If it hadn’t been for that man I was sitting next to—who was sneaking looks at me from time to time—the trip would have been pleasant. Apart from his glances, the smell of cigarettes steeped into his body made it hard to breathe or read in peace the entire flight. Finally, we landed in Amsterdam. I had to hustle and get my suitcase off the baggage carrousel. While I waited, I was surprised to find a handbag on the ground. It seemed to belong to a young woman because of its colors, blue and yellow.
I looked around.
A bored little girl was jumping around what I imagined were her parents. I gestured to them, showing them the handbag, but they ignored me.
“Don’t leave your bag unattended!” a security guard barked at me in harsh English.
“It’s not mine,” I responded in that same language, about to throw my hands up in the air as if I’d been caught in the act.
An anecdote came to mind from one of Raymond Carver’s stories that I had just read on the airplane. In it, someone forgets her purse in the bathroom of a German museum. Another woman sees it, goes through its contents, and finds an ID with a Munich address, the city in which she finds herself. So, she decides to take a taxi to return it to its owner.
“Pick it up immediately!” the security guard insisted, “If you don’t, you’ll have to come to Security with me.”
Without thinking about it a moment longer, I too did what the woman in Carver’s story should not have done: I took the handbag.
What could be inside it? What would happen if its owner saw me take it?
I took my suitcase off the carousel and stood in the customs line.
I tried to hide my nervousness. It was cold, but I felt my hands sweating. My body started feeling warm. The security guard was watching me. Once I left the airport, I would get into the first taxi and go through the handbag. There had to be some identification inside.
Only four people to go before it was my turn.
I didn’t want to have this bag with me. Carver’s story stayed in my head. The woman in the story returns the purse to its owner. When the owner receives it, she discovers that one hundred and twenty dollars that had been clipped together are missing. She doesn’t say anything about it, thinking that perhaps somebody else had taken the money. The owner of the purse and her husband invite the woman inside for a cup of tea to thank her.
“It’s your turn,” I heard a man behind me say.
I approached the customs agent. I showed him my declaration and passport with a timid smile. I answered the few questions he asked me. I don’t remember what they were. All I know is that I tried to act calm.
“Welcome to Holland,” I’m sure he said.
I took my passport and smiled again.
I hid a sigh of relief.
I walked slowly.
I left the airport.
I felt cold.
In five minutes, I would be in a taxi.
“Where are you going?” the driver asked in English.
I opened the purse. There had to be some identification, something that would take me to its owner.
A scarf. An old book.
I froze.
Dollar bills clipped together.
Could it be just another coincidence?
I didn’t want to touch them.
I paged through the book and out fell a scrap of paper with handwriting on it.
I gave it to the driver.
It was an address.
“Is this very far away?” I asked while I tried to calculate how much money was in the clip.
“Fifteen minutes,” he said. “Here in Amsterdam, everything’s close,” he added.
What should I do?
In Carver’s story, the woman who finds the handbag and returns it to the owner sits down, cool as a cucumber, and, after speaking elegantly about her life, travels, and good fortune, she dies. Yes, she dies. She dies with her mouth open in the sitting room, her teacup falling to the ground, and she collapses on the sofa. They try to find a pulse. There are no signs of life. The dismayed owner of the purse, trying not to look at the increasingly pale cadaver, grabs the dead woman’s handbag to see if she can figure out the hotel where the woman was staying. She opens it. She becomes perplexed. Profoundly disillusioned. There they were. Still clipped together. Her one hundred and twenty dollars.
“We’re going to this address?” the driver hurried me along.
Should I take the handbag?
“Yes, please,” I said almost instinctively.
“Are you feeling alright?” he asked. “Should I turn up the heat?”
“No, don’t worry about it. Thanks,” I responded breathlessly.
My hands. They were sweating again.
I took off my jacket. I organized my things without looking in the handbag again. I didn’t want to count that money.
We crossed several avenues. In perfect order, hundreds of bicycles invaded and crossed the streets. It was nearly five o’clock in the afternoon. I was tired. I needed to sleep.
“We’re here,” the taxi driver said as he handed back the paper with the address. “That’ll be sixteen guilders.”
“Can you wait for me? I just need to deliver something and I’ll come right back,” I asked him, searching for some way to change my destiny.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” he replied. “I have to pick up another fare.”
I rolled my bags very slowly to the front door.
The facade of the house looked tall and narrow. The roof was shaped like a canopy.
The sky was grey.
Could it rain?
Just like in Carver’s story, I saw a woman appear at the window. She opened the door before I could ring the bell. Her hair was black and very short. She greeted me with a brief smile. She immediately fixed her eyes on the purse in my hands and exclaimed, “You’re absolutely right, my darling! She brought my purse!”
“Come in, please! It’s so cold out. I’m Tess,” she said, as she gave my hands a quick squeeze and closed the door. “This is my husband…”
But I had seen them before.
“Nice to meet you,” a man with dark, thick eyebrows said. “I noticed how enthusiastically you read my stories on the airplane,” he went on as he raised a cigarette to his lips. “I’m Raymond Carver. But don’t just stand there, sit down, sit down,” he insisted while he cleared some space in the cluttered living room. “Won’t you join us for a cup of tea?”
Translated by Amy Olen
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