Nomads on the Amstel
10. Gypsy women
Tinnie twisted the strands of hair above her ears and chewed at the end of her pencil until she could taste the graphite. Realising that she was reverting to childhood manifestations of frustration, she threw the mangled thing on the floor and laid her hands on the table in front of her. ‘Time for deep breathing,’ she told her inner self and forced her body to relax, focussing on the imagined candle flame above her head as she’d been taught to do. ‘Fingers first, let the tension flow out, then hands, then wrists, arms, elbows, shoulders; now the toes.’
It was a well practised, if time-consuming routine but it nearly always worked. There was nothing more satisfying than that feeling, when the problems that troubled her slowly slid out of her limbs. These were techniques she’d been taught by her first girlfriend, who endured the tantrums and crockery throwing for just so long before it couldn’t be endured any more and Tinnie was eternally grateful. Nobody knew better than she what sort of a teenage delinquent she’d been turning into before making peace with herself. Occasionally however, the symptoms resurfaced, usually when she was trying very hard to do something right and found herself unable to live up to her own ambitions. That wasn’t really the case now. All she wanted to do, was show Marcel that she was quite capable of taking control of the allotment project they’d embarked upon and she was compiling a list of horticultural necessities and jobs to do, nothing more than that. It was so damned hot though; her T-shirt was clamped glue-like to her armpits and under her breasts and the effort of trying to rip it off just made her sweat even more. The heat was energy-sapping and even with the window wide open, her tiny garret accumulated the heat of the house underneath and as it lay directly under the roof, absorbed the sun’s rays from above. There was nothing else for it, she had to get out, if only for an hour, take a walk, have a drink somewhere, or go and sit under a tree in the park. The list could wait.
With difficulty, she peeled off her jeans and took a shower, though the lack of adequate water pressure and the attempts to extract lather from the last sliver of soap nearly reduced her to apoplexy. Even more frustrating though, was the sudden appearance of a rash at the tops of her thighs. Groaning with the sheer inevitability of it all, she came to the conclusion that it was going to be one of those days and with an audible sigh of resignation and clad in cut-off denim shorts, a floppy, if un-ironed T-shirt and sandals, she mooched into the street.
What to do and where to go, were the next questions. She considered ringing Marcel’s bell but he was probably still at work and anyway, love him dearly as she did, she really wasn’t in the mood for one of his introspective, soul-searching monologues; a habit she was determined he should abandon in the near future and her next major project. Instead, she wandered aimlessly along the street, thinking she might head for the botanical gardens in search of shade and peace of mind.
She found a dusty bench under a large tree with an umbrella-like canopy. She couldn’t identify it but was curious what it was. The leaves were a fresher green than the rest and were long, thin and delicate, seeming to flutter above her head despite the lack of breeze. It made her feel welcome under its shade; comfortable and safe and she determined to come here again and in other seasons, to see how the tree lived its life. Just occasionally, Tinnie relived intense childhood feelings; sometimes a smell, or a sound would bring them back and in this case, it was a shady spot on a hot summer’s afternoon. She could see herself as a scrawny eight year old, feeding clamouring ducks with scraps of bread, as her mother sat reading or knitting on a bench close by. She could recollect the absolute and unsullied happiness of being a child, whose only cares were stimulated by her immediate surroundings and whose only worry was whether she could avoid eating the eggs in the salad they would eat later on. She’d always hated eggs and still did. Stretching out on the bench and closing her eyes, she could hear her mother softly muttering to herself as she read; a habit she had had since her own childhood when reading books. They were almost painful recollections but she prided herself that she could sometimes find moments when the clutter of her own life would make way for such vivid memories. As a child, she’d always thought that she was somehow special and could think on a deeper level than her friends, and although she now knew that others had had the same illusions, she still felt that there were certain moments when she could tune in to things with a special intensity; this was just such a moment.
“Excuse me, can we sit down too?”
She opened her eyes, the moment gone and swung her legs off the bench onto the ground, to allow a man and his toddler to sit down. He didn’t smile and didn’t react when the child began to grizzle and bang his toy car on the wooden slats. That was one thing Tinnie hated about modern parents. It was almost as if they didn’t hear their offspring’s frustrated protests, letting them disturb the peace around them, not caring whether anyone else was affected. It happened everywhere, on the tram, in shops, in doctor’s waiting rooms and it made Tinnie’s blood boil. She could still remember the sting of the slaps on the backs of her legs if she misbehaved; they hurt and were humiliating at the time but they worked. Letting children be children, however horrible they were, which seemed to be the modern way, was not an option for Tinnie and she was grateful she was a lesbian, unlikely to have kids and therefore absolved of all responsibility for raising them. She dreaded the possibility of having maternal yearnings or being broody later in life and was determined to resist them at all costs.
Irritated by the man and his son’s intrusion, she got up and shuffled away, hands wedged into her shorts pockets and kicking at small stones until one found its way between her toes and her sandal and forced her to stop. What now? She began to realise that things were getting to her far more than they should have been; unimportant things that she would normally take in her stride. It wasn’t the time for pre-menstrual tension and anyway, during that time, she was normally a pussycat in comparison to some of her friends. Maybe there was something missing in her life? A job? Well, yes but that was nothing new. Sexual release? Never really a problem; if she couldn’t find someone for a night, she’d always had a vivid imagination and ample means of entertaining herself. A lover? Also possible; she missed sharing things with someone. She often wondered if that was why she’d invested so much in her friendship with Marcel, however reluctant a partner he could be. He was gay, so understood something of her culture; he was ‘safe’, in that there was no danger of him molesting her and he was a man, which meant she could be friends with him. Since her school years, she’d never had close female friends. She could never stomach all the bitchiness and possessiveness; the endless fashion, make-up and boy band chatter and above all the intrinsic competitiveness of it all. The problem was of course, that Marcel couldn’t provide the emotional bond she sometimes craved but standing in the Botanical gardens, tracing patterns in the dust with the toe of her sandal, she wasn’t at all sure that a love affair was the missing element.
Spotting a bar across the street, she decided to have a drink. It was a bit early but she was thirsty and tired and it might be cooler inside than out.
She was shocked out of her introspection by the metallic shriek of brakes and instinctively putting out her hands to protect herself, found them resting on the hot bonnet of a car. It was one of those moments where with chilling certainty, you know you’ve used up one of your nine lives. She stared in horror at the driver and his passenger, who stared wide-eyed in return; all three relieved that disaster had been avoided and all three alerted to the fragility of everyday existence. Tinnie recovered first and walked unsteadily to the driver’s window.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going; entirely my fault; are you okay?”
The woman still looked shaken but instead of venting her fear in anger as Tinnie had expected, she took her hand and patted it.
“You were lucky; we were lucky we didn’t hit you. No harm done; lessons learned; take care; I know I will. Goodbye.”
With that, the woman drove off and the small crowd that had gathered to watch dispersed. Needing a drink more than ever, a chastened Tinnie walked into the bar.
It was like walking into a parallel universe, part of the same world Tinnie had just stepped out of, yet so totally different and exactly what she’d hoped for. It was dark and cool; the three ceiling fans working overtime and almost empty. Most people were sitting on the terrace in the sun and several had given her sympathetic glances as she’d arrived, having borne witness to her narrow escape. There was an older barman and two white-aproned barmaids, who flitted between the bar and the tables outside, balancing bottles and glasses on small oval trays but inside, Tinnie had the choice of where to sit. She ordered two glasses of Sprite and for once, didn’t insist on him removing the ice, so that she could suck the cubes later and further assuage her thirst. Looking round, she chose a bench which had a view of the window but wasn’t in the way of the tireless barmaids and she suddenly felt exhausted. The leather seat gave a sigh of resistance as she sank into it and she took a long drink from her first glass. It was then she noticed the singer. If she’d noticed it any music at all, she’d thought it had been a tape; the sound was so soft and delicate and unobtrusive. It was actually a middle-aged woman with an acoustic guitar; her head down over the strings and the voice was almost disembodied and ethereal. Tinnie couldn’t make out the language; it wasn’t Dutch, it sounded a bit like Spanish but she didn’t think it was that either; maybe it was Portuguese. The woman herself made the biggest impact however; she was extraordinary looking and Tinnie couldn’t take her eyes off her. It wasn’t a sexual attraction or anything like that, it was purely that she was so individual; there wasn’t another word that Tinnie could think of to describe her.
She sat on a stool, with her guitar resting on one knee and her other leg trailing on the floor. She was wearing tight black trousers, with little pearl buttons in a row up the side of each ankle and shiny, patent-leather boots with toes so sharp, Tinnie wondered how she had room for her feet. A broad white cummerbund circled her ample waist and a floppy black blouse hid the contours of her upper body. She had the longest fingers, which moved quickly to capture the intricate notes and Tinnie imagined them to be almost flirting with the strings. Definitely her most striking feature though was her face, framed in a mass of tumbling, bright red curls. Her eyes were fierce and intense and from a distance, jet black and her nose would have made Barbra Streisand feel inadequate; it was fascinating to see how her nostrils flared as she sang. The dark, aubergine lipstick on the fleshy lips completed the picture and Tinnie felt she was observing some exotic animal; an Esmeralda to her Quasimodo.
After a while, she was able to shut out the street noise, the clinking of the glasses and the whir of the fans and just concentrate on the music, which was becoming increasingly mesmeric. Closing her eyes she knew she was listening to stories, the tone and quiet intensity made that obvious and she wished she could understand the words, though began to realise that they weren’t that important, the mood and the atmosphere were enough.
“You like my music?”
Tinnie looked up. Due to her daydreaming, she hadn’t realised it had stopped. She answered, slightly embarrassed,
“Oh yes, it’s beautiful; really peaceful and calming. What language are you singing in?”
“If you knew what the songs meant, you would see that they’re anything but peaceful. They’re about love and loss, tragedy and death. I sing in Portuguese. These songs are the Fado.”
“I’ve heard about that but I don’t know much about it I’m afraid.”
“Do you want to buy me a drink and then I’ll tell you all about it?”
Tinnie suddenly looked sheepish and although she dug into her shorts pocket, she knew she didn’t have much money with her. She started to blush.
“Oh, I see, no problem, let me buy you a drink then.”
Tinnie started to protest but the woman was on the way to the bar. She returned with two beers and sat down so that she faced Tinnie and could look her in the eye.
“So, do you want to hear about the Fado?”
