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The Count of Monte Cristo walks along the canals of Amsterdam, his cane clicking in a steady rhythm against the cobblestones. Singing and laughter drift on the wind from across the water, reminding the Count why he’s not walking on that side of the canal.
The Dutch have been kind enough during his time here, but sometimes they can be a bit… much.
Zingend op straat tot ‘s morgensvroeg // Songs in the streets till morning breaks
Flickering street lights all along the canal light the way during the Count’s late-night stroll. He really only came out here because he couldn’t sleep, and a walk seemed like a more favourable alternative than a bar.
In Amsterdam, mijn Amsterdam // In Amsterdam, my Amsterdam
Waar je nachten langs grachten kan dwalen en het licht altijd brandt // Where you drift past canals all night long and there’s always light
In a way, he’s grateful to still have nightmares sometimes. That just means he still has some semblance of a conscience.
He suddenly notices that, in his contemplation, he’s moved onto a small bridge, staring at the water below him. He unfurrows his brow, his face becoming softer. The canal’s water lapping at the sides reminds him of times long past, and he’s quick to push those memories back. A lot of them are not happy. He does believe, however, that maybe one day the water might help him find his way to happiness again. Or to peace, at least.
A sudden light peeking out from under the bridge breaks his train of thought as a small boat passes underneath him. There’s no loud, partying Dutchmen in it, however. Besides the oarsman, there’s only a single person inside, eyes trained on the water. She’s wearing a fine dress, skillfully crafted but not too lavish. A noble, probably, and one with taste. A subspecies that becomes rarer by the day, it seems to the Count.
Ja, ik weet nog goed toen ik je zag // Yes, I recall well when I saw you
Daar op dat bootje op de gracht // There in that boat on the canal
He’s slightly taken aback when your eyes suddenly shoot up to meet his. He hides it well though, even when you hold his gaze as you drift further away. Your eyes shift away finally to address the oarsman, only to shift right back up to the Count, your head tilted oh so slightly in a silent… invitation? Challenge?
Despite himself, he can feel a slight smirk growing on his face as he moves off the bridge to follow your boat.
You can see him approaching as your boat moors, and when you get up to move onto the quay, he’s already offering you a hand. “Madame”, he greets you as he politely bows his head when you take his hand.
“Français”, you say. “I should have known”.
“Italian, actually. But I’ve been working on my French, since I’m planning to move to Paris. Please forgive the slip of the tongue, signora”, he manages to catch himself, maintaining his persona.
“Would you prefer if we converse in French then, monsieur?”, you ask him, your French pronunciation flawless. “Or in Italian? It seems to me you’re already quite fluent in French” He can’t find a flaw in your Italian pronunciation either.
“You flatter me, signora. Lady’s choice”, he replies in Dutch, and you have the grace not to react to his strong accent. Instead, you save him any further embarrassment by continuing in French: “Lead the way, monsieur”.
The Count starts walking with you on his arm and a confused expression on his face. “You weren’t heading anywhere in particular, madame?”
“No. I was just getting some air. There’s no point in hopelessly tossing and turning all night instead. I believe you can relate?”
He releases a chuckle at that. “I admire your perceptiveness, madame. However, I think that perhaps it’s better if you lead the way. I haven’t been in Amsterdam long”.
You smile at the Count. “I figured. I find that when you’ve really gotten to know a city, nothing can reopen your eyes to its wonders like the perspective of one who is new to it”.
“Well, in that case”.
Hoe heel mijn leven omdraaide // How my life had changed so fully
Maar dat gebeurt vast elke dag // But that surely happens each day
In Amsterdam, mijn Amsterdam // In Amsterdam, my Amsterdam
After exchanging names - you have to grin when he only offers you his title, le Comte de Monte-Cristo - you continue to stroll leisurely through Amsterdam’s cheerfully lit streets.
“So, what brings you to The Netherlands, Comte? Any particular purpose, or simply… wanderlust?”
“At the moment, wanderlust. Though I do have a business associate who frequents the city, so while I’m here…”
“Might as well get some work done?”
“Indeed. And you? Business or pleasure?”
“A bit of both. I used to be all work, no play, but it just sucked all the life out of me after a while. I decided I should have some leisure after hard days’ work as well”.
“So when do you sleep?”, he quips.
“Who says I sleep?”, you retort, making him laugh. Jokes aside, you’ve got a point. He lost fourteen years to the Chateau d’If, and has spent pretty much every waking moment since then trying to secure his revenge. But doesn’t that mean, in a way, that he’s letting his jailors win? He may be free physically, but mentally he’s constantly preoccupied by his torment.
“Are you alright, Comte?” He turns his head to see you regard him questioningly. Concerned.
“Where did you go?”, you try again.
“France”, is all he manages to say, and he’s not even sure why he told you that. Maybe he’s just caught off guard by you. When was the last time someone was genuinely concerned about him?
You can see he doesn’t want to get into it, so you don’t pry. You just gently lead him to continue walking with you along the canal.
In Amsterdam, mijn Amsterdam // In Amsterdam, my Amsterdam
Waar je nachten langs grachten kan dwalen en het licht altijd brandt // Where you drift past canals all night long and there’s always light
“This is me, I’m afraid”, you say, arriving at your hotel after a couple more minutes of walking and talking. “And I really should get some sleep”.
“I thought you didn’t sleep?”
“I never said that. I just said you didn’t have a source to corroborate that I do, in fact, sleep. And now you do”.
He finds you refreshing. Most women he knows are resigned, repressed even. A lot of men still frown upon women being opinionated or witty, which he thinks is a shame. Scratch that, it’s downright illogical. Utter connerie.
Especially bright and festive lights from the other side of the canal attract his attention. The Dutch National Opera House practically winks at him from across the water, laying out an open invitation.
“You have a stunning view of the opera house from here”.
“I certainly do. Have you been, Comte?”
“I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure. Would you forgive my candour if I asked you to accompany me to the opera soon? I’ve heard they’re showing a revival of Il barbiere di Siviglia ”.
“I would not have taken you for a lover of the opera buffa, Comte”, you say, pleasantly surprised at his invitation.
You’re right, he’s usually not comically inclined when it comes to the arts - not anymore, anyway - but you’ve given him a taste of humour and letting loose tonight, and now he’s craving more.
“Does that mean you decline?”
“Oh no, certainly not! On the contrary, I would be delighted to accompany you to the opera. And elsewhere, if you would be amenable to that”.
He smiles again. You seem to have that effect on him.
“I most certainly would be. May I call on you tomorrow?”
“I would be disappointed if you didn’t”.
“Until tomorrow then, madame”, he bids you goodbye, lightly taking your hand in his.
“Until tomorrow, monsieur”. He presses a kiss to the back of your hand, refusing to break eye contact.
You reluctantly let him go, opening the door and walking into the hotel. You turn to look at him one last time and close the door, resting your back against it with a warm smile and a wildly beating heart. On the other side of the door, Edmond Dantès mirrors your smile, his heart beating in tandem with yours.
In Amsterdam, mijn Amsterdam // In Amsterdam, my Amsterdam
Waar een hart dat niet zocht naar de liefde zijn lief tegenkwam // Where a heart not looking for love found its beloved