Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (2 page)

Feeling suffocated in Austria, I travelled to Germany. I felt compelled to visit Dachau, the concentration camp where Dory’s mother had perished. I took the short bus ride from central Munich. It was a glorious day—my 27th birthday. I spoke to no-one, just looked and contemplated all that was around me. The barracks, the ovens—it was all unfathomable. I took some photos in black and white. These perhaps might be the basis for a change in my artistic direction. I wanted to express in images what I could not in words: the horror of this place. Later that evening, I cut off all my hair—a sign of my new ability to face the world, I hoped.

I travelled through Belgium and decided to spend the next month in Paris. By day, I rode the Metro and wandered the streets. I’d started drawing again, in between visiting still more galleries. I had absorbed so much art that I was feeling inspired. For weeks at a time, I hardly talked to anyone as I wrote in my journals. I was drawn to the urban life that made the city so alive: the buskers, the street musicians and the punks. Somehow they always seemed to notice me.

Despite my unease with my own appearance, men found me attractive. People often told me I was beautiful, but I assumed they were being insincere. At best, I would have described myself as moderately attractive; not ugly, but passable. I remember my German teacher once telling me that I had a stunning smile, and how shocked I had been. I knew I had prominent white teeth, including two extra wisdom teeth, but I had never thought of my smile in those terms.

I began to tire of the men in Paris. I was being constantly followed and harassed; I wanted to tell them all to fuck off. It seemed that a young woman on her own was taken as an open invitation. I was feeling vulnerable, but I longed for something to happen. I knew that at last it was time for me to go to Amsterdam.

Ever since reading
The Cow Who Fell in the Canal
as a child, I had wanted to go to Holland. I remembered how my parents occasionally commented: ‘The Dutch were so compassionate to the Jews during the war—their Resistance was one of the strongest.’ And then, of course, there was Harry Vanda from The Easybeats—God, did they all look as gorgeous as him?

On arrival I knew I could live in Amsterdam. The city encapsulated the
zeitgeist
of the early 1980s like no other in Europe. I felt at home. People offered me accommodation, seemingly without wanting anything in return. One casual conversation with a man on a bus, during which I told him I had gone to a concentration camp on my birthday, resulted in him giving me his apartment keys; he said he was going away and I could stay there. When I protested that he didn’t know me, he replied that anyone who went to Dachau on their birthday must be okay. Later I posted back his keys, thanking him for his generosity.

Then I met Jeff at the Bimhuis, a contemporary jazz haunt well known throughout Europe. He was an English trumpeter living in Amsterdam and was going on tour. He offered me his centrally located apartment—which I gratefully accepted. A photographer, Frans, who moonlighted as a barman at the Bimhuis, invited me to dinner and photographed me. Although we slept together once and I knew he wanted to see me again, it was to remain a one-night stand.

No stay in Amsterdam was complete without a visit to De Melkweg, or the Milky Way. It was a former dairy converted into a unique multimedia centre with myriad attractions: live music, a cinema, shops and the famous market hall. The latter was the drawcard for the tourists—a large space dotted with stalls openly selling marijuana. There were blackboards displaying the variety, such as Lebanese or Moroccan, and the price per unit weight. There was also a host of other products, including hash cookies and cakes.

Unlike most of my fellow backpackers, I had not come to buy dope, although I was curious to see why the tourist books recommended this place. Instead, I browsed the bookshop, looking for something in English. I had recently finished the Jack Kerouac novel I had brought with me and was craving something to read. I hated to be without reading material—I would even have settled for a few crossword puzzles.

I was chatting to one of the staff, enquiring if there were any English-language bookshops in Amsterdam, when I was interrupted by an approaching young man who spoke Dutch. Without warning, he switched to faultless North American English.

‘Do you want to smoke a joint?’

‘No thanks,’ I replied.

‘Well, how about we sit down and you can keep me company while I smoke one?’

I considered my options; I was by myself and the night was still young.

‘Okay, but I really don’t smoke much,’ I said.

