ICICLES IN AMSTERDAM/ Beauty Reals

ICICLES IN AMSTERDAM

Broken glass hung from my face like icicles off of a frozen façade. Years of envy had created an acrimonious stranger hell-bent on destroying my face and me. The world, as I knew it, had fallen to pieces. Moments before shards of crystal exploded in my face; that stranger was a friend. 

It was the summer of 2013. I'd gone on vacation with friends of twenty years. We’d met while childless, broke, and carefree. Celebrations were vital for sustaining our connection, yet life was happening. With eleven children between us, nights and weekends stocked with ballet, basketball, and baby babble, we missed each other. And so, we embarked on a two-week excursion to commemorate our entry into middle age and honor the friendship. Planning proved a prodigal undertaking that took the better part of a year, but Paris promised to be the cake, and Amsterdam, the icing. 

Amsterdam is a city brimming with European charm. The historic town encapsulates sixteenth-century perfection. Moisture-worn townhomes pressed alongside numerous canals, inhabited by demure liberals, are visual candy for global pragmatists and miscreant out-of-towners.  Hole-in-the-wall cafés are the main attractions for hash enthusiasts and thrill-seeking day-trippers alike. Bikers rip through narrow pathways that define Amsterdam’s slight cityscape. Curious pedestrians gawk at old facades while shopping hobbit-sized storefronts. Yet, in the high heat of summer, we were a distinct group: ten African-Americans of varying complexions, latitudes, and dispositions. Comprising five couples whose marriages each had its own 'interesting' dynamic. Looks of wonderment and confusion ran rampant, but the discriminating stares paled against Amsterdam’s spectacular backdrop.

We surveyed Amsterdam’s foreign surroundings in the midday sun, inching our way through town like worms after heavy rainfall. Meanwhile, French fries drenched in unusual mayonnaise satisfied a hunger from dipping in and out of aromatic cafes. A navy blue sky gave way to a million twinkling stars as day turned into night. A pinkish halo engulfed a tiny cluster and had a most bewitching effect on me, my curious steps pausing for moments at a time. I didn't know this was a sign of things to come.

Our daylong journey led us to an understated part of the city that was neither red-lit nor ostentatious. And as late evening approached, we stumbled upon an outdoor restaurant resembling a stolen cavity nestled between two buildings and flooded with candlelight. It looked like it belonged inside a fairytale. Lingerie dripped from tiny balconies, which lent to the night's ease. We sat at a large farm table surrounded by smaller tables for two, shown as the main event.  Our plates and palates were decorated with a generous spread of olives, flatbreads, and sliced steak. Wine and champagne complemented the meal as the conversation mounted.

Barry and Sheila, the colossal couple-big boned and big-mouthed-positioned themselves at the head of the table. A posturing tactic that, over the years, had turned everyone against them. And while their couple dynamic was unsettling all by itself, it was like their individual personalities had, over time, ventured from unbearable to barely tenable. We'd been sitting for a short while when suddenly, Sheila burst into a hysterical fit. Was she laughing or crying? Who the hell knows. But the volume at which she laughed or cried disturbed our entire table and everyone around us. Carlton and Jennifer, the little vibrant couple, sat the closest to Sheila. Until Jennifer directed a comment at Sheila that turned her hysterical fit into a definitive cry.  

At that point, I'd figured Sheila was just experiencing a delayed reaction from the brownie she'd ingested earlier. She'd eaten the entire thing in one sitting. Who does that? I was happy not to be sitting next to Barry or Sheila. Besides, they were like angry toddlers in a candy-filled playpen, selfish and whiny from the moment we'd landed in France. And though we'd established quasi-closeness over the years, my relationship with Barry and Sheila existed at arm's length. They got on my damn nerves. But as couple descriptions go, Brock and I were considered the "pretty" people. To be clear, "pretty" wasn't always meant as a compliment. 

Meanwhile, at my end of the table, Jackson, our mutual best friend since college, sat on the opposite side of Brock. Ronald and Marsha sat to my left, defined more by their staunch neutrality than their average statures. As far as the wives went, my closest friendships lay with Jennifer and Nina, never Sheila. Although, regarding the group, my strongest bonds existed with Jackson and my husband, Brock. Remember, Jackson is half of the short, tense couple whose relationship had been treading water. Nina... well, she is the other half. 

