Lobster or The Meaning of Life

She knew only one way to fence off male attention, a daunting method indeed, and she was not a fan of bringing it into practice. But over the past forty-five years, Donna McLaren had not lost her feminine charm, and members of the other sex still persisted in courting her.

Like most other women, Donna was unaware of the secret of her magnetic power. Like many of her peers had pointed out, she wasn’t particularly beautiful. Her chin was too plump for her thin neck, and her blonde hair was fizzy on the top. Her chest was relatively flat and her arms were remarkably long. But her admirers didn’t notice any of this, because there is something irresistibly ladylike about having something more important on your mind than men.

All Donna wanted was some time to write down her musings on the meaning of life. Not because she thought she had an answer or even a precise question – she knew better than anyone that she was nowhere near catching a glimpse of what she was looking for. But she felt that, while writing, her thoughts became more concentrated, and her writings were like a map back to where she had left off when she had to attend another date.
Because declining offers politely, Donna had found, was a time consuming business. More often than not, she reluctantly agreed to listen to their small talk and compliments over free dinner in a restaurant where she’d been with over seventy different men before. When she was younger, older gentlemen used to take her here, and they felt like they were showing her something new in the world. Soon, her own generation started fancying French cuisine. By now, she was asked out by boys who could have been her own son, if she wouldn’t have rejected her first dates.

The waiting staff made a show of informing her on the specialties of the house and which wines to chose, though they knew she’d invariably choose for lobster. Not because she liked it – it was an acquired taste – but because she was allowed to eat it with her hands. Throughout the meal, Donna would take off veil after veil of elegance, wiping her hands on the table cloth and drinking the expensive wine as if it were ale in a pub, Pepsi from a bottle, water from a through.

Most men wouldn’t even buy her dessert after this performance, but they usually tipped the waiter generously so that he wouldn’t spread the gossip. They’d pay for her taxi, but walk home themselves. Donna didn’t mind all this. She just wondered why they’d bothered in the first place. It was the same old question that kept popping up and pestering her, as soon as her writings seemed to get her anywhere.

The Original Trap

"Whereabouts are you from?” he asks.

It's Saturday night and we're in Slim Jim's Liquor Store, a bar near Angel Tube, London. He's blond, fashionable and handsome, but makes a slightly desperate impression. That is, desperate to get laid, not to get married. In Dutch we'd call him a 'skirt hunter'. Apparently his ammunition is cheap: he takes aim at every skirt that flutters in his direction. At first, he started talking to my friend, but when her boyfriend marked his territory by wrapping his arm around her shoulders, it was my turn.

“What do you think?” I play his game along. I'm not gonna let him score, but I am gonna let him hit on me. What else do people go to a bar for?

“I can tell you're not from England. I'd say you're Eastern European, Polish perhaps. I'm not sure.”

So that's what all my efforts to conceal my origin have done for me: I seem even further off. Knowingly, I darted within the range of his rifle, but did not expect to step into a trap.

“I'm Dutch.” I jerk my leg which is caught in the hunting trap, but the metal tears my tights and punctures my skin. I'm stuck.

“I love the Netherlands!” Of course he does. I bet he's gonna mention Amsterdam now. Cheap ammunition. “I've been to Amsterdam numerous times! A great city! I used to have a girlfriend that lived there.”

I can't believe he just said that. Now that the trap has pinned me down to the earth, he doesn't even wish to waste his bullets on me, and starts firing crap at me! And me, I have to listen to it because I'm bloody stuck.

Even though he's a complete ninkumpoop, I wish I were him. Born British.

Even though he chooses to stay in this conversation, he's the hunter, he's free to go when it doesn't please him any more. He's here naturally, and therefore freely. He belongs here. I, on the other hand, made the choice to be here. I'm an immigrant and I can be held responsible for my presence. But the trap question, the one I can't answer, is: what am I doing here, in this place where I don't belong?Blood is running down my ankle and is soaking my shoe.

“So you used to go to Amsterdam a lot, then?” I ask.

Skirt Hunter nods. “And people always started to speak Dutch to me in bars.”

“I know what you mean.” I grin. “Up here, they always start talking English to me too.”

For the first time, he directs his eyes away from my skirt, and looks at my face. Did he really think I would eat out of his hand because the metal mouth of my background has caught my ankle and tied me to the roots of the tree called Holland? Did he not expect the captured kitten to sneer?

“I took it as a compliment, though,” he says.

“And why is that?”

“Because I think Dutch people are very attractive. And if they think I'm one of them, that means they think I share their beauty.”

He hasn't had time to lower his gaze yet, and I use this extraordinary opportunity to say nothing but give him an intensely surprised look.