Tinnie nodded. She was in no hurry and besides this woman fascinated her.
”Fado is a sort of Portuguese ‘blues’ music. The word means ‘fate’ and the Portuguese are a fatalistic people.”
“Are you Portuguese then?”
“Partly, although I prefer to think of myself as Romany. My mother was Portuguese, my father was a gypsy from Rumania and my grandfather was actually Dutch. Our family originally came from the East Indies but we’ve travelled all over the world and we go back to the seventeenth century.”
“That’s very exotic.”
“Isn’t it? I don’t think of myself as exotic but I do find it difficult to think of myself as belonging to just one country. I have lived in Amsterdam for twenty years, so I suppose I’m as much Dutch as anything else. My name is Amália by the way and you are…?
“Tinnie, Tineke. Quite a common Dutch name I’m afraid and my ancestry, as far as I know, is completely Dutch; not very exciting really. Anyway, please go on. You were explaining about Fado.”
“Yes, well basically, it is a sad and melancholy style sung in 2/4 time. Usually, it is sung by women and usually, we use a twelve stringed guitar called a Guitarra, although as you can see, I have to make do with a six stringed acoustic at the moment. Most Fado songs talk about nostalgia, strife of life, lost love, tragedy, missed opportunity and destiny. We have a word for it called ‘saudade’ which means a sort of sad yearning for the impossible. It is not easy music but people here seem to like it even if they don’t understand what it’s about.”
“It sounds Arabic at times.”
“Ah, that comes from our association with the Moors you know, just like the Flamenco.”
“Yes but why do women sing it and not men?”
“There are some male Fado singers but it is mainly women. I suppose it comes from the fact that the Portuguese are a sea-faring race, just like the Dutch and if the men went away and didn’t return, it was left for the women to mourn them. We also wear black a lot but that comes from another story. One of our most famous Fado singers was a girl called Maria Severa, who was a prostitute. She was very beautiful and temperamental and her mother was a gypsy but she died tragically at the age of twenty-six and all Fado singers wear black to mourn her passing. Is that enough information for now?”
“Thanks, it’s fascinating and it’s so good that there is a whole musical movement which centres on women.”
“I sense that much of your life centres around women Tinnie.”
Tinnie blushed again.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Well, the way you look suggests it yes but I have seen many things in my life and I know when I see a kindred spirit.”
“So you’re gay as well?”
Tinnie was astonished. For once her gaydar had let her down. She hadn’t thought for a minute that Amália was a lesbian.
“Why do I need a word to describe me? I am attracted to women but I’m also attracted to men. I’m attracted to people not their gender. If someone really interests me, I want to get to know them but it doesn’t matter what sex they are. It sometimes leads to sex and sometimes not but I don’t like being pigeon-holed; do you understand?”
“Yes, I suppose so but because I’ve never been attracted to a man in that way, I can only accept it objectively. I’ve always preferred women, from the age of ten I think.”
“And are you proud of that? Do you use it to reject possibilities? Can you never see yourself trying something new?”
“I don’t want to. I’m not proud of being totally Lesbian, that’s not the right word; I never think of it in that way. I’m proud of who I am but no I can’t see myself sleeping with a man. Live and let live is my motto. As long as people don’t try to force me to do something I don’t want to do, I don’t care what their sexuality is.”
“Maybe I haven’t explained my self well. I’m not talking about sexuality, I’m talking about loving someone for who they are, how they live their lives, how they interact with me. Sex is just a part of that and not an essential one. Haven’t you ever loved someone unreservedly just because they mean so much to you, on all levels?”
Tinnie thought about it for a moment.
“Apart from my parents you mean? Well, I have a friend called Marcel. He’s gay too, although that’s a pretty thin connection. Half the time, I think gay men come from another planet, the way they behave. Anyway, he’s my best friend and I feel closer to him than to anyone else in my life but I’m not sure that qualifies in terms of what you’re saying. Maybe I just haven’t lived long enough yet; I’m only twenty-three. I’ve had some lovers but I can’t say that I’ve really loved any of them beyond the infatuation stage. I’m not even sure if I know what unconditional love is.”
“Do you love your parents?”
“Of course, they’re my parents!”
“That doesn’t mean that you have to love them. They are the people who brought you into the world and raised you. The child doesn’t have a choice in the matter. Society expects parents to look after their children and teach them to behave according to certain rules and society assumes that parents love their children and vice versa but it doesn’t always work that way. I admire my parents and love them to a certain extent but not wholly, not unconditionally as you put it. The greatest loves in my life have been those people to whom I have given one hundred percent of myself, including my body and my parents are not amongst those.”
“I think I see what you mean but you give your parents and your family a different sort of love don’t you, a sort of love based on loyalty? I can’t stand my older brother for instance but I would defend him against people from outside the family.”
“Exactly. That’s a sort of tribal love based on intimate familiarity and I feel the same way about my family and my extended family but that’s not what I call pure love, or total love; that can only be given to someone who you first meet as a stranger. I can see you haven’t experienced it yet but I’m sure you will. The point I’m making is that you shouldn’t limit yourself to choices from only one small group.”
“I wouldn’t call the entire race of women a small group!”
“No but if you’re only receptive to out and out lesbian women, then you are restricting your opportunities. There are many thousands of remarkable people inhabiting this world of ours, of all sexes, races and beliefs. Leave yourself open to discovering true love with anyone. Let yourself be surprised and surprise yourself with what you dare to do. Life is very, very short Tinnie. It may not seem that way to you now but believe me; before you can blink it can be over. Just a short time ago, I heard the screeching of brakes outside. It just goes to show how we are always within seconds of death and that we must make the most of our life experience while we have it.”
Tinnie deliberately didn’t enlighten her that the near-death experience had been her own; that would have been too facile a proving of her point but she was glad of the discussion. Maybe she was far too content to merely drift along through life. Maybe it was time to take stock and start doing things rather than just thinking about them. She still couldn’t imagine falling in love with a man to such an extent that she would enjoy a sexual relationship but she did decide to be open to more possibilities and try not to be so narrow-minded.
“Would you like another drink Tinnie?”
“No, no thanks. I really must go.”
There was no way she was going to allow Amália to buy her any more drinks; she still had her pride.
“Let me sing a song for you then, before you go; in Dutch this time. Then I hope we meet again, I have really enjoyed our chat and I’d like to get to know you even better. I sing here most days of the week, so you know where to find me.”
Tinnie wasn’t sure how to react. On the one hand she was flattered and was pleased she had met someone like this but on the other, tiny alarm bells were ringing and she began to suspect Amália’s motives. She watched the woman carefully as she made her way back to her stool and her guitar. Could she? Would she? She didn’t think so but later she’d have to have a good think about why not. Meanwhile, Amália had started strumming the guitar and smiling at her. The smile seemed genuine and warm and putting her worries aside, Tinnie sat back to listen.
“She sits forlorn on a window ledge,
Thinking thoughts of long ago,
Dreaming of sailors who never caught the tide,
Humming tunes they left for her to be reminded
As she waves goodbye to good times.
Wave goodbye to good times,
Bid adieu to love,
Fling to them a longing kiss
And wave goodbye to good times again…”
The song was the sort of thing you heard in traditional bars but it had a strange lilt to it, a Latin rhythm that betrayed Amália’s roots.
“She turns and catches the mirror’s light
As the setting sun floods the room,
Picks up a photo from a dusty shelf
Faded and torn, the gilded flush of youth,
Smiles and answers the celluloid pose
And assumes the role of the first summer rose
That flowered all those good times ago.
Wave goodbye to good times,
Bid adieu to love…”
To Tinnie’s surprise, one of the waitresses put a glass of beer in front of her and indicated that it had come from Amália. Tinnie lifted the glass to the singer but began to feel really guilty and for the third time in that bar, could feel the colour rising in her cheeks.
“Blushes as an undressed bride would,
As if it were all today.
Those famous days
Those oh so wicked ways,
At least she’s got her memories still,
Summer warmth in the winter chill…”
“Am I being naïve here?’ she asked herself. ‘Am I being seduced? Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe she’s right and I’m just so defensive when anyone shows me affection. Maybe it’s all perfectly innocent and she’s just being friendly. I mean she’s a real warm-blooded woman who’s obviously seen a thing or two. I think she just felt sorry for me or something.’
Tinnie frequently suffered from people feeling sorry for her and trying to take her under their wing. She knew she looked young and skinny and helpless and had been told she looked like a street urchin in need of a good meal; usually by her mother. So maybe that was it. She’d never been serenaded before though and however she squirmed in her seat from embarrassment she was secretly thrilled.
“And when they came to lay her to rest,
Unsung and unheralded, she gave of her best,
A hundred lonely boys, now faithless men,
Will tremble at the memory of the time,
They left her smiling, carried her to sea
And waved goodbye to the good times…”
Amália had just finished the last line and Tinnie was thinking about how she could politely make a quick get away, when a short, swarthy man in shirtsleeves strode into the bar and putting down his bags, took the singer in his arms, ignoring her half-hearted protests and began smothering her with kisses.
As Tinnie got up and edged her way between the tables, she looked back.
“My husband,” mouthed Amália before smiling, waving and ruffling his hair.
Tinnie left the bar and re entered the sun-baked street in a fury. She wasn’t sure she’d wanted to be seduced but she sure as hell didn’t like the competition!
Tinnie twisted the strands of hair above her ears and chewed at the end of her pencil until she could taste the graphite. Realising that she was reverting to childhood manifestations of frustration, she threw the mangled thing on the floor and laid her hands on the table in front of her. ‘Time for deep breathing,’ she told her inner self and forced her body to relax, focussing on the imagined candle flame above her head as she’d been taught to do. ‘Fingers first, let the tension flow out, then hands, then wrists, arms, elbows, shoulders; now the toes.’
It was a well practised, if time-consuming routine but it nearly always worked. There was nothing more satisfying than that feeling, when the problems that troubled her slowly slid out of her limbs. These were techniques she’d been taught by her first girlfriend, who endured the tantrums and crockery throwing for just so long before it couldn’t be endured any more and Tinnie was eternally grateful. Nobody knew better than she what sort of a teenage delinquent she’d been turning into before making peace with herself. Occasionally however, the symptoms resurfaced, usually when she was trying very hard to do something right and found herself unable to live up to her own ambitions. That wasn’t really the case now. All she wanted to do, was show Marcel that she was quite capable of taking control of the allotment project they’d embarked upon and she was compiling a list of horticultural necessities and jobs to do, nothing more than that. It was so damned hot though; her T-shirt was clamped glue-like to her armpits and under her breasts and the effort of trying to rip it off just made her sweat even more. The heat was energy-sapping and even with the window wide open, her tiny garret accumulated the heat of the house underneath and as it lay directly under the roof, absorbed the sun’s rays from above. There was nothing else for it, she had to get out, if only for an hour, take a walk, have a drink somewhere, or go and sit under a tree in the park. The list could wait.
