Dance the Night Away

Chapter 1

It was a crystal-clear September afternoon in Amsterdam. Days reminiscent of summer still spawned within Western Europe, and our priest, once finishing his duties at the church, arrived at Vondelpark for his daily stroll of fresh air. Our priest, Henri, a Parisian, who had been a scholar at heart, taking up his studies in Rome upon becoming a divine fisher of men, spoke French, English, Dutch, Spanish, and Italian. Henri, a pious man, read from the Bible each day, like most priests: Henri also tended to spiritual issues and concerns of morality with members of the church, as most priests: nevertheless, our priest, like all priests, had something to hide.

     Henri came to the visually-arresting city of Amsterdam: not because of art, culture, history, or even the grace of God: Henri arrived in Amsterdam as a consequence of love.

     Many years prior, in the southwestern city thriving within the wine country of France, Bordeaux, where Henri first served the Lord as a priest, he had met a gorgeous homme named Antoine, a painter. Antoine was a handsome fellow from Marseille with the kindest of hearts. Henri adored Antoine, often referring to him as la meilleure chose depuis le pain tranché.

     Henri and Antoine’s relationship lived in secrecy for many years. Though the couple grew exhausted having to shield their affections with stealth, only ever whispering je t’aime to one another so softly it was a struggle to hear the words spoken.

     The two lovers planned to run away to Milan. Henri had even vocalized the notion of him giving up his priesthood and taking up a graduate position at a university. Antoine declared rigidly, I must note, his only needs in this life were painting and Henri.

     The couple toiled ardently, spending little on pleasantries while accumulating money to escape the chains of the silenced love they had endured for so long. After many months they amassed the sum needed for their voyage to Italy, le pays de la passion effrénée. But there was no rush. It was summer.

     The days were long and warm, the sun shined tirelessly upon the Garonne most days, and Antoine was nearing the completion of a brilliant portrait of a French village he and Henri had visited the previous summer. The two thought it best to depart Bordeaux as the warm weather did, and seeing that the two had time on their side, Henri ventured the notion of another holiday in the country. Antoine had an uncle who owned a restaurant in a small village outside Montpellier, and had a room they could stay a few days – Henri and Antoine penciled it into their calendar.

     Henri borrowed an automobile from a fellow priest who had served the church with Henri for several years and had grown fond of him. Then Henri and Antoine took to the road, heading for a vacant room in the South.

     The small village reposed upon prime real estate, sequestering behind a meadow of lush greenery. Once off the main thoroughfare, the road to the settlement was stone-paved, and the narrow street weaved its way through verdant pastures. Each of the petites maisons within the hamlet looked like duplicates, set apart by the divergent colors thriving within their garden beds and in the paint washed upon their doors.

     Once Henri and Antoine arrived at the uncle’s restaurant a young lady informed them Antoine’s uncle had left for Marseille in the morning to attend to a situation familiale. The young woman then gave Antoine the room key and a letter written by his uncle. Henri and Antoine placed their meal orders with the same young lady upon collecting their belongings and visiting their lodgings.

     The room was petite with a small door painted a brave maroon, a comfortable bed, wooden floorboards, two large windows, a small center table with two chairs, and a wood-stove in the corner of the room with a bundle of chopped logs already set aside.

     “Have you heard anything about this family situation?” asked Henri.

     “Non,” Antoine replied, “I have not heard anything. But does any of that matter? Look where we are Henri… In this room we are free.”

     Henri dispelled himself from the desires of his intuition as he and Antoine egressed their room for dinner at the restaurant. The couple each ordered the evening’s special, baeckeoffe.

     Over dinner Henri and Antoine drank wine, played footsies affectionately under the table, and discussed the happiness awaiting them in Milan as if in their hearts, they were already there.

     The evening was pristine – the warmth of the departed sun lingered, reddening the sky, and a steady breeze rolled through the meadow, whistling through the tall grass, kissing the resting pedals upon the swaying flowers. And once they had finished their meals, Henri and Antoine paid the bill then went for a ramble in the countryside.

