“If we’re out in a café with customers, don’t think you’re buttering them up by ordering the local Amstel. To them it’s pedestrian, like Budweiser is to us; the same with Heineken. They revere imports. I’ll make a list of Belgian and German beers to ask for. Pretend to act disappointed if the place doesn’t have it.”
After that tip and several others, Ron and Greg text messaged me later that night to reluctantly agree that she might be worth the extra bucks.
On the KLM flight from Logan, I was selected to sit next to her with Ron and Greg directly behind us. She rocked our stereotypical male world by not having twelve suitcases; indeed, everything she needed was in her carry-on and a tote bag. Her CD collection leaned heavily towards the classical. I saw something by Verdi, a Requiem of sorts. The rest of us had DVDs and games on our laptops.
When she went to sleep I had a chance to observe. The more you studied her face, the more attractive it became. When you looked closely, her features were almost classical. She had a quick wit, knew what looked good on her and what makeup would enhance her eyes and mouth. She was like a book with a dumb title and dull cover but, once you picked it up and read the first chapter, you were happily surprised. Yet lurking below the surface, like a giant iceberg, wedged into an Economy class seat was that enormous butt.
Gretchen took charge when we landed. We’d take a public train; it was quicker, direct and, if we played our cards right, we might not have to pay. When the conductor came through, we’d just move to another car. The ride was so short they never got around to punching all the tickets. At the hotel things went okay in English, but then her Dutch took over, and she managed to get the three of us a room large enough to have a cot for me while she took a small single on the top floor. It was seventy-five Euros less her way. That first night we hopped on a streetcar, again without paying, which took us to a distant restaurant specializing in Rijsttafel. We had the best tasting, inexpensive meal of our lives, bar none. At evening’s end Ron and Greg toasted Gretchen and made her an honorary DRG company member, a tee shirt emblazoned with our logo commemorating the event.
Ziekenhuis Vandaag is a large medical equipment company headquartered in Rotterdam. Our Megaprobe testing apparatus could work wonders for their quality control. The debate over renting a car versus getting a van and driver began at breakfast. A car was the best option, but no one wanted to risk driving. Gretchen had no problem navigating the way to Rotterdam but refused to get behind the wheel. The horns of the dilemma were broken when she suggested taking a train (unfortunately we’d have to buy tickets) and then a taxi to Ziekenhuis headquarters. We arrived in plenty of time for the ten o’clock meeting. Ron ran the PowerPoint presentation. Greg handed out brochures, and I did the talking. They asked questions, and we handled them as cleanly as the best of major league infielders. After two hours, the three men on the board conferred among themselves in Dutch and then announced that they had some minor details to go over but suggested we’d take a short break for lunch.
Down in the company cafeteria and out of viewing distance, there were high fives all around. Ron, Greg and I felt it went very well. Gretchen was more reserved. As lunch finished up, Ron and Greg went off to the men’s room while Gretchen and I dabbed at our ham and cheese plates, standard Dutch lunch fare. To make conversation I asked, “So what did they say in their native tongue before we went to break? Any inside info on whether we got the deal?”
“It was sort of man talk.”
“Soccer stuff? Where to get a quick beer?”
“If you really want to know, they were speculating as to my role in the company and which of you I might be fucking. Mr. DeVere had the opinion that, with my groot ass, I could easily accommodate all of you.”
“Oh God, Gretchen. I didn’t realize. Why didn’t you say something?”
“What am I going to do, jump up, scream bloody murder at the sexist remark and queer the contract of a lifetime? I’d have to swim home. Plus, it’s not like I’ve never looked in the mirror in thirty-one years. I’ve heard all the remarks, some far more creative, since middle school. Even while we were going through security in Terminal ‘E,’ you and Ron were behind me making with the wisecracks.”
I didn’t remember that happening, but it wasn’t past Ron, king of the quipsters, to do something like that. I could see she was hurt, simply moving food around her plate to avoid eye contact. “Okay, here’s what we can do. Write out some sentences like ‘Where do we go next?’ or ‘What’s our itinerary this afternoon?’ Teach me how to pronounce them. When we go back in, I’ll ask you in Dutch and you ad lib a long answer.”
There were tears in her eyes. “It will only embarrass them and possibly kill the deal.”
“Yeah, it might, but it’s worth it to see the look on those faces, especially the horseshoe-shaped hair guy who has to smoke every twenty minutes.”
We reconvened at 13:30. A few points were ironed out. Greg presented our standard contract. We shook hands as a show of good faith. They still had to run some numbers, but we had a superior product at a more than reasonable price. I turned to Gretchen and spoke my pre-arranged Dutch piece without resorting to the cue card. She held up her clipboard officiously and rattled off a bunch of stuff in Dutch, replete with facial expressions and hand gestures to emphasize her points. All the while I kept my eyes on the directors behind their solid oak table. Dropped jaws and reddened faces were worth the price of admission.
When we got back to the Rotterdam train station, Ron said, “What was all that Dutch lingo at the end?”
“I wanted to send a message.”
“Which was?”
“We’ll know in a few days.”
We got back to the Hotel Estherea on the Singel a little after four. We ordered drinks from the bar and sat outside watching the canal dinner boat traffic meander past. Gretchen and I were subdued. The pros and cons of the meeting were gone over, what we could do better to make the next presentation go more smoothly. Greg’s cell beeped and we immediately fell silent. I expected the worst. He spoke for a minute then handed the phone to Gretchen.
“They want to talk to you.”
The rest of the conversation was in Dutch, a more guttural and spittle- inducing language than its German cousin. We watched Gretchen’s face for a clue to our fate, but, irritated, she waved us off, grabbed a pen and yellow pad and moved well away. Five minutes later she was back and plopped herself down.
“Which do you want first — the good news or the better news?”
After that we were all ears. Ziekenhuis had doubled their order and recommended us to Phillips Semiconductor who would be faxing a proposal for several units. Happiness hell broke out. There was a movement to chuck Greg into the canal the way winning rowers do with the coxswain. Ron balanced precariously on the railing and toasted us one and all, ending with a four musketeers reference, something not lost on Gretchen and me. We went into the hotel and had dinner. We tried to think of something celebratory we could do as a unit, but each trial balloon had a flaw in it from someone’s perspective. Ron and Greg were pushing for the Red Light District. I was curious myself and Gretchen, with a wave of her hand, gave it a “boys will be boys” dismissal; she’d be fine browsing the quaint shops in the area. I excused myself, went to the front desk and spoke to the concierge. When I got back Gretchen was alone at the table.
“Porthos and Aramis went upstairs to polish their swords for the Red Light place. Not that they have a clue what to wear to a whore house. I’m so exhausted. Jet lag has hit. I’m going to up to my garret, shower and turn in.”