Jonathan cracked open the door. The absence of the shrill shrieks and the overpowering physical presence of Victoria Walter had left a powerful silence in the suite. On the far end the laptop, or a laptop, sat on the desk, opened but with a black screen, the Moleskine notebook, the fountain pen it its crease, beside it, the Crumpler bag on the floor. Jonathan crossed the room and plumped down into the chair. He swiveled round and scanned the suite and the adjoining bedroom, turning the key card over and over in his fingers. No backpack. With his thumb Jonathan caressed the laptop, but when his index finger hitched on the spacer the screen flashed to life. A shock sent goosebumps over his skin as he stared at…
Mina Witteman – author | editor | teacher of creative writing
Posts tagged “New York”
“You must be tired.” Matt Turing startled Jonathan with his question, which sounded more like a statement. “Let’s go to your room.” “I—I don’t have a room. I wanted to—I had to return this…” Jonathan stammered, taken off guard by the sudden twist. They both ignored him and Turing pulled him along without any ceremony. Within three rushed breaths, he found himself in an elevator with Victoria. The elevator shot up to the top floor, smooth and silent. Even Victoria didn’t say a thing. She had stepped away from him, the second the door had closed. Now, she studied her nails, like the guest service’s girl had done, as if he wasn’t in the elevator with her at all. When the door opened, Turing stood waiting…
The woman, or girl, ignored Jonathan’s obvious embarrassment and held the Tee in front of him. Standing on tiptoe, she titled her head backwards. “Oh, Dallas,” she cooed. “You’re so tall!” She thrust the Tee in his hands and chattered on about how she always had wanted to be taller and how she envied Amsterdam girls and their infinite legs. He couldn’t concentrate on the words that left her pink-painted lips like the tiniest hailstones in an unexpected summer storm. Every now and again he caught the name Dallas, but that was all. After she shoved a conference folder and a memory stick in the Crumpler, without showing any embarrassment for poking around in someone else’s bag, she took him by the wrist, a cool and small hand,…
Tagged: Amsterdam, compression algorithm, Dark Fiber, Feuilleton, New York, Silicon Valley, thriller, Turing
Jonathan watched the hall in surprise. There were people inside, lots of people, more than two hundred maybe, but no one seemed interested in one another. The usual buzzing sounds of a party was absent. The only human sounds came from behind him, from a restaurant where employees were talking in loud and quick Dutch. From the hall came nothing but the clicking of keyboards. Most people were male and most of them wore faded Tees or wrinkled shirts. And all of them had a large square badge on a lanyard, dangling on various sizes of potbellies. At every table stood three, four, five men and the occasional women, all hammering away on laptops. He spotted more men, sitting on the floor and leaning…
The blue-striped marquees were lowered, guarding every hotel window from sun and prying eyes, like standing soldiers. Jonathan squeezed past some cabs that blocked the entrance and climbed the steps to the revolving door. With a mixture of distaste and envy he regarded the extravagant luxury inside. Men, all suited up and smug-smiled, hurried past him. More subservient men, some in livery even, schlepped to and fro with suitcases and bags. They all ignored him, drilled as they were to single out guests with generous tips in their pockets from the occasional shabby visitor. Jonathan fought the urge to turn and run, forced himself to step towards the front desk. More men in suits swarmed the floor, cluttering at the polished marble counter. Three receptionists checked guests…
Tagged: Amsterdam, Dark Fiber, de Eland, Feuilleton, Krasnapolsky, New York, Silicon Valley, thriller, Turing
“Dallas Bard.” Jonathan read the name out loud. He gazed up and watched a canal boat glide by. Smoke, stinking of frying fat, wafted up from it. Tourists snapped pictures of the gables, of him. In a reflex, he hunched up as small as he could, as he was used to ever since the book came out. He straightened up again, when the boat disappeared under the bridge. One day, he would get back at her. One day, he would tell his side of the story and show everyone what a world-class bitch she was. But he needed his notebooks. He’d plotted his revenge in his notebooks. He stared at the container with identical business cards. Nothing came up. He didn’t know a Dallas Bard. The…
Undefined piano music trickled from the speakers. Café De Eland was deserted except for two elderly people sipping cappuccinos at the reading table in the back. Mark wasn’t around, his place behind the bar taken by the bald-shaven guy whose name Jonathan always forgot. “Jonathan, what can I do for you?” The bartender lifted a beer glass of a stack and held it to the tap, his other hand resting on the shiny black knob. “No, no. Nothing. I–I think I left my bag here. Last night. When I left.” Jonathan looked around. No bag. Not near the corner where he usually sat, not near the coat rack. “Did you find it? Did Mark find it?” The bartender threw an unconvincing look behind the bar. “Nope, nothing here.” “Are…
Tagged: Amsterdam, Café de Eland, Dark Fiber, Feuilleton, New York, Silicon Valley, thriller, Turing
Mina Witteman 