by Jeremy Welch
The hull of the houseboat was tired black, canoe-shaped and had been a coal-shipping barge. The living quarters of wood painted in green, large windows opened the inside to daylight. The roof crenelated with flowerpots of tulips dancing in the summer breeze.
“It’s larger than I thought.”
“Your entrance is here, the other three-quarters is rented out to some of Anneke’s troupe. That door is locked so you have privacy. They are fun, you’ll like them. You’ve taken the rent for two months, holiday or work?” Umuntu asked.
“Work really. I’m going to write a book, well try to. Perhaps a framework of a book,” Sebastian replied without conviction and feeling fraudulent.
“Fact or fiction?”
“Fiction.”
“I love fiction, you can be anyone from anywhere. They say you write with your eyes. Is that right?”
There was directness and openness about Umuntu that commanded an honest reply.
“I’ll let you know when I start. At this stage I have no idea how to start. Well I have in the past started, it’s going to be a rewrite.” Sebastian sounded both daunted and excited with the realisation he was here and the task was now at hand.
“There will no doubt be a beginning, middle and end. It’s like everything in life, you can be and do whatever you wish.” He smiled knowingly. “So you can get your bearings, there is a supermarket in Dam Square, a church over there for the religious and that over there is the best bar in De Wallen, the Vlinder. It’s the bar of choice for the troupe at the end of rehearsals. Anything you need just come round and ask.” He departed leaving a scent of coconut oil.
Sebastian needed to remind himself of where he was and walked into the honeycomb colour of early evening towards Dam Square. The cobbled streets echoed to the ringing of bicycle bells and the Palace clock announcing it was 6pm, the bars full with after-work drinkers spilling onto the street. The sound of laughter echoed off the canal water. Small pleasure boats full of revellers chugged their way along the canal diluting the sound of a small brass band playing on a pontoon next to the Vlinder. All this was in contrast to the numerous silent windowed cells that lined the street on either side of the canal, curtains drawn awaiting the curtain call at the theatre.
Dam Square was the reservoir for people flowing in from the adjoining streets. The shoppers clutching small logoed bags from the fashion district of de Negen Straatjes, women on their way home clutching armfuls of rainbow-coloured flowers from the floating Bloemenmarkt. The army of Japanese tourists armed with their cameras firing photographic shots at each other against the backdrop of the Royal Palace. At the foot of the National Monument to the war dead teenagers lounged as if war wounded themselves, exchanging texts of momentary thoughts. Weaving through the crowds the cycling commuters, upright and elegant on their 1940s bikes, moved with the authority of the sacred cows of India knowing that their right of way was total. Trams clattered on the tracks announcing the arrival and departure at each stop with a tinkling.
He sipped his beer; the bouquet co-mingled with the early evening smell of freshly seared steaks and a hint of marijuana. From the direction of Rokin an elaborate campanologist’s pleasure of bells accompanied by whistles and horns heralding the imminent arrival of a protest. The figurehead of the protest was a naked male cyclist waving a rainbow-coloured flag. Behind him came a melee of men in the uniform of the Gay Pride movement. Well-sculptured men in Bob the Builder outfits, a peacock tail of lady boys and behind them, scantily dressed in crotch - less black leather chaps with their chests crisscrossed with bandoliers and leather peaked hats, came the banner holders. “Gay. It’s alright to be Gay.” “Gays have a right to be happy.” As the festival of rights passed, the final row of three biker protesters had a letter painted on each buttock spelling out “The End”. The tourist response was varied depending on nationality: aghast, turning away, smirking, laughing and pointing. The Dutch passed on either side of the cavalcade in an attitude of respectfulness. As the noise of the protest retreated the sun dipped below the housetops to leave a blue dusk in its absence. He was glad to be in Amsterdam.
