The Last Little Blue Envelope (11 page)

A Night of Vice

They walked for two hours. In the open windows, she saw Christmas trees and lights, a few ornate menorahs. Ginny was pleased to find that she had a fairly good memory of the layout of Amsterdam. The canals varied in width, from perhaps one car-lane wide to six or so lanes wide. They radiated throughout the city like a spiderweb, with boats parked along the sides, all kinds of boats. Long, traditional houseboats were next to sleek new cruisers, which might then be followed by tiny, flat rowboats that looked like they would sink the second a person sat down in one. Every once in a while, they would pass a boat that had met a bad end, half submerged under the water, tipped sideways, ducks looking at it mockingly.

They passed into the red light district—Amsterdam’s legal prostitution zone. There were long windows dotted between houses and shops, each with a thin frame of red light. Those windows either had someone standing in them, usually female, or a closed curtain, indicating the little shop was currently busy. The windows were bizarrely cozy. Sometimes the women would sit and read or paint their nails or just wave. Ginny had a fondness for those windows and the women in them. They had completely freaked the Knapps out.

“Know what I was thinking?” Oliver said. “When I read that we had to find a window in Amsterdam? I thought we were going to have to find one of those.”

She had to admit, Oliver had a good point. Aunt Peg would have had a lot of fun decorating one of those windows.

“This is pointless,” she said.

“But fun,” he said. Ginny had no idea if that was supposed to be a joke. He was utterly inscrutable. He just gazed around, his hands buried in his pockets.

Along with the red windows, there were several coffeehouses on this street. These were the pot-smoking cafés. They looked like they existed mainly for tourists, with neon signs and pumping music. They passed a quieter one that looked like a regular little café. They had two menus out front—one of various pot concoctions, and another of food. Mostly pizza.

“I want to go in,” she said.

“You want to smoke?”

“No,” she said. “I’m hungry. They have pizza.”

“Lots of places have pizza. It’s fine if you want to smoke. I’m not going to judge you.”

“I don’t,” Ginny said firmly.

“Then we can go somewhere that has good food. There’s lots of it about in Amsterdam. These places aren’t known for—”

“I just want to go here, okay?”

Oliver raised his hands in surrender.

Truth be told, Ginny didn’t
want
to go in to the coffee shop—she felt a perverse
need
to go in. The Knapps (at least, Mom and Dad Knapp) wouldn’t go anywhere near the coffeehouses, and there was something inside of Ginny that compelled her to do everything the Knapps disliked. And if she was being
very
truthful with herself (it happened on occasion), Ginny would have admitted that the coffee shops scared her too. Even though they were legal and clearly full of tourists, they had the air of the forbidden . . . literally. And Richard had just asked her if she was walking around in a haze of legal marijuana. Here she was walking into a cloud of it. She pushed the door open with much more force than necessary and marched in.

A cursory glance around the room revealed that the coffee shop wasn’t that much different from any ordinary café. It was a little darker, maybe. The air had the distinct, sweet tang of pot smoke. But there was nothing particularly scary going on inside, unless you counted the tacky decorations. The place looked like a stoner’s dorm room—cheap cushions and basket chairs, black light posters of smiley faces, and dozens of votive candles in bright glass holders, right out of the IKEA catalog. The menus, both for food and drugs, were written in neon purple and green on an illuminated board. It was a bit sad, really. Aunt Peg could have done an amazing job with a place like this. Her paintings would have
really
messed people up.

Had she been on her own, Ginny would have turned around and walked out; but since she made such a bizarrely big deal of coming in, now she had to stay here and eat some pizza. She and Oliver took a seat at a wobbly little table, half of which was taken up by a massive ashtray.

“Here you go,” Ginny said, pushing it toward him. “A present.”

“I don’t smoke indoors.”

