PART I
Present Day, Maastricht, the Netherlands
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CHAPTER 1
MARTIN
‘Did you hear the rumours?!’
‘I luvvv rrrumourrs!’ Martin shouts back at Elon over the loud music in the bar, something jazzy. He’s working a thick German accent, gargling the r in the back of his throat, an attempt to mimic actor Christoph Waltz. ‘Tzel me more!’
In one gulp, Martin knocks back the rest of his Alfa pilsner and reaches for the next one on the blackened counter. He is careful not to waste his drink. He’s thirsty. His woollen sweater is killing him, but he’s perfectly in tune with the dress code for tonight—the ugly Christmas jumper. He chose to wear a blue one with Jesus and the text Birthday Boy.
The sweaters were Zac’s idea. A stupid idea. Christmas sweaters are something from vulgar comedies and who genuinely likes those? His own suggestion—black suits with bolo-ties, much like John Travolta in Pulp Fiction—didn’t make the popular vote. It would’ve been the stylish choice though. Besides, it’s the third of January. Christmas is over.
Despite the ridiculous dress code, Martin has been looking forward to this evening in the pub with his fraternity mates. Especially after that run-in with Eveline. He spent the whole afternoon with his girlfriend. He even cooked his famous risotto, seasoned with lemon and pepper. Lots of pepper, that’s the secret.
Afterwards, they watched a documentary on the gold-coloured two-seater in his room. It was a loud programme about women who liked to dress up as mermaids. Being in the third year of her psychology Bachelor, Eveline loves these kinds of things. She was glued to the screen. Some women in the show claimed they only felt like themselves when dressed up. That deep down they were actual mermaids.
It couldn’t have interested him less. Annoyed, he looked sideways at Eveline. She was wearing his old hooded sweater, a faded black one with frayed hems. He had given it to her when she had complained about being cold earlier that evening. Even in the worn jersey, his girlfriend looked stunning. She is an absolute knockout—long blonde hair, dark blue eyes with golden streaks around the pupils, and a body that blew every man away. He wouldn’t want to risk losing her.
Martin was thus careful not to voice his frustration with the programme. Eveline had called him narrow-minded for less. Instead, he checked the messages on his phone, most of them responses to a post from Zac. It was a clip of a half-naked woman in an office space. She was desperately trying to cover her breasts with her arms, when a bloke in a suit walked by and put up his hand in front of her—The guy who invented the high five. Martin hadn’t been able to stop himself from laughing.
Eveline looked up, disrupted. She was right in the middle of a scene in which a woman showed off her new mermaid outfit. Without any irony, the voice-over commented dispassionately that there were three different tail-types. His girlfriend glanced down at his cell. As soon as she saw the post, she shame-stared at him—‘Well go off then. Go! To your new dick network.’
Martin is thus relieved to be here in their regular bar. With the boys, he doesn’t have to watch his words. They all share the same love for old films. Fincher, Tarantino, and the like. It’s the main reason why he decided to join them. The entire frat would be here this evening, up for a night of fun before the second semester hits them.
Except for Jens that is. He had gone home to his family in Germany for the Christmas break. His train back to the Netherlands had been cancelled because of a bomb threat. The umpteenth in the past month, all of them fake. Much ado about nothing, if you’d ask Martin. He doesn’t care Jens cannot make it. He’s a bit dull, too serious, like most Germans. And as long as Zac is there…but as usual his best friend is late.
Elon has turned on his e-cigarette and is gearing up for his big reveal: the rumours. It’s not allowed to smoke anything in the bar, but the owner generally turns a blind eye.
‘Allegedly...’ Elon starts, circling the sleek metal stick between his fingers. The green light at the tip is flickering, eager for his drag.
Martin listens with half an ear and scans the dimly lit space. Nothing ever changes in the bar. That’s probably why he likes it so much. From the out-of-use perforated dartboard in the back to the dusty black-and-white pictures of previous owners and once-famous movie stars above the counter: they have all remained untouched. The red-cedar floorboards are sticky from days-old spilt beer and the billiard table is as pruney as the nearly deaf barkeeper behind the tap. Still, no sign of Zac.
Martin takes another sip of his pilsner.
‘Martin, my man! Hot in here, innit?’ Zac suddenly rings in his ear. The slap from his best friend on his back is hard and unexpected, and Martin almost chokes on his drink. The beer runs out of his nose.
His friend snickers, while Martin dries his wet chin. He clears his watering eyes with the sleeve of his jumper. Zac is wearing a T-shirt instead of a sweater, on it a picture of Santa in a bathing suit. Martin could have known. Zac always has to stand out, be the centre of attention, never one to shy away from a prank or two.
