So far, thought Jacob as he began eating his pasta while Daan and his mid-cheek pal prockled Dutch above his head, so far no one had even brushed a threesome on the outer reaches of his cheeks, never mind pressed a pucker on his lips. He remembered Anne recording in her diary how she longed to be kissed (and him thinking how wet Peter van Daan must have been not to do it), and sympathised, kissing, in his opinion, being among the best of pleasures. But why, he wondered as the oil of his salad slicked his tongue, was such a comic action as melding your damp oral membranes with someone else’s so desirable? Where did such an impulse come from? What on earth could it have to do with evolution and human survival in the Darwinian circus that it should be so widespread and wished for? Whyever, all he knew was he felt the miss of it. He’d not had a kissing friend for months. And truth to tell he fancied such a moment at the moment rather more than this salad and pasta, and wished there was someone who felt he deserved it. Then suddenly he remembered the singular fleeting touch of Ton’s lips on his, and experienced a frisson of pleasure.
At which point, Daan and his friend gave each other a goodbye handshake and Daan sat down.
‘Didn’t introduce you,’ Daan said. ‘Koos was in a hurry. Wanted to tell me some news and go.’
‘Funny name.’
‘Funny?’
‘Odd.’
‘Not to us.’
‘Ah—yes. Sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude.’
‘You think your own name is funny?’
‘No.’
‘Koos is short for Jacob.’
‘It is?’
‘Yes. And Todd seems funny to me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because in Dutch it means rag. You know—a torn piece of cloth. Which perhaps is why no one is called it.’
‘Interesting. Because in olden times, the middle ages, sometime about then, in England a tod—only one d—was a weight of wool. About sixteen kilos by today’s measure, I think.’
‘How knowledgeable you are.’
‘I like knowing about names. They’re full of meanings and full of stories too.’
‘So you’ll know that in German tod means death.’
‘Yes, I know that.’
‘Put the Dutch and the German together and you’re Koos the death rag.’
‘Now who’s being rude? In English, when we say “on your tod”, we mean “on your own”, which comes from rhyming slang for “alone”. Like “apples and pears” means “stairs”.’
‘Tod rhymes with alone?’
‘It’s a bit complicated. There was a famous jockey called Tod Sloane. He was so good he was always coming first a long way ahead of all the others. So Tod Sloane, which rhymes with alone, got shortened to “on your tod”.’
‘And you think our Dutch names are odd.’
‘What about Van Riet?’
‘Of the reeds.’
‘Reeds, as in reeds that grow by water?’
‘Yes. Very appropriate name for a Dutchman, don’t you agree?’
‘We used to use them to thatch roofs.’
‘We too once. But also it means cane and bamboo. So furniture and baskets. Very useful plant.’
‘What about Daan?’
‘Like Dan in English. Short for Daniel. Daniël in Dutch. Which, come to think of it, we must get from the French.’
‘The man who had the courage to go on his tod in to the lion’s den.’
‘Did he?’
‘In the Bible.’
‘Not my favourite novel.’
Jacob gave Daan the expected grin before saying, ‘You’re not religious, then?’
Daan sniffed and pushed his empty plate aside. He had eaten with breakneck speed. ‘The only god to which I bend my thinking head is the unthinking god between our legs.’
Jacob glanced up from the remains of his salad, checking whether or not Daan was joking. There were no signs of it. Once more Jacob felt he was being probed, that Daan was seeking something from him. He thought, he’s done it again, caught me out, just like he did when we were looking at Titus, and when he was telling me about his grandmother. Switched the mood. Come at me suddenly from another direction.
‘Whose unthinking god between whose legs did you have in mind?’ he asked trying to sound unimpressed.
‘No one’s right now,’ Daan said. ‘Unlike a friend of mine over there who hasn’t taken his eyes off you for the last five minutes.’