The coffee shop wasn’t very crowded, but that didn’t mean that service was prompt. Their waiter, when he finally showed up, was openly confused by the fact that they had come there for the food—but being mellow and stonerish, accepted this and ambled off. She and Oliver were the only people sitting completely upright. They looked stiff and unnatural. She tried to relax in her chair, but the slouching was even more unnatural. Oliver pushed a votive candle back and forth and eyed her across the table.

“So,” she said, “what do you do?”

“Meaning what?”

“For . . . life?”

“I went to university for a year,” he said. “For political science.”

“And you don’t go now?”

“I left.”

“Why?”

“There was no point in staying.”

This kind of thing always amazed Ginny—people who just walked away from institutions. People who left school when they didn’t see the point. Aunt Peg had done that. Ginny knew she never would. That either made her someone who worked hard and finished things, or someone who didn’t have the guts to break away from the pack. Maybe both.

Of course, if she never wrote her essay, this would not be an issue.

The two pizzas were slipped down in front of them, along with a beer for Oliver and a soda for Ginny. They weren’t great pizzas—kind of floppy and damp—but she’d had worse. She was going to eat it, no matter what, since she’d brought them here.

“How did you memorize that whole letter?” she said, cutting hers into pieces. She didn’t even need a knife—the fork went right through the spongy crust.

“You really like asking questions, don’t you?”

“You said you’re honest.”

He eyed her for a moment as he cut a large piece of the pizza and picked it up for a bite. It flopped around too much to be handled, so he set it down and continued with utensils. “I’m just good at memorizing things. I don’t even mean to memorize them, half the time. I just do.”

“You mean you have a photographic memory?”

“No,” he said. “Because that would be useful. It’s far more random than that. I can recite the entire first chapter of every Harry Potter book. I can recite all forty-seven pages of my school handbook. I can re-create eight episodes of season two of
Doctor Who
, with the Tenth Doctor, word for word. I memorized the driving manual. I just seem to memorize things that have some kind of significance to me—”

He cut himself off abruptly.

“It just happened,” he said. “No control over it. Came in handy, though.”

“You can recite all the first chapters of Harry Potter?” she asked.

“Yes, well . . . I can recite chapters one through four of book one, chapters one and two of book two, chapters—”

“Okay, wait,” Ginny said. “I want to hear this. Because I don’t believe you.”

“Which one do you want?”

“The first book.”

“Can I finish my pizza?”

She nodded graciously. Oliver continued eating, wiped his mouth, took a drink of beer, and sat back in his chair. He assumed the position—eyes closed, head tipped back.

“Okay,” he said. “Book one . . .”

And so he began. Ginny didn’t actually know Harry Potter book one by heart, but what he was reading sounded right. Normally, Oliver had a deadpan manner of speaking. When he recited the letters, his voice went completely flat. When he read the book, his face relaxed and his voice deepened. He was a very good narrator, actually.

After a few moments, they had attracted the attention of some very stoned people sitting two tables over. They openly stared at Oliver, their jaws hanging slightly open, their eyes bloodshot and full of wonder. They began to approach, sliding their chairs closer and closer, inch by inch. The waiter began to hover as well. Oliver seemed to enjoy having an audience—he continued on for a full three chapters, growing more and more expressive.

“Was that Harry Potter?” one of them asked.

“What makes you say that?” Oliver replied.

“You kept saying ‘Harry Potter,’ ” the guy replied seriously. “And it sounded like it. It sounded like you were reading it. How did you do that?”

Oliver drew his black coat tight around himself, leaned right into the guy’s face, and quietly said, “I’m Dumbledore.”

Ginny burst out laughing, despite herself.

“Are we still trying to find this boat?” Oliver asked, as they left the coffee shop. “Or have we given up?”

“I think we give up,” Ginny replied.

“Good. So we can take the same way back.”

It was a cold walk, but a pleasant one, through the canals, over the bridges. They didn’t talk, but the silence between them was peaceful. Oliver smoked, and Ginny wrapped her scarf around her face. It was only when they had almost reached the Koekoeksklok that Ginny remembered why she left—or how long ago.