With difficulty, she peeled off her jeans and took a shower, though the lack of adequate water pressure and the attempts to extract lather from the last sliver of soap nearly reduced her to apoplexy. Even more frustrating though, was the sudden appearance of a rash at the tops of her thighs. Groaning with the sheer inevitability of it all, she came to the conclusion that it was going to be one of those days and with an audible sigh of resignation and clad in cut-off denim shorts, a floppy, if un-ironed T-shirt and sandals, she mooched into the street.
What to do and where to go, were the next questions. She considered ringing Marcel’s bell but he was probably still at work and anyway, love him dearly as she did, she really wasn’t in the mood for one of his introspective, soul-searching monologues; a habit she was determined he should abandon in the near future and her next major project. Instead, she wandered aimlessly along the street, thinking she might head for the botanical gardens in search of shade and peace of mind.
She found a dusty bench under a large tree with an umbrella-like canopy. She couldn’t identify it but was curious what it was. The leaves were a fresher green than the rest and were long, thin and delicate, seeming to flutter above her head despite the lack of breeze. It made her feel welcome under its shade; comfortable and safe and she determined to come here again and in other seasons, to see how the tree lived its life. Just occasionally, Tinnie relived intense childhood feelings; sometimes a smell, or a sound would bring them back and in this case, it was a shady spot on a hot summer’s afternoon. She could see herself as a scrawny eight year old, feeding clamouring ducks with scraps of bread, as her mother sat reading or knitting on a bench close by. She could recollect the absolute and unsullied happiness of being a child, whose only cares were stimulated by her immediate surroundings and whose only worry was whether she could avoid eating the eggs in the salad they would eat later on. She’d always hated eggs and still did. Stretching out on the bench and closing her eyes, she could hear her mother softly muttering to herself as she read; a habit she had had since her own childhood when reading books. They were almost painful recollections but she prided herself that she could sometimes find moments when the clutter of her own life would make way for such vivid memories. As a child, she’d always thought that she was somehow special and could think on a deeper level than her friends, and although she now knew that others had had the same illusions, she still felt that there were certain moments when she could tune in to things with a special intensity; this was just such a moment.
“Excuse me, can we sit down too?”
She opened her eyes, the moment gone and swung her legs off the bench onto the ground, to allow a man and his toddler to sit down. He didn’t smile and didn’t react when the child began to grizzle and bang his toy car on the wooden slats. That was one thing Tinnie hated about modern parents. It was almost as if they didn’t hear their offspring’s frustrated protests, letting them disturb the peace around them, not caring whether anyone else was affected. It happened everywhere, on the tram, in shops, in doctor’s waiting rooms and it made Tinnie’s blood boil. She could still remember the sting of the slaps on the backs of her legs if she misbehaved; they hurt and were humiliating at the time but they worked. Letting children be children, however horrible they were, which seemed to be the modern way, was not an option for Tinnie and she was grateful she was a lesbian, unlikely to have kids and therefore absolved of all responsibility for raising them. She dreaded the possibility of having maternal yearnings or being broody later in life and was determined to resist them at all costs.
Irritated by the man and his son’s intrusion, she got up and shuffled away, hands wedged into her shorts pockets and kicking at small stones until one found its way between her toes and her sandal and forced her to stop. What now? She began to realise that things were getting to her far more than they should have been; unimportant things that she would normally take in her stride. It wasn’t the time for pre-menstrual tension and anyway, during that time, she was normally a pussycat in comparison to some of her friends. Maybe there was something missing in her life? A job? Well, yes but that was nothing new. Sexual release? Never really a problem; if she couldn’t find someone for a night, she’d always had a vivid imagination and ample means of entertaining herself. A lover? Also possible; she missed sharing things with someone. She often wondered if that was why she’d invested so much in her friendship with Marcel, however reluctant a partner he could be. He was gay, so understood something of her culture; he was ‘safe’, in that there was no danger of him molesting her and he was a man, which meant she could be friends with him. Since her school years, she’d never had close female friends. She could never stomach all the bitchiness and possessiveness; the endless fashion, make-up and boy band chatter and above all the intrinsic competitiveness of it all. The problem was of course, that Marcel couldn’t provide the emotional bond she sometimes craved but standing in the Botanical gardens, tracing patterns in the dust with the toe of her sandal, she wasn’t at all sure that a love affair was the missing element.
Spotting a bar across the street, she decided to have a drink. It was a bit early but she was thirsty and tired and it might be cooler inside than out.
She was shocked out of her introspection by the metallic shriek of brakes and instinctively putting out her hands to protect herself, found them resting on the hot bonnet of a car. It was one of those moments where with chilling certainty, you know you’ve used up one of your nine lives. She stared in horror at the driver and his passenger, who stared wide-eyed in return; all three relieved that disaster had been avoided and all three alerted to the fragility of everyday existence. Tinnie recovered first and walked unsteadily to the driver’s window.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going; entirely my fault; are you okay?”
The woman still looked shaken but instead of venting her fear in anger as Tinnie had expected, she took her hand and patted it.
“You were lucky; we were lucky we didn’t hit you. No harm done; lessons learned; take care; I know I will. Goodbye.”
With that, the woman drove off and the small crowd that had gathered to watch dispersed. Needing a drink more than ever, a chastened Tinnie walked into the bar.
It was like walking into a parallel universe, part of the same world Tinnie had just stepped out of, yet so totally different and exactly what she’d hoped for. It was dark and cool; the three ceiling fans working overtime and almost empty. Most people were sitting on the terrace in the sun and several had given her sympathetic glances as she’d arrived, having borne witness to her narrow escape. There was an older barman and two white-aproned barmaids, who flitted between the bar and the tables outside, balancing bottles and glasses on small oval trays but inside, Tinnie had the choice of where to sit. She ordered two glasses of Sprite and for once, didn’t insist on him removing the ice, so that she could suck the cubes later and further assuage her thirst. Looking round, she chose a bench which had a view of the window but wasn’t in the way of the tireless barmaids and she suddenly felt exhausted. The leather seat gave a sigh of resistance as she sank into it and she took a long drink from her first glass. It was then she noticed the singer. If she’d noticed it any music at all, she’d thought it had been a tape; the sound was so soft and delicate and unobtrusive. It was actually a middle-aged woman with an acoustic guitar; her head down over the strings and the voice was almost disembodied and ethereal. Tinnie couldn’t make out the language; it wasn’t Dutch, it sounded a bit like Spanish but she didn’t think it was that either; maybe it was Portuguese. The woman herself made the biggest impact however; she was extraordinary looking and Tinnie couldn’t take her eyes off her. It wasn’t a sexual attraction or anything like that, it was purely that she was so individual; there wasn’t another word that Tinnie could think of to describe her.
She sat on a stool, with her guitar resting on one knee and her other leg trailing on the floor. She was wearing tight black trousers, with little pearl buttons in a row up the side of each ankle and shiny, patent-leather boots with toes so sharp, Tinnie wondered how she had room for her feet. A broad white cummerbund circled her ample waist and a floppy black blouse hid the contours of her upper body. She had the longest fingers, which moved quickly to capture the intricate notes and Tinnie imagined them to be almost flirting with the strings. Definitely her most striking feature though was her face, framed in a mass of tumbling, bright red curls. Her eyes were fierce and intense and from a distance, jet black and her nose would have made Barbra Streisand feel inadequate; it was fascinating to see how her nostrils flared as she sang. The dark, aubergine lipstick on the fleshy lips completed the picture and Tinnie felt she was observing some exotic animal; an Esmeralda to her Quasimodo.
After a while, she was able to shut out the street noise, the clinking of the glasses and the whir of the fans and just concentrate on the music, which was becoming increasingly mesmeric. Closing her eyes she knew she was listening to stories, the tone and quiet intensity made that obvious and she wished she could understand the words, though began to realise that they weren’t that important, the mood and the atmosphere were enough.
“You like my music?”
Tinnie looked up. Due to her daydreaming, she hadn’t realised it had stopped. She answered, slightly embarrassed,
“Oh yes, it’s beautiful; really peaceful and calming. What language are you singing in?”
“If you knew what the songs meant, you would see that they’re anything but peaceful. They’re about love and loss, tragedy and death. I sing in Portuguese. These songs are the Fado.”
“I’ve heard about that but I don’t know much about it I’m afraid.”
“Do you want to buy me a drink and then I’ll tell you all about it?”
Tinnie suddenly looked sheepish and although she dug into her shorts pocket, she knew she didn’t have much money with her. She started to blush.
“Oh, I see, no problem, let me buy you a drink then.”
Tinnie started to protest but the woman was on the way to the bar. She returned with two beers and sat down so that she faced Tinnie and could look her in the eye.
“So, do you want to hear about the Fado?”
Tinnie nodded. She was in no hurry and besides this woman fascinated her.
”Fado is a sort of Portuguese ‘blues’ music. The word means ‘fate’ and the Portuguese are a fatalistic people.”
“Are you Portuguese then?”
“Partly, although I prefer to think of myself as Romany. My mother was Portuguese, my father was a gypsy from Rumania and my grandfather was actually Dutch. Our family originally came from the East Indies but we’ve travelled all over the world and we go back to the seventeenth century.”
“That’s very exotic.”
“Isn’t it? I don’t think of myself as exotic but I do find it difficult to think of myself as belonging to just one country. I have lived in Amsterdam for twenty years, so I suppose I’m as much Dutch as anything else. My name is Amália by the way and you are…?
“Tinnie, Tineke. Quite a common Dutch name I’m afraid and my ancestry, as far as I know, is completely Dutch; not very exciting really. Anyway, please go on. You were explaining about Fado.”
