History of a Pleasure Seeker

by Richard Mason

  He and Didier presented themselves as cousins and the object as an unwanted gift from Didier’s father. They elicited promises of absolute discretion.

  “I shall wait, naturally, a dignified interval before offering it for sale,” said the gentleman to whom Piet finally sold it. “And I will not put it in the shop window. We would not like to cause your uncle any offense.”

  “No indeed.” Didier frowned. “I’m afraid my father would be extremely displeased.”

  “And his father is extremely alarming when displeased,” added Piet.

  The dealer smiled. He had paid an approximately fair price, much against his usual custom, but he had also been prepared to offer more. Now he disparaged his purchase to make the young gentlemen feel they had done well out of him. “You may rest easy, dear sirs. Though charming and undoubtedly finished by hand, this miniature is made from a mold. There are others in existence. Even if your uncle were, by chance, to encounter it, he would not be able to tell that it was the one he gave you.”

  The young men left the shop, arm in arm. Didier was thrilled by Piet’s bravado and proud to be walking beside him. He was also proud of himself because he was not jealous of Piet’s sudden luck. He cared for him enough to rejoice in his blessings. “What will you do with all this money?”

  “Buy passage to New York on a wonderful ship. I don’t mean to go steerage, either.” Piet’s impersonation of a gentleman of means had worked its magic on him and his imagination had polished his future to a high sheen. He did not intend to sleep on planks with hordes of snoring immigrants now that he could avoid it.

  Didier put his arm around Piet’s shoulder, to show that he did not resent his good fortune, and ruffled his thick, sweet-smelling hair. “Why leave Holland? Everything for a happy life is here.”

  “There’s no adventure in staying in the same place and I mean to have adventures. If you’d come with me to buy my ticket, we can celebrate with wild drunkenness and a fine dinner. The expense will be mine.”

  Didier Loubat had long since given up hoping for a drunken night with Piet Barol and the sudden granting of one made him feel that the day was glorious for him, too. “It’s the least you can do, you lucky bastard,” he said gruffly, and made a show of pushing his friend into the gutter.

  They went to the offices of the Loire Lines, an ornate building on the Damrak. As they passed beneath the crossed gilt Ls set in a marble shell above its door, the doorman bowed so low that Piet was briefly ashamed to join the throng at the third-class window. His hesitation confirmed the doorman’s first assessment. He pressed a discreetly placed bell, which summoned a deferential official. This gentleman escorted Piet and Didier to a private office and assured them of his very best attention at all times.

  “May I ask your destination, my dear sirs?” Karel Huysman took his seat beneath a framed oil painting of the liner Eugénie.

  The picture reminded Piet of Constance’s handsome, unpleasant friend, who had refused to travel on any other ship. “I’m inclining towards New York.” He spoke languidly, still acting the part he had reprised for the silver dealers. “I’ll be traveling alone but I insist on the Eugénie.” It gave him great pleasure to mimic an aristocrat’s prejudices before a credulous audience and Didier. He decided to bluff here as long as it amused him and buy his ticket elsewhere.

  Mr. Huysman’s face fell. “A most judicious choice, may I say. But the Eugénie is full in first class for the next four years. Now the Joséphine is—”

  “But I insist on the Eugénie.”

  Mr. Huysman inclined his head. “And very wise you are to do so. Many notable Americans reserve their favorite cabins for every crossing, merely to keep them permanently at their disposal. It is, of course, their right, but so inconvenient for others.” He looked down at the ledger before him. “Tourist class to New York is also full until the middle of 1909, I regret to say.”

  “No matter.” Piet stood up. “I’m told Cunard’s Mauretania is very comfortable.”

  But Karel Huysman’s competitive instincts were aroused. “You will find that Cunarders fall regrettably short of our standards, sir. I should not forgive myself if you had an uncomfortable voyage.” He had correctly assessed his young client as an adventurous type. “Perhaps I might suggest an alternative. Will you be traveling for business or leisure?”

  “Leisure, naturally.”

  “There is a berth in tourist class. Just one, in a shared cabin. Departing January 18th.”

