It
was raining again in Oostende, a bone-chilling
drizzle that blew in from the North Sea. Pulling up my coat collar,
I slipped and nearly fell on a wet cobblestone street enroute to the
bistro. The outside of the tiny building was painted like a mural in
gay colors with a large eye across the gable roof. It looked out of
place in this cold gray city known for its busy shipping port.
I went inside and
shook the rainwater off my coat as I looked around the room. There were
only a handful of customers in the place and I immediately spotted Delphine
sitting alone at a table. She was a young British woman I had been corresponding
with via email for a few months. She always ended her her emails with
"Love, Delphine," which intrigued me. It was a customary farewell
to a person who was emotionally close, but I was nearly a stranger to
Delphine -- just another chat junkie on the World Wide Web.
Delphine
was exactly like the photo she emailed to me. Winsome was the descriptive
word that came to mind. She was thin with long dark hair, dark eyes
and a pretty face with pouty lips. She looked more French than Anglo.
She glanced nervously in my direction when I approached her table.
"We finally meet,"
I smiled.
She gave
me a limp handshake and I took a seat.
"You
look older than I imagined," she said.
"I
get that a lot. Do they have a decent house wine here?"
"It's
drinkable."
The
waiter brought a carafe of white wine and two glasses. I filled our
glasses and took a sip of mine, nodding my approval.
"I
like the mural on the outside of the building."
"Please
don't say it looks picturesque. I might throw up."
I
laughed. "Well, I wouldn't want you to lose your breakfast, but
it certainly stands out."
"Where
are you staying?"
"The
Glenmore Hotel."
"You
must be loaded."
"It's
not that fancy."
"I
suppose your wife is at the Glenmore thinking you've gone shopping or
something."
"I
told you I'm divorced."
"All
married men say they're divorced."
"But
I am divorced. Really."
"I
suppose anything is possible. So you're a fiction writer, huh?"
"Two novels and
a short story collection published in the past five years."
"Hmm. That's very
impressive."
"Not
as much as you might think. My last book didn't sell worth a damn."
"What have you
been doing in Belgium?"
I
grinned at her. "Did you actually read any of my emails?"
"Of course, but
I forget things easily. You'll have to be patient with me."
"I visited the
Ardennes."
"Where's
that?"
"In
southern Belgium. How long have you lived in this country?"
"Five years. You're
staring at me."
"I
can't get over how French you look for a British girl."
"My
father was born in Lille, France. What's in the Ardennes?"
"You didn't read
my emails."
"Don't
get angry. Pretend we never corresponded."
"I
went to Bastogne."
"Never
heard of it."
"It's
the scene of a pivotal engagement in the Battle of the Bulge."
A blank stare from Delphine.
"You know, World
War II when Nazi Germany tried to conquer England?"
"I
wasn't born yet."
"Nevertheless,
it still happened. You can take my word for it."
"Now
I remember. You told me your father was in the Army."
"He
was one of the soldiers called the battling bastards of Bastogne."
"Your father was
a bastard?"
"Not
literally, it was just a nickname. Never mind."
"Were
you in the Army?"
"In
Vietnam."
"I
suppose you were wounded in battle."
"No,
but I didn't return with all my f-a-c-u-l-t-i-e-s intact."
She made a harump sound.
"You didn't have to spell out the word."
"It's
a line from my favorite short story about war. Salinger wrote it."
"I assume he's
an American author."
"You've
never read J. D. Salinger?"
"I'm
not terribly fond of American writers."
"When
I get home, I'll email you an address where you can read some of his
writing online. He's very good."
"You
went crazy after the Vietnam war?"
"Not
really. I was just depressed."
"I
was in a Flemish nuthouse once after I slit my wrists."
I
grimaced. "That's sounds a little too radical."
"Not
radical enough. I'm still here. I've decided to let someone else slaughter
me. Among the weird people I hang out with, he won't be difficult to
find. It will be a sort of roundabout suicide."
"That's
a mouthful of horseshit."
She
smiled feebly. "Charming image."
"All
you have is your life."
"It's
not much."
"If
you throw it away, you're a damn fool."
"You're
so confident you confuse me."
"I
wasn't confident at your age. Nobody is. It comes with experience and
maturity."
"I've
had plenty of experience, but I'm fucked up beyond repair."
"Where are you
originally from in England?"
