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I was new to The Hague, not a great city, by the way, if you’re looking to establish yourself as a premium toilet seat cover salesman there. But you play the cards you’re dealt. Otherwise you’re cheating.

On the very day I found a room to rent on the third floor of a house in a posh quarter of the city, a woman with a dog stopped in front of me, blocking my way down the street to get a brie-and-boysenberry sandwich (not available anymore to due lack of interest in the neighborhood).

The woman, if she were to put her dog on top of her head and stand it on its hind legs, was well over seven feet tall, maybe eight. In The Hague, and in the Netherlands, and in Europe, too, they favor the metric system, not only to be obstinate, but to be ornery, too. To translate it for you in meters, the woman stood over two meters, probably two-and-a-half meters, but again, and I must stress this, only if she had placed her dog on top of her head on its hind legs and counted the dog’s height as part of her own.

“I’ve never seen you before here in this street,” she said.

I stared at her.

“Who are you, and where do you come from?” she asked. “And what do you want to do here, and what are your intentions, and when do you leave, and how quickly did you suddenly appear here?”

I, having visited the Dutch country before, and well familiar with the directness of the people here, was still taken aback. It was several minutes that went by before I was able to find the wherewithal to form an appropriate response.

“My first inclination,” I said, tipping my hat, “was to ignore your line of questioning, but since you’ve waited here patiently with your dog, I’ll answer.”

Then I went for it. “That is, I’ll answer if you’ll do me the favour of joining me for lunch down the street. They do a very dry and delicious brie-and-boysenberry sandwich, and it’s my treat. After that, you’ll be so kind as to buy a premium toilet seat cover. At a dear friend’s discount, of course—five percent.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” the woman said, and picked up her dog, tucking it into the crook of her arm. “I have no use for a toilet seat cover. But lunch, yes, please buy me a sandwich, and please make it quick.”

I held out my hand for her to take it, but she looked at me with alarm, and pushed it away. I felt rebuked, but I did my utmost to let it not ruin the lunch we’d soon enjoy.

At the café, the man behind the counter sold me two brie-and-boysenberry sandwiches on thick crackers. He said they were out of bread, though the next person in line ordered five egg salad on brown bread and was given just that.

I tightened my right hand into a fist shape, and just like my therapist in Amersfoort told me to do, counted to one-thousand, backwards, from two-thousand, out loud. When I felt my anger depleted fully, I turned around to find the woman at a table and both of our cracker sandwiches gone.

“Where did my brie-and-boysenberry go?” I asked.

“You took so long standing there staring at the café owner, I felt it only right to punish you,” she said.

“Very well,” I said, and sat down. “As to your questions, I am Jonathan Quackenhut, and I come from the American Midwest, which some call the Middle West. What I want to is simple. I aim to cover all toilets in The Hague with premium seat covers. That is my only intention. That, and to breed with a Dutch woman and thereby have a family.”

“Good luck with that,” said the woman, “as I don’t see that happening in the slightest.”

My face grew hot. I pressed her. “What do you mean by that?”

“Dutch women will not go for you. They’re much too honest and much too choosy to be stuck with someone like you.”

“Perhaps they would if they had no better offers,” I said.

“Hmmm,” she said.

“As for your final two questions,” I continued, “I have no date set for leaving The Hague. It is now my town, and as such, I have claimed it. And it will suffice. Pardon me, but I forgot if that was meant to be my answer to your final question, or perhaps I’m omitting one.”

“Who cares?” she said, not looking at me at all.

I looked at her, and knew that since she was the first woman I’d met and dined with in The Hague, that I’d be a fool not to take a bigger risk and ask to get to know her better.

“Say, I know we may have gotten off on the wrong foot, and I also know that you ate my share of our lunch, but I must ask. What are you doing later this evening? I am a single man, looking to create a name for myself, and looking to create a situation in which the combustion of a family could occur.”

“Dear God!” she said. “Have you any sense? I’m 85. I can’t bear you any children. I not only can’t, I don’t want to, either. And that’s that!” She stood, dropped her dog, and the two were off and away.

I could’ve chased her and made a scene, but instead I complained to the man behind the counter about the lack of civility my companion had shown me, and in his café, no less, and on his watch. I was careful not to mention my loss of innocence regarding the café’s feigning the shortage of bread.

The café owner said, “It is not my fault the person you brought here ate your sandwich.”