  “My cousin only travels first class.” Didier also rose.

  “Quite so.” Mr. Huysman smiled. “But tourist class on the Eugénie is in every way superior to first class on every other ship. Besides, her January voyage will be an event to describe to your grandchildren.” He lowered his voice. “She is christening the company’s new service to South Africa. En route she will call at the island of St. Helena. How many can boast of having seen it? A ball is being given there in aid of orphaned infants. It will be talked of for years to come—though unfortunately all the tickets have long since been sold.” He drew breath and smiled. “Would you at all consider Cape Town? It is a city full of opportunities for enterprise and pleasure.”

  “My cousin doesn’t—” began Didier.

  “It would be remiss of me not to mention,” Mr. Huysman continued, “that though the voyage will last seventeen days, it will cost only a trifle more than the six-day crossing to New York.” He pointed to a number on a list in front of him and slid the paper towards Piet. “This represents a superb compromise between quality and value.”

  The figure was so confidently astronomical that Piet was gripped by the idea of paying it, since for the first time in his life he could. His vague plans of New York shimmered a moment, then disintegrated. He was sure to be a success wherever he went. Besides, Africa was cheap, and life with so much native labor was bound to be comfortable. To sail to his future on a ship as luxurious as the Eugénie struck him as wholly appropriate. With his savings and the money Maarten had given him, he could afford a one-way passage and still have money left over to start his new life. It would not be as much as he had intended, but the South African War was over and calm restored; men had made fortunes in diamonds and gold. He was sure he could find a way to divert some of that free-flowing cash into his own pocket.

  Observing the look on his client’s face, Mr. Huysman pressed home his advantage. “Every cabin in tourist class has hot running water, salt and fresh,” he murmured, “and taps plated in the latest white metals. The food is equal to that of the best restaurants in Paris.”

  “A moment with my cousin, if you please,” said Didier.

  “Of course, sir.”

  As soon as the agent had withdrawn, Didier said, “That’s most of your money.”

  “Cape Town will be less expensive than New York. I wouldn’t need so much.”

  “But you’ll need some. You’ve had a stroke of luck. That’s not the same as being rich.”

  But Piet was already imagining himself in a mahogany deck chair, being fawned over by obliging stewards; and the vision’s foolhardiness was part of its appeal. “I’d have enough to get by for a few months. And, more important, to buy us dinner tonight. I’ll find some way of prospering once I’m there. Think of the fun of a seventeen-day voyage! You never know who you might meet.”

  “Don’t be a fool.”

  But this only fortified Piet’s resolve. With a young man’s delight in showing off to a friend he called the agent back and paid for the cabin then and there and emerged into the dwindling light aware that he had made a wager with Fortune and confident of winning it.

  They went to the Karseboom, a music hall and tavern frequented by a boisterous crowd. As he pushed his way to the bar behind Piet, Didier did not miss the chance to press heavily against him or to lean so close to make himself heard that their cheeks touched. Piet’s immediate proximity eased the looming wrench of his departure.

  “When will you tell your father?” he shouted as th
eir beers were set before them.

  “At Christmas. He won’t mind.”

  “Won’t he miss you?”

  “He’s not sentimental.”

  “Mine would have a fit if I went off to the other side of the world.”

  Piet thought of the genial Monsieur Loubat, and for the first time all day a trickle of sorrow contaminated his triumph. “My father’s not like yours,” he said briefly. “Let’s play billiards.”

  The game of Wilhelmina billiards was taken seriously at the Karseboom. Piet and Didier secured one of the twenty-four tables but they were soon challenged for it; and their joint defense was so successful they drew a large crowd. Didier was an indifferent player, but Piet’s presence combined with just the right amount of alcohol unleashed a long run of luck. The watching women sided with the handsome “cousins” and their cheers prompted them to accept ever greater bets, which they won as if claiming a natural right. At eleven they adjourned for supper with fistfuls of coins and a pewter flask pledged in lieu of cash. They selected two of the most forward spectators to join them at it. These ladies made it clear, as they ate beef and oysters, that they were prepared to lower their prices considerably for the pleasure of entertaining their hosts for the night.