“Yes, well basically, it is a sad and melancholy style sung in 2/4 time. Usually, it is sung by women and usually, we use a twelve stringed guitar called a Guitarra, although as you can see, I have to make do with a six stringed acoustic at the moment. Most Fado songs talk about nostalgia, strife of life, lost love, tragedy, missed opportunity and destiny. We have a word for it called ‘saudade’ which means a sort of sad yearning for the impossible. It is not easy music but people here seem to like it even if they don’t understand what it’s about.”
“It sounds Arabic at times.”
“Ah, that comes from our association with the Moors you know, just like the Flamenco.”
“Yes but why do women sing it and not men?”
“There are some male Fado singers but it is mainly women. I suppose it comes from the fact that the Portuguese are a sea-faring race, just like the Dutch and if the men went away and didn’t return, it was left for the women to mourn them. We also wear black a lot but that comes from another story. One of our most famous Fado singers was a girl called Maria Severa, who was a prostitute. She was very beautiful and temperamental and her mother was a gypsy but she died tragically at the age of twenty-six and all Fado singers wear black to mourn her passing. Is that enough information for now?”
“Thanks, it’s fascinating and it’s so good that there is a whole musical movement which centres on women.”
“I sense that much of your life centres around women Tinnie.”
Tinnie blushed again.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Well, the way you look suggests it yes but I have seen many things in my life and I know when I see a kindred spirit.”
“So you’re gay as well?”
Tinnie was astonished. For once her gaydar had let her down. She hadn’t thought for a minute that Amália was a lesbian.
“Why do I need a word to describe me? I am attracted to women but I’m also attracted to men. I’m attracted to people not their gender. If someone really interests me, I want to get to know them but it doesn’t matter what sex they are. It sometimes leads to sex and sometimes not but I don’t like being pigeon-holed; do you understand?”
“Yes, I suppose so but because I’ve never been attracted to a man in that way, I can only accept it objectively. I’ve always preferred women, from the age of ten I think.”
“And are you proud of that? Do you use it to reject possibilities? Can you never see yourself trying something new?”
“I don’t want to. I’m not proud of being totally Lesbian, that’s not the right word; I never think of it in that way. I’m proud of who I am but no I can’t see myself sleeping with a man. Live and let live is my motto. As long as people don’t try to force me to do something I don’t want to do, I don’t care what their sexuality is.”
“Maybe I haven’t explained my self well. I’m not talking about sexuality, I’m talking about loving someone for who they are, how they live their lives, how they interact with me. Sex is just a part of that and not an essential one. Haven’t you ever loved someone unreservedly just because they mean so much to you, on all levels?”
Tinnie thought about it for a moment.
“Apart from my parents you mean? Well, I have a friend called Marcel. He’s gay too, although that’s a pretty thin connection. Half the time, I think gay men come from another planet, the way they behave. Anyway, he’s my best friend and I feel closer to him than to anyone else in my life but I’m not sure that qualifies in terms of what you’re saying. Maybe I just haven’t lived long enough yet; I’m only twenty-three. I’ve had some lovers but I can’t say that I’ve really loved any of them beyond the infatuation stage. I’m not even sure if I know what unconditional love is.”
“Do you love your parents?”
“Of course, they’re my parents!”
“That doesn’t mean that you have to love them. They are the people who brought you into the world and raised you. The child doesn’t have a choice in the matter. Society expects parents to look after their children and teach them to behave according to certain rules and society assumes that parents love their children and vice versa but it doesn’t always work that way. I admire my parents and love them to a certain extent but not wholly, not unconditionally as you put it. The greatest loves in my life have been those people to whom I have given one hundred percent of myself, including my body and my parents are not amongst those.”
“I think I see what you mean but you give your parents and your family a different sort of love don’t you, a sort of love based on loyalty? I can’t stand my older brother for instance but I would defend him against people from outside the family.”
“Exactly. That’s a sort of tribal love based on intimate familiarity and I feel the same way about my family and my extended family but that’s not what I call pure love, or total love; that can only be given to someone who you first meet as a stranger. I can see you haven’t experienced it yet but I’m sure you will. The point I’m making is that you shouldn’t limit yourself to choices from only one small group.”
“I wouldn’t call the entire race of women a small group!”
“No but if you’re only receptive to out and out lesbian women, then you are restricting your opportunities. There are many thousands of remarkable people inhabiting this world of ours, of all sexes, races and beliefs. Leave yourself open to discovering true love with anyone. Let yourself be surprised and surprise yourself with what you dare to do. Life is very, very short Tinnie. It may not seem that way to you now but believe me; before you can blink it can be over. Just a short time ago, I heard the screeching of brakes outside. It just goes to show how we are always within seconds of death and that we must make the most of our life experience while we have it.”
Tinnie deliberately didn’t enlighten her that the near-death experience had been her own; that would have been too facile a proving of her point but she was glad of the discussion. Maybe she was far too content to merely drift along through life. Maybe it was time to take stock and start doing things rather than just thinking about them. She still couldn’t imagine falling in love with a man to such an extent that she would enjoy a sexual relationship but she did decide to be open to more possibilities and try not to be so narrow-minded.
“Would you like another drink Tinnie?”
“No, no thanks. I really must go.”
There was no way she was going to allow Amália to buy her any more drinks; she still had her pride.
“Let me sing a song for you then, before you go; in Dutch this time. Then I hope we meet again, I have really enjoyed our chat and I’d like to get to know you even better. I sing here most days of the week, so you know where to find me.”
Tinnie wasn’t sure how to react. On the one hand she was flattered and was pleased she had met someone like this but on the other, tiny alarm bells were ringing and she began to suspect Amália’s motives. She watched the woman carefully as she made her way back to her stool and her guitar. Could she? Would she? She didn’t think so but later she’d have to have a good think about why not. Meanwhile, Amália had started strumming the guitar and smiling at her. The smile seemed genuine and warm and putting her worries aside, Tinnie sat back to listen.
“She sits forlorn on a window ledge,
Thinking thoughts of long ago,
Dreaming of sailors who never caught the tide,
Humming tunes they left for her to be reminded
As she waves goodbye to good times.
Wave goodbye to good times,
Bid adieu to love,
Fling to them a longing kiss
And wave goodbye to good times again…”
The song was the sort of thing you heard in traditional bars but it had a strange lilt to it, a Latin rhythm that betrayed Amália’s roots.
“She turns and catches the mirror’s light
As the setting sun floods the room,
Picks up a photo from a dusty shelf
Faded and torn, the gilded flush of youth,
Smiles and answers the celluloid pose
And assumes the role of the first summer rose
That flowered all those good times ago.
Wave goodbye to good times,
Bid adieu to love…”
To Tinnie’s surprise, one of the waitresses put a glass of beer in front of her and indicated that it had come from Amália. Tinnie lifted the glass to the singer but began to feel really guilty and for the third time in that bar, could feel the colour rising in her cheeks.
“Blushes as an undressed bride would,
As if it were all today.
Those famous days
Those oh so wicked ways,
At least she’s got her memories still,
Summer warmth in the winter chill…”
“Am I being naïve here?’ she asked herself. ‘Am I being seduced? Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe she’s right and I’m just so defensive when anyone shows me affection. Maybe it’s all perfectly innocent and she’s just being friendly. I mean she’s a real warm-blooded woman who’s obviously seen a thing or two. I think she just felt sorry for me or something.’
Tinnie frequently suffered from people feeling sorry for her and trying to take her under their wing. She knew she looked young and skinny and helpless and had been told she looked like a street urchin in need of a good meal; usually by her mother. So maybe that was it. She’d never been serenaded before though and however she squirmed in her seat from embarrassment she was secretly thrilled.
“And when they came to lay her to rest,
Unsung and unheralded, she gave of her best,
A hundred lonely boys, now faithless men,
Will tremble at the memory of the time,
They left her smiling, carried her to sea
And waved goodbye to the good times…”
Amália had just finished the last line and Tinnie was thinking about how she could politely make a quick get away, when a short, swarthy man in shirtsleeves strode into the bar and putting down his bags, took the singer in his arms, ignoring her half-hearted protests and began smothering her with kisses.
As Tinnie got up and edged her way between the tables, she looked back.
“My husband,” mouthed Amália before smiling, waving and ruffling his hair.
Tinnie left the bar and re entered the sun-baked street in a fury. She wasn’t sure she’d wanted to be seduced but she sure as hell didn’t like the competition!
11. A glutton for punishment
Jacco had spent several days closeted in the house, using up all the possible combinations of food in the cupboards and nursing his wounds both physical and mental. He’d gone through several phases, ranging from anger and rejection, to whimpering humiliation and fear. He’d even seriously considered going to the police, after watching a documentary on rape, an irony that wasn’t lost on him but was far too scared of the possible repercussions, especially as his parents were due back in only a week. In a particularly weak moment, he’d rung Wil and Ruud and begun to explain but couldn’t carry it through because he felt too ashamed that he’d blatantly ignored their advice, turning the conversation into chitchat, nothing more. The passage of time had softened the edges somewhat and feeling physically better had helped him improve mentally too. It was only at this point that he was able to rationalise the whole experience and decide what he wanted to do. From a distance, the thrill factor grew insidiously stronger and the memory of the pain diminished and eventually, he came to the conclusion that unless he was prepared to abandon his whole future as a gay man, he’d have to go out again and face it. It was like falling off a horse, his father had used to say; you had to get back up again quickly, or you never would. The trouble was, the idea of more sex was becoming the greater need and once more he felt ashamed that there was a part of him that he couldn’t control and defied logic. He consoled himself by thinking that, at least the next time; he’d be a little wiser and a little more careful. One thing he determined was never going to happen again was to lose control, though he suspected that much of the excitement he felt came from doing just that. Despite what he had done, Arjan was still a powerful magnet. To his horror, Jacco had fantasised over him several times since the incident and the urge to meet him again grew stronger by the day, until one evening he decided to take the bull by the horns and go to the bars again.
It seemed as though the recent heat wave was about to break. The air was completely still and one half of the sky a sheet of cobalt grey which was laden with moisture, there was certain to be a cloudburst. A rumble of thunder in the distance hastened Jacco’s progress but as he turned into that familiar street, he found himself shaking involuntarily. With panic taking hold, he turned around and retraced his steps more than once but other urges eventually prevailed. Glancing through the bar windows, he could see that it was pretty full, which was a good thing. It meant that he would be able to find a safe spot fairly quickly without drawing too much attention to himself. Even then, he walked back and forth a few times before plucking up courage and going in, helped by the first, heavy drops of warm rain.