Well, to keep things brief, the day did not get much better after this café-and-woman-with-the-dog escapade, so I decided to cut my losses and I returned home to my room at the top of a house in the fashionable quarter of The Hague, and sulked. And after sulking, I sulked again. I drew a hot bath and poured essential oils into it, and undressed and got in and burned my body. I howled. Dumb bath!

My spirits did not look like they would improve much so I got into bed and lay there, smarting.

I’m not one to hold grudges past the date of expiry, which as far as I’m concerned, is set at six months after conceiving of the grudge. I resolved to keep foremost in my mind my ultimate aim: to become the king, undisputed, of sales of toilet seat covers, done in the premium style, in The Hague, and, so doing, to become a sought-after man-about-town, a well-thought-of husband, and dare I dream, a father of nine boys, each more impressive than the last. Also I resolved to give the impression of being a pillar of the community, never a shoulder to cry on, but always someone to beseech, to seek pity from, to plead in front of.

There is little, I expect, I can do to reach my ambitions in the city of The Hague, without knowing the right people, and impressing them, and impressing upon them that I am a force to be reckoned with. So after my bath—which instead of calming me, incensed me further, just remembering, as I worked my loofah across my upper back, the utter embarrassment of asking an 85-year-old woman for a date, hinting to her that she just might give me children in due time—I resolved I’d go out and meet the movers and shakers of the city.

The fact is, I frequently misjudge people’s ages, and always publicly, but I really cannot blame myself: I was born, it seems, without an inner calibrator for making certain measurements such as time and age. Without a wristwatch I was, and am, absolutely sunk. Five minutes could pass and I fear that the whole day has gone. What luck, that sometimes the sun and its position in the sky can provide clues as to what o’clock it is.

I toweled off with my softest bath towel, monogrammed by my last employer for my goodbye package that also contained a sachet of green tea and an unframed picture of myself sitting on the company bus with my arm around Tomasz, the CEO of the company, Coca-Dola. At Coca-Dola, we made soft drinks for about one week, then we were sued for copyright infringement by the Coca-Cola company and everyone was laid off, and everyone committed suicide—or at least they said they did. But last I checked, all my ex-colleagues including Tomasz, were not only still very much alive; they were not buried in the ground, or pulverised into ash by an incinerator.

CHAPTER 2

The next morning, a new family moved in next door, and I decided at some point, during the afternoon as they busied themselves settling in, and finding their way about, to pay them a visit and offer my product, the newest one: a plaid toilet seat cover, with gold or silver monogramming available as a surcharge.

I rang the doorbell and it opened, revealing a woman in her thirties or forties or fifties or sixties, who looked me up and down.

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” she said, the mother, I supposed, as she glanced at me sideways, unsure who I was.

“Who are you?” I said.

“Marijn, and my husband is Martijn, and we have two boys, Klaas-Jan and Jan-Klaas.” As I prepared my response to her, she stood there silently summing up my condition, status, and looks, it seemed, looking me up and down, over and over and over.

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” I said.

“I said that, just a minute ago,” she said.

“Yes, but it’s not yours to say. You’re the new ones here, not me, I’ve lived here for almost a week already.”

“Just a week! Well, then, welcome to the neighborhood.”

“Welcome to the neighborhood, yourself,” I said. “Seeing as you just moved here today.”

“You don’t understand. I’m from here,” she said.

“From The Hague?”

“From The Hague. Martijn and I both grew up here, and moved to Amsterdam to attend university, then we got Klaas-Jan and Jan-Klaas, and sold our house there and moved here, back to The Hague. Our parents live here still.”

“You are brother and sister?” I said.

“No, no, we’re not,” she said. “My husband has parents here, and I do too, plus there’s the beach, it’s a good place for kids, and of course there’s more space and more house for the money.”

“Is that right?” I said. “Well, all I can say to that is, welcome to the neighborhood.”

“You are welcome to the neighborhood,” she said, shifting her weight to her other hip, and looking at me with a frown.

“I know I’m welcome here,” I said. “I’ve lived here for six days. I should know. And if you want my advice on cafés, there’s one just down the street that serves a nice, dry brie-and-boysenberry cracker flatbread thingy that just recently got axed from the menu. Apparently nobody except I liked it. Or not enough people liked it, anyway, to justify it staying on the menu. So you’d better hurry if you’d like to try one, it’s not available anymore.”

