The Tree and the Vine

by Dola de Jong

  “She can’t help it,” I said, “she doesn’t know what to do with herself.”

  Bas gave me a long, hard look. His eyes were not reproachful, only caring and affectionate.

  “And you do, missy?” He only ever called me that at night. It was a name that only felt endearing in the dark, a definition of Bas’s feelings for me that always made me doubt whether I needed and wanted the security a pet name like missy afforded.

  For a moment, I was tempted to drop my head down on the table and collapse into a fit of tears, thereby giving myself over to Bas and expelling the conflict from my life. I didn’t though. I stood up and took my cup to the sink. I’d missed my chance, I’d have to go on alone, until the end of the long road.

  That night, Erica showed up with her boss. When I saw him coming up the stairs behind her, I knew it was a childish attempt to compete with me. I couldn’t have imagined a worse combination than Bas and Erica’s boss. I never would’ve dreamed of bringing the two of them together, but under the circumstances, such a consideration was not to be expected from Erica. John van der Lelie was probably the only man she knew who qualified as competition. She walked in with him triumphantly. Looking back, I’m repulsed by all the little thoughts and miserable calculations that spun through my mind in that moment, but that’s what it had come to. My life had been reduced to an utter mess. The whole ordeal became a lesson for later, and I’ve never let things reach that point again.

  Bas, sweet Bas, tried to help me that night, though he had no reason to do so. I must’ve been a completely incompetent hostess. The next day, I had no recollection of anything that was said or how I behaved because in such painful situations people act like they’re in a dream, it’s almost like being drunk. The senses are half paralyzed, and you’re only functioning on the outside, while the emotions swirl madly inside. I rattled on without stopping or listening to what anyone was saying, jumped from one topic to the next, and eventually just sat there in silence while the conversation went over my head. Bas was polite and let John van der Lelie have his monopoly on wisdom.

  He didn’t argue, he just listened with feigned interest. Erica behaved like an impresario, egging her boss on in his role as omniscient journalist. I had never seen her so devoted, and at the same time so ill at ease, especially when Van der Lelie asserted that he knew her inside out, that she was under his personal protection, and that he saw her instruction in life as his primary calling. Over coffee and cake, I felt called to point out to Van der Lelie that Erica had a lot to offer and that he was shamefully underestimating her. In response, he put a paternal hand on her knee and made reference to her youth and all the responsibilities of being a journalist. After Erica had seen him out, she barged into my room and attacked me about “that stupid comment” about her job and how I was always meddling in things that were none of my business. Bas grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her gently back and forth as if trying to calm a child having a tantrum. But Erica tore away and told him to spare her the fatherly intervention.

  “Bea and I can handle this on our own. She’s man enough.” She shot me a challenging look, but I’d turned away and started undressing for the night. Although we weren’t shy about changing in front of each other—we often saw each other half-naked—this time was different, of course, because Bas was there. Erica left the room. I’d been counting on that and had thus profited from Bas’s protection. A little later we heard her march down the stairs and slam the front door behind her.

  “I hope she can still catch up with Van der Lelie,” Bas said dryly.

  I wanted to say that Erica wasn’t going to him, but I left it at that. What did I know about where she spent her nights away from home?

  Later in bed, Bas took me in his arms as if nothing had happened. I pretended I was falling asleep and soon heard Bas’s breath grow calm. Once again, I lay awake for hours. But this time, I crept out of bed and waited in Erica’s room for sunrise. It wasn’t until the next morning, during our walk along the canals, that Bas brought up the topic of the night before.

  It was then that I understood that he actually was aware of our struggles. He saw through the situation better than I did—I can see that now. But since he was inhibited by an innate reticence, by tact, by the knowledge that I knew nothing, that I was groping around in the dark, he didn’t help me any further.

