Prince of Love Zetklaar.Indd

Unusual coming-of-age-story against the background of the Bhagwan cult.

Samuels parents are sanyassins, followers of the Indian guru Osho, better known as Bhagwan. In the late 80s Samuel grows up in the Netherlands, where the family lives in va- rious communes, but in the winter they move to an ashram in Poona, India, a spiritual hermitage for sanyassins. After Bhagwans death in 1990 (Samuel is 5 years old) the family falls apart quickly. His mother is mentally ill and is hospitalized, her child custody taken away. His father gets tangled into a world of prostitutes and harddrugs in his search for happiness and love. Samuel spends his teenage years in a very strict foster family, and is, at the same time, taking care of his mother and dealing with his more and more unworldy father. Despite his more than bizarre youth Samuel graduated and is nowadays a successful lawyer and entrepreneur in Amsterdam. But is he still able to maintain happy relati- onships after a childhood without love and commitment? Samuel Vermeulen (1985) attended the University of Nijmegen as well as the University of Cambridge.

Prince of Love will be published in January 2019

Lebowski Agency | Oscar van Gelderen T: + 31 6 46096823 E: [email protected]

Samuel Vermeulen

Prince of Love

Lebowski Agency, 2018 © Samuel Vermeulen, 2018 © Dutch translation: Marilyn Hadges 2018 © Lebowski Publishers, Amsterdam 2018 Cover design: Peter de Lange Typesetting: Crius Group, Hulshout www.lebowskipublishers.nl www.overamstel.com

All rights reserved. Th is book or any portion there of may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Here I am, then.

I’m Samuel

I was born on 1 September 1985 My parents are over the moon with me!

Mother: Amrita Marjon Vermeulen Father: Anand Jaap Vervoort

Distelakkerstraat 2

table of contents

sample chapters 1990 Swami Prem Samuel 11 Resurrected 17 A Turbulent Flight 22 Osho would have wanted it this way 25 A Prince’s Life 30 1991 A New Mother 37 Climax Massages 40 Birthday Surprise 44 Legoland 47



swami prem samuel

Th e fi rst time I saw a dead body, I must have been around four-and-a-half years old. Perched on my father’s shoulders, I looked down at a bier on which a man with brown skin and a long gray beard was lying. He was dressed in a black velvet robe, and on his head was a close-fi tting hat decora- ted with pearls. His eyes were closed. His corpse – clothes and all – was laid on the funeral pyre, and the rapidly fl ickering fl ames suff used the darkness with light. Th e sun had already disappeared below the horizon several hours before, but the sweat was still pouring down my face. Even so, my father shuffl ed closer and closer to the fi re. While the odor of burning wood slowly spread through the evening air, all around me people dressed in their white robes were singing and dancing ecstatically. But there was also a sense of sadness and confusion.

Th e body was that of Indian guru Osho, also known as Bhagwan, and my parents were his followers, or sannyasins. Sannyasins believed implicitly that Osho was enlightened, and they hoped to attain the same state by following his preaching of love and meditation. Osho combined Western psychology with Eastern spirituality and, with his eloquen-

11 ce and humor, held a mystical attraction for people. Ori- ginally a professor of philosophy, in his lectures he talked about philosophers, writers, and mystics from all over the world and seemed able to answer just about every question asked of him. His main message was to enjoy to the full every moment in life, good and bad, and to accept and absorb life in its entirety. “Live life in its totality” is how he described it. To be able to do that you had to switch your mind oﬀ – as far as that was possible given that the mind lives by deﬁ nition in the past or the future – so that you could be more at one with your body and your emotions, both of which live in the here and now. His followers’ mis- sion was to attain this state through revolutionary meditations, where there was no sitting still, but a lot of screaming, jumping around, and dancing like beings possessed. Besides meditations and lectures, Osho and a team of therapists had set up experimental groups where the conditioning impo- sed by parents and society could be unlearned, mainly by punching cushions, screaming at imagined family mem- bers, and giving free rein to your tears. He developed tantra groups where sexual energy was transformed into spiritual energy and the spirit could retreat even further into the background. Th is way, Osho hoped to create a new type of human being, free from trauma and conditioning, so that wars would be a thing of the past and love would reign supreme. Until this ideal was embraced in the wider world, sannyasins lived in a parallel community within society. All over the world they lived in communes of free love, medi-

12 tating, cooking, and working together. Th ere was a lot of hugging, between men as well as women. Sannyasins always wore red – the color of the dawn. Around their necks they wore a mala, a necklace of wooden beads with a photo of Osho. Th ey called one another by the name he had given them during a darshan, a ceremony where the guru allowed his thumb to rest briefl y on the forehead of a prospective sannyasin. I, too, had a necklace and a name given me by Osho, but during the ceremony, to the great delight of all those present, I kept turning around towards my mother. Th e name I was given was Swami Prem Samuel, which, my mother told me, meant Samuel, Prince of Love. Most sannyasins did not have steady jobs, and they lived off unemployment benefi ts and a few odd jobs here and there. My father worked as a substitute family doctor, but only for a few days a month. He spent the rest of the time in diff erent communes. It was actually in a commune, so- mewhere near Nijmegen, that he met my mother. It wasn’t long before she was pregnant with me, but even before I was born my father moved to a commune on the other side of the country. My mother brought me up alone, and she soon moved with me to Amsterdam, where my father regularly came to visit. Even to this day, I really couldn’t say exactly what kind of relationship my parents had, but what I do know is that every winter the three of us spent a few months in Poona, in India, where Osho's ashram was. Osho's ashram was an enclosed park fi lled with leafy trees and rosebushes where sannyasins could walk, hug one another, and meditate. Th ere was also a post offi ce, a travel