“If it’s not available, why would I bother?” she said.

“Try your luck, is all I can say to that,” I said. “It’s often all a matter of luck in this neighborhood, and by the way, welcome to it.”

“Who’s this?” said a man, the husband I supposed, and he poked his head into view, and seeing me, waved a tool he was holding at me. “No thanks, we’re not interested.”

“Oh, I wasn’t trying to sell anything, I’m next door in 53B. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

“He’s lived here only a few days,” the wife said.

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” he said, pointing his drill at me, “and don’t hesitate to ask if you have any questions.”

“My only question is why would you welcome me to the neighborhood, when I was here first?”

“Well, what can I say, but welcome to the neighborhood,” he said, and left.

“As you can tell, we’re happy you’re here, welcome and now if you’ll excuse me, we’ve got our own lives to live, which is hard to do if you’re still here,” she said.

She moved to close the door, but I stepped closer to her.

“I’m having a party,” I said, “tonight, actually, and I’d appreciate it if you, Martijn, and your wild sons would consider coming to it. As it will be a fun time. You see, I’m trying to meet women here in the Hague.”

“What’s that to do with us? And what did you say, wild sons?” she said, frowning again, this time severely.

“For a picture of stability, of well-connectedness. If you’re all there in my living room, dancing, eating—”

“We won’t be dancing, I’m sure of that.”

“Just the same. Your being there would mean the world to me, and it would suggest to every eligible young lady of The Hague that I’m to be trusted, I am chummy with families, and ultimately I’m a respectable, solid, pillar of the community.”

“But you’re not. Are you?” she said.

At that question, I know the battle was lost, so I pulled the door shut, and left the scene. Nothing worse, I said out loud as I walked back to my own door, than neighbors who won’t help in a young bachelor’s quest to marry and take over a city, to consolidate power, to become a paragon of virtue, and a slight danger, all the while insisting that they were welcoming me, when in fact it was clear that I was the one welcoming them to the neighborhood.

CHAPTER 3

I had a good nine hours to kill before any party could take place, so I holed myself up in my apartment to think about logistics, and as I paced I fretted.

To be fair, I had only just thought of the party idea, and knew nobody yet who would attend. The only four people I’d invited would now not consider coming, at all. Had I erred by pulling shut the neighbor’s door in the neighbor’s face? Possibly, but I justified this somewhat rash but understandable action by recasting it as maybe a power play, an assertion of my right to say what’s what.

How dispiriting to be told, constantly, that I was welcome to the very neighborhood where I’d moved in before they had!

Still, I knew I had to get the four of them to the party, and eligible women, too, of a certain age: twenty-four to twenty-seven, a span of years I call the sweet spot. Women in this three-year window are young and vibrant still, yet old enough to know themselves and what, generally, they want out of life. And truth be told, it is important to make them suddenly realize that what they want out of life is nothing else but myself.

What I needed, as well, was a supply of ugly, old men at my party, too, and they should be penniless. These men would throw into high relief my clear and irrefutable candidacy as a suitor and mate for life. There is nothing like a case of comparison, I shouted in my empty dwelling.

In a fit of joy, I donned my coat and tore downstairs, leapt out onto the sidewalk, and ran for a good kilometre in the direction of the city center, where I knew I could find two elements necessary to pull off a proper party: one, a copy shop, and two, throngs of marriageable women who were throwing their money away at high-priced shops, who showed bad judgement in doing so, and who needed reform and a steady, male hand to show them what’s what.

What’s what. The phrase struck me as being electric as I strolled down the Noordeinde, that fashionable lane of boutiques, bookstores, and bars and cafés. I knew I had a hit on my hands. Opening the door of a high-end clothing store, I paused, letting a blue-eyed beauty exit with her purchases stacked high in a white paper bag. Winking, I said, “What’s what.”

She looked at me, as if she didn’t understand me, so I saw my chance, and as she walked past me I said—almost whispering—”Groot Hertoginnelaan 53B, 8 p.m. sharp tonight, be there.”

She had continued walking throughout my small speech and was already halfway down the block so I could not verify that it was, as they say in corporate boardrooms, ‘message received.’ Still, I’d done my due diligence, and I could press on. No harm, no foul, as they say.

A young man standing behind a low counter sized me up, rather unfairly, I thought.