“No, I'm fine,” I said. I thanked him very much but no, I didn't need this. We had been in the coffee shop all afternoon. I was already passively smoking enough. There were a lot of people present, the store did good business. I wanted to leave. I decided to go back to Belgium. From Amsterdam Central I boarded the train back to Belgium alone.
The ticket cutter came almost immediately and –you can not be serious -the police with a drug dog. Check. The dog sniffed my clothes and hung around me.
“Are you taking drugs?” the officer asked.
"No".
“You're lying,” the officer said.
“Undress me completely if you want,” I replied. And I meant it.
“You won't find drugs with me. I am a medical patient.”
“Where have you been in Amsterdam?” the officer kept asking.
“In a coffee shop, with friends, who smoked cannabis there
to have. I was there with them for several hours.”
“Can we check your clothes?”
“No problem,” I said. I took everything out of my pockets. I opened my backpack.
The officer was rummaging through my things.
“Would you allow us to take a blood test if we asked you to?” he asked.
“Right away, I have no secrets.” I showed my medical card, which showed my daily.. medication list could be found.
“Okay, we believe you,” he said. He gave me everything back. “Another good trip back to Belgium desirable."
Ivanhov had to laugh when I told the group what happened the next day had happened.
“That's what you've got going on again!”
“Indeed, I have to have that going on again.”
Perhaps it was a sign that my bad luck ghost was getting closer and closer again. I tried to follow the group as best as I could, but my body was pulling me down.
My head sometimes too. The final farewell with the group was approaching. They would graduate and each separately, or together, embark on their own professional path. They would return to their families in Russia, but from there move on to the life of a professional musician – spread all over the world. We had already agreed that we would say goodbye at the airport. I wasn't looking forward to it. I collapsed during one of their last performances, in Ghent. I hadn't been feeling well for a few days and it became too much. I was taken to hospital.
I asked to be transferred to Hasselt, to Virga Jesse. I knew the doctors there and they knew me. I never got to say goodbye to the musicians. We couldn't see each other anymore, I couldn't get to the airport, she couldn't get to me – we had missed each other. This hurt me. Afterwards I received telephone calls quite regularly, with updates about how life was going, what adventures were coming up...
Until the phones stopped coming, because that's how life goes. I never saw Alexander – Ivanhov's real name, because in Russian Ivanhov is a pet name – again.
After I returned from the hospital, my volunteer work at Brussels Jazz Club continued as usual. I found my way better in the organization and I loved helping young musicians get a stage.
In April 2003 I had an idea. The Ghent celebrations would end. After a few months we started again and a plan was hatched.
I loved classical music – all the concerts of Concerto Grosso had moved me again and again. That feeling and that love, more people should be able to experience it.
“The Genste Festivities goes classic”, that was my plan.
I moved to Ghent and looked for a pastor in Sint-Amandsberg.
“Isn't that an idea to give classical concerts in your church?” I asked him.
We chatted for a while and his eyes started to shine too.
“The church factory must give its approval for this,” he warned.
“I'll call around and let you know tomorrow or the day after.”
Once back in Brussels, I started sending emails. The network of conservatory students that we had built up in the meantime became wider and wider. Many responded positively! If the students came from abroad, I also contacted their embassies.
Maybe they wanted to sponsor or support?
43.
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