13 agency, a restaurant, and a few stores. Occasionally my parents and I were allowed to pass through the large wooden gate and enter the ashram; on those occasions, I would follow the ashram peacock parading on one of the many winding paths or climb over the rocks bordering the water- fall. Unlike the rest of Poona, there were hardly any Indians there and nobody seemed poor. Our house was a few kilometres outside the ashram; it was a large villa, known as the Dutch Palace, where my parents had set up a childcare center for sannyasin children. Th e large garden was a paradise for children, with swings, rush mats, and plastic infl atable swimming pools to cool off in the sweltering Indian heat. I generally went around naked, swigging from my bottle of cold, milky coff ee with sugar. Occasionally I went with my mother or father to the market, where I would get to ride on a donkey or eat a kulfi – frozen condensed milk on a stick – that I always called a Goofy cone. Th e minute we got out of the rickshaw, groups of children would swarm around us, begging. “Money, money,” they called out, pulling at our clothes and gesturing with their hands to their mouths to show they wanted food. I liked that my parents always gave them a few coins: the Indian rupee was worth practically nothing, they said. We were surrounded on all sides by trucks, cars, rickshaws, and bicycles, along with cows that would stand fi rmly planted in the middle of the road. Th e pungent smell of dust, heat, excrement, and exhaust fumes was exciting and disgusting at the same time. It was the odor of chaos. Th e smell of life, in all its diversity.

14 Th ose largely carefree winters in India were always won- derful. Only this year, the year of Osho’s death, was the ﬁ rst year my mother stayed behind in the Netherlands and things took a diﬀ erent turn.

Resurrected

“Look this way!” said a man in red shorts, his two white legs sticking out from underneath. I went a bit closer and smiled at the camera, but, gesturing wildly with his arms, he left me in no doubt it wasn’t me he wanted in the pic- ture but the blonde twin sisters sporting identical Mickey Mouse sweaters. Th e man was a photographer for the Osho Times and he was writing a report on the new ashram school in Poona. Th e advent of an oﬃ cial school meant that my parents’ childcare center was no longer needed, and so my father exchanged the Dutch Palace for a white marble apartment around the corner from the ashram. Every morning, he took me from there to school by rickshaw; oddly enough, although we always took the same route, the price was diﬀ erent every time. “All right, kids, take your seats,” said the teacher, whose name I can no longer remember. Th ere was a new teacher almost every week, and since Osho’s death it was impossi- ble to keep up with all the changes. Th e only constant was a large poster at the back of the class depicting the guru looking at us intently: “Osho - Never Born - Never Died - Only visited this planet Earth between December 11, 1931 and January 19, 1990.”

17 Th e photographer packed up his equipment and everyone sat down at their desks. Th e children at my school came from all over the world so we used English as our main language. Th e school was open seven days a week and we had our evening meal there – always vegetarian – so that our parents could stay longer in the ashram. I liked staying at school to eat because all the other food in India was too spicy for me. At home I ate nothing but chicken soup. Th e teacher clapped her hands. “Now before we start, I want to share some lovely news.” She paused for eff ect. “Today is Adaya's birthday!” A blonde girl in a light blue dress skipped excitedly to the front of the class and a paper crown was placed on her head. On the fi rst day of school I had made a fool of myself by speaking to her in broken English only to discover she was Dutch. On her crown there was a big, glittering number 3. Not that she was three years old: what we were celebrating was the day she was reborn as a sannyasin. After we’d sung Happy Birthday, the class was divided into two groups. Th e little ones were to do fi nger painting and the older children went outside with the teacher to practice for the play they were soon going to perform in the ashram. I was glad I didn’t have to go with them. Th e teacher put aprons on everyone and gave each of us a large sheet of paper. I set to, fi lling the blank surface with as many diff erent colors as possible, and when there was hardly any white space left, I stood up to get a new sheet. Just at that moment, the door to the hall swung open, and I found myself looking straight into the emaciated face of my mother.

