TUESDAY, MAY 20

I STAND IN FRONT OF a very fancy building on the Herengracht. It’s one of the mansions built by the nouveau riche of the eighteenth century. Today this neighborhood is home to our mayor, publishing houses, and important lawyers’ offices. I ring the bell; the door is opened via the intercom.

“Good morning, I have an appointment with Mr. Spijkers.”

“Your name, please?”

“Sophie van der Stap.”

“I’ll let him know you’re here.”

The girl behind the reception desk shows me to a waiting area with black leather chairs. I sit down and inspect my surroundings with interest. On the table with newspapers I can see the magazine NL20. It’s an old edition, the one in which I report on the boat party where everybody was wearing wigs and I left as Cicciolina. Then there are books. A lot of books. I stand up to take a closer look at them.

The hallway is made of white marble and tiles. These traditional Dutch tiles are called witjes. I know because my father likes to pass on his historical knowledge about our city everywhere we go. He always has a story, a history, whether we pass gables, street names, or churches. A few months ago we went on a church tour and ended up at one called Ons’ Lieve Heer op Solder in the red-light district, hidden in an old, crooked canal house. The secret church is located on the third floor and is fully equipped: organ, balconies, stained-glass windows, and witjes. The narrow staircase and numerous visitors made me feel dizzy and tired, so we rested for a while on one of the church pews. Physically, I was a mess. What a difference I feel after only two months.

“Sophie? Follow me, please.”

The girl from reception walks ahead of me. She leads me up the imposing staircase, made completely out of marble. She stands still at a high wooden door.

“Sir?”

“Come in!”

She opens the door and leaves me behind. I’m nervous. My hands are sticky, sweaty. Pam suddenly feels kind of warm there on top of my head. The temperature outside has risen to summer levels.

“Welcome, I’m Mai. I’m happy you could make it.” After the usual exchange of pleasantries I take a seat. Again, I see books everywhere I look.

“Well, I don’t need to say much. We loved your manuscript. It needs a little work here and there, but nothing major. We can publish in the fall. What do you say?”

I look at the man sitting across me. He is as bald as I was a little while back. He has fierce eyes and a big grin on his face. He’s dressed elegantly in a crisp white shirt, suspenders, and a tailored suit. Although it’s immediately clear that he’s the one running the publishing house, there’s something relaxed about how he holds himself, with his hands tucked in his pockets. I give him a blank look, at a loss for the right words to say.

“Um, that sounds great.”

“Do you have a title?”

“I was thinking Nine Wigs.”

“Nine Wigs,” he repeats, shifting sideways in his chair to look out on the canal. Nine Wigs, Nine Wigs. He repeats it again several times and looks back at me as if he’s a doctor who’s examining me. “I like it! It’s intriguing. But what about The Girl with Nine Wigs?”

I walk home along the canal with a freshly signed contract under my arm. “The Girl with Nine Wigs by Sophie van der Stap,” it says. It feels kind of super cool, walking home being that girl.