Squeezing through the mass of people he ordered a drink. After scanning the crowd, it was a relief that as far as he could see, neither Arjan nor the barman he had spoken to were in evidence and he made his way to a corner and tried to control his nerves. There was a fairly mixed crowd to observe. Obvious tourists; he heard lots of English and some German being spoken; quite a few young Orientals, one or two faces he’d seen before and a smattering of older men hovering on the fringes, or trying to catch the eyes of their particular fancies. Generally though, it was a youthful clientele and Jacco didn’t feel out of place. He began to appreciate why Ruud and Wil rarely came here; it just wasn’t their scene.
He found himself tuning in to an animated conversation between three men in their early twenties who, judging from their accent, came from Groningen or Friesland, Jacco couldn’t decide which. It wasn’t that he was being nosy; he was fascinated, if only because he felt surprisingly alienated. He was beginning to realise there were many shades of grey in the gay spectrum.
“So what did you do next?”
“I told him to piss off didn’t I? I mean honey! He’d lived with me for a whole two months and not paid a red cent towards anything. No rent, no food, no drink, no drugs even and after he’d given up his job, he had no chance, not with me at least. I mean Christ! The sex wasn’t even that good!”
“Well, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.”
“Huh, that’s not saying much! If it wears trousers…”
“Bitch! I’m not the enemy here.”
“So what are you saying? That you’d sleep with my ex lover. What sort of loyalty to your friends is that?”
“I’m not saying I’d do it. I just think he’s a hunk that’s all.”
“He’s a low-life. I swear it’s the last time I get involved with someone who claims he’s Bi; they’ve got far too many hang-ups.”
“I don’t think he’s got hang-ups. I think he knows exactly what he wants… and that’s a free ride with someone stupid enough to take him on.”
“Oh that’s rich; coming from someone who fucked his sister’s boyfriend!”
“That was different; that was a one-off. We were both pissed out of our heads. Anyway, he’s definitely straight.”
“Yeah right! That’s why he begged you to introduce me to him I suppose?”
“Well, there was no way that was ever going to happen. Anyway, they’re married now and that’s the end of that.”
”Share and share alike, is what I always say. Married! Ha! I give him six weeks, then he’ll get fed up of her finger up his arse and want the real thing!”
“You’re such a cow!”
“It takes one to know one darling! Anyway, are you coming in to have your roots done tomorrow? You’d better be on time, I’ve got a full day.”
At this point Jacco couldn’t take any more and moved further away towards the darker and quieter recesses of the room. Was that the way these people lived their lives, their only topics of conversation being sex and men and their only style, bitchiness? He wasn’t sure what he wanted but he was sure that he wanted to meet people who were a bit more interesting than that and could hold down a conversation. He shook his head; he had so much to learn.
All of a sudden, the lights went out, the music ground to a halt and everyone cheered. It was then clear to see how dark it was outside. There were flashes of lightning and the rain pelted against the windows as if determined to break through and assault the people inside. After a minute or two, during which everyone had continued their conversations, expecting that normal service would be resumed, a strange silence fell across the room, punctuated by the odd high pitched giggle and raucous shout to the bar staff. Jacco shuddered. He began to feel uncomfortable, slightly claustrophobic and wished he was elsewhere. There was frantic activity behind the bar but otherwise; everyone just stood waiting to see what was going to happen. Suddenly, he felt a hand clenching his buttock and a familiar voice whispering in his ear.
“Nice to see you again. Let me get you a drink; after I’ve sorted out the electrics that is.”
Jacco froze. He watched Arjan walk to the bar, as lithe as a cat and knew in those
few seconds that he had two clear choices. He could run, or he could stay and both Devils on both shoulders were equally persuasive. Despite every logical argument and intuitive thought urging him to take the opportunity to escape, he stayed. It was a decision rooted in sex; in the deep-seated thrill of the forbidden and the dangerous and he knew it was probably a mistake and would lead him into trouble. The storm raged outside and he was reminded of his school studies of not so long ago; this was a King Lear moment!
The lights and music came back on, to further cheers and a few groans from those who’d been having fun in the gloom and Arjan returned from the bar with drinks. The moment Jacco saw that wry smile and arched eyebrow and the way he was being shamelessly admired, he knew he was lost.
Like taking candy from a baby, Arjan knew exactly how to flatter a nineteen-year-old innocent and applied himself to his craft as he had done a thousand times before.
“So, you’re back. I wasn’t sure whether I’d see you again after the last time; you seemed pretty upset when you left.”
“Oh that! No, I was fine, really. I’d just had a bit too much to drink that’s all,” Jacco lied.
“No lasting ill-effects then?”
Arjan was covering his options. He knew he’d gone a bit far with the boy for a first time and was quite ready to get rid of him now if there was any sign of trouble. Then again, the kid was cute and might be persuaded into a repeat performance. It had been a while since he’d had someone; he’d been pretty busy of late but tonight he was in the mood and well, if it was handed to him on a plate, he wouldn’t refuse. The problem was though, the boy had that look in his eyes and it was one usually to avoid. If you messed with teenagers, as Arjan was wont to do, you ran the risk of them becoming a liability. He knew his attractions and he knew that look; the boy was smitten! Ah well, there were ways and means of dealing with all situations.
Several drinks later, Jacco knew that he was probably going to go upstairs fairly soon and he felt proud of himself that Arjan seemed so interested. After all, he must have seemed pretty naïve the last time, running off like that but it hadn’t seemed to have put the man off in any way. In fact, it answered several questions he’d been asking himself for months. Was he attractive? Could he keep a conversation going with gay men? Would the size of his dick deter them?
“Would you like to have another drink in the flat? It’s a lot quieter there and I won’t have to keep fighting my way through this lot.”
Jacco was thrown a little. He was being invited up for a drink, not necessarily sex. He’d rehearsed this possibility. He wanted to ask Arjan to be gentler this time; he didn’t want to go home bleeding for instance but how could he ask that if Arjan didn’t have sex in mind? Not wanting to appear foolish, he just nodded and followed the man to the back of the bar and the door leading to the apartment. Arjan hadn’t waited for an answer, he’d taken it as read and as he climbed the stairs, that familiar excitement associated with domination and total control surged through his body.
He sat in his high backed leather chair, in the unlit room, the lightning still flashing sporadically outside and the muted thump of the bass from the bar below reflecting his heartbeat. The boy hadn’t wanted to go but he’d thrown him out, rejecting all pleas for post coital tenderness or comfort and without the slightest trace of guilt. There had been many like him in the past and there would be more in the future. There was nothing special about this kid. He’d been asked to take it easy; he’d been begged not to cause too much pain and he’d revelled in the power that had given him. Sometimes all he wanted to hear were pleas for mercy; they fed his ego and enabled him to extend the game. This time, he’d pretended to go along and he’d played it tender; for a full twenty minutes, he’d stroked, caressed and cajoled until the boy was absolutely relaxed and submissive and then he’d taken him the way he wanted. The kid had begged him to stop, to go more slowly and he’d yelped in pain; that luscious cry that almost took Arjan over the edge. Then he’d drawn back, refusing to touch him until it was begged for; for those moments, life was worth living. Of course he’d taken it further than he’d intended. Jacco had used his fists and he rubbed his jaw ruefully, where he’d been caught by a lucky swing. The boy shouldn’t have done that; it was his own fault, it just fuelled the fire. Would there be any nasty repercussions from this evening’s work? He doubted it. From experience, these kids were almost always too frightened, or too infatuated. They’d go home, lick their wounds and he’d either never see them again, or they’d be back for more. He wasn’t certain about Jacco, especially after tonight; the boy seemed broken when he left but he didn’t anticipate trouble. Anyway, he was bored now. There wasn’t much more he could do with this one; the challenge wouldn’t be there the next time, if he reappeared. Anyway, in the event that he did come back, there were other avenues he could lead him down; the responsibility could be passed on to others. Pouring himself another stiff drink, he walked over to the bed and lay down propped up against the pillows, watching the lightning and the rain dribbling down the windowpanes. Sleep would come easier tonight.
12. Marcel's first premiere
Marcel whistled tunelessly but happily as he struggled with his bow tie. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn his smoking jacket with all the trimmings; it must have been at his sister’s wedding all those years ago. He smiled ruefully at himself in the mirror; now they’d been innocent times. Standing in starched white shirt, boxer shorts and new black socks, with the rebellious bow tie loose around his neck, he tried to evaluate at himself objectively. All things considered, he wasn’t too unhappy with the result. Mid-thirties, several years of life-threatening illness and the loss of his best friend had all taken their toll and were visible in the lines around his eyes, yet he felt he still had something to offer. Recent training had retuned the body and after a good wash and scrub up, he felt good about himself for the first time in months.
Tinnie had been furious of course. Mia’s invitation had come out of the blue and had taken him by surprise but it was the sort of thing you couldn’t refuse and had come at just the right time to lift his spirits.
“A film premiere! At the Tuschinski! How could you consider going without me?”
“You know why Tinnie. Mia just wants to have a Walker and I’m as safe as they get.”
”What’s a ‘Walker’ then?”
“Oh you know, one of those guys, you see escorting Hollywood starlets along the red carpet on Oscars night. They’re usually gay and totally anonymous but I don’t care, I’m looking forward to it.”
“And this Mia’s a film starlet is she? I don’t think so!”
Tinnie had sulked for hours but it had been like water off a duck’s back to Marcel; he was genuinely excited at the prospect of attending a glittering occasion for the first time in what seemed years.
Mia was an anachronism from his past; once the owner of a second-hand bookshop, who he’d met by accident through another guy and a peculiar set of circumstances; she was now a successful author and as such, on most people’s A-lists for this sort of event. Marcel chuckled to himself. He’d seen her naked, well more than that actually but that had been complicated and he was glad they were still friends, although contact was sporadic.
He finished dressing and was satisfied with the overall result. Everything still fitted much as it had done when he first bought it and with the addition of a new deep red waistcoat, his confidence soared; he looked the part, he was sure of that.
In the car on the way to the theatre, Marcel couldn’t believe the change in Mia. She’d always been chic in her own individual, money-sparing way but tonight she positively radiated confidence and glamour.
“You look stunning!”
“Well, thank you kind sir; you cut quite a dash yourself.”
“I can’t believe what an evening dress does for you. No, let me rephrase that…I’ve never seen you in an evening dress before; you look as though you were born for this.”
