Slut Lullabies (22 page)

They sat at Café Luxembourg after class, five of them now who had signed up for another Dutch class after the first eight-week course ended. The second session was already half over, but Camden wouldn't even finish it before he left. They were a motley crew: a techie and his girlfriend (both Brits), an ex-Peace Corps couple, and him. He was almost ten years younger than the others, but they had taken him in, won over by his earnestness to learn the language. He'd been the class star in the end—that was one plus about being a high school student. Rote memorization was still fresh in his mind. The others stumbled over speaking aloud in class, were embarrassed, didn't seem to actually study and then lamented their own stupidity. But being a student was second nature to Camden, even though he'd never been a particularly great one. It was still the only thing he'd ever done.

At Café Luxembourg, they drank cappuccinos and watched beautiful people mill. Camden liked the anonymity he felt with his classmates, his youth and chiseled features shielded by their preppy plainness and coupled normalcy. They sat, an unabashed cluster of foreigners with an open Dutch dictionary, trying with absurd futility to converse in their broken phrases. He saw their thrill over a string of foreign syllables when a moment of understanding clicked. But for Camden, it was more: a sense of difference, a reinvention of meaning. He remembered learning in his very first Dutch class that
hun
meant
there
—and the shock, the recognition of meaning's ambiguity.
Attila the there
, he'd muttered, to the amusement of his classmates. That was how easily language could be recast, violence becoming merely the absurd. One twist of articulation and poof, everything could be different.
A Roos by any other name . . . Verkrachten
. His fingers paused in his dictionary, ran over the definition: rape. Some words could not be reconfigured to lose their danger.

Camden's mind hovered half on Roos tonight, but the other half loved these dorky, bookish interludes. He delighted in the progression of his own vocabulary in a way he had never permitted himself to enjoy classes at home. Most of the techies had dropped out when they realized that every time a foreigner attempted to speak Dutch in Amsterdam, the answer came back in fluent English, so practicing was almost impossible—the only students in Dutch II were the diehards. Camden always promised himself he'd speak to Roos' mother in Dutch, but something about the calm silence of those Sunday mornings, about the separation between himself and Roos from her mother's Dutch visitors, precluded introducing his own agenda into the scene. He sat quietly now, not much inclined to show off. He had not told his study group that he was leaving.

“I never get over how ugly Dutch sounds,” Peace Corps Girl said. She wore her hair in braids now, to assimilate. Amsterdamers, though they were an oddly earnest lot, had an almost unintentional appreciation of kitsch: that summer all the teenaged and twentysomething girls were parading around in blond braids like stereotypical Dutch girls, with their leather pants, hand-rolled cigarettes, platform heels, and irrationally gorgeous breasts. The Peace Corps couple was short—she only about five feet—and dark, so on her the braids had more of a Frida Kahlo vibe that was still strangely appealing.

“I think it's beautiful,” Camden said quietly, and they all looked at him incredulously. He realized he had chosen his words in part to be contrary, and amended: “I mean, I think the total lack of beauty in Dutch is attractive. There's something dignified about not having to be flowery and romantic all the time. You've got to admire the Germanic languages for having the confidence to be guttural, you know?”

“You're a weird kid,” the Techie Brit said, rumpling his hair. Indignation rose in Camden's throat, then quickly settled. He let his lips smile. Someone else said something. His moment had passed.

Grandparents and small children had set up folding chairs. Camden watched, amazed: most of the spectators watching spectacular floats drift by weren't gay. They were all ages, many with families. In Chicago, whenever Ginny had dragged Camden to the Gay Pride parade as a child, protestors used him against her—corrupting the children,
blah blah blah
. In the United States, kids were like sofas covered in plastic: to be admired but never broken in. Here—where the age of consent was foggy, somewhere between the unofficial twelve and legal sixteen—the treatment of children seemed less precious, more matter of fact, like sex itself, like everything. A float of The Village People sailed smoothly down the Prinsengracht's murky waters, and the small boy on an old man's shoulders next to Camden and Roos cheered. Neither of them, reflected Camden, probably had any idea who the pseudo construction worker and his buff buddies were supposed to be—had ever heard the band's songs even in jest.

Roos was coolly friendly today, had been since he'd told her of his impending departure. He couldn't finger the change exactly—she still called, still made plans to take him around the city on her continual campaign to make a proper Dutch teen of him, useless as it now seemed. She still kissed him energetically and briskly—left, right, left—on meeting and departing, and if anything, her touches in between had become more frequent, more affectionate. A swat on the arm; a surprisingly small hand resting momentarily on his thigh. But something felt off.