“Oh god,” she said. “I didn’t tell them I wasn’t coming back.”

“So?”

“What if they’re worried?”

“I don’t think they’re worried,” he said, dropping his cigarette to the sidewalk and stepping on it. Whatever lukewarm feelings of tolerance the Harry Potter reading had provoked were instantly chilled by this offhand remark.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she snapped.

“Never mind,” he said quickly.

Oh, but she could never never mind now. Her mind was already flying. What he meant was that they wouldn’t be worried because they were glad she was gone. They were
busy
.

“You keep saying things like that,” she said, unable to hide the emotion in her voice. “What’s your problem? You
mean
something.”

“Listen,” he said, holding out his hands defensively, “I don’t think you want advice from me, that’s all.”

“I don’t want
advice
from you. I want to know why you keep saying this stuff.”

Oliver sighed deeply and stopped walking.

“This is all I have to say about the matter,” he said. “I have been stuck in the car with the three of you. I have nothing to do but watch. I don’t know what went on between you and . . . Keith . . .”

He clearly didn’t like saying Keith’s name.

“. . . but I know something did. I’m also guessing it was left somewhat unresolved.”

“How do you . . .”

“Because it’s
obvious
,” he said. “It is the most obvious thing that I have ever seen. He flirts with you. You flirt with him. . . .”

“He’s not flirting,” Ginny said. “I’m not either.”

“No guy drives all the way to France for a girl he just wants to be friends with.”

“Oh,” she said, “you’re one of those people who thinks guys are never friends with girls. . . .”

“I said you don’t drive
to France
for someone you just want to be friends with.”

“He has a girlfriend,” Ginny said defensively.

“Yeah. I noticed that too. I don’t think that changes much. As I said, I don’t think you want my advice, but I’d be . . . careful.”

The insanity of this had come full circle. She was out with Oliver, who was telling her to watch out for Keith. Oliver, the extortionist. She pushed past him, disgusted with herself.

And, as it happened, Keith and Ellis were in the lobby, trying to make sense out of an ancient Dutch board game.

“Where’ve you been, mad one?” Keith asked. “You said you were going out to make a call.”

Ginny cast a rueful look at Oliver, who followed her inside.

“We looked for the boat,” she replied.

“
We
looked for the boat?”

Keith looked Oliver up and down. Oliver shook his head and went for the stairs. For a moment, conversation was impossible because of the creaking noise. These were the loudest steps in the entire world.

“I was out,” Ginny said simply. “Walking. He was out. We looked for the boat.”

“Did you find it?” Ellis asked.

“No.”

“No surprise there,” Keith said, turning back to the game. “Want to play? We have no idea how this works, but we’ve decided if you get five hundred points, you win. It’s up to you how you get the points. I’ve been getting points by hiding Ellis’s pieces down my shirt.”

He grabbed a pocket of fabric down by his stomach and jiggled it. It made a rattling noise.

“Cheater,” Ellis mumbled.

“I think I’m going to bed too,” Ginny said.

“You do everything he does,” Keith called after her. “You
love
him.”

She felt his gaze follow her long after she disappeared up into the darkness of the stairwell.

Random Acts of Cruelty

Ginny woke the next morning to a scream. Luckily, it wasn’t her own. It was loud, male, and from right below them. Ellis jolted awake in the bed next to her.

“What was that?” Ellis asked. “Did I dream that? Was that you?”

Now there was yelling, and a thumping noise. They jumped out of bed at the same moment and ran down the steps, slipping on the slick wood as they hurried. The door to Keith and Oliver’s room was shut, and a fevered conversation was going on behind it.

“What do we do?” Ellis asked. “They’re at something in there. Think we should break them up?”

Another muffled cry, followed by loud laughter. Keith’s.

“Yes,” Ginny said, stepping forward and opening the door.