In search of food he headed off towards Prinsengracht. Each of the houses tall but seemingly undernourished with a slim profile. The golden eye of each room staring into the eye of the opposite house. The canal dividing the houses became a moving serpent striped by the mutual glow of opposing yellow light as the night arrived. Through each window could be seen domestic scenes being played out. The hugging of children returned despite parental thoughts of the perils of the day, arms raised in offer of wine, quiet dinners for two, hair being dried after a shower. Unlike London there was an openness about these houses, no curtains were drawn, nothing was hidden. Life was being lived and observed by all.
As he turned into De Wallen district the schizophrenia of Amsterdam revealed itself. Curtain up had been called. The concealed cells of the afternoon were now revealed and the doorways tempting in the warm red glow of light above the entrance declaring tantalising sin within. The prostitutes fluttering in the compact quarters of their individual butterfly houses. The streets, quiet during the observable light of day, now thronging with the drunk, the mad, the curious and the deviant. Almost exclusively men, some furtive with their collars up and hats pulled down. Bravado groups of young men, emboldened by beer and mutual encouragement stared with hazy lustful eyes at each window. As this throng of neutered masculinity crawled through the narrow streets of sexual availability eye contact between the groups and individuals was avoided in shared shame. The windows of each cell clicking with the sharp rasp of a coin being racked on the window as the girls tried to attract eye contact and business.
From an alleyway adjoining the canal a roar of cheering and derisive laughter accompanied a shoeless man, bare-chested and struggling to button his trousers as he rushed blind-eyed into the crowd. Close behind him a banshee dressed in a skimpy nurse’s outfit clattering after him like a giraffe in high heels shrieking between cracks of her bullwhip, “Enema, I will give you a fucking enema, you weirdo!”
“Welcome to Amsterdam,” Umuntu said through a smile. “Fancy a drink?”
They knifed their way through the crowd at the entrance to the Vlinder. The initial cluster in the doorway was tourists, drinking and chatting excitedly about the adventures of the day; recommending art galleries, parks and churches to be visited to fellow strangers temporarily united over a drink and the shared pleasure of being explorers. The oratory of the pub altogether more peaceful and thoughtful. Here the drinkers were locals and less excited, more contemplative, discussing the events of the day in a familiar quieter tone. The wooden bar was highly polished with small glasses neatly upturned awaiting orders to be filled. The barmen neat and precise with white shirts, black trousers and starched, bleached white aprons tightly tied round their waists.
Umuntu waved towards an empty table, handing over his shopping bags. Nodding in a familiar way to the inner core of drinkers.
“Beer?”
Sebastian nodded in acknowledgement.
The walls were decorated in a mixture of sepia and modern advertisements for theatre productions and fashion exhibitions dating from the 1930s onwards. The more modern in sharp contrast as they reflected the light off their gloss surface, making it hard to see what they were selling. Behind the bar was a collage of photographs of men and women in various theatrical and creative outfits. The centre and most prominent of these was a picture of an attractive woman with black hair and piercing grey eyes, the pupils wide giving her a look of defiance. Her face was perfectly centred in the velvet high collar, the lapels touching her ear lobes and cut away along her jawline plunging to the bodice revealing a slim neck. The multicoloured embroidered dress flowed to her feet pleated from the waistline. “The new collection from Jurgen,” it stated.
“It’s one of the oldest bars in Amsterdam. Originally the shop next door was a dining room for the post-th
eatre crowd. Slightly faded now but still very popular with the thespians and young artists, designers and fashion aficionados.”
“Is De Wallen always as animated as it was five minutes ago?”
Umuntu chuckled into his beer.
“It’s forever been thus, the red light district served the sailors of bygone years. Now it’s the epicentre of men’s fantasies. They flock here in their thousands throughout the year, living out their darkest fantasies that they won’t share with their wives or girlfriends. The girls may be prostitutes but they are not sluts.”
“Well it’s certainly not London.”
“Amsterdam. What the eye sees is not necessarily what exists. The place is full of escapees from somewhere. It’s the city of eternal spring where change is always possible. It’s the legacy of a colonial power, I suppose, that and a unique culture of acceptance.”
“Are you Dutch?” Sebastian asked unable to place Umuntu’s accent.