"I
was born in Leyton, a Godforsaken ghetto in East London. I lived there
with my grandparents and they were malicious. I loitered a lot, stuff
happened and I was placed in a home near Leicestershire. More shit happened
there, kinky staff and all that."
"I
love the way you gloss over important facts by saying shit happened."
"You know what
I mean."
"I
can guess."
"My
father showed up eventually and took me to the French city where he
was born, Lille, a very friendly place with big avenues and so forth.
I lived with him for two years. It was a good time and I miss the incestuous
swine. Then my mother showed up and took me back to London. Her boyfriend
was sleazy and I ran away when I was thirteen. I met a Flemish ex-boxer
named Patrick at a festival and he took care of me for a while. But
he was alcoholic and short tempered and that's why I slit my wrists."
"Because shit happened."
"Don't be sarcastic.
It's not fun to get beat up."
"I
know it isn't."
"The
nuthouse had a kinky night nurse and I met Christopher there. We had
a great time with all the gregarious nutters and I made a lot of friends.
It was the best time of my life."
"Don't
you think that's rather sad?"
"What?"
"Having the best
time of your life in a nuthouse."
Delphine
smiled with a faraway look. "You have no idea."
"Where's
your mother now?"
"I
don't know. She may be alive somewhere, probably out of her head on
crack and being fucked up the arse by some dodgy Romanian porn director.
My father is very much dead, bless the incestuous swine. But I do miss
him sometimes."
"You've
said that twice now. If your father molested you, why do you miss him?"
"He used to lick
my minge with his French tongue and make me tingle all over."
"You like to shock
people, don't you?"
Delphine
smiled coyly. "Are you shocked by the way I talk?"
"No,
I just wonder why you feel it's necessary."
She
kept smiling. "Did I tell you I returned to hooking a month ago?
My clients are okay, they're into pretty straight stuff and they're
loaded. I just hate it when they talk too much."
"You
quit your milk bottle job?"
"It
didn't pay enough money to keep a dog alive. I don't mean to brag, but
I'm quite amazing in sex. I give ferocious blowjobs and I come very
easily. When I fuck, I go on for at least four hours. I love it up the
arse, I like it with girls, I like it tied and
gagged and spanked.
There's no one in my life that I haven't had sex with. The only ones
I don't like are Flemish fishmongers who pay for it. They want blowjobs,
but they also want a listening ear and affection and I can't always
give it. I'm a whore, not a saint."
"What
do you and your boyfriend do for entertainment?" A naughty look
from Delphine. "Aside from that."
"In
the summer we go to the beach and the rest of the year we have the forest
and the dunes. We cycle to the Netherlands, we listen to dodgy britpop
songs, we play card games, we get pissed."
"You
must never get bored."
"I
crave boredom and wish I was a hermit. My life is very wild and overwhelms
me if I let it. Sometimes Christopher and I hardly see each other at
all, like yesterday and today. He hasn't come home, but I stopped worrying
about him a long time ago. He's very tough."
"Does
he have a job?"
"He's
a rentboy now. He doesn't like the hooking since he has to fuck really
repulsive middle-aged clerics."
"That's
some life you describe."
"You
mean not respectable. Haven't you learned yet there's no such thing
as a respectable life? There's just life."
"I
guess I missed that lesson."
"You're
making fun of me, but I know what I'm doing. Everyone wants to fuck
me. It's not that I'm the most beautiful girl in the world, not even
the most beautiful girl in this wretched coastal town -- just the randiest
and wildest, the one who looks underage and helpless. Men love underage
minge."
"How
old are you? Tell me the truth."
"Twenty-three,
as I said."
"And
your real name is Delphine?"
She
rolled her eyes. "Of course not. Practically all the people I know
use aliases."
"Are
you running from the law?"
"Not
yet."
"I
still don't think it sounds like much of a life."
"Let
me tell you what I did a few weekends ago. My neighbor is this smug
old fart who's always bragging about his colonial past in the Congo,
but he's like the Flemish Hugh Hefner and he held this big party at
his house with tons of bourbon and cocaine. He invited every vixen he
knew and I was one of them."
I
interrupted her by chuckling.
"What's
so funny?"
"The
word vixen always makes me laugh for some reason. It refers to --"
"I know it means
a female fox. I'm not stupid, you know."
"Sorry.
Please continue with your story."
