NOT LONG AFTER THAT, on a warm Sunday in October, we went for a walk in the dunes. The weather had turned cold already, and I took shelter behind a fisherman’s house while Erica stood out on the beach staring at the sea. A late blackbird, lost out there on the coast, captured my attention for a while. It occurred to me that Erica was like that bird, unable to decide where to land, under the roof of the house—where faces appear behind windows, where a voice, a laugh, a strange sound all pose a potential threat—in this tree or that tree, on the gutter of a shed or in the safety of the woods. She was constantly flying back and forth, anxiously flapping her wings, and then with a graceful swoop, she’d start all over again.
“You know,” Erica said when she returned, “we’re living all wrong. We should’ve rented a house by the sea. Let’s give up our apartment and commute.”
“Yes,” I said, “good idea.” It was easy enough to say in that moment because soon she’d forget all about it. There was no need to get into details. She always had some new proposal that would never be executed. All her plans, all her restlessness, always waiting for … for what?
But this time I’d miscalculated. I didn’t think anything of Erica’s behavior the following week. Of course, I’d noticed she was in a more cheerful mood, and I was happy to have a bit of peace and harmony in the house for a few days, happy to see her happy. On Saturday, she announced that she’d be gone all day on Sunday and that I shouldn’t wait up for her. As usual, I didn’t ask questions and when I woke up at ten o’clock the next day, she’d already left.
I spent the day alone, treated myself to breakfast in bed, wrote some letters, read, and enjoyed my solitude. In the afternoon, I decided to go to the Rijksmuseum, but when I found myself surrounded by couples and families shuffling past the paintings and suits of armor, I was overcome by a strange sense of loneliness. I thought of Erica, missed her even, though this feeling bothered me, and I tried to suppress it. I had forced myself to visit the museum—after all, you have to do something, you can’t just spend the whole day at home. There, under the high vaulted ceilings, among people enjoying the company of their family or beloved (at the time it all seemed so ideal to me), I wondered why I hadn’t just stayed in my room where I felt safe. Why had I forced myself to come here? Was the need to be constantly active starting to get to me as well? Or was I afraid that Erica would judge me for spending an entire Sunday at home by myself? Maybe I was afraid of her disdain, her contempt, which I’d been exposed to a lot in those days. I felt suffocated by that same feeling of abandonment that had grabbed me by the throat in France and deprived me of all sensation during my solitary walks through the coastal villages. I gazed at the paintings by Rembrandt and Vermeer with feigned interest, so acutely aware of the people around me that I was oblivious to the scenes on the canvas. I envied and feared those people because they accentuated my tense state of mind. I was a pitiful sight and the image of myself that Erica would throw in my face hours later was probably already running through my mind.
At around seven o’clock, just as I was spooning some leftovers onto my plate, Erica came stomping up the stairs. So, she’s still in a good mood, I thought, and probably full of cheerful stories.
“Done! All worked out,” she said and sank into a chair at the kitchen table.
“Have you eaten?” I asked with a hand on the bread box.
“Too excited,” she said, “I’ll eat later, don’t worry about it. I GOT US A PLACE BY THE SEA! In Egmond! Got really lucky!”
“You got us a what? Where?” I was so caught off guard that all I could do was take out the bread and rummage around in the drawer for a bread knife.
“We’re going to live in Egmond aan Zee,” she said. “I’ll need the money right away; I’ve got to send the deposit tomorrow. They already gave me the key. Really nice people, they just trusted me.” She pulled a shiny new key out of her jacket and dangled it in front of me. “It’s still under construction, we can move in next month.” This was a completely senseless maneuver following a period of defeat. An act of desperation, I thought to myself. A wild leap at the end of a period of inertia she was no longer able to endure.
I sat down at the kitchen table.
“My god, Erica—how could you …”
But that was as far as I got. She seemed so happy. The bird had finally chosen a place to perch. I didn’t want to discourage her, not then, maybe in a few hours I would ask some cautious questions and then try to bring her back to reality later that evening. Egmond, how far was that from Amsterdam by train? Maybe there was a bus, I thought irritably. And how in the world were we going to get out of our lease?
“What is it now?” she said. “Are you going to put a damper on things again? You’re such an old nag, Bea. You haven’t got the nerve, no guts at all. This—” she said with a sweeping gesture around our kitchen, at the knife I was thoughtlessly holding in my hand. “This isn’t life! You’ve got to make something of it. Dare to live!” She seemed to like that theme and latched onto it. “We live here like two parakeets on a perch. Same thing every day. We’re not that young anymore, you know. How many years have we wasted? Especially you. You’re older than I am. What’ve you got to show for it? An office job. And there you are with your bread knife in your little kitchen with your little checkered curtains and checkered tablecloth. So lovely, that red! How original! And Wednesday night you’re invited out for pancakes with Dottie and Max and their snot-nose kids. Flapjacks and whining children! What a treat! Saturday night we’ll go to the movies, and then on Sunday maybe we’ll walk over to Café Klein Kalfje. Look at you, with your new Sunday dress, with that little scarf. Isn’t life beautiful, full of surprises and cups of tea. After all this time with you, I’m becoming that way too. I hadn’t even noticed myself. We’re two old spinsters living upstairs.” She cursed and slammed the table with her fist. “I’ve got to get out. Maybe I need to get away from you. This is no life for me.” Then, she remembered her new plan: “We’ll move to Egmond. That I’ll try. At least it’s something.”