‘I’m Paul, by the way.’

I looked at him as I introduced myself. He was wearing a Che Guevara T-shirt and a red lumber jacket. Tiny John Lennon glasses perched on his ski-ramp nose; an army surplus canvas bag with a stencilled anarchy symbol hung over his shoulder. I had known people from my student days who dressed like him. Invariably, they had posters of Marx and Bakunin on the walls of their share households.

From the bookshop, we made our way to a large round table at which sat numerous tourists in various stages of joint-rolling. Paul took out his dope paraphernalia: a plastic mixing bowl, a packet of cigarette papers and some filters. We chatted while he engaged in what was clearly a ritual he enjoyed.

‘I don’t get it—you’re living in Holland, right? But your accent is American,’ I queried.

‘Canadian . . . Well, mid-Atlantic, actually,’ he clarified.

‘And you speak Dutch?’

‘Actually, my Dutch is better than my English. I can put on a funny Dutch accent if you want,’ he said in perfect imitation of Netherlands English.

I laughed. ‘So you’re bilingual?’

‘Trilingual, actually. I speak pretty good German. Most Germans think I’m a native—they just can’t quite pick where I’m from.’

‘I speak a little myself, although I’m very rusty,’ I admitted. ‘My parents spoke German when they didn’t want me to understand something. Stupid really, ’cos I could have been bilingual.’

‘And my French is not bad,’ Paul continued. ‘I was in this ritzy boarding school in Switzerland. Actually, my parents just wanted to get rid of me, so they sent me to Lausanne. President Mugabe’s kids went there too. I came out speaking fluent French.’

He took off his glasses and I studied his profile. It was one of those typical Dutch faces with high cheekbones and lean planes ending in a strongly chiselled chin. Undeniably, he was strikingly handsome—boyish, but not naive. The more he spoke, the more I realised Paul had that certain something—that
je ne sais quoi
.

With extreme dexterity, he had rolled a large trumpet-shaped joint. It was a work of art, perfect in every way. Judging by its size, I concluded I was expected to participate.

‘So how did you end up in Canada?’

‘Well, I was born there. My family was from Rotterdam, but during the war it had the shit bombed out of it. It was a parking lot—flatter than usual. So, my grandparents emigrated to Canada. I think it was ’cos the Canadians liberated Holland after the war. They had eight kids, so it can’t have been easy. Then my mom got knocked up—she was only nineteen . . . Anyway, I’m gonna smoke this joint,’ he said, flicking his lighter while inhaling deeply.

I was having trouble digesting so much information at such a fast pace. His arrogance astounded me—or was it merely confidence? I practically knew his whole life story after only a few minutes.

‘Who are your favourite authors?’ he queried as he handed me the joint.

‘Jeez, I don’t know. I have lots.’ The question had thrown me. It seemed the sort of thing children asked in primary school, akin to ‘What’s your favourite colour?’

I pondered. ‘Okay, well, I love Michael Wilding—he’s an Australian writer you wouldn’t have heard of. Writes stuff about share households in Sydney. Then, my second favourite would be Richard Brautigan—he’s brilliant, and I’ve read all his books. You probably wouldn’t have heard of him either, although he’s American. He’s been compared to Kerouac, who’s probably my third favourite. Anyway, what about you?’

‘Robert A. Heinlein and Arthur C. Clarke—they’re my two favourites. I love sci-fi. Who are your favourite bands?’

This was starting to feel slightly inquisitorial, but I kept playing the game. ‘The Beatles . . . and AC/DC,’ I said. I couldn’t think of any others as the dope I had accepted from him was starting to take effect.

‘You’re kidding—they’re my two favourite bands as well. Have you ever been to an AC/DC concert?’

‘Yeah, a couple of times. Actually, I was there when Angus bared his bum.’

‘Wow!’ He drew back heavily on the joint. ‘Hey, you wanna see my drawings? I’m a cartoonist. I’ve done some stuff for the Milky Way—they used one of my drawings on their promotional T-shirts.’

