‘It would be terrible, René! Then I’ll have to go to America to find his parents and track him down that way. I’m not giving up until I’ve found him.’ Good grief, my resolve is even surprising me.
René sighs and pauses for a few seconds, before something shifts and he decides to elaborate. ‘The Premier Club closed many years ago – about two years after you left.’
Oh, crap! I’ve only just got here and I’ve hit a dead end already.
But René continues, ‘I did hear that your Joe still owns a club on the other side of town, though.’
My spirits soar. Or maybe that’s just the aeroplane food having a strange effect.
‘You know, my darling, there have been a lot of changes since you left here.’ He seems apprehensive and I suspect again that I’m not hearing the full story.
I try to probe but he tells me nothing more.
I persuade him to join me for a walk along the canals, with the promise that we’ll stop at a café so he can sample what real coffee is supposed to taste like.
‘Why have you never married, René?’
He says nothing for a long time and then sighs.
‘I was in love once with a beautiful girl from my home town. She was, how you say, spectacular. She was everything to me. But she left me for another man, an American.’
That would explain why he refused to sell Budweiser and bagels.
‘After that, my heart was broken. You see, she was the only one for me. I believe that everyone has one person in the world who was made for them and she was mine.’
Oh, the romance of it.
I take his arm. ‘So what if you never meet the person who’s right for you? And how do you know when you have?’
‘Ah, my petite chérie, that’s where God comes in. He arranges the meeting and when it happens, you just know.’
I ponder this. So how come I’ve ‘known’ so many times? I think I might have been reading the signals wrong. Or maybe I haven’t met the right guy at all. I have a scary thought. What if this is a completely futile mission fuelled by desperation and optimism and it’s doomed to fail?
I’m consumed by gloom for a whole five seconds before I shake it off and give myself a talking to. Fuck it. I’m young-ish, healthy (if you excuse the lungs and the liver), mostly happy and I’m walking along the banks of a canal on a glorious day with a charming man. What is there to be miserable about?
Too much profound thought – my head is starting to hurt. We cross the Singel canal and head for a tiny French café opposite the beautiful copper-domed Koepel Church. The owner greets René with handshakes and a kiss on both cheeks.
‘René, my old friend. It’s been too long,’ he roars. ‘C’est formidable! And this,’ he turns to me, ‘this must be your daughter, no?’
Cheeky bugger. If he’s an old friend, then he must know that René doesn’t have children.
‘Non, monsieur. René is not my father. How do you say it in French, René? He is my sugar daddy.’
René beams with pride. I think I just made an old man very happy. He’s now been elevated to the status of ‘babe-magnet’ in his friend’s eyes. This will be in the Dutch OAP’s Gazette before the day is out.
After coffee, we stop at a shop so that I can buy disinfectant for the bath in my room.
I lie surrounded with bubbles until I look like a marinated prune. I eventually managed to wangle the name of Joe’s club out of René, and now I’m trying to decide if I’m more excited, anxious or petrified at the prospect of meeting him again. Excitement wins, but it’s a tight contest.
How do I introduce myself? ‘Hello, Joe, did you get my note?’ or ‘Remember me? Carly Houdini?’
I blow some bubbles off my nipples. Optimism kicks in. Okay, guys, I tell them, brace yourselves, we’re going out to play.
I pull on a pair of white Capri pants and a pale blue shirt. I look in the mirror. Nope, too casual. A red miniskirt with a black T-shirt? I’ll never get to the club without being offered money for a quickie. I settle on black trousers and a black skinny-rib polo neck. Useful outfit for hiding in doorways and I can always plead a recent bereavement if I have to make a quick exit.
René hugs me like he’ll never see me again as I leave. Given my track record, maybe he has a point, but he’s acting as if he’s casting me off to meet my doom. If I wasn’t nervous before, then I am now.
‘Just remember, ma chérie, keep an open mind.’
Again, I have the distinct feeling that there’s something I’m missing here. Is the club a sadomasochistic whipping room? Knowing Joe, that wouldn’t surprise me. Is it some other kind of illicit place where people live out their sexual fantasies? No great surprises there either.
I turn into the Rembrandtplein just after nine o’clock. Music is pouring out of every pub and club and there’s a thronging, eclectic crowd. Cross-dressers, crazy dressers, no dressers – the whole street is Rio on a carnival day. I search for Joe’s club, which René has reliably informed me is called ‘J.C.’s Heaven’. I bet the Catholic Church isn’t amused about that one. There are probably nuns picketing the door.
I spot a group of beautifully formed men entering what looks like a converted warehouse a few yards ahead of me. When they’ve passed, I see the bouncer standing on the door. Good God, doesn’t anyone ever leave this place?
‘Has anyone ever told you that you’ll catch a cold standing out here?’
He stares down at me, ready to crush me like a cockroach until a flicker of recognition crosses his eyes. ‘Holy shit! Carly Cooper. What the hell are you doin’ here, girl?’
I seem