18 “Amrita!” I said in amazement. Like all sannyasin children, I called my parents by their Christian names. She rushed towards me. “Sammy, I’m so happy to see you again!” She looked as if she had just got out of bed with her tangle of brown curls and her crumpled white dress. Her clear blue eyes were alert yet distant at the same time, as if she was keeping a close watch on something elsewhere. “Come on, we’re going home,” she said, kneeling down and taking hold of me. “But you live in the Netherlands, in the hospital?” I stammered. “Is that what Jaap told you?” she asked, in some alarm. My father, Jaap, was the only sannyasin who continued to use his own name. She stared straight ahead and then looked at me intently. “Th at’s a lie,” she said ﬁ rmly. “You have to believe me.” Without further ado, she picked me up and carried me out of the classroom. It didn’t seem to bother her that her white dress was covered in paint. Outside, a yellow and black rickshaw was waiting, and when the driver saw us approaching he started the engine. My mother bundled me onto the back seat and sat down beside me. We drove oﬀ , with my mother calling out, “Left,” “Right,” or “Straight ahead” at each intersection. She didn’t appear to have a clear route in mind. We drove crisscross through Poona, past the market, the ashram, and the Blue Diamond Hotel until my mother got the driver to stop just after the big railway bridge in front of the station. “Samuel,” she said solemnly. “I will now reveal who I

19 am.” My mother looked around nervously before continuing, as if she wanted to be sure nobody else could hear what she was saying. “Two hundred rupees,” said the driver, sounding rather irritated. From the driver’s seat he held his hand out, palm up, between us. My mother gave him a couple of crumpled bank notes and lifted me out of the rickshaw. Th e driver protested that it wasn’t enough, but my mother ignored him and took me by the arm with her into the station. Th ere was a long line at the ticket desk, and when my mother tried to push in, she got into a fi ght with some of the other people waiting. Just before it was our turn, two policemen came towards us, accompanied by the angry rickshaw driver. One of the policemen tried to calm my mother down, gently taking hold of her by the shoulders, but she pushed him aside and started shouting at both policemen, “Don't you touch me!” Th ere was a loud whistle and more policemen appeared. With some eff ort they overpowered my mother and took her, hissing and snarling, away. One of the policemen led me to a small offi ce where I was given a can of Coke. Th ey kept my mother in the back room.

A little later my father stormed in in his red robe. “Amrita, have you gone completely crazy?” he shouted at no one in particular. A policeman intercepted him. “Sorry, sir, is that your wife?” he asked pointing to the door behind which my mo-

20 ther was being kept. “All of you sannyasins are a bit crazy, but this is something diﬀ erent. She claims to be the reincarnation of Osho.” Defeated, my father shook his head. Apparently, my mother had already made the same announcement in the ashram that morning, after which she was removed with some force. After learning of Osho’s death, she had run away from the Grote Beek psychiatric institution near Eind- hoven. Other sannyasins had helped her buy a ticket to In- dia. Th ey thought she would be better oﬀ there.

21 a turbulent flight

Th e airport at Poona was littered with people sleeping on the fl oor, and I felt imprisoned in a cage of sweat. My father navigated us rapidly between the lines of people, with me holding onto my mother’s hand and trying to keep as close behind him as possible. An Indian man with a turban tried to help us by taking over the luggage cart, but my father waved him way irri- tatedly. After the incident at the station, my mother had been in a nearby hospital for the past several weeks. I was allowed to visit her occasionally, but she barely spoke to me. She only wanted to hug me tightly, mumbling softly “My little Sammy” and stroking my head. It had taken some time, but eventually my father had been given a permit allowing him to take her to the Nether- lands under his own medical supervision. We were to fl y with Singapore Airlines via Bombay to Schiphol, where the nursing staff from Grote Beek would be waiting for us. At the desk my father showed his papers, and we were assigned someone who would guide us straight through customs. We were allowed to take our baggage cart right out onto the runway, where our suitcases were lifted directly

22 into a small propeller plane. My father insisted on keeping his brown paper bag close at hand. It contained his medical supplies, he said. A set of boarding stairs was wheeled up and we were the fi rst aboard. “What’s that paper bag for?” I asked once we were seated. My father sat next to me across the aisle, with my mother on his other side, next to the window. To be on the safe side, my father had made her take some extra pills, which left her staring outside in a daze. “It’s a sick bag, but an experienced air traveler like you won’t need it.” He took hold of the bag and showed me how you can blow it up like a balloon. Th e other passengers now came aboard. Two sannyasins greeted my father and sat immediately behind me. Th e propellers started to turn, and shortly afterwards we were airborne. Unlike earlier fl ights, I felt an enormous pressure in my stomach and ears. My father gave me a long strip of chewing gum and told me to give it a good chew, but it didn’t help the pain. “What’s that awful noise!” my mother shouted. She sprang to her feet, pressing the palms of her hands to her ears. My father told her to sit down but instead she started shouting even louder: “Stop that awful noise. I want to get out!” A fl ight attendant came over to us and pointed out that all seat belts must be secured during takeoff . My mother just kept shouting. My father took her by the shoulders and tried to push her back into her seat, but she resisted.

23 “Don’t treat her like that!” said a loud female voice with a German accent behind me. Without even a cursory glance in the woman’s direction, my father pushed my mother forcibly into her seat and clicked her seat belt shut. Th e fl ight attendant kept watch until the seat belt was secured, then moved off toward the front of the plane. “Has Osho taught you nothing?” Th e female sannyasin stood in the aisle next to me, bristling with anger. “Just go away!” my father snapped. “She’s a mental pa- tient and I’m her doctor.” “No, I am the reincarnation of Osho!” my mother shouted so loudly that everyone in the plane could hear. In the tumult she had managed to undo her seat belt again and stood waving her hands above her head. “I am the reincarnation of Osho!” Shocked, the woman passenger withdrew and my father stood up again trying to get my mother to calm down. Suddenly the plane swerved upwards and everything started to shake. A few meters away, the fl ight attendant held on tightly to a railing, and bottles of water rolled around on the cabin fl oor. Th e pressure forced my parents back into their seats, and my father managed to secure my mother’s seat belt again. When the pressure lessened and my father looked in my direction, he saw that I had fi lled the sick bag.

