Of course it happened, but now, at twenty-three, she was better at watching out for herself. The only other option—besides trusting in others—was to transform herself into someone who was always on the defensive, incapable of loving, making decisions, always transferring the blame for everything that went wrong onto others. What was the point in living like that?
Those who trust in themselves trust others. Because they know that, when they are betrayed—and everyone is betrayed, that’s part of life—it’s possible to start all over again. Part of the fun in life is exactly this: running risks.
The nightclub Karla had invited Paulo to, which went by the suggestive name of Paradiso, was in fact a…church. A nineteenth-century church, originally built to house a local religious group that, already in the fifties, realized it had lost its power to attract new followers, despite being a sort of reform of Luther’s reform. In 1965, in light of the costs of maintaining the church, the few remaining faithful decided to abandon the building, occupied two years later by hippies who found in its nave the perfect spot for discussions, workshops, concerts, and political activities.
The police evicted them a short time later, but the place remained empty and the hippies returned en masse—the only solution was either to resort to violence or to allow things to go on as they had. An agreement between the long-haired libertines and the impeccably dressed city officials allowed the hippies to build a stage where the altar once stood, as long as they paid taxes on each ticket sold and were careful not to destroy the stained-glass windows along the back wall.
The taxes, of course, were never paid—the organizers always alleged that the space’s cultural activities operated at a loss, and no one seemed to care or even think about another eviction. On the other hand, the stained-glass windows were kept clean, the tiniest of cracks soon repaired with lead and stained glass, and so continued to show the glory and beauty of the King of Kings. When asked why they showed such care, those responsible answered:
“Because they’re beautiful. And it required a lot of work to design them, make them, put them into place—we’re here to put our art on display, and we respect the art of those who came before us.”
When they walked in, people were dancing to the sound of one of the hits of that era. The towering ceiling didn’t make for the best of acoustics, but what did it matter? Had Paulo given a thought to acoustics when he was singing “Hare Krishna” in the streets? What mattered was seeing everyone smiling, laughing, smoking, trading looks that spelled seduction or perhaps mere admiration. At that point, no one needed to pay an entry fee or taxes—the city government had taken it upon itself to not only avoid any lawlessness but care for the property, now subsidized.
By the looks of it, apart from the naked woman with the tulip covering her crotch, there was great interest in transforming Amsterdam into some sort of cultural capital—the hippies had revived the city, and the hotels, according to Karla, were now filling up; everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of the leaderless tribe whose women, it was said (falsely, of course), were always ready to make love with the first man who appeared before them.
“The Dutch are smart.”
“Of course we are. We’ve already conquered the entire world, including Brazil.”
They climbed up to one of the balconies that circled the nave. A miraculous acoustic dead spot meant they could talk a bit there without the interference of the blaring noise below. But neither Paulo nor Karla felt like talking—they leaned over the wooden safety rail and sat watching the people dance. She suggested they go down and do the same, but Paulo said that the only music he really knew how to dance to was “Hare Krishna, Hare Rama.” They both laughed, lit a cigarette, which they shared, and then Karla waved someone over—through the cloud of smoke, he could see it was another girl.
“Wilma,” she introduced herself.
“We’re headed to Nepal,” Karla said. Paulo laughed.
Wilma was startled by Karla’s comment but did nothing to give that away. Karla excused herself to go talk with her friend in Dutch, and Paulo sat watching the people dance below.
Nepal? So the girl he’d just met and who seemed to like his company was about to leave? And she’d said “we,” as though she already had company for such an adventure. And to such a far-off place, with a ticket that must have cost a fortune?
He was loving Amsterdam, but he knew why: he wasn’t alone. There was no need to make conversation with anyone, as soon as he’d arrived he’d found some company, and he would have liked to explore all that there was to see there with her at his side. To say that he was falling in love would be an exaggeration, but Karla had the kind of attitude he liked—she knew exactly where she wanted to go.
But Nepal? With another girl, whom even if he didn’t want to he would end up watching over and protecting—because that was how his parents had raised him? It was beyond his financial means. He knew that sooner or later he would have to leave this magical place, and his next stop—if the local customs officials allowed it—would be Piccadilly Circus and all the people from around the world who were to be found there.
Karla was still talking to her friend, and he pretended to be interested in the music below: Simon & Garfunkel, the Beatles, James Taylor, Santana, Carly Simon, Joe Cocker, B. B. King, Creedence Clearwater Revival—a long list that continued to grow with each month, each day, each hour. There was always the Brazilian couple he’d met earlier that afternoon, and they might introduce him to other people—but let someone leave just as soon as she’d entered his life?
He listened to the familiar chords of the Animals and remembered that he’d asked Karla to take him to a house of the rising sun. The end of the song was terrifying, he knew what the lyrics meant, but even so the danger fascinated and beckoned to him.
The idea had come to her all of a sudden, Karla explained to Wilma.
“It’s a good thing you controlled yourself. You could have ruined everything.”
“Nepal?”
“That’s right. One day I’m going to be old, fat, living with a jealous husband and children who make it impossible for me to take care of myself, working an office job that’s the same thing day in, day out, and I’ll get used to that: the routine, the comfort, the place I’m living. I can always go back to Rotterdam. I can always take advantage of the wonders of unemployment insurance or social security that our country provides. I can always become CEO of Shell, or Philips, or Heineken, because I’m Dutch and they only trust people from their own country. But Nepal is now or never—I’m already getting old.”
“At twenty-three?”
“The years pass faster than you think, Wilma, and I’d advise you to do the same. Take risks now, when you still have your health and some courage. We both agree Amsterdam is boring as can be, but we think this because we’ve gotten used to it. Today, when I saw this Brazilian guy, the way his eyes lit up, I discovered I was the boring one. I could no longer see the beauty of freedom because I’d become used to it.”
She looked to the side and saw Paulo with his eyes closed, listening to “Stand by Me.” Then she continued.
“So I need to recover some beauty—just that. To know that, though I’ll come back one day, there are still many things I haven’t seen or experienced. Where will my heart lead if I’ve yet to wander so many unknown paths? Where will I end up next, if I have yet to leave here like I should? What hills will I climb if I’m blind to the rope before me? I came from Rotterdam to Amsterdam with this purpose, I tried convincing several men to continue on toward the paths that don’t exist, ships that never reach any port, a sky without limits, but they all refused—they all were afraid either of me or of our unknown destination. Until this afternoon, when I met the Brazilian guy; regardless of what I thought about it, he followed the Hare Krishna through the streets, singing and dancing. I felt like doing the same thing, but my worries about looking like a strong woman stopped me. But I’m done doubting.”