Hippie

The assistant turned and walked away without answering her question. At that moment, the crew took a break and Karla turned to another assistant while the makeup artist stepped in to retouch the model’s right breast. She repeated her question. The man, a bit stressed, asked her not to interrupt his work, but Karla knew what he wanted.

“You seem tense. What’s worrying you?”

“The light. The light’s almost gone; before long the square will be dark,” the assistant responded, trying to rid himself of this impertinent girl.

“You’re not from here, are you? It’s early fall, it stays light out until seven. Not to mention, I have the power to stop the sun.”

The man gave her a look of surprise. She’d gotten what she wanted: his attention.

“Why are you making a poster with a naked woman holding a tulip over her crotch? Is this the image of Holland you want to show the rest of the world?”

He responded with a tone of thinly veiled irritation:

“What Holland? Who said you’re in Holland, a country where the houses have low-set windows that open onto the street and lace curtains that allow anyone to see what’s going on inside, because after all, there are no sinners here, each family is an open book? That’s Holland, my dear: a country overrun by Calvinists, where everyone is a sinner until proven the contrary, sin resides in the heart, mind, body, emotions. A country where only the grace of God can save anyone, but not everyone, just the chosen. You’re from here—haven’t you understood this yet?”

He lit a cigarette and watched the girl who, so arrogant before, now wore a look that betrayed intimidation.

“This isn’t Holland, my child, this is Amsterdam, with prostitutes in the windows and drugs on the streets—surrounded by an invisible cordon sanitaire. Woe to they who seek to take these ideas beyond the city. Not only are they unwelcome, they won’t even manage a hotel room if they’re not dressed properly. But you know this, don’t you? So please step aside and let us work.”

It was the man who stepped aside, leaving Karla looking as if she had just taken a sucker punch. Paulo tried to console her, but she just muttered to herself.

“It’s true. He’s right, it’s all true.”

How could it be true? The border guards wore earrings!

“There’s an invisible wall around the city,” she told him. “You want to get crazy? Well then, we’ll find a place where everyone can do almost everything they want, but don’t overstep these bounds or you’ll be arrested for drug trafficking, even if you’re merely consuming, or for public indecency, because you ought to be wearing a bra, keeping your modesty and morality intact, or else this country will never move forward.”

Paulo was a bit taken aback. He began to distance himself.

“Meet me back here at nine tonight—I promised I was going to take you to hear some real music and go dancing.”

“There’s no need…”

“Of course there is. Don’t stand me up, no man ever bailed on me and ran.”

Karla had her doubts—she regretted not having taken part in the dancing and singing through the streets, it would have brought them closer. But whatever, these are the risks any couple must run.

Couple?

“I’ve spent my life believing whatever people tell me and I always end up disappointed,” she often heard others say. “Does that ever happen to you?”

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.”

* * *