Jacob turned to look and saw Ton standing at the bar gazing back at him with an undemanding smile. Jacob managed a nod of recognition before turning back, head down, hoping to prevent Daan observing the blush he felt blooming on his face. Ton a friend of Daan’s? Dear lord, he thought, that’s torn it.
And of course Daan had noticed. ‘You know him?’ he asked.
Jacob performed an unconvincing act with his paper napkin, cleaning his lips and fingers before tossing the screwed-up napkin aside.
‘He’s a friend of yours, did you say?’
‘Right.’
Jacob shifted in his seat. Daan was bound to invite Ton over. Better come clean. He made himself look Daan in the eyes.
‘Remember,’ he said, ‘I told you how I met a girl this morning who bought me a beer just before my stuff was stolen?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, to tell the truth, I thought she was a girl, but then, just before she went, well, something happened, and I realised she wasn’t a girl at all but a boy. And it was him.’
‘Ton?’
‘That’s what he said his name was. Ton.’
‘You thought Ton was a girl’s name?’
Jacob shrugged. ‘Isn’t English. Hadn’t heard it before.’
Daan regarded Jacob deadpan for a moment before his face cracked and he burst into a bout of what Jacob felt was indulgent laughter. Then he got up and went over to Ton. They exchanged a three-barrelled hello unquestionably of the very close-encounters kind. They talked a moment, laughing a lot, then both came back to the table. Ton held out his long-fingered hand; Jacob shook it with a tentative quickness, as if touching forbidden fruit. He could see why he had mistaken Ton for a girl: small, delicately slim, neatly built, and his face had the light fine features of a girl with a smooth skin that showed no sign of a razor.
‘We meet again after all,’ Ton said.
‘Yes,’ Jacob said, and heard himself add, ‘I’m glad.’
They exchanged complicit smiles as they sat down, Daan giving his seat to Ton, to whom he said something in Dutch before going off to join a group of people standing by the bar. He did all this with the decisiveness Jacob now recognised was characteristic of him.
‘Some people he knows,’ Ton said. ‘He thought we might like a chance to talk on our own.’
There was a pause before Jacob forced himself to say, ‘This morning … I thought … Your name. I’ve never heard it before.’
‘From Antonius. Antony. In English, I guess I’d be Tony.’
‘Don’t like Tony. So I’m glad you’re not.’
As always when his self-consciousness was at its worst, he heard himself speak like a man listening to his own echo. Which is why he noticed the unintended pun that tickled his pedantic funnybone and made him chuckle.
Ton, smiling in sympathy, said, ‘A good joke?’
‘Sorry. Not really. Just that Ton spelt backwards is not, and I said I’m glad you’re not—!’ As usual the joke vanished in the explanation, and his laughter with it.
But after a blank moment Ton said, ‘Not not but Ton, and when not Ton, not.’
And they could both laugh with relief.
‘I thought you said your name was Jack.’
‘I did.’
‘But it’s Jacob.’
‘They call me Jack at home. Or my father does anyway.’
‘That explains it.’
‘Explains what?’
‘Daan talked about you. But when we met this morning, well—I didn’t think you were that person.’
‘No. Wh
y would you?’
Jacob hoped that Ton would go on talking so that he wouldn’t have to think of something to say. There had been so much said today already and so much he had had to say that he was beginning to flag. He wasn’t used to the company of strangers, never mind strangers who were foreigners in a foreign place. He would like to be on his own, to give his soul time to catch up with his body (as Sarah would have put it). But there didn’t seem much chance of that for a while.
But Ton sat in silence, his eyes never leaving Jacob’s face. It was the first time Jacob had ever met anyone of around his own age who possessed such stillness. It wasn’t that Ton was laid back or merely lethargic, it wasn’t a pose or anything negative. You couldn’t help being aware of him, of his presence. Yet at the same time, he seemed to be as thin and as light as air. Like a wraith. Strangely beautiful. Ethereal. Which, Jacob realised, was why, along with his looks, he had found him so instantly attractive that morning. And why he had mistaken him for a girl. Or was this only an excuse? And an excuse for what? For his own confusion?