“They are!” Skirt Hunter exclaims. He feels he has to make a point now, I can tell. “It's like, everyone knows the Italians are sexy, they are openly showing off. Everyone knows the French are beautiful in a catwalk way, and they are showing off with that. And everyone knows the Scandinavians are hot and blond, even if you've never been there. But the Dutch, they are not that stereotypical, not everyone knows about it and they aren't bragging about it either. You have to look at them and then you see it. And it's, like, stunning. It's an inner beauty, but radiating, do you know what I mean?”

I think he means he's talking shit out of the back of his neck and he knows it. He thought I was Polish because of my poor pronunciation, and he's trying to get into my knickers by telling me everyone from my country is easy and I should be too. I smile and say nothing.

“It's not easy to pin down why the Dutch are so attractive, and that makes them only sexier. And they are so casual about it, too. Not proud or arrogant or anything. But they all have this specific thing about them, which is just, intense, you know. Beauty. I take it as a compliment when they think I'm one of them.”

I can't bare listening to this any longer. I wasn't gonna let him succeed in his attempt to seduce me, but that doesn't make it any less humiliating that he's throwing shit at me! He's working hard to save his face by blabbing on about the inner beauty of the Dutch, but who is he trying to fool? He knows I'm not buying it, his eyes are desperately looking for a next victim, but his voice is imprisoned by my silence.

“Actually,” I say, and pause. “I think I agree with you. The Dutch are incredibly sexy. In fact, almost everyone I've slept with is Dutch.”

Liberating laughter follows. Tonight I'm a free foreigner. Tomorrow I'll have to face my demons again.

Word Diarrhoea

Still not fully recovered from my writer's dip, I spent Thursday in the mall, trying to get rid of money. Who would believe me if I said that even with all the closing-down-discounts I did not spend a fiver on beautiful new shoes, nor a quid on a new top. All I bought was 15 eggs and crumpets. And I don't even like crumpets.

That afternoon Freddie wanted to take me cycling. That cheered me up, 'cause in all honesty I think my low spirits might have something to do with a huge lack of physical exercise. But after three minutes his bike broke down. Instead, I took him to The Crown and Sceptre, the pub opposite his house, where we had two pints. Now that was a laugh, I think Thursday night was the first time ever that I genuinely won two out of two games of pool.

But overnight I slipped back into the writer's dip, realizing that I had not even tried to write, while there was a massive assignment waiting for me. Don't get me wrong, I don't have a writer's block. I have no trouble whatsoever producing masses of text. The problem is that all I write is crap. I'd rather call it word-diarrhoea. (And in case anyone thinks that's a well-found metaphor, I stole it from Ronald Giphart.)

So I went for a walk, got ripped off by Nomi, ate free fair trade chocolate and watched The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya. When I was almost forcing myself to write, I heard Freddie whistle down my window. It was a lovely day, and it would be a shame to let it go to waste. Would I like to go for a walk with him? Of course I would! I'd just wasted hours on feeling miserable and watching hentai, so I could not justify reclining something healthy and fun.

So out we went. We walked down the canal into the woods. After a while we ended up near some dodgy looking industrial site, with loads of heavy machinery making a hell of a noise. We climbed a house high hill of rubble so that we could look over the fence. We felt like spies, not meant to be there, out of place almost. It's no use trying to describe it, 'cause it doesn't matter one bit to you readers, but it was a captivating sight, incredibly fascinating, all those containers and the massive construction to make and transport mortar, and the big machinery smashing previous buildings. We really had to tear ourselves away from it, to go on and explore. South of the Huntsmoor Park there are a lot of lakes, which caught our interest as well.

There were no pathways, we just ran through the shrubbery, with black industrial mud and rubble getting into our shoes. It was massive! And scattered around the place we found loads of deserted sleeping bags, gas tanks and bits of cars. Wheels, seats, doors and even an intact bonnet of a silver Subaru Impreza.

'Chavs,' Freddie said.

When we saw a little creek we wanted to go down there. But then we spotted a red van.

'What on earth is a red van doing there?' I asked. We had no clue, but it didn't feel right. 'Wood & Son' it read on the side. What was their business in the middle of nowhere? Surely that had to be dodgy, so we didn't go down to the water yet. And that's when we found the rest of the Impreza. Or rather, the spot where it had burnt down. There was no actual wreck left, but a black spot on the floor and stuff scattered around it. Bits of engine; a piece of pluche to wrap around the seatbelt so that a child will like to wear it; shoes, a sweater and trousers; a cd by HIM; a pack of cigarettes; a bottle of detergent. And a document called 'details of employee leaving work'. Who is Philip Sawtell? And what happened to his car? Why did he leave behind his clothing?

'You're all on edge,' Freddie remarked.

'Well, this is very exciting, innit?'