Paul reached into his canvas bag and pulled out a sketchbook. ‘This is my
Jesus Christ
series. I’ve got a variety of captions for the same image of Christ on the cross. See, the caption here says: “Fuck crucifixion, I’d rather be stoned”. You get it? A pun on stoned. And there’s another caption that says: “So much for Legal Aid”.’

I studied the black ink drawings as he flicked rapidly through the book. There were self-portraits as well—he had an uncanny ability to capture his own likeness. ‘Hey, they’re great. Really great. Very professional—I’ve been doing a bit of drawing on my travels, but nothing like this. They’re kind of
MAD
magazine style. Offensive yet funny.’

‘Yeah, I know. My grandmother would hate them. She’s devoutly religious—Dutch Reformed. Black socks and all that. She used to drag me to church and I had religion rammed down my throat, and now I draw outrageous cartoons about Jesus. Ironic, really.’

‘You could easily make this a career—you’re very talented,’ I said, and I meant it.

‘Well, I’m just finishing my final year of school, but then I want to go to art college.’

‘Jesus, how old are you?’

‘Nineteen. Why, how old are you?’ he asked.

I wasn’t usually coy about my age, but I knew I didn’t want to tell him of my 27 years. ‘Older than you,’ I quipped.

As if sensing my unease, Paul changed the topic. ‘I’ve just met my father for the first time. My mother would never tell me who he was, and I met him last month after an uncle felt sorry for me and told me his name. He lives in Montreal, so I called him up and told him I was his son. He was having breakfast. I think he just about choked on his cornflakes.’

‘What? You just called him up?’

‘Yeah, what else was I supposed to do? I told him I was coming over to meet him. Apparently, my mom got knocked up in the back of a ’57 Chevy. When he found out about me he skipped off to Mexico, leaving her to deal with the pregnancy. Luckily, I’d saved some money from my job at my stepfather’s car wash, so I bought a ticket to Montreal.’

‘How did the meeting go?’ Paul was starting to interest me—like a great anecdotist, he was reeling me in.

‘Okay. Well, not great. I don’t think he wanted to know me. He kept introducing me to people as a friend from Holland. Anyone only had to take a look at the two of us to realise this was bullshit.’

‘That would have made you feel pretty awful,’ I commiserated.

‘Yeah. But I’ve got two half-brothers and they’re great kids. Plus I’ve got another half-brother from my mother. I’m the only one with my particular combination of parents. What about you? Do you have any siblings?’

‘No, I wish I did. Actually, I’m adopted. I’ve never met my birth parents . . . and I’m not likely to, either.’

This information seemingly tumbled out. I had only ever told two people about my adoption, both long-term boyfriends. It was just too private and painful. Yet here I was telling a total stranger intimate details of my life. He was so disarmingly honest about his own situation that I felt comfortable enough to share my secret.

The joint was finished now and the Milky Way was closing.

‘You know, it’s the Dutch Queen’s birthday tomorrow—
Koninginnedag
. It’s a huge event—crowds of people in the street, parades, stalls, lots happening. If you’re not doing anything, meet me at the Leidse Plein at noon.’

The truth was I had no plans and it sounded fun: a taste of real Dutch culture with a real Dutch native, and Jeff’s apartment was only a short walk from the Leidse Plein.

‘Here, I’ll write down my contact details just in case.’ He pulled out a sheet of scrap paper and in the neatest cursive script wrote his name and phone number on it.

I looked at his name—Paul Van Eyk. ‘Are you any relation to the painter?’

‘Yeah, so my family tells me. They dropped the ‘c’ in Van Eyk when they moved to Canada. Before that, it was spelt the same way. “Jan”—that’s John in English—is my middle name too. It’s kind of a family tradition.’

‘Wow! That’s amazing.’ I was truly impressed and recalled the van Eyck masterpieces I’d viewed in Belgium. Judging by his prodigious talent, there could well be a genealogical connection. Either way, I would meet him for the Queen’s birthday celebrations.