     The only road in-and-out of the village, enriched by its surrounding bloom of nature, was straddled by its flowering environment all the way from the main road until the path reached the feet of the hamlet. Day and night birds sang, squirrels galloped, and hares danced. Henri and Antoine dawdled along the village passage hand-in-hand, and unbothered, as if they were the only remaining souls.

     When the couple retired to their room for the evening, Henri started on the fire while Antoine disrobed. Once the log-filled wood stove was roaring, Henri, too, disrobed upon joining Antoine in bed.

     The unrepressed moans and grunts were music to all four ears in the room as the dragon breath spawning from the wood-stove tickled their backs until drenching them with sweat as passion oozed from their pores. The room filled with such an intense warmth Henri had to crack the door. Once both Frenchman had summited, they then submerged into a caressing sleep as the chests of the tangled bodies rose and fell exhaustedly. They slumbered as one body, not two, as remains of both men lived on within the other.

     The days spent at the village went by superbly, furnished with joy, laughter, love and lust.

     The couple wandered the countryside together each day, morning and night. The pair feasted like kings at the restaurant, stuffing their bellies full each meal. The lovers made warm fires, read books, and spoke more of Milan, what their lives would be like, the history of the city, the culture. Henri and Antoine were content in the small room of that small village, hiding away within the luxuriant countryside: a room where Henri and Antoine had uncloaked themselves of shame, lies, and deceit. In that room they were themselves: lovers, friends, men – and within those four walls Henri and Antoine were the happiest they had ever been together.

In the night Henri awakened to the sight of Antoine reading the letter from his uncle seated by the warmth of the wood stove. Henri went over to Antoine, kissed him tenderly on the forehead, then said: “tout va bien ma chérie?”

     “No! Everything is not alright, Henri!” Antoine erected swiftly in a stir. “My family – they’ve found out about me. About us…”

     Taken aback – tears already brewing in his eyes, Henri cradled his lover as Antoine had, once bouncing to his feet, fallen back to the floor in despair. Antoine then seated himself upon reading his uncle’s letter.

“Antoine, it pains me to write these words… But I am traveling to Marseille to meet with your mother and father to discuss what will be next for you, dear boy. What you are doing is wrong. Moreover, it is utterly fallacious, and even more so, it is evil. Your parents have instructed me to inform you that if you wish to remain a part of this family, you must discontinue your relationship with the priest. You must then return home to Marseille immediately. There is no other option in the matter… Signed, Julien Jean-Luc Racine.”

     “That letter means nothing!” Henri cried. “We have the money we need to depart for Milan. We could leave right now if we wished, right this moment!”

     “No, Henri. The letter means everything.”

     Henri endeavored earnestly to convince Antoine that Milan would solve all their problems, that his family would still love him, and that they only needed time – they only needed each other.

     Though at this point even Henri didn’t agree with the words rolling off his tongue. Both his parents hadn’t spoken one word to him after they caught him and his childhood friend, Lucien, exploring each other’s bare bodies. Henri was only fourteen at the time.

    With one eye Henri focused on the road as he drove the beauteous countryside that no longer seemed so stunning: with the other Henri observed his lover seated abreast, close enough to touch, steadily drift off until he was planets away. Antoine was already under the roof of his parent’s home, pleading with them how it had all been a mistake – an experiment was the word Antoine would probably use, Henri thought.

    Henri drove slow ( as slow as he possibly could ) because he knew already, these moments in the vehicle would be the last he would spend in the company of his lover, who Henri loved more than life itself, even more so than he loved God. Henri imagined, wished, hoped that Antoine would turn and tell him he still loved him, tell him that everything would be okay. But Henri was a clever man, and he understood clearly: once the drive back to Bordeaux was concluded, he would never again kiss the flesh or hear the words of his lover, Antoine, the painter.

Chapter 2

Henri’s accommodation ( if one may call it that ) was tasteless. Henri had made a room of the church basement.