On Freddie's facebook profile it says 'fiction tends not to interest me, real life is much more interesting'. I laughed out loud when I first read that. That's quite a different story than Arian, with whom I virtually had every field of interest in common.

'Thank you so much for taking me up here,' I said. 'You sure as hell know how to cheer me up!'

Going Dutch

“Two days before our first date, he sent me an e-mail, 'just to get this out of the way, we're splitting the bill',” my friend told me yesterday. We were having lunch in the Golden Dragon, the big mama of Chinese restaurants on Gerrard Street, when she asked my opinion on going Dutch.

“Well,” I said, “as far as I know, it is the best way to level the financial playing field. I'm not gonna lie about this: when a guy offers to pay the bill, I do feel flattered and old fashioned feminine. But when I really like the guy I usually insist on either paying my share, or paying on the second date. When I don't really fancy him, it depends. If I know I'll never see him again, I prefer a free meal, you know what I mean? But if I'm likely to run into the chap again at uni or house parties, I'd definitely go Dutch, because I don't want feel like I owe him something.”

“I met him at the synagogue,” my friend said, “so I would probably run into him again. But what do you think of the way he brought it?”

We agreed that it would be a lot better for him to ask if it's okay to split when the bill arrived. And accept his loss when the lady looks shocked or says she forgot her purse.

“Personally, I wouldn't mind at all. I'm Dutch, after all, and Dutch people are know for being tight-fisted. But if a guy sent me such an awkward e-mail beforehand, the first thing I would do on the date is have a laugh about it,” I said.

“When I told my other friend about it, the first thing she said was 'oh my, that's so Jewish!'...”

“That would probably be what I'd say to him: 'I can tell I'm dating a Jew!'”

“Actually, I felt quite offended when she said that. I think it's okay for Jewish people to make fun of themselves, but when an outsider does it, it's offensive.”

“That's true,” I said. “When it's not self-mockery, jokes like that lose all finesse, all nicety. I would probably say I didn't realize he was Dutch too, then. It's a lame joke, but it only has to be a catalyst to laugh over his silly gesture, so that we won't feel awkward about it any more.”

Later that night, my British boyfriend asked me the number of one of my friends. I took out my phone and showed him the number without actually offering my phone.

“Can you give him a call?” he asked.

“Why don't you do it yourself?”

“Well, it's your friend.”

“You said you'd get in touch with him.”

“Nevermind,” he said while typing the number in his own mobile. “You can't help it you're Dutch.”

Fabrica d'Amor (synopsis)

Fabrica d'Amor is a psychological novel about a thirteen year old runaway in the rough squat scene of London.

Characters:

• Maggie Marshall: 13 year old girl with ginger curls and freckles. She's left-handed. She's an only child and lives alone with her mother, Ellen Marshall, in Highgate, North London. Lately, they've got a lot of fights about the clothing Maggie wants to wear, about Ellen being overprotective and about Maggie's wish to become a vegetarian. She just started secondary school and doesn't like her new classmates at all. She's feeling very lonely until she meets Chris. Her name will be changed to Maggot when she moves to Fabrica d'Amor.
• Ellen Marshall: 34 year old single mother, grew up in Holland. She moved to London when she 20, soon after her father, who had made a small fortune with his business, died. At the time she was expecting Maggie. Maggie's father didn't want to follow her, because he thought Ellen had something to do with her own father's sudden death. Her speech is never communication. She speaks because the words force her to utter them, and she cannot resist, even though it would be wiser not to speak. I'm trying to show a different view of language. Occasions when she speaks are:
1. she's telling Maggie a bedtime story, Maggie falls asleep and doesn't reply;
2. she's getting drunk on her own and talking to herself. Meanwhile Maggie is listening in;
3. she writes letters that are never sent, to Maggie's father and her own father, both of whom were already dead when she was writing.
• Chris: 17 year old leader of a group of squatters who live in what he calls 'Fabrica d'Amor', a deserted factory in West London. He is skinny, boisterous, outgoing and adventurous. He wears retro clothing and likes David Bowie.
• The apostles: Chris lives with twelve other squatters, eleven boys and one girl called Justine. They consider themselves siblings and believe in an extreme communistic ideology. They think people that have sex should not live together, because such a relation would distort equality. Hence, Justine is 'one of the boys'.

The Father: seedy old man who sits in a corner of the squat without ever saying or doing anything. Chris and the apostles call him “Father”. Everyone has greatest respect for him.

Rough outline:

Preface

As a bedtime story, Ellen tells Maggie about her own parents. Her father was a Canadian who came to Holland with the Allies in World War II. Her mother was Dutch but died while giving birth. He stayed in Holland because he loved the country and prospered there. He has always worked hard and died on the job in an unfortunate accident. But he loved his job, and Ellen thinks he wouldn't have wanted to die under any other circumstances. The message of the story is: know what you want and what you're good at, go for it and you'll be successful.

