Taken
He was nice looking and he was alone. How could I have known then that he was ... different?
~ Taken ~
If I had known his intentions when we first met, would I have done it so easily? Yes, probably.
It was a Wednesday night at a cafe bar in Amsterdam. He was sitting at a table under an awning, and I watched him for about half an hour, hoping I might get his attention. He was nice looking and he was alone. How could I have known that he was different? Granted, he did appear a little strange, but no more strange, really, than most of the night people in this eccentric city.
A book and an orange umbrella were on the table in front of him. His clothing was slightly mismatched, I thought. His dress shoes and slacks oddly paired with a white T-shirt, an oversized woolly jacket, and a knit cap. His hair was dark and shaggy and he hadn’t shaved in a while. I noticed he kept shifting his position, as if he were uncomfortable in his skin. He seemed to be studying the buildings, the people, the trees that surrounded him. He had no cellphone at hand, which struck me as unusual. He took a sip of his coffee, and grimaced as though he’d expected something else to be in his cup.
I was, no doubt, influenced by the alcohol. Dutch gin is a serious drink; you can dilute it by half and still get the effect you want. And, well, you know how late-night-alone can be.
He glanced over at me and caught me staring at him. He threw me a direct look, his head cocked to one side, as if puzzling over an unknown specimen. Then, with a crooked little smile, he stood and walked over. He bent down and said something, but I didn’t recognize his language.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Ah … English,” he said. “My name is Benny.” He offered me his hand.
“Hello, Benny. I’m Elena. Would you … like to join me?” He pulled out a chair and sat down, maybe just a little too close.
“You were watching me,” he said.
“That’s true, I was. I’m sorry, but you look like an interesting guy, that’s all. You have a curious accent. Where are you from?”
“My home is Kyrzikk.”
“Kyrzikk? Oh, yes, I see.” Not wanting to reveal my ignorance, I didn’t ask anything further about where he was from. Maybe I should have.
“May I buy you some coffee … Elena?”
“I’m drinking gin tonight, Benny.”
“Gin?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t know gin,” he said, leaning his head to one side with a smile.
“I can fix that,” I said. I called the waiter over and ordered two small tulip glasses of Bols, thinking maybe he’d like to know gin. The first glass made his eyes water and he had trouble catching his breath, but after the third one, he was okay. His gestures became animated, and he actually giggled — but just once, which I found adorable. Had I done him a disservice by introducing him to Dutch spirits? But we were in Amsterdam, we were getting acquainted. It was what it was.
We talked a while. Actually, I mostly let him talk. I was completely drawn in by the unusual rhythm of his speech. He spoke softly, he was smart and funny. His intense gaze ruffled me a bit, until later, when I got to know him a little better. Then it ruffled me a lot. But I was drawn to this Benny like a compass to true north.
He stood up, visibly surprised by his own unsteadiness. “Elena, I need to walk now, please.” He picked up his umbrella, offered me his arm and we started down the Spuistraat.
We wound our way through the wet, slippery late-night streets, leaning into each other under the umbrella. We passed smoke shops, used book stores, an antiques market, a 24-hour pancake house. We paused to look in several lighted display windows. He pointed out a few curiosities that he didn’t seem to recognize: an old analog pocket watch, a bong, a roach clip, wind chimes, a toaster. He asked me what they were and how they were used and seemed fascinated by each one. Under a dim scaffolding, he paused and lightly kissed my face. We continued to walk in comfortable silence for quite a while.
I wasn’t entirely sober, but sober enough to find my way back to my rooms on the Singel. He stood behind me on the step as I unlocked my door. “Well, goodnight, Benny. It was really nice meeting you, I had a great time. Thanks for walking me home. Maybe I’ll see you again sometime?” He nodded and he stood there. And stood there. “Um … did you … want to come in?”
“Yes,” he nodded and followed me in without hesitation.
I made coffee. And then, somehow, I found myself in the bedroom with this stranger. What could go wrong? I thought. Had I known, I might have been more cautious.
He reached out to unbutton my sweater, studying my face to see if it was all right. He seemed eager to undress me. I was eager myself; I was lonelier than I’d realized. He proceeded to slowly take off my clothing, studying me like someone observing an entirely new entity and making mental notes. Then, with no apparent shyness, he threw his clothing in a pile on the floor with mine and stood facing me. I sensed a slight shiver of expectation, but he didn’t make a move. I got the feeling that he’d never had sex before and didn’t know the protocol. What planet was this man from? He just waited, so I stepped up.
I put my arms around him, laying my hands gently on the long muscles of his back. I felt him tense up and then relax. He put his hands on my shoulders and let out a slow breath. He got the way of it quickly, and was enthusiastic, to say the least, but not in any hurry. He surprised me with a sweet playfulness and good intuition.
We spent several days together, wandering through the maze of Amsterdam streets, riding bicycles along the canals, visiting galleries. We jumped on trams not knowing the destinations, and stretched out on the shore of the Nieuwe Meer. In the damp and drizzly evenings, we sat in cafés talking. He always turned our conversations away from his home, his family, or his future. We were only here and now.
Returning to my rooms early each evening, we continued to explore each others’ bodies, listening, tasting, touching. It didn’t take long for me to understand that I would follow this man to the ends of the Earth. Which, now I think about it, was his plan all along.
“Elena, I have to go back to my home,” he told me on the sixth morning. “I have no more days left here. I have to leave and I want you to come with me. Please come and be with me.”
“Benny, I don’t know. Where is Kyrzikk, exactly?”
“Kyrzikk is far — very far. We have no gin there,” he said with a laugh, “and no toasters, but you will like it there, I promise. I know we could be happy.”
“Take me,” I said.
*Thank you to
at Dispatches for letting me use his two fine photos of Amsterdam.
SHarron Sharron Sharron... One of these days you will wander off and only a few of us will know where you've gone. Send a postcard hahahaha
Gosh, brilliant, Sharron. I loved this. I felt a slight sense of unease when reading as I wasn't 100% sure of the motivations, but the seeds you planted as to who this man might be were well watered by the luscious ending.
"I have no more days left here." I can't tell you how much I love this line. It has a special quality in the way you worded it. It could be worded all manner of ways, but this is definitely the correct way to convey the subtle strangeness. 👏