     Bare walls stood erect and emotionless, utter darkness curled up in the corners of the room waiting for the extinguishment of the lone candle, and the air – dense and heavy – idled within the room almost visibly. Nonetheless Henri had grown to relish the sequestering space, the darkness, the smells, the silence – only departing his room for walks, visiting his dearest restaurant français, Le Tapis Rouge, or spending time in the company of his companions.

     Henri had plans to rendez-vous with one of these compagnes later that evening, so he turned to look over his grid schedule.

     Henri had discovered tunnels underneath the church that streamed into many districts of the city of canals. Henri was uncertain whether the other priests had knowledge of these tunnels, and did not speak of them, or if his discovery was solely known to him. The scholar that he was, Henri had studied the courses of each tunnel within the web, learning the under-passing routes as a dedicated partner learns the needs and wants of a lover. The tunnels, which Henri now called his tunnels, ran heavily, more so than any other region of Amsterdam, into the underground labyrinth of the Red Light District.

     The grid schedule, L’horaire – as he liked to call it – was a complex system, synchronizing the calendars of the only two consorts with whom he socialized and his tunnel network. L’horaire instructed Henri on exactly which passageway to embark upon depending on who he intended to see, and what time of day or night he was to see them.  

     On this fine evening Henri would meet with his acquaintance, Monika. Monika, a striking amazon of great beauty from Germany, had an addictively broad mind and adored the sophisticated conversation Henri brought with him on each of his visits.

     Once washed and combed Henri took to his tunnels en route for the chamber Monika would occupy that evening. When he arrived at Monika’s fleeting dwellings he knocked their secret knock underneath her floor. Monika did not respond – which meant she was busy with a client. Henri waited patiently as this was a common occurrence, thinking about how cozy his tunnels were, how much power they gave him. Le Connaisseur, he called himself.

     With time Monika knocked their enciphered knock from atop her floor, then Henri ingressed the sole-windowed room from the depths of the underground. Monika had shut her red curtain, and even with the moans and groans of passion next door, and the many voices of inflamed men outside, waiting within the warmth of the clustered alleyway, striving wholeheartedly to bring down the price, the two were alone, and Monika made coffee.

     The pair spent their time together discussing the philosophies of Nietzsche, German history, and condoning German language lessons, among other things, then Monika had to reconvene her evening’s service, taking Henri back to his tunnels.

     Monika had lived in her hometown of Hamburg upon her arrival in Amsterdam. She departed from Germany once falling out of a marriage with a Belgium man who didn’t satisfy her emotionally or physically. Monika sought the freedom of Amsterdam and, after an odd string of events coupled with her fondness of rapports sexuels, Monika found herself sliding from window to window within the District of red lights, shining ever so brightly upon the shapeshifting alleyways. Monika toiled diligently in her new occupation – working the day-shift in the windows of listless alleyways abreast the boundary of the District – humping boys, men, women, children, and soon enough, through her careful and unwavering persistence, Monika established a consistent and affluent clientele, only taking on a walk-in from time to time for her own quote unquote pleasure.

     Eventually Monika also verified her work ethic amid the community, guaranteeing herself a window post in the most lustful of alleyways at the most prime of times. She often had swarms of hungry and excited men come through her red curtain during an isolated evening as stiff as the windowed door they closed behind them. Through her employment Monika had formed relationships with many languages, met Russian investors who now handled her money, and made the acquaintance of several top-tier government officials. Monika felt unshackled in Amsterdam, and the Red Light District had become her home away from home.

     Upon Henri’s return to his lodgings, drowsiness had not yet greeted him, so he decided to revisit his grid schedule, examining the calendar of his one other companion in the city. Once connecting the dots, L’horaire pointed him in the right direction, and in a sole heartbeat, Henri was pacing firmly back into the darkness of his tunnels.

Once Antoine had severed all ties to Henri – which only took him the time it took the pair of them to drive to Bordeaux from the country – Henri’s life spiraled through several spiritual phases while still in France.

