“I don’t take drugs,” said the boy peevishly.
“You do take drugs,” said Bastiaan. “You inject yourself with them. It’s obvious. We’ll have to do something about that. And what about diseases?”
“What about them?”
“Do you have any? Gonorrhea, chlamydia—”
“Of course I don’t,” he said. “I don’t fuck women. You only get diseases if you fuck the dirty bitches in the windows; everyone knows that. You can’t get anything from men.”
“The world is a cesspool,” said Bastiaan. “Believe me, I know. It’s my field. Anyway, I don’t care how anyone makes a living, what you do is up to you, but if you need help, if you want help, then I can help you. It’s your choice.”
The boy considered this for a moment and then leaped from his seat and lashed out, aiming a punch at Bastiaan’s jaw, but Bastiaan was too quick and strong for him and he caught his arm, holding it tightly behind the boy’s back.
“Calm down,” he said.
“You calm down,” said the boy, bursting into tears.
Bastiaan pushed him away and sent him toppling back onto the couch, where he sat, head down, his face in his hands. “Please give me some money,” he said finally, looking up at us.
“How about we buy you lunch instead?” asked Bastiaan. “Are you hungry?”
The boy gave a bitter laugh. “Of course I’m hungry,” he said. “I’m always hungry.”
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
The boy thought about this for a long time before answering. It felt as if he was weighing up the question of whether or not he should be honest. “Ignac,” he said finally, and I knew he was telling the truth.
“Where are you from?”
“Ljubljana.”
“Where’s that?” I asked.
“Slovenia,” said the boy contemptuously. “Don’t you know anything about geography?”
“Not really,” I said with a shrug, and I could see Bastiaan hiding a smile. “How long have you been in Amsterdam?”
“Six months,” he said.
“All right,” said Bastiaan, standing up and nodding determinedly. “Let’s go out, all of us. I’m hungry, Cyril’s hungry. We’ll get some lunch. You’ll come with us, Ignac. All right?”
“If I come to lunch with you,” said Ignac, “can I come back here afterward?”
“Absolutely not,” I said.
“Where do you normally sleep?” asked Bastiaan.
“There are some rooms,” said the boy, non-committally. “Near Dam Square. The boys from Music Box and Pinocchio go there during the day. When the men don’t want us.”
“Then that’s where you should go,” said Bastiaan.
“I can’t,” said Ignac.
“Why not? Was it a client who hit you or your pimp?”
The boy said nothing, just stared at the floor. He was starting to tremble a little and I went to the bedroom to fetch him a jumper. Bastiaan followed me in and sat on the bed as he put his shoes on. A moment later, I heard the sound of the front door slamming and, as we both ran out into the hallway, the clatter of footsteps running down the stairs. I looked at Bastiaan, who was leaning back against the wall, a disappointed expression on his face, shaking his head.
“Well,” he said with a shrug. “We tried.”
“My wallet,” I said, looking over at the table by the door where I always left it when I came in at night, next to my keys. Of course it was gone. “The little fucker.”
A Surprise Visitor
Three nights later we were home alone, watching television, and I found myself still thinking about the boy.
“What do you think he did with that money?” I asked.
“Who?” asked Bastiaan. “What money?”
“Ignac,” I said. “The money he stole. Do you think he used it to feed himself?”
“It wouldn’t have got him far,” he said. “You only lost a couple of hundred guilders. Far less than he wanted. He probably spent it on drugs. And I’m sure he has debts to pay off. We’re kidding ourselves if we think he bought fruit and vegetables.”
I nodded. I loved Amsterdam but this experience had left a sour taste in my mouth.
“Do you think we should move?” I asked.
“Move where?” asked Bastiaan.
“I don’t know. A quieter part of the city. Or Utrecht maybe. It’s not so far away.”
“But it’s convenient here,” said Bastiaan. “For the hospital, for the Anne Frank House. Why would you want to move?”
I stood up and walked over to the window and looked down toward the street where people were making their way up and down, alone, in pairs, in groups. Any one of them, I realized, might be preparing to rent someone, anyone, for an hour or for the night.
A knock on the door surprised me—we never had visitors—and I made my way out to the corridor to open it. Standing outside was Ignac, paler than he had been a few nights before, his bruises half-healed. He looked very frightened. In his hands he held my wallet and he trembled as he held it out to me.
“This is yours,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Right,” I said, taking it off him, completely astonished to see him again.
“It’s empty, though,” he added. “I’m sorry about that too. I spent all the money.”
“Yes,” I said, looking inside. “So why did you bring it back to me?”
He shrugged and turned away, glancing down the staircase, and when he turned back, Bastiaan was standing beside me, equally surprised to see the boy at our door.
“Can I stay here tonight?” he asked us. “Please?”
A Time of Slaves
Despite having sat at that same table and looked at that same photograph dozens of times, it still came as a surprise when I finally realized why it looked so familiar to me.
“This picture,” I said to Bastiaan as he sat down, placing a couple of fresh beers on the table, followed by Ignac, who was carrying our dinner from the kitchen area. “The one of Smoot and Seán MacIntyre. Do you see the building they’re standing in front of?”
“Yes,” he said, leaning in and peering at it. “What about it?”
“Look behind them,” I told him. “I used to live in that building in the mid sixties. It’s on Chatham Street. You can just about see my bedroom window up there if you squint.”
Bastiaan and Ignac looked closer at it but neither seemed particularly impressed.
“Well, I thought it was interesting,” I said, sitting back in my seat. “All this time that I’ve been sitting here looking at it and I never even noticed.” Ignac was still standing there and I looked up at him. “What?” I said.
“Aren’t you going to tip your waiter?” he asked.
“How about we tip you by not evicting you?” said Bastiaan, and he snorted as Ignac made his way back behind the bar and started to wipe down the counter. I watched him for a few moments before turning to my food. The bad bleach job was gone, he’d shaved his hair down to a buzz-cut and put on a little weight. All told, he looked a lot healthier than he had when we’d taken him in.
“So how long have you wanted to be a father?” I asked, and Bastiaan looked across at me in surprise.
“What do you mean?”