As the evening progressed, Nina and Jennifer were retreating to the lady's room way too frequently.  After each visit, they seemed to bring an air of indifference that would soon envelop the entire evening like a tornado. But compared to Barry and Sheila's negative behavior throughout the trip, Jennifer and Nina weren't that bad. Doing our best to ignore any negative vibes, I relished the evening along with Brock, Jackson, Ronald, and Marsha. So much so that at one point, we'd decided to end our friendship with Barry and Sheila at the trip's close. Only, we'd planned a night of pure foolery before any of that would happen.

The conversation ebbed and flowed. Then, after more of Sheila's crying/laughing fits, excitement ensued over a wine-country trip later that week. I had a revelation: despite our differences, I loved these people. And for a few seconds, we could be seen smiling under our own milky way. And as the moment approached an end, I prepared to toast our friendship. But before a word could roll off my tongue, a wine glass crashed into my face. Its sharp, tiny particles pierced my skin as the broken stem stabbed into my leg, and the bitter liquid coated my chin. The world went mute. 

Then, as I finally released a breath, I grazed my left cheek and glanced up at the tiny balconies. I waited for the inebriated suspect to appear as unrecognizable insecurity rose inside me. I looked to my left and noticed Ronald had also gotten wet but not cut. Then, my hands fell upon my chest, where my blood's warmth mixed with the wine's chill. At that moment, I glimpsed myself in a small mirror behind a portable dessert cart. Icy particles reflected off my skin as moonlight did when it kissed the water. I watched as waiters backed away with hands hovered over their open mouths. Meanwhile, fellow patrons peered as if witnessing a fatal car crash. I imagined they swooned over this magical summer’s night as I did, which by chance, had culminated into a violent storm.

Shock and amusement spread across the faces of those I thought to be friends. Not the kind of shock wishing to stop the flood but the type of waiting for someone to drown.  Sheila’s cry reverted to laughter, at which point I turned towards Brock and Jackson, whose blank stares told another story. As other noises filtered in, my breathing returned to normal. I shifted my body toward Nina and Jennifer and realized I was under attack.

Nina stood dead set on my every move and held a second wine glass at the ready. She bore a demon-like countenance with flared nostrils and swollen, black pupils. Jennifer stared at me with a quizzical smirk. I gathered she, like the others, knew the reason for Nina's tirade and consented to the attack. It appeared everyone saw what Nina saw. Not one person saw me.

Several thoughts flooded my mind: you’re alone; go home to your daughters and find a ‘real’ job. But before making sense of the random statements reverberating inside my head, Brock yells,

“Something must be wrong with Nina. She would never do this!”

His words cut deeper than all the little stabs. It appeared Brock empathized with Nina. His unwillingness to defend and protect me exposed his complacency in our marriage.

Days before boarding the train to Amsterdam, we'd visited Notre Dame. I discovered the actual purpose of gargoyles atop the cathedral was to lessen the impact of damaging rainstorms. Something I found admirable. Yet days later, I was the victim of a rainstorm. Unlike the gargoyles, Brock did nothing to protect me. He stood still as my dignity was eroded while Jackson and Nina disappeared unscathed.

After the scene inside the restaurant, the other couples scattered with an immense effort, further exposing their disdain for my well-being. Still unable to fully grasp what had occurred, I walked furiously through Amsterdam’s crowded streets. I passed canal after canal, stopping once to gather pieces of myself that had begun to unravel, with Brock trudging slowly behind me. I closed my eyes and tried desperately to soothe myself with thoughts of home. As a consummate dreamer, I can quickly jump in and out of reality. This time was different. Mine was a reality too stark to ignore.

I listened while a few young men on the adjacent bench swapped stories of women they’d met in Brussels and ones they hoped to encounter in Amsterdam. Amid my emotional breakdown, their stories offered a welcome distraction. While at the same time mocking my loss of youth and friendship. Out of nowhere, the harsh realities of middle age begged reassurance that Nina’s issues were not my own. And with three daughters at home, clinging to a modicum of self-regard mattered greatly. I could not lose myself in this mess.

Soon, I would identify with a city celebrated for its allure. Both of us perceived beauties in constant danger of being overcome by that surrounding us: Amsterdam by the water running through it, me by the enemies posing as friends. As midnight dark cast shadows over the stars, I cried a river into a canal.  