Chapter 1

After another fight with her mother, Maggie runs away from home and is very upset. On the Tube she sits next to Chris, whom she doesn't know yet. He sees she's almost crying and offers her an earphone of his I-pod. He plays David Bowie's 'rock and roll suicide' for her, and she feels like he understand her. She doesn't have a plan and he has a friendly face, so when he gets of the Tube she goes with him.

She tells him she ran away from home, he tells her he lives in a squat. Talking to this friendly stranger has cheered her up a lot and she asks if she can see his place. He introduces Maggie to the first member of his gang, Justine. Maggie smokes her first cigarette. When she sees that Justine wears two different gloves, a silk one and a leather one, she loves it, and says how much she loves it, Justine offers to swaps the leather one for one of Maggie's knitted purple TopShop-gloves.

“We're sisters now,” Justine remarks after the ritual. Maggie asks if she can stay. Chris says she can, but she will have to chip in.

Chapter 2

10 PM the next evening. Maggie has returned home and is aiting in her bedroom for Chris to whistle from outside. She has stolen the little safe in which Ellen keeps her credit card and most valuable pieces of jewellery. She has also descended to the basement to look through the clothing her mother used to wear in the eighties but never threw away, and has taken a naff leather jacket and a silk scarf that matches with Justine's glove.

Chris is more than three hours late. Maggie doubts whether she's really welcome, whether she actually wants to go, at one point she even thinks she's already heard Chris whistle at half nine and just ignored him. She keeps repeating details of her meeting with Chris and Justine and the fight she has with her mother.

Meanwhile Maggie is listening to Ellen, who is in the living room, getting drunk on her own and talking to herself. Though her thoughts become more and more incoherent in the course of the evening, it becomes clearer and clearer that she and Maggie's father had plans to get married before Ellen's father died, and that she was very dissatisfied with the fact that her father, though he was very rich, didn't want to pay for the marriage or help out with the education of his future granddaughter.

Chapter 3

At 1 AM Chris finally throws a pebble against her window. She climbs down immediately. Together they stroll down to Highgate Cemetery, break in, find a snug place between two overgrown tombstones, smoke weed and sleep until the break of dawn. Maggie hides her ginger curls under a knitted army hat Chris gave her so that she won't be recognised in case she has gone missing already, and she's wearing her mother's old leather jacket. They take the first Tube, have an extraordinary breakfast in a hotel with her mother's credit card and go back to Fabrica d'Amor.

Chapter 4

It's still very early and Chris wakes the other squatters like an army officer. Maggie meets the other apostles. Pete doesn't like her name and decides that they have to change it to Maggot (that Pete bullies Maggie is a reference to the New Testament: Pete doesn't accept Mary Magdalene. That she has to give up her name is a reference to Mariken van Nieumeghen).

After the ritual of renaming, Chris takes her by the hand and leads her to an old man who just sits on a chair and says nothing. Maggot realises he's been there all along, probably even the first time she visited Fabrica d'Amor She just hadn't noticed him. Chris says: “Father, this is our new sister, Maggot. Maggot, this is your Father now.” and kneels in front of him. Maggot does the same. The old man doesn't react.

Then they discuss how they can use the credit card as efficiently as possible before it is blocked. They decide it's best if Maggot doesn't leave the building, since people will be looking for the missing thirteen year old.

Chapter 5

Maggot and Justine are wearing the jewellery they found in the safe, but nobody shows any interest in the letters Ellen has hidden in there. Maggot keeps them in the pocket of her jeans, but has not read them yet.

The first two shifts of the gang leave to a camping store where they buy a generator, so they can produce electricity, and a lot of camping equipment. When the first shift comes home with all this, the second shift has already moved on to the next shop with the credit card and the third shift leaves to meet them there. Everyone who comes in kneels for the Father and presents him their new possessions. He says nothing, just sits and stares.

Throughout the day Maggot watches the loot grow and starts to feel guilty. Meanwhile different members of the crew try to explain their interpretation of communism. At eight Chris comes home on a very loud moped with a large number of pizza boxes. While they eat, one of the apostles takes the moped and the credit card to buy several bottles of cider and vodka at the corner shop.

Chapter 6

They climb up the roof and smoke hash. It's freezing so they can watch the stars, and talk about star signs. One by one they get too cold and move inside, where they drink the rest of the vodka. Justine is one of the last ones to come down. In the dark, she stumbles to the couch. There's someone sleeping on it. Justine opens his trousers and starts to give him a blowjob. Suddenly she stops and says: “Oh my, for a moment I thought you were Pete!”, to which Pete responds with: “Who did you think I was, bitch?”

