21. Carolien bites the bullet

Carolien pulled her scarf up over her chin and mouth and realised she’d have to get moving again. It was just too cold to sit on a bench and her thoughts turned to hot chocolate and cake in the warmth of her own kitchen. She’d walked the short distance to the Vondel Park, hoping the fresh, frosty air would help clear her head. Despite the lingering traces of whiteness on the bushes and paths, the place had depressed her. The bare trees and leafless shrubs exposed the skeleton of the park and gave it an unwelcoming appearance. The Jackdaws and Magpies had been rummaging in the waste bins and left the rubbish scattered around.
‘Tramps and vandals of the bird world,’ she’d thought, while picking up paper bags and crisp packets. They reminded her of people she met in her work, aggressive, anti-social and keen to pick on the weak. They reminded her once again of the night of her attack.
At first, she’d shrugged it off as being one of the unavoidable risks Salvation Army officers run, when they venture into the seedier parts of the cities. She’d spent some time at the police station describing her attacker and her saviour, who had escorted her to safety and then, pleading urgent other business, had rushed off. The police were friendly enough but gave the impression that unless they caught the boy red-handed, there was little they could do. They had half-heartedly offered her the services of a counsellor but suggested that, considering the line of work she was in, she might not need it. So, she’d left there feeling frustrated and insecure and had just managed to catch the last tram home. The next day, she’d gone to Headquarters and explained what had happened but deliberately didn’t mention the part about Willem and his money. She first wanted to see whether after a few days, it would appear in her account or not. At the time, she had thought it so unlikely, she didn’t want to raise hopes amongst her colleagues, or worse, appear foolish. Anyway, today was the day she planned on going to the bank to find out. She couldn’t help feeling a small thrill of anticipation but it was momentary. The first night after the attack, she hadn’t been able to sleep at all and by morning, had developed a nasty headache. As the day had gone on, she had begun to sweat and shake and experience panic attacks. Realising that something was wrong, she had seen her doctor and after an all too brief consultation, had been told to take several weeks off.
“Take these,” he’d said, handing her a prescription, “they’ll help stabilise you. You’ve had a bigger shock than you thought and you need a complete rest.”
Whilst shaking her hand and ushering her out, he’d been looking over her shoulder for the next waiting patient. In no mood to protest, ‘They’re just so busy these days,’ she’d thought, she’d meekly gone home but put the prescription in the drawer. She didn’t believe in pills, God’s help was all she needed and perhaps a short period of rest.
Pushing her hands into the pockets of her long winter coat, she began to thread her way through the paths leading towards the park entrance. A young jogger took her by surprise by running up behind her and she shrank further into her coat, feeling scared and lonely. She knew she should try to rationalise things but found it increasingly difficult. All she wanted to do was hide from the world for a while.
Her thoughts turned to the strange woman who had rescued her that night. It made her feel guilty that she, a trained social worker of sorts, had given in so easily to her fears. After all, she’d hardly been hurt, thanks to her rescuer’s intervention. What sort of life must she have? Living on the streets, amongst much scarier people than the silly boy who’d tried to rob her! Carolien knew what it was like; she’d seen enough dropouts from society in her time and she knew that it was occasionally a matter of choice; a lifestyle if you like. Many times, she’d arranged for accommodation for people like that and they’d either not turned up or left after a few days. She couldn’t understand it but she’d learned to accept it. All you could do was try to help where necessary, after that, it was a matter for the people themselves to decide. Far more often however, these were decent people whose lives had gone wrong, for a variety of reasons. This woman though, had been different, so self-assured and independent. She suddenly remembered the name; Elfriede, that was it. Carolien thought it particularly ironic that the sort of person she was meant to help had become the helper and come to her aid in extreme need.
‘She was so kind and so much stronger than me, I could sense it.’ The thought gave her no comfort, only reinforcing her own feelings of inadequacy at that moment. She remembered how hard she’d tried to thank Elfriede and offer some assistance in return; to persuade her to at least meet up the next day, so she could organise some practical help for the woman. However, whilst those thoughts had crossed her mind, it had been Elfriede leading Carolien by the arm and Elfriede who persuaded her to go to the police and Elfriede who firmly insisted that she had to go. ‘The second rejection within one night,’ she thought sadly. She’d been determined to find her again but the thought of trudging round those streets again just filled her with terror. ‘I’ll find her again when I feel a bit better,’ she promised herself.

