by Nikki Stern
‘Oy . . . What would your father say? Nikki-le, Nikki-le, I’m sick with worry.’ When she was emotional, my mother would add the German diminutive ‘le’ to my name as a sign of affection. I told her it didn’t matter what he’d say; what was important was what I wanted to do: ‘I love Paul and he loves me. That’s all that matters—so stop worrying.’
In a depressed voice, she wished me luck and promised she’d be thinking of me.
Paul wore jeans and his lumber jacket; I donned my Phantom T-shirt, my black-and-white-check jumper and black pants. We took the Tube to Marylebone Station, joining the morning rush hour; Paul bought the wedding bouquet—six limp carnations— en route from a flower vendor.
The celebrant plucked two witnesses out of the typing pool. They guessed we were eloping; one commented on how lovely it was to see two people ‘so in love’. As it happened, our marriage day fell on 11 November, Remembrance Day; so at 11 am precisely, we walked out as Mr and Mrs Van Eyk. We were ecstatic and took photos outside, posing with the lion statues on the steps.
Our reception was in a hot-potato takeaway called Spudulike. We had eaten there several times before and the food was excellent. Paul proudly showed our marriage certificate, with the ink barely dry, to the disbelieving manager. Immediately and generously, he offered to put our meal on the house and threw in a bottle of champagne—no-one had ever had their wedding reception in his Spudulike before. So we ate our hot potatoes and drank champagne through straws from polystyrene cups while sitting on park-bench-style seating. We thought it all incredibly romantic and couldn’t wait to get back to our room.
Paul was tender and passionate, telling me it was the happiest day of his life.
‘We’ll grow old together,’ he said, smooching me.
I in turn told him how he fulfilled all my needs. ‘I’ll never want anyone else—you’re perfect.’ I’d taken my wedding vows very seriously and intended to always stand by him.
Suddenly Paul produced my wedding present: a new vibrator— with clit tickler. Using assorted items from the room, such as the belt from his jeans, he lightly immobilised my hands and feet so I was spread-eagled on the mattress.
‘Lean back and enjoy,’ he commanded. ‘I’ll have you begging for more in no time.’
With a makeshift blindfold, I let him transport me. He told me not to resist; his kisses and caresses covered my body. He focused at first on my nipples, flicking them with his tongue, then twirling and pinching them; later, my clitoris, manipulating it with his fingers and tongue. However, as I’d climb towards orgasm, he’d stop abruptly, telling me he loved me but I’d have to wait. After a pause he’d recommence, using the vibrator to maximum effect—inserting, removing and re-inserting it as the tickler buzzed playfully on my clit.
And then he took out the vibrator and entered me for a bit, before stopping again. Then re-entering, doing this over and over (as I vascillated between agony and ecstasy), all the time staying hard. He was right—I wanted more. He was driving me wild. And finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he thrust into me, pumping me in a frenzied fashion as he shoved the vibrator into my anus.
We came together almost instantaneously and I lay gasping in his arms. ‘I always thought you’d like a bit of B& D,’ he snickered.
Our debauched afternoon in bed continued with more sex and champagne. Later we lay on the mattress in a state of post-coital exhaustion. We had left the rat with food and water on top of the wardrobe, the wooden cleating around the perimeter providing an enclosure. But suddenly Chaimie launched himself from the wardrobe. He must have taken a running jump, because he landed on the bed covers, narrowly missing our faces.
‘Holy fuck!’ said Paul. ‘Chaimie can fly.’
I was in hysterics. Admittedly, it had felt funny having sex with the rat scurrying around on top of the wardrobe. There was no point putting him back there now, though, because he’d learnt how to escape—I knew how smart rats were.
Paul was laughing too. He said we had no choice but to let him run round the room. ‘Be careful if you open the door though—he might escape.’
‘But there’s going to be rat shit everywhere,’ I said, realising that we were going to have to take him with us whenever we went out. I told Paul I flatly refused to carry Chaimie around, since it was his stupid idea to bring him.
Later that night, there was a fracas in the street below our hotel room. Paul went to investigate while I stayed put and took photos of the disturbance. Soon after, two bobbies turned up and arrested someone.