His mother was home today. Lisle had gone off with her friends to party, though from outward appearances this day was more about men than women. The nomadic lesbian scene here, mostly about one-night parties advertised beforehand almost like raves, couldn't compete with the theatrical flair of Amsterdam's enormous and vibrant gay male culture.

These floats and costumes were mind-blowing, the spectacle beyond anything in Chicago. Tonight he and Roos were supposed to hit Melkweg for the end of Gay Pride Week's festivities: comedy shows, art exhibits, you name it. But Roos had friends visiting from France. Camden was frustrated; he wanted to be alone with her, even if he knew the results would only yield more of the same.

Roos leaned over the canal whooping with the rest of the crowd, happy for their space close to the front, for the chairs they'd dragged from Lisle's apartment. What was the big deal? He was sick of these parades—putting it on water, adding professional flair, didn't change anything. He was tired of watching from the sidelines here, waiting for his own life to happen. Now it would all be over before he could even tell Roos he loved her. For God's sake, couldn't she tell he loved her? What kind of guy would spend more than a month following her around without so much as a taste of her cheerful pink tongue if it weren't love? Or was she used to this sort of thing? How could it be love if Camden didn't even know?

“My friend tonight,” Roos said, rap-a-tap-tapping his knee in staccato, “he is someone I met traveling, you know, when I left school. We sleep together sometimes, when we see each other, but he is bisexual; that's why he came for this weekend. So maybe tonight you want to come with us—if we do that, I don't know if we will—and then it will take some pressure off, you know? Then I think you and I will both feel better when you go.”

He stared at her. Had he misheard? Her English was not usually faulty, but the crowd was booming, and sometimes she had lapses. He blinked.

“You want me to have sex with you and your boyfriend?”

“Oh, no,” she giggled. “He isn't my boyfriend—I told you,” she squinched up her face, “really he likes boys. But only sometimes girls. He's very nice.”

A light dawned. “Oh.
Oh
. . .” and a wave of nausea hit him—all this wasted time—“Roos. Do you think I'm gay? Because of my mom—I mean, I've told you, and you've seen me with girls, when we met and everything—I'm not interested in guys that way. I'm interested in . . . I like . . . well, actually, I like
you
.”

“I know!” She slapped her forehead—the Dutch were so animated, strangely camp when speaking, despite their reserve. “I'm trying to think why I'm not saying this clearly—no, I understand that you don't like men sexually. I'm—well, I'm just thinking because you and I are so close, you know, and we like each other maybe too much, that when you leave it will be hard for us both, if we have sex. But I know you want to do it—so I'm just thinking, maybe this will make it easier, you know? Not so personal, but to satisfy curiosity. Then we will still be friends, and when you go, it won't be so sad.”

“Not so sad.” He did not know what to say, felt his words echo, trampled by the crowd. To fuck her with some random bisexual French man seemed about the saddest thing he could think of in the world.

“Yes, exactly!” Beaming at him with her exquisite apple cheeks, their small flaws—a whispery scar from a girlhood fall; a littering of tiny pink veins when she laughed—visible without the shield of makeup and even more endearing than perfection could be. She was trying to make him happy—she had said
I know you want to
. He shook his head slowly, made himself cross the ocean of his fear to take her hand.

“Roos. I'm in love with you. I don't want to share you with some other guy like a toy. I would rather nothing happen between us at all than it be something degrading like that, that would cheapen the time I've had with you. Do you understand?”

But she didn't. It was visible on her face, the position of her untweezed-but-still-delicate eyebrows. “Why do you say
like a toy
? He is my friend—I am not a toy.”

“That's not what I meant.” He sighed—language was sticky. “I just want it to be nice—
romantisch
—not some kinky threesome with you blowing some other guy while I'm—while I'm screwing you doggie-style or something. Come on! Look, I've done that—I know what it's like for the girl—”

“Done
what
? What is it you think I'm asking you to do? Why do you think it's something ugly, like you using me with some other man—I told you—he's my friend and he likes boys, too. We would all be the same. Maybe he is our toy—yours and mine—and he would like to be! Maybe
you
are the toy! Why does it have to be me? I don't know what you have done, but—”

“No. You don't.” Not yelling back, he couldn't yell, not this, what he was about to say. “What do you want me to tell you? That I don't live in some little idyllic world where everybody's always friendly and polite and sex is oh-so-civilized like shaking hands or going for a beer? That I had a girlfriend—that there was a girl I knew, who I used to sleep with,
fuck buddies
we call it at home, and I let one of my friends have sex with her, and next thing you know I was inviting her over so two more guys could fuck her with us, too? They raped her, OK? She didn't know it—she never reported it—she's still spreading her legs for them now, doing whatever they say. But my mother would tell you they raped her. My mother would say . . . I think we raped her, Roos.”

