by John Irving
Yet she had her allies—among the older prostitutes, especially. And when she discovered those other music lovers assembled in the Old Church in the wee hours of the morning, Femke established some fierce friendships. (Was Jack wrong to imagine that it might have been an easy transition for both choirgirls and prostitutes to make—namely, to love the organist as a natural result of loving his music?)
To judge Femke by her revenge against her ex-husband, one might have thought she would have been more possessive in her attachment to William Burns. But Femke had rejoiced in his music, and in his company. In her liberation from her former husband, she’d discovered another kind of love—a kinship with women who sold sex for money and gave it away selectively. If more than one of the music lovers in William’s audience at the Oude Kerk had taken him “home,” how many of them had given him their advice for free?
Jack would wonder, much later, if those red-light women were his father’s greatest conquest. Or were women who gave advice to men for money inclined to be stingy advice-givers to those rare men they didn’t charge?
To a four-year-old, it was a very confusing story. Then again, maybe you had to be a four-year-old to believe it.
Confusing or not, that was Femke’s story, more or less as Els told it—altered (as everything is) by time, and by Alice’s retelling of the story to Jack over the ensuing years. When the boy and his mother went to see Femke in her room on the Bergstraat, it was clear she’d been expecting them.
Femke didn’t dress like a prostitute. Her clothes were more appropriate for a hostess at an elegant dinner party. Her skin was as golden and flawless as her hair; her bosom swelled softly, and her hips had a commanding jut. She was in every respect a knockout—like no one Jack had seen in a window or a doorway in Amsterdam before—and there emanated from her such a universal disdain that it was easier to believe how many men she turned away than to imagine her ever accepting a customer.
What a sizable contempt Femke must have felt for Alice, who had ceaselessly chased after a man who’d so long ago rejected her. Femke’s evident contempt for children struck Jack as immeasurable. (The boy may have misinterpreted Femke’s feelings for his mother; Jack probably thought that Femke disliked him.) He instantly wanted to leave her room, which, compared to the other two prostitutes’ rooms he’d seen, was almost as pretty as Femke—it was also lavishly furnished.
There was no bed, just a large leather couch, and there were no towels. There was even a desk. A comfortable-looking leather armchair was in the window corner, under a reading lamp and next to a bookcase. Perhaps Femke sat reading in her window, not bothering to look at the potential clients passing by; to get her attention, the men must have had to come down the short flight of stairs and knock on her door or on the window. Would she then look up from her book, annoyed to have had her reading interrupted?
There were paintings on the walls—landscapes, one with a cow—and the rug was an Oriental, as expensive-looking as she was. In fact, Femke was Jack’s first encounter with the unassailable power of money—its blind-to-everything-else arrogance.
“What took you so long?” she said to Alice.
“Can we go?” Jack asked his mom. He held out his hand to her, but she wouldn’t take it.
“I know you’re in touch with him,” Alice told the prostitute.
“ ‘. . . in touch with him,’ ” Femke repeated. She moved her hips; she wet her lips with her tongue. Her gestures were as ripe with self-indulgence as a woman stretching in bed in the morning after a good night’s sleep; her clothes looked as welcoming to her body as a warm bath. Even standing, or sitting in a straight-backed chair, her body appeared to loll. Even sound asleep, Femke would look like a cat waiting to be stroked.
Hadn’t someone said that Femke chiefly, and safely, chose virgins? She picked young boys. The police insisted that Femke require them to show her proof of their age. Jack would never forget her, or how afraid she made him feel.
Virgins, Alice had explained to Jack, were inexperienced young men—no woman had ever given them advice before. That late afternoon in Femke’s room on the Bergstraat was the first time Jack felt in need of some advice regarding women, but he was too afraid to ask.
“If you’re still in touch with him, perhaps you’ll be so kind as to give him a message,” Alice continued.
“Do I look kind?” Femke asked.
“Can we go?” Jack asked again; his mom still wouldn’t take his hand. Jack looked out the window at a passing car. There were no potential clients looking in.
