by Ben Karwan
He exhales deeply and takes my hand. ‘You know, it really annoys me when you’re right.’
‘I am sorry to interrupt,’ says an accented voice. ‘I just wanted to tell you that you two are a very cute couple.’ The dark-haired lady from the bar smiles down at us.
‘Oh we’re not –’ says Elliot, quickly pulling his hand away from mine.
She smiles and holds up her hands. ‘You presume I meant you are lovers. I have made no assumptions in regards to the nature of your relationship. I merely noticed that your bond – or coupling, if you will – seems very strong. I have previously made the error of mistaking platonic and amorous relationships.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. I can’t place her accent and it’s starting to annoy me. Not the accent – my mental blank.
‘Have a seat,’ says Elliot. ‘Do you want food or anything?’
‘No, no, I have no desire to impose.’
‘No imposition at all,’ I say. After all, what’s the point of a road trip if not to meet new people? Actually there are hundreds of other points but I still like the idea of talking to this woman – and not just because I want to figure out where her accent is from. She has an aura of warmth about her; I’m almost surprised she isn’t glowing. I think it’s her smile – it’s asymmetrical and shows off slightly crooked teeth. It seems so genuine.
‘In fact, we insist,’ says Elliot, and he scoots around the booth and sits next to me.
The mysterious foreigner sits opposite us with her glass of wine. ‘I am humbled by your offer. Let us begin with your names.’
‘Elliot.’
‘Jennifer. Or Jen. Either is fine.’
‘I am most pleased to make your acquaintance,’ she says. ‘My name is Marjolijn Jacobse.’
To me, it sounds like Marr-yoh-line Yah-kobs.
Across the table, we both shake her hand, which is warm and silky, bony yet strong. ‘Marjolijn,’ I repeat. ‘Is that … German?’
‘Dutch, mijn engeltje.’
A term of endearment, I assume.
‘So you’re Dutch … Does that mean you’re from Denmark?’
For such a smart boy, Elliot sure says some idiotic things. I put my hand on my face, partly to shame Elliot and partly to prove I know the answer. ‘ “Dutch” means you’re from Holland, you fool.’
‘Indeed,’ says Marjolijn. ‘Though Dutch actually refers to those from the Netherlands, of which North and South Holland are only two of the provinces. My permanent residence overlooks the canals of Amsterdam and it is beautiful.’
‘Sorry,’ says a sheepish Elliot. ‘It’s a beautiful name, anyway.’
‘Thank you,’ Marjolijn says with a grin. ‘You should tell that to my mother. She has never been a fan of it.’
This strikes me as odd. Why would a parent not like her own daughter’s name? Surely she had some say in it, right? ‘Why doesn’t she like it?’
‘She desired a Lebanese name for me,’ says Marjolijn. ‘She emigrated from Lebanon in her youth and, as I look like her, she wanted my name to match my complexion.’ She runs her index fingers along her cheekbones. ‘My father argued that as I was to be raised in the Netherlands, a Dutch name was more fitting.’
‘Well, I agree with Elliot. It’s a lovely name,’ I say. ‘What brings you to Australia? I hope that’s not a rude question.’
‘Not rude at all. I am actually participating in a brief musical tour,’ she says. ‘I am performing here later this evening.’
‘So you sing?’ Live entertainment is always good, even when it isn’t good, so I immediately look forward to hearing her. But before she can answer, our meals arrive. We initially feel bad for having food when Marjolijn doesn’t, but she insists it’s not a problem.
‘I do not like to eat before a performance. I like to consume a single glass of wine an hour or two before singing, and then relax my vocal folds.’
‘Musical talent. God, that’d be nice,’ says Elliot. ‘How long have you been playing for?’
‘Twenty-five years of singing, twenty of playing the piano. I am thirty-six now,’ she adds in response to our unasked question.
‘So you’re good?’
She laughs a little. ‘I like to think so. It is how I make money, after all.’
The pub is cute – in fact, you could make the argument for quaint – but especially judging by the state of our room, I doubt that performing here would pay well enough to make a living. Asking about her income is a little rude, though, I imagine.