Keith was standing closest, dressed in a baggy pair of sweatpants and the T-shirt from yesterday. Oliver was just in boxers and a T-shirt again, but this time she couldn’t really blame him. He was also soaked, and swearing profusely.

“Shut the door!” he yelled. This time, he was not in the mood to show off the boxers. And once again, Ginny found herself staring just a little. Keith did not shut the door. He reached over and opened it wider, letting the cold air from the stairwell in.

“It snowed,” he said, craning his arm over his head and lazily scratching his neck.

Now Ginny saw it. Snow scattered all over the floor, all over Oliver’s bed. So much snow—snow that could only have come from one source. Keith must have been very, very quiet, because those stairs were like a musical instrument. And it must have taken him a few trips, because there was a
lot
of snow. Oliver grabbed his bag and let out a groan of dismay when even more snow poured out. His clothes were utterly soaked.

“Oh dear,” Keith said. “Those are going to be unpleasant and cold.”

Oliver shoulder-shoved Keith and slipped quickly past Ellis and Ginny on the way to the bathroom. Keith let it go with a smile.

“That was mean,” Ginny said.

“Mean?” Keith sat on his bed and surveyed the damage contentedly. There was snow on his bed as well, probably thrown there by Oliver. “That’s nothing. I could have done much worse, and you know it.”

There was just a little defiance in his voice. Ellis put her hand over her mouth, possibly to stifle a giggle.

“He’s going to freeze,” Ginny said.

“Again, I’m not seeing the problem.”

Ginny walked away, taking heavy steps back up to their room. She wasn’t really sure why she was angry at Keith for doing this, but she was. She grabbed for her clothes, not even bothering with a shower. She could hear the water running through the pipes, though, as Oliver took his. Ellis came in a moment later and shut the door quietly.

“He’s trying to help,” she said. “Honestly.”

“I know,” Ginny said. “I just don’t want that kind of help.”

Ellis nodded and pulled on her clothes as well. They went downstairs, where a table full of yogurt, muesli, bread, cheeses, and meats was waiting for them. Keith joined shortly after, humming cheerily under his breath.

“I’m starving. Anyone else starving?” He loaded up his plate and sat down at the table. Both Ellis and Ginny stared at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Ginny’s right,” Ellis said. “Enough’s enough.”

“Have you both forgotten what he’s doing?”

“No,” Ellis said. “But . . .”

The creak of the stairs broke the conversation. Oliver came into the room in his wet, clingy clothes. His pants were clinging to his calves. Even his shoes were wet. He took seventy damp Euros from his wallet and handed them to Ginny.

“For the room,” he said. “I’ll be outside.”

“I’ll bet that coat’s not quite dry after getting splashed yesterday,” Keith said. “Such bad luck.”

Oliver left without a word. Ellis punched Keith lightly in the shoulder.

“What?” he asked again.

It was even colder than the day before, so the walk to the bookshop must have been brutal for Oliver. He had his arms wrapped tightly around himself. Charlie was waiting for them outside of the shop, dressed in skinny white jeans, a black leather jacket, and huge mirrored sunglasses. His hair was even higher and scragglier.

“You’re wet,” he said, tipping down the glasses to look at Oliver.

“Fell in a canal,” Keith lied, jerking his thumb at the canal behind them. It was to Oliver’s credit that he didn’t reach over and knock Keith backward into the aforementioned canal.

“Oh. That happens. Come.”

Walking with Charlie in the lead was a strange experience. He walked a vaguely snaky path and occasionally, Ginny swore he skipped a little. Not high enough to click his heels or anything. He’d just pop up higher than normal. Then snake, snake, snake.

“This man is stoned,” Keith said in a low voice. “Or, even worse, he might
not
be. What the hell is wrong with everyone your aunt knows?”

This question became all the more relevant when they saw the boat.

To be fair, the pink boat was not horrific as Ginny had imagined it would be. In her mind, it was going to be Pepto-Bismol pink and painted all over, even on the windows. In reality, it was at least four shades of pink and rose. It was still very pink.