I cut myself on the jagged edge of the bread knife; I’d been sliding it up and down my finger throughout the entire eruption. I licked away the blood and sucked the wound. What now? What should I say?
“Well, Erica,” I began soothingly, but she wrenched the knife from my hands and began banging around in the kitchen to make herself dinner. Two hunks of bread, a lump of cheese, a glass of beer.
“Let me just …” I stood halfway out of my chair. At that, she threw everything down, glared at me with her hate-filled eyes and stormed out. I just sat there for a moment, my heart pounding. The slam of the kitchen door echoing in my ears.
Later, when I was still pacing nervously around my room, I heard her in the kitchen again. I guess she got hungry—I had to let her have her way. I couldn’t help but think about the dainty little sandwiches I’d been planning to make with yesterday’s steak, with pickles and thin slices of tomato, all elegantly arranged on a colorful plate, and—as a surprise—mini pastries bought on my way home from the museum. That was the lunch I’d imagined for us, but I hadn’t been allowed to serve it. I shouldn’t have spoiled her so much. I shouldn’t have forced my care on her like that. No wonder she’d gotten angry. I had to let her be free, in that way too. Then I saw myself wandering around the museum and a vestige of the pain I’d felt echoed through my stomach. Instinctively, I touched my new scarf, and the stifled sobs brought some relief. Erica had cut me deeply. I’d bought the silk scarf from Liberty. It had been too expensive, but I thought it would brighten up last winter’s dark blue dress. I saw myself walking around that museum so clearly—after all, you’ve got to do something—but in reality, all I’d done was expose myself to unnecessary torture, loneliness, the abnormal reaction of a stressed-out person. What had happened to me? I didn’t understand it at the time.
In the end, we moved to Egmond aan Zee. I can’t remember everything that happened in the three weeks before the moving truck pulled into our new hometown. I remember sitting there on a folded horse blanket, surrounded by all our belongings, a musty tarp from the moving company over my head and shoulders against the steady drizzle, utterly powerless against the heavy depression that descended on the rumbling truck just as it started to rain. Erica was sitting in the front seat between the movers with a girl named Dolly in her lap. I’d never met this Dolly person before and didn’t even know she existed. They seemed to be having a good time. Occasionally, they’d laugh in my direction. I felt like a piece of furniture, dragged into Erica’s flight from herself. I was so exhausted from all the tension and silent hostility between us before I’d finally given in, from all the trouble with the Amsterdam apartment, from all the packing, that the complications of living outside the city seemed insurmountable to me. Halfway through the trip, Erica stopped the truck and offered to switch seats. I refused and said I was enjoying the open landscape.
“It’s like a movie, Erica, everything”—I waved my arm—“just rolls away, it’s wonderful.”
No, I didn’t want to interrupt the adventure, I said. I was so well cast in my role in our little comedy that Erica, convinced by my response, climbed happily back into the front seat. Now I really have to enjoy it, I thought.
The classic Dutch polder landscape, uninterrupted by trains and cars, was indeed impressive, and the gray weather made it all the more dramatic. But my attempt to focus on the scenery failed miserably. I was so irritated by Dolly’s unexpected presence that my last bit of courage was splashed away like a soap bubble. I was in too low of spirts. Why had Erica invited her? She certainly wasn’t the type of person you’d ask to help with a move or someone who, aware of her own efficiency, would be eager to lend a hand. Still, she’d reported for duty that morning at seven o’clock. She’d barely lifted a finger, but she did drive me to despair with all her pseudo-cosmopolitan remarks and anecdotes about people I didn’t know. When we arrived in Egmond, in the midst of all the chaos, she made herself comfortable in an easy chair. It was up to me to go get us some coffee, even that was too much for her. While I was running around in the rain looking for a café or an inn, I wondered whether Dolly would be the next Judy. The future seemed so bleak that I was already imagining Dolly as a regular guest at our house, and me sitting alone in Egmond while Erica was out having fun with her in Amsterdam. What did Erica see in her? I sized her up against myself, and as far as I could tell (with all my Dutch snobbery), I was by far superior: I came from a better background, had more to offer, was more intelligent. On the other hand, maybe I was out of the running because I was too stiff or boring or bland. What did Erica want in a friend? Why did she want to live with me when she so clearly preferred these gaudy, superficial, outspoken girls like Judy and Dolly? The two women were certainly of the same caliber.