Marjolijn must have noted my wandering eyes. ‘I usually perform in professional musical theatre,’ she says by way of explanation. ‘In the Netherlands I have performed professionally in many shows. I have also performed for a brief stint in Germany. I am here in Australia for a show in Sydney but the owner of this pub is an old family friend so I am here for a visit.’
‘You performed in three countries?’ asks Elliot incredulously. ‘In three different languages?’
Marjolijn nods and smiles. ‘I actually speak five languages: Dutch, German, Arabic, English and Polish.’ She counts them off her fingers as she lists them.
‘That’s … Wow,’ says Elliot.
I’m equally impressed. ‘I speak English and can count to ten in French. Does that count for anything?’ I say.
She laughs, though I think it’s more so I don’t feel bad about my lame joke. ‘Are either of you musically inclined?’
‘Not even a little bit,’ says Elliot. ‘I tried guitar but I was useless at it.’
‘I used to dance,’ I say. I’m not really sure if that counts as being ‘musically inclined’ because I can’t sing or play any instruments, but I know a little bit of music theory, and to dance I have to stay in time and know all the rhythms and stuff. I’m no good at actually making music but once it’s there I know how to use it. ‘I think I was okay at it. I loved it, at least. I had to give it up for school, though.’
‘But you have finished school?’
I nod.
‘Will you go back to dancing?’ asks Marjolijn.
I shrug. I haven’t really thought about it.
Elliot finishes the last forkful of his dinner (I swear that kid inhales his food), offers Marjolijn another glass of wine (she says no) and goes to order another drink for the two of us. This time he gets me a mojito.
‘So what type of music are you performing tonight?’ I ask, taking a sip of my drink. It’s sweet and refreshing – much better than the beer.
‘I am doing a mix of things: a few songs I wrote myself, a couple of theatre songs, some pop covers …’
‘What shows have you been in?’ asks Elliot.
‘Professionally?’
‘Yeah.’
She lists a number of shows in which she was in the ensemble and a few other shows where she had a minor role, but by far the most impressive is her performing the lead role in Next to Normal. In both English and Dutch.
‘What’s Next to Normal?’ asks Elliot.
‘Teddy was singing the score to it on the way up here,’ I say, though the extent of my knowledge is that a) it’s a musical and b) Teddy likes it. Then it hits me. ‘Oh my God, Teddy!’ I don’t know why the thought hadn’t occurred to me right away but Teddy is a huge musical theatre fan and Next to Normal is his favourite show. I excuse myself from the table and ring him.
‘Yeah, babe?’
‘Guess who I’m with,’ I say.
‘Who?’
‘Marjolijn Jacobse. Ever heard of her?’
‘Uh, as in the Marjolijn Jacobse who is the best Diana in the world? Let me talk to her! Oh my God! Wait. As if you’re with her. I don’t believe you.’
I return to the table and ask Marjolijn if she’d mind talking to Teddy. She takes my phone and speaks into it.
I guess Teddy still doesn’t believe it’s her, so she sings a couple of bars from a song I vaguely recognise. Though she sings quietly, her voice is remarkably pure.
Elliot catches my eye and raises his eyebrow
s. Then he smiles at me with half his mouth. Marjolijn hands me back my phone.
‘It is always nice to talk to a fan. Not many people out here know me.’
‘Marjolijn!’ calls a European woman in a high-pitched voice.
‘Paulina!’ Marjolijn gets up to greet her friend, a short, plump woman with silver hair bordering her ageing face.
They begin conversing in rapid Polish. Of course I understand none of it, with the exception of our names, which are accompanied by gestures to each of us. I wonder how Marjolijn introduces us.
‘It’s times like these,’ Elliot says to me, ‘that I feel as though understanding a foreign language would be useful. Then we could talk and nobody else would be able to understand us.’
‘I’d just switch between languages all the time – swear at people in Italian and then insult them in Arabic or something.’