  Though I would certainly accuse him of being biased and judgmental, he stammered, he still wanted to express his opinion that Erica and I simply weren’t a good fit, that living together wasn’t making either of us happy. I couldn’t argue with that. He was right, but I couldn’t possibly explain to him that things were different before he came into our life. Our life—the realization that this was how I saw things gave me an irrevocable answer to my doubt. If I ever return to Amsterdam, the landmarks of that Whit Monday walk will still be there. The route along the Achterburgwallen is forever engraved in my memory, as if the impressions were trying to match the depth of my confusion and pain.

  When we got back to the apartment, I couldn’t open the door to the street. My key turned just fine in the lock, but no matter how much we fiddled and pried, the door wouldn’t budge. I hopelessly rang the doorbell, but no one answered. I suspected Erica wasn’t home but thought I’d try anyway. The house was completely silent. Since we were the building’s only tenants (other than the offices on the ground floor, which were inevitably closed), we had no choice but to seek out a locksmith or carpenter. After a lot of effort, we finally managed to lure the plumber who lived on the street behind ours out of his house. He had the door open in no time, and despite Bas’s generous tip, he still refused to repair the door for our safety. I asked Bas to go up the stairs first just in case there were any burglars inside. I was genuinely worried and waited upstairs in the hall. When Bas entered Erica’s room, he let out a “Well, I’ll be damned!” which was followed by Erica’s sleepy greeting. Without a word, Bas walked out of her room, past me and into the kitchen. I found him by the sink drinking a glass of water.

  “Punch drunk,” he said between gulps with a nod in Erica’s direction. He later accused Erica of locking us out of the house on purpose, ignoring her apology that she’d been too drunk to notice what was going on and hadn’t heard the doorbell ringing. The explosion—which began in the kitchen and culminated in my room—eventually got physical. I ran into my room when Bas accused Erica of being completely intoxicated. At that, she came charging into the hall, half-dazed and disheveled.

  “Who you calling punch drunk, you filthy liar?”

  That’s how the brawl started, and it ended with Bas’s departure. I curled up in the corner of my divan between the pillows. I couldn’t even look up from my clasped hands, let alone intervene, when Erica attacked Bas with a chair in a fit of rage. She threw allegations, insults, and criticism in his face, and he hurled back sarcasm and insinuations. I didn’t know exactly what he was saying to her. His words ricocheted off my eardrums; I didn’t let them in. One month later, his voice was still echoing in my head, and shortly after that Erica confirmed that what he’d insinuated that day had been true. I didn’t take sides and ended up losing Bas. I never saw him again. A few days later, I heard at the office that he’d resigned. I was the only one who knew why.

  I was relieved—all the hours of regret and self-reproach couldn’t change that. And to be honest, we were too busy planning our trip to France. The preparations had been endlessly drawn out and the anticipation was killing us; we were like two giddy girls planning a camping trip. Never before had we been so in tune with one another. We deliberated for hours, studied catalogs and maps and indulged our fantasies like children. But when we finally set off in late July, we left everything up to chance. Erica couldn’t commit, and I knew that despite all our preparations, we were embarking on an adventure. What I didn’t know was that, at least for me, the anticipation had been the best part. Even after all these years, I’ll never forget the agonies of that trip.

  We took the tra
in to Paris but would later—at Erica’s insistence (to which I eventually succumbed)—hitchhike down to Nice. Those few days in Paris, with that little Left Bank hotel as our home base, were over all too soon. To be honest, I was so exhausted by Erica’s relentless pace that the Riviera beckoned like a sanatorium. Erica was absolutely beside herself. She only rested when she found a café terrace she liked, and even then, she fidgeted in her seat, not wanting to miss a thing, and sprang out of her chair whenever something in the distance caught her eye. Although we’d agreed once again to give each other our space, we were together all day. I soon realized that Erica was a much less conventional tourist than I was. I always need time to get used to being in a new environment and tend to seek refuge in the guidebook. I just ran around behind her and, in all honesty, felt safe by her side. She didn’t seem to mind my tagging along, though she’d sometimes snarl at me when I cautiously protested her ruthless tempo or begged for an hour’s rest. We visited some of the museums, but Erica’s patience never lasted longer than an hour. She’d make a beeline for the paintings that interested her and then stand in front of them for fifteen minutes without a glance at the surrounding masterpieces. What she did see, she saw well and that was all that mattered to her.