To stop himself probing that thought he said, ‘Thanks for your little present.’
Ton smiled. ‘Have you used it yet?’
‘No such luck.’
‘We should do something about that.’
‘Thanks a bundle.’
‘And,’ Ton went on, not joking now, ‘you understood what I wrote?’
‘With a little help from a friend.’
‘Daan?’
‘No. An old woman who helped me after I was mugged.’
Ton reached over and laid a hand on Jacob’s arm. ‘You were mugged? When?’
‘Just after you left. A kid in a red baseball cap. Ran off with my anorak.’
‘Did you lose much?’
‘Money. Train ticket. Everything really. Everything on me, I mean.’
‘No!’ Ton’s other hand covered his mouth. ‘My god, I remember! He was sitting behind you. Thin. Very bad—how do you call it?—spots.’
‘Acne.’
‘Acne. Jeugdpuistjes we say. Youth spots. Yes, I saw him. He was quite ugly. If I hadn’t left you, it wouldn’t have happened. I feel so guilty.’
‘Why? I didn’t lose anything important. Like, I mean, my passport or credit card or anything. Didn’t have them with me, luckily. Only some money, the map and stuff. Didn’t Daan explain just now?’
‘Only said you wanted to meet me.’
‘He said that! That I wanted to meet you? I didn’t say that!’
‘So you didn’t want to meet me again?’
Ton looked so abashed that Jacob was quick to say, ‘Yes, yes, I did want to meet you. I do want to see you. I only meant I didn’t actually say it to Daan. He made that up.’
‘Oh, Daan!’ Ton half rose, turning to look for him, but he was standing with his back to them. ‘Typisch!’ he said, hitching his chair nearer to Jacob and sitting down again. The noise in the café was so strident now, it was hard to hear a conversational voice. ‘He likes to arrange other people’s minds for them.’
Jacob laughed. ‘I’ve noticed.’
The bar girl pushed between them, picking up the empty plates and glasses, and speaking to Ton in Dutch.
He asked Jacob, ‘You want something?’
‘I’ve no money.’
‘One drink for free. Two, and we must meet again. So I insist.’
Jacob smiled. ‘All right. A coffee, thanks.’
The bar girl went.
Jacob said, ‘I’m not used to so much wine. Daan really likes it.’ He was aware of feeling mildly unstable and of dampness on his skin.
‘But I thought you were staying with his parents.’
‘After I was mugged, I remembered where he lived. His father told me. Which was lucky or I’d have been a bit stuck. Daan decided I should stay at his place tonight. My grandfather fought at Arnhem. He was badly wounded. Daan’s grandmother and her family looked after him. But he died.’
‘Yes, I know the story.’
‘You do? You know Daan pretty well, then.’
Ton laughed. ‘Yes, I know Daan pretty well.’
The bar girl arrived with Ton’s beer and Jacob’s coffee.
When she had gone, unable to quell his curiosity any longer, Jacob said, ‘Could I ask you something?’
‘Yes.’
‘Something personal.’
‘Isn’t it always, when someone asks if they can ask you something?’
‘Are you gay?’
Ton chuckled. ‘As a flag in a high wind. Isn’t it obvious?’
‘And something else?’
‘Be my guest.’
‘This morning … were you trying to pick me up?’
‘Not trying. I did.’
‘You did?’
‘But I dropped you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I found out I made a mistake.’
‘A mistake? How?’
‘You thought I was a girl.’
‘Daan told you.’
‘No no. You did.’
‘Me! When?’
‘When we were looking at the map.’
‘What did I say?’
‘Nothing much. Enough. You told Daan what happened?’
‘Yes.’
‘That you thought I was a girl and discovered I wasn’t?’
Jacob nodded.
‘He must have liked that.’
‘He did. You saw him, just before he came over to you. Laughing his head off.’
‘You only told him then?’
‘Yes. Well, he said you were a friend of his so I thought I’d better come clean.’