‘I must apologise, friends, but I need to prepare,’ interrupts Marjolijn. ‘May we resume our conversation post-performance? I do hope you will stay.’
‘Of course,’ says Elliot.
Marjolijn disappears for perhaps forty-five minutes, during which time we significantly decrease our inhibitions via drinks from the bar.
Many other people wander in and the pub becomes surprisingly full. The roars of conversation and laughter are cut short when a small round man climbs onto the stage.
‘Hello everyone, and thank you for your attendance.’ His accent is similar to Paulina’s. ‘We have a very special treat for you all tonight. All the way from Amsterdam we have Marjolijn Jacobse, internationally renowned singer and actress. Please welcome her to the stage!’ He sweeps his arm to the side in the same way that a magician might to reveal his assistant.
Marjolijn glides onto the stage.
The crowd applauds, albeit somewhat unenthusiastically.
‘She looks amazing,’ I whisper to Elliot. She has since changed into a crimson, figure-hugging dress, which flows all the way to the floor, and has done her make-up.
‘Couldn’t they find any Aussie talent for us?’ I hear one of the men in the next booth say. ‘Plenty of local bands who could’ve used a gig.’ His bogan accent is incredibly striking. I screw up my nose a little and contemplate saying something.
‘Leave it,’ breathes Elliot, and he grasps my hand. We both turn our attention to the stage.
‘Hello, everyone. It is a true pleasure to be here to perform for you,’ says Marjolijn into a microphone. ‘As Rudi said, I am here travelling from Amsterdam. But I am sure you do not wish to hear me talk about myself, so let us begin the music. I wrote this song when I was fourteen and first visited England. It is the first song I wrote in English. It is called “White Comfort”.’
She sits at the piano and runs her fingers along the ivories before settling into a minor key. It’s immediately clear that she hadn’t been singing her best on the phone to Teddy. Her voice is smooth, crisp and resonant. Before she even reaches the first chorus, most of the chatter has died down and everyone has shifted their attention to the Dutch songstress.
The song is beautifully written. It’s about a girl who is afraid to disappoint others and can only find solace when she cuddles a white stuffed kitten. It’s her only source of comfort. The final chord of the song echoes through the bar and the audience cheers, Elliot and me on our feet. I’m awestruck. When I stand, I get a view of the next booth where three men sit, scoffing and sneering at Marjolijn.
She sings four more songs, each with as much emotion and power as the first, before she stops to introduce her sixth song.
‘I understand that most of you are not from the Netherlands but if you will please forgive me, I would like to sing you a song in my native language. Performing this song is when I first received media attention in my home country –’
‘Where you belong,’ comments one of the men.
I squeeze my thumb inside my fist and bite the inside of my lip. Why does it matter what country you were born in?
‘– as the understudy in Wicked. This is the Dutch version of “Defying Gravity”, called “Ik Lach om Zwaartekracht”. I do hope you enjoy it.’
If Teddy is to be believed, Wicked has a demanding score. Marjolijn doesn’t accompany herself for this song. Instead, a backing track begins to play. She opens her mouth to sing and I get goosebumps at every note. Her vowels are full and rich, almost like a physical presence in the room. Even the guttural, phlegmy Dutch sounds smooth and clear.
While the majority of patrons at the bar have their attention focused on Marjolijn, I’m acutely aware of the conversation the guys at the table next to us are having.
‘It’s all well and good that she can make some pretty sounds, but where’s it really going to get her in life?’
‘At some point you got to stop and think “this shit has gone too far”. A few melodies ain’t going to put the dinner on the table, is it?’
They all laugh after each comment, like they’re trying to outdo each other.
I slip my hand free from Elliot’s and slide to the edge of the booth.
‘What are you doing?’ hisses Elliot, but I ignore him.
I stand, straighten my dress and step across towards the group of guys.
‘Hello,’ I say harshly.
‘Hey sexy,’ says one. He looks as though he hasn’t had a shower for days. ‘You want a drink?’
‘Not particularly,’ I say. I place my hands on their table and lean in. ‘I’m more interested in what makes you think you have the right to sit here and make degrading sexist and racist comments.’