Alice was saying something; she sounded upset. “A father should at least know what his son looks like!”
“William certainly knows what the boy looks like,” Femke replied. It was as if she were saying, “I think William has seen enough of Jack already.” That’s the kind of information (or misinformation) that can change your life. It certainly changed Jack’s. From that day forth, he’d tried to imagine his father stealing a look at him.
Did William see Jack fall through the ice and into the Kastelsgraven? Would The Music Man have rescued his son if the littlest soldier hadn’t come along? Was William watching Jack eat breakfast at the Grand Hotel in Stockholm? Did his dad see him stuffing his face at that Sunday-morning buffet at the Hotel Bristol in Oslo, or suspended in the derelict elevator above the American Bar at the Hotel Torni in Helsinki?
And on those Saturdays in Amsterdam when Jack often sat in the window or stood in the doorway of The Red Dragon on the Zeedijk, just watching the busy weekend street—the countless men who roamed the red-light district—was his father once or twice passing by with the crowd? If William knew what his son looked like, as Femke had said, how many times might Jack have seen him and not known who he was?
But how could he not have recognized William Burns? Not that William would have been so bold as to take off his shirt and show Jack the music inscribed on his skin, but wouldn’t there have been something familiar about his father? (Maybe the eyelashes, as a few women had pointed out while peering into Jack’s face.)
That day in Femke’s room on the Bergstraat, Jack started looking for William Burns. In a way, Jack had looked for him ever since—and on such slim evidence! That a woman he thought was a prostitute, who may have been lying—who was unquestionably cruel—told him that his dad had seen him.
Alice had contradicted Femke on the spot: “She’s lying, Jack.”
“You’re the one who’s lying, to yourself,” Femke replied. “It’s a lie to think that William still loves you—it’s a joke to assume that he ever did!”
“I know he loved me once,” Alice said.
“If William ever loved you, he couldn’t bear to see you prostitute yourself,” Femke said. “It would kill him to see you in a window or a doorway, wouldn’t it? That is, if he cared about you.”
“Of course he cares about me!” Alice cried.
Imagine that you are four, and your mother is in a shouting match with a stranger. Do you really hear the argument? Aren’t you trying so hard to understand the last thing that was said—to interpret it—that you miss the next thing that is said, and the thing after that? Isn’t that how a four-year-old hears, or doesn’t hear, an adult argument?
“Just think of William seeing you in a doorway, singing that little hymn or prayer I’m sure you know,” Femke was saying. “How does it go? ‘Breathe on me, breath of God’—have I got it right?” Femke also knew the tune, which she hummed. “It’s Scottish, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Anglican, actually,” Alice said. “He taught it to you?”
Femke shrugged. “He taught it to all the whores in the Oude Kerk. He played it, they sang it. I’m sure he played it for you and you sang it, too.”
“I don’t need to prove that William loved me—not to you,” Alice said.
“To me? What do I care?” Femke asked. “You need to prove it to yourself! Wouldn’t it bother William—if you accepted a customer or two, or three or four? That is, if he ever cared about
you.”
“Not around Jack,” Alice said.
“Get a babysitter for Jack,” Femke told her. “You’ve got a few friends in the red-light district, haven’t you?”
“Thank you for your time,” Alice said; only then did she take Jack’s hand.
Walking from the Bergstraat, they reentered the red-light district on the Oudekerksplein. It was early evening, just growing dark. The organ in the Oude Kerk wasn’t playing, but the women were all in their doorways—as if they knew Jack and Alice were coming. Anja was one of the older ones; she was on and off in the friendliness department. It must have been one of Anja’s off nights, because she was humming the tune to “Breathe on Me, Breath of God,” which seemed a little cruel.
It’s not much of a tune. As a communion prayer, sung instead of spoken, the words matter more than the tune. Like many simple things, Jack thought it was beautiful; it was one of his mom’s favorites.
They next passed Margriet, one of the younger girls, who always called Jack “Jackie”; this time she said nothing. Then came Annelies, Naughty Nanda, Katja, Angry Anouk, Mistress Mies, and Roos the Redhead; they were humming the tune of the hymn, which Alice ignored. Only Old Jolanda knew the words.
