Indians on Vacation

by Thomas King

  We went to Amsterdam the year after we went to Paris. Mimi had found an article that mentioned a pipe museum on Prinsengracht that had an American Indian pipe in its collection.

  “Don Duco,” Mimi told me. “He found a bunch of antique pipes while he was doing renovation work, and the hobby just got out of hand.”

  “Eight euros to see a bunch of pipes?”

  “They have an American Indian pipe,” Mimi told me with authority, “so maybe they have the Crow bundle as well.”

  The museum wasn’t all that large, but then pipes don’t take up much room. And the collection was pretty impressive.

  “I wonder why there’s no information on the pipes.” Mimi wandered the display cases looking for some sort of signage. “Be handy to know the history.”

  There was a display of elaborate pipes that looked as though they had been created by Hieronymus Bosch, and a series of French pipes with people’s faces carved into the bowls.

  “That’s a Maori pipe from New Zealand.” Mimi pointed to one of the cases. “And over there are opium pipes from China. You find the American Indian pipe yet?”

  As it turned out, the museum had more than one pipe from the Americas. There was an argillite pipe from Haida Gwaii and a pipe-stone calumet from the Great Lakes.

  We wandered through the rest of the museum, and then we went downstairs to the pipe and tobacco store.

  “How about I buy you a pipe, Bird? You wouldn’t have to smoke it. You could just stick it in your mouth and look distinguished.”

  I tried to imagine myself packing the bowl of a pipe with tobacco, tried to imagine the clouds of choking smoke, tried to imagine the stink on my clothes and the bad taste it would leave in my mouth.

  Then again, looking distinguished wasn’t to be underestimated.

  “Well,” said Mimi as we climbed the stairs to street level, “no luck with the bundle, but we know more about pipes than we did before.”

  MIMI DOESN’T WAIT for an answer. She’s out of her seat and waving at Kalea as though they’re old friends. Kalea waves back tentatively. And then she sees me.

  I close my eyes and wait.

  “Mr. Mavrias.”

  I open my eyes.

  “I can’t believe it,” Kalea says. “What are the odds?”

  “Yeah,” says Bryce, “what are the odds.”

  “Join us, please.”

  All the tables are taken. Bryce looks anyway. He has my sympathies. I wouldn’t want to share a table with a couple of strangers.

  “I’m Mimi Bull Shield.” Mimi helps herself to my pie. “And you already know my partner, Blackbird Mavrias.”

  “Bull Shield and Mavrias?” says Kalea. “See, Bryce. Lots of women keep their own names.”

  Mimi turns towards Bryce like a shark who has just caught the scent of blood in the water.

  “Kalea Tomaguchi,” says Kalea. “And this is Bryce Osbourne.”

  “Bird has told me so much about you.”

  Kalea blushes. “I suppose he told you how I knocked him down.”

  Mimi smiles. “He was embarrassed.”

  Kalea sits next to Mimi. Bryce stays standing, hoping that a table will come free.

  “We were at this restaurant.”

  “Chinese.”

  “Yeah, Chinese. Bryce and I were having an argument.”

  Bryce sits down quickly. “Pretty dull stuff. I don’t think they want to hear it.”

  “We don’t mind,” says Mimi, “do we, Bird?”

  I keep my head down and try to protect my pie with an elbow.

  “We’re getting married in the fall, and there are so many things to decide. Bryce wants a destination wedding in Costa Rica, and I’d rather save the money and have a simple ceremony in my parents’ backyard.”

  “That’s not a wedding, honey,” says Bryce. “That’s a barbecue.”

  “And he wants me to take his last name.”

  “Kalea Osbourne,” says Bryce. “It’s a great name.”

  “But then all our children would be named Osbourne.”

  That pretty much kills the conversation. There’s no way I’m going to be the first to say anything.

  “Do you have children?” Kalea asks.

  “Two,” says Mimi.

  “How did you handle the last names?”