The shirt is so tight Martin can see almost every line of his friend’s pecs. Zac has tied his shoulder-long blond hair in a bun. Together with his stubbly beard, it gives him a rugged but approachable look. Manly and sensitive. A chick magnet.
Martin used to be annoyed by the fact that his friend can hook up so easily with every girl he likes. Not anymore. Not since he has Eveline. He knows Zac likes her too. Zac can’t keep his eyes off her when she’s along. But she’s with him, not Zac, but him.
Martin takes a big swig of his drink to wash down the acid taste of the coughed-up beer and offers his friend a pint.
Zac is quick to take it off his hands, bawling, ‘To a good start of the semester!’
‘Hear, hear! And you joined right in time,’ Martin yells. ‘Elon has another juicy story up his sleeve!’
Zac signs to the bartender to lower the music’s volume. Eyeing up Elon, he smiles, amused. ‘Now which girl have you entrapped this time?’
Elon isn’t as handsome as Zac, but he turns quite a few heads, and he knows it.
‘It’s nothing like that, Zac.’ Elon grins. ‘It’s about Prior.’
They all know Jude Prior. Who doesn’t? He is famous, or at least his films are—The Detainees. The Exiles. The Insurgents. All big cult hits. And the main reason why Martin and Zac are here today, to study in the film art programme in which he teaches. In Maastricht of all places.
‘Now it’s getting interesting. Come on, don’t hold back,’ Zac replies.
‘I heard about it from Anaïs, you know, the one with the big tits.’ Elon cups his hands in front of his chest and pouts to express his appreciation. ‘Haven’t you seen her? Man, how can you have missed her? Trust me. You’d love to pull her. She’s on my list. Anyway, Anaïs showed me the whole thing, and she—’
‘What thing?’ Martin is fearing the worst.
Elon waves them to come closer. He knows how to build in drama. ‘It won’t take long before it goes viral. A video in which he...’
Anxious, Martin stares at the two blinking red lights on Elon’s sweater: Rudolf the Reindeer’s balls, which Santa is kicking. He wipes the cold sweat out of his neck, but the drops run down his back and into his butt crack.
***
The lecturer, a middle-aged woman in a severely cut suit, is about to start when Zac rushes into the lecture theatre. He nearly slips. The wooden floor has been waxed during the Christmas break. The wax still spreads its piney perfume. Martin waves at Zac and points to the empty seat he saved for him. Zac hasn’t responded to any of his calls or messages since Martin hurriedly left the pub last evening. Martin needs to talk with him. They have to fix this. Zac must know this too. So why does he take a seat at the back? Didn’t he see him sitting on the corner of the front row?
Zac is flirting with the red-haired girl next to him, telling her one of his slapstick-ridden anecdotes for sure. She laughs. His friend is wearing a deeply cut V-necked shirt and he leans in shamelessly to give her a glimpse of his chest. Annoyed, Martin tosses back his hair, which is damp. He hasn’t stopped sweating since Elon dropped his news on the video of Prior. Martin takes off his black leather jacket and carefully hangs it over the back of his seat, then pulls up the foldable table attached to his chair. It’s half a desk actually, barely covering a quarter of his lap. Crap! There’s a syrupy substance all over his hands.
Someone must have spilt it on the desk. Orange juice may- be or it might have been Coke once. He doesn’t want to risk getting any of it on his jacket, which, although tattered, was his dad’s once. Martin hastily wipes his fingers on his trousers, then realises his mistake. He’ll smell sickeningly sweet all day. Zac most definitely will make fun of him. Martin quickly tries to come up with a film quote to counter his friend’s jokes later. Well damn if I ain’t so sweet, I make sugar taste just like salt. A twisted Kurt Russell. Old perhaps, but classic. No, of course, why didn’t he think of that immediately? He can always count on Prior for the right words: I don’t need to eat no popsicles. I’m sweeter than a toy with googly eyes.
He chuckles and feels relieved somehow. There’s no reason to. Not yet. But Zac will know what to do. His friend won’t let him down. They hadn’t come here to fear. They hadn’t come to die. They had come to win. Together they will find a solution. Hell yeah, the two of them, Martin Hermans and Zac Bleecker, they are special.