“I am now. It’s been a long road to here. I’m South African by birth, been here for many years now. Odd to think that I am now in the land of the forefathers who subjugated my race to such misery under apartheid. That turn of events would have had the Afrikaners scratching their beards on top of their kopjes.”
“But why did you settle in Holland?”
“The route here was via the whole continent of Africa. Life was miserably hard in South Africa. My parents desperate to ensure a better future for my brother and myself worked as gardeners, houseboy, maid, fruit sellers, anything to earn enough to send us to the local church school.” The memory of them softened his speech.
“And there he learnt to speak English and Dutch before becoming the master of the Spiegeltent! Hello darling.” The American voice kissed him on the top of his head, her hands covering his eyes. “Is he boring you with his life story?” she enquired smiling.
“Without looking I know it’s you, Pepper, I can tell by your endless sympathy for all the downtrodden of the world. That and your perfume. Is Salt with you?”
Pepper was dressed in a large man’s jumper covering her knees. Her legs shining in Lycra tights and her ankles wrapped in bright green leg warmers. As she moved a chair to join them, a disembodied arm put a drink in front of her.
“Sebastian, meet Salt and Pepper, the mistresses of sword swallowing.”
The disembodied arm refound its body and sat next to Sebastian. Salt, dressed as a facsimile of Pepper, but with red leg warmers, jumper tied around her waist hiding a belly button piercing. Her hands precisely curved around the glass she looked directly at Sebastian.
“And you are?” she enquired with a gentle North American accent.
“Behave, the pair of you, this is Sebastian and he’s a writer. He is living on the Tulp with you lot until we start touring, so be nice to him.”
“I knew a writer once. He drank so much that instead of creating characters he became the subject of a psychiatric study into Delirium Tremens. It’s a dangerous profession,” Pepper said with an easy laugh.
“Well I’m not really a writer. Well not yet. Perhaps I will be in the next couple of months.”
“I hope you do, it would be fun to know a writer,” Salt and Pepper replied in unison.
The conjoined reply took him by surprise as if he was the butt of their private joke. The only feature that separated the two was their hair. Pepper, blond with brown highlights held up in a loose bun on top of her head. Salt, surfer blond tied precisely and tight in a French plait.
“You’re twins, identical twins!” Sebastian cried as if he had solved a mystery.
“Indeed we are,” they replied with mock surprise looking at each other.
“Ignore them, Sebastian. Apart they are a delight, together the creation of Satan with a hangover.” He smiled at the pair. “Rehearsals were fine? You didn’t antagonise Anneke, I hope.”
“Everything is perfect except the usual problems with Dasha, he just can’t seem to stay sober. He arrives smelling of last night’s bar and only starts to talk to anyone once he has finished his thermos flask, and we all know what that contains!” Pepper replied pertly.
“Forgiveness is a wonderful quality, Pepper, and perhaps you should learn it. Dasha is still the best contortionist in Europe. His desire for perfection tortures him. He knows he needs to reach that point of perfection before his joints and bones refuse to obey him, the life of a contortionist short and the future sore.”
“It’s the same for all of us, Umuntu. All of us have a limited life at the Spiegeltent,” Pepper replied slowly stroking her throat. “He wasn’t always like this. When we were all doing our training together at Circus Space in London he didn’t drink at all. He started after spending two years in Hong Kong studying Taili Quan. I think all that shadow boxing and being born in the wastes of Kazakhstan makes for much darkness in his head. No wonder he is a contortionist, always trying to escape from his shadow.”
“Drink up, you two, Anneke has booked us a table at Envy for dinner. Sebastian, would you like to join us? I’m sure you will want to meet the rest of the houseboat, that’s if these two haven’t put you off already.”
“Thanks, that would be nice, I don’t actually know anyone in Amsterdam.”