24 Osho would have wanted it this way

“Jaahaap, I am hungry!” I exclaimed over the sound of the television. Th e noise disappeared and shortly after my father trugded into the living room. Tufts of gray-brown hair stuck out around his light blue eyes, and his shirt was hanging rumpled out of his trousers. “Samuel, it’s two in the morning and there’s no more food in the house,” he said desperately. “But you could make some fries?” For a moment he seemed confused, but then he grinned and stubbed out his cigarette. Plumes of smoke curled to the ceiling as he went toward the kitchen. He rummaged around in the freezer compartment and triumphantly held up an unopened bag of fries. He switched on the fryer, mumbling softly to himself. Th e kitchen was only separated from the living room by a low wall, and the smell of hot oil slowly ﬁ lled the whole room. Our small ground ﬂ oor apartment on Wamelstraat had only one bedroom, and I slept in the living room next to the kitchen. Since we had come back from India that last time, my father had taken over both the parental role and my mother’s apartment. We had been living together for a few weeks now in the Gein, a district in Amsterdam South East,

25 where a lot of sannyasins had settled. Merlijntje and Kokiel, whom I knew from India, lived around the corner, and we played out in the street or in the woods of the nearby Gaasperplas: our parents often wanted some time for them- selves. We even slept at one another’s places sometimes if my father had a substitute position in another part of the country or if one of the single mothers wanted to have a night to herself. When the kitchen timer went off , my father lowered the french fries into the bubbling oil. Th e cat fl ap clattered and our ginger tomcat came out of the bedroom, meowing loudly. “Sorry, cat, this isn’t for you,” my father apologized, “and I’m afraid I’ve got nothing for you in the house.” A short while later, he lifted the basket out of the oil, let the fries drain, and sprinkled some salt over them. He put some fries and mayonnaise on a small plate for me and took me on his lap. I stuff ed the food into my mouth, not taking my eyes off the television for an instant. “You really are something, Samuel,” my father chuckled, giving the cat a stroke, “but that’s how Osho would have wanted it.” Mauw-Mauw had appeared in our garden at some point, and a saucer of milk later he was a permanent resident. My father had not particularly chosen to take care of a cat; it was just something that happened. Like me.

26 When my mother came to live in the Gein, she had regis- tered me for the Meent, an elementary schoola fi ve-minute walk away that was just as diverse as the rest of the area. My father took me there every day now that we were back. If he felt like it, that is. I was in Miss Kitty and Miss Annelies’s class, and in the center of the circle Rakesh was continuing his story about the new Turtles fi lm. Rakesh was from India and he was the only other one in the class who spoke a little English, but his parents never let him play at my house. Instead of talking about the movie, he rattled on about his father who had taken him to see it, and I found it hard to keep my attention on what he was saying. My thoughts wandered off to the only time I had been to the movies with my father. He wore his suit specially for the occasion and in the car ride over there he had even put some aftershave on. We parked the car behind Central Station in Amsterdam and walked the last part down the Damrak and Rokin to Tus- chinski. At the ticket booth, he asked for two end seats, but we had no sooner sat down than he stood up again. “Here’s some money to get yourself a Coke and some popcorn,” he said, pressing a fi ve-guilder coin into my hand, “I just have to go do something.” When the intermission came, I discovered that the fi ve guilders was not enough for both a Coke and popcorn, and, burning with embarrassment, I had to give the bag of popcorn back. At the end of the movie, he was waiting for me in the lobby and when I told him about it, he went straight off and bought me two bags of popcorn to make up for it.

27 “Ow!” I yelled, feeling a sharp dig in my side. “Not so hard, Rakesh,” called Miss Annelies above the noise of the class. I rubbed my eyes and looked around me, rather dazed. Everyone was laughing loudly and pointing at me. “Go and have a lie down in the reading corner,” Miss Annelies whispered softly in my ear, “I’ll have a little word with your father this afternoon.”

Th e rest of the afternoon I dreamed about turtles in red dresses and vegetarian pizza until I heard a deep male voice calling me from what seemed a long way off . “Wake up, Samuel,” I heard it say. I opened my eyes and looked straight into the face of Satranga, one of my father’s sannyasin friends. “No need to jump,” he said, smiling, “Jaap just had to go and do something, and he asked me to pick you up from school.” I was OK with that. Satranga picked me up from time to time, and he was always very nice. He had already picked up my jacket and, once he had tied my shoes, we were off . I waved to Miss Annelies and went out of the school hand in hand with Satranga. Th e Gein was full of square apartment blocks and every street looked the same. Th e bushes in the fl ower beds along the way were full of orange-red berries, but Satranga said they were rosehips which only tasted good when they were made into jam. “If there’s ever anything wrong, you can always come to me, Samuel. You know that, don’t you?” Satranga said when

28 we reached his apartment. “I live at number 98.” I looked intently at the bell that Satranga was pointing to, and we walked on to the apartment building at the end of the street. Satranga took my father’s keys out of his pocket and opened the door. “God in heaven!” echoed around the concrete stairwell as Satranga tripped over my pedal car and tricycle. Th ere was a big notice on the wall saying “No bicycles, buggies, or trash to be left in the communal areas,” but my father believed it was OK to leave my things there. If anyone commented on it, I was to say that he had permission from the housing association. Satranga stepped over my things and opened our blue front door. “You’ll be OK?” he said as he let me in. I nodded and jumped with both feet over the threshold. “Don’t take it personally,” he said as he shut the door behind me, “but really sannyasins shouldn’t have children at all.”