  The one with her hand on Didier’s thigh was called Greetje. “Two is better than one, and four is better than two,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his ear. She had had a long run of foul-smelling, middle-aged men. Since she had to be where she was, she did not want to pass up the chance of Didier Loubat and Piet Barol. Neither did her colleague Klara, who at that moment was sliding her finger under the waistband of Piet’s trousers.

  The thought of sharing these women in naked abandon with Piet Barol made Didier do some calculations of his own. His yearly bottle of Chartreuse aside, he permitted himself few luxuries. He had many uses for his half of the winnings, and yet—He would never have the chance again. He considered the practicalities. “Have you a place?”

  “Not a minute’s walk from here.”

  “I’ll put it to my friend.”

  But Piet would not. He had a horror of venereal disease, gained from the nasty pustules exhibited by certain university acquaintances, and was quite imaginative enough to know that many had preceded him with Klara and paid for the honor (not always very well). As her vulgar polished nails clawed the tender flesh of his backside, he was seized by an urgent longing for the chaste, patrician Jacobina.

  They had had no contact since the day he carried Egbert out onto the street. Both had shunned the indecency of the idea. But Piet had now cured Jacobina’s son. He had honored his conscience’s debt to Maarten and showed her that she had no reason to chastise him. He was slightly appalled that Didier should wish to cavort with two women of the night and told him sternly that a man like him did not have to pay for pleasure.

  Didier took this as a terrific compliment and was consoled. They walked home through the chilly air, arms about each other’s shoulders, uncoordinated from drinking. Didier was half a head taller and their hold was not wholly comfortable; but neither let go. As they turned onto the Leidsegracht, Piet stopped. Above the unlit street the night sky was bright with starlight. The waters of the canal reflected the houses faintly; they were entirely alone. “I’ll be sorry to leave all this,” he said contemplatively. “And you, of course.”

  What would happen if I kissed him now? Didier wondered. But he did not dare. Piet had never shown any inclination that way, and yet—He is standing with his arm around me, in a beautiful place, late at night. Didier had slept with men encountered in far less tender circumstances. Testing the possibilities, he leaned heavily against his friend’s unyielding body and said, “I can barely stand, I’m so drunk.” He knew that a few feet farther on, beneath the bridge, was a small quay sheltered from wind and prying eyes. It was a place he went to alone; it held no illicit memories. “I know somewhere we can sit.” He lurched forward, drawing Piet with him.

  They climbed down the slippery steps and sat on Didier’s coat with their legs dangling over the water. Their knees knocked, but their descent had loosened their grip on each other. Piet opened the pewter flask they had won, which was half full of decent brandy. They passed it between them, cold fingers touching, and relived their exploits in the silver galleries. They praised each other extravagantly and agreed that it was marvelous to be grown-up. Didier stared at Piet’s profile, hoarding its memory.

  “I bet those tarts are missing us,” he said. “How’s your married lady?”

  “She’s been away.”

  “Frustrating for you.”

  “Unimaginably.”

  They sat in silence, each thinking of sex. Didier broke it. “Have you cuckolded many husbands?”

  “Hers is the second.”

  “Whose was the first?”

  Told of the mezzo-soprano at Leiden, Didier pretended to be less impressed than he was and produced some stories of his own—each lewder than the next, the genders of the participants carefully reversed. An atmosphere of bawdy candor grew up between the young men. Didier coarsened his language and considered provoking a friendly brawl. It would get their arms around each other again. “I should beat you for leaving me at Blok’s mercy,” he growled, laying the ground for provocation later.

  But Piet had stood up and did not hear. He retreated to the dark space beneath the bridge. Didier hesitated, but a sixth sense told him not to follow. The silence lasted so long he almost thought himself mistaken until a thunder of urine confirmed that this was a call of nature and not an invitation. When Piet returned he was paler.

  “Regretting the brandy?”

  “Beginning to.”