I hurried back with an old thermos full of coffee from the friendly grocer’s wife. It felt warm in my freezing hands. Maybe the kindness of the simple villagers would do us good. With that hopeful thought, the world seemed a bit rosier. And then it occurred to me—a thought which was problematic in itself but optimistic given my current situation—that Erica had invited Dolly to serve as a lightning rod. Maybe she’d thought the day would be easier with a neutral person there. Was Erica afraid to be alone with me? Despite the stubbornness with which she’d pushed the moving plan forward, she might have known that I was right, that moving to Egmond was insane and that she shouldn’t have dragged me into it.
Over the next few weeks, she didn’t show any signs of regret; however, in the long run, my gloomy predictions turned out to be correct. Erica couldn’t stand it there. Just as I’d gotten settled into the modern bedroom Erica had assigned to me, with its giant windows to the sea, just as I’d resigned myself to getting up early and traveling back and forth to Amsterdam, just as I’d made my peace with evenings as monotonous as the steadily crashing waves and ventured to draw Erica into my happiness, her restlessness reared its head once again, bringing with it a new sense of dissatisfaction. We started going out in the evenings, chatting with the fishermen on the corner, drinking in the local bar (while the locals eyed us with suspicion), getting to know the women in the shops, and even visited a young painter Erica had met on the train. Pretty soon, our evenings in the village turned into bus trips to the movie theater in Alkmaar. Finally, there came a week when we were only at the apartment to sleep—an absurd series of train and bus trips between Amsterdam and Egmond all for five hours of sleep in our dusty, neglected apartment. I was too tired to work, too stressed and unhappy to sleep. At breakfast on Monday, I announced that I intended to come straight home to Egmond after work that week and stay there. Erica took note and went out alone. Apparently, she had more fun without me, and once I’d managed to get over the thought of her in Amsterdam with Dolly, who had seemingly disappeared from our lives after moving day, or in the dimly lit village or in the Alkmaar cinema, I actually enjoyed the quiet weeks in my cozy room with my books, knitting, and household chores. Sometimes after I got home in the evening, I’d go for a walk along the sea at dusk with a sandwich or a few pieces of fruit in my coat pocket in case I got hungry. I’d eat dinner when I got home after dark. I was fairly happy. I especially liked the weekends, which I mostly spent alone. My appearance improved, and I felt rested and full of life. I took on the role of house mother, did the shopping as soon as I got off the bus, kept the apartment clean, washed and ironed our clothes. Yes, Erica’s too, as I’d often do in later years. Erica was still nonchalant about her appearance, and despite my best efforts, she looked like a sloppy teenage boy. We barely saw each other; I didn’t even wait for her in the morning. Before the bus left, I’d wonder half-amused whether she’d actually make it. Occasionally she did miss the bus, which meant she’d also miss the train connection in Castricum.
In the back of my mind, I felt a vague sense of pity, but it wasn’t strong enough to worry about, or rather I didn’t let it get to me. I simply didn’t want to think about it.
One night while reading in bed, I actually heard her come in, which meant she was home earlier than usual. Usually I was asleep and didn’t hear the sound of her footsteps outside my door. This time she stumbled around the house, waiting for me to come out and greet her. When that didn’t work, she knocked on my door and asked if I was asleep yet. I said no (an answer I would later come to regret), and she came in. In the light of my reading lamp, I saw that she was as pale as a sheet and the dark circles had reappeared under her eyes. Even her tough constitution had been unable to cope with the restlessness of recent weeks.
“It’s hot in here,” she said and pulled off her sweater.
“Central heating,” I replied with the grimace we’d used in the beginning to show our respect for the new building’s modern installations. She was wearing a dirty blouse even though I’d been up late ironing the night before and had placed a pile of clean shirts—the same boyish ones she always wore—in her closet. She looked disheveled, as if she hadn’t changed clothes in days. She sat at the foot of my bed and looked straight at me, one eye squinting through the smoke of her cigarette.
“I come with the peace pipe,” she said, and trying to be funny, she took the cigarette between her thumb and index finger and held it at eye level between us.
Several possible responses flashed through my mind, but they all seemed inadequate or too open to interpretation. So I just smiled, though I would’ve liked to have said something. We sat there for a moment, me leaning against the pillows, and Erica, still eyeing me closely. It was always this way. Whatever happened, Erica showed no fear, none of the embarrassment that comes from shame and guilt. Once she was ready to show her cards, clear the air, admit her mistakes, she did so with no qualms whatsoever. Now I know that in those moments she’d already settled the matter within herself. The confrontation with me was more of an afterthought. Deep down, Erica was accountable to no one but herself.
