Until I Find You

told William to see her! Femke knows what’s best for the boy!”

While this made no sense to Jack, he could tell that Uncle Gerrit was mad at his mother, too. Jack and his mom were standing on the Stoofsteeg as The Bicycle Man pedaled away. He turned the corner and pedaled past the Casa Rosso, where they showed porn films and had live-sex shows—not that Jack had a clue what they were. (More advice-giving, for all he knew.)

The prostitute in the doorway at the end of the Stoofsteeg was named Els. Jack thought she was about his mother’s age, or only a little older. She had always been friendly. She’d grown up on a farm. Els told Jack and his mom that she expected she would one day see her father or her brothers in the red-light district. And wouldn’t they be surprised to see her in a window or a doorway? She would not ask them in, she said. (They were somehow beyond advising, Jack assumed.)

“Who’s Femke?” Jack asked his mom.

Els said: “I’ll tell you Femke’s story.”

“Maybe not around Jack,” Alice said.

“Come in and we’ll see if I can tell it in a way that won’t offend Jack,” Els said. As it turned out, either Els or Alice would tell Femke’s story in a way that totally confused the boy.

Els always wore a platinum-blond wig. Jack had never seen her real hair. When she put her big arm around Jack’s shoulders and pulled his face against her hip, he could feel how strong she was—like you’d expect a former farm girl to be. And Els had the bust and the announcing decolletage of an opera singer; her bosom preceded her with the authority of a great ship’s prow. When a woman like that says she’ll tell you a story, you better pay attention.

But Jack was instantly distracted; to his surprise, Els’s room was very much like Saskia’s. Once again, there was no place to sit except on the bed, on which there was a towel spread out, and so the three of them sat there. Alice needn’t have been concerned that Femke’s story was not-around-Jack material. The boy was mesmerized by the prostitute’s room and her gigantic breasts. Jack couldn’t comprehend what Els had to say about Femke, who he thought was a relative newcomer to the advice-giving business. Confusingly, Femke was also the well-heeled ex- wife of an Amsterdam lawyer. Maybe they’d been partners in the same law firm—all Jack heard was something about a family law practice. And then the plot thickened: Femke had discovered that her husband made frequent visits to the more upscale prostitutes on the Korsjespoortsteeg and the Bergstraat. She’d been a faithful wife, but she made Dutch divorce history in more than the alimony department.

Femke bought a prominent room on the Bergstraat, on the corner of the Herengracht; it was unusual for a prostitute’s room in that it had a basement window and the door was at the bottom of a small flight of stairs. Both the doorway and the window were below sidewalk level, so that pedestrians looked down at the prostitute, who was also visible from a passing car.

Was Femke so enraged that she would actually buy a room for prostitution and rent the space to a working prostitute—thus, eventually, making a profit from the sordid enterprise that had wrecked her marriage? Or did she have something more mischievous in mind? That Femke herself appeared in the basement window or the doorway on the Bergstraat, and that a few of her first clients were business associates of her former husband—including some gentlemen who had known the couple socially—was certainly a shock. (Apparently not to Femke—she was aware that she was attractive to most men, if not to her ex-husband.)

She was met with mixed reviews from her fellow prostitutes on the Korsjespoortsteeg and the Bergstraat. Her very public triumph over her former husband was much admired, and while it was appreciated that Femke had become an activist for prostitutes’ rights—after all, she was a woman whose convictions, which were so bravely on display, had to be respected—she was herself not a real prostitute, or so some prostitutes (Els among them) believed.

Femke certainly didn’t need the money; she could afford to be choosy, and she was. She turned many clients down—a luxury unknown to those women working in the red-light district and the prostitutes in their windows or doorways on the Korsjespoortsteeg and the Bergstraat. Furthermore, the customers Femke turned down were humiliated. The first-timers might have thought that all the prostitutes were as likely to reject them. A few of Femke’s fellow sex workers on the Bergstraat claimed that she hurt their business more directly. Not only was Femke the most sought-after of the prostitutes on the street, but when she spurned a client—in full view of her near neighbors in their doorways and windows on the Bergstraat—the ashamed man was sure to take his business to another street. (He didn’t want to be in the company of a woman who’d seen Femke turn him down.)

