by Dola de Jong
But of course, she again reacted differently than I’d expected and nothing more was said about it. Afterward, I tried to make it up to Bas. That indefinable feeling of embarrassment weighed on me more heavily than ever that weekend, and I bent over backward for Bas. I remember how on Easter morning I woke up early and cleaned my room on tiptoe before he woke up. I brought him breakfast in bed, forced him to stay there so I could place the cheerful breakfast tray on his lap even though he would’ve preferred to get up and had breakfast in the kitchen.
“Just relax and stay in bed,” I protested, “it’s all taken care of!” Erica was in the kitchen in her pajamas making coffee, strong coffee—she couldn’t make it through the day without it—and started singing, “Mother, oh how I need you …” one of those old Dutch tunes she knew so well.
In all those months of living together, I’d never gotten angry with her, never lost my patience or resisted any of her antics, but all of a sudden, I felt an anger boiling up inside me. My heart was pounding, my hands were shaking, I didn’t know what I was doing or what I should do. I walked to the counter in a confused haze.
“Erica,” I hissed, “Erica, stop, Erica, give me some peace.” She just kept singing, every single word of the song, two verses. This is unbearable, I thought suddenly. I’ve got to get out of here, I have to get away from her, this is no life for me, I can’t stand her anymore.
Why the sudden change? Where was this extreme aversion to Erica coming from? I can’t remember whether it occurred to me at that moment that the source of both my guilt and sudden rage was the night before. The realization probably came later, brought by the kaleidoscope of time. That night, I’d been unable to give myself to Bas, even though I’d gotten good at overcoming my reluctance by then. I just couldn’t get over my embarrassment at the thought of Erica listening to us on the other side of the door. Bas’s quiet surprise, followed by his tactful questions, led to a sleepless night, which was even more intolerable because I wasn’t used to sharing my bed. Since I didn’t want Bas to know I couldn’t sleep, I just lay there motionless until morning. Now I wonder what was going through my head during those long, oppressive hours. Was I really so naïve that I only thought about what would happen the next day and not about the deeper conflict hiding behind my inexplicable inhibition? I don’t know anymore. But I must have surprised myself, even more so because I’d felt a similar incapacity with one of my two previous lovers. If those relationships had been nothing but disappointment and heartache, it wasn’t due to any impotency on my part. If anything, it was the opposite that had led to the breakup, and in both cases, I was left feeling powerless and needed time to cool down. The painful weeks that followed, during which I wondered why I was incapable of fascinating men, were forever engraved in my consciousness.
Only after she’d sung the last line of her drinking song did Erica acknowledge my irritation. She placed a loving hand on my neck and said soothingly: “Don’t pay any attention to me, darling, I’m a bitch.”
There was honest repentance in her voice, I couldn’t help but notice a bit of triumph as well. What a child, I thought, appeased. She sang that song all the way through to the end. Now I know better. She was in a good mood all morning, and that afternoon, she went out.
“I’m going to go see Wies,” she announced frankly, “and then to eat at Ma’s. The General’s out.” She rolled her eyes to show how much she was looking forward to that dinner.
“I’ll see you two at the theater.”
That afternoon I repaid my debt to Bas, at least that’s how it felt, and momentarily free, I even enjoyed our dinner at Dicker & Thys and the theater. Erica’s mood had changed; she was friendly but preoccupied. Afterward, I walked with Bas to the station. When I got back to the apartment, Erica wasn’t there, and I didn’t hear her come home. Before I fell asleep, I wondered where she might be. I knew that she’d spent the afternoon with Wies and then a few hours with her mother after that. I didn’t know anything about her other friends. What did she do when she stayed out until the early hours of the morning? Then I felt guilty about the fact that it was the first time Erica relayed her afternoon plans with me and it had only made me want to know more. When she gave you a finger, you wanted the whole hand. I buried my face in my pillow, and for reasons I couldn’t understand, I cried.
The next evening, Erica lingered in the kitchen drying the dishes.
“When is Bas coming back?” she asked.
“He’ll be back in the office on Thursday afternoon, but he has to go home to Rotterdam in the evening. Why?”
“Just because,” she replied, and then, as if jumping onto another ice floe, she added, “There’s a new French film at De Uitkijk. Want to go see it?”
“I’d like to, but …” I hesitated to tell her how tired I was. All I wanted was for the day to be over. I suddenly felt so listless, so empty, after the holiday weekend that I just wanted to go to bed early.
“What’s with you?” she pressed. I could feel a conflict brewing, which was something I wanted to avoid at all costs.
“Oh, all right then. What time does it start?” I tried to sound cheerful.
“Oh, all right then,” she mimicked. “When Bas is here, you’ve got plenty of energy.” I guess she’d picked up on my fatigue, but I also knew she was looking for a fight. In an effort to buy time, I closed the kitchen cupboard and wiped the counter. Then I heard myself say something I would’ve preferred to have kept to myself: “Listen, Erica, if Bas is the cause of this unpleasantness between us, you and I should just go our separate ways.”
“Who’s making it unpleasant?”