‘Jacques, you’re so naive.’
‘Sorry, I’m sure.’
‘No, it’s nice. I like it. Makes a change. But—’ He became serious. ‘Sometimes, it can be dangerous too. This morning, for instance. Putting your coat over the back of your seat. Then showing you had your money in it. And doing that in the Leidseplein. Which isn’t as bad as other places for pickpockets, like the Dam or the back of the railway station, but bad enough, if you don’t take care.’
‘You needn’t go on. I’ve learned my lesson.’
‘But that’s why I blame myself for what happened. I should have looked after you better. Warned you about your coat. Taken you somewhere nicer.’
‘Why? You didn’t know me.’
‘But I wanted to. I’m not a rent boy, you know. I don’t cruise the streets. I wouldn’t anyway, it’s just not me. I’m too particular. How can I say? Easily disgusted, if you understand me.’
‘Fastidious?’
‘Is that the word? Well, when you sat down I was at a table a few rows away. I liked the look of you so much. And the waiter didn’t come to you. And you looked so alone. And I thought you might be gay too. But not experienced. Like I say—naive. You were such a target for trouble. I wanted to help you. Felt protective, I suppose. Which was nice, because usually it’s the other way round. People usually feel protective of me. Like Daan, he does. But this time it was my turn, and I liked that feeling, to tell the truth. I thought we might become friends and I could show you some of Amsterdam. I love Amsterdam so much, it’s such a wonderful city. I like to share it. So I sat beside you and we started talking. And you were so nice, you took off that ugly anorak for me. I’m glad you’ve lost it because now you can get something better.’
‘Was it that obvious? How could you tell?’
Ton thought for a moment. ‘When you’re an open gay, like me, you only survive, even in Amsterdam, where it’s easier than in most places, if you learn pretty quick how people behave. What makes them do what they do. You have to be all eyes. Have to learn the danger signs. And to avoid trouble, you have to—let’s say—be ahead of it.’
‘Anticipate it?’
‘Yes, anticipate it. Or else in this wonderful world of ours, where everyone believes in individuality, and being yourself, isn’t that so?—’
‘And being what you want to be.’
‘Being what you are—’
‘True to yourself.’
‘And we are all so tolerant of each other, aren’t we, and this and this and this, and well … Where was I? I’ve got lost in my English! … Oh yes—Or else, if being what you are is being like me, you soon get your head beaten in. Or worse. That’s what I wanted to say.’
‘I know,’ Jacob said, ‘I know.’
With surprising simplicity, Ton raised a hand and stroked the back of his fingers down Jacob’s cheek, and, smiling, said, ‘No, dear Jacques, I don’t think you do. You’ve heard about it. You’ve read about it, I guess. But you don’t know it. If you knew, you wouldn’t ask about it.’
Jacob hung his head, smitten with embarrassment at Ton’s caress, but also in a pique. To mask his feelings, he took a sip of coffee. It was almost cold and had a thick bitter taste.
On a sudden impulse he said, ‘Then show me.’
‘Show you!’ Ton’s face was as close now as it had been while they sat together reading the map of Amsterdam that morning. ‘Show you what?’ His breath feathered Jacob’s brow. ‘What it’s like to be me? Or what it’s like to have your head beat in? Or what it’s like having sex with me?’
Jacob shrugged, sat back and ran a hand through his hair. His stomach curdled; he felt sick.
‘I don’t know,’ he said with difficulty. ‘I don’t know why I said that.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Another day, if you still want it,’ Ton said, then, looking at him with a different care: ‘Are you all right? You don’t look well.’
‘I’m okay,’ Jacob lied.
‘Maybe, I think, you’ve had enough. I’ll get Daan. You should go home.’
He was gone before Jacob could stop him. The loud talk and laughter seemed to assault Jacob directly now as if Ton’s presence had been a baffle, and the smoky air thickened his lungs. He withdrew into himself.
Postcards From No Man's Land Page 12