Yet she had her allies—among the older prostitutes, especially. And when she discovered those other music lovers assembled in the Old Church in the wee hours of the morning, Femke established some fierce friendships. (Was Jack wrong to imagine that it might have been an easy transition for both choirgirls and prostitutes to make —namely, to love the organist as a natural result of loving his music?)

To judge Femke by her revenge against her ex-husband, one might have thought she would have been more possessive in her attachment to William Burns. But Femke had rejoiced in his music, and in his company. In her liberation from her former husband, she’d discovered another kind of love—a kinship with women who sold sex for money and gave it away selectively. If more than one of the music lovers in William’s audience at the Oude Kerk had taken him “home,” how many of them had given him their advice for free?

Jack would wonder, much later, if those red-light women were his father’s greatest conquest. Or were women who gave advice to men for money inclined to be stingy advice-givers to those rare men they didn’t charge?

To a four-year-old, it was a very confusing story. Then again, maybe you had to be a four-year-old to believe it.

Confusing or not, that was Femke’s story, more or less as Els told it—altered (as everything is) by time, and by Alice’s retelling of the story to Jack over the ensuing years. When the boy and his mother went to see Femke in her room on the Bergstraat, it was clear she’d been expecting them.

Femke didn’t dress like a prostitute. Her clothes were more appropriate for a hostess at an elegant dinner party. Her skin was as golden and flawless as her hair; her bosom swelled softly, and her hips had a commanding jut. She was in every respect a knockout—like no one Jack had seen in a window or a doorway in Amsterdam before—and there emanated from her such a universal disdain that it was easier to believe how many men she turned away than to imagine her ever accepting a customer.

What a sizable contempt Femke must have felt for Alice, who had ceaselessly chased after a man who’d so long ago rejected her. Femke’s evident contempt for children struck Jack as immeasurable. (The boy may have misinterpreted Femke’s feelings for his mother; Jack probably thought that Femke disliked him.) He instantly wanted to leave her room, which, compared to the other two prostitutes’ rooms he’d seen, was almost as pretty as Femke—it was also lavishly furnished.

There was no bed, just a large leather couch, and there were no towels. There was even a desk. A comfortable-looking leather armchair was in the window corner, under a reading lamp and next to a bookcase. Perhaps Femke sat reading in her window, not bothering to look at the potential clients passing by; to get her attention, the men must have had to come down the short flight of stairs and knock on her door or on the window. Would she then look up from her book, annoyed to have had her reading interrupted?

There were paintings on the walls—landscapes, one with a cow—and the rug was an Oriental, as expensive- looking as she was. In fact, Femke was Jack’s first encounter with the unassailable power of money—its blind-to- everything-else arrogance.

“What took you so long?” she said to Alice.

“Can we go?” Jack asked his mom. He held out his hand to her, but she wouldn’t take it.

“I know you’re in touch with him,” Alice told the prostitute.

“ ‘… in touch with him,’ ” Femke repeated. She moved her hips; she wet her lips with her tongue. Her gestures were as ripe with self-indulgence as a woman stretching in bed in the morning after a good night’s sleep; her clothes looked as welcoming to her body as a warm bath. Even standing, or sitting in a straight-backed chair, her body appeared to loll. Even sound asleep, Femke would look like a cat waiting to be stroked.

Hadn’t someone said that Femke chiefly, and safely, chose virgins? She picked young boys. The police insisted that Femke require them to show her proof of their age. Jack would never forget her, or how afraid she made him feel.

Virgins, Alice had explained to Jack, were inexperienced young men—no woman had ever given them advice