     Henri devoted himself wholesomely, every once of his soul, every breath of his lungs, to the divine. Henri toiled – he read, he wrote, he preached. Henri did not rest, for the devil does not rest, he told the church, why should I? Henri preached at smaller neighboring churches, conferenced with priests in other regions of Holland, and attended children’s hospitals two to three times a week. Every waking moment was a moment not to waste! Henri spent every instant of his being lionizing the word of God to the world that so needed him. Henri gave himself utterly to the Almighty.

     In time fatigue maimed Henri. His spirit, his body, his heart, his whole became tired. Within his exhaustion Henri started examining the works of his life. He began questioning his pleading with strangers and dying children to pray to a God that made Henri ogle at the curve of a man’s buttocks instead of the gentle arch of a woman’s foot. A God that made Henri adore the pressure of a man’s strong hands gripping the nape of his neck over the firm softness of a woman’s breast. A God that made Henri’s parents hate their child for the abomination he was, for the sin that resided in him, for the evil that contaminated their little Henri.

     Henri’s inner-exploration eventually led him to the second spiritual episode of his life alone and heartbroken in Bordeaux – a period of Henri’s life that obtained not one drop of divine spirituality whatsoever. Henri became a priest who no longer believed in religion, no longer believed in prayer, no longer believed in hope, no longer believed in God! Henri, evidently hiding these novel beliefs from his church, experimented with his readings, contested his own ideologies, isolated himself from the church doctrines, existing this way for some time.

     The final spiritual chapter Henri experienced quickened his departure from his home country. In this chapter Henri searched for the answers to his divine questions within love itself. Henri wanted love, needed love – so Henri searched for it. Henri foraged for love in the beds of many men. Henri slept with young men who were still boys, old men whose youth had grown legs and ran away, and Henri even trialed sexual relations with women. Though Henri never found what he was looking for within the bodies he disposed of: and there were many bodies, coming in all shapes and sizes, colors and tones. Henri began to treat men and women as he had treated books in his past life as a scholar – devouring each one, then onto the next.

As Henri arrived upon the ever-changing room of his one other confidente, he proceeded to knock their knock upon being welcomed by his friend who had just finished with a client, a  South African woman who went by Amber, but her given name was Brooke.

     “Henri,” Amber uttered affably, “you know my calendar better than me.”

     “Bonsoir Maman,” Henri replied, surfacing from the shadows. “I suppose you’re right.”

     Henri split time between Amber and Monika appropriately, and better yet: Amber, who was svelte in appearance, contrasted with Monika splendidly. If Henri were a painter, the two women were his chosen hues of paint. While in Monika’s company Henri spoke more often, and when spending time with Amber, he chose to listen. Amber was an adept storyteller who had much to tell. To Henri South Africa was a faraway land he knew nothing of, and because of this, Amber became his fountain of knowledge. Amber told him outlandish stories of her nights spent at underground music festivals: she spoke of the grotesque racial dynamic of the country – too painting pictures with her words of the nation’s boundless and romantic coastlines. And when Henri wasn’t listening he would give Amber French lessons, aiding Amber in realizing her dream of not only living but thriving in Paris. 

     “J’ai eu une journée très chargée aujourd’hui,” said Amber. “Comment s’est passée ta journée?”

     “I see you have been practicing,” Henri replied. “My day was most likely not as busy as yours, no, but I did have a lovely walk in Vondelpark. I must say, you are growing in your linguistic capabilities rapidly.”

     “Seulement parce que j’ai un bon professeur,” Amber replied, pronouncing each word excellently.

     “A teacher you will soon not need.”

     Amber had one of her regulars arriving at her window soon, and with that, Henri and Amber said their adieus upon Henri’s return back into his beloved tunnels.

     Parallel with Monika’s professional outlook, Amber detested her vocation. She had found herself within the world of red curtains and windows by mere chance. Amber had come to Europe as a way out. In South Africa she had found herself in a vast quicksand of trouble. Her parents had cut off all communication with her.

     Her golden ticket was offered to her by a wealthy Dutchman, who promised her a new life. Instead once she’d arrived and settled herself into the opulent mansion the well-to-do Dutchman called home, she was, in short, repulsed by his fantasies, horrified by the things he asked her to do to his body. In a week Amber was gazing relentlessly into every pair of eyes she could catch of the many men flashing past the windows in the alleyways of Amsterdam.     