Justine runs off crying. Now Maggot is the only female in the group. Chris is really aggravated and wakes everyone. In vain, he tries to find out who was having an affair with Justine (for such a thing was not done in their community. Sex was something that was only to be performed with people from the outside world, not with your brothers and sisters. Pete says they should never have admitted a woman to their group.

Chapter 7

Justine has left the Fabrica d'Amor in great chaos. Everyone is still drunk and shouting and worrying what Justine is going to do. Because she broke a basic rule, nobody trusts her any more. She might even turn them in to the police.

Maggot collects her belongings, she still feels like they are hers, despite the squatters’ communistic talk, and retreats to the roof. Then she starts reading her mother's letters. In an unsent letter to Maggie's father, she reads that Maggie's father didn't want to have anything to do with the inheritance after the sudden death of Ellen's father. Ellen pleads that it is not blood money, but money she and her daughter need and deserve. There are tear-stains on one of the letters, and the direction the ink is smooched makes Maggot realise Ellen is left-handed too. Of course she knew this already, but now it makes her realise how much she resembles her mother.

Later letters imply that Maggie's father committed suicide shortly after the accident that killed Ellen's father. The last letter is quite a recent one, addressed to both dead men, and states that Ellen doesn't regret a single thing she did. The letters are not a literal confession, but Maggot realises her mother has killed her own father for the inheritance.

Chapter 8

While Maggot watches the sun rise over the city she realises she has no idea what she wants in life, and what she's good at. She doesn't want to be her mother's little Maggie and she doesn't want to be Maggot. She wants it all to end. But when she walks to the edge of the roof and peers down, she sees the dead body of the Father on the pavement beneath her. She's startled and of course she doesn't jump after him. Then she sees a whole lot of police cars heading her direction. She hurries down and quietly wakes up Chris. Together they leave and from the corner shop they see Justine get out of one of the police cars and point at the factory. She looks at Chris and realises she just wants to be with him, no matter where and how they live. He looks back at her and says: 'thanks, Margaret.'

Notting Hill is great, but Uxbridge is Greater London!

Friday night, I was planning on going to Central London. Go dancing at Fabric with Frederick, stay in Notting Hill over the weekend, and have lunch on Sunday with Cara in China Town. But after I finished writing a Dutch story, Het Konijn van Troje, I got overwhelmed by such serious knee aches that I could hardly get back to my halls from the library. So I was stuck in Fucking Uxbridge…

That night, I ended up leafing through the Writers' and Artists' Yearbook, and noticed that 14 February was the deadline of their short story competition. (It's postponed to 20 February, by the way.) Not that I stand any chance, but as a student Creative Writing I feel that I should at least try to hand something in. Since I’m still mourning over the sudden death of my dear netbook, I had to drag myself to the computer facilities at the John Crank Building. I reread some of my stories and decided my coursework for David Fulton was the bloody best thing I’ve ever written. Unfortunately for you, my dear reader, I haven’t posted it on this blog, because I’m not certain whether I’m allowed to. So I altered Thicker than Blood slightly and submitted it. And now I don't even dare to say my night has gone to waste anymore!
I will not let this dodgy knee stop me from doing what I’m here for! After all: Notting Hill is great, but Uxbridge is Greater London!

Melissa Brown's Flight (outline for a novel)

There is something unsettling about airports. As soon as travellers have

crossed the border and find themselves on neutral ground, they don't

know how to carry themselves. In order to find their bearings, some

resort to tax-free shopping, whereas others strike up conversation with

a complete stranger and talk more honestly and openly than they would

ever do in their day-to-day lives. The latter happens to Melissa Brown,

a 21-year-old New Jerseyite.

It is the year 1983, and New Jersey is in the grip of a February

blizzard. Melissa is pacing up and down Newark Liberty International

Airport, waiting for a rescheduled flight to Stockholm. The shopping

area is crowded with stranded tourists and businessmen, and when she

walks by, they all peek at her tight pencil skirt, broad shoulders and

voluptuous, honey-coloured coiffure. But they shift their gaze as soon

as they see her face: although she is beautiful, she looks as if she hasn't

had a bath, a good night's sleep or a proper meal for days. As the delay

winds her up, she is oblivious of the attention she gets and then loses.

Nevertheless, a handsome young man in a Paul Smith suit is

before he abandons his leather holdall to go after her.

“Are you okay, girl?” he asks. His accent sounds European, but

Melissa can't pinpoint where he's from. Through her shoulder pad, she

feels his strong hand. His kind gesture overwhelms her, and, before she

knows it, she breaks down sobbing.