‘None of us ain’t done anything like that,’ says another. ‘We was kidding.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘because saying she should be home cooking dinner is hilarious, right?’
‘Look out, Billy,’ says the first guy. ‘We got ourselves a little feminist here. A right little man-hater.’
The guy who hasn’t spoken laughs.
‘Darlin’, here’s the deal,’ says Billy. ‘We been workin’ hard all day and just want a drink and a laugh, so stop pushin’ to get rid of us and go mind your own business.’
‘But if she were a white man, there’d be no issue, would there?’
They all laugh again. ‘The white man is the reason your life is so privileged,’ says the guy who hasn’t spoken until now. Arrogance seeps from every pore in his body. He gives off the vibe that, in his mind, I ought to consider myself lucky just to be in his presence. He stands up and steps closer. He’s much taller than me. He glares down at me and continues.
‘You feminazis don’t want equality, you want superiority. Come and talk to me when you’re willing to be represented equally in the low-paying jobs, instead of expecting a leg up because you have a vagina. You discriminate against us without even knowing who we are because the white man is evil, but the second anybody says anything about a woman you wave your little feminist flag and call it sexism. People like you are the reason the white man is quickly becoming the most oppressed type of person on the planet. So you can fuck off and take your equal pay and equal representation with you.’
Fury boils inside me. I try to laugh at him, to point out everything that’s wrong with what he’s said, but I can’t. I stare directly up into his eyes and the rage swells in my palm. I’m ready to strike. Before I can do anything, though, a body steps in front of me and pushes the guy away.
‘Dude, back off. What the hell is wrong with you?’ says Elliot.
‘Just finishing what she started. She belong to you, does she?’
‘I don’t belong to anyone,’ I snap.
The guys all laugh again.
‘None of us wants to hear your close-minded sense of superiority, so why don’t you take it somewhere else?’ suggests Elliot.
‘I agree,’ says another voice. Rudi, the owner, shuffles over.
I become aware of my surroundings and realise that Marjolijn’s performance has stopped and that most eyes are on us.
‘This is an establishment of acc
eptance. I take great offence to what you have said and I would encourage all three of you to leave before I phone the police.’
The men laugh uncontrollably yet again, though they grab their keys, wallets and phones from their table and walk out.
I start to breathe slowly and deeply, calming myself … Then he says it. I don’t know which one it is but on their way out one of them uses it. That despised four-letter c-word. Hands-down the worst thing you can call anybody, even in jest, and here it is being used brutally, as an actual insult. It’s just four letters but the fury inside me is phenomenal. Impulse takes over and I run after them. I don’t know what I’m going to do but I want to hurt them.
The only reason I don’t is Elliot’s incredibly strong hold around my waist.
‘Let me go!’ I yell at him. I try to throw his hands off. ‘Get off me! Let me go!’
Elliot holds me, despite my struggle, until the three guys have left the pub. Eventually I give up and just hug Elliot as tightly as I can. The rage inside me spills out in the form of tears instead of violence.
It takes Elliot about fifteen minutes to completely calm me down. Objectively, I knew before I went over that saying anything to those guys wasn’t going to achieve anything, but I figure if nobody calls anybody on their 1950s views, they might never realise that they’re wrong. I didn’t have the foresight to prepare for a retaliation.
Breathing steadily, my heart rate back to normal, I ask Elliot to get me another drink. I watch him go up to the bar where Marjolijn intercepts him. She says something to him and then follows him back to our table.
‘Jennifer, are you okay?’ she asks.
‘I am now,’ I say, which is relatively true. I’m still mad but my physical reaction has faded.
‘That was very brave of you.’
Even though I’m at risk of getting fired up again, I tell her what the guys had said and why I had gone up to them.
‘I must thank you for defending me,’ she says with a smile. ‘I admit I was unaware of the particular factor that instigated the argument, but the sheer level of volume made it abundantly clear what you were arguing about.’
‘I’m sorry for interrupting your performance,’ I say quietly.