She turned the corner into the Overtoom, carefully avoiding the Army headquarters; she couldn’t face long explanations to any colleagues she might meet. After a few minutes, she decided to call into her bank; it was on her way home anyway. Standing in the queue, she fumbled for her bank pass. There weren’t too many people but she felt under scrutiny and couldn’t help the feeling of mistrust and panic in her stomach. She was just on the point of leaving when it was her turn.
“Good morning madam,”
It was her favourite bank clerk but he was black too and irrationally alarmed her. ‘Don’t be stupid Carolien,’ she told herself, ‘get a hold of yourself!’
“Ah…yes…sorry. Here’s my pass. I’d like to check the balance in my current account please.”
‘Certainly. Just one minute.”
He typed her account number and glanced at the computer screen. His eyebrows rose but only slightly. She grew nervous.
“Is everything okay?”
“Oh yes madam. Would you like to see?”
He turned the screen around so that she could read it for herself. Her heart started pounding and she suddenly felt light-headed. It was there. Willem, true to his word, had deposited the staggering amount of half a million guilders into her personal account!
“Would you like a print-out madam?”
“What? Oh…yes, that would be nice. Thank you.”
She could hardly believe it and further, couldn’t believe the tiny beginnings of ideas that were coming into the back of her mind.
“Would you like to make a withdrawal?”
She thought for a minute. Did she need shopping money? No not really.
‘No. Thank you. That’s fine. Bye.”
She caught a glimpse of the face of the man who’d been behind her in the queue. Had he seen? The fears returned and she rushed out of the building, beads of sweat collecting on her forehead.
After hurrying home and making sure all the locks were fastened, she sat down at her kitchen table and shook uncontrollably. It took a while before she regained her composure but feeling a little more relaxed, she sat in her favourite armchair to do some serious thinking.

Two weeks later, in the week before Christmas, she picked up her favourite photo of Ivo in the silver frame that he’d bought for her and sighed.
“Would you understand? No, I don’t suppose you would. You’d stick to the rules but then that’s what I liked most about you.”
She could picture him standing beside her in this very room. Fifteen years older than her, tall and dignified, he’d impressed her from the first moment they’d met. He’d always been in control of his life. He was the type to file all his papers carefully in colour coded boxes and check his bill from the supermarket and she’d felt sure he would give her stability in her life and the safety and protection she’d always wanted and expected from a marriage. His commitment to the corps was unwavering although he was known for being a stickler for rules and regulations. She’d been strongly attracted to this aspect of his nature. With a man like that, you always knew where you stood. There was no room for doubt, right was right and wrong was wrong. He’d proposed to her six months after they’d met, just after Sunday choir practice. It hadn’t been a romantic moment. He’d outlined the advantages of their partnership and promised to provide for her and to help her with her career in the Corps. That wasn’t to say that he would pull strings for her, far from it. He’d risen through the ranks over twenty years and was already a major when they met and he made it clear that he expected Carolien to do the same. The help he meant, was of a spiritual nature; he would help her understand God’s purpose for them both. She had accepted straight away and after both families had given approval, they were married in as simple and unostentatious a way as possible. She had expected love would grow as they grew old together and was completely content with their life together. His death a year later had mirrored his life. Everything had been carefully organised beforehand and Carolien had little to do apart from mourn. That had been difficult because she hadn’t really loved him in the first place. It had been a partnership but she only realised that after he’d died. She’d liked him immensely and admired him for the man he was but had been surprisingly unaffected by his death. In one way, it forced her to become her own person and learn how to survive alone. His financial planning had of course left her reasonably comfortable but little more than that. A percentage went to the Salvation Army every month; it was never begrudged. Of course, she’d got the house and when the Estate Agent had arrived that morning, she felt pangs of guilt, as if she was selling something that wasn’t quite hers to sell but she had no regrets about leaving the house itself. It had never been full of nostalgic and romantic memories.
“I’m sorry Ivo. I know how disappointed you will be in me but I have to do this you see. I don’t expect you to forgive me and I know God won’t but …”
She couldn’t find any excuses that would justify what she’d done but those very actions had lifted a huge, pressing weight from her shoulders. She felt released and liberated. If there were to be future consequences, then she’d face them in the full knowledge that she’d made her own decisions and was completely responsible for what she was about to do. Guilt was not an issue.
Taking one last look around the room, she blinked, adjusted her glasses, picked up her bags and left the house. The taxi was waiting for her. She opened her bag and checked she had everything she needed. Passport? Yes. Money? Yes. Tickets? Yes. She opened them once more to check that the voucher was still there.
‘The SS Bahamian Star welcomes you on board for a luxury four week cruise around the sparkling waters and gemstone islands of the Caribbean. We hope you will enjoy the first class facilities we have on board.’
‘I certainly will!’ she smiled to herself and without further ado, got into the taxi.


