When I was about nine years old I spent a summer vacation at sea, with my mom, in the small Dutch village of Domburg. We stayed at a cheap hotel. It had cracks in the wash basins, rusty taps that groaned and floorboards that creaked ominously with every step. Our room was on the first floor, with a balcony on the street side. That street was a tarmac road, leading into the dunes. The sidewalk ended at our hotel. The rest of the road bordered on fallow land and one very big, very luxurious hotel.
The first week went by peacefully and pleasantly. Clear skies lured us to the beach every day. A mighty surf was up, that whole week, making it wonderful to play in the sea. The big waves would lift you high into the air and rush you landward. It was tricky to find exactly the right spot in the surf, where the waves were about to break. Not too far out, because then you were only lifted up a little and nothing else, but not too close to the shore either because then the waves might break on top of you and smash you into the shell-studded seabed. I had just learned to swim but my mom insisted that I still wear a water ring. A bright little red one, which sprang a leak after a few miscalculated waves and dangled around my waist like some shrunken skirt. Only then did my mom allow me to take it off. She spent her days in the shade of one of those old-fashioned beach chairs, a tall niche of wicker, in which she sat reading English newspapers and American movie magazines and smoking filter-tipped cigarettes. Occasionally she came out to rub me down with suntan lotion and to sunbathe on a towel. As an only child I had no trouble amusing myself. I dug frightfully deep holes, built enormous sand castles and read comics, battling the heat with refreshing plunges into the boisterous sea.
It was like being in two entirely different worlds. The sea sharp and clear, dark and cold. The beach hazy, glaring and hot. My mother always seemed to have the sun behind her, so that my memory only shows her as a dark and shady figure.
Now and then she sent me on an errand, for icecream, lemonade and cigarettes, which I liked to do. Although it could take quite a while because it was always crowded in the beach tent and I did not stand a chance as a child in the bustling throng before the counter until some compassionate grown-up would draw attention to me.
"Hey, give this little fellow a break. He's been waiting for ages," they'd say, or something like that, and everyone would look at me and make me blush fiercely, but I would immediately shout out my errand. And then, deeply satisfied with a mission accomplished, I would return to my mother, licking a popsicle in one hand, carrying the bottles in my other hand, with the packet of cigarettes wedged behind the waistband of my swimming trunks.
On our way back to the hotel we always stopped at a sidewalk café, where they served delicious icecreams. A glass bowl filled with fruit, three balls of creamy vanilla ice and a huge cloud of whipped cream. It almost made me drool with enjoyment. We had dinner at the posh hotel. On the first day we had tried to dine at our own hotel but the grub made even my mom retch, to my unbounded delight, because when I had spat out my first bite, she had scolded me terribly. Now she became livid. She was a slight woman and usually excessively nice to everyone, but she was also Irish and a demon when crossed. She gave the waiter a tongue-lashing that put the fear of God into him, especially because she forgot to speak Dutch so that the poor slob did not have a clue what she was talking about. But her meaning was all too obvious.
That same evening we went to the posh hotel. There, in a large dining-room filled with perfectly set tables, sparkling with countless lights reflected in silver and crystal, we had a great meal from gold-rimmed plates. Not that this impressed me much. From the time that I had been able to sit upright my parents had often taken me out to dinner.
One evening there was a children's party at that very same hotel. My mother took me there. The party was held in a ballroom that impressed even me. An immense space with a glossy wooden floor, marble pillars, monumental mirrors, golden ornaments and crystal chandeliers. On a small podium a five-piece orchestra was playing children's tunes. It felt like a palace.
The first few games did not appeal to me. First something with a handkerchief, then musical chairs. I kept aloof, in spite of spirited gestures from my mom to join in the fun. She and a few other parents had sought refuge at a smoky bar in a corner of the hall.
After about an hour things became serious. There was to be dancing, Celtic folk dancing. I had never danced before, so I withdrew ever further into the background, scared stiff that I might be forced to do things that I would not be able to do anyway. A long, white-faced man in a black frock coat and a beautiful but melancholy lady in a pale-blue, petticoated dress above unbelievably skinny legs demonstrated the steps. I kept my head down as much as I could. Although I was a precocious little nipper mentally, I was a physical nonentity. There was absolutely nothing that I could do. Physical education was a weekly torment. No matter how easy or simple the exercises were, I just could not do them. This made me very popular among my peers, who almost killed themselves laughing as they watched me fall out of every type of gymnastic equipment, trip over things or run into them, dangle like a forlorn monkey at the bottom of a climbing rope, drop things on my toes, throw balls in every direction but the right one, in short, hit everything that I should miss and miss everything that I should hit. Small wonder, therefore, that I was not chomping at the bit to try out complicated dance steps. Nevertheless it wielded a strange fascination upon me. Perhaps my Scottish descent had something to do with it. Celtic folk music always quickened my blood. At first I stood at the very back, making myself as small as I could, and watched enviously how bolder kids ran on to the dance floor. An even number of boys and girls took up positions facing each other. To the brisk music the groups started to dance simple figures, changing partners all the time. It looked great fun. The music was exhiliarating. There were lots of mistakes. There was a lot of laughter. I ached to join, in spite of all my clumsiness.
