Amsterdam – Light in Early Winter

The lady sitting opposite Marta wore a black ensemble. A Dutch lady who entered and sat beside the low table that ran along the back wall and under the window. She leafed through a magazine, she focused on nothing, she was waiting.

The husband arrived, clad in a similarly black rig-out of equally understated elegance. She greeted him with a kiss. He leaned down to her as she sat on a velour cube-for-a-seat coloured green. She ordered his coffee and his apple tart with whipped cream. He perused the Sunday papers. He stood up now and then to search out a different paper at the other end of the long narrow along-the-wall table.

I moved to seat near theirs. A low cube, this one red, under the window where I could lean my elbows and cup my camera at the right height to photograph the bikes coming over the bridge before me.

The sun was golden, low and soft like a gift of dissolved summer in winter. It shone over there while over here we were in shade – what we gained was the picture of beauty on the other side.

I noticed how the cyclists were sun-lit before they reached the half way point on the bridge, then they fell into a lesser light that my camera called shadow. Bicycles swooped around to the right mostly, that was the way to the centre. Some were going back to where they had come from. Some ladies rode side-saddle on big old black bikes pedalled by fit young men in gabardines whose corners waved back at me. Some ladies rode bikes with boxes over the front wheel. The box was big enough and deep enough to carry a young child and some bags or two young children or many bags. Some cycled alone – all cycled slowly, leisurely. Nobody was in a rush, it was Sunday around noon.

A young lady walked out of the light and across the bridge. She wore a black coat over a floral winter dress. She wore boots with buckles on the heels to tighten the leather around the ankle – she didn’t use this feature – it was an aesthetic plus to break the monotony of the sheer vertical.

She moved in the viewfinder of my camera, appearing on the left in the light at the other side of the bridge. She moved, only the upper half of her, visible behind the bridge’s hump. Then she rose and moved to the centre, still illuminated, glowing at the edges. Behind her a street with greenery blotched. Rising above her left shoulder the golden window panes of narrow four-storeyed houses with decorative bottle-neck parapets and gables. The facades leaned out over the street like contained bulges.

Into the shade she moved towards me. I did not look at her, nor did I notice her looking at me. She moved further right and out of sight. The café door opened and in she walked. As if I had photographed enough I turned off my camera and sat back beside Marta.

Undoing her coat she greeted the couple, well-dressed in black. The door opened again and what must have been the son, came in, he too was in black, as sharp and presentable as his parents. He kissed his father and his mother and sat with his girlfriend. She kissed him full on the lips and smiled – they seemed new, to the parents in law at least.

All four talked politely. The father ate his apple tart which tasted of cinnamon. He cut it with the edge of a spoon and scooped cream onto it as he slid the slice off the plate and into his mouth. The mother sat, cross-legged towards the young couple. Her hand lay at ease on her right thigh. Her finger wore an engagement ring – one central diamond with two smaller ones on either side supporting it.

The cuff of her well-tailored jacket came down as far as her wrist. A few centimetres from the cuff an X was sewn in two long light blue stitches, each about a centimetre across. Above the first X was another, and a third completed the triad - the three Xs of Amsterdam. A declaration of identity, like wearing a heart on a sleeve.

It was time for us to go. We put our jackets on for it was chilly. The light still beamed on the other side of the road. And we walked towards it.