There was also a date, three days from then.
Preston and Angie had reduced virtually all communications to electronic means. For their pay packets, they decided to set up regular mail retrieval through the PostNL office nearest their apartment. Everything came addressed “Poste Restante” (General Delivery) in their alternative names and they checked weekly to ensure the personnel got used to seeing them. Their pay came twice each month, typically in the form of currency, but was postmarked from all over the Benelux. Aside from a handful of advertisement fliers, nothing was ever pushed through the mail slot in their door.
Until the day after the priest gave them their next assignment, that is. When they returned from their regular workout the next day, there was a fat padded envelope on the floor just about the size for shipping a cheap paperback novel. It bore the marks of some obscure private courier service.
Preston and Angie were justifiably nervous about it, but upon slowly opening it, they found a small, nondescript box of single-wall cardboard. It bore a lone adhesive mailing label from their ostensible employer in Luxembourg City. Inside were two thin packets with French labeling and a cover letter wrapped around some currency. The letter was something dashed off on a computer in a decorative, oversize font.
No camping or bikes this time. Need casual dress, swim and athletic attire. Don’t bother your hosts. See the old barn out back.
Angie translated the writing on the packets — hair coloring kits, including the means to wash it out.
Preston looked at one of them. “I can see doing this to disguise your beautiful red mane, but I’m a little puzzled about mine.” Preston had allowed his hair to grow back out and kept a trimmed full beard. The instructions covered how to darken beards, too.
It would mean slipping out of their apartment before dawn to avoid being noticed with their different coloring. They decided for this trip to simply pack everything in normal duffle bags that had straps allowing them to be worn like backpacks. On the appointed day, it was just a short hike to the train station. There was an early express through Masstricht into Liege. This left just a short layover in Liege for a departure farther along the Meuse to Namur where they waited briefly for their train to Dinant. It was during this segment they each slipped into a toilet and changed from casual to hiking wear. Because these were such important rail links, it wasn’t too far from the scheduled times. They arrived mid-morning at the station.
It was pretty easy to find a TEC bus running close to their destination. They found it a fairly short and refreshing hike up along a stream, mostly through the woods to the north of the village. Near the crest of the terrain was a clearing on the left side of the road. At the far edge of this stood a very old stone farmhouse. The address was the one they had been given. They looked the place over from the road and noticed a narrow graveled track running around the north side of the house.
The place was very quiet and they were understandably nervous about it. Around back was, indeed, an old barn, mostly of stone but apparently patched at some point with bricks. On the far side was a small door set deep into the brickwork. On it hung a tiny brown envelope with a rubber band through a hole punched in to top. Inside was the key to a padlock on the door. They opened it slowly and looked inside.
The ceiling was high, but the rafters slung low. It was clean and free of cobwebs. The interior space was only a few meters across and somewhat farther in depth. A single small window on the left, somewhat dirty, let in a little light. Across from the window on the interior wall was a double sink with a high arched spigot. The plumbing was mounted on the wall in plain sight. Beyond the sink was a toilet with the typical old European style high-mounted water tank up inside the rafters. On the nearer side of the sink was an old zinc-coated, slope-sided watering tank, just big enough to use as a bath. Both the sink and tub drained into an open channel cut into the floor and disappearing under the interior wall.
Opposite this on the wall with the small window was an ancient desk with two metal folding chairs. They had paint splattered on them from long ago, but were still serviceable. What drew their attention most was the hammock. The mesh was woven from strands that were quite thick. Slung on the high end from a rafter beam and tied on the low end to an upright post, it was over a meter across with sturdy spreader bars and the mesh was covered with a rather thin mattress. Angie walked over to the bed and squeezed the mattress; “federbett” she announced in German.
She turned to Preston with a smile. “This should be interesting.”
Preston grinned. “Just getting into it would be some work. Let’s see if we can work this out.”
With practice, they decided for the most part that Preston had to get into it first. He was just shy of six feet and substantial, though not burly. That the hammock was tied close to the gather at the top helped dampen the swinging a bit when they shifted in it. Preston glanced up and expressed a bit of surprise that the wooden framing didn’t creak under the weight of their small movements. They rested a moment and he noticed the desk had a single lamp plugged into a double outlet, the only power visible in the place. In the corner nearest the door was an old hanger rack with the built-in hangers, perhaps a dozen or so.
“This is really a classy accommodation,” he noted.
Turning to look around, Angie spotted something on the desk. It was a simple matter to roll off the side and she went to see what it was. After reading it a moment, she held it up for Preston to see. “Ticket for a kayak tomorrow morning!” She was clearly excited.
That’s because it had rained starting that night after they met with the priest for pizza. In the Dutch flatlands, it was a continuous moderate mist for the past three days, but in the Belgian highlands, Preston had noticed it was a heavier rain. It was just tapering off during their hike up the road from the bus stop. This virtually guaranteed La Lesse would be up to a good depth for their run down it tomorrow.
For now, it was close to lunchtime. There was no kind of wifi anywhere close. Preston tethered to the cellphone and found a decent signal. Between the tourist information maps online and the bike map they had picked up in Monschau, they discovered that the only eatery nearby was to the northwest. It wasn’t a long or unpleasant hike, just not what they expected. They were so very close to a major hub of tourist attractions, yet very nearly isolated in the Belgian highlands not far from the French border. The actual city of Dinant was something like seven kilometers away, mostly a straight line once they got back downhill into the village.
The tiny cafe in Falaën was quite adequate for a surprise lunch. The menu was available in several languages, but Preston let Angie do the talking. They also ordered something they could carry back and have for dinner later. They traded off carrying the bag as they looked around the picturesque village and took a few photos. Then they trudged back to their hideaway.
