Needless to say it was an undeniable advantage to have a real, flesh-and-blood Kristev in such a reputable firm as Booms, Booms amp; Kristev — especially as she happened to be a woman, still young, still attractive.
A Kristeva. Jacob Booms, the third generation of Booms in the post of chairman — and with the biggest office in the premises in Zuyderstraat with two genuine Van Dermen oil paintings and a Persian Javel carpet — had suggested that they should change the name of the firm by adding that little feminine ending of ‘-a’, now that joint ownership of the enterprise had reverted to its original state: but Anna had declined the offer.
She knew that she was a woman no matter what. There was no need for a little extra letter on the moiré-patterned glass doorpanel leading into her office. Or in the classic Garamond letter-heading that had been used by the firm since the very beginning.
All that was needed to satisfy this hackneyed PC obeisance to sex roles was a man now and then. Just for a week or two. Nothing serious.
‘The most important difference between men and bananas,’ her friend Ester Peerenkaas had remarked on one occasion, ‘as far as we are concerned at least, is that men don’t grow on trees.’
That was, of course, a perfectly correct observation. Even if they were only interested in satisfying an occasional need, it was naturally an advantage if the fruit was tasty. The men available in restaurants and bars and other slightly dodgy plantations were easy to pick; but the outcome, the satisfaction provided by the arrangement, was seldom all that great. Both Anna and Ester had reached that conclusion after a few years of half-hearted indulgence. The aftertaste was generally much more sour than the sweetness of the fruit itself: it was hardly ever a matter of more than just a rather anxious one-night stand, and neither of them was very interested in continuing to plough that furrow.
‘Sleazy,’ Ester had commented. ‘It’s so bloody sleazy. He came after only twenty seconds, then lay there crying for two hours. We really must find some other way of going about it.’
Ester was even more hardened than Anna when it came to men. Or so she used to claim, at least, and it was difficult not to agree with her.
At the end of the eighties Ester Peerenkaas had met an Egyptian man, as handsome as a young god, at a conference on international economics in Geneva. She was twenty-five years of age, had just completed her studies, and had been appointed to work on a project in the Ministry of Finance: her life lay before her like a sun-kissed dawn. She fell in love, they married and had a daughter — all within the space of a year. They settled down in Paris, where he had a job at the Egyptian embassy. After three years she found her young god in bed with one of their French female friends. They were divorced within two months. Ester was granted custody of their daughter and moved back home to Maardam; but as her former husband had certain rights of access, she eventually allowed Nadal to spend a month with him one summer. The girl was five at the time, and since then Ester had never clapped eyes on her again. There was no longer a secretary by the name of Abdul Isrami at the embassy in Paris, and Egypt is a big country.
So Anna didn’t use to protest when her friend occasionally seemed to be somewhat cynical with regard to their sex lives.
So what other way did they find of going about it? Of making sure that they could occasionally enjoy a little of the sweetness that a damaged fruit still had to offer? How? It was Ester who came up with the answer.
Advertise.
At first it was not much more than a joke; but even jokes can become serious with the passage of time. It didn’t cost anything to try, and one warm, promising Friday in May 1997 they placed their first advert in the Contacts section of Allgemejne. The love market was considerably bigger and broader in Neuwe Blatt, but that was all the more reason for plumping for Allgemejne: in so far as there might be a promise of a little sophistication and class in this as yet untried area, it was of course important to explore those possibilities. Worth having a go.
Written responses required. Age, brief biography and photograph. Preferences with regard to art, music and literature. There was no need to make do with conceited idiots or introverted stay-at-homes. On the contrary, this was all about intellectual, cultivated and stimulating experiences.
There was also a proviso written into the advert to the effect that what was being proposed was not a possibility of spending their lives together: they had been very careful about the wording, but once they had got that right they didn’t bother to vary it from one advert to another. Nor was there any reference to the fact that two women were involved: but as both Anna Kristeva and Ester Peerenkaas were talented, well-educated and outgoing women aged about thirty-five, there was no question of any attempt to deceive. Not at all.
The first advert produced sixteen responses: they spent an extremely stimulating evening at Anna’s with cheese and wine, allocation of marks, eliminations, and drawing of lots — a process which eventually resulted in five meetings (three for Anna, two for Ester), and on the whole a very enjoyable summer. With no especially unpleasant aftertastes in the mouths of any of those involved, males or females — with the possible exception of an excessively possessive doctor’s wife who was apparently incapable of understanding details of the conditions.
So the method worked. Or at least, it was more satisfactory than many others: and when Anna Kristeva called in at the Allgemejne’s office in Rejmer Plejn that Friday afternoon at the beginning of December 2000, and collected a bundle of responses from hopeful candidates, it was the fifth time of asking.
In other words, a little jubilee. They had agreed to celebrate in style at Ester’s place with a lobster and a bottle of Chablis.
Twenty-three responses.
After the first so-called elimination of the idiots (those who hadn’t understood that it is not possible to submit a handwritten response using a computer — or the ones who were obviously only interested in showing off their muscles or beards before masturbating inside a woman), there were fourteen left. Plus one wild card: it was Anna who had invented and introduced that device — on pretty good and, it would transpire, foresighted grounds — after their third fishing expedition exactly a year ago.
After the next rather more careful run-through — after the lobster and the Chablis, but before the coffee and cognac, concentrating on such simple but important criteria as graphology and the ability to put thoughts into words — the number of possible candidates was down to four. Plus the wild card.
They took a break. Put on a Nick Drake CD and did the washing up. Prepared a tray with coffee and cognac glasses, moved into the living room and settled down in armchairs. It was ten o’clock, and time for the final round.
‘What about this one,’ said Ester, ‘what do you think of him? I must say he appeals to me much more than any of the others.’
‘Read it out,’ said Anna, leaning back in the armchair and sipping her cognac.
Ester started reading.
‘“I have to say I’m not a regular reader of these Contacts pages, but your advert attracted my attention — and why not. I’m a pilot and spend most of my time roaming around the world, but I have a base here in Maardam. Two marriages have stolen my youth, two children have ruined my finances, but at forty I’m too young to die. My first wife taught me to read — Maeterlinck, Kafka and the great Russians; my second wife took me to the opera. I still burst into tears when I hear the duet from The Pearl Fishers, but why should I sit sobbing to myself? I have a house on a Greek island, but even Greece is lacking in charm at this time of year. I suggest a dinner and La Traviata instead: that’s on until the New Year.”’