He and Zac have been hanging out almost daily since the introduction week of the Faculty of Film Studies, which most students and staff members endearingly call FFiS. Martin, however, refuses to use the crippled acronym invented by the university. Sure, it isn’t the Amsterdam Film Academy. They wouldn’t have him. Martin had to apply for one of the programmes in Maastricht instead. It’s all about history, genre and cultural impact, the analysis of viewpoint and mis-en- scène. He doesn’t learn how to shoot. He merely gets to take movies apart. Yet none other than Jude Prior teaches some classes. It’s a highly competitive master, not everyone gets in, but he and Zac did. And it still is one step closer to his dream of becoming a filmmaker.
‘Id est, always make sure to ground your claims in facts. And back statements with references to peer-reviewed research. Questions?’ the professor finishes up her lecture, clearly not expecting any.
It’s late afternoon, the last class of the day, and everyone is eager to leave. The professor starts to gather her things, like the students around him. All of them girls. He and Zac are the only men and the only Dutch in this year’s cohort. Some are already heading to the door when Martin raises his voice, ‘Sure, facts are important, but what about truth?’
He posed his question without hesitation, loud enough for everyone to hear it. ‘What’s that?’ the professor inquires nonetheless. ‘And introduce yourself please.’
‘Martin Hermans. What about truth instead of facts?’
‘Explain,’ she commands and walks to the end of the wooden dais. Her earrings—crystal threaders, almost reaching her shoulders—dance in hypnotising horizontal circles. ‘Go on. We don’t have all day.’
Martin uneasily moves back and forth in his swing-back-seat until the student to his right gives him a poke with her elbow. ‘Uh, well...there are facts, and they serve their purpose, but literature, films...don’t they touch upon greater truths?...about life, death, loss...love, which are to be felt, and lived?’ While he is talking, the professor stares out over his head at the wall. Is she even listening? Offended, he ends his speech with a question, ‘And isn’t it through art, through fiction, that we can experience such truths?’
The girls who are still in the room, surely twenty, have stopped packing their bags to watch them—him and this middle-aged woman—waiting for what is to come next.
Martin doubts she has heard a word of what he has been saying. He’s thus surprised when she looks down on him to answer slowly in a tone which allows no dispute, ‘That’s irrelevant. Facts and data alone make up scientific knowledge. Of course, we should account for interpretation, perspective and context, but everything else is opinion, entertainment at best. To think differently about this can be dangerous. Hubris isn’t solely something for Greek tragedies.’
She turns to the lectern to pick up her leather au- burn bag, a clear indication that she’s done with this. But before she can reach for it, Martin replies, a lot softer now, ‘No...I think you’re wrong...there are different truths, based on facts, but also on emotions, and if you wish, opinions. Art, fiction, mere fiction...as Oscar Wilde says, is there anything as real as mere fiction? It gives us access to other identities. Fiction makes it possible to live through experiences which aren’t our own.’
The professor ignores his words and glances at her watch. ‘That’s it for today. Out you go.’
Insulted, Martin remains seated as the professor rushes off with her bag clenched under her arm. She probably didn’t hear him. Yes, that must be it. Still, why does he feel so humiliated then? His fellow students are leaving too.
Trying to ignore the dull thuds of their seats as they flip back into place, he stares at the ridge of the high gabled roof. Silver-coloured figures dangle from the beams and rafters, strung up on steel strings. Some modern artwork he never noticed before. He tilts his head. What is it precisely? Some strange trapeze act or is he witnessing a hanging?
Only then he realises he has completely forgotten about Zac. Martin turns round to look for his friend, but he’s already gone. He could kick himself. Why did he get carried away in that pointless discussion? He should focus on one task at a time. He needs to find Zac and get that video offline. Hurriedly, Martin shoves his stuff in his scuffed backpack and puts on his jacket. Maybe he can still catch him.
He runs through the faculty building. Martin is about to shout Zac’s name when he’s pulled into an empty side-corridor. Zac holds him firmly in place against the wainscoted wall, gripping him forcefully with both hands.
‘Jesus, Martin, chill,’ his friend hisses in his ear. ‘Zac, what did we do? We...’
Zac’s already angular features harden and his grasp tightens. Martin wriggles to loosen his hold. He merely succeeds in getting him to let go with one hand. The other remains clamped in place.
Zac is so close Martin can smell him—Axe and Gauloises. He suspects that Zac merely likes to light the French sticks for the way they make him look. Martin has never seen him inhale.
‘Can you take it down?’ Martin pleads, his usually deep voice reduced to little squeaks.
‘If that gives you peace of mind.’ Zac’s words bounce off the grey terrazzo floor. ‘It won’t make much of a difference. The internet doesn’t forget.'