  “Bull Shield,” says Mimi with no apology in her voice. “I did all the work.”

  Bryce grunts. “Is that like an Indian tradition?”

  “I like it,” says Kalea.

  “So, you argued,” says Mimi, not one to be deterred by a grunt.

  “We did,” says Kalea. “And then I got angry and left the restaurant in a rush, and that’s when I hit your husband with the door.”

  “Don’t worry,” says Mimi. “He didn’t mind.”

  “He was very kind to walk me back to the hotel.”

  Mimi glares at Bryce. I’m used to her glares. Still, I feel my body tense.

  “But after I got back, he apologized.” Kalea smiles across the table at Bryce. “And we made up.”

  “Did we ever.”

  “Bryce!”

  “I’m going to the bathroom,” says Mimi. “You want to come?”

  “Sure,” says Kalea.

  Bryce and I sit at the table and try not to look at each other. “You know why women do that?”

  “Go to the bathroom together?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Besides the obvious.”

  “Is it so they can talk about us?”

  “Probably.”

  “You don’t mind your kids having her last name?”

  This is not the first time I’ve been asked this question. “Bull Shield. It’s a good name. It has a long history among the Blackfoot.”

  “But you’re Mathias.”

  “Mavrias,” I say. “It’s my mother’s name.”

  “Not your father’s?”

  “Nope. My father’s name was Blackbird.”

  “That’s your first name.”

  “It is.”

  “So, you have your mother’s last name, and your kids have their mother’s last name?” Bryce shakes his head. “My parents are never going to go for something like that. You got any advice?”

  “On how to change Kalea’s mind?”

  “Yeah,” says Bryce. “I really want to go to Costa Rica.”

  BESIDES PIPES, A COUPLE of major art museums, the hotel where Chet Baker died, and the remarkable maze of canals, Amsterdam is known for its public brothels. De Wallen is the most famous of the red-light districts in the city, and after dinner at an Asian restaurant, Mimi decided that we needed to walk around the area.

  “There’s a bronze sculpture that shows a hand fondling a breast.” Mimi pointed to the top of an ornate spire in the distance. “It’s near the Old Church.”

  “A hand fondling a breast?”

  “And there’s a statue celebrating sex workers of the world in the same area.”

  “Near a church?”

  “Sure,” said Mimi. “Sex and religion? A match made in heaven.”

  We had to hunt to find the sculpture. It was set in the ground, small and somewhat creepy, as though there was a woman buried under the cobblestones with only one breast showing, while a hand reached out from the grave to fondle the nipple.

  “My mother,” said Mimi, “is going to be sorry she missed this.”

  The statue was equally problematic. A full-length female figure standing on steps, looking back through an arch.

  “She’s supposed to be standing in a doorway.”

  “Is that what that is?”

  “Belle,” Mimi told me. “Her name is Belle.”

  The statue was roughly rendered, as though the artist had finished off the piece with hot metal lumps thrown against the woman and hammered into place. Large breasts, heavy hips. Belle was wearing pants and a tight top of some sort. She had her hair twisted up into a tight bun and was staring off into the distance.

  If it weren’t for the gu
idebook, I might have thought that Belle was standing on a gallows, waiting for a rope.

  Instead of a prostitute waiting for a customer.

  “Sex worker,” Mimi corrected me. “They prefer the term ‘sex workers.’”

  Mimi had me take a picture of her standing in solidarity with Belle, and then Mimi took a picture of me with Belle.

  “Try to look happy, Bird.”

  “I am happy.”

  “There’s supposed to be a place around here where the women talk about the profession. Sort of a lecture. We should go. Might be something you can use for the book.”

  “Pass.”

  “Have you ever thought about it?”

  “The book?”

  “No,” said Mimi. “Having sex with a prostitute.”

  “Didn’t you want to find Trumpeter Alley?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “The narrowest alley in Amsterdam? Only a metre wide? I’d like to see that.”

  Mimi stood next to Belle with her hands on her hips. “So, have you ever been with a sex worker?”