We spent the remainder of our wedding night in conjugal bliss, with the rat running around the room and periodically making squeaking noises. It was without doubt a most unusual wedding day, but we were happy.
Ever since reading Bruce Carter’s The Children Who Stayed Behind, I had wanted to visit Brighton. We now had the opportunity to travel there for the briefest of honeymoons. The pier and foreshore provided excellent subjects for colour photography using Paul’s camera. I’d been having trouble with mine and was devastated to discover that some black-and-white negatives had been destroyed— including my photos of Dachau and Richard Brautigan.
It was with some relief that we finally arrived back in Amsterdam. Again Paul carried Chaimie through Customs as I nervously watched him. There were letters galore waiting for me; among them was one from Dory, complete with The Age crossword puzzles. I was thrilled, because Dory wrote that a friend of hers had seen one of my glass sculptures in an exhibition at the Sydney Opera House. Apparently, there was even a photo of it on the cover of the catalogue. Paul was particularly impressed.
Dory had also received a photo of Paul I’d sent her. She said he had an ‘expression of defiance’, but then she qualified this by stating it was only her impression. And then she wrote, ‘Oh, I forgot to say: he’s good-looking.’
‘Well, I can’t wait to meet her,’ Paul said. ‘I’ve always wanted a Jewish mother-in-law. I’m gonna write and ask for her chicken soup recipe.’
I was practising my new signature when the phone rang. It was Richard Brautigan, wanting to catch up. He invited himself over, offering to cook a spaghetti dinner for us. He told us the last person he had made this meal for was his friend, Francis Ford Coppola, and we could get the recipe from the book he had given us.
Indeed, on page 69 of our galley proof was a delightful story with the requisite list of ingredients. Entitled ‘Cooking Spaghetti Dinner in Japan’, it was about Richard in his friend’s kitchen with a bucket of live eels nearby.
The story was masterful and I told Paul he should read it. ‘He says he’s prepared this meal dozens of times over twenty years, so it should be edible.’
Paul set about writing the shopping list: ‘There’re no eels in the recipe, are there?’
‘No. But it says we need two bottles of red wine. You don’t think he’s gonna put them in the spaghetti?’ I joshed. Knowing Richard, anything was possible.
Looking a little like a latter-day General Custer in his cowboy hat and boots, jeans and plaid shirt, the poet arrived bearing gifts: two bottles of whisky and a fluoro-orange hunting vest. This second item puzzled me—I could not fathom what possible use it would have in downtown Amsterdam. It was obviously designed to increase the wearer’s visibility, thereby avoiding shooting accidents. I figured it was connected with the subject matter of his latest book—possibly autobiographical—in which twelve-year-old Richard accidentally shot and killed his friend.
Richard talked relentlessly, stopping only to refill his whisky glass. His anecdotes were witty and he was a raconteur par excellence. He said he’d have a quick drink before commencing cooking, but I soon realised that the meal wasn’t going to eventuate unless I cooked it. By late evening, my head was spinning from all the talk—ranging from the American Civil War to life in Japan—and it looked like Richard was intending to stay the night.
‘Where’s he gonna sleep?’ I asked Paul. ‘It’s less than a week since our wedding and I’m not giving up my bed so this dr
unkard can pass out. I don’t care how famous he is.’
Paul promised me everything would be fine: he’d borrow a foam mattress and stick Richard in the bathroom.
I protested that the door wouldn’t shut then. ‘What happens when I want to go to the loo? I’m not having him in our room,’ I said firmly.
And so Richard slept in our tiny bathroom with his head under the toilet bowl and his feet in the shower recess with the mattress curled up so we could shut the door. It would have been an uncomfortable night except for the fact that he’d passed out.
In bed, Paul was getting frisky, but I was edgy. ‘I just can’t get into sex with Richard a few feet away,’ I said. ‘It’s distracting.
It’s one thing to have Chaimie scurrying around in his cage, but Richard . . .’
Paul assured me that Richard was out cold and wouldn’t hear a thing. ‘Just don’t scream too loudly when you come,’ he chortled.
And so we made love, but all the time I was thinking Richard might be awake listening.
