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police. All I want is a job.”
    “Ha! Job. Job! I spit.” He spat. “Job!”
    He got up in Mark’s face, or at least his sternum. “You American, huh? You no European?” He wound his hands furiously in the towel at his waist as if trying to choke it.
    “That’s right. I’m American.”
    “Ha!” The proprietor darted behind a counter that offered candies in bright wrappers covered with pictures of elephants and monkeys and unfamiliar script. He rummaged out of sight, produced a stack of papers that threatened to overflow his small fist.
    “See? You see? All papers must be fill out. European Community make man write whole life story, write book to get job. But you American. You no got paper, no got permit. I fill out form on you, I still go to jail!”
    It got him going again. He came rushing out flapping the sheaf of Euroforms in Mark’s face like a live chicken. “Out! Out now! Orang besar yang tipis get Molucca man big trouble!”
     
    Outside, the sun was getting low, and the light was taking on that odd, soft quality of afternoon light in an ancient town in these latitudes, like a sepia-tone print from long ago.
    Night coming soon. He shivered, though the afternoon was warm and a trifle muggy and he was sweating in his sweater. He put his head down and began to walk. Quite purposefully, though he had no idea where he was going.
     
    “ Marx,” the woman said as she wrote the name on a form pinned to a clipboard. “First name?”
    “Julius,” Mark said.
    She wrote that down too. She stood. She was a diminutive woman in a black blouse splashed with purple and a hint of yellow. Black skirt and stockings accented rather heavy legs. Black hair cut in a modified pageboy came down in pointed wings to either side of her triangular chin. She had lavender-and-black eye shadow and a general air of shopworn prettiness.
    “Please come with me, Mr. Marx,” she said.
    She turned and led off from the reception desk in a foyer lit yellow by electric bulbs in sconces in the wall, down a corridor of stone that must have been horribly expensive when it was laid near Spui Square during the troubled sixteenth century. Sint Antoninus Hof had begun life as a Catholic convent. It was now a homeless hostel.
    Mark fondled the coin in his pocket and felt guilty as hell. He had money, and here he was trying to jump lodging that might have gone to some homeless person. He didn’t dare go back to his flat; the tiny tag-end of Takisian loot he’d had in his pocket when he went out the window was going to have to last him a good long time. That still didn’t make it feel right.
    But we were talking life-and-death here. More than the money, a hotel would require Mark to surrender his passport. That would be it for him; the police checked hotel registrations on a daily basis. Holland looked with tolerance on its own drug users, but in the face of mounting pressure from the rest of the EuroCommunity as well as Big Brother across the Atlantic they were beginning to cooperate with American drug enforcers. And it wasn’t as if Mark was merely wanted for the few grams of forbidden chemicals — mainly psychedelics, as far out of fashion in the nineties as elephant bell — she could be proven to have had possession of.
    Light spilled out an open door. It had the slightly irreal offcast of fluorescent light, a blue-tinged jitter that imparted a real night-of-the-living-dead look. She led him into its full glare.
    Inside was an examining room. It had an old-timey look to Mark, wood where an American room would have been gleaming metal. A young doctor in a white coat sat reading a newspaper with his legs folded. As the woman led Mark in he jumped up, looking outraged.
    He sputtered something in Dutch. Dutch always sounded like gargling to Mark; the country was pretty, the people friendly, and he loved the funky old streets of Amsterdam, but the language was just plain ugly. The doctor had long blond hair. It was thin on top.
    “Mr. Marx