  “Mimi . . .”

  “Do you know the percentage of men who have been with sex workers?”

  “Mimi . . .”

  “Let’s go see the brothels.” Mimi tucked the guidebook into her pack and took my hand. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll keep you safe.”

  THE WOMEN DON’T RETURN right away, and when a table opens up at the far side of the restaurant, Bryce is quick to grab it.

  “Where’s Bryce?” says Mimi.

  “Table,” I say. “Over there.”

  “I should probably go,” says Kalea.

  “He does look lost,” says Mimi.

  Kalea smiles. “And I’m hungry.”

  “Don’t forget what I said.”

  Mimi watches Kalea cross the restaurant. I tap my fork against my glass to get her attention.

  “Okay, what was that all about?”

  “What?”

  “You know.”

  “Have some more coffee, Bird.”

  “I don’t want any more coffee. Why did we come here? And what did you say to her?”

  “You really want to know?”

  Of course I don’t want to know. I’m not even sure why I asked, but it’s too late now.

  “When we saw the refugees in Budapest, did you want to help them?”

  “Sure.”

  “But we couldn’t, could we? We don’t speak the language. We had no idea what we could do, what could be done. We were helpless.”

  “Okay.”

  “Did that feel good? Were you proud of yourself?”

  “Mimi . . .”

  “But with Kalea, I can do something. I can help.”

  “Mimi . . .”

  “Or I can mind my own business. Is that what you’re about to tell me?”

  “You don’t know her.”

  “I know she has a boyfriend that she’s about to marry. I know she’s not sure that she loves him. Last night, you told me that she thought she was pregnant. Do you know what that’s like for a woman?”

  “No.”

  “No is the correct answer.” Mimi takes a forkful of my pie. “So, she’s not pregnant. After they had sex last night, her period started.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “Yes, that’s good. It means she has a chance to reconsider her decision.”

  “To marry Bryce.”

  “Would you want to be married to Bryce?”

  Across the restaurant, Kalea and Bryce are locked in conversation. Kalea is sitting upright in her chair. Bryce is slumped over his food. Neither of them is looking happy, but I’m too far away to be sure.

  “You told her to dump Bryce?”

  “Not exactly.”

  The groan escapes before I can stop it. “You didn’t tell her the story about fishing?”

  “Maybe.”

  “The one your mother tells. Just because you catch a fish doesn’t mean you have to keep it? That story?”

  Mimi shrugs.

  “I’m going to get another piece of pie.”

  “You’ve already had one.”

  “You ate most of it.”

  “If she were your daughter,” says Mimi, “what story would you have told her?

  SO WE STROLLED UP and down several streets in Amsterdam with names neither of us could pronounce. The evening light played off the canals, while women in bikinis swayed back and forth in windowfronts.

  “You think Uncle Leroy would have visited a sex worker?”

  A group of young men came down the street, drunk, laughing, egging each other on. They stopped in front of various windows and stared at the women, and the women stared back. One of the men took a photo with his cellphone, and as he turned away to show it to his buddies, the woman flew out of her room, grabbed the cellphone, and threw it in the canal.

  Mimi whacked my shoulder. “Did you see that?”

  At first, the man stood there, stunned. The woman went back into her room, shut the door, and pulled the curtain.

  “Way to go!” Mimi whispered, loud enough for the men to hear.

  Not that they were listening. The man who had lost his phone started shouting in a language other than English, but it wasn’t hard to figure out what he was saying. He went to the door and began pounding on it, until he was dragged away by his friends.

  Mimi snuggled up against me. “So which woman would you want to have sex with?”

  “You.”

  “Sweet, but you have to pick one.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I don’t mean for real,” said Mimi. “Think of it as though you’re looking at a painting. Some people like realism. Some like abstract. How about I go first.”

  “How about we go back to the hotel.”

  “See the dark-haired woman in the white bikini?”

  “Mimi . . .”

