It was still dark when I reached Schiphol Airport. The darkness had served me well on the way, hiding me in the back of the too-expensive cab I'd hired to take me out of Amsterdam, but once inside the airport, there was no such luxury. I zipped my windbreaker closed before subjecting myself to the lights, and my jeans were dark enough that the blood on them maybe wouldn't look too much like blood.
As a connoisseur of airports-by necessity, if not by choice-Schiphol was one of the best I'd ever encountered, at least where amenities were concerned. The problem was the hour; nothing would open until seven in the morning, which meant a wait before I could resume further repair work on myself. The duct tape was doing a reasonable job holding my forearm closed, but I was still leaking from my side and hand. Of the two, my palm was faring better, but the cut in my side was beginning to really worry me.
I made my way to a very clean and frighteningly well-lit bathroom, locked myself into one of the stalls, and once more found myself seated on a toilet. Using what was left of the duct tape, I tried to repair my eyeglasses, and ended up with something that looked like a nerd cliché. When I put them on, they sat at an angle, and threatened an immediate headache.
With the BlackBerry, I called into the mailbox of the singles' service in London. There was a message from Alena, left in Georgian. They were safely in Ireland, she said, and left a contact number. I did my best to commit it to memory, then hung up and switched to the laptop. Schiphol had wireless available, and the signal, though weak, penetrated the bathroom. I searched up a flight, booked Anthony Shephard on Aer Lingus to Dublin, departing in four hours.
Then I put everything away and struggled to keep from falling asleep until the shops opened.
At seven, I was waiting outside of a store called Etos in the Schiphol Plaza. Mostly Etos seemed to sell perfumes and other beauty supplies, but they had a selection of first aid items, and I pretty much bought one of everything that I thought might be useful, and a small pack of what passed for superglue in the Netherlands. There were several stores selling clothes on the plaza, as well, including an H &M that catered only to women, and a Nike store. Nike wasn't going to work for me; the way I was feeling, and, no doubt, the way I was looking, I'd need more help than that.
I went with a shop specializing in menswear, called Paolo Salotto, used Anthony Shephard's American Express card to get myself a complete makeover-suit, slacks, penny loafers, two ties, and two dress shirts. Then I took everything I'd bought back to the bathroom, hanging the new clothes on a stall door. I stripped off my shirt and worked at the sink with the mirror there, and it was still early enough that I had a fair amount of privacy. The abdominal cut had split further apart, and I used some of the sterile gauze I'd bought to examine the site. Mesick had gone deeper than I'd realized; I only hoped he hadn't broken the muscle wall. I bathed the wound again, this time with some of the Betadine I'd purchased, packed fresh sterile gauze into the wound, then taped everything down.
I cleaned the incision on my palm much the same way, but this time used the superglue to close the incision.
While I was working on my forearm, a fellow traveler came in to use the facilities. There had been a few before him, but this time, while he was washing his hands off to my right, he made a comment to me in Dutch, clearly as concerned as he was curious.
“It was a rough night,” I told him with a big smile.
He laughed, shook his head.
I'm pretty sure he called me a tourist.
I packed my bloodstained clothes in the plastic bag that had held my Etos purchases, then dumped it in a trash can in the plaza, on my way to the gate. Well before hitting the security checkpoint, I removed and stowed my broken glasses. Between that and my expensive new suit, no one stopped me.
Waiting to board, I called the number Alena had left, got Bridgett before the first ring was out.
“I'm arriving Dublin, Aer Lingus, flight 603,” I told her. “Flight gets in at a quarter past eleven.”
“Bully for you,” she said. “We'll see you when you get here.”
“I'm not good to drive,” I told her. “I need someone to pick me up.”
“Oh Jesus.”
“It's not that bad,” I lied. “I'll see you when I get there.”
I managed to stay awake through boarding, even into my seat.
I was asleep before the plane left the gate.