29 a prince’s life

“Can I have another go, Jaap?” I called out excitedly. My father took oﬀ his sunglasses and looked up from the terrace. Next to him was a man I didn’t know, wearing a leather motorcycle outﬁ t and sporting a big black mustache. His helmet was on the table and he had my father’s medical bag wedged under his chair. My father put something in the breast pocket of his shirt and came towards me, laughing. His face was already tanned, and his teeth gleamed in the sun. “I reckon you could keep this up all day long,” he said, putting another coin in the slot. He was right; there was nothing I’d like more, in spite of the jealous glances of the other kids. Most only had enough coins for one or two rides, but I had already been so many times that I’d lost count. Th e bell went, and I drove at full speed into the grubby-looking boy in front of me, bringing a rain of raised voices down on me. It didn’t bother me; I didn’t understand a word they were saying. My father and I were away, traveling for his work again; this time we were going to Bulgaria. At around the same time as Osho died, the Soviet Union collapsed, after which my father threw himself into trading with the former East

30 Block dealing in all kinds of goods. Electric shavers, Osho books translated into German or Russian, birth control pills, telephones with built-in answering machines – wha- tever you could dream up, my father fi lled the trunk of his car with it. Th is was a much better way of doing good in the world than playing at being a doctor was how he explained it. Th at grubby boy was now out to get me, but I managed to stay ahead of him. He enlisted the help of one of his buddies and together they got me in a pincer movement. Th ey forced me right into a corner so I couldn’t escape, but just before they were going to drive into me, the bell went and their bumper cars came to a standstill. “Time for lunch!” called my father from the terrace, and I saw that the man in the black motorcycle outfi t had disappeared. Relieved, I got out of the bumper car, stuck out my tongue at the two Bulgarian boys, and ran toward him. “You’re having a great time here, aren’t you?” he asked as I sat down beside him. “You’re lucky to get to see so much of the world while you’re so young.” I nodded enthusiastically. I already had so many stamps in my passport while most of the kids in my class didn’t even have a passport. Some of them had never even been to Belgium or Germany. If I were to tell them when I came back that they had swimming pools in Bulgaria that smelled of rotten eggs, they’d never believe me. Th e only fl y in the ointment was that Miss Annelies was none too happy with the situation. I wasn’t in any class photos, and she had written in my report that it was a pity I was so rarely at school.

31 My father said that all they did at school was ﬁ ll your head with useless knowledge. As he saw it, there were far more important things to discover in the real world.

Like watery stains, the yellow lights from the street lamps fl ashed past my window. When my father had fi nished his business, he wanted to drive straight home, and I sat beside him in the car for hours, staring out the window. Th e last time we stopped, he had reclined my seat as far back as possible, but I still didn’t manage to fall asleep. “Want a travel candy?” Every few weeks we got another new car, but my father always made sure there was a pack of green, sugarcoated mints beside the handbrake. Yawning, I put one in my mouth. “We’re almost in the Netherlands, and I want to fi ll up just before the border, so keep your eyes peeled for a gas station.” I blinked my eyes and focused my attention back on the street lights along the road. It didn’t really make much dif- ference which country you were in; all the highways looked the same in the dark. My father opened his window a little to fl ick the ash off his cigarette, and I saw a red and black neon sign looming in the distance. I pointed it out and we turned off . He parked the car next to the gas pump and stubbed his cigarette out. While he walked around the car, I wound down my window to inhale the intoxicating smell of gasoline. “I reckon you could do with an ice cream,” my father said

32 with a broad smile, the hose from the pump in his hand. He ﬁ lled the tank and went into the station store to pay. I took a few more deep breaths until he came back out, carrying a Calippo Cola and a six-pack of beer. “So,” he said passing me an ice cold can through the window, “How about a beer? It’ll make you sleep like a log.”



a new mother

Th e low-hanging autumn sun shone diagonally across the water, and next to our window two brown geese ﬂ ew along beside us. I pointed them out to my father, but he seemed preoccupied. I had the feeling something important was going to happen today. He had combed his graying hair neatly and ironed his light blue shirt just before we left. With one hand on the wheel, he sprayed on some more aftershave, laughing when he saw me looking at him. “Shall I put some on you as well?” he asked, grinning. Without waiting for me to answer, he sprayed the aftershave in my direction. It stung my eyes a bit, but it did smell nice. Th e road curved slightly to the left, and when we came to a dark blue wooden houseboat, my father parked the car on the side of the road. He took the keys out of the ignition and turned to me. “Samuel, I’ve got something important to tell you,” he said, solemnly. “I know that since we came back from India there’s not been anyone to look after you properly, but from today that’s going to change.” Before I could ask what he meant, he had already sounded the horn, which brought a large black dog out onto the deck of the houseboat, barking wildly. My father sat waiting