“Margaret picked the colors,” he said, reaching up to run his finger along the slender bare branch of a tree.

This much was obvious to Ginny. It was either Aunt Peg or a group of five-year-olds.

“Where’s the window?” Oliver asked.

Charlie took off his shoes and jumped over to the deck of the boat. He walked around to the front (the bow, whatever they called it). And there it was, the very front window, essentially the windshield of the boat. It was a painting of a jungle scene, a cartoonish one. Massive green fronds, huge orange flowers, a massive parrot. The picture mostly went around the frame of the window, leaving the center open, like an opening in the foliage. Whoever was driving would have to navigate through Aunt Peg’s strange landscape as they made their way around the canals. It was interesting, if not entirely safe.

“Let me just get it off,” he said.

“Ooh er,” Keith said quietly. Ginny and Ellis both stared at him, and he shrugged sheepishly. He wasn’t quite off the hook yet.

Charlie grabbed the window by the edges and started pulling on it, which wasn’t exactly the removal method Ginny was expecting.

“Do you need help?” Oliver said, preparing to climb on.

Charlie waved him away.

“It’s no problem,” Charlie said. “I stuck it on with glue. Just glue.”

He was such a strange, spidery person, wrestling with a window on a pink boat. He groaned and grunted, locking his spindly legs and yanking over and over, his head snapping back. His glasses slipped off his face. He was some kind of deranged Muppet that had decided to attack a sailing vessel.

“This is incredible,” Keith said. “Can we take him home with us?”

There was a cracking noise, which made Ginny’s stomach sink.

“Here you are,” Charlie said, coming over to the side of the boat and passing them the window. The glass wasn’t broken, fortunately. The cracking noise seemed to have been the splintering of the wooden frame around the pane.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Charlie said, putting his ink-stained hands gently on her shoulders. “It was a loss for everyone, for all, for art.”

“Yeah,” Ginny said quietly. “It was.”

They took the Hoek van Holland ferry, which was just south of Amsterdam. Ginny had done a monster of a ferry ride on her last trip—twenty-four hours on a ferry to Greece. Of course, she had spent much of that time basking in the sun, not huddling inside, avoiding the December air and the frigid spray. But this trip wasn’t nearly as long.

Ginny was a little nervous about leaving the window in the car. She had taken all her clothes out of her bag and wrapped it carefully, just in case the boat was dipping and swaying. Ideally, she would have stayed in the car with it, but it was freezing in the car hold, and they didn’t allow passengers to remain down there anyway.

The three of them sat around one of the welded-down café tables. Oliver was relegated to a different table. He looked even colder once he was inside, but he bravely took out a huge novel and tried to read. Ellis got the Top Trumps cards out again. “Come on,” she said. “You know you want to play the horses pack.”

She was obsessed with those cards. Her inner Little Ellis couldn’t be at peace until someone played with her.

“Go on then,” Keith said.

“Ginny?”

Ginny shrugged.

“You’ll have to teach me,” she said.

Top Trumps appeared to be a game in which you got cards, and the cards had a picture (in this case, of a horse), and told you all kinds of stats for that horse, how fast it was, how big it was, etc. Whoever had the better horse won both the cards. You repeated this until someone had all the cards. So, basically it was exactly like high school, except it only took three minutes. Which was really a bit more humane, if you thought about it.

“You feel like you’re really on holiday now, don’t you?” Ellis said, once they’d played a game.

“Strangely, yes,” Keith replied. “But we’ve confused the American. Look at her. You can just tell she’s never been on one of the seaside holidays where you sit in the car in the rain and eat sandwiches.”

“Those are the best,” Ellis said, nodding.

“You make these things up,” Ginny said. “You’re trying to trick me.”

Keith slapped the table loudly, causing Oliver to jump. “Oi!” he said. “Where are we going next?”

“Dublin.” Oliver stiffly turned a page.