“Breathe on me, breath of God . . .” she was singing.
“You’re not going to do it, are you?” Jack asked his mother. “I don’t care if I ever see him,” the boy lied.
Maybe Alice said, “I’m the one who wants to see him, Jack.” Or she might have said, “He’s the one who wants to see you, Jackie.”
When Alice told Tattoo Peter about Femke’s idea, the one-legged man tried to talk her out of it. Peter had Woody the Woodpecker tattooed on his right biceps. Jack got the impression that even the woodpecker was opposed to the idea of his mom singing a hymn in a prostitute’s window or doorway.
Years later, he would ask his mother what ever happened to the picture she took of him with Tattoo Peter’s Woody the Woodpecker. “Maybe the photograph didn’t turn out,” was all she said.
After posing with the woodpecker, Jack and his mom walked down to The Red Dragon, where Robbie de Wit rolled Alice some joints, which she put in her purse. Perhaps Robbie took their picture with Tattoo Theo. (Jack used to think: Maybe that photo didn’t turn out, either.)
They bought a ham-and-cheese croissant for Saskia, who was busy with a customer on the Bloedstraat, so Jack ate the sandwich while they walked over to the corner of the Stoofsteeg, where Jack drifted in and out of his mom’s conversation with Els. “I don’t recommend it,” Els was saying to Alice. “But of course you can use my room, and I’ll look after Jack.”
From the doorway of Els’s room, Jack and his mom couldn’t see Saskia’s window or doorway on the Bloedstraat; they had to cross the canal in order to see if Saskia was still busy with her client. She was. By the time they walked back to Els’s room, Els was with a customer of her own. Jack and Alice went back to the Bloedstraat and chatted with Janneke, the prostitute who was Saskia’s nearest neighbor.
“What’s with the hymn?” Janneke asked Alice. “Or is it some kind of prayer?” Alice just shook her head. The three of them stood out on the street, waiting for Saskia’s client to slink out the door, which he did a few minutes later. “If he had a tail like a dog, it would be between his legs,” Janneke observed.
“I suppose so,” Alice said.
Finally Saskia opened her curtains and saw them on the street. She waved, smiling with her mouth open, which was never the way she would smile at a potential customer. Saskia told Alice she could use her room, too, and that—between her and Els—Jack would be properly looked after.
“I really appreciate it,” Alice told the burned and beaten girl. “If you ever want a tattoo . . .” Her voice trailed away. Saskia couldn’t look at her.
“It’s not the worst thing,” Saskia said, to no one in particular. Alice shook her head again. “You know what, Jack?” Saskia asked; she seemed eager to change the subject. “You look like a kid who just ate a ham-and-cheese croissant, you lucky bugger!”
In Amsterdam, all the prostitutes were registered with the police. The women were photographed, and the police kept a record of their most personal details; some of these were probably irrelevant. But if the prostitute had a boyfriend, that was relevant, because if she was murdered or beaten up, it was often the boyfriend who did it—usually not a customer. There were no minors among the prostitutes in those days, and the police were on the friendliest possible terms with the women in the red-light district; the police knew almost everything that went on there.
One morning, which felt almost like spring, Jack and Alice went to the Warmoesstraat police station with Els and Saskia. A nice policeman named Nico Oudejans interviewed Alice. Saskia had requested Nico; both when she’d been burned and when she’d been beaten up, he had been the first street cop to arrive at the scene on the Bloedstraat. Jack may have been disappointed that Nico was wearing plainclothes, not a uniform, but Nico was the red-light district’s favorite officer—not just a familiar cop on the beat but the policeman the prostitutes most trusted. He was in his late twenties or early thirties.
To the boyfriend question, Alice said no—she didn’t have one—but Nico was suspicious of her answer. “Then who’s the guy you’re singing for, Alice?”
“He’s a former boyfriend,” Alice said; she put her hand on the back of Jack’s neck. “He’s Jack’s father.”
