They needed to pass by Rooie’s window on the Bergstraat twice. The first time Rooie’s curtain was drawn; she must have been with a customer. When they circled the Bergstraat a second time, Rooie was in her window. The prostitute showed no signs of recognizing Ruth—she just stared at Wim—and Ruth neither nodded nor waved; she didn’t even smile. All Ruth did was ask Wim—casually, in passing—“What do you think of her ?”
“Too old,” the young man said.
Ruth felt certain that she was through with him. But although she had dinner plans for that evening, Wim told her that he would be waiting for her after dinner at the taxi stand on the Kattengat, opposite her hotel.
“Shouldn’t you be in school?” she asked him. “What about your classes in Utrecht?”
“But I want to see you again,” he pleaded.
She warned him that she would be too tired for him to spend the night. She needed to sleep—to really sleep.
“I’ll just meet you at the taxi stand, then,” Wim told her. He looked like a beaten dog who wanted to be beaten again. Ruth couldn’t have known then how glad she would be to see him waiting for her later. She had no idea that she was not through with him.
Ruth met Maarten at a gym on the Rokin that he’d told her about; she wanted to see if it would be a good place for the woman writer and her young man to meet. It was perfect, meaning it wasn’t too fancy. There were a number of serious weight lifters. The young man Ruth was thinking of—a much cooler, more detached young man than Wim— would be a devoted bodybuilder.
Ruth told Maarten and Sylvia that she’d “virtually spent the night” with that devoted young admirer of hers. He’d been useful; Ruth had persuaded him to “interview” a couple of prostitutes in de Wallen with her.
“But how did you ever get rid of him?” Sylvia asked.
Ruth confessed that she wasn’t finally rid of Wim. When she said he’d be waiting for her after dinner, both Maarten and Sylvia laughed. Now, if they took her to her hotel after dinner, Ruth wouldn’t have to explain Wim to them. Ruth reflected that everything she’d wanted had fallen into place. All that remained was for her to visit with Rooie again. Hadn’t Rooie been the one to tell her that anything could happen?
In lieu of lunch, Ruth went with Maarten and Sylvia to a signing at a bookstore on the Spui. She ate a banana and drank a small bottle of mineral water. Afterward, she would have most of the afternoon to herself—to see Rooie. Ruth’s only concern was that she didn’t know when Rooie left her window to pick up her daughter from school.
There was an episode at the book-signing that Ruth might have taken as an omen that she should not see Rooie again. A woman Ruth’s age arrived with a shopping bag—evidently a reader who’d brought her entire library to be autographed. But in addition to the Dutch and English editions of Ruth’s three novels, the contents of the shopping bag also included the Dutch translations of Ted Cole’s world-famous books for children.
“I’m sorry—I don’t sign my father’s books,” Ruth said to her. “They’re his books. I didn’t write them. I shouldn’t sign them.” The woman looked so stunned that Maarten repeated in Dutch what Ruth had said.
“But they’re for my children!” the woman said to Ruth.
Oh, why not just do what she wants? Ruth thought. It’s easier to do what everyone wants. Besides, as Ruth signed her father’s books, she felt that one of them was hers. There it was: the book she had inspired. A Sound Like Someone Trying Not to Make a Sound .
“Say it in Dutch for me,” Ruth asked Maarten.
“It’s god-awful in Dutch,” he told her.
“Say it anyway,” she asked him.
“Het geluid van iemand die geen geluid probeert te maken.” Even in Dutch, the title gave Ruth the shivers.
She should have taken it as a sign, but she looked at her watch instead. What was she worrying about? There were fewer than a dozen people still standing in line. Ruth would have plenty of time to see Rooie.
The Moleman
By midafternoon at that time of year, only small patches of sunlight lingered on the Bergstraat; Rooie’s room was in the shade. Rooie was smoking. “I do it when I get bored,” the prostitute told Ruth, gesturing with her cigarette as Ruth came inside.
“I brought you a book—it’s something else to do when you get bored,” Ruth said. She’d brought an English edition of Not for Children . Rooie’s English was so excellent that a Dutch translation would have been insulting. Ruth intended to inscribe her novel, but she’d not yet written anything in the book—not even her signature—because she didn’t know how to spell Rooie’s name.
Rooie took the novel from her. She turned it over, paying close attention to Ruth’s jacket photo. Then she put the book down on the table by the door, where she kept her keys. “Thanks,” the prostitute said. “But you’ll still have to pay me.”
Ruth unzipped her purse and peered into her wallet. She needed to let her eyes adjust to the dim light; she couldn’t read the denominations on the bills.
Rooie had already sat down on the towel in the middle of her bed. She had forgotten to draw the window curtains, possibly because she’d presumed that she wouldn’t be having sex with Ruth. There was a matter-of-factness about Rooie today that suggested that she had given up the idea of trying to seduce Ruth. The prostitute had become resigned to the fact that all Ruth wanted to do was talk .
; “That was a darling boy I saw you with,” Rooie told Ruth. “Is he your boyfriend or your son?”
“He’s neither,” Ruth replied. “He’s not young enough to be my son. Not unless I had him when I was fourteen or fifteen.”