  “It’s not like I go in Amsterdam,” she argued when I protested her lack of further interest. “Loafing around museums is for snobs,” she said gesturing at the crowds of tourists around us. “As if they even know why they’re here! All that matters is that you’ve seen it.”

  What she was most interested in was Paris itself, the Parisians, and especially life in Montmartre and Montparnasse. She had an excellent sense of direction, and we didn’t waste any time being lost. We’d wander the streets for hours, and, as if by chance, end up at places marked as points of interest in our guidebook. And she didn’t appreciate advances from strangers. Whenever a man tried to make a pass at us, she’d snap his head off. Her French vocabulary may have been limited, but it was far more extensive than mine, and she had all the insults down pat. I suspected that she’d picked up these expressions during her nocturnal wanderings. Every evening, as if we’d planned it, we’d say goodbye to each other and part ways. I’d head back to our hotel, while Erica would “go out on a spree” as she liked to say. I had no idea how she survived on so little sleep. She was always the first one up in the morning and would pound on my door until I opened it. I had no idea what time she’d come home or what she’d been up to all night. I suspected that she’d been out wandering around Montparnasse and Montmartre, but, as usual, I didn’t investigate any further. She was bound and determined not to waste a minute, and after each experience, or even during it, I could already feel her itching for the next one. She wanted to see everything, do everything, taste all the new drinks, try all the new foods, test every French custom, investigate every practice, experience Paris in its entirety. She was feverishly busy, both physically and mentally. Later, much later, I understood that it was during those days in Paris that she realized what she’d been missing, the thoughtless pleasure of a carefree life, a life without responsibilities, without having to be accountable to herself or anyone else. Although her upbringing and circumstances would’ve never allowed it, the Parisian lifestyle suited her. During those four days in Paris, she threw the ballast overboard and sounded the foghorn for the first time. She cut the anchor and cruised through Paris like a young pirate, the wind in her sails.

  Our budget for the capital city was gone within two days, and we started to dip into our Riviera funds. I sent a telegram to Amsterdam to withdraw the rest of my modest savings without telling Erica. She was blind to material limitations, and I didn’t want to break the spell.

  5

  IT’S NO WONDER I CAN’T REMEMBER everything that happened in Paris. There was too much pressure, too much of everything. Chances are I was too exhausted for lasting impressions. I was just barely keeping up. But I do remember the afternoon we met Judy. We’d skipped breakfast, and by the time we plopped down in a little bistro, it was almost three o’clock. I was sick with hunger, but I hadn’t managed to slow Erica down to appease my gnawing stomach. The restaurant was empty except for a young woman, presumably American, sitting at a corner table across from us and two couples, clearly from the countryside. By the look of them, they were on a trip they’d been saving up for for a decade. The American woman had struck up a conversation with them, and I couldn’t help but notice that she was especially charming toward the two men. I could see the green light of Parisian adventure gleaming in their eyes. Their enthusiastic reciprocity was immediately dampened by their sturdy, steadfast housewives, who knew the ominous signs of twinkling eyes, red necks and agitated breathing from their own experience. They visibly froze and were soon hurrying to leave. You could tell that the woman was American by her clothes, hair, and make-up. She was tirée, all dolled up, as Erica said emphatically, and she was “no housecat.” There was a stark contrast between her ensemble and the simple coats the two women were wearing, and Erica and I stood out next to her like two girls from the country. But if you really examine these young American women up close, the bohemians as they call them (and Paris was full of them), they’re actually quite shabbily dressed and unkempt, their nonchalant chicness unarguably contrived. Erica found them interesting and attractive. Once the two couples had left, the American woman stared at us for a moment and then came over to our table.

  “Do you mind if I sit down?” she asked in her bold American English. “I feel lonesome.”

  Erica blushed but immediately pulled up a chair. She must have told us her whole life story in less than ten minutes. She was alone in Paris and going through a divorce, but her husband had still given her a free trip to Europe that he’d gotten through a travel agency that he did legal work for. Despite the man’s generosity, she didn’t have one nice word to say about him.

