Authors: Danny Wallace
Here we go. Bring on the riches. I logged on and went straight to my e-mails, but was a little surprised to see I had no mail. Molly hadn’t replied. Not even a friendly “hello” or a “looking forward to seeing you!”
No matter. Maybe she was just busy getting my money ready and buying pastries and balloons for the official handover. It was a little disappointing, that’s all. You’d have thought at the very least Albert could have made the effort to write.
With no processing to do, the man suddenly had loads of spare time on his hands!
So I wrote another e-mail to Molly.
Dear Molly,
It is I, Danny Wallace, winner of the SkyLow Lottery International! I have spectacular news! I have done as you suggested and come to Holland! I hope Albert isn’t annoyed that he won’t get to do the processing, but I thought I’d save myself seven thousand euros!
Anyway. I am just sitting around near the Magna Plaza, waiting to meet up. Please e-mail me or call me on 0044 7802 ****** to let me know what I should do next.
Danny
My main worry was that it was already getting close to four o’clock. I wanted to get in touch with these guys before business hours were over. I was only booked into Amsterdam for one night—after all, Amsterdam’s not the kind of place you want to be when you’ve got twenty million dollars burning a hole in your pocket—and I had an early flight home in the morning.
The one thing I found really strange about Molly’s e-mail—aside from its very nature—was that it contained no phone numbers whatsoever. It was almost as if they didn’t want you contacting them. And the only address on it was for the offices of Albert the legal expert—though why I’d want to see
him
I don’t know.
I wandered away from the Internet café and toward the Magna Plaza, but before I’d walked even a few feet I looked up to see a man, tanned and in his thirties, slowly moving down the street, holding in his hand a small leash. He was smiling and making an odd clicking noise. And on the end of that leash was a small, fat, brown cat. I had to do a quick double take. Yes. It was a man. Walking his cat. In the middle of the day. I stood and watched.
Amsterdam is, I suppose, a city of Yeses, and one of the most liberal in the world. It is a city of freedom and acceptance, a place where new ideas are embraced, not dismissed out of hand. In the sixties, Amsterdam’s youth threw themselves into hippiedom with gusto and glee, and it’s from that basic mindset that a place of outright social progressiveness grew. Most notably, of course, when it comes to drugs and prostitution. Gay marriages were legalised in 2001,
and the city is one of the most gay-friendly in the world. A city which, just as it should, accepts everyone equally. Street crime is rare, and friendly faces abound. It was all quite warming to the heart. I thought about that and watched as my cat-walking friend ambled down the street, pausing every so often to allow his little friend to sniff a bollard or lick a street corner, and I thought,
Good for you, sir. Go—walk your cat and hold y our head up high. For you are in Amsterdam, city of acceptance. There is no shame—even for men who walk their cats in public
.
Of course if I were king, walking a cat would be illegal, but then, I’m not Dutch.
I wandered past a gift shop and wondered whether I should buy a souvenir. Did one night in a foreign city warrant a souvenir? In the end I opted for a tiny windmill on a stick and decided to write Lizzie a postcard. It had been a while, and I missed her. Plus I feel postcards are important. They give the impression that you are a worldly and well-travelled person with culture at their fingertips and the lifestyle of a jet-setter. I flicked through the postcards and found one with a big clog on it. Yes. That was
precisely
the image I wanted to portray.
I decided to play it casual.
Dear Lizzie,
I’m in Amsterdam! No reason why, really. Sometimes you’ve just got to do these things and live a little
.
Hey—they walk cats here. It’s brilliant
.
Love,
Danny
I found a postbox, popped the postcard in, and went for a walk around the huge Nieuwe Kerk, where I took in the Gothic pinnacles and soaring lines, and a couple of Neptunes blowing on conches. But who was I kidding? On a normal day, of course, I’d have spent more time there, tried my hardest to see everything, had my photo taken with a trumpet-playing cherub. But today? Today I wanted to be in an Internet café….
I dashed back inside the café, logged on, and to my delight found an e-mail waiting.
But it wasn’t from Molly. It was from something called the Standard Trust Agency of Amsterdam.