  “She’s cute.”

  “Mimi . . .”

  “And I really like the bikini.”

  Mimi dragged me up and down several more streets, stopping every so often in front of the lighted windows.

  “Okay,” I said at last. “The blonde.”

  “The one in the panties and the halter top?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really, Bird?” said Mimi. “A blonde?”

  IT’S ALMOST ONE by the time Mimi and I step out of the hotel restaurant and into the sunshine of a beautiful Prague day.

  Mimi pulls out her guidebook. “So now,” she says, “we have our choice of the Prague Zoo or Stromovka Park.”

  My stomach is somewhat upset, and my body is beginning to ache, as though there’s a fever in my immediate future.

  “I thought we had decided against zoos.”

  I don’t think it’s anything serious, but I wonder if I might be getting what Mimi had.

  Kitty takes a step backwards. Is it contagious? she asks.

  “Prague is supposed to have one of the best zoos in the world,” says Mimi.

  “That’s not a recommendation.”

  “Then let’s go to Stromovka. It’s the largest park in the city. We just have to find tram 91.”

  “You know, we have parks in Guelph.”

  “When was the last time we went to Riverside Park?”

  “And we could walk the river from Victoria past the Boathouse and all the way to the Hanlon.”

  “Stromovka has a duck pond.”

  “The Speed is lousy with geese,” I say. “And every spring, we get to see the goslings.”

  “We’re not in Guelph.” Mimi’s voice is low and sad. “We’re in Prague.”

  Normally, Mimi is able to manage my depressions and bad moods. But every so often, I wear her down.

  “Would it be easier for you if we weren’t together?”

  I shake my head, but Eugene is already on the job.

  Way to go, champ, he whispers.

  “Is that what this is about?”

  I tell Mimi I’m sorry, that I
’m not feeling all that well, that I’m tired, that I’m not comfortable in foreign places, that I don’t do well when I’m not at home. These are excuses that I’ve used so many times, they feel like amiable ruts in a hard road.

  “Are you unhappy with me?” says Mimi. “With our lives?”

  Tell her the truth, says Eugene. Tell her you hate yourself and what you’ve become.

  “Because I’m not unhappy with our lives.” Mimi is crying now. Softly, so you wouldn’t notice unless you looked. “I just wish you weren’t so miserable.”

  Tell her you’ve become a Bear.

  “What do you believe in, Bird? Is there anything left that you believe in?”

  ALL THE WAY BACK from Amsterdam’s red-light district, I went over my choice of sex worker. I told myself I should have picked the brunette in the green leotards, or the woman with the short black hair and the tattoo of a rose on her shoulder.

  As though there were a right choice in the first place, and I was annoyed with Mimi for making me choose.

  Mimi didn’t say anything until we got to Dam Square. “That was disappointing.”

  “What?”

  “The brothels. I thought the women had their own apartments. I thought they were in control of their space and their bodies.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

  “I thought they lived normal lives. Normal women. Doing normal things. Watching television. Ironing. Washing dishes. Sitting in their living rooms with the blinds open. With a dog or a cat. And every so often, when they felt like it, they had sex for money.”

  There was a young man at the far side of the square with a didgeridoo. He was playing a rhythmic piece that had nothing in common with American show tunes.

  “But those places were cages. A room with a door. A hole in the wall. A zoo for men.”

  I thought about the lectures on the sex trade that we could have attended. Perhaps, if we had gone to one, Mimi would have been able to ask questions, and maybe if she had heard the women talking about how they lived their lives, she’d have felt better.

  Maybe they did have pets.

  WE FIND TRAM 91 and take it to the park. When we get there, we start walking.

  “Are there sights we’re supposed to see?”

  “There are,” says Mimi, but she doesn’t stop, and she doesn’t look at the guidebook. “There are always sights to see.”

  We walk past something that looks a bit like a church but turns out to be a planetarium. I’m not feeling much better, but I’m optimistic that the fresh air will help.