“Oh bullshit Marcel. I’m no different to what I’ve always been; you should know me better than that. A bit more money and a few designer clothes maybe but underneath, I still shit myself about all this. You know I read an article about my supposed life in the Gazette and I didn’t recognise the woman they were talking about. It was my photo and the facts were reasonably accurate but it wasn’t about me, it was about someone I’d like to be, someone they want me to be. It’s almost as if they’ve projected my life onto a screen and created this personality who doesn’t exist in reality yet.”
“Well, however you feel, you’ve pulled it off; you’re world famous in Holland. Maybe you’re schizophrenic and can adopt a personality to suit every occasion.”
”Always have been my dear, always have been.”
Mia smiled warmly at him and squeezed his hand. She knew he understood the nature of the beast.
The car pulled up behind several others in the street leading towards the theatre. There were crowds of people milling around; some bemused tourists who had been caught up in something they knew nothing about, a fair amount of police trying hard to appear in control but mostly people who were there to catch a glimpse of their favourite soap stars, sports personalities, or other minor celebrities.
“Jesus, these are the people who cause traffic jams by stopping at road accidents to have a good look. Take a good look; this is the Dutch entertainment world, fairly small peanuts eh?”
“Oh come on Mia, aren’t you just a tiny bit excited? It may not be Los Angeles or the West End of London but it’s still glamorous enough for us.”
“Spoken like a true gay man. The sight of a few sequins and a feather boa and you’re anybody’s! Just look at them all. Wouldn’t you think they’d have better things to do on a beautiful summer’s evening? Most of them are farmer’s wives from Drenthe and they haven’t the foggiest idea who I am.”
“Yeah right; spoken like the true Calvinist and the true city snob you are. Are you going to stop this cynicism and enjoy yourself?”
Mia crossed her eyes, sighed exaggeratedly and fixed her smile as the chauffeur opened the car door.
Marcel couldn’t help the tingle that ran down his spine as the atmosphere caught hold of him. The noise and excitement was infectious and he grinned idiotically as the cameras flashed and reporters crowded round. Taking Mia’s arm, he led her proudly along the red carpet towards the door of the cinema. It didn’t matter that he knew the cheers and teenage screams were for the stars of the latest reality soap, who were just behind them, or that the outstretched autograph hunters didn’t care who was signing their books. Everyone was a celebrity tonight and he loved it.
“Are you watching Willem?” he whispered under his breath, “This one’s for you.”
Standing on his own, clutching the obligatory glass of champagne, Marcel watched and admired as Mia put on her professional face for the small group gathered around her. He didn’t mind in the slightest that nobody was interested in him; he’d fulfilled his purpose for the night and the occasional exasperated glance she threw at him, reassured him that his role had been appreciated. He would rejoin her later when the excitement had died down.
“What did you think of it then?”
Not at all sure that he was the one being spoken to, Marcel turned around. He had a sense of déjà vu but couldn’t quite think why; the face looked so familiar but where from? Whoever it was, he was attractive. Marcel went through his usual checklist: dark haired, slightly older, probably early forties, nice eyes, nice smile, quite short but no less appealing for that.
“Sorry, are you speaking to me?”
“I was just asking what you thought of the film that’s all.”
The man smiled again and Marcel warmed to him immediately; he always had been a sucker for a lop-sided grin.
“Oh, it was okay you know. Typical Dutch film really; not enough finance, not enough back-up acting talent apart from the lead roles most of whom we’re sick of seeing on TV time and time again. It was enjoyable enough, though I wish they’d made their minds up about what they wanted it to be.”
”What do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t think it knew whether it wanted to be an art-house movie; you know, French cinema verité type of thing, or a mainstream, appeal-to-all film for the masses.”
The man started chuckling.
“Have I said something funny?”
“No, no, really, you haven’t and you’re probably quite right. What did you think of the lead actor?”
Marcel looked at him closely. He wasn’t sure whether he was being mocked or not and was preparing to demonstrate his irritation. Then he looked again and slowly, embarrassingly, the reason for his déjà vu became apparent. Blushing from his toes upwards, he stammered,
“Oh, shit! Oh Christ! I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognise you out of context. You’re Onno Huizinga aren’t you? Fucking hell, what an idiot I am. I hope you’ll forgive me?”
“Hey, no need to go overboard, after all, I’m only a minor Dutch actor, who everybody’s sick of seeing on TV right?”
“Touché! I deserved that. I’m Marcel van Ommen, social misfit extraordinaire.”
Marcel extended his hand and was surprised at how firmly it was grasped.
“Well, you know who I am. Pleased to meet you Marcel.”
Mia was tired of networking. Despite what her publisher had told her, that no contact was a bad contact, she found it very difficult to promote herself to complete strangers in this sort of situation, although it was clear that half the room were doing precisely that. She tried several times to attract Marcel’s attention but he was engrossed in conversation with Onno Huizinga. She was both impressed and pleased that he hadn’t been left twiddling his thumbs but she was bored now and wanted to escape. Taking another glass of champagne from a roving waiter, she wandered around, keeping a watchful eye on Marcel in case the opportunity arose to drag him away. Her mood wasn’t improved by drifting around the various clusters of celebrities, reporters and well-known party people. Conversation rarely rose above the banal and self-congratulatory. Few people knew who she was and she wasn’t inclined to introduce herself, feeling that she’d done enough of that already. Sidling up behind Onno Huizinga, she gave Marcel clear signals that it was time to go but Marcel was enjoying himself and failed to take the hint.
“Hey, Mia, let me introduce you to Onno Huizinga. Onno, this is Mia Pijpers, authoress and good friend.”
Mia glared at him but had little choice but to play along and shook Onno’s outstretched hand.
”Hello. I enjoyed your part in the film.”
‘Hmm,’ thought Marcel, ‘only slightly warmer than icy; this may have been a mistake, Onno doesn’t seem to have noticed though.’
“Thank you. You’re an author? Fiction or non-fiction?”
“Well, both actually.”
Marcel started fidgeting, ‘come on Mia, warm up a bit.’
“Actually, she’s just being modest. She’s just recently had a best seller in both the fiction and the non-fiction lists at the same time.”
Onno did his best,
“Oh, would I have read either of them? What are they called?”
“Well, that depends on what sort of things you like reading. I’m sure you hardly have any time between all those film shoots, parties and public appearances.”
It wasn’t what Mia had said but the way she said it. Onno looked surprised but took it like a professional and backed away, taking the opportunity to turn and put his drink on a table but Marcel was angry. There was no need for dripping sarcasm, especially when he was trying to get to know somebody, somebody he might really get to like.
He tried vainly to repair the damage.
‘The Sage’s Secrets,’ is about folklore and healing in Surinam and ‘Lucia’s Diamonds,’ is the one about a high class Madame and her brothel; it’s really spicy stuff and based on a true story, isn’t that right Mia?”
“I’ve heard about that one. From what I’ve heard, you’ve certainly shaken up a few society matrons in high places.”
Marcel thought Onno was behaving like a true gentleman and prayed that Mia would respond in kind but his hopes were dashed. Mia was having one of her truly selfish moments for which only close friends could forgive her.
“Yes well; it’s only a story. Marcel, I’ve got a headache. Can we go now? I’ve had enough.”
Mia was at her imperious worst and didn’t consider for a minute that Marcel wouldn’t meekly comply; after all, he was her escort for the night. Marcel however, made a quick decision and took a gamble.
“Look, I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. I’ll get you a taxi but I think I’ll stay a little longer if you don’t mind?”
He looked questioningly at Onno.
“No, no Marcel, you mustn’t stay on my account. Mia’s clearly had enough, me too actually. You see that she gets home alright. I’m going anyway. Listen here’s my number. Maybe we can get together for a drink or something sometime? Nice meeting you. Bye Mia.”
With that, he handed Marcel his card and disappeared into the crowd.
Marcel took Mia by the arm and frogmarched her to the doorway. He was so angry he couldn’t speak. Fortunately, there was a line of taxis outside the hotel waiting to pick up some likely high-tipping rides. Marcel signalled to one, opened the door and bundled Mia inside.
“What? What have I done? Why are you being like this, I only said I’d had enough? Hadn’t you had enough of all those phonies? I thought you hated those sorts of people.”
Mia knew she’d overstepped the mark. Oh well, she’d ring him tomorrow and apologise; Marcel would be fine, he always was. He knew what she was like. She didn’t mean to be rude but sometimes… As the door was slammed shut and the taxi drove away, she bit her nails anxiously. She’d never seen Marcel that angry.
Standing on the steps of the hotel, his hands in his pockets, Marcel wondered what he should do next. There was hardly any point going back inside. Most people were leaving anyway and the only person he really wanted to talk to had very politely made a quick exit after being roundly insulted by someone he thought of as a close friend. As quickly as it had flared up however, his anger subsided. He could never bear a grudge. After all, it had been Mia’s evening rather than his. Meeting Onno had been a bonus but perhaps he should have been more loyal to the woman he was supposed to be escorting. He dug into his pocket to find Onno’s card and loosening his bowtie, he set off down the street, not heading for anywhere in particular but glad of the fresh air.
“Hey, need some company?”
He looked around to see Onno emerge from the shadows. It was corny but he looked just like he did on the poster for the film.
Jacco had spent several days closeted in the house, using up all the possible combinations of food in the cupboards and nursing his wounds both physical and mental. He’d gone through several phases, ranging from anger and rejection, to whimpering humiliation and fear. He’d even seriously considered going to the police, after watching a documentary on rape, an irony that wasn’t lost on him but was far too scared of the possible repercussions, especially as his parents were due back in only a week. In a particularly weak moment, he’d rung Wil and Ruud and begun to explain but couldn’t carry it through because he felt too ashamed that he’d blatantly ignored their advice, turning the conversation into chitchat, nothing more. The passage of time had softened the edges somewhat and feeling physically better had helped him improve mentally too. It was only at this point that he was able to rationalise the whole experience and decide what he wanted to do. From a distance, the thrill factor grew insidiously stronger and the memory of the pain diminished and eventually, he came to the conclusion that unless he was prepared to abandon his whole future as a gay man, he’d have to go out again and face it. It was like falling off a horse, his father had used to say; you had to get back up again quickly, or you never would. The trouble was, the idea of more sex was becoming the greater need and once more he felt ashamed that there was a part of him that he couldn’t control and defied logic. He consoled himself by thinking that, at least the next time; he’d be a little wiser and a little more careful. One thing he determined was never going to happen again was to lose control, though he suspected that much of the excitement he felt came from doing just that. Despite what he had done, Arjan was still a powerful magnet. To his horror, Jacco had fantasised over him several times since the incident and the urge to meet him again grew stronger by the day, until one evening he decided to take the bull by the horns and go to the bars again.