22. Willem’s party

“Hello darling. Come in. Come in. Oh, thank you, they’re beautiful. You shouldn’t have. You can put your coat in the bedroom there. What a fabulous dress, is it new?”
Having lavished kisses on his latest guest and ushered her into the living room, Willem took the latest in so many bunches of flowers and took them into the kitchen to give to Marcel, who gave him a despairing look.
“Well, I haven’t a clue where to put them all. You haven’t got nearly enough vases.”
“I’ll fill the bath with some water. They can all go in there. Don’t stress yourself Marcel, it’s a party remember. We’ve got enough food, we’ve got enough drink to sail a submarine in. Everything’s ready. All you have to do is look gorgeous and help me entertain. Oh, by the way, guess who’s just arrived?”
Marcel shrugged his shoulders.
“Connie Wouters! The bitch! I only sent her an invite to be polite. After what she said to Ton last week, I don’t know how she has the nerve…”
Marcel opened the fridge to get some ice and switched off, letting Willem drone on in the background. He just wasn’t interested in the latest,’ who had done what to who and why.’ He just wanted to get through the night and go back upstairs to his own flat. He’d had a heavy cold for a week now and was not in the party mood at all.
“Did you hear what I said?” Willem asked quite sharply.
“Yes. Something about Connie and Ton.”
“That was ages ago. Haven’t you been listening? I don’t know Marcel, you seem so distant tonight, is everything alright?”
“Yes, just a cold that’s all. Hey, you’d better get in there. They’ll be wondering where you are. There’s no show without Punch you know.”
To Marcel’s relief, Willem took the hint and sailed off into the other room where his entrance was greeted with whoops of delight.
“God preserve us…” thought Marcel, “…he’s on top form. Could be quite a night.”

Willem’s flat wasn’t particularly big but it did have the advantage of a very large, L-shaped living room and a separate kitchen.
“God no!” he’d exclaimed when viewing flats with open kitchens in the living room. “I don’t want people watching me cook. It takes away all the mystery.”
The truth was that Willem was uncontrollably chaotic in the kitchen. The messes he caused were legendary but the meals he created were generally admitted to be superb.
His parties were also established in gay folklore but not always for reasons he would have wished. They could be explosive, especially because he delighted in inviting people who hated each other on sight and literally on one occasion, after one New Year’s Eve, he had decided to use his balcony for a spectacular fireworks launch! He also preferred a mixed guest list.
“Oh no my dear…” he had explained to Marcel, “…a party of one hundred percent queens is like putting one fish in a cage with twenty cats! Not pleasant at all!”
For this party, as for all others, he had chosen a theme for the occasion and decorated the apartment accordingly. As it was Christmas, the theme revolved around Light. He had just seen a documentary about the Indian festival of Diwali and had been entranced by the emphasis on light, and had thought it was an ideal pick-me-up, especially in the middle of a Dutch winter. No one could accuse him of lacking flair, although it often overstepped the boundaries of good taste. Marcel had been roped in to hang thousands of Christmas lights from every available nook and cranny of the room and then drape them with metres and metres of white muslin, bought cheaply from the market. The effect was stunning but Marcel drew the line at covering every available surface with candles.
“I know you’ve got a thing about fireman Willem but this is asking for trouble. One drunken Trannie and we’ve got Dante’s inferno! As it is, I’m sure you’re draining the National Grid!”
Willem had also carefully removed all his glassware and his porcelain and stored them away. They were far too precious to him to risk surviving a party.
“Anyway, minimalist works well don’t you think?”
“Just make sure you’ve got enough ashtrays and drinks mats scattered around. Remember what happened to your cream rug the last time?”