37 nervously until a young woman came out of the cabin. “Stop zat, Herman! Nein!” she snapped several times. Th e dog ran one fi nal lap and then disappeared below deck. Th e woman came walking slowly down the jetty and with each click of her long black boots, the bottom of her white fl owery blouse crept up a little. “Th at’s Tina,” my father said proudly. “I’ve known her for a very long time. About as long as I’ve known you.” He got out of the car, ran towards her, and lifted her off the end of the jetty. Th ey kissed for what semed to me like a very long time, my father gently running his hand through her hair that hung loosely over her shoulders. When they let go of each other, my father pointed to the car, and the woman came towards me smiling shyly. She opened the car door and kneeled down on the grass next to the car. Her auburn curls shone in the sun, and she smelled of shampoo and cigarettes. “Zo, du bist Samuel,” she said in a husky voice with a heavy German accent. “Ich bin Tina. Your father’s neue girlfriend.” I looked, fascinated, at the black lines around her blood- shot eyes. Neither my mother nor any of the other sannyasin women I knew wore makeup, and I had only seen a face like Tina’s in cartoons. She seemed a lot younger than my mother, but her purple-red lips and pale, powdered skin made her look washed out. “Je vader hat mir gesagt dat jij letzten maand funf jaar bent geworden, ist dat zo?” Unsure of what else to say, I nodded yes.

38 “Zo, I haf ein geschenk for you.” She removed a children’s surprise egg from her blouse and put it into my open hands. “Why do you speak so strangely?” I asked, putting the egg in the glove compartment. Tina roared with laughter, and I could clearly see the aluminum ﬁ llings in the back of her mouth. “Ich kom eigentlich uit Deutschland, but I am living many years in Niederland.” Her voice sounded even more husky than before. She glanced at the ground and beckoned to my father, who came over to us. “I’m happy you two are getting along because as of today Tina is coming to live with us.” Tina rubbed his leg and he paused for a moment. “She’s going to look after you so that I can concentrate on my medical work.” I stared past Tina at the water. I didn’t really want a new mother; I could take care of myself pretty well. I looked warily from my father to Tina, both of whom were nodding fanatically. Maybe it would be a good idea. According to my grandmother Yvonne, my father often felt lonely, and Miss Annelies lived on a houseboat, too, but in Amsterdam.

39 climax massages

Th e curtains were closed, and the only light in the bedroom came from the irregular ﬂ ickering of the soundless television. No talking was allowed, so anybody in the living room would not be aware that we were here. I hoped it would be only one tonight, but there were usually more on weekends. Unfortunately, that meant I would have to keep on lying here for a while. On the other side of the bed a cigarette lit up and for a moment I could see my father’s face. With his hands cupped around his ears, he was listening attentively to the sounds coming from the living room so that he could intervene if necessary. I, on the other hand, kept the palms of my hands pressed over my ears so I would hear as little as possible. “Climax massages” is what my father always called them, laughing, but I didn’t think it was particularly funny. Th e front door shut with a loud bang, and shortly afterwards I heard Tina washing her hands in the bathroom. Th en she stormed into the bedroom and ﬂ opped down between us. “Zis is such a hassle, Jaap,” she said quietly. “Vy I cannot just go beck to being ein whore?” “You know I don’t want that anymore now that we'- re together,” my father said, looking hurt. He gripped his

40 chest with both hands as if he had just been stabbed with a dagger. Tina sat up and poured herself some whiskey. Th e ice cubes clinked as she fi lled the glass. She knocked it back in one go and right away fi lled the glass again to the brim. “It will be a while before the next one arrives,” my father told me, “so you can go back to the living room.” I ran at full tilt out of the bedroom, closing the door behind me. Once in the living room, I breathed a sigh of relief. Th e mattress had been taken off my bed and was lying in the middle of the room on the fake-wood linoleum. I quite liked it because it meant I could watch television from my bed. On the kitchen counter was an open box of cornfl akes. Th ere was no milk so I poured Coke over them. I fast-for- warded the video to the right spot and the image came jud- dering to life. Lying on my side, I ate my evening meal and put the bowl on the fl oor next to me. Mauw-Mauw came to investigate, but the leftover brown cereal didn’t tempt him. I lay my head back on the pillow and with my eyes half-closed I could see the brightly dancing colors on television slowly fading. When my father woke me up again, my hair smelled of coconut and I seemed to be sticky all over.

“Yes?” A heavy man's voice blared through the intercom. “Satranga, can I come and live with you?” I pleaded. Th ere was a long silence before he answered. “Samuel?!” “Yes.” “What’s going on?”