“I have to work the night shift again next month. I talked to Betsie,” she said and then cut to it. “She wants two weeks to find another apartment and then we can move back in. We’ll cover the moving costs.”
“You’re out of your mind, you’re crazy.” Those were the only words I could find. It was unbelievable. How could she accept no responsibility whatsoever? Where did she find the nerve to ask Betsie, an office acquaintance of mine who had taken over our lease in Amsterdam, to give us back the apartment after only two months? And Betsie was no pushover either. A fairly aggressive woman in her forties, she’d been very firm and business-like about our first transaction and even insisted on drawing up a sublease agreement. And now, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, Erica had persuaded her to clear out because Erica wanted to go back. Another victim had succumbed to her whims. And I was simply at her disposal. The anger boiling up inside me was so intense that I couldn’t take it lying down. I threw off the blankets and reached for my kimono on the chair next to the bed. But Erica was quicker than me. She pulled the covers back up and pushed me back with her hands on my chest. I looked at her smiling above me, inhaled that familiar aroma of lavender soap and cigarette smoke I’d always liked so much. But suddenly I couldn’t stand it. The pressure of her strong hands brought me outside myself. I kicked her off me with my drawn-up knees and began shouting uncontrollably—curses, swears, every abuse I could think of. She let go of me immediately and returned to the foot of the bed. The outburst calmed me, and I sank back into the pillows ashamed of my rage.
“You really know how to push someone to the edge,” I said, as if I’d prepared the phrase beforehand. “You do whatever you want with no thought whatsoever about me.”
At first, Erica didn’t say anything. She studied her fingernails, and I couldn’t see her face. Then, all of a sudden, she threw herself onto the bed with her face in the blankets. She didn’t cry, she just lay there motionless for what seemed like an eternity. I didn’t know what to do. Then I felt her hands on my hips and her head against my loins.
“Bea,” she said, her voice smothered against me. “Bea, don’t you get it?”
The tears came moments later in an explosion of anger, hate, and disappointment. She accused me of misleading her, of driving her to confess, of letting her have her way and then humiliating her with my rejection. There was nothing for me to say. How innocent, no, how blind and stupid I’d been. I thought of Bas, of his accusations toward Erica on his last visit. In an effort to save myself from the chaos of my own thoughts, no, from my very existence in that moment, I concentrated all my emotions on Erica. Poor, twisted Erica. But I couldn’t bring myself to touch her, to comfort her. Never again, I thought with revulsion. Or was it fear? Despite what had happened, I didn’t really feel repulsed by her, because even then, in that moment, I knew I hadn’t stopped her advances, that I’d let her—as she put it—have her way. It came as a terrifying surprise, because even then I felt for her, I felt her humiliation and would’ve liked to have comforted her, to have laid my hands on her shiny boyish head as she stood there sobbing against the leg of a chair in helpless misery.
“This is the way I am!” she screamed. “This is the way I am!” She turned toward me, her face wet with tears and contorted into an expression of equal parts pain and triumph. “And it’s the way you are too. Yes, you, Bea. Admit it! Just admit it!” Gasping between sobs, but with a sense of triumph in her voice, the triumph of a world conqueror, she repeated the injunction over and over again. I sprang out of bed, my whole body shaking, and ran (looking back it all seems so ridiculous) into the kitchen, the only hiding place within reach.
Hours later we found each other back in my room, calmer, avoiding each other’s gaze. Erica talked until the sun came up. It wasn’t a plea, why would she defend herself? The fact that she was suffering from what I, with all my superiority and compassion (really just forms of self-preservation), referred to as an abnormality was even more evident that night than during the weeks when she’d been so tormented by the discovery of her wrongness. Wrong, that’s what she called it that night. It was catharsis that compelled her to try to reconcile herself with her wrongness. After that night, she never referred to herself that way again. She resigned herself to a nature that couldn’t be changed, accepted the consequences and enjoyed her life. I’ve always admired that. But that night I stood at the window with my back to her—how could I ever confront her openly again? I stared blindly at the moonlit sea and saw nothing but scenes from Erica’s unhappy childhood. Her experiences over the past year, of which I’d suspected little or nothing until that night, were suddenly so clear that it was as if I’d experienced them myself. My immediate powers of observation failed me until I suddenly became aware of the morning mist on the water and the gray, deserted beach. Now I knew everything. But for what? Erica’s confession and the accusation against me had driven us irrevocably apart, I thought. We were now forced to go our separate ways, living together had become impossible. But less than a month later I came to the equally irrevocable conviction that we were bound together for life, that our short year together had been, at least for me, decisive. I could no longer live without her, and with her there was nothing but the strange existence that had been predetermined for her by her miserable youth, in which I could only participate in as a witness.