I couldn’t stand the childish answer. It disgusted me to see her stoop so low. She wasn’t like that.
“I might as well break up with Bas, then.” It came out before I realized what I was saying, what that proposal meant.
Erica shot me a serious look. “Sorry, Bea,” she said. “Sorry. It’s just that …” she hesitated for a moment, and then said with great self-triumph, “Things were so good between us. But, of course … this is all nonsense. Just forget it. I had a shitty day yesterday. Ma—you know how she is. And now she’s a member of the National Socialist Movement, and a passionate one at that,” she laughed bitterly. “I’m still sick about it. Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll bring you a cup of tea.”
Naturally, the superficial gesture was just her way of trimming the sails. The confidence she’d shared about Ma had been too much for her. She shooed me out of the kitchen and into my room. The battle went back underground after that. Erica was superficially friendly when we were alone and made herself scarce when Bas was around. I came to the conclusion that Bas and I weren’t a good match, that he wasn’t my type, that he didn’t understand me, that he was actually too old and business-like for my taste. He didn’t satisfy me sexually either. Even though Erica left the house when Bas stayed over (and I was increasingly tormented by the question of where she went), I had to force myself to make love to him. I just didn’t need it, I told myself.
In the end, he always managed to drag me along, though without any spontaneous passion on my part. Looking back after all these years, the whole thing makes me laugh. The memory of Bas, however, has become so fuzzy that he’s no longer a person to me, just a shadow in my life with Erica. But at the time, I’m sure I was telling myself that under different circumstances, our relationship could’ve been happy and harmonious, and maybe even for life. But I don’t really blame Erica for it. Why would I?
The eruption came right before the summer. We were making vacation plans. Erica was bursting with excitement. She’d found an outlet for her restlessness—we should go somewhere together. The remainder of her inheritance was still lying untouched in the bank, and the part of my budget I hadn’t put toward the equal distribution of our household budget should be—according to Erica—absolutely spent on a trip abroad. For all we knew, it could be our last chance given the international state of affairs. I would’ve been excited about t
he idea had Bas not already alluded to a prospective business trip to France, which he was hoping to extend into a vacation with me. He’d already been planning to buy a new car anyway, he said, and he would just wait until I could get some time off and we could take a road trip together. Despite the uncertainty of the times, or maybe because of it, everyone was talking about going abroad that summer. Half of the people considered the risk too great, while the other more adventurous half wanted to seize the opportunity. If there was going to be a war, and it seemed like there was going to be, people wanted to make sure they at least got to see a bit of France or Italy before it was destroyed once again by madness. One couldn’t change the world order, said Bas—après nous, le deluge.
I hadn’t accepted his invitation yet, and although I avoided the subject, I couldn’t stop thinking about the trip. I liked the sound of it. Despite the shortcomings in our relationship, I had high hopes for a road trip with Bas. A chance to get away from it all, to be alone together—we’d certainly have a good time. After all, Bas was a fine person. He saw the beauty in things, he knew how to enjoy himself, he had good taste, insight … I envisioned the two of us driving a little English car along a country road in France (Bas would surely avoid the major highways as much as possible), rolling hills of grain on one side and old French farmhouses on the other. I imagined children playing at their front doors and mothers sitting on benches, their eldest daughters with the mending in their laps, watching us go by. We’d pass a team of oxen slowly making their way to the stable, led by a lanky boy swatting away the cruel flies with equally cruel blows to their throbbing flanks. We’d dine in the village bistro on a red gingham tablecloth, the inevitable bottle of red vin de la maison; or we’d sit in the shadow of a hay bale and enjoy a long, crispy baguette and cheese with a bottle of wine at our feet. These were the characteristic images of France I had in my mind, inspired by advertisements and stories I’d heard from wealthier friends. I’d never been there myself. I associated it with peace, harmony, and all the usual things one expects of a spontaneous vacation destination for happy couples. Thus, while I delighted in all my little fantasies, I saw Bas’s idea—my own vacation plans—as a precursor to a difficult decision, the choice between Bas and Erica. That’s not to say that I knew how it would all pan out. It was more of a dark cloud looming on the horizon, a premonition of sorts. Which is why I avoided all conversations about the upcoming holiday, both with Bas and Erica. Whenever either of them brought up the subject, I responded with a vague “yes,” or by smiling and staring dreamily off into the distance. If they tried to pin me down, I’d defend myself with exaggerated protests. My office hadn’t allocated vacation time yet, how could I make plans? And with my boss’s health … I acted like the matter was completely out of my hands, as if I had no say in my vacation whatsoever, as if other people were calling the shots, and all I could do was wait for their decision. In reality, however, as the director’s private secretary, and on account of my long service, I was given the first choice over other staff members. Bas added to my stress by offering to speak to my boss, to put in a good word for me. I dodged the bullet by gravely reminding him that such an intercession would reveal the nature of our relationship, something I wanted to avoid at all costs. I accused him of intruding on my private life and spoke with such indignation that he immediately retreated and apologized. Erica—and I knew it already back then—was taking advantage of the opportunity to put me in a compromised position. As summer approached, she became more and more persistent. Soon enough, not a day went by without her bringing up the topic of our vacation together, and she seemed increasingly determined. Eventually, she began talking as if we’d already decided to go somewhere together.