I clicked it open and read:
Hello Mister Danny,
Thank you for your e-mail to SkyLow Lottery International. We are their agents, and we will be handling your claim. Please, we need a few things as soon as possible, as we are running out of time on your claim.
1. Full name and address and
all
telephone and fax numbers
2. Bank account information
3. Passport number and nationality
4. Two thousand euros to pay for an indemnity document, which will be used in filing process. Please, it is your responsibility to cover this cost.
We will also require a one off-payment of 2,650 euros for tax purposes within 24 hours to ensure the claim can be made in time.
Immediately the process is started, you will receive all the necessary documents to receive your money.
Robison Shaw
Hang on a second! Who was this bloke? Where was Molly? Where was Albert? And what was all this about time limits?
I wrote back.
Dear Robison,
But I am already in Amsterdam at the request of Dr. Molly Van Brain! How can I collect my winnings from her? What are these documents I need? I thought Albert Heijn was in charge of this stuff? Where is Dr. Molly Van Brain?
Danny
Something about this was deeply wrong. It was now 5 p.m., and I wanted to get this sorted out as quickly as possible. But I was at the mercy of Robison Shaw, who’d suddenly decided to take over from the much more friendly sounding Dr. Molly Van Brain. He’d given me no address, but there
was
a phone number….
I got my mobile out and dialled the number. If there really was a time limit on my claim, surely this was the best way of handling things? The phone number worked … but there was no answer. I waited and waited, hoping it would click into answerphone, but it didn’t. It just rang. And no one answered. What was going on here?
I tried the number again, but still the same happened, and ten minutes later I dialled once more.
I had a bad feeling about this. I didn’t like the cut of Robison Shaw’s gib, either. He, unlike Molly, seemed a bit money-obsessed. I needed to straighten this out, but I had no way of getting in touch with her other than by e-mail.
Or did I?
I took the printout of Molly’s e-mail out of my pocket, and there it was again: Albert Heijn, Westerstraat, Amsterdam. Sure, Albert was a bit out of the loop now that I’d decided to do the processing myself, but surely he wouldn’t begrudge me a little visit? If I could find Albert, then I could almost certainly find Molly. And if I could find Molly, then I could find out whether I really
had
won twenty million dollars.
I needed a map. And I needed confirmation that Albert Heijn really was where he said he was. Surely if it was a scam, they’d have made an address up? So if this was real, then potentially, so was Albert….
I stopped a passerby.
“Excuse me,” I said. “What number do I dial to find out other numbers?”
The lady looked at me blankly. “You mean like a database?” she said.
“Yes! Like, directory enquiries. Someone who knows the phone book.”
“Ah!” she said, and gave me the number, which was full of Os and 8s. I dialled.
“Naam?”
“Hello? Do you speak English?”
“Yes.”
“I need the address for Albert Heijn, Westerstraat, Amsterdam.”
“Of course.”
Moments later I had it. Albert was real! A real man, with a real address! I could bypass Robison Shaw and deal with the people who’d been with me since the beginning. Plus this could work—this could be true! Why would they give out an address that exists, if they were planning to scam me? Now all I had to do was get round there. It was 5:30 now. I still had half an hour before most
business would be shutting down for the day. And surely I could get there in less than …
My heart stopped.
The time difference
.
Yeah, it was 5:30 by
my
watch, but
my
watch was on
British
time. The Dutch watches would all read 6:30.
I needed to get to Albert quickly. I ran to a main road and waited, sweaty, wild, and desperate for a cab to pass. A minute or two later I found one.
“Westerstraat,” I said. “As quickly as you can manage!”
The taxi roared into action, and I got my phone out. I had to call Albert and tell him not to leave work yet. I had to convince him I was on my way and needed to talk to him about SkyLow, Dr. Molly Van Brain, and Robison Shaw … but would he want to talk to me? I’d robbed him of seven thousand euros’ worth of work! I’d arrogantly thought I could do this myself!
The phone rang and rang, but no one answered. Had he gone home already? Or was this part of the scam? Was he sitting with Robison, laughing his tits off? Or was it real? Was he sitting with Molly, counting out my money and looking at his watch? I needed to get to him today…. I needed to sort this out today….
