At four minutes past four in the morning, the bus shelter at Zuidplein holds five people and a great deal of silence. A nurse in white clogs with a coat over her uniform. Two cleaners who share a flask of tea without speaking. A young man asleep standing up. And a tall man in a long coat, carrying a cello case as carefully as if it were a child.
The N7 arrives on time, its interior lights almost unbearably bright. Everyone gets on. Nobody says good morning, and yet something passes between them, a small nod, a shuffle along a seat to make room for the cello. They have done this before. They will do it again tomorrow.
The regulars
The driver, Ahmed, has worked the night routes for eleven years. He knows most of his passengers by sight and some by name. The nurse gets off at the hospital. The cleaners get off at an office tower by the river where they will spend three hours emptying bins and hoovering carpets that nobody will notice are clean. The sleeping young man works at a bakery and has asked Ahmed, more than once, to shout if he misses his stop.
Nobody talks on the night bus, Ahmed says, and everybody knows everybody. It is a strange kind of intimacy, built entirely out of repetition. If somebody is missing for a week, the others notice. When the nurse did not appear for a fortnight last winter, one of the cleaners asked Ahmed if she was alright. She had broken her wrist. When she came back, the cleaners had saved her a seat.
The cellist
The man with the cello is called Pieter. He plays in an orchestra, and on nights after a late concert he teaches at a music school on the other side of the river. The school has a practice room that is free before the morning lessons, so he takes the night bus there to practise in an empty building while the city sleeps.
It is the only time the building is quiet enough, he says. In the day there are children everywhere, and in the evening there are rehearsals. At five in the morning I can hear exactly how badly I am playing. He smiles when he says this. He has been playing for forty years.
The route
The N7 crosses the river on a bridge that, at this hour, belongs almost entirely to delivery vans and taxis. From the top deck the city looks unfinished, a set that has been built but not yet lit. Cranes stand motionless in the port. A few office windows glow where the cleaners have already started. In the water, the lights of a slow barge slide past, heading inland.
There is a particular tiredness on a night bus, softer than the tiredness of the day. People who work at night talk about it as a second city, one that runs on a different clock, with its own rules and courtesies. You let people sleep. You keep your voice down. You do not ask why anyone is awake.
Centraal
At Centraal the bus empties. The cleaners walk briskly towards the river. The young baker runs, late again. Pieter lifts his cello down the steps with the care of long practice and disappears into the pale blue light before dawn. Ahmed has four minutes before the return trip. He drinks his coffee standing by the door, watching the first trams wake up.
Tomorrow, at four minutes past four, they will all be back at Zuidplein, not speaking, and saving each other a seat.
Nobody talks on the night bus, and everybody knows everybody.