And then it happened, for the first time in my early life, my heart quickened at the sight of female beauty. Twice even, because they were twins. Two little, golden-haired girls, deeply tanned by the sun, bubbling with gaiety. They wore white blouses set off with lace, short skirts in a green Scottish tartan, with a sash of the same fabric, white anklets, glossy black shoes. They either smiled or laughed. Both had big blue eyes, so bright that they seemed to glow in their tanned faces. Lips icy pink, shining moistly, teeth pearly white. Rarely had creation produced a greater masterpiece than this pair because, looking very much alike, they also differed in subtle, mind-boggling ways. One was just a little bit taller, thinner and more refined, her hair sleek and supple, almost liquid. The other one was a little bit rounder, shorter and earthier, with slightly thicker and wavier hair. They sparkled like Babycham, my favorite drink at the time. All my misgivings vanished at once. Those were girls I wanted to dance with, no matter what.
I elbowed my way through the mob of other doubters and when the music stopped and a few boys left the dance floor I ran forward and went to stand right in front of the smaller of the twins. She beamed at me. I extended my hand.
"My name is Jan," I said, "And I am very pleased to meet you."
She cast an astonished look at my outstretched hand, broke into a giggle, grabbed my hand tightly and swung it up and down like a pump handle.
"Hello Jan, I'm Joyce," she cried. I wanted to say something more, but the long man in black demanded silence.
"We are now going to do an Irish jig. My partner and I shall do it first, please watch carefully and then it will be your turn."
The music started. A lively tune. The couple hopped, skipped and spun, stepped, leapt and whirled, all incredibly fast. I watched in a trance. This was really important. I was determined to be able to do it or die trying. After a few minutes the couple stopped. We all applauded. The man grinned. The woman looked as melancholy as ever.
"Now it's your turn," the man said.
I looked at the girl. Joyce. She smiled at me. I smiled back. I felt I was in a movie. The music began. Joyce began to hop from one foot on the other, lifting her knee high every time. I copied her. And miracle of miracles, I could do it. And well. It went automatically. Perhaps it was the power of my first feelings of love. Because in love I was. Totally. Tingling with emotion. And although I danced with lots of girls that evening, I only had eyes for the twins. And, funnily enough, they also for me, thanks to my amazing skills as a dancer. I saw other boys bungle, tread on the toes of the twins until even their eternal smiles began to morph into grimaces of pain. It made them cheat, skipping partners to be with me. And then we would be jigging around each other, beaming, whirling, laughing out loud, feeling such joy that it almost hurt.
Wooden swords were laid on the floor. Joyce started, hands in her sides. On her toes, almost like a ballerina, she danced the most impossible steps, to and fro, left and right, at breakneck speed. All the other kids had stopped to watch, clapping their hands. When she jumped free from the swords, I recklessly took her place. I had never done it before, but again it just happened. My feet did the work, they seemed possessed with some inner control. It was pure ecstacy, the rousing music, my wild and effortless movements, the admiring faces of my two beloved ladies. I seemed to be flying, floating, hovering. Divine.
Jennifer was third. She was the best. Brisk yet graceful. In spite of the exertion she maintained a little Mona-Lisalike smile, that gave her delicate face a hint of haughtiness. She looked a princess moving with complete composure.
