Eighty Days Amber (20 page)

There were stalls by the Central train station selling chips with mayonnaise, which I had sampled on the day I arrived. That’s where I would go, then I’d catch a cab for the Rijksmuseum to look at the Rembrandt collections, just like any other tourist. My heart already felt lighter at the prospect of a swathe of empty days ahead. Maybe I could rediscover myself. Find peace.

By the time I reached the ticket counter, there was only an hour left before closing time. I would have to rush. Or then again not, as I could return the following day and take my time. I smiled. It felt like a luxury.

I was in the West Wing contemplating
The Night Watch
when I heard an amused voice over my shoulder.

‘Has anyone ever told you that you are as beautiful clothed as you are naked?’

I turned round.

The face was familiar from countless photos I had come across in newspapers and magazines. An English rock star who called himself Viggo Franck. I’d never actually heard his music. His band, the Holy Criminals, had a reputation for excess and mostly played arena tours, I knew.

In the flesh, he was shorter than I expected, although his thin frame provided him with a form of illusory height. Up front, his long, untidy hair was a cuckoo’s nest of artful tangles that hadn’t seen a comb since the Middle Ages. His spindly legs were encased in the tightest pair of jeans I had ever come across, as if sprayed on, fraying at the bottom edges where his heavy black leather boots took over,
showing half an inch of pale ankle. Had I been wearing heels, I would have towered half a head above him.

His dark eyes glittered with mischief and his smile was disarming, almost a little boy’s, questioning, gazing at me with both undiluted appetite and genuine curiosity, as if I was a rare specimen in a zoo or a shop window.

I calmly withstood his attention, my eyes unavoidably checking out the significant, and obvious, bump inside his jeans which the uncanny tightness of the material only served to emphasise.

He followed the path of my eyes and his smile turned into a knowing grin.

‘You have an advantage over me,’ I remarked.

His face lit up.

‘Love your accent, girl . . .’

I raised my eyebrows.

‘Are you really Russian?’ he continued.

‘From the Ukraine, actually,’ I pointed out.

‘Wonderful,’ Viggo stated.

The previous night was the only time I had ever performed in Amsterdam, whether just as a dancer or as part of a sex duo, so it made sense that Viggo Franck would have seen me there.

Seeing me pensive, Viggo continued, ‘Yesterday night I was a spectator. I had an invitation.’

‘I see.’

‘I’ve seen a few live sex shows here and there, Hamburg, the old 42nd Street joints in New York when I was still a callow youth, Tijuana, here, but yours was beautiful. You turned it into a thing of grace. Truly. I’d been warned that you were unique, they were right. It was worth it at any price,’ he said.

‘I’m flattered,’ I said. ‘However, it was a bad night to catch me. I can do better when my heart is in it.’

Out of the corner of my eye I caught the fixed gaze of the little girl in the yellow dress as she stood in the light in Rembrandt’s painting.

‘If that’s the case,’ Viggo Franck said, ‘I must arrange to attend your next performance and see you at your best.’

‘There might not be further shows,’ I pointed out. ‘I have no plans for future performances.’

His mouth opened slightly in a gesture of disappointment, like a child being denied an indulgence.

‘I find that sad,’ he remarked.

‘All good things must come to an end.’

‘It wasn’t just the sex, you know,’ Viggo Franck went on. ‘It was a combination of everything, the way you danced, the elegance and the eroticism, the music, you made it into an unforgettable experience. And I know a few things about stagecraft . . . A thing of beauty, truly.’

There was an announcement on the Tannoy that the museum would be closing in fifteen minutes and we had to make our way to the exits.

I was about to retrace my steps through the labyrinth of the Rijksmuseum’s long corridors and galleries with the English rock star trailing in my wake, tightening my grip on the canvas bag hanging from my bare shoulder, when I heard him cry out, ‘Wait!’

‘Yes?’

‘Join me for a coffee?’ he asked.

I had no other plans. And his company would save me from the terror of my own, alone in the hotel room with nothing but my thoughts. I accepted.

