Strolling along, shedding clothing piece by piece until we got to the sign indicating that from here and to the south the beach was "clothing optional," we were feeling very European. Ten minutes along, we came upon three decorous lads stretched out in the sun. A smile and a nod from me elicited a greeting from the guys. Hey, why did they greet us in English? Could it be that Bob and I were showing all that we had going? Yep, we're both circumcised. And Bob had his dark hair in what he called his Jewfro, while my copper locks were more like:
At any rate, they were friendly and we stretched out next to them. Turns out two of them were a couple, Jacob (say Yakop) and Cees (say Case). After we'd chatted for awhile, one of them mentioned (apropos of my telling them that I didn't know if I could stay in The Netherlands much longer because of limited funds) that he thought there was a publisher in Amsterdam looking for copy editors with strong English skills. That tip turned into my ticket to stay on, working for Excerpta Medica with a work permit!
Jacob and Cees became good friends of ours. They remained being our friends when they broke up and Jacob started living with Peter.
Jacob was an amazing fellow. Tall and beautifully proportioned, long blond hair and sometimes sporting a lovely mustache, Jacob had hitchhiked around the world, working for rich folks on their yachts, getting all manner of temporary jobs in various ports of call. He lived every day as if it were his last. We did lots of far out theatrical projects together. Some time in the late 70's when he was attending Film School, he used me for a major project that entailed my starting at one end of a large, U-shaped platform as Agatha and then (with no cuts in the film) transforming myself into a rugged policeman (the sexy kind with boots and jodhpurs) by the time I'd traversed the platform. His Leo-ness directing my Gemini-ness.
One day Jacob invited me over to his place. I was interviewing numerous fascinating people for a theatrical project I was embarking on. It was 1980, ten years after we'd met. He asked to be included and I gladly did so. The topic he chose was mortality. His idea was that one should live fully and try everything, and when that was accomplished (could that ever be accomplished?), to move on. The imagery he fervently wanted to share on that March afternoon was of a Zen garden at dawn. Carefully raked little stones with larger stepping stones leading to a temple with a golden roof. Life was, he said, the passage from stone to stone, drawing ever nearer to the simple white temple with the gold roof. One would know when it was time to step into the temple. And then one would die and in dying become one with the roof and be transformed to the golden light streaming up to the heavens. In speaking this vision into my tape recorder, Jacob was preparing us all for what would happen next.
Just ten days later, on April first, Peter called me with urgency in his voice. Jacob had disappeared. Did I have any idea where he was? I didn't, but I knew I needed to jump on my bike and head over to their flat. Peter was very much in tune with his partner. But as we were wracking our brains over where he might have gone, Peter made a grim discovery. It seems that Jacob had gone into Peter's substantial supply of cocaine (as Peter, alas, was dealing in that those days) and taken it with him.
Upon seeing this, Peter came to a decision. We needed to head out to the beach, to Zandvoort. As he drove us westward at a frightening clip, I told him about my interview with Jacob. I remember that I was doing my best to convey not only the story as Jacob had relayed it to me, but also the serenity that he was maintaining throughout. There are times when the divide between what one is intuiting and what one can wrap one's mind around is vast.
At the beach we started walking south. We called his name. We ran up to the dunes and back. On and on we went. It was getting dark. On we went, calling and calling, our dread ever increasing. Finally on that moonless night, we had to head back, purposely not following our tracks in the sand in order cover more ground. We got back to Peter's car. I had no more voice. Silently we drove back to Amsterdam, this time well under the speed limit.
The next two weeks were surreal. Jacob's closest friends, his brother, and his mother joined us at their flat as we alternately waited for Jacob's return and went out searching. I think that in spite of my sincere efforts to remain positive, I was emanating the grim truth, for each time I walked in the door to their bright, sunny apartment, those waiting would take one look at me and burst into tears.
We consulted a psychic. She was receiving fuzzy images. Peter picked up the idea that we should search the dunes again. And so five of us piled in Peter's car and returned to Zandvoort. As we combed the dunes, we were silent. No more calling out. We walked and searched for hours that day. A few times we came upon couples getting it on in the relative privacy of the little hills and valleys the sand dunes offered up. Nothing fazed us.
As the light was beginning to wane, Isaac, then my partner and also very close to Jacob, gave out a cry. We all converged rapidly. And there lay beautiful Jacob, but beautiful no more. His face was in a horrid rigor mortis. At his side was an empty liter bottle of cola and an empty package where all that cocaine had been. He had made a decision, researched his options, and carried out this dreadful deed.
We flagged down a passing cyclist and got him to head back to notify the authorities. Before long, Jacob's family arranged a beautiful funeral. Emotions were all over the map. All the while I was trying hard to honor Jacob's vision. I knew this was not an act of desperation nor of depression or despair. Jacob had made a decision and departed. What this proud, handsome lion of a man, I fear, did not fully consider was what his choice would do to all the many who loved him dearly.
I know that this trauma changed my life. Jacob had given me an existential challenge to understand and to somehow accept that was nearly incomprehensible and felt very unacceptable. I wrestled with this for many seasons, all through the onset of the AIDS crisis and through many more untimely deaths.
And what does death teach us? What does a carefully planned and executed suicide give to those left behind? This post must end with questions, not answers. I still love Jacob very much. I'm still angry and confused. Yet more than the ebb and flow of all my earthly emotions, I am left with that golden roof. It is left to each of us how to picture our end and what may lie beyond ... or not.