     Like Monika, over time, even with her utmost dissatisfaction, Amber perfected her craft, cementing herself window times in the stiffest of alleyways, where she, like Monika, successfully built a solid clientele for herself promptly. Her customers comprised moneyed aristocrats and impassioned youth blooming with testosterone from well-off families who found Amber far more compelling than girls their own age. The deep-pocketed boys who visited Amber became obsessed with her after one bedding. They took a special liking to the way Amber’s hands tip-toed upon their crotch, how she knew what they wanted before they even did, and the way Amber spoke: she would pronounce the tails of her words exotically. Les garçons never stood a chance.

Chapter 3

Upon awakening the following morning Henri washed up then read from a book before reuniting with the romance of his tunnels.

     Henri traversed the pitch-black pastures until coming to the exit for his bien-aimé, Le Tapis Rouge. Crawling from a narrow opening below the bridge nearestthe restaurant français carefully, not to be seen, Henri surfaced.

     The streets, thronged with men and women seeking the sun, who sat so pretty and unbothered within her clear blue sky, boasted cyclists galore. Henri’s favorite restaurant had tables abreast the road, and as he sat down to read the forenoon paper and drink his café and eat his meal, never-ending surges of bicyclists came sweeping past his toes.

     While reading the paper Henri overheard the conversation of a German lumberjack visiting Amsterdam before embarking upon a new adventure in Paris and an American man seated across from his mother.

    Henri had great big ears and took pleasure in opening them widely, listening to the talk of the town. Henri then studied a small boy approach a dead pigeon with its guts splattered upon the road: the boy scooped up the dead bird then threw it into the nearby canal, wiping his hands on his shorts as he walked away.

     Once Henri finished his reading of the morning paper, the drinking of his cappuccino, and the eating of his croissant, Henri returned to his tunnels once more, flowing within the total-darkness he knew so well. Once back at his lodgings Henri read from the pages of a book he had read many times, whistled a tune he had whistled before, then made the same meal he cooked every night before his tunnels called him back again. This evening he would meet Monika, and the following eve he had a penciled-in appointment with Amber, and the morning after that, he would visit Le Tapis Rouge.

     Our Priest, Henri, Le Connaisseur, would maintain this deadened manner of living until one morning his heart stopped, and he died. There was no grande résurrection of his soul, there was no rebirth of his spirit, there was no reinvigoration of his will. Henri never redeemed his love for life, for living. Henri never revived the man in the small room with the wood stove in the peaceful hamlet within the countryside – the man who died with the loss of Antoine’s love. After that day, when his lover, his world, his dreams crumbled into nothingness, forever trapped within a never-breaking coma, Henri never regained the courage to give his heart to anyone. His cœur remained locked away, never again discovering the light of day, the song of birds, the gentle passing of a steady breeze. Not one task, belief, thought, or anything, ever again, felt the passion of Henri’s soul. The will to live had departed from our priest, Henri, long before his death. Henri’s spirit had been hung up and crucified on a cross along the road to Bordeaux many years ago. All that remained of him hid away in the basement of the church, rotting, nibbled at by rats for days until the smell interrupted a Sunday Mass, calling for an investigation.

     The priest who found Henri’s half-eaten carcass in the church basement had been fond of Henri, even though he had no understanding of him.

     Within Henri’s Bible, bookmarking his page, reposed a note, reading:

For the only time I am divine is when reading the words of Christ.

Henri’s funeral was held the following week with the priest who had found his body, Monika, and Amber in attendance. Some tears were shed out of pity, others out of sadness as Henri’s body was lowered into his grave amid soil not of his home country. If Henri had it his way he would’ve been buried in his home, within the out-stretched, loving arms of the darkness idle within his darling tunnels.

     To this day the tunnels stream far and wide underneath the City of Canals, and rumor has it you can still hear Henri down there, whistling the same tune he always had. But I only I know the truth.

THE END