Sebastian let the girls walk ahead before asking, “Umuntu, I am sorry to sound stupid but what is a Spiegeltent? Is it a circus?”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t say that at dinner or you will be thrown into the canal! A Spiegeltent is a fusion of a cabaret club and an entertainment salon. The audience is part of the acts as they are beside, below and around them. It’s intimate, imaginative, flirtatious and personal, so no, not a circus. If you have never been in one it is one of life’s must-dos. When we open you must come to the show, only then will you understand what a Spiegeltent is.”
“If it’s not a circus what happens in the show?”
“There’s a troupe and each member of the troupe must have a specialist skill, for example it could be they are an illusionist, contortionist or have aerial skills like the trapeze and so on, but they must be skilled in other disciplines. The troupe is usually about eight performers. Each performer needs to be multi-talented so as to assist and participate in the specialist acts of the others. In addition each one must be able to play a musical instrument to provide the music for each act.”
“Oh my God, is there anything they can’t do? At the factory line of birth when talent was handed out you lot got a double dose and I was obviously the non-working prototype!” The thought of transforming the failed novel into a success was now even more daunting.
“Sebastian, they are a very unusual group of people. Different as they may be, one thing I know they agree on is that there is no such thing as talent. There is only hard work and the manifestation of that hard work is what people call talent.” His sympathetic reply was enough to stop Sebastian’s downcast eyes looking amongst the cobblestones in hope of finding some discarded talent. “Listen to me!” he laughed. “I sound like the missionaries back home. No work leads to no achievement resulting in no entry to Heaven!” He put a consoling arm around his shoulder.
“There are drawbacks too. The life of a Spiegeltent performer is an itinerant one and doesn’t suit many. The tent is erected, the show plays and we move on to the next location on the tour. The lifestyle lacks privacy as we live and work together. It’s transparent with nowhere to hide and can be a fractious existence. You have just heard those two.” Pointing at Salt and Pepper. “Multiply that by four and imagine what you get!” He laughed as he pushed open the door of Envy.
The table already animated in conversation and drinking, Umuntu introduced Sebastian to the other members of the troupe by name and skill.
“This is Eva, she works trapeze, Hugo and Ricard perform hand and pole balancing acts.” Pointing at an unoccupied chair, “Here is Philippe, our illusionist, who may or may not be here.” There was
a chuckle around the table. “No one really knows if he is going to be where he says he is going to be as he is very unpredictable. To you all, this is Sebastian. Sebastian is a writer and is staying on the Tulp.”
Sebastian winced at the mention of being a writer surrounded by those of obvious and proven talent. No doubt when not performing, and idle for an afternoon, all of his fellow diners could produce a manuscript that would have the hardened literary agents fighting on the streets of Bloomsbury for the publishing rights.
He sat down between Eva and Hugo. Hugo: compact and precise, the muscles on his arms defined and constantly rippling and rolling as if trying to burrow an escape route from the confines of the skin. His head bald and the flesh on his face tight, shrunk dry to perfectly fit his bone structure, the jawbone muscles visibly working as he ate some nuts. Eva, by contrast, was broad shouldered with the wasp-like perfectly asymmetrical figure of a swimmer, power and strength obvious with each flowing movement of her arms as she reached for her drink and the table snacks.
“You coming to write about us?” she said.
It must be easier to write than explain himself multiple times a day.
“No,” he replied flatly.
Umuntu took charge and ordered a taster menu for all. The first course of sushi arrived. As Sebastian fumbled with chopsticks there was a pause in the conversation.
“Hi everyone, sorry I’m late. Look who I found wandering around. Dasha, why don’t you sit over there?” She waved at the illusionist’s chair as she sat down at the head of the table.
Dasha made unsteady progress and slumped into a chair. He sat with his body at ninety degrees to the table indicating no intention of eating. Propping his head in his opened hand with his elbow on the table he crossed and intertwined his legs in the way that only adolescent girls can.
“Me too, sorry I’m late.” With that his mouth closed and he looked upward to the ceiling. He looked hollowed wearing an ill-fitting collarless shirt, sleeves poking out of the cuffs of his military fatigue jacket. Bags under his troubled and bloodshot eyes.