“Dublin?” Keith repeated. “As in Ireland, on the other side of England from where we are now, on the Continent?”

“You
are
bright. Yes, Dublin. And since we have to go through England to get there, I suggest we stop there for the night. You don’t have to come the rest of the way if you don’t want to, since we’re quite capable of handling this on our own.”

“Dublin, the day after tomorrow?” Ellis said. “That’s New Year’s! Dublin on New Year’s would be epic. This
must
be done.”

“She’s right,” Keith said, with a nod to Ginny. “It must. By the way, I think you have the wet trousers contest all sewn up. You have my vote, and I
mean
that.”

Oliver got up and went outside.

“Was it something I said?” Keith asked.

“I’m going to the snack bar,” Ginny said. “Want anything?”

They shook their heads. Ginny went by herself, stumbling from left to right as the boat rocked. She saw Oliver through the window. Clearly, he had struggled between his dampness and his need for a cigarette. The latter won. He got up and went out on the deck in the freezing spray, flicking his lighter over and over, trying to catch a spark. The sight made her sad, so on impulse she bought two coffees and took them out. She handed him one. He looked at it in confusion.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” she said.

Oliver looked at her and back at the coffee. He squeezed it like it was something rare and precious and maybe a little dangerous.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’m going to go. My plan is to find somewhere on this boat to hide and sleep.”

“Hide?”

“The one thing I learned from going away to school as a kid,” he said. “They never stop. Never let them find you asleep. My own fault.”

Oliver’s hidden sleeping place turned out to be the car. They found him in there when they were alerted to go back to the auto deck on arrival. He had gotten into the trunk, taken all of Keith’s dry clothes, and piled them over himself. He was a sleeping pile of laundry.

“He really does read lock-picking sites,” Keith said, peering at him through the window and knocking loudly to wake him. “This car is like a bank vault. No one can get in.”

“I once opened the door with a pen,” Ellis told him.

“Don’t tell me things like that.”

“I did. Just a little flick of the Biro and . . . pop! Door open.”

Oliver rearranged himself in the backseat to make room for Ginny, shoving all of Keith’s clothes down by his feet. The extra packing meant they were wedged in together more tightly than usual. Back on his home soil, Keith floored it in confidence, the little white car banging and clattering down the motorway. As soon as they came into London, Keith pulled over to the side of the road. There was no Tube stop, nothing. He turned around and looked at Oliver.

“This is your stop,” he said.

“Where are we?”

“I just said. Your stop. That’s where we are.”

“Fine,” Oliver replied. “I’ll just take the window with me. You can keep the tabletop.”

Ginny grabbed the edge of the window as hard as she could. There was no way she was letting Oliver take it.

“Out,” Keith said again. “The window stays.”

Oliver considered for a moment, then turned to Ginny.

“Well,” he said, “there’s not much you can do with these without the final piece. About tomorrow . . . should I assume we’re driving again, or can we just take the train and the ferry and do it ourselves?”

“I suppose it’s too much to ask where exactly in Ireland we’re going?” Keith said.

“Are you really asking me this as you’re dumping me on the side of the road?”

“At least I took you all the way to London. I could have dumped you in Wales.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Oliver said, opening his door. Keith started pulling away before he had a chance to get his bag out, forcing Oliver to walk all the way down the block to get it. As soon as he reached the car, Keith drove forward again. Oliver waited this time before approaching the car. When he did, Keith backed up, causing Oliver to jump back to the sidewalk.

“Keith!” Ellis said. “Stop it!”

The backseat was suddenly very roomy. It was too big. Ginny shifted uncomfortably in the space and looked through the back window. Oliver was already making his way assured down the road, as if he knew exactly where he was going, his coattail snapping. For some reason, the sight made her very sad.

When they arrived at Richard’s house, there was no parking, so Keith stopped the car and kept the engine running while they carefully extracted the pieces from the backseat. They helped her get everything up the steps.