“I'm so sorry,” she says, “this has never happened to me

before. I haven't cried since...” With the palms of her hands, she wipes

her tears and golden curls out of her face. He notices how she forces

fashionably striped shirt with a white collar – and adjusts his thin tie

captivated by her features. He tucks his shirt into his trousers – it's a

herself not to clench her fists: the fingers and thumbs are awkwardly

pointing outward.

“I'm so sorry,” she says again. “It's the waiting. I can't do it. I

can't wait to get out of here.”

“Where are you going?” he asks. His hand is still on her

shoulder, and he gently pushes her to the bench where he left his hand

luggage.

“Sweden.”

“That's a beautiful country.”

“I wouldn't know. I've never been to Europe, but I'm pretty

sure anything is better than New Jersey.”

The young man offers her a seat and introduces himself as

Jabir. Still somewhat taken aback by her reaction, he tries to comfort

her by telling her about himself. He grew up in Iran but fled the

country in 1979 after his father, a professor at Tehran University,

criticised the Ayatollah in one of his lectures. Jabir now lives in

Amsterdam with his parents, where he's doing a PhD in econometrics.

He takes his studies seriously and is very ambitious. He is on his way

back to The Netherlands after presenting his research at a conference

in New Jersey.

recently graduated summa cum laude in anthropology at Princeton

University. Immediately after she finished her course in September

1982, she was appointed to design and organise educational trips for

New Horizon, one of the greatest organisations when it comes to

package holidays. This, she explains, is a very well-paid and

challenging job for an anthropologist.

“Are you on your way to Sweden for research, then?” Jabir

asks. How could he have known that reminding Melissa of the journey

To prove that she is just as ambitious as he is, she tells him she

Melissa likes his attitude, and his story calms her down a bit.

would make her cry again? Like a little girl that sees blood welling up

from her knee after falling on it, she is quiet for a second; then the

howling starts. Jabir presses her face against his shoulder and strokes

her head until her tears leave stains on the lapels of his jacket.

Without looking up, she starts to speak. “I don't think I'll ever

go on a research trip again. In all honesty, this will be my last flight

ever. I'm going to Stockholm to see Ingrid Nattfogel. She works at the

Swedish department of New Horizon, but my visit is not work-related.

Actually, that's a lie. Everything in my life is work-related. That's

exactly why I can't go on living like this. I'm sorry to burden you with

this...”

Jabir interrupts her apology and raises his voice. “Speak freely!

My name is Arabic for comforter or consoler, and that's exactly what I

intend to be for you!”

And with that, Melissa tells him how she was raped by her

manager, Wilfred Dolling.

“It was my first Friday afternoon at the office, and everyone

went for a drink. Sure, I had my share of parties at Princeton. I know

my limits when it comes to alcohol. This night, however, something

went terribly wrong. I can only remember my first Bellini, but I must

have knocked down quite a few more because the next thing I

worst of all, I had no idea why I was still wearing my shirt but couldn't

find my skirt and knickers. Over breakfast, Wilfred told me that we

had sex like hungry hyenas, but that we'd better not tell anyone at New

Horizon about it.”

Jabir puts his hand on her back again as Melissa presses her

face closer to his shoulder. She swallows the aching lump of memories

and emotions that clog her throat, and takes a deep breath.

She shudders at the memory. “I had no idea where I was, and,

remember is waking up to the most horrifying hangover.”

“In retrospect,” she continues, “I reckon he spiked my drink

with GHB before dragging me to his apartment. At first, I couldn't

remember anything. When I went home I felt so guilty towards

Timothy, my boyfriend, and I didn't dare to tell him about it. After the

weekend, I saw Wilfred again, and hearing his voice triggered

flashbacks to that night. He fucked me like a hungry hyena, all right,

but I lay in his bed like a dead antelope.”

Now that the dam has broken, the entire sea of Melissa's

experiences crashes onto the neutral ground of their conversation.

“I didn't dare tell anyone, let alone the police, about the rape

because I figured no one would believe me. I thought my parents

wouldn't understand why I hadn't told them immediately, and Timothy

would think that I was making it up to cover up for the fact that I had

cheated on him. And most of all, I feared that my friends from

Princeton and my colleagues at New Horizon would say that I got the

job because I flirted with Dolling. I was afraid people would say I

asked for it, or even deliberately slept with him. So I did nothing. I just

worked very hard, eighty hours a week, thinking about it constantly but

not being able to talk about it to anyone.

“Two weeks after the rape, at a New Horizon conference in

Iceland, I met Ingrid Nattfogel. Together, we thought up the most

amazing out of the box package holidays, went clubbing, got drunk

share cigarettes. One night, while we were mixing our own cocktails in

my hotel room, Ingrid told me about her lesbian experiences. I know

they're prosecuting homosexuals in Iran these days, but I found her

stories very enticing.”

“I fled that country, remember?” Jabir blushes at her reference

to his origin. “Don't worry, I won't judge you.”

