History of a Pleasure Seeker (20 page)

“Mr. Barol!” He leaped to his feet and embraced him. He had not been so excited since the day of Egbert’s birth. “You have achieved what I had begun to fear was impossible. How ever did you manage it?”

“The credit is Egbert’s alone, sir.”

“Don’t be so devilish modest. Sit down and tell me all about it.”

Piet sat, but he had already decided to preserve his pupil’s confidence. “All that was wanted was patience and sympathy and”—with sudden inspiration—“prayer.” He inclined his head. “The Lord God Almighty has intervened here.”

This was exactly the right thing to say. In a locked drawer of his desk Maarten had a large gift of money for Piet Barol, but the young fellow’s piety demanded greater recognition. He glanced around his office and his eye fell on the miniature of the man on a tightrope. He hesitated. It was the jewel of his silver collection, worth twice what he had paid for it to say nothing of the luck it had brought him over twenty years. “My dear man.” He pressed it into Piet’s open hand. “You have given me back my son. I should like you to have this. And this.” He unlocked the drawer and took out an envelope promisingly swollen with cash. “Let me say that should you wish to work for me in a more dignified, better remunerated position than the one you currently occupy, you need only say the word.”

Piet had expected a bonus. He had not imagined it would be accompanied by a life-changing offer. He looked at the money and the miniature in his lap. They represented freedom, the capital to make his own way. They were what he had come to Amsterdam to seek. A job with Maarten would mean more of a life he had already glimpsed. And then there was the question of Jacobina … It seemed that the opportunity had arisen to exit with honor from the Vermeulen-Sickerts’ lives and he was minded to take it.

“I am grateful for this gift and for your confidence, sir,” he said, finally. “But for the moment I am very happy as Egbert’s tutor, and after that I wish to work for myself, and no other man.”

Maarten clapped him on the back. “If that is your answer, I shall not dissuade you from it. The best strike out on their own. When the moment comes, you must go into the world and make your fortune as I did.”

“That is my intention.”

“And an admirable one. Keep that man on a tightrope ever beside you. He will protect you from harm.”

“I shall treasure him.”

T
he next day was a Saturday. Didier had one good suit of his own and Piet loaned him an Hermès tie and a set of studs and squeezed his large feet into a pair of Maarten’s discarded shoes. He was not superstitious and had no intention of keeping the miniature Maarten had given him, but he knew that guile—and a guileful accomplice—would be required to realize its full value.

They left the house looking like gentlemen of good family and ample means and exploited this impression at three of the city’s leading silver galleries. Piet had watched many young men in Leiden liquidate their possessions and knew better than to appear at all anxious for money. He also knew that good prices are paid only to those with the confidence to decline bad ones. He had no idea what the thing was worth so he decided that no sum would tempt him to sell to the first two buyers. This allowed him to bluster convincingly with the third.

He and Didier presented themselves as cousins and the object as an unwanted gift from Didier’s father. They elicited promises of absolute discretion.

“I shall wait, naturally, a dignified interval before offering it for sale,” said the gentleman to whom Piet finally sold it. “And I will not put it in the shop window. We would not like to cause your uncle any offense.”

“No indeed.” Didier frowned. “I’m afraid my father would be extremely displeased.”

“And his father is extremely alarming when displeased,” added Piet.

The dealer smiled. He had paid an approximately fair price, much against his usual custom, but he had also been prepared to offer more. Now he disparaged his purchase to make the young gentlemen feel they had done well out of him. “You may rest easy, dear sirs. Though charming and undoubtedly finished by hand, this miniature is made from a mold. There are others in existence. Even if your uncle were, by chance, to encounter it, he would not be able to tell that it was the one he gave you.”

The young men left the shop, arm in arm. Didier was thrilled by Piet’s bravado and proud to be walking beside him. He was also proud of himself because he was not jealous of Piet’s sudden luck. He cared for him enough to rejoice in his blessings. “What will you do with all this money?”

“Buy passage to New York on a wonderful ship. I don’t mean to go steerage, either.” Piet’s impersonation of a gentleman of means had worked its magic on him and his imagination had polished his future to a high sheen. He did not intend to sleep on planks with hordes of snoring immigrants now that he could avoid it.