It seemed as though the recent heat wave was about to break. The air was completely still and one half of the sky a sheet of cobalt grey which was laden with moisture, there was certain to be a cloudburst. A rumble of thunder in the distance hastened Jacco’s progress but as he turned into that familiar street, he found himself shaking involuntarily. With panic taking hold, he turned around and retraced his steps more than once but other urges eventually prevailed. Glancing through the bar windows, he could see that it was pretty full, which was a good thing. It meant that he would be able to find a safe spot fairly quickly without drawing too much attention to himself. Even then, he walked back and forth a few times before plucking up courage and going in, helped by the first, heavy drops of warm rain.
Squeezing through the mass of people he ordered a drink. After scanning the crowd, it was a relief that as far as he could see, neither Arjan nor the barman he had spoken to were in evidence and he made his way to a corner and tried to control his nerves. There was a fairly mixed crowd to observe. Obvious tourists; he heard lots of English and some German being spoken; quite a few young Orientals, one or two faces he’d seen before and a smattering of older men hovering on the fringes, or trying to catch the eyes of their particular fancies. Generally though, it was a youthful clientele and Jacco didn’t feel out of place. He began to appreciate why Ruud and Wil rarely came here; it just wasn’t their scene.
He found himself tuning in to an animated conversation between three men in their early twenties who, judging from their accent, came from Groningen or Friesland, Jacco couldn’t decide which. It wasn’t that he was being nosy; he was fascinated, if only because he felt surprisingly alienated. He was beginning to realise there were many shades of grey in the gay spectrum.
“So what did you do next?”
“I told him to piss off didn’t I? I mean honey! He’d lived with me for a whole two months and not paid a red cent towards anything. No rent, no food, no drink, no drugs even and after he’d given up his job, he had no chance, not with me at least. I mean Christ! The sex wasn’t even that good!”
“Well, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.”
“Huh, that’s not saying much! If it wears trousers…”
“Bitch! I’m not the enemy here.”
“So what are you saying? That you’d sleep with my ex lover. What sort of loyalty to your friends is that?”
“I’m not saying I’d do it. I just think he’s a hunk that’s all.”
“He’s a low-life. I swear it’s the last time I get involved with someone who claims he’s Bi; they’ve got far too many hang-ups.”
“I don’t think he’s got hang-ups. I think he knows exactly what he wants… and that’s a free ride with someone stupid enough to take him on.”
“Oh that’s rich; coming from someone who fucked his sister’s boyfriend!”
“That was different; that was a one-off. We were both pissed out of our heads. Anyway, he’s definitely straight.”
“Yeah right! That’s why he begged you to introduce me to him I suppose?”
“Well, there was no way that was ever going to happen. Anyway, they’re married now and that’s the end of that.”
”Share and share alike, is what I always say. Married! Ha! I give him six weeks, then he’ll get fed up of her finger up his arse and want the real thing!”
“You’re such a cow!”
“It takes one to know one darling! Anyway, are you coming in to have your roots done tomorrow? You’d better be on time, I’ve got a full day.”
At this point Jacco couldn’t take any more and moved further away towards the darker and quieter recesses of the room. Was that the way these people lived their lives, their only topics of conversation being sex and men and their only style, bitchiness? He wasn’t sure what he wanted but he was sure that he wanted to meet people who were a bit more interesting than that and could hold down a conversation. He shook his head; he had so much to learn.
All of a sudden, the lights went out, the music ground to a halt and everyone cheered. It was then clear to see how dark it was outside. There were flashes of lightning and the rain pelted against the windows as if determined to break through and assault the people inside. After a minute or two, during which everyone had continued their conversations, expecting that normal service would be resumed, a strange silence fell across the room, punctuated by the odd high pitched giggle and raucous shout to the bar staff. Jacco shuddered. He began to feel uncomfortable, slightly claustrophobic and wished he was elsewhere. There was frantic activity behind the bar but otherwise; everyone just stood waiting to see what was going to happen. Suddenly, he felt a hand clenching his buttock and a familiar voice whispering in his ear.
“Nice to see you again. Let me get you a drink; after I’ve sorted out the electrics that is.”
Jacco froze. He watched Arjan walk to the bar, as lithe as a cat and knew in those
few seconds that he had two clear choices. He could run, or he could stay and both Devils on both shoulders were equally persuasive. Despite every logical argument and intuitive thought urging him to take the opportunity to escape, he stayed. It was a decision rooted in sex; in the deep-seated thrill of the forbidden and the dangerous and he knew it was probably a mistake and would lead him into trouble. The storm raged outside and he was reminded of his school studies of not so long ago; this was a King Lear moment!
The lights and music came back on, to further cheers and a few groans from those who’d been having fun in the gloom and Arjan returned from the bar with drinks. The moment Jacco saw that wry smile and arched eyebrow and the way he was being shamelessly admired, he knew he was lost.
Like taking candy from a baby, Arjan knew exactly how to flatter a nineteen-year-old innocent and applied himself to his craft as he had done a thousand times before.
“So, you’re back. I wasn’t sure whether I’d see you again after the last time; you seemed pretty upset when you left.”
“Oh that! No, I was fine, really. I’d just had a bit too much to drink that’s all,” Jacco lied.
“No lasting ill-effects then?”
Arjan was covering his options. He knew he’d gone a bit far with the boy for a first time and was quite ready to get rid of him now if there was any sign of trouble. Then again, the kid was cute and might be persuaded into a repeat performance. It had been a while since he’d had someone; he’d been pretty busy of late but tonight he was in the mood and well, if it was handed to him on a plate, he wouldn’t refuse. The problem was though, the boy had that look in his eyes and it was one usually to avoid. If you messed with teenagers, as Arjan was wont to do, you ran the risk of them becoming a liability. He knew his attractions and he knew that look; the boy was smitten! Ah well, there were ways and means of dealing with all situations.
Several drinks later, Jacco knew that he was probably going to go upstairs fairly soon and he felt proud of himself that Arjan seemed so interested. After all, he must have seemed pretty naïve the last time, running off like that but it hadn’t seemed to have put the man off in any way. In fact, it answered several questions he’d been asking himself for months. Was he attractive? Could he keep a conversation going with gay men? Would the size of his dick deter them?
“Would you like to have another drink in the flat? It’s a lot quieter there and I won’t have to keep fighting my way through this lot.”
Jacco was thrown a little. He was being invited up for a drink, not necessarily sex. He’d rehearsed this possibility. He wanted to ask Arjan to be gentler this time; he didn’t want to go home bleeding for instance but how could he ask that if Arjan didn’t have sex in mind? Not wanting to appear foolish, he just nodded and followed the man to the back of the bar and the door leading to the apartment. Arjan hadn’t waited for an answer, he’d taken it as read and as he climbed the stairs, that familiar excitement associated with domination and total control surged through his body.
He sat in his high backed leather chair, in the unlit room, the lightning still flashing sporadically outside and the muted thump of the bass from the bar below reflecting his heartbeat. The boy hadn’t wanted to go but he’d thrown him out, rejecting all pleas for post coital tenderness or comfort and without the slightest trace of guilt. There had been many like him in the past and there would be more in the future. There was nothing special about this kid. He’d been asked to take it easy; he’d been begged not to cause too much pain and he’d revelled in the power that had given him. Sometimes all he wanted to hear were pleas for mercy; they fed his ego and enabled him to extend the game. This time, he’d pretended to go along and he’d played it tender; for a full twenty minutes, he’d stroked, caressed and cajoled until the boy was absolutely relaxed and submissive and then he’d taken him the way he wanted. The kid had begged him to stop, to go more slowly and he’d yelped in pain; that luscious cry that almost took Arjan over the edge. Then he’d drawn back, refusing to touch him until it was begged for; for those moments, life was worth living. Of course he’d taken it further than he’d intended. Jacco had used his fists and he rubbed his jaw ruefully, where he’d been caught by a lucky swing. The boy shouldn’t have done that; it was his own fault, it just fuelled the fire. Would there be any nasty repercussions from this evening’s work? He doubted it. From experience, these kids were almost always too frightened, or too infatuated. They’d go home, lick their wounds and he’d either never see them again, or they’d be back for more. He wasn’t certain about Jacco, especially after tonight; the boy seemed broken when he left but he didn’t anticipate trouble. Anyway, he was bored now. There wasn’t much more he could do with this one; the challenge wouldn’t be there the next time, if he reappeared. Anyway, in the event that he did come back, there were other avenues he could lead him down; the responsibility could be passed on to others. Pouring himself another stiff drink, he walked over to the bed and lay down propped up against the pillows, watching the lightning and the rain dribbling down the windowpanes. Sleep would come easier tonight.
12. Marcel's first premiere
Marcel whistled tunelessly but happily as he struggled with his bow tie. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn his smoking jacket with all the trimmings; it must have been at his sister’s wedding all those years ago. He smiled ruefully at himself in the mirror; now they’d been innocent times. Standing in starched white shirt, boxer shorts and new black socks, with the rebellious bow tie loose around his neck, he tried to evaluate at himself objectively. All things considered, he wasn’t too unhappy with the result. Mid-thirties, several years of life-threatening illness and the loss of his best friend had all taken their toll and were visible in the lines around his eyes, yet he felt he still had something to offer. Recent training had retuned the body and after a good wash and scrub up, he felt good about himself for the first time in months.
Tinnie had been furious of course. Mia’s invitation had come out of the blue and had taken him by surprise but it was the sort of thing you couldn’t refuse and had come at just the right time to lift his spirits.
“A film premiere! At the Tuschinski! How could you consider going without me?”
“You know why Tinnie. Mia just wants to have a Walker and I’m as safe as they get.”
”What’s a ‘Walker’ then?”
“Oh you know, one of those guys, you see escorting Hollywood starlets along the red carpet on Oscars night. They’re usually gay and totally anonymous but I don’t care, I’m looking forward to it.”
“And this Mia’s a film starlet is she? I don’t think so!”