The next morning, Richard seemed remarkably rejuvenated. He had brought with him the treatment for a movie he was planning with his friend Margot Kidder of Superman fame. It was to be set in a trailer park and he was discussing ideas with Paul. He seemed impressed with Paul’s insights and suggestions.
Unexpectedly, Paul’s septuagenarian grandmother, Omoe, arrived. Dressed in her Sunday best, she’d come straight from church. Unfortunately, her visit coincided with Richard’s morning ablutions. Presumably the quantity of alcohol he was consuming played havoc with his bowels, because he occupied the toilet for over an hour.
We started to worry and Omoe, who had a practical knowledge of such things, banged on the door. In her rudimentary English, she told him that he could do himself damage if he strained his muscles. She obviously found him contemptible and kept repeating in Dutch, ‘Wat een verschrekelijk mann’: ‘What a terrible man.’ It was a scene so bizarre that I could scarcely believe what was unfolding.
Later, the four of us sat chatting in the Mondrian kitchen: Omoe, in her high-necked lace collar and gloves, had come to discuss Paul’s future. Ignoring her, Paul played with the rat while doodling provocative Jesus Christ cartoons in his sketchbook. Richard, looking like a cowboy and reeking of alcohol, talked obsessively of guns: from how ‘I shot my house’—he’d fired bullets into the kitchen wall of his Montana home—to his amusement that the logo of Barbie manufacturer, Mattel, appeared on the M-16 rifle’s handgrip. All the while I sat sipping my coffee and observing this surreal scene.
Before Richard left, he autographed two of his books for me. He also offered Paul a job in Japan. He was living in a luxury hotel in Tokyo and wanted Paul to co-produce his movie.
I told Paul I’d accompany him to Japan if he wanted to accept the job offer—I saw it as a brilliant opportunity and I didn’t want to hold him back. But Paul was unequivocally unconvinced. It was too uncertain—perhaps if he had been single, he might have been tempted by its possibilities—and besides, he was looking forward to going to Australia with me.
And so Richard exited our life, promising he’d write a poem about us. He was disappointed that Paul had turned him down, but he left his address—Room 3705 at the Keio Plaza Hotel—saying that, if we ever got to Tokyo, we should look him up.
A few days later, an early morning phone call from Saskia woke us from our slumber: Bobby the dog was severely ill and Paul needed to go over immediately. Soon after, I got a panicky call from him, telling me to quickly leave the apartment.
‘Get out—now! Take your passport and meet me in the cafe across the road. I’ll explain later.’
Nervously, I did as he ordered. Paul arrived, breathless. Apparently the immigration police had phoned and asked to speak to ‘Mrs Van Eyk’. Saskia assumed they meant her—until they started asking about her return to Australia, when she realised they were referring to me. Finding out that we’d married had left her consumed by an uncontrollable rage. Unfortunately, when I had notified Dutch immigration of my changed marital status, they’d mistakenly retained Saskia’s number—given to them at the airport—as my contact number.
Paul explained that the sick dog story had been their ploy to get him over there and separated from me. He’d become suspicious when Bobby came bounding up to lick him on his arrival. Vlad then attempted to lock him in the apartment, but Paul had managed to escape to a public phone. By now Saskia was screaming hysterically, ‘We’re going to have that slut arrested and deported. I’ve called the immigration police—they’re going over there right now and you’ll never see Nikki again!’
Apparently they’d planned to nab Paul, so he couldn’t call to warn me. But he pointed out triumphantly that, because we were married, I could legally stay in Holland and there was nothing they could do about it—something they should have known. And even though the police had been called, they never turned up.
I now understood first-hand why Paul felt the way he did about his parents—it seemed like Saskia and Vlad would stop at nothing to separate us.
Married life continued in the cell, as did our artistic pursuits: Paul’s prodigious cartoon output, my collages and our photographic collaborations. I wondered if these forays into art weren’t perhaps the creative pulse at the heart of our relationship. The light in Holland had a mystical quality, perhaps from excessive moisture in the air—Paul told me that the Dutch had twelve different words for rain—and I could see why the Netherlands produced so many of the world’s finest painters.
