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Unfiled September 6, 2002
The North Sea Amsterdam
By Edward Limonov Browse author
Page 2 of 2
Dans la Port d'Amsterdame... Dans la Port d'Amsterdame... It was necessary to turn my speech to the station and there carefully ask in English, "How can I find a seaport?" to a couple of kids. They didn't hesitate to point me to the right. It was cold. It was very cold and dry, and even though the North Sea had not even appeared -- just walls and behind them factory-like buildings -- even then it, the North Sea, hung around me, dry, stuck on my hair, neck, ears, and forehead.

"Bitch, drunken slut," I swore through clenched teeth. And remembering how only yesterday (or the day before?), when arriving from America, I didn't find my wife at home. (I know, I know, I have already written about this, but I want to write more! More!) I went into the kitchen and there, strewn on the table were plates, utensils, napkins. Cigarettes in the ashtray. Two plates, two wine glasses. And why did I decide that it was a man with her? I didn't even see her, she didn't return. I lay down still dressed on the stagnant sheets, drank a bottle of wine I had brought and hid in a hot dream. In the dream I saw the slit of our kitchen again, the table spices, butts in the ashtray, her and him...

That morning I got up and went to North Station and sat on the train to Amsterdam. That was what my publisher and I had agreed upon. The ticket was already lying in my desk drawer before I flew to the United States. I had many responsibilities, many publishers... Bitch! Trash! Cunt. She knew that I would be leaving for Amsterdam on that hour. I discovered the North Sea. In the confused folds of a concrete blanket I saw the gray water. There was a dock, building a ship on the water. On the deck they were sawing a beam. Under the folds of the concrete blanket bums sat in blankets. Between them were two flinching sluts and a red skinned Indonesian, and they drank something from two bottles.

I met a barrel-chested gray-haired man -- not quite a sailor or a construction worker. Rubbing his hands (the wind was blowing stronger), he explained that all of Holland is a port -- from Rotterdam to Amsterdam.

"Polish?" he asked me.

"Yes, Polish," I answered dishonestly.

I returned to Amsterdam, passing by a huge floating Chinese restaurant that only had two cars parked in the lot in front. Yes, Polish.

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