41 “I don’t like it at home anymore. Can I come and live with you?” Th ere was silence for a while. “Well, I’ll have to discuss it with your father. Come on in anyway.” Th e buzzer rang and I climbed the concrete stairs until I saw Satranga standing in the doorway in his underwear. He plucked at his beard nervously, and after he had let me in, he poured me a glass of Coke in the kitchen. I was to wait there until he had spoken to my father. Satranga went back into the living room and his voice thundered through the apartment. I could stay with him for at least a few nights, he told me later. He would give me his bedroom and he would sleep on the couch in the living room, but ﬁ rst I was allowed to watch television on the couch next to him. If I got sleepy, he would put me to bed. I was still wide awake after the news, at which Satranga said that enough was enough, and he carried me into the bedroom even though I tried to resist. “Five-year-olds should have been in bed long ago,” he said, tucking me in roughly. “And what if I can’t sleep?” “Th en you'll have to count gnomes or something,” he replied, closing the door with a bang behind him. It was a long time before I fell asleep.

Th e next morning there was no waking me, until Satranga wrung out a cold washcloth over my face. I immediately sat upright in bed and at ﬁ rst I couldn’t think where I was. Satranga told me to hurry and helped me get dressed. With my shirt still over my head, he led me to the kitchen. Th ere

42 was no time to shower. After an unappetising breakfast of tofu with sweet soy sauce, I was, to Miss Annelies's pleasure, on time for class, even if white as a sheet.

43 birthday surprise

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Samuel, happy birthday to you.” My father came out of the kitchen singing and carrying a cream cake with six candles on top. Several pieces of the cake were already missing. Before he reached my bed, he felt in his trouser pocket, casually pulling out a piece of silver paper and his lighter, with which he re-lit the candles that had gone out on the way. Still in my bed, I blew them all out in one go and my father said that meant I could make a wish. I thought for a moment and wished Tina would end up in jail. When Satranga returned from India and wanted his apartment back, Malika and Kokiel moved in with Anuroodh in Amsterdam New West. My father had beg- ged Malika to take me with them but Anuroodh refused. Th at meant I had no option but to go back to living with my father, who was now completely in Tina’s grip. He had closed his medical practice and spent all his time in bed with her. Occasionally Tina was away from home for a few days and my father then felt so miserable, I could hear him moaning in the middle of the night. “Where are my presents?” I asked.

44 “Maybe Tina ate them,” he said laughing. I jumped out of bed and ran to the bedroom, my feet sticking to the linoleum fl oor every step of the way. I switched on the light and heard Tina murmuring softly. All my presents were laid out on the fl oor, none of them wrapped. It was a meager harvest this year: a farm animal set from the gas station, a videotape of Pinocchio (not even Disney), and a pair of new shoes with a tool imprint on the sole. I tried my best to look happy, but my father saw the disap- pointment on my face. “I didn’t have much money,” he said apologetically, “but next week, the three of us are going on a business trip to Sweden, and on the way back we’ll drive through Denmark and stop off at Legoland.” Since Tina's arrival we hadn’t been abroad except for a couple of times to Essen to see her mother. Consoling myself with the thought of Legoland, I put on my new shoes. Th ey pinched, but I didn’t let on.

While my father was out shopping later in the morning, Tina called me into the bedroom. She was standing on the bed, with her arms stretched out in front of her and her hands in fi sts. “Ich habe ein geschenk for you, aber you must guess which hand I haf it in.” I pointed fi rst to her left hand, and when that turned out to be empty, I knew she must have my present in her right hand. But instead of opening her fi st, she put her hand behind her back. “Take it, als du kan” she said, laughing. I climbed onto the bed and after a short tussle, ending

45 with us both lying on the mattress, I had the plastic inside of a children's surprise egg in my hand. I opened it, but there was nothing inside. “Guess vere I haf hidden ze present,” said Tina, with a husky laugh.

I looked around and searched the room for possible hiding places. I looked in the wardrobe ﬁ rst, but Tina said that was “kalt.” Behind the curtains it was even colder, but when I dived onto the ﬂ oor under the bed, I was getting slightly warmer. Tina had crawled to the edge of the bed on her knees and when I raised my head again I suddenly became “sehr heiss.” I looked at her for a moment questioningly, and since she was wearing only one item of clothing, I knew immediately where I needed to be. She wriggled back and forth a little, and when I withdrew my hand from her thong I saw that the prize I was holding was a small purple-haired troll.

46 legoland

“Why didn’t we take our own car, Jaap?” I asked as we slowly headed towards the exit. “It's gone to the garage to be serviced,” my father replied laughing. “But I did bring car candies for you." From the driver's seat he handed me the box of green sugared mint pastilles. Th e crossing from Kiel to Gothenburg had taken all evening and night, but fortunately they had a movie theater and pinball machines on the ferry. I would have loved to show them to my father, but he had stayed in the cabin all night with Tina. Th e lights in front of us switched on again, and fi nally we were allowed to enter the brightly lit terminal. Further up I saw a barrier go down; now I understood why it was going so slowly. Tina mumbled something unintelligible and my father looked at her briefl y. Th eir pupils were as small as pinheads, and they looked as if they had not had a wink of sleep. When it was fi nally our turn, two men in blue and yellow uniforms came out of a guard shack. My father quickly wound down his window. “What is the purpose of your visit to Sweden, sir? Busi-