Paul was impatient to get to Australia; also, he was expecting his draft papers any day. So I booked our flights.
He was smoking more grass than usual and had noticed a number of ripe marijuana plants on a balcony two floors below. Enlisting the help of friends, he strapped a rope to his waist and climbed down to the seventh floor, throwing the plants to the ground, where another friend retrieved them. I was horrified by this puerile schoolboy prank and ashamed that he’d stolen a poor student’s plants.
‘You could’ve killed yourself,’ I scolded. I was petrified that the knots might have unravelled or the rope ripped. In fact, a number of students had tragically suicided from the roofs of adjacent buildings.
But Paul told me to stop worrying; he reminded me that he’d done some sailing and knew how to tie a secure knot. I knew that Paul had previously gone skydiving, but his latest escapade seemed an uncalculated risk for little gain—he was obviously far more of a risk-taker than I was.
Paul began drying out the leaves in the communal oven. He told me to stop stressing—he was going to bake a big ‘space cake’ and give the student some as compensation. ‘Even I can’t smoke all this stuff before we go,’ he chuckled.
Several days before our departure, Paul’s draft papers arrived from the Ministry of Defence. He hadn’t told Saskia of his impending departure, and in fact had accepted a dinner invitation from her for a date that coincided with our intended stopover in Bali.
On our last day in Holland, we visited his parents’ apartment— while they were out—so Paul could retrieve some items from his room. Again, I saw the Renoir. He looked unsuccessfully for the stamp collection, which apparently contained numerous rare first-day covers. He had smuggled it out of Prague and felt he deserved some compensation for contributing to Vlad and Saskia’s current lifestyle.
Back at the cell, Paul found a recipe for chocolate torte. Later, the aroma of marijuana wafted through the entire floor—he surpassed himself with his baking prowess. Quickly word spread and students came to sample the cake, including the undergraduate from the seventh floor whose plants had been pilfered. I too partook, realising far too late that the cake, while deliciously chocolatey, was in fact a potent concoction capable of rendering me, along with everyone else, comatose.
Sakti, a young Indonesian student, not realising that the cake contained marijuana, passed out. Her friend called the hospital for advice on how to revive her—they discussed whether to call an ambulance. My head was
spinning and I couldn’t stand up. In fact, I couldn’t talk. I had never before ingested marijuana, but I vowed this would be the last time. I started hallucinating and was desperately trying to rouse myself in order to pack.
Meanwhile, the rat escaped and was running around the kitchen, leaving droppings on the couch on which I was lying. I looked at one of the pellets. It began to morph into a tablet. Thinking that it was some kind of panacea that would snap me out of this nightmare, I swallowed it. I soon realised what I’d done.
‘Jesus, you’ve created havoc,’ I said to Paul, who was weathering the effects of the cake better than most. This had turned into a monumental disaster. ‘I’m so spaced out. I just swallowed a rat turd thinking it was a pill. I’m gonna get some kind of disease. How could you do this to everyone?’ I was angry as I told him how poor Sakti was out cold and was going to have to get her stomach pumped if she didn’t wake up soon. We still hadn’t finished packing, and we had to catch the rat—Chaimie’s new owner was coming to collect him and I was in no fit state to chase him around.
Paul was bemused as he swanned around the kitchen, casually offering everyone more cake. He assured me that Sakti and I would be fine. ‘It was great cake, though, wasn’t it?’
I was annoyed at his nonchalance—he had missed the point. Although irritated by his infantile behaviour, I forgave him, reminding myself that he was just twenty and that maturity would develop over time. ‘You’ve got to grow up,’ I said.
But Paul wasn’t listening. ‘Hey, promise me we’ll join the mile-high club on the plane. I’ve always wanted to do that.’
5
The Mont Albert tram pulled up at stop number 55—Narrak Road. Paul and I lugged our heavy cases up the hill. It was the height of summer and the smell of the cypress hedge permeated the air. The 1950s-chic home, with its grey brick and large picture windows, was set well back from the road. Its old English-style garden had long since been over-run by Australian native vegetation. I had missed this place—the safety and tranquillity—but most of all, I had missed Dory. This was the centre of my universe.
