Our Genial Host

I like X immensely. He’s our host in Amsterdam, largely because I misread his advert and thought we were renting his entire flat, and in his jovial, cycling, unfazeable way, he’s about as Dutch as they come.

“You know,” X remarks on our first evening, à propos of nothing in particular. “I think the person I am in love with is autistic.”

“REALLY?!” I say.

“Do you know much about autism?” he asks.

I love a good dysfunctional relationship story as much as the next person, and very probably more, and, further, my brother lives with Aspergers Syndrome, so I’m familiar with the spectrum. “This calls for wine!” I exclaim.

I can’t think of many autistic – or even aspy – people who’d cope well with the social and environmental rigours of Amsterdam’s gay bars.

Established on X’s local canal, with a bottle of rosé, two glasses and endless cyclists and even the odd canal boat drifting past, conversation turns to autism.

“What makes you think he’s autistic?” I ask.

“He’s very cold,” he says. “And when I see him, he’s often with this man, who I think is his carer.”

“His carer?!” I repeat. This throws me a little. “Where do you see him with his carer?”

“In the gay bars,” he says. “He lives not far from here.”

That sounds odd. I can’t think of many autistic – or even aspy – people who’d cope well with the social and environmental rigours of Amsterdam’s gay bars, especially not folk low-functioning enough to require a carer.

I take a meditative sip of pink wine, spark up a cigarette, and ponder. A light smattering of rain speckles the murky surface of the waters.

“They just say, ‘Oh you and your vague stories.’ That word is very Dutch, ‘vague’.”

“Let’s start from the beginning,” I say. “Where did you meet him?”

“In one of the gay bars,” he says. “He was wearing red trousers, and dancing really oddly. And he was kissing all these people.”

“Kissing?” I say. “That doesn’t sound very autistic to me. Most autistic people aren’t even comfortable with eye contact. Do you mean Aspergers, maybe?”

“Maybe,” he says. “But I think he is autistic. Because often he doesn’t seem to see me.”

A thought strikes me. “Have you actually slept with him?”

“No,” says X.

“Oh,” I say. “Have any of your friends met him? What do they think of him?”

“Oh,” he says. “They just say, ‘Oh you and your vague stories.’ That word is very Dutch, ‘vague’.”

“He was very rude to me. He came up to me and denied that there was anything between us.”

“Hmmm…” I say, watching the young teens gossiping by the bench, their whole lives stretching out ahead of them, so blissful, endless and free. “So when did you last see him?”

“In a gay bar,” he says. “During Pride. But he was very rude to me. He came up to me and denied that there was anything between us. He was yelling at me, telling me to go away, telling me to forget it, telling me there had never been anything between us.”

X replays this messy sketch with an obsessional word-for-word recall that somehow finds ambiguity and grounds for hope in this most – to the outsider – unambiguous of encounters.

“Oh dear,” I say, helplessly. “That doesn’t sound good. It doesn’t sound like he’s very good for you.”

“And then,” X explains. “I was outside his flat. He has a lover who comes to him once a week. I think it is a service.”

“No!” says X. “He’s in denial. Absolute denial.”

“I wonder,” I say diplomatically – for, as I say, I like X immensely – “Whether really this is more about you than him. Do you think he’d see himself as in a relationship with you?”

“No!” says X. “He’s in denial. Absolute denial.”

“Did you ever have a relationship like this before?” I ask.

“One time,” he says. “One time. He was my last other love. And,” he adds. “I got him! We went to bed, and then I had him, and then I walked away.”

“So after that,” I say. “You were free. You got him to bed, and then you were free to go.”

“Yes!” X says. “That’s exactly how it was.”

One way or the other, I hope he gets his closure.

Picture credit: Canals, Amsterdam by Lindsay Holmwood.