“Here is Westerstraat,” said the driver, pulling up. “Which number do you need?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “There was no number. Just this….”
I showed him my piece of paper.
“Ah! Albert Heijn,” he said, and pulled out, back into the street.
“You
know
Albert Heijn?” I said startled.
The driver laughed. “Sure,” he said. “Everybody knows Albert Heijn. He is an important man!”
I was thrilled. This alone would prove to Ian that the way of Yes was the true and right way! We drove a hundred metres or so, then slowed to a halt. The driver turned to me and pointed out the window.
“Here he is.”
I looked to where the driver was pointing.
And there in big, blue letters he was.
ALBERT HEIJN
It was the name of a supermarket.
* * *
I was distraught. And I felt stupid. So, so stupid. Of course it was a scam. And the worst thing was I’d known it all along. It
had
to be. I’d never entered the Spanish lottery. Just as I’d never met Omar’s dad, the murdered sultan so impressed by my professionalism in business.
The moment I’d seen the supermarket, I knew it: Ian had so obviously been right all along. The scammers had used a real name and address in the hope that anyone tempted to check out SkyLow would see that their “lawyer” existed. It would be like you or I claiming we were represented in court by a Bobby Van Walmart or the Taco Bell Twins. They just hadn’t reckoned anyone would travel to Amsterdam to find out. I could see their point; Yes had been wrong to bring me here. Yes had clouded my judgment, brought optimism when it should have armed me with cynicism. I’d been suspending any disbelief in the vague hope that everything would come out well. I was excited by the trip, by the possibilities, no matter
how
ludicrous. Maybe I was just looking for another hit—another another injection of excitement and surprise. The kind I’d had the day I won twenty-five grand but lost it again all too soon. I’d tasted glory that day, and I wanted more. Maybe Yes was addictive; maybe you lived in the hope that if you just believed, it would bring you good fortune.
I found a bench and tried to find the spin I could put on today’s events. How could I make it okay again? What good could I find in this?
Well, I was on a bench in Amsterdam for one thing. I had an evening to waste in Holland that I otherwise wouldn’t have had. And that, surely, beats just another night in front of the telly in London. At the very least I had that. And that, after all, is what this was all about.
I decided not to tell Ian about how I’d ended up in Amsterdam. And if I ever did, I’d lie and tell him I had actually won that twenty million dollars after all. I reckoned I could get away with that, even if it did mean I’d have to buy every round in the pub for the rest of my life.
So that was it: I’d decided not to be beaten. I would find fun tonight. Of course I would! I was the Yes Man!
The Yes Man could find fun in
any
city!
The National Cheese Museum of Holland features more than three fascinating audiovisual displays on the history of cheese, taking in famous cheesemakers as well as the huge array of forward-thinking cheesemaking equipment offered to
the modern cheesemaker today. Visitors to the museum in Alkmaar are able to sample more than six different cheeses, from Gouda to Edam and back again, and the whole, thrilling, cheese-based experience was kept from me only because the museum had closed two hours earlier.
I had with me a small pamphlet I’d picked up on the train into town that afternoon, full of useful suggestions and handy hints as to how I should spend my time. The problem was nearly everything it suggested was closed, shutdown, or finished. I’d even missed the “Holland Experience,” on Jodenbreestraat, which promised 3-D glasses, a moving floor, and smell-o-vision. That was the last straw. You know a day’s gone wrong when you’ve missed out on smell-o-vision.
My tummy rumbled, and at first I assumed it was a deep-seated rage borne out of a lack of 3-D windmills before realising that as I hadn’t eaten all day, it was probably hunger. I was near the Leidseplein, the heart of touristy Amsterdam, with its bright and blinking neon signs and constant flow of people and traffic and people. I wandered away from the main square, still cursing Dr. Molly Van Brain under my breath (not only was I twenty million dollars down, but thanks to all the faffing around, I knew virtually nothing about cheese, either), and found my way to Leidsekruisstraat and a little restaurant called De Blonde Hollander.