Hippie Read online

  A love that owes nothing to anyone, that has no obligations, that finds joy in simple existence and the freedom to express itself.

  * * *

  —

  The procession arrived in Dam Square and began to circle the plaza. Paulo decided to stop there, allow the girl he had met to return to his side—she seemed different, more relaxed, more at ease in his presence. The sun wasn’t quite so hot as before, it was unlikely he’d see the girls with their bare breasts again, but since everything seemed to contradict his expectations, the couple noted bright lights to the left of the spot where they were seated. Having absolutely nothing to do, they decided to go see what was happening.

  The reflectors cast light across the body of a completely nude model holding a tulip that covered only her crotch. The obelisk in the center of Dam Square formed the background behind her. Karla asked one of the assistants what the meaning of all that was.

  “A poster for the department of tourism.”

  “This is how you’re selling Holland to foreigners? A place where people go naked in the city?”

  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.”

  * * *

  —

  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.

  Spend your lives in sin and misery

  In the House of the Rising Sun

  * * *

  —

  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.”

  Wilma still didn’t understand exactly why Nepal, or how Paulo had helped Karla.

  “When you showed up and I mentioned Nepal, I sensed it was the right thing to do. At that same moment, I noticed he wasn’t only surprised, but afraid. The goddess must have inspired me to say this. I’m not anxious the way I was this morning, the way I’ve been the whole week—when I even came to doubt that I’d be able to fulfill this dream.”

  “You’ve had this dream for a long time?”

  “No. It began as an ad clipped from one of the alternative newspapers. Ever since, it’s all I can think about.”

  Wilma was going to ask her if she’d smoked too much hashish that day, but just then Paulo showed up.

  “Let’s dance?” he asked.

  She took his hand and they walked down together to the church’s nave. Wilma wasn’t sure where to go, but that wouldn’t be a problem for long; as soon as someone noticed she was alone, they would come and start a conversation—everyone spoke to everyone there.

  When they walked out into the silent drizzle, their ears were still buzzing from the music. They yelled so they could hear one another.

  “Are you going to be around tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be in the same spot you found me the first time. Then I need to go buy the bus ticket to Nepal.”

  Again with this Nepal stuff? A bus ticket?

  “You can come along, if you’d like,” she said as though she were doing him a huge favor. “But I’d like to take you on a little outing just outside Amsterdam. Have you ever seen a windmill?”

  She laughed at her own question—that was how the rest of the world thought of her country: clogs, windmills, cows, prostitutes in the windows.

  “We can meet in the same spot we always do,” Paulo responded, a bit anxious and a bit pleased with himself because she—that model of beauty, her hair neatly combed and full of flowers, a long skirt, a vest covered in mirrors, patchouli perfume, a wonder from head to toe—wanted to see him again. “I’ll be there around one o’clock. I have to get a bit of sleep. But weren’t we going to one of those houses of the rising sun?”

  “I told you I’d show you where to find one. I didn’t say I’d go with you.”

  They walked about five hundred feet until they reached an alley where there was a door without any number or music coming from it.

  “There’s one over there. I’d like to give you two suggestions.” She had thought about using the word “advice,” but that would have been the worst choice in the world.

  “Don’t leave there with anything—there must be some policemen we can’t see in one of these windows, keeping an eye on everyone who visits the location. And they tend to search anyone who leaves. And whoever leaves with anything goes straight to the slammer.”

  Paulo nodded, he understood, and asked what her second suggestion was.

  “Don’t try anything either.”

  Having said this, she kissed him on the lips—an innocent kiss that promised much but surrendered little. Then she turned around and set off toward her hostel. Paulo stood there alone, asking himself whet
her he ought to enter. Perhaps it was better to go back to his hostel and start gluing the metallic stars he’d bought that afternoon to his jacket.

  However, his curiosity won out, and he walked toward the door.

  The hallway was narrow, poorly lit, the ceiling low. At the end of it, a man with a shaved head who clearly had experience as a policeman in some country sized him up—the famous “body language test,” used to gauge a person’s intentions, degree of anxiety, financial standing, and profession. He asked Paulo if he had money to spend. Yes, but he wasn’t about to do as he had done at customs and try to show him how much. The man hesitated for a moment then let him pass—he couldn’t have been a tourist, tourists weren’t interested in that sort of thing.

  There were people lying on mattresses spread across the floor, others leaning against the red painted walls. What was he doing there? Satisfying some morbid curiosity?

  No one was talking or listening to music. Even his morbid curiosity was limited to what he could see, and that was the same glimmer—or lack of glimmer—in everyone’s eyes. He tried to talk to one kid his age, his skin emaciated and spots on his face and shirtless body, as though he’d been bitten by some insect and scratched himself until the bites became red and swollen.

  Another man came in—he looked ten years older than most of the kids outside, but he must still have been approaching Paulo’s age. He was—at least for the moment—the only one sober. A short time later he would be in another universe, and Paulo walked up to him to see if he could come away with something, even if it were a simple phrase for the book he intended to write in the future—his dream was to become a writer, and he had paid a high price for this: stints in psychiatric hospitals, prison and torture, the prohibition from the mother of his teenage girlfriend that she get anywhere near him, the scorn of his classmates when they saw he had begun to dress differently.