She was shaking her head, slow then faster. “You let your friend have sex with her? Like she is your property? Why do you say it that way?”

“For chrissake!” He stood—next to him, the old man glanced disapprovingly, his display of negative emotion more threatening to the grandchild's well being than the gyrating, half-naked men kissing each other on their gay-orgy floats. “I can't say everything perfectly! She wasn't my property—she was just a girl I liked, and I let her down—I was afraid to admit I liked her and didn't want to share her. I was afraid she was too slutty and I'd look bad. Aren't you the one who told me Americans are obsessed with what kind of girl somebody is before they'll date her? Well you're right—I was like that. But now I'm not anymore.”

“I think you still are. I think you think if you make love with me with my friend, you will make me into the kind of girl you can't like anymore.”

Camden sat down. His hand was still gripping her wrist, too tight, it must be too tight. But she was as tall as he was, older, probably as strong—she made no move to pull away. “That's not true. That's not what I'm talking about. I just don't want to cheapen it. I don't care about your friend—I don't want him there. I just want you.” Then, suddenly letting go, he watched the blood flow back into her wrist, rushing red. “But you don't want it to be something special. You want it to be just a game, a fun activity like going to a parade. You're afraid to feel sad when I leave.” Tears were clogging in his throat—he wasn't sure if it was her or what he had revealed—if maybe it was that she'd had almost no response to learning he'd raped a girl, but instead wanted to argue semantics. “I said I
love
you, Roos. Do you even care about me?”

“Of course I do!” Her exasperation had gotten the better of her now; she folded her arms, glared at the staring old man. “But what is the point, tell me? You're leaving! You're some kid! You have to go home! What do you want me to say?”

Aimee on the backseat of Ginny's car, his head resting on her thigh, her other leg vise-like over his neck, but loosely.
Thank you
. His veins instantly hot inside. What had happened between them had been accidental—no skill of his own. She looked like somebody who had seen God—this girl he knew from parties—just some easy freshman Hugh and the rest would never think worth much with her frizzy locks and slight baby fat. Only good enough—always good enough—to screw.
Thank you
. He'd expected her to be awkward, nervous, maybe mad. No girl had ever thanked him before . . .

Maybe it was true that Ginny had somehow made him feel guilty about being a man, fearful of his desires—that her conviction in male violence had inspired in him a reactionary craving to fit into a male pack at any cost. It had always been easy—sometimes with his pretty face, at new schools, and when they heard about his mother, there were assumptions. But the girls always straightened that out—always flocked to him—and once he'd proven himself with them, the guys followed. It was always understood: the girls were only a means; his male peers were the ones whose opinions counted. Until Roos. Was this how Aimee felt when Hugh suggested a threesome and Camden sat right there smiling as his best friend talked a fourteen-year-old girl into setting her high school career under some terrible stone she would never escape? He and Hugh were popular—she must've felt, if scared, also desired, honored. But later, when there had been four of them, coked up and slurringly drunk . . . she was only a bonding ritual then, like a playing field or a war. She had tried to make eye contact with him, but he wouldn't look; even when he took his turn he made sure to flip her over first. He'd been so sick afterward he couldn't sleep or eat for days, sure the police would show up at his door any moment. But the next weekend, she'd only shown up at the usual set of parties, gone upstairs with Hugh—when Hugh beckoned for Camden to join them, he pretended not to see. What girl would want to be forever labeled as “that freshman who was gang-raped?” Even “slut” was infinitely preferable. When Hugh and the others had teased him about not wanting to hook up with Aimee again, he'd insinuated that being naked around three other guys was not really something he wanted to do on a regular basis, and maybe they should be a little worried if they thought it was so much fun—that shut them up. To tell them that what they'd done was wrong was unthinkable. He had the feeling that by now, if he found Aimee when he got home, apologized to her, she would be far beyond understanding what he was even talking about.