Brecht.”
“Not far from here.”
“Sick pussy?”
“One hundred and ninety seconds? Very sick pussy!”
“What do we do?”
Voorhout looked at his watch: 21.58. “Fifteen more minutes and then…” He held up his fist and flexed his biceps.
“Action.” Materne finished the sentence.
Albert looked at his watch. I’ll call her at ten for the last time, he decided. And if she doesn’t pick up, I’ll call Jokke. He loosened his tie, got to his feet, selected a couple of leather-bound books on jurisprudence penned by counsellor de Vreux from the bookcase. On the way back to his desk, he grabbed a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label and a crystal whisky glass, filled it halfway and tossed back the best part of its contents. He sat down, took another gulp and looked at his watch again. Five past ten. He punched her number into his mobile and hung up after it rang twenty times. He stared into space, emptied his glass and poured a second. The alcohol invaded his mind at lightning pace. One last time, he thought. No answer. Either she was out or she was refusing to pick up. He closed his eyes, gulped at his whisky and held it in his mouth, as he always did when something was making him nervous.
The day passed through his mind like a film. The journey to Brussels. She smoked one cigarette after the other, and the smoke irritated his lungs. They got stuck in traffic outside Mechelen for forty-five minutes. A truck had spilled its contents onto the road. In the Ecailler, first Pinot Blanc with Colchester oysters. She allowed some half-pissed Englishman to chat her up. He told the guy where to get off, but she openly snarled at him in response. Called him a dreary old fart, in Flemish, fortunately, which the other clients didn’t understand. Followed by a bottle of Tokay. Turbot with mousseline sauce. The most expensive item on the menu. She barely touched it. Chose a dessert and didn’t touch that either. She didn’t say a fucking word the entire time. One cigarette after the other. Second stab of pain in his lower belly. A long and difficult piss in the toilets. So-called “lazy flow”. Back at the table. She looked right through him. Three thirty. “Still want to visit Armani, Louise?” “Mmm…”
On foot to Waterloo Boulevard. A solid hour picking, choosing and chatting with a gay shop assistant. Endless dithering in and out of the fitting rooms. Finally an insanely expensive outfit with earrings and shoes to match. Fortunately no handbag. Bill: a mere 117,950 francs. His monthly salary after tax, give or take. Amex gold card, confirm the amount, nonchalant signature. Back to the multi-storey parking garage on foot. Peak traffic hour. Twenty minutes to clear the Leopold II tunnel at a snail’s pace. Still not a word. Serious pain near the exit for Sint-Job. Insisted on going for a ride. Saddled Yamma and headed off alone. In the bathroom mirror he looked like an eighty-year-old. Straining to pee. Igor sensed he was in pain and sat down beside him with his head on his lap. Troubling attack of self-pity. (I’m too old for her. She’s fed up with me. She doesn’t love me any more. But I’m still head over heels with her. When was the last time we made love? Two weeks ago. It used to be every day with her, but now she doesn’t seem to be interested.)
Albert opened his eyes and gulped at his whisky. He called her number again. No answer: mobile off. For some strange reason he was reminded of The Bold and the Beautiful , the soap he watched without fail every evening. Just as crap as Place Royale , which turned Amandine mushy every Saturday. He fancied a snack. Would Maria already have gone to bed? He didn’t want to bother her. Poor creature. Sixteen thousand francs per month. Pure exploitation. She had told him that she had saved enough money for two dairy cows. The pain returned. He could barely stay seated. He closed his eyes and groaned. He dialled Jokke’s number.
“Hello.”
“Jokke.
“Not far from here.”
“Sick pussy?”
“One hundred and ninety seconds? Very sick pussy!”
“What do we do?”
Voorhout looked at his watch: 21.58. “Fifteen more minutes and then…” He held up his fist and flexed his biceps.
“Action.” Materne finished the sentence.
Albert looked at his watch. I’ll call her at ten for the last time, he decided. And if she doesn’t pick up, I’ll call Jokke. He loosened his tie, got to his feet, selected a couple of leather-bound books on jurisprudence penned by counsellor de Vreux from the bookcase. On the way back to his desk, he grabbed a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label and a crystal whisky glass, filled it halfway and tossed back the best part of its contents. He sat down, took another gulp and looked at his watch again. Five past ten. He punched her number into his mobile and hung up after it rang twenty times. He stared into space, emptied his glass and poured a second. The alcohol invaded his mind at lightning pace. One last time, he thought. No answer. Either she was out or she was refusing to pick up. He closed his eyes, gulped at his whisky and held it in his mouth, as he always did when something was making him nervous.
The day passed through his mind like a film. The journey to Brussels. She smoked one cigarette after the other, and the smoke irritated his lungs. They got stuck in traffic outside Mechelen for forty-five minutes. A truck had spilled its contents onto the road. In the Ecailler, first Pinot Blanc with Colchester oysters. She allowed some half-pissed Englishman to chat her up. He told the guy where to get off, but she openly snarled at him in response. Called him a dreary old fart, in Flemish, fortunately, which the other clients didn’t understand. Followed by a bottle of Tokay. Turbot with mousseline sauce. The most expensive item on the menu. She barely touched it. Chose a dessert and didn’t touch that either. She didn’t say a fucking word the entire time. One cigarette after the other. Second stab of pain in his lower belly. A long and difficult piss in the toilets. So-called “lazy flow”. Back at the table. She looked right through him. Three thirty. “Still want to visit Armani, Louise?” “Mmm…”
On foot to Waterloo Boulevard. A solid hour picking, choosing and chatting with a gay shop assistant. Endless dithering in and out of the fitting rooms. Finally an insanely expensive outfit with earrings and shoes to match. Fortunately no handbag. Bill: a mere 117,950 francs. His monthly salary after tax, give or take. Amex gold card, confirm the amount, nonchalant signature. Back to the multi-storey parking garage on foot. Peak traffic hour. Twenty minutes to clear the Leopold II tunnel at a snail’s pace. Still not a word. Serious pain near the exit for Sint-Job. Insisted on going for a ride. Saddled Yamma and headed off alone. In the bathroom mirror he looked like an eighty-year-old. Straining to pee. Igor sensed he was in pain and sat down beside him with his head on his lap. Troubling attack of self-pity. (I’m too old for her. She’s fed up with me. She doesn’t love me any more. But I’m still head over heels with her. When was the last time we made love? Two weeks ago. It used to be every day with her, but now she doesn’t seem to be interested.)
Albert opened his eyes and gulped at his whisky. He called her number again. No answer: mobile off. For some strange reason he was reminded of The Bold and the Beautiful , the soap he watched without fail every evening. Just as crap as Place Royale , which turned Amandine mushy every Saturday. He fancied a snack. Would Maria already have gone to bed? He didn’t want to bother her. Poor creature. Sixteen thousand francs per month. Pure exploitation. She had told him that she had saved enough money for two dairy cows. The pain returned. He could barely stay seated. He closed his eyes and groaned. He dialled Jokke’s number.
“Hello.”
“Jokke.
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