  I was floored by her candor and found her anything but likeable, but Erica was fascinated. And so, that afternoon, Judy became our third wheel. Soon enough, however, the balance shifted, and I became the third wheel. There were countless times when I was about to excuse myself, but I stayed with them. Within an hour of meeting, Erica and Judy were walking hand in hand or with their arms around each other. I couldn’t believe it, but I just plodded along behind them. Their friendship was short but intense. The break-up came before dinner with such a vulgar dispute that even the Parisian passersby stopped to watch. After a “drop dead!” from Judy and an expletive from Erica, we parted ways. I didn’t even know what had happened before that. There’d been some kind of little drama in the handbag department at Le Printemps, where Judy wanted to buy a gift for Erica while I discreetly perused at scarves on the other side of the store.

  Out on the street, Erica took off at a brisk pace. She was visibly upset, smoking one cigarette after another as we walked in silence.

  “I hope you enjoyed that,” she said suddenly.

  “Not particularly. What happened?”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” she replied.

  I’d felt like a beaten dog all afternoon, and that was the last straw. Without a word, I beelined for the metro station on the other side of the square and looked for the train to the hotel. I heard Erica calling after me, but ignored her. On the ride back, I sank into a depression so deep that it blinded me to all light. Maybe I knew I’d been trying to save a sinking ship. When I got back to my room, I started frantically packing my bags. In that moment, I saw myself possessed with the desire to run away from Erica, to be gone by the time she got back to the hotel. Later, I understood what I’d really wanted. I wanted Erica to be worried about me, to feel angst and remorse when she realized I’d gone. The words “loss of self-esteem” replayed over and over in my mind, leaving no room for constructive thoughts. In no time, I had dragged my suitcase and bags down the stairs. I couldn’t wait for the elevator. In that latticed cage, with all its jerking and bumping, I’d fall prey to my own passivity. I needed to keep moving to save myself f
rom the suffocating despair. I paid for my own room and when the Madame handed me the bill for Erica’s, I shook my head. I knew Erica had hardly any money on her, but I didn’t pay for her room. As I was walking out the door, I called over my shoulder, “Mon amie reviendra pour ses bagages et l’addition!” It was the only time I ever responded to Erica’s behavior with a vengeful gesture. It still amazes me that I did. It wasn’t until I was standing across from the hotel hailing a cab that I even thought about where I’d go. I didn’t have the courage to travel on alone, so I decided to go back to Holland.

  And that’s when I saw Erica rushing toward the hotel. I made myself as small as possible behind a tree, but she was so set on her target that she didn’t even look across the street. I just stood there. Several empty taxis drove by, but I didn’t flag down any of them. I probably wasn’t standing there very long, but the minutes seemed to last an eternity. It was then that I realized that there wasn’t much left of the willpower I’d secretly come to rely on. Full of bitter self-contempt, I took stock of the situation. The image of Bas and Erica screaming at each other in my room over Pentecost ran through my mind, and I suddenly remembered what Bas had said to her: “My dear child, your affection for Bea is based on unhealthy emotions. You’re a dangerous girl.”

  When Erica came back out of the hotel and looked searchingly down the street, I ran away from those words and back to her. She took my luggage and nudged me with her shoulder in the direction of a small bistro on the corner. I cried—short, painful sobs.

  There were a few more dramas like that on our trip. They all seem so childish and absurd to me now. It really seemed like Judy was following us. In my better moments, my rational mind confirmed that this actually was the case. The few times I let my disappointment get the best of me, I could always fall back on the explanation that our trip had been parallel to hers, that we were ultimately following the same route to the South. I kept telling myself that Erica—in spite of herself and through the fault of others—brought me into painful and humiliating situations. This delusion was my source of power. I’m grateful for it because it gave me a foundation on which to later build a sense of self-respect and resignation. Now, after all these years, it doesn’t matter anymore. Erica’s behavior has long since taken on a different meaning to me.