Marcel generally appointed himself as safety inspector before parties began. He’d put up with too many outbursts and tears in the aftermath of previous celebrations; it was better to minimise the risks this way.
On the invitation, people had been asked to wear, ‘something appropriate for the Season,’ and when Marcel walked into the room, a sea of tinsel, glitter and sparkles assaulted his eyes. Willem had actually dressed down for the occasion. He wore his red leather trousers with a sequined belt and a voluminous shirt covered in holly leaves, which he had spotted in a boutique on the Kalverstraat. He had frowned disapprovingly at Marcel’s choice of blue trousers, white shirt and red bow tie.
“You look like a waiter in an Italian restaurant, if you don’t mind me saying so dear.”
Marcel hadn’t minded. ‘Better looking like a waiter than a Christmas tree,’ he’d thought.
A circle of people surrounded Willem as he regaled them with his latest anecdote, so Marcel took the chance to look around the room. There were about thirty people there; a fairly mixed bunch of women, representatives from most aspects of the Rainbow nation and one or two obviously straight men. He knew most people by sight but very few on more than nodding terms. In the corner, huddled together, talking earnestly, were the Spaander twins, both profoundly deaf and both profoundly gay. He never ceased to be fascinated by the lightning finger movements as they babbled away in sign language. They could both talk, though were tricky to understand, especially after they’d had a few drinks but Marcel admired them immensely for their ability to deal with more than one handicap. In the early days, he’d even slept with Joris but had found the disability too intimidating to take it any further. To their right were three people he disliked intensely. Anne-Marie Breuer and her German husband, Gottfried, were clearly dishing the dirt on some poor soul with Marijke Everts, a gossip magazine journalist. The Breuers were snobs of the highest order. He was rich as Croesus and she’d been a farmer’s daughter from Drenthe; old money combined with provincial ambition. They came to parties like this and spent the evening looking as though they’d stepped on something nasty. Marcel couldn’t understand why Willem repeatedly invited them. Marijke was good at her job and had embarrassed a great many Dutch society matrons by her exposés in her magazine. She had the knack of making people feel at ease talking to her and then slowly but surely extracting their deepest secrets and those of their friends.
“She has the morals of a dung beetle. She makes my flesh crawl.” Marcel had protested to Willem.
“Ah yes but she’s so deliciously nasty don’t you think? Perfect for parties.” Marcel had sworn that Willem had licked his lips.
He looked around further. There was a woman in the corner who he recognised but couldn’t quite place. As he stared at her, she caught his eye and waving, made her way over to where he was standing. He remembered just too late to make a polite getaway. It was Ben’s ex girlfriend, Mia!
Marcel was the sort of person for whom first impressions nearly always determined his future attitude to people. He liked to think that he was a good judge of character and that he was invariably right but in truth, he rarely gave people the chance to prove him wrong. An instant dislike became a permanent dislike but deep down, he knew it was a weakness of character on his part; a sort of arrogance that he didn’t care to admit to. He also realised that as the years went on, the attitude that he didn’t have to try to like people anymore was losing him opportunities to make friends. His illness had given him the right, or so he thought to cut out the bullshit and refuse to play the social games anymore but in reality, he was shying away from genuine contact with people. It struck him more and more that Willem was his only real friend and what he saw as loyalty, was in fact an excuse to reject others and use Willem as a comfort-blanket. As Mia approached therefore, his initial prejudices about her rose to the surface and he prepared his usual excuses to get away as soon as possible.