“Once we get to Belgium, it’ll be easy to hitch a ride to France,” or “I can just see us sitting in the Riviera,” she’d say.
Erica had also fully convinced herself that a trip to France was actually feasible. During one of her monologues about “our trip,” I let myself be so carried away that I couldn’t help but mention the state of our finances.
“How are we going to pay for all this?” I asked. “We’ve both got five hundred guilders to our name, and it seems wiser not to spend every cent we have on this trip. We should at least keep some savings, Erica.”
She was quick on the uptake. “So we’re going?” she said.
“I didn’t say that,” I replied. “We still need to talk about it.” And then, reverting back to my helpless self, I reminded her that I had to wait for my office to decide on vacation time. Erica ignored that.
“All right, let’s say we’ve each got four hundred guilders, then. Of course, we’re going to hitchhike—everybody’s doing it nowadays. It’s ridiculous to pay for those expensive train tickets. You get a much better view from a car anyway.”
Once again, we were in dangerous waters given Bas’s plan to buy a car, and she jumped right to the topic of our destination: the French Riviera. I didn’t like the idea of standing on the side of the road at the mercy of passing drivers, but I decided to save my protests for later. For later? So, did that mean that deep down I’d already decided to go with Erica and not Bas? I let the actual decision be made for me. Erica and Bas had both made up their minds, in my presence but without my input, because I simply wasn’t capable of deciding for myself. In all my hesitation, I let things take their course. And even when they started bickering with each other, each trying to set the other straight on where I would be spending my vacation, I stayed in the background. I was so tired of the struggle between the two of them that I refused to acknowledge the battle going on within myself. Instead, I blamed them and let the storm rage above my head.
4
As ALWAYS, it doesn’t take much to set off a bomb. And once again, the holidays brought trouble. I was in a constant state of stress, this time during Pentecost. The funny thing is, in hindsight of course, I never even went to Rotterdam. I could have easily spent Sunday and Whit Monday with Bas there. The thought even occurred to me, but I didn’t go. Bas lived in a boarding house, and I had already informed him at the beginning of our relationship that I didn’t like the idea of sneaking around behind his landlady’s back to spend the night; even if she had no problem with female visitors, as he claimed, I didn’t want to be confronted by her. Bas said I was being silly but didn’t press me further. I also objected to staying in a hotel. Why I was willing to share a room with Bas in France but not in Rotterdam is still a mystery to me. After all the traveling and trekking I’ve done these last few years, after uprooting myself from Holland completely, this objection seems incomprehensible to me now. Maybe I was more provincial and narrow-minded at the time. That might have played into it, of course, but I’m quicker to believe that I couldn’t do without Erica’s presence; I needed the conflict, no matter how much suffering it caused me. It’s strange what we’ll put ourselves through.
In the end, Bas spent Pentecost weekend in Amsterdam. He’d had a telephone installed in my room the week before as a surprise so he could call me in the evenings. Erica completely ignored the new device, and to be honest, I wasn’t so thrilled about it myself. Why now? I thought, and the realization that, at least as far I was concerned, the affair was almost over while Bas still believed it to be in full bloom was deeply depressing. Every night when he called, I struggled to make conversation and ended up reformulating the same sweet nothings over and over again, which always sounded like something out of a cheap movie. Are you tired, he’d ask. Later, he remarked that by the sound of my voice you’d think I had a telephone phobia.
“I do. Didn’t you know?” was my two-faced reply. Erica was sitting behind me bent over a crossword puzzle, but I could sense that she was fully immersed in our conversation.
On Whit Monday morning, just as Bas and I had sat down to a late breakfast, the phone rang. It was Erica.
“Are you doing anything special tonight?”
“No, not that I know of. Why?”
I was so rattled b
y the unexpected call and her sudden question that I shouted at Bas, “Are we going to do something special tonight? It’s Erica!”
I could see him sitting at the kitchen table through the open bedroom door. He raised his eyebrows in surprise, hesitated, and rubbed his hand across his forehead in exhaustion. He didn’t answer and I, having suddenly understood what that hand gesture meant, babbled some incoherent phrases into the phone, leading Erica to the conclusion that we had no plans. I was surprised she’d asked, I said, but open to her suggestions.
“I’ll come visit and bring someone with me,” she said in that self-mocking tone I’d come to know so well.
“All right,” I said. I’d recovered from the shock a little bit by then and didn’t want to give her the impression that I was looking forward to her visit. Still, I told her she was welcome to drop by. Back in the kitchen, Bas was clearing the table. He’d left my half-drunk cup of tea behind. I sat down and finished it, but only because I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want the tea anymore.
“Strange, isn’t it?” I forced myself to say.
“I’m so sick and tired of that girl.” It was the first time Bas had ever given me a direct opinion about Erica, and I was thankful for it. His criticism came as a relief and broke the tension caused by all his politeness and neutrality.
