In Search of Kyle

In search of Kyle MIRANDA VAN GAALEN Copyright © 2018 Miranda van Gaalen The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. Edited by Vicki Sauvage and Dr Jin Peh Cover design Anne Luchies DTP Oliver Theisen A catalogue record for this book is available from The National Library of the Netherlands, The Hague Heritage Centre Rozet, Arnhem and The National Library of Australia, Canberra. ISBN 978 90 828 1490 3 NUR 301 / 720 Philamonk About the Author Miranda van Gaalen was born in the Netherlands and has a degree in Business Economics. She lived in Australia from 2000 to 2007. Miranda has extensive knowledge of Feng Shui and loves sports. She co-authored ‘Het Arnhems Kroegenboek’ in 1992, had two short stories published in anthologies in 2012 and was a nominee for the National Book Week Contest in 2014. Miranda lives in Arnhem. To every minority, especially the redheads, may you grow stronger in diversity, this one is for you. ♥ Thank you, Claudia Fischer Natasja Sanches Margaret Pratt Arjen Beltman Charly Stefan ten Have Annet Tomasini Cindy van Roosmalen Beaumaris Book Club my darling brother Mum & Dad Ari Dr Jin Peh Vicki Sauvage! ♥ Supporters Kjeld Kahn Maassen van den Brink Velp BV Guido Steusel Café The Move Flessenwinkel Fischer, Heteren Patisserie Christiaan H&G van Hunen Radio & TV 85 jaar Schoenmakerij ”WIM” Arnhem Boekhandel Hijman Ongerijmd L’Extrémiste Reisboekhandel De Noorderzon Chico’s Place Grand Café Metropole Jansen & de Feijter / Het Colofon Authentiek Sichuan Restaurant in Velp Café Atlanta BeWell Massage & Acupunctuur Café de Wacht Foreword A book with Arnhem as decor? That’s nothing new, witnessing the library that emerged after those ten famous days in September 1944. And there’s lots more of course. But a spiritual novel about Arnhem? Arnhem and the supernatural? That’s a first. So far, we only had the incomprehensible logical/illogical drawings of Escher where every perspective became relative. But now we have In search of Kyle where Miranda van Gaalen takes things another step further. In her book, time and space and energy interchange and merge flawlessly and completely naturally without taking away the clarity for a single moment. The most merciful thing in the world… is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents, was the conviction of HP Love- craft, author of fantasy and (cosmic) horror. When literature is an attempt to establish any kind of order in those contents, then In search of Kyle succeeds more than adequately. Sky Beaumont—her name is obviously a metaphor—is searching for Kyle, the man she asked to marry her at age seven in Arnhem Land, in the northeast of the Australian Northern Territory. Kyle refuses and disappears from her life, on his way to the Netherlands. Arnhem as it turns out. He stays in touch with her grandmother through cryptic picture postcards that force Sky to go on an intriguing 10 quest. From the moment she first sets foot in Arnhem, the reader is taken on a kaleidoscopic exploration of the city, a rollercoaster ride through present and past, through the underworld and the one above, from Arnhem-North to Arnhem-South. Nothing is what it seems, and nothing seems what it should be. In this game, the reader either visits clearly recognisable places with familiar names or enters the hidden places described as cryptically as the postcards from the wanted Kyle. Playfully accompanied by a selection of numerology or Aristotelian Element teachings, we stop at contemporary bars or other venues with picturesque names that demand decoding—The White Tiger, The Green Dragon or Peach Blossom, and there are more. And the naming is not at all far-fetched. Protagonist Sky simply thinks and feels different from the average Arnhemmer. When she visits the bridges over the river Rhine or ends up in the Middle Age tunnel network in the city centre, she relies on wind directions for orientation rather than street names. Will the apotheosis on a Queens Birthday (back then 30 April, but then and now are a magical tangle in In search of Kyle) lead to a reunion with her lost love? There are more ways of connecting and what’s most important is not the goal but the road towards it. In search of Kyle is a profound book and two more books will follow. Who wouldn’t want to know more about the adventures that await Sky? To end with Lovecraft—Searchers after horror haunt strange, far places. Those strange and faraway places are brought within reach with In search of Kyle. It’s up to the