47 ness or pleasure?” asked the offi cer on my father's side. “A little bit of both,” my father answered, laughing. Th e men said something to each other in Swedish and asked him to step out of the car. My father opened the trunk and, while the two customs offi cers lifted our luggage out of the car, a third offi cer with a large guard dog came out of the guard shack towards us. Th e dog began to sniff at our suitcases but didn’t seem to smell anything special. “You see, just luggage!” my father exclaimed triumphantly. In the front I heard Tina give a deep sigh. My father was already picking up the cases to put them back into the trunk when the dog suddenly barked loudly and jumped into the empty car boot. My father was immediately grabbed and Tina was ordered to get out of the car. Together they were taken into the guard shack. I was told to stay in the car. Not much later two police vans arrived, and my father and Tina were put into the two separate vehicles. One of the customs offi cers opened my door and gestured for me to go over to the police van where my father was. “Samuel, Tina and I are going be in prison for a while,” he said from the back seat. His hands were behind his back. “Th ere’ll be a man coming from the Dutch embassy soon, and you have to pay attention to what he tells you, OK?” I nodded and two agents took their places on either side of my father. Th e sliding door was slammed shut and the engine started. Th e vans drove away one after the other,

48 and I stared after them until their rear lights had disappeared from view at the end of the terminal. A strange kind of calm came over me. Now at least no one could let me down.

“Did they take good care of you here, lad?” asked the consul, the smell of cigars on his breath. His kindly eyes were hidden behind heavy-framed round spectacles, and under his gray hat he seemed to have almost no hair. “Yes,” I said enthusiastically, “very well.” After my father's arrest, the consul had picked me up at customs and taken me to a nearby hostel. I was afraid it would be like the horrible orphanages I had seen on television, but there were cupboards full of toys, and because I was the only child there, there were always people available to play with me. In the big playroom they even had so many giant soft-foam dice that I could make a mountain out of them and disappear completely. But I thought the most amazing thing was the enormous pile of Lego they had, maybe even more than in Legoland. A guard beckoned to us and the consul and I stepped forward. Th e heels of his brown leather shoes clacked autho- ritatively on the marble ﬂ oor, and his long gray coat ﬂ apped behind him like a cape. We were both searched and taken to a room at the end of the hallway. When the buzzer went, my father was brought in by two guards from the other side. Th e consul shook his hand and then left the room.

49 “It’s good to see you again,” my father said once the guards had left. He looked very diﬀ erent from what I had imagined. His hair was neatly combed and he was wearing blue jeans with a white T-shirt. “Why aren’t you wearing prison stripes?” I asked. Th at made him roar with laughter. “It's a good thing we're in Sweden,” he said, grinning. “In Th ailand we would really have been in trouble.” He asked me what it had been like in the home over the past week, and I told him the same as the consul. My father was writing a letter to the Swedish Minister of Justice and would include my story in it. He told me not to worry and that he would probably be back in the Netherlands soon after me. Th e buzzer went again and the guards came in and led him away. “Look after yourself, eh, son,” said my father by way of goodbye. “And take care of your mother, when you see her again.”

Th e consul was sitting on a bench beside the heavy door, smoking a cigar. He started when he saw me coming out. “How did it go?” “Good,” I said, “but there are no bars at all in this prison.” Th e consul smiled. “Do you want to see your stepmother before you leave?” “No,” I said warily, “not really.”

50 “Th is is the fi nal call for passengers for KLM fl ight 166 to Amsterdam. Please proceed to the gate for immediate boarding.” Th e consul pressed a big bar of Toblerone chocolate into my hand and wished me a nice fl ight. “When you get to the Netherlands,” he said, “you can tell everyone you’ve already fl own by yourself.” He smiled at me and winked at the older fl ight attendant who was to take care of me. Her face was plastered with makeup, but she looked a lot nicer than Tina. I was the last to go with her onto the plane where I was given a special seat at the back. She fastened my seatbelt and put headphones over my ears. All the fl ight attendants came at least once during the fl ight to ask me what I wanted to drink. After the third glass of Coke, I couldn’t manage any more. One of them gave me a toy plane to keep me busy, and before I knew it we were already fl ying over the Netherlands. “Where do your parents live?” asked one of the fl ight attendants as we were coming in to land. I didn’t really know what to say, so I told her, “In the Gein.” She looked out of the window and pointed out Amster- dam South East. I could see the Gaasperplas clearly. For the time being, I wouldn’t be going back there. Th e landing hurt my ears. I pressed two empty cups against my ears, but that didn’t help. After the wheels hit the ground with a smack, I had to stay sitting for what seemed like a long time; I was the last passenger to be allowed off the plane. I left together with

51 the crew. Walking through Schiphol between two pilots and with a cordon of ﬂ ight attendants, I felt just like a famous celebrity. “Don’t you have any luggage?” one of them asked as we went through customs. Th ey were each pulling a suitcase behind them. I shook my head. My luggage was probably still back in the car with my father.

Grandma Yvonne was waiting for me in the arrivals hall. “Aah, there's my little sweetie!” she said, putting her arms around me. She thanked the attendants and walked hand in hand with me to the parking lot. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” she said. “Shall I give it away?” I nodded eagerly. “When we get back to Valkenswaard, I’ve got some tasty frikandels for us. Th e really good ones. From Becker.”