Night was falling. There seemed to be no bars or coffee
houses in the immediate vicinity of the museum so we ambled south, exchanging indifferent small talk until a few blocks away we reached yet another canal that was bordered with a variety of cafes and restaurants. As we selected one and stepped inside, I noticed how Viggo’s unkempt appearance attracted attention from the passers-by, mostly women of all ages.

I remembered he was known as a ferocious ladies’ man, although to me right now, he was amusing and harmless, eager like a puppy. I knew I had that effect on men, but that was from the vantage point of my presence on stage, when I was highlighted by the spotlight and the artifice of the situation, not necessarily when I was the same old Luba, wearing a simple polka-dot cotton dress and flat shoes, and no make-up, the one I saw in the mirror every day. The girl Chey once knew.

‘Can I ask you just one thing?’ I said as I sat down and ordered a double espresso from the young waitress who couldn’t stop staring at Viggo as he installed himself in the facing seat and asked her for a glass of white wine. Not once had she even looked at me, rapt as she was by the rock singer’s appearance in the cafe.

‘Of course,’ he assented.

‘Don’t bombard me with questions about how I became a sex performer, okay? I’m a dancer. The rest just sort of happened, I suppose. But it’s not something I wish to talk about. Not now.’

His lip curled in disappointment, as if I had just torpedoed the whole thrust of his conversation. Then a sparkle appeared in the corner of his eye and he livened up.

‘Then tell me about the tattoo – the gun?’ he asked.

‘It’s a long story,’ I replied.

‘Then give me the abridged version. I’m an impatient man,’ he said.

‘It was a whim, a spur-of-the-moment thing.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Because of a man. Someone I knew. He owned a gun and something happened . . .’

‘He shot at you?’ The words rushed out.

‘No. I shot his television screen.’

‘Wow,’ Viggo said.

Remembering that day, I smiled. In retrospect, it now felt madly amusing. It wasn’t at the time.

‘I couldn’t keep my eyes off it while you were dancing,’ Viggo Franck said.

‘Just the gun?’ I asked mischievously.

‘Not quite,’ he confessed, licking his lips, retrieving the taste of his wine. ‘There was a lot more to see, and I have perfect vision.’

His eyes locked with mine. This man who had seen me fucked by another.

I remained silent.

‘You’re the sort of girl I’d like to write a song about, babe,’ he said, altogether serious again.

Ever since Chey’s letter and the unwitting revelation of what he saw in me and thought of me, I had often tried to imagine how others pictured me. The fact that I was so often on display and couldn’t fathom how the vision of the spectators accorded with the diffuse vision I had of myself. In a way, I wanted to be the heroine in my own story, the shining star in my own life.

‘You’re sort of mysterious, aloof but terribly real,’ Viggo continued.

‘Real, because you’ve seen me naked, having sex, you mean?’

‘Not just that . . . Can I call you Luba?’

‘It’s my name.’

The mention of song-writing about women brought a memory floating to the surface of my mind.

A few weeks ago, as I’d crossed the Atlantic on an overnight flight that brought me to Europe and the two gigs I’d signed up for first in Cannes and then the recent one in Amsterdam, I’d read a book I’d picked up at the bookstore on the concourse of O’Hare airport in Chicago. It was by an English novelist, titled
Yellow
, and told the turbulent story of a young foreign woman in Paris in the 1950s who fell in and out of relationships in the Latin Quarter amongst a crowd of jazz musicians and expatriates. Somehow I had identified strongly with her and the novel had affected me in a curious fashion. I convinced myself that the character was based on a real person, someone I could feel was real and tangible and that I almost knew. I had never heard of its author before – it was a first novel and he was listed as an academic in London. What was it about Brits that they wanted to be inspired by imperfect women, that they were attracted by the flaws in our characters, the damage?

‘Maybe I will. Write that song,’ Viggo concluded, emptying his glass.

‘You’re welcome. Just keep my name out of it,’ I said.

He paused, contemplating me in a dreamy way. He was an interesting man, there was no doubt about it, but his reputation preceded him and I knew deep down that he was not a man for all seasons. He was the kind of guy the old Luba might have amused herself with just for a night or
two. I hadn’t stayed with any of the men I’d slept with after Chey for more than a single night – apart from Lucian. After the sex, they had bored me. Sometimes I sighed with ennui even as we made love. Viggo felt as if he was maybe worth a week. But inside I felt nothing but empty. I couldn’t face the silence of my own mind, but I did not feel ready for company.