After that dance the girls took turns to be with me. There were some simpler dances for the less agile kids. Some foxtrots and waltzes, which I could not do well, but the girls helped me out. Every other dance I had a different twin in my arms. They were so similar that it was more like a change of mood than a change of person. It felt unlike anything I had ever felt before or would ever feel again. My mom was not the cuddly type. So I was not accustomed to physical contact. And now suddenly I had these gorgeous little girls, whom I adored so completely, cuddling up to me. Especially Joyce. She was very physical, holding my hand, leaning against me. I held the girls as gently as I could, as if they were made of fragile glass. They smelled nice. Joyce's had mint on her breath, Jennifer something fruity, peach-like. Their clothes also smelled fresh, although hints of perspiration began to appear, which in some strange way was even more wonderful, intimate, close, genuine, really them. We hardly spoke, only laughed and smiled, speechless with joy. When the music stopped, we could not let go, locked in our dancing position, close together, facing each other, conspirators, gazing into each other's eyes, panting, sweating, elated, until the other twin appeared. It was bliss, pure and simple. (If only such moments could be retained somehow, stored in a time vault, to be taken out for just a little while, when life is cold & hard, to dispel the bitter taste of adulthood with the wondrous sensation of being a happy, carefree child again. How much more bearable would the days of darkness then be.] Time flew. I savored every moment, but gradually I also became a bit uneasy. I wanted more, give more, get more, but I had not the faintest idea what. The girls also seemed to want me to do more, gave me strangely questioning looks. What did they mean? What on earth was I supposed to do? I knew not. Then, as by magic, like two little Cinderellas, they were gone. In the middle of a jig that demanded frequent partner changes I lost sight of them and they did not reappear. I could not understand it. When the music stopped, I ran from the dance floor immediately, ignoring the hopeful glances from other little girls. I scoured the whole room at a trot. No sign of them. I became desperately sad. Hurt, also, by their inconceivable desertion. Their rudeness. I had always learned to say polite goodbyes. My attention was drawn by my mother, who was waving at me from the bar. I went up to her. She sat a bit unsteadily on her stool. Her lipstick had become smeared, giving her a sort of clown's mouth.
"Where the blazes did you learn to dance so well?" she asked, in open amazement.
I smiled modestly.
"Nowhere," I said, with pride. "It just happened."
My mother clicked her tongue.
"Amazing," she said. "But now it's back to the hotel, Fred Astaire. It's late."
I recoiled with shock. Leaving now would certainly mean that I would not see the twins again.
"Just a little bit longer, mom. There's something I have to do."
She gave me a glazed, faraway look. She had drunk too much. That happened often. She never became really sloshed, just tipsy, giggly, muttering to herself.
"Oh, all right. But not too long." She turned to order one more drink.
I ran back. Another dance had started. But without the twins and their
peals of laughter, the atmosphere had taken a turn for the worse. The fun was dampened. Most kids were stumbling about with tense, red faces. I prowled about nervously, seeking my lost loves. It was my first taste of adulthood. A welter of budding emotions: frustration, longing, despair, a sickness of loss, pangs of rejection and, worst of all, nagging fears of having misdone or missaid something. A sense of not being good enough, somehow. All vague and tiny, but still a bitter foretaste of things to come, the exorbitant price of love that would later have to be paid so frequently, so vainly. After I had traversed the hall for a quarter of an hour, I suddenly stood face to face with my mom.
"We're leaving," she said, in a tone that left no room for protest. I nodded, sorrowful but also a bit relieved. Without her I would probably never have stopped searching.
Outside we walked slowly through the warm, darkblue, velvety night back to our own hotel. My mother kept on babbling about my dancing skills. I said little in return. I did not know how to cope with all the feelings surging inside me. I had no words for them, but all together they gave me a nasty, tugging pain, deep within.
The next day became one of the longest of my life, strangely grown-up, too. I was still full of the dance, could not stop daydreaming about the two golden-haired, happy little girls. I could not imagine never seeing them again. It would be so unfair. I had never enjoyed the company of anyone so much. I wanted to do so again, more than anything else. At the breakfast table my mother gave me a strange look. I pretended to be sick.
"You're not running a fever, are you?" she asked and, as always in such a case, placed her hand on my forehead. That very moment my seafaring father suddenly materialized beside our breakfast table. He hardly greeted me and curtly told my mother that he needed to speak to her. She gave him a withering look and smiled at me.
"You don’t seem to have any fever," she said to me, "Just go up to the room and have a lie-down on the bed. I'll be up soon."
Under any other circumstances my father's dramatic appearance and my mother's icy response would have upset me. Now I could not care less. I had more important things to think about than the eternal quarrels of those two. I slipped from the table and ran to our room, straight on to the balcony. My gaze flew to the posh hotel. It seemed even larger now, a huge white palace, three storeys high with rows of tall windows, a monumental entrance with pillars on both sides. Before it lay an expanse of white pebbles, with a few parked cars. There was nobody to be seen.
I sat down in one of the two rusty metal chairs that marred our balcony. My head did not reach above the balustrade but between the spiles I still had a good view of the hotel and the road. The long wait could begin. I was convinced that the twins were staying at the hotel. There seemed no other explanation for their sudden disappearance. My plan was as simple as it was brilliant. I would simply remain on the lookout. The twins were sure to go to the beach. Everybody did. I would see them approach from afar and have ample time to run down and bump into them, as if by accident. And then? No idea. I would see when the time came.