"The
party was great and I had sex with a gorgeous Flemish girl. She smelled
really nice and she had small tits. I love girls, even though I love
men more and I couldn't live without cock. But once in a while I have
to fondle someone else's tits to feel good."
"I
get it. You're bisexual."
"That's
just a word. I'm a crazy lover."
"I
stand corrected."
"I
realize I'm quite skinny, but I have really nice tits and I've been
in a few porn flicks. I guess I shouldn't be proud of that, but I am."
"I think you're
a very pretty girl, Delphine."
She
lowered her head and looked away. "I wish you hadn't said that."
"It's my honest
opinion."
"I
don't want to be pretty. It's what men say about a girl when they're
not interested in fucking her. I want to be sexy."
"You
are sexy."
"This
is the first time in five years I haven't been aching to fuck."
"It's not a tragedy.
You just need a rest."
She
looked up at me with pleading eyes. "Take me to your hotel room."
"You don't really
want to go there."
"Yes,
I do."
"To
see if I'm hiding a wife?"
"Are
you?"
"No."
"Prove it to me."
"You should learn
to trust people more."
"I
think I'm in love with you."
"That's
ridiculous. You don't even know me very well."
"Don't
you want to fuck me?"
"You're
way too young for me. I'd feel like a dirty old man."
She
looked confused."You knew how young I was before you came to Belgium."
"Yes, I did."
"You want me to
believe you traveled all the way from Hawaii just to talk to me?"
"And to visit Bastogne.
But your emails made me very curious about you."
"I
don't understand."
"You're
a very good writer. I was impressed by the short story you sent me."
Her eyes glistened with
tears. She pushed my hand away when I reached out to touch her cheek.
"Don't," she
muttered.
"No
need to cry about it."
"I'm
not crying."
I
filled her glass. "Drink some wine. It'll make you feel better."
"I feel fine."
"You seemed like
a fascinating girl and I wanted to meet you. What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing,"
she said, draining her glass.
"You
want something to eat?"
"I
don't eat lunch. I'm on a diet."
"Getting
in shape for another porn flick?"
She
glared at me with dagger eyes and poured herself more wine.
"Okay,
bad joke. You want to go for a walk? You could show me the city."
"Oostende is a
dreary shithole and I'm no tour guide."
"I'd
be willing to pay for your time."
"To
talk?"
"Talk
and spend the day together."
"I'm
not that desperate for money."
"Why
are you so angry with me?"
"You
make me feel small and stupid."
"I
like you, Delphine. I thought we were friends."
She
folded her arms. "Yeah, pen pals."
"Isn't
that a kind of friendship?"
"Not
in my experience."
I
sighed. "I can see I've put you in a bad mood. Why don't we meet
here again tomorrow afternoon at one and start from scratch? I promise
I won't say anything to upset you."
She
shook her head. "Are you for real?"
"As
far as I know. Would you like to see my driver's license?"
She frowned. "Yes,
I would."
I
took the license out of my wallet and she examined it.
"You
actually do live in Honolulu."
"Did
you think I lied to you?"
"I
don't know what I thought."
"Is
it a date for tomorrow?"
She
paused to make up her mind. "If you insist."
Four
days in a row I went to the bistro at one in the afternoon and waited
for a
couple hours, but Delphine failed to show up. I was more
disappointed than surprised. On my last day in Oostende I plugged my
laptop into the hotel room terminal to check my email. There was no
message from Delphine.
In
fact, I never heard from Delphine again. After I returned to Hawaii,
I sent a long message to her email address with the online address where
she could read some of Salinger's work. It came back immediately with
a notice that the recipient was no longer available at that email address.
I would write her a snail mail letter, but she never gave me her street
address in Oostende. Even if she had, I didn't know her real name and
I imagined that she moved often without leaving a forwarding address.
Sometimes I think of
Delphine and wonder
what happened to her. In my mind she has become
an archetype of women who compulsively surrender to sex as an implacable
fate rather than a matter of choice, like the Hindu caste of women who
served as concubines in ancient India. I was touched by a certain quality
of fragile vulnerability and injured innocence I sensed behind all her
brash talk of ferocious blowjobs and taking it up the arse. In her lovely
dark eyes I saw the incongruous image of death laughing at an
English waif. She was lost in a jaded underworld ruled by Flemish fishmongers
and fake Hugh Hefners, drugs and gorgeous bisexual women, aching to
fuck her way out of the nightmare in which she was sinking as if into
quicksand.