Tinnie had sulked for hours but it had been like water off a duck’s back to Marcel; he was genuinely excited at the prospect of attending a glittering occasion for the first time in what seemed years.
Mia was an anachronism from his past; once the owner of a second-hand bookshop, who he’d met by accident through another guy and a peculiar set of circumstances; she was now a successful author and as such, on most people’s A-lists for this sort of event. Marcel chuckled to himself. He’d seen her naked, well more than that actually but that had been complicated and he was glad they were still friends, although contact was sporadic.
He finished dressing and was satisfied with the overall result. Everything still fitted much as it had done when he first bought it and with the addition of a new deep red waistcoat, his confidence soared; he looked the part, he was sure of that.
In the car on the way to the theatre, Marcel couldn’t believe the change in Mia. She’d always been chic in her own individual, money-sparing way but tonight she positively radiated confidence and glamour.
“You look stunning!”
“Well, thank you kind sir; you cut quite a dash yourself.”
“I can’t believe what an evening dress does for you. No, let me rephrase that…I’ve never seen you in an evening dress before; you look as though you were born for this.”
“Oh bullshit Marcel. I’m no different to what I’ve always been; you should know me better than that. A bit more money and a few designer clothes maybe but underneath, I still shit myself about all this. You know I read an article about my supposed life in the Gazette and I didn’t recognise the woman they were talking about. It was my photo and the facts were reasonably accurate but it wasn’t about me, it was about someone I’d like to be, someone they want me to be. It’s almost as if they’ve projected my life onto a screen and created this personality who doesn’t exist in reality yet.”
“Well, however you feel, you’ve pulled it off; you’re world famous in Holland. Maybe you’re schizophrenic and can adopt a personality to suit every occasion.”
”Always have been my dear, always have been.”
Mia smiled warmly at him and squeezed his hand. She knew he understood the nature of the beast.
The car pulled up behind several others in the street leading towards the theatre. There were crowds of people milling around; some bemused tourists who had been caught up in something they knew nothing about, a fair amount of police trying hard to appear in control but mostly people who were there to catch a glimpse of their favourite soap stars, sports personalities, or other minor celebrities.
“Jesus, these are the people who cause traffic jams by stopping at road accidents to have a good look. Take a good look; this is the Dutch entertainment world, fairly small peanuts eh?”
“Oh come on Mia, aren’t you just a tiny bit excited? It may not be Los Angeles or the West End of London but it’s still glamorous enough for us.”
“Spoken like a true gay man. The sight of a few sequins and a feather boa and you’re anybody’s! Just look at them all. Wouldn’t you think they’d have better things to do on a beautiful summer’s evening? Most of them are farmer’s wives from Drenthe and they haven’t the foggiest idea who I am.”
“Yeah right; spoken like the true Calvinist and the true city snob you are. Are you going to stop this cynicism and enjoy yourself?”
Mia crossed her eyes, sighed exaggeratedly and fixed her smile as the chauffeur opened the car door.
Marcel couldn’t help the tingle that ran down his spine as the atmosphere caught hold of him. The noise and excitement was infectious and he grinned idiotically as the cameras flashed and reporters crowded round. Taking Mia’s arm, he led her proudly along the red carpet towards the door of the cinema. It didn’t matter that he knew the cheers and teenage screams were for the stars of the latest reality soap, who were just behind them, or that the outstretched autograph hunters didn’t care who was signing their books. Everyone was a celebrity tonight and he loved it.
“Are you watching Willem?” he whispered under his breath, “This one’s for you.”
Standing on his own, clutching the obligatory glass of champagne, Marcel watched and admired as Mia put on her professional face for the small group gathered around her. He didn’t mind in the slightest that nobody was interested in him; he’d fulfilled his purpose for the night and the occasional exasperated glance she threw at him, reassured him that his role had been appreciated. He would rejoin her later when the excitement had died down.
“What did you think of it then?”
Not at all sure that he was the one being spoken to, Marcel turned around. He had a sense of déjà vu but couldn’t quite think why; the face looked so familiar but where from? Whoever it was, he was attractive. Marcel went through his usual checklist: dark haired, slightly older, probably early forties, nice eyes, nice smile, quite short but no less appealing for that.
“Sorry, are you speaking to me?”
“I was just asking what you thought of the film that’s all.”
The man smiled again and Marcel warmed to him immediately; he always had been a sucker for a lop-sided grin.
“Oh, it was okay you know. Typical Dutch film really; not enough finance, not enough back-up acting talent apart from the lead roles most of whom we’re sick of seeing on TV time and time again. It was enjoyable enough, though I wish they’d made their minds up about what they wanted it to be.”
”What do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t think it knew whether it wanted to be an art-house movie; you know, French cinema verité type of thing, or a mainstream, appeal-to-all film for the masses.”
The man started chuckling.
“Have I said something funny?”
“No, no, really, you haven’t and you’re probably quite right. What did you think of the lead actor?”
Marcel looked at him closely. He wasn’t sure whether he was being mocked or not and was preparing to demonstrate his irritation. Then he looked again and slowly, embarrassingly, the reason for his déjà vu became apparent. Blushing from his toes upwards, he stammered,
“Oh, shit! Oh Christ! I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognise you out of context. You’re Onno Huizinga aren’t you? Fucking hell, what an idiot I am. I hope you’ll forgive me?”
“Hey, no need to go overboard, after all, I’m only a minor Dutch actor, who everybody’s sick of seeing on TV right?”
“Touché! I deserved that. I’m Marcel van Ommen, social misfit extraordinaire.”
Marcel extended his hand and was surprised at how firmly it was grasped.
“Well, you know who I am. Pleased to meet you Marcel.”
Mia was tired of networking. Despite what her publisher had told her, that no contact was a bad contact, she found it very difficult to promote herself to complete strangers in this sort of situation, although it was clear that half the room were doing precisely that. She tried several times to attract Marcel’s attention but he was engrossed in conversation with Onno Huizinga. She was both impressed and pleased that he hadn’t been left twiddling his thumbs but she was bored now and wanted to escape. Taking another glass of champagne from a roving waiter, she wandered around, keeping a watchful eye on Marcel in case the opportunity arose to drag him away. Her mood wasn’t improved by drifting around the various clusters of celebrities, reporters and well-known party people. Conversation rarely rose above the banal and self-congratulatory. Few people knew who she was and she wasn’t inclined to introduce herself, feeling that she’d done enough of that already. Sidling up behind Onno Huizinga, she gave Marcel clear signals that it was time to go but Marcel was enjoying himself and failed to take the hint.
“Hey, Mia, let me introduce you to Onno Huizinga. Onno, this is Mia Pijpers, authoress and good friend.”
Mia glared at him but had little choice but to play along and shook Onno’s outstretched hand.
”Hello. I enjoyed your part in the film.”
‘Hmm,’ thought Marcel, ‘only slightly warmer than icy; this may have been a mistake, Onno doesn’t seem to have noticed though.’
“Thank you. You’re an author? Fiction or non-fiction?”
“Well, both actually.”
Marcel started fidgeting, ‘come on Mia, warm up a bit.’
“Actually, she’s just being modest. She’s just recently had a best seller in both the fiction and the non-fiction lists at the same time.”
Onno did his best,
“Oh, would I have read either of them? What are they called?”
“Well, that depends on what sort of things you like reading. I’m sure you hardly have any time between all those film shoots, parties and public appearances.”
It wasn’t what Mia had said but the way she said it. Onno looked surprised but took it like a professional and backed away, taking the opportunity to turn and put his drink on a table but Marcel was angry. There was no need for dripping sarcasm, especially when he was trying to get to know somebody, somebody he might really get to like.
He tried vainly to repair the damage.
‘The Sage’s Secrets,’ is about folklore and healing in Surinam and ‘Lucia’s Diamonds,’ is the one about a high class Madame and her brothel; it’s really spicy stuff and based on a true story, isn’t that right Mia?”
“I’ve heard about that one. From what I’ve heard, you’ve certainly shaken up a few society matrons in high places.”
Marcel thought Onno was behaving like a true gentleman and prayed that Mia would respond in kind but his hopes were dashed. Mia was having one of her truly selfish moments for which only close friends could forgive her.
“Yes well; it’s only a story. Marcel, I’ve got a headache. Can we go now? I’ve had enough.”
Mia was at her imperious worst and didn’t consider for a minute that Marcel wouldn’t meekly comply; after all, he was her escort for the night. Marcel however, made a quick decision and took a gamble.
“Look, I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. I’ll get you a taxi but I think I’ll stay a little longer if you don’t mind?”
He looked questioningly at Onno.
“No, no Marcel, you mustn’t stay on my account. Mia’s clearly had enough, me too actually. You see that she gets home alright. I’m going anyway. Listen here’s my number. Maybe we can get together for a drink or something sometime? Nice meeting you. Bye Mia.”
With that, he handed Marcel his card and disappeared into the crowd.
Marcel took Mia by the arm and frogmarched her to the doorway. He was so angry he couldn’t speak. Fortunately, there was a line of taxis outside the hotel waiting to pick up some likely high-tipping rides. Marcel signalled to one, opened the door and bundled Mia inside.
“What? What have I done? Why are you being like this, I only said I’d had enough? Hadn’t you had enough of all those phonies? I thought you hated those sorts of people.”
Mia knew she’d overstepped the mark. Oh well, she’d ring him tomorrow and apologise; Marcel would be fine, he always was. He knew what she was like. She didn’t mean to be rude but sometimes… As the door was slammed shut and the taxi drove away, she bit her nails anxiously. She’d never seen Marcel that angry.
Standing on the steps of the hotel, his hands in his pockets, Marcel wondered what he should do next. There was hardly any point going back inside. Most people were leaving anyway and the only person he really wanted to talk to had very politely made a quick exit after being roundly insulted by someone he thought of as a close friend. As quickly as it had flared up however, his anger subsided. He could never bear a grudge. After all, it had been Mia’s evening rather than his. Meeting Onno had been a bonus but perhaps he should have been more loyal to the woman he was supposed to be escorting. He dug into his pocket to find Onno’s card and loosening his bowtie, he set off down the street, not heading for anywhere in particular but glad of the fresh air.
“Hey, need some company?”
He looked around to see Onno emerge from the shadows. It was corny but he looked just like he did on the poster for the film.
The Amsterdam Series
Home
10. Gypsy women
- A glutton for punishment
- Marcel's first premiere