Didier put his arm around Piet’s shoulder, to show that he did not resent his good fortune, and ruffled his thick, sweet-smelling hair. “Why leave Holland? Everything for a happy life is here.”

“There’s no adventure in staying in the same place and I mean to have adventures. If you’d come with me to buy my ticket, we can celebrate with wild drunkenness and a fine dinner. The expense will be mine.”

Didier Loubat had long since given up hoping for a drunken night with Piet Barol and the sudden granting of one made him feel that the day was glorious for him, too. “It’s the least you can do, you lucky bastard,” he said gruffly, and made a show of pushing his friend into the gutter.

T
hey went to the offices of the Loire Lines, an ornate building on the Damrak. As they passed beneath the crossed gilt
L
s set in a marble shell above its door, the doorman bowed so low that Piet was briefly ashamed to join the throng at the third-class window. His hesitation confirmed the doorman’s first assessment. He pressed a discreetly placed bell, which summoned a deferential official. This gentleman escorted Piet and Didier to a private office and assured them of his very best attention at all times.

“May I ask your destination, my dear sirs?” Karel Huysman took his seat beneath a framed oil painting of the liner
Eugénie
.

The picture reminded Piet of Constance’s handsome, unpleasant friend, who had refused to travel on any other ship. “I’m inclining towards New York.” He spoke languidly, still acting the part he had reprised for the silver dealers. “I’ll be traveling alone but I insist on the
Eugénie
.” It gave him great pleasure to mimic an aristocrat’s prejudices before a credulous audience and Didier. He decided to bluff here as long as it amused him and buy his ticket elsewhere.

Mr. Huysman’s face fell. “A most judicious choice, may I say. But the
Eugénie
is full in first class for the next four years. Now the
Joséphine
is—”

“But I insist on the
Eugénie
.”

Mr. Huysman inclined his head. “And very wise you are to do so. Many notable Americans reserve their favorite cabins for every crossing, merely to keep them permanently at their disposal. It is, of course, their right, but so inconvenient for others.” He looked down at the ledger before him. “Tourist class to New York is also full until the middle of 1909, I regret to say.”

“No matter.” Piet stood up. “I’m told Cunard’s
Mauretania
is very comfortable.”

But Karel Huysman’s competitive instincts were aroused. “You will find that Cunarders fall regrettably short of our standards, sir. I should not forgive myself if you had an uncomfortable voyage.” He had correctly assessed his young client as an adventurous type. “Perhaps I might suggest an alternative. Will you be traveling for business or leisure?”

“Leisure, naturally.”

“There is a berth in tourist class. Just one, in a shared cabin. Departing January 18th.”

“My cousin only travels first class.” Didier also rose.

“Quite so.” Mr. Huysman smiled. “But tourist class on the
Eugénie
is in every way superior to first class on every other ship. Besides, her January voyage will be an event to describe to your grandchildren.” He lowered his voice. “She is christening the company’s new service to South Africa. En route she will call at the island of St. Helena. How many can boast of having seen it? A ball is being given there in aid of orphaned infants. It will be talked of for years to come—though unfortunately all the tickets have long since been sold.” He drew breath and smiled. “Would you at all consider Cape Town? It is a city full of opportunities for enterprise and pleasure.”

“My cousin doesn’t—” began Didier.

“It would be remiss of me not to mention,” Mr. Huysman continued, “that though the voyage will last seventeen days, it will cost only a trifle more than the six-day crossing to New York.” He pointed to a number on a list in front of him and slid the paper towards Piet. “This represents a superb compromise between quality and value.”

T
he figure was so confidently astronomical that Piet was gripped by the idea of paying it, since for the first time in his life he could. His vague plans of New York shimmered a moment, then disintegrated. He was sure to be a success wherever he went. Besides, Africa was cheap, and life with so much native labor was bound to be comfortable. To sail to his future on a ship as luxurious as the
Eugénie
struck him as wholly appropriate. With his savings and the money Maarten had given him, he could afford a one-way passage and still have money left over to start his new life. It would not be as much as he had intended, but the South African War was over and calm restored; men had made fortunes in diamonds and gold. He was sure he could find a way to divert some of that free-flowing cash into his own pocket.