“I'm sorry. The thing is, her stories were so warm and full of

love, I couldn't help envying the objects of her affection.”

smoker, I started to sneak out of meetings with Ingrid, so that we could

and had long, intimate conversations. Even though I had never been a

“Do you mean you started to develop lesbian feelings toward

her?” Jabir asks.

“In all honesty, yes, I did. And that's why I broke up with

Timothy.”

“As if you weren't lonely enough already,” Jabir says. “So did

you tell Ingrid about Dolling?”

“No.” Melissa shakes her head. Her voice sounds bitter, almost

angry. “But she made me feel like I could. I suppose I didn't because

Ingrid was the first person who managed to genuinely make me laugh

and feel after what had happened, do you know what I mean? I didn't

want to let Wilfred ruin the only thing that gave me joy.

“When I went back to New Jersey, I kept thinking back of the

lovely time we had together. I was hoping to meet Ingrid again on the

next business trip, and this prospect was the only reason why I could

cope with the continuous confrontation with my rapist.

“Meanwhile, Dolling made it very clear that the incident meant

nothing to him. He treated me like he treated everyone else, never

mentioned it and didn't seem to try anything again. He allocated

challenging assignments to me and made me work with interesting

people. Because this was what I always wanted, I was inclined to stay

in the job, even though I couldn't bare to meet him on a daily or even

tried my best to shine at New Horizon. At first, I reckon, my

colleagues didn't notice the difference, but I couldn't be the bright,

intelligent, creative and sociable girl I used to be any more; my heart

wasn't in it. After I broke up with Timothy, I cancelled all my

appointments with friends and didn't get back in touch with them. I

kept smoking, stopped eating and started to suffer from insomnia.

Whenever I did get a wink of sleep, my dreams were so vivid and

horrible that I regretted falling asleep the next morning.”

“I still really didn't want anyone to know about the rape and

weekly basis.

“Didn't your colleagues suspect anything?” Jabir looks

shocked.

“Well, after a couple of weeks, they started to notice that I

never had lunch with them and always tried to dodge business dinners.

I had to go through a lot of trouble to hide my eating disorder, and I

got really aggravated with anyone who told me to eat. The only person

that never bothered me with unwanted advice was Hester, a colleague

who has specialised in summer camps for kids. That's why I started to

trust Hester and told her about my crush on Ingrid.

“My unhealthy life style began to take its toll on my looks: I

developed big dark bags under my eyes, my skin went dry and pale,

my hair was lacklustre and I lost weight quickly. Of course, my parents

and Timothy noticed, and they were very worried about me. They were

right, and I knew they were: due to lack of sleep and food I started to

feel very weak, and I hated the way I looked. But whenever they said

something about my health, I got all defensive and snapped at them.

Two months after I started working at New Horizon, I was avoiding

them. They had to call the office if they wanted to speak to me. I feel

so guilty,” she sighs, “I haven't seen my folks since New Year's Eve.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself,” Jabir says. “Your secret formed

a glass bell around you; you were isolated from the rest of the world

and your parents didn't even realise they couldn't reach you. I can

“You're right, that's exactly how I felt. Anyway, in December,

there was another New Horizon conference in Los Angeles, and Hester

made sure that I could meet Ingrid again. Ingrid was shocked to see me

in such a state and told me to take better care of myself. She made me

promise that I would, and I actually ate a bowl of soup during

lunchtime. That night, Ingrid took me to a gay club, where we used

Crystal Meth.

to help you. Their kindness only emphasised how lonely you were.”

imagine how frustrating it must have been for you that they kept trying

“It was the most wonderful thing I have ever experienced. For

the first time in months, I was happy with myself again. I liked what I

saw in the grimy mirror in the loo, and I was proud of what I had

achieved. I danced and drank, and, by the end of the night, I felt

confident enough to kiss Ingrid. She was a really good kisser, and she

was really sweet afterwards, too. It was the best thing that has

happened to me since I graduated.

“When I returned to New Jersey, I was resigned to get my life

back on track because Ingrid had told me to. I got in touch with the

designated office confidant, and, for the first time, I told someone

about what Dolling did to me. The confidant advised me to go to the

police. I said I would consider it, but I felt like I was too late. Actually,

I thought it would only make things worse. The confidant also gave me

the address of a proper psychologist. I never went to see that

psychologist, either. I wanted to get through this on my own. I forced

myself to eat again, although I hated the fact that the weight went back

on very quickly. Hester and I made the same New Year's Resolution:

to give up cigarettes. We helped each other, and I haven't smoked

since. Yes, she started out as a good friend, but I now wish I never

trusted her.”