Willem was the centre of attention at his parties and thoroughly enjoyed it but was under no illusions that people’s compliments were in any way sincere. He knew the language of party talk inside out and prided himself on being able to read between the lines to establish what socialites really meant but to him it was all a game, nothing more. His real friends were invited to cosy dinner parties where the conversation was honest and the feelings genuine and what’s more, apart from Marcel, who had the misfortune to live in the same building, they didn’t come to celebrations such as this at all. His expert eye scanned the room. Everything was going very well, in that everybody seemed to be enjoying themselves and eating and drinking as fast as it was produced. He was getting bored however. He’d deliberately invited the sort of person who could be relied upon for a bit of conflict but everything was so quiet. He saw Marcel, in the corner talking to Mia and smiled.
‘Well, that should produce some interesting listening later at least. Who else? God! Even Georgia is laughing and joking with that young artist…Jack something. If ever there was an evil bitch… I thought Georgia would be guaranteed to light a fuse or two.’ His mind wandered over the other guests, while nodding and smiling at what he hoped were the right places in the conversation around him.

Sweet Georgia Browne, “With an e darling please!” was one of Amsterdam’s more successful drag artistes. She’d even appeared on television a couple of times and looked as though she was destined for minor celebrity status until she spoiled it all for herself by turning up to the studio roaring drunk and stoned one day. They hadn’t been able to ditch her fast enough but the posters for her shows still carried the legend, ‘As seen on TV.’ Half Thai and half black American, she’d been a wow in the early eighties. Truly beautiful and with a figure to match, she’d taken the Amsterdam drag scene by storm, until a succession of disastrous lovers had hardened her and transformed the gentle humour into cynical malice. Drugs and drink had coarsened the beauty and these days, she contented herself with running second-rate drag shows for tourists and living off her past. Willem had always liked her and always invited her to his parties, if only because it would offend several of his other guests. He moved to the edge of his circle so that he could tune in to her conversation.
“You, sweet boy, are a very talented artist. I saw your exhibition last week. Did you sell much?” she enquired, eyelashes fluttering extravagantly. The boy was clearly flattered.
“Thank you. That’s really nice of you to say so. I sold a couple and the gallery owner says that he’s had lots of interest, so I’m hopeful.”
“Well, I would buy one myself, I really would, they’re so sexy but I’m just a little short on funds this month.”
“Oh that’s okay. Actually, I was going to ask you something, a favour really. I mean, you can say no if you want to. It’s no problem but I would be really grateful…”
“Fire away sweet cheeks. You know, for one so young, you’re such a gentleman and so shy! I thought the shy ones were a dying breed. You’re so refreshing and so handsome.”
She moved closer to him until he had to look up at her face. Georgia was nearly two metres tall in her heels. ‘She looks like a praying mantis. Poor boy, no match at all for Georgia on the hunt,’ thought Willem, observing from a distance. The boy nervously pressed on with his question.
“I wonder if I could paint you?” He looked at her with big wide eyes.
‘A real puppy,’ thought Willem, ‘I wonder who’s playing who here.’
Now it was Georgia’s turn to be flattered.
“A painting of little moi! Oh my goodness, that would be divine darling. I’d be honoured. It would be just like the Queen. A royal portrait! Sweet Georgia Browne hanging in a gallery. I’d sell for thousands and be happy with just a tiny percentage for my trouble. This is what we’ll do. We’ll arrange for some sittings and you can come round and do some preliminary sketches of me in some of my most glorious creations and then we can choose later. Now let me see, which ones shall I select? There are so many of course…”
Willem watched, barely stifling a chortle under his breath as the artist tried unsuccessfully to interrupt. Georgia had clearly not seen this boy’s work.
“Miss Browne…uhm…I’m not sure you understand.”
“Oh please sweetie, call me Georgia. After all, we’re going to be such close friends. An artist and his model have such a special relationship don’t you think and if it becomes just a teensie weensie intimate… well, that’s all part of the creative process.”
Georgia was in full flow now and was going to be difficult to stop but the boy managed it in a single sentence.
“Miss Browne…Georgia…I thought you understood. All my paintings are of nudes and always in a state of arousal!”
Willem held his breath and watched the drag queen’s face change from ecstasy to agony in a split second. The scream, when it came, cut through all conversation and shattered the general bonhomie in the room. All eyes turned to the resulting scene and Willem heaved a sigh of relief.
‘At last, a bit of fun!’ he thought and drained his glass.

Marcel’s conversation with Mia had been far less unpleasant than he’d imagined. In fact, he was beginning to like her. She turned out to have known Willem by face, if not personally, for a couple of years, having seen him at various literary functions and exhibitions and heard about him from mutual friends. He was not a person who went through life unnoticed! She did confess to having been surprised to receive this invitation however. Marcel wasn’t and planned on confronting his friend later. There had been no mention of Willem knowing who Mia was when he had told him the whole story of Ben and the accident and Marcel strongly suspected that her being here tonight was no coincidence. As it turned out, it didn’t matter. Ben was hardly mentioned and Mia proved to be intelligent and relaxed; good company and relatively normal, which was just what Marcel wanted. He felt guilty that he’d judged her so harshly and at the same time that somehow he was letting Ben down but despite her coldness during their first meeting, he found himself beginning to think she must have had good reason. If not, there was clearly something in her character that was worth exploring and he had the uncomfortable feeling that they both had similar weaknesses when it came to becoming intimate with people. They’d talked about their work and art and music and found they had quite a lot in common. Real interest had been aroused when they discovered a mutual liking for design and several drinks later, they were chatting like old friends about the merits of this classic piece or that. She’d asked him straight out if he was gay and from that point on, there was no sexual tension to get in the way. They even arranged to meet up for lunch after Christmas and to all intents and purposes, a potential friendship seemed on the cards.

After the artist had left rather hurriedly, the room had settled down and Georgia had been handed a joint and become calm again. The party reverted to its pleasant, if unexciting atmosphere. Willem resigned himself to a fairly quiet night and settled for exchanging juicy gossip with the Breuers. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Marcel glaring angrily at him.
‘What have I done now? Is Mia proving to be a problem?’ he thought idly to himself.
Marcel was mouthing something, so he cupped his ear to show he didn’t understand. Marcel’s mouth formed the words very deliberately;
“I’m going to kill you!”
Willem understood that alright and turned to see what all the fuss was about.
There was a late arrival. Willem’s eye’s glinted wickedly.
‘Finally,’ he thought, ‘La pièce de résistance!’
In the doorway stood Ben.