Observing the look on his client’s face, Mr. Huysman pressed home his advantage. “Every cabin in tourist class has hot running water, salt and fresh,” he murmured, “and taps plated in the latest white metals. The food is equal to that of the best restaurants in Paris.”

“A moment with my cousin, if you please,” said Didier.

“Of course, sir.”

As soon as the agent had withdrawn, Didier said, “That’s most of your money.”

“Cape Town will be less expensive than New York. I wouldn’t need so much.”

“But you’ll need some. You’ve had a stroke of luck. That’s not the same as being rich.”

But Piet was already imagining himself in a mahogany deck chair, being fawned over by obliging stewards; and the vision’s foolhardiness was part of its appeal. “I’d have enough to get by for a few months. And, more important, to buy us dinner tonight. I’ll find some way of prospering once I’m there. Think of the fun of a seventeen-day voyage! You never know who you might meet.”

“Don’t be a fool.”

But this only fortified Piet’s resolve. With a young man’s delight in showing off to a friend he called the agent back and paid for the cabin then and there and emerged into the dwindling light aware that he had made a wager with Fortune and confident of winning it.

T
hey went to the Karseboom, a music hall and tavern frequented by a boisterous crowd. As he pushed his way to the bar behind Piet, Didier did not miss the chance to press heavily against him or to lean so close to make himself heard that their cheeks touched. Piet’s immediate proximity eased the looming wrench of his departure.

“When will you tell your father?” he shouted as their beers were set before them.

“At Christmas. He won’t mind.”

“Won’t he miss you?”

“He’s not sentimental.”

“Mine would have a fit if I went off to the other side of the world.”

Piet thought of the genial Monsieur Loubat, and for the first time all day a trickle of sorrow contaminated his triumph. “My father’s not like yours,” he said briefly. “Let’s play billiards.”

The game of Wilhelmina billiards was taken seriously at the Karseboom. Piet and Didier secured one of the twenty-four tables but they were soon challenged for it; and their joint defense was so successful they drew a large crowd. Didier was an indifferent player, but Piet’s presence combined with just the right amount of alcohol unleashed a long run of luck. The watching women sided with the handsome “cousins” and their cheers prompted them to accept ever greater bets, which they won as if claiming a natural right. At eleven they adjourned for supper with fistfuls of coins and a pewter flask pledged in lieu of cash. They selected two of the most forward spectators to join them at it. These ladies made it clear, as they ate beef and oysters, that they were prepared to lower their prices considerably for the pleasure of entertaining their hosts for the night.

The one with her hand on Didier’s thigh was called Greetje. “Two is better than one, and four is better than two,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his ear. She had had a long run of foul-smelling, middle-aged men. Since she had to be where she was, she did not want to pass up the chance of Didier Loubat and Piet Barol. Neither did her colleague Klara, who at that moment was sliding her finger under the waistband of Piet’s trousers.

The thought of sharing these women in naked abandon with Piet Barol made Didier do some calculations of his own. His yearly bottle of Chartreuse aside, he permitted himself few luxuries. He had many uses for his half of the winnings, and yet—He would never have the chance again. He considered the practicalities. “Have you a place?”

“Not a minute’s walk from here.”

“I’ll put it to my friend.”

But Piet would not. He had a horror of venereal disease, gained from the nasty pustules exhibited by certain university acquaintances, and was quite imaginative enough to know that many had preceded him with Klara and paid for the honor (not always very well). As her vulgar polished nails clawed the tender flesh of his backside, he was seized by an urgent longing for the chaste, patrician Jacobina.

They had had no contact since the day he carried Egbert out onto the street. Both had shunned the indecency of the idea. But Piet had now cured Jacobina’s son. He had honored his conscience’s debt to Maarten and showed her that she had no reason to chastise him. He was slightly appalled that Didier should wish to cavort with two women of the night and told him sternly that a man like him did not have to pay for pleasure.