reader to indulge in the abundance part one has to offer. Jac. Toes, Arnhem, 25 April 2018 11 SUNDAY 12 I A car speeds out of sight, and I wave one last time, an unnoticed gesture by which I proclaim my existence. Now what? On the drive to Kyle’s city, the flat Dutch landscape changes into arboreal moraines. The driver tells me these remnants of the Ice Age embrace the province’s capital around to the north. It’s the region where my grandmother was born. Although Helen receives postcards from Kyle, she refuses to elaborate on her relationship with him. The first card depicts a beautiful cityscape along a river with a cryptic note on the back. It fails to make sense. But it will. I want it to. Dad’s mum has been treasuring the cards for years. Despite her reluctance, she hands them over when I promise to take good care of them as I tell her the official version, I’ll be studying there. The straight hilly road leads past an abstract sculpture on the outskirts of town where villas alternate with apartment blocks, birds chirp and clusters of pink blossom flourish in well-main- tained gardens. I’m euphoric when I recognise the phallus symbol rising high above Arnhem as Kyle’s tower. Countless nights I’ve fallen asleep imagining what Kyle’s life is like, and I want to meet him. It takes a lot of convincing before my parents agree to me going on this journey. My best friend cries when we say goodbye, but I smile because excitement is overshad- owing any feelings of sorrow. After ten years of preparation, setting 13 out a plan like an urban architect, I reach the antipode. My future is now as is my past. It’s Sunday morning, and I put down my luggage. The city is picture perfect in its own right, and it had better be because the images I dreamt up are lost, replaced by reality. Young leaves on a nearby tree whoosh in a cool breeze, while grey clouds forecast prolific spring rain. Rundown mansions grace both sides of the street, car parks are occupied, and yellow flowers from a shrub at a corner are in full bloom. It’s quiet. There’s a porch that leads to my new abode, and I sit down on one of its stone steps, confident that a fresh start means a lack of criticism. I’m carrying few possessions, and a blueprint of my being—a unique design displaying my evolution as life progres- ses. Leaving Australia in autumn, I arrive in spring, but it feels like winter. To get to this destination of about fifty-two degrees latitude and six degrees longitude, I’ve crossed a distance of more than sixteen thousand kilometres in less than forty-eight hours. Here, the sun reaches its highest point in the south, but it’s overcast. I clasp my army compass with luminescent paint on its arrows, a practical gift from my father that hangs from my neck like a talisman. As a kid, I follow a wombat trail and lose track of time. There’s a glow around the eucalyptus trees that intensifies the forest’s beauty and inhaling its energy I wander higher up the hill. When twilight sets in, my stomach rumbles. Anxious, I rush down a slope. Tree trunks give way to a cut field where a ball flies past, narrowly mis- sing my ear. A nosy woman disengages from her group and takes me with her one-gloved-hand to a building where I get to feast on lemonade and chips. When I’m picked up by my mother, her unexpected wrath is hard to digest. The unfolded compass has four letters on it—N, S, E and W. I think of eight slices of pie because the non-cardinal directions exert 14 their influence too. Facing west, there are three-storey buildings with bicycles parked out front while from my grandma’s veranda, I watch container ships coming and going on Port Phillip Bay. I bite off a loose piece of cuticle before I pick dirt from under my fingernails. My hands are practical, like my mother’s—broad, with a similar coarse skin structure and wide nails, which in Mum’s case, are manicured. My slender body I inherited from my father, or rather from my grandmother. That’s where any outward re- semblance ends. Occasionally, I suspect my mum, then my dad of passing down their sound properties and imperfections as I’m still learning to cope with my inclinations and impulses. An intrusive chill is freezing my bum, so I rub it before crossing the street. When I look back at my home, which sits in the east, I kick my foot like thunder to shake off the numbing feeling. The southerly wind makes me shiver. It’s seven to nine according to my watch, a parting gift from Chris.

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