After spending the afternoon on the rickety bed in the small apartment Annie had arranged for me on my arrival, I decided I would go out and have a look at the neighbouring streets and pick up some cigarettes before her show opened later in the evening. Since it was only just passed seven, I figured I had well enough of time. Gathering my mood and trying to refresh in front of the broken mirror in the tiny bathroom I remembered the little gift I had bought for Annie while the boat ported in Amsterdam. A porcelain doll in crinolin. She used to love those. Staring into the mirror with one eye obscured by a yellowed stain, I realised it was a slightly different man Annie was about to see. Time had set it´s mark upon the features that gloomily appeared in the mirror.

Grabbing my coat, collecting the few commodities a man would always need, such as matches, watch, the very wrinkled and torn touristmap and taking care not to forget the doll, which I hastily wrapped in some brown paper I found in the kitchen drawer, I went down the dilapidated stairwell and came out on Albert street. Since it crossed with the Boulevard (really rather a typical street, or perhaps road, with a few trees here and there, tramway but absent-as-it-seemed tramcars and a muddle of small shops) the strong wind was not as noticable as when walking on the streets running in a south to north direction, all in all somehow connected with the harbour. It was already dark and the area peculiarly empty of people, but I did see someone standing by a pedestrian crossing ahead, quite nondescript of character and features because of the poor sight the weather offered. That being the direction of the theater, I steered left by the nearest crossing and followed the Boulevard.

Somehow I must have misjudged or rembered the map wrong, because many of the intercepting streets I had anticipated never showed up, either to the left or to the right. But it was not very long before I could see the sign of Annie´s theater ahead, time still being very much too early for my appointment with her, let alone the time of the show. Thankfully, wanting a cigarette and being out of supply, I could also make out a faded sign saying “Hari´s kiosk”. Before going in through the narrow door, loose on one of the hinges, the sligtly odd behaviour of standing by a pedestrian crossing but not yet cross, passed my mind. But met with the smell of an ordinary tobacconist, I let myself be absorbed by the interiors of the kiosk.

After conferring some time with the elderly lady behind the counter as to what brand would be the closest to my usual taste (resulting in something all but capricious anyway since she knew very few words in english) and paying for the package, I lingered in the corner of the shop after having sighted an article regarding the ongoing show. As I was glancing over a few blurry pictures, the doorbell rang and someone entered the shop. Not because of someone entering, but rather the sound of ongoing business reminded me that lingering at the tobacconist was actually somehow awkward, and that I would do better to try and find something else to do with the remaining time. On turning about while I put back the magazine, I was stunned by the appearance of the newly entered stranger. The features of his face suggested that he had lived the greater part of his life in adjunction to, or at least close to, the sea, and that the hardships of such a life showed with a clarity seldom beheld and, through some grotesque analogy of thoughts, brought forth an expression commonly found in marine life forms.
Aghast from not only his appearance, but indeed by the rough way he spoke to the shopkeeper, I shrunk back into the corner. I could not make out any of the words exchanged, but grasped as much that it was far from cordial. While it seemed that the strange man, which seemed to me a wharfie, a fisherman, or perhaps a homeless, was not someone to persist in large measure, the madame showed no sign of fear or greater distress and appeared firm while she provoked the ghastly man to growls and even more threatening gestures. Finally, the palaver stopped with the supposed fisherman holding out a fleshy finger towards the shopkeeper, with his lower lip abnormally overlapping his upper, uttering a word.

Thinking of it, I am not sure what that word actually sounded like, much less it´s implication, but from the desire to deconstruct the situation I am now positive it sounded quite close to “maar”. I am also quite positive, on a second thought, that he might have added “Iää”, but the truth of that must be debated, since I was in a state of nervousness inflicted by the man, who at that moment turned towards me as if he had known I was there all the time, without letting me know. The shopkeeper then spoke very sternly and pointed him against the door which he then went through and disappeared.
That throaty voice! As I was stepping out of the door myself, carefully looking in every direction for a sign of that hideous creature, I came to think of the fetor that had filled the entire shop in his presence. A raw and putrid effluvium of fish and saltwater.