Salty tears stung like acid inside my wounds as the urgency to confront Nina and Jackson emerged.  I raced back to the hotel and demanded Brock find their room number. At first, he refused. But after shouting my frustrations, he complied. When we arrived at their hotel room, it appeared they'd been expecting us. Once inside, I gritted my teeth and asked what the hell happened? Except hell wasn’t the word I used. Profanity was the only thing keeping me from destroying her. Nina's response exposed the insecurity she'd always had for my friendship with Jackson. She considered the bond 'too close for comfort.' Though she never expressed her concerns directly, Jackson had mentioned Nina's objection to me from the outset of their relationship. At this point, I decided his friendship was worth my jumping through hoops to make Nina feel comfortable. But once the conversation took an unexpected turn and Jackson dispelled Nina's suspicions of our having an affair, I realized my efforts were all in vain.
Moreover, the confidence she’d walk away unscathed was woven into Nina's rationale. I knew then that my friendship with Nina never indeed existed. By dawn, four people had suffered vicious attacks: Me due to a jealous tirade, Nina and Jackson by a broken marriage, and Brock of his own doing.

The following day, everyone gathered for breakfast except Jackson and Nina. The other couples voiced concern for their well-being. Not one expressed concern for me. Most disturbing: Brock discussing the aftermath as if he'd contributed in any way. My turmoil became his breakfast banter, yet he was unwilling to touch my pain. Daylight argued an ugliness in them that was at once glaring and disgusting. I boarded a train back to Paris, knowing what it felt like to come undone.

In our Parisian duplex, Nina and Jackson called a meeting inside its plastered walls. Meetings had become a joke on this trip due to Sheila and Barry's childish ways. Brock entered our bedroom and asked that I join the conference. Once again, and for no concrete reason, I agreed. I walked down the spiral stairs leading to a grand living room. Mid-stair, I realized everyone had gathered in support of Nina.

She sat on a blue sofa in the center of the room, with most of the group comforting her. When I reached the living room, I sat on a yellow couch next to a fifteen-foot window with sweeping views of the city. Brock sat at the other end of the yellow couch while Monica sat between us. To tolerate the misery swallowing the room, I focused on the noise of clubgoers outside the window. Like ghosts from a past life, they reminded me why I'd traveled to Europe in the first place. I realized I'm the kind of person who never wants to be defined by age, circumstance, or anything limiting, which now includes this group. As I daydreamed of joining the clubgoers, I let go of pretense and accepted an end to twenty years of connections. Yet before the conversation began, I silently forgave each one of them for things they'd done and should have done. Thus choosing happiness over misguided loyalty.

When Nina finally spoke, she recalled hearing Jackson and I say, "I love you" to one another.  Jackson interjected, saying,

“Not in that way!”

The conversation imploded as the emotional exchange between Jackson, and Nina showed the long road ahead of them. The other couples chimed in with advice, which had no chance of resonating with Nina or Jackson. Nina continued to express her reasons for suspecting me though Jackson confirmed otherwise.  And amid Nina's rant, Jackson looked at me with an expression at once distant and warm. Warm from having always considered one another remote because it had to be. In retrospect, somewhere inside, both of us must have been the feeling that no one would ever grasp our connection. I'm not sure we ever did. Still, after listening to Nina's desperate plea, I felt a responsibility to let go of my bond with Jackson. So I did. While Nina’s tearful outpouring brought her farther from the truth, she was correct about one thing: I loved Jackson. He was my friend.

For the rest of the trip, Brock fastened himself to the rest of the group like a loose button or a hanging thread, neither secured nor wholly detached. His way of saying a final goodbye to friends from his youth. Though during those days of forced alone time, I asked myself what kept me in these relationships for so long? But alas, there was no good reason. And though Brock begged my forgiveness before leaving Paris, his sorrowful plea did nothing to mitigate the work ahead of us. Still, deep inside my love for Brock is the awareness he stands with me even when he lacks the confidence to do so. In the end, I boarded a plane back to New York with hundreds of strangers and eight people I used to know.

Back home, my wounds would eventually heal, and Brock and I would gradually attend to our issues. Still, I credit Amsterdam, a city known for staving off floods and recovering from a Nazi invasion, for the thicker skin I've acquired, one that protects me like a personal gargoyle and gives new meaning to icing on top.