I waited. At first calmly, totally convinced of the happy ending to my plan. After an hour or so my mother appeared. I pulled a suffering face and said that I felt a little better but still quite sick.
"So sick that you cant go to the beach?" she asked, with a mocking little smile. I nodded gravely, stealing a quick look at the entrance of the hotel, fearful of missing anything.
Her smile disappeared. She felt my forehead again.
"And still you're not warm at all."
I just shrugged.
"Oh well," she said. "Perhaps you're just tired from last evening. It would suit me if you could stay here a little longer because I do need to talk some more with your father."
"You two having a row again?"
"A row? Not at all. What gave you that idea?" she asked, with a puzzled look on her face. I knew her. She was lying, but just then it did not matter."
"No reason," I said, looking aside at the hotel again.
"Silly boy. You stay here. I'll be back as soon as possible." She left.
I heaved a sigh of relief. Briefly I had feared that she would want to do all kinds of things with me, and spoil my plan. Now I could calmly resume my watch.
Time passed. Slowly I became restless. What if they did not come out? What if they weren't in that hotel at all? I tensed with shock. That was something I had not given any thought. But it was quite possible. It was my own invention that their mysterious disappearance last evening had to mean that they were staying at the hotel. But that need not be true at all. I jumped up.
"Damnation," I cried. What to do? If they were not at the hotel, they might be anywhere. I paced the balcony, muttering to myself. After all, it was a bit odd that they had not appeared yet. Everybody went to the beach in this weather. They would too. Otherwise they could never have been so tanned. I sat down again. In these few hours I had aged at least ten years, or at any rate I was grappling with the same problems that would often plague me some ten years later as an adolescent. The inscrutable whims of the human female. I checked my watch. A handmedown from my father, which was much too big. It was already past eleven. Nobody went to the beach that late. The road before the hotel lay deserted, bleached by the sun. I could not stand it any longer. I had to check. I hesitated briefly. My mother always had to know where I was. It made her very nervous and angry if she did not know my whereabouts. But this was an emergency. I put on my best clothes without really knowing why: long trousers and a white shirt. Perhaps I was toying with the idea to enter the hotel. I don't know any more. At any rate I wanted to look my best. I also tried to comb my hair but had an unruly cowlick on top of my forehead which could not be controlled with an army of combs. With a final glance at the parking space before the hotel I left the balcony and the room, running all the way, terrified that they would pass in the time that it took me to get outside. When I ran into the street panting, I quickly looked in all directions. Not a living soul could be seen anywhere.
It was very quiet outside. Not even a bird could be heard. Only the breeze made a few flags in front of our hotel flutter and there were some insects buzzing in the shrubs. I started to walk in the direction of the white hotel. The heat was stifling. The road went upward a little, giving me the feeling that I was wading through a hot liquid. I broke into a sweat. At the edge of the pebbled courtyard I stopped. The building seemed deserted. The windows reflected the blue sky. Here some flags were also flapping in the breeze. I was torn by indecision. Would I just go inside and ask for the twins? The prospect alone made my knees wobble. I'd never dare do that. Helplessly I hung about at the edge of the pebbles, as if they formed a ravine. Then I slowly started to walk back. And all of a sudden the tension ebbed away, the whole business did not seem so terribly important anymore. I would not mind going to the beach again. I missed the sea, my waves. I quickened my pace back to our hotel.
The room was empty. No mom. I picked up my Superman cartoon and went to sit on the balcony again, in such a position that I could just see the entrance of the white hotel above the rim of my book. In that way I could read and would also notice anyone coming outside. At any rate that was the plan, but once I had started to read, I hardly looked up anymore.
That was how my first love affair ended. I wish I could give it some moving, melancholy conclusion, but that would be a lie. The whole thing just fizzled out.
An hour later my mom came back, surprisingly cheerful, and we went to the beach. I played in the waves again, my mother sat in her beach chair and read her American movie magazines, smoked her cigarettes and rubbed me down with suntan lotion. On the way back we had another ice cream in the sidewalk café, as usual. The prospect of dinner at the white hotel was a bit exciting, but I knew that I would not see them. After all, I never had during all the prior evenings. And that was what happened. For a few minutes I sat looking around very nervously, but then I forgot.
The second week went by just as peacefully and pleasantly as the first one. When we returned at the end of a day, I would still cast a quick look at the white hotel, but the last two days I did not even do that anymore. The twins had disappeared from my thoughts, just as completely as they had disappeared from my view that fateful night.