for the reception desk. Marit is particularly proud of me, of how I managed the call and is very encouraging, she might be treating me a bit like a bright five years old but I can sense that she is genuinely happy for the baby steps I am literally taking towards getting a life back. We part with the promise to see each other on the morning to go to the embassy and it feels almost like I have a friend in Marit, childishly so maybe, but I am the closest thing to a child, a forty five years old child for whom everything is new.