  Didier considered. It would be easier to initiate a play fight during the walk home, but there were also possibilities in the view and the moonlight. He decided in favor of tenderness. “You’ll be sick if you move at once. Stay here a bit.”

  Piet obeyed. It was obvious from the way he sat down that he was considerably drunker than Didier, who took heart from this advantage. Nina Barol had liked to play with her son’s hair. When Didier ran his fingers through it—very calmly, with no trace of nerves—Piet did not resist. He was not troubled by physical affection. On many occasions he had spent an hour or two lying in another boy’s arms and had often profited from the willingness of certain school friends to perform relieving favors for him. Tonight his thoughts were running in a wholly different direction. As Didier stroked his curls he imagined Jacobina Vermeulen-Sickerts in a slip of rippable muslin and began to wish for morning. Finally he shook his friend’s hand from his head and stood up. “Come on. Have to sleep.”

  They walked home together, not touching. Didier let them into the kitchen, and when he had locked the door he bent down and undid Piet’s laces. He pushed him against the range, lifted his feet one by one and pulled his boots off. “They’ll squeak on the tiles.” He leaned very close as he whispered. “If we wake the witch she’ll turn us to stone.”

  “Mustn’t wake the witch.”

  “Indeed not.”

  “What I need …”

  “Is some help getting to bed.”

  “No. Witch’s apple cake. Must have some of the witch’s apple cake.”

  Didier took his hand and led him to the stairs. “You go up before you break something. I’ll bring it in a minute.”

  As Gert Blok readied himself for bed on the deserted attic floor of Herengracht 605, he knew instinctively that the young men were out together. The knowledge lurked on the edges of his consciousness: a heavy, gray mass of bitterness. It was not the first time Gert Blok had been left out. As he brushed his teeth he felt like the seven-year-old he had once been, forced by the popular boys to play in the woods alone. The intervening fifty years had not made this misery easier to bear; they had fossilized it into rage.

  He went into his bedroom and closed the door, resisting a mounting, savage lust. Unexpressed, unsatisfied, sincerely repented; capable, nevertheless, of overthrowing
his reason. He hesitated before taking off his dressing gown. He was sure the boys would not be back for hours. A devilish voice suggested he profit by their absence, since the opportunity might not recur for months. He stood still, paralyzed by a familiar and unequal struggle; then he lost it and went into the corridor and opened Didier’s door.

  Gert Blok remembered very well his first glimpse of Didier Loubat: holding a silver-plate cake stand on the terrace of the Amstel Hotel, bending slightly toward the gentleman he was serving, his trousers hugging the curve of his spectacular arse. He had seconded him at once to the house and trained him personally. Since that day, on two occasions, he had seen his buttocks wrapped in a tightly stretched towel. Once, by creeping to his door and throwing it open the instant he knocked, he had caught him with nothing on at all. He went into his bedroom and buried his nose in Didier’s pillow. Though the linen was changed regularly, it was incontrovertibly his pillow. This was where his cheek rested; here was a fine blond hair.

  Mr. Blok put the hair into his dressing gown pocket and began to touch himself. For a moment he was handsome and vigorous and carousing with the young men. The vision made him bold. He replaced Didier’s pillow and rifled his laundry bag, where the smells were stronger and less decorous. Next he went to Piet’s room, but found to his irritation that his sheets were clean and held no trace of him. His laundry bag was empty. All he had were the memories of summoning him to Maarten’s office or barging in before dinner and catching him half dressed.

  He took these images back to his own bed and opened the Pandora’s box in which he kept other guilty treasures: snatched glimpses of a foot or a strong bare arm; the ripple of youthful muscle beneath a starched shirt. He started to sweat as he rubbed himself faster and to dread the end even as he neared it. It was announced by a spurt of warm slime, and at once the customary revulsion settled over him and cooled into a sarcophagus of shame. He remembered the prohibitions of Leviticus and St. Paul; he thought of them constantly and did his best to abide by them and always failed. He was accustomed to self-loathing, but tonight it mixed with the ache of abandonment and coagulated into hatred.