“There’s a bronze sculpture that shows a hand fondling a breast.” Mimi pointed to the top of an ornate spire in the distance. “It’s near the Old Church.”

“A hand fondling a breast?”

“And there’s a statue celebrating sex workers of the world in the same area.”

“Near a church?”

“Sure,” said Mimi. “Sex and religion? A match made in heaven.”

We had to hunt to find the sculpture. It was set in the ground, small and somewhat creepy, as though there was a woman buried under the cobblestones with only one breast showing, while a hand reached out from the grave to fondle the nipple.

“My mother,” said Mimi, “is going to be sorry she missed this.”

The statue was equally problematic. A full-length female figure standing on steps, looking back through an arch.

“She’s supposed to be standing in a doorway.”

“Is that what that is?”

“Belle,” Mimi told me. “Her name is Belle.”

The statue was roughly rendered, as though the artist had finished off the piece with hot metal lumps thrown against the woman and hammered into place. Large breasts, heavy hips. Belle was wearing pants and a tight top of some sort. She had her hair twisted up into a tight bun and was staring off into the distance.

If it weren’t for the guidebook, I might have thought that Belle was standing on a gallows, waiting for a rope.

Instead of a prostitute waiting for a customer.

“Sex worker,” Mimi corrected me. “They prefer the term ‘sex workers.’”

Mimi had me take a picture of her standing in solidarity with Belle, and then Mimi took a picture of me with Belle.

“Try to look happy, Bird.”

“I am happy.”

“There’s supposed to be a place around here where the women talk about the profession. Sort of a lecture. We should go. Might be something you can use for the book.”

“Pass.”

“Have you ever thought about it?”

“The book?”

“No,” said Mimi. “Having sex with a prostitute.”

“Didn’t you want to find Trumpeter Alley?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“The narrowest alley in Amsterdam? Only a metre wide? I’d like to see that.”

Mimi stood next to Belle with her hands on her hips. “So, have you ever been with a sex worker?”

“Mimi . . .”

“Do you know the percentage of men who have been with sex workers?”

“Mimi . . .”

“Let’s go see the brothels.” Mimi tucked the guidebook into her pack and took my hand. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll keep you safe.”

THE WOMEN DON’T RETURN right away, and when a table opens up at the far side of the restaurant, Bryce is quick to grab it.

“Where’s Bryce?” says Mimi.

“Table,” I say. “Over there.”

“I should probably go,” says Kalea.

“He does look lost,” says Mimi.

Kalea smiles. “And I’m hungry.”

“Don’t forget what I said.”