The truth is that I didn’t know what I wanted.

He looked at me with hunger.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘And please don’t be offended. I know what you do, or have done if you’ve decided to stop, but would you ever consider . . . performing . . . just for me? Your price,’ he said, lowering his eyes, as if shameful that he was proposing money.

I sighed. I knew the question had been inevitable. At least he was tentative and not full of himself in the knowledge that he was rich enough to acquire anything.

‘You say “perform”,’ I noted. ‘Did you mean just dance, or have sex with you?’

‘Beggars can’t be choosers. Whatever you would grant me.’

I pondered.

Perhaps someone so warm and honest in his nature might be just the thing to ease me back into things. With him I would be secure, for a time, and I would not be alone. I felt myself with Viggo Franck. Perhaps I could dance for him. And if I could dance for him, then I could learn to dance for others again.

Even though Chey had a hold on my soul and he was never far from my mind, I knew that if I wallowed in the dire pain of his absence it would torment me for ever. I needed my peace of mind back. It wasn’t a question of being
faithful to someone who had abandoned me; that was a silly notion. It would be a way to keep a grip on my emotional sanity.

I waved to the young Dutch waitress who had been observing us from the bar’s counter with both curiosity and envy and ordered another coffee. Viggo did not want another glass of wine.

I finally answered his question.

‘I will not have sex with you, Viggo Franck. I do not have sex with men for money. Then again, I might dance for you at a time and a place of my choice. Not today, maybe not even tomorrow, but I might . . .’

‘How? When?’

‘Anyway, why should you spend money on me? I’m confident that half the women in the world would rush to your bed at a moment’s notice and never even contemplate payment, no? But it would be nice to become your friend and dance for you, Viggo Franck.’

Viggo beamed, like a little boy who’s just been granted his most heartfelt wish.

‘The gun tattoo was a whim,’ I explained. ‘I suppose I’m a creature of whims, of impulses, that Russian soul, you know . . . It’s just what I am.’

‘So?’

It now felt like a game. I could feel some of my old spark returning. I wanted to play with Viggo Franck. But my sort of game. And I could sense he was the sort of man who would enjoy sharing these sorts of games.

‘As I said, it’s not a question of money, but if you bring me just one thing, I will dance for you. In private.’

‘What?’

In my own way, I didn’t want to make it easy for him. I
wanted to present him with a challenge. To test him. To check if my theories regarding his character were true. I looked outside the cafe. It was now night. All the stores in the city would be closed. I felt uncommonly warm inside, despite my bared shoulders and the thin cotton of my dress.

I provided Viggo Franck with the name of my hotel on Leidseplein and told him that at eight the next morning I would be sitting in the breakfast room, and if he was there with a gift of a piece of amber, not only would I consent to sharing my breakfast with him, but I would also, later, dance for him privately.

His eyes opened wide.

‘Fuck!’ he exclaimed.

I tut-tutted.

‘Excuse my language,’ he said with an amused smile. ‘That’s just a hell of a challenge in little more than twelve hours.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t want to come cheap or make it easy, would I?’

He furtively glanced at his watch, and realised what time it already was, and it dawned on him too that all the main Amsterdam stores would now be closed.

He slowly rose from his chair, straightened the creases creeping up his tight jeans, blew me a kiss and assured me he would be there for breakfast.

‘Don’t be late,’ I reminded him.

As he walked out of the cafe, both my eyes and the waitress’s were fixed on his tiny bum, sheathed as it was by the narrow, skin-tight jeans. I didn’t think I’d ever seen such a small posterior on a woman, let alone a man.

That night I slept peacefully, with a smile on my face.

No dreams or nightmares.

Whether he spent the night crisscrossing Amsterdam in search of the amber piece or set his people to the task, I don’t know. Or even if the sought-after gift was actually found in the city, or couriered overnight from somewhere in the whole wide world where jewellers’ or antique stores were still open.

I walked down to the hotel’s breakfast room and he was sitting there at the table I’d booked.