“We would consider him a boyfriend,” the policeman politely told her.
Possibly it was Els who said: “It’s just for an afternoon and part of one night, Nico.”
“I’m not going to admit any customers,” Alice might have told the nice cop. “I’m just going to sit in the window or stand in the doorway, and sing.”
“If you turn everyone down, you’re going to make some men angry at you, Alice,” Nico said.
It must have been Saskia who said: “One of us will always be nearby. When she’s using my room, I’ll be watching out for her; when she’s using Els’s room, Els will be hanging around.”
“And where will you be, Jack?” Nico asked.
“He’s going to be with me or Els!” Saskia replied.
Nico Oudejans shook his head. “I don’t like the sound of it, Alice—this isn’t your job.”
“I used to sing in a choir,” Alice told him. “I know how to sing.”
“It’s no place to sing a hymn or say a prayer,” the policeman said.
“Maybe you could come by from time to time,” Saskia suggested to him. “Just in case she draws a crowd.”
“She’ll draw one, all right,” Nico said.
“So what?” Els asked. “A new girl always draws a crowd.”
“When a new girl takes a customer inside and closes the curtains, the crowd usually goes away,” Nico Oudejans said.
“I’m not going to admit any customers,” Alice might have repeated.
“Sometimes it’s easier than saying no,” Saskia said. “Virgins, for example—they can be nice.”
“They’re quick, too,” Els told Alice.
“Not around Jack.”
“Just not too young a virgin, Alice,” Nico Oudejans said.
“I really appreciate it,” Alice told him. “If you ever want a tattoo—” She stopped; maybe she thought that if she offered him a free tattoo, the policeman would construe this as a bribe. He was a nice guy, Nico Oudejans. His eyes were a robin’s-egg blue, and high on one cheekbone he had a small scar shaped like the letter L.
Out on the Warmoesstraat, Alice thanked Els and Saskia for helping her get permission from the police to be a prostitute for an afternoon and part of one night. “I figured it would be easier to talk Nico into it than to talk you out of it,” Saskia said.
“Saskia always does what’s easier,” Els explained. The three women laughed. They were walking the way Dutch girls sometimes do, side by side with their arms linked together. Alice was in the middle; Els was holding Jack’s hand.
The
Warmoesstraat ran the length of one edge of the red-light district. Jack and Alice were on their way back to the Krasnapolsky. Els and Saskia were going to help Alice pick out what to wear—she wanted to wear her own clothes, she said. Alice didn’t own a skirt as short as the ones Saskia wore in her window or doorway on the Bloedstraat, or a blouse with a neckline as revealing as the ones Els wore when she was giving advice on the Stoofsteeg.
It must have been about eleven in the morning when they came to the corner of the Sint Annenstraat. Only one prostitute was working, way at the end of the street, but even at that distance, she recognized them. The prostitute waved and they waved back. Because they were looking down the Sint Annenstraat, into the district, they didn’t see Jacob Bril coming toward them on the Warmoesstraat. They were still walking four abreast; there was no way Bril could get around them. He said something sharply in Dutch—a curse, or some form of condemnation. Saskia snapped back at him. Even though Els and Saskia were not dressed for their doorways, Bril surely recognized them; after all, he’d made quite a comprehensive study of the prostitutes in the neighborhood.
The three women had to unlink their arms for Jacob Bril to pass by them; it might have been the first time Bril had been forced to stop walking in the red-light district. Of course Bril knew Alice—she was standing between the two prostitutes. As for the boy, Bril always appeared to look right through him; it was as if he never saw Jack.
“In the Lord’s eyes, you are the company you keep!” Jacob Bril told Alice.
“I like the company I keep just fine,” Alice replied.
“What would you know about the Lord’s eyes?” Els asked Bril.
“Nobody knows what God sees,” Saskia said.
“He sees even the smallest sin!” Bril shouted. “He remembers every act of fornication!”
“Most men do,” Els told him.
Saskia shrugged. “I find I forget it, most of the time,” she said.