“Why?” Jabir asks. “Did she tell anyone you were in love with

Ingrid?”

behaviour. I didn't want to lose my only friend, you see, so I told

Hester I was ultra sensitive when it came to Wilfred, because of the

rape. The story shocked her greatly and she immediately wanted me to

go to the police.

“It was so awkward.” She shakes her head as if she still can't

believe it. “We were in a lunch room when I told her, and she just

started blubbering. Everyone was looking at me as though I had just

told my own mother I didn't love her any more. I know it affected her

got into a fight over a simple task, I decided to explain my odd

“No, that's not it.” Melissa pauses to blow her nose. “When we

so much because she cared about me, but it just didn't seem right.

Even though I was the victim, I had to calm her down. Eventually, I

managed to convince her that it really was my decision whether I

would go to the police or not, and she agreed not to tell anyone.

“But Hester couldn't deal with the secret. After a week of

silence, she felt the need to tell another colleague what a terrible

person Dolling was. Unfortunately, word spread like an STD. I found

out about the gossiping when I got a call from Ingrid. At first, I was so

happy to hear her voice! But the gossip had even reached Sweden, and

she accused me of slander. She was furious and shouted that her full

name was Ingrid Nattfogel-Dolling. I was devastated: my reputation

and career were ruined, my only friend turned out not to be

trustworthy, and the only hope I could hold on to, Ingrid, had

collapsed. Not only is she Wilfred's sister, she's married too!

“After Ingrid hung up, I left the office in a daze. I didn't say

goodbye to anyone and wanted to commit suicide. On the way to the

train station, I pictured my life as a comic book and flicked through the

pages. The most colourful page showed the evening that I used Crystal

Meth with Ingrid.

“Still determined to kill myself, I couldn't help but wonder:

what does it matter if I use it once more? And so I scored another

portion from a junky. It was great stuff, even better than the first time.

wanted to tell Ingrid to her face exactly what her brother did to me, and

I thought I might just as well see Sweden before I killed myself.

“I was still under the influence of Crystal Meth when I headed

to Newark Airport. I insisted on buying a last minute one-way ticket to

Stockholm, even though the assistant at the ticket counter told me that

all flights had been rescheduled and some might even be cancelled, due

to the blizzard. I waved my New Horizon badge at him and said his

superior would want him to sell me the ticket. I know it was a stupid

became aware of another sensation: ultimate hatred for the Dollings. I

Man, I felt so high! I felt like flying! But as the trip proceeded, I

idea, but I just felt like I had to get away from New Jersey. The badge

did it, really. Even though it was against their policy, I got a ticket to

Stockholm. The high started to wear off when I crossed the border. I

was just getting back down to earth when you asked me how I was

doing.”

“So what are you going to do now?” Jabir asks.

“Much as I'd love to see Europe, I think I've got certain things

to take care of in New Jersey,” she says.

“You're not going to kill yourself, are you?”

“Oh no! Wilfred has hurt me enough already.” She shakes her

curls out of her face and straightens her back. She's still exhausted, but

there is something fierce about her posture that makes her look

indestructible.

“I'm going to call my parents,” she says, “and I'll ask them to

come to the police station with me. I want them to be there when I

make my statement. They need to know what I've been through.”

“They will wonder why you have never told them before,”

Jabir says, “and I can't promise they will understand, but they won't

doubt the truth of your story. Break that glass bell around you, dear!

But are you certain you want to make a statement? It won't be easy,

“I don't care whether I win; all I want is acknowledgement.

Wilfred tried to wipe my memory with GHB; I tried to wipe it by

working eighty hours a week. But I cannot possibly go on pretending it

hasn't happened, and neither can he. My story has to be taken

seriously, even if I can't prove anything. That's why I'm reporting the

rape to the police.”

There is something unsettling about airports. As soon as travellers have

crossed the border and find themselves on neutral ground, they don't

know how to carry themselves. In order to find their bearings, some

resort to tax-free shopping, whereas others strike up conversation with

a complete stranger and talk more honestly and openly than they would

ever do in their day-to-day lives. The latter happens to Melissa Brown,

a 21-year-old New Jerseyite.

It is the year 1983, and New Jersey is in the grip of a February

blizzard. Melissa is pacing up and down Newark Liberty International

Airport, waiting for a rescheduled flight to Stockholm. The shopping

area is crowded with stranded tourists and businessmen, and when she

walks by, they all peek at her tight pencil skirt, broad shoulders and

voluptuous, honey-coloured coiffure. But they shift their gaze as soon

as they see her face: although she is beautiful, she looks as if she hasn't

had a bath, a good night's sleep or a proper meal for days. As the delay

winds her up, she is oblivious of the attention she gets and then loses.

Nevertheless, a handsome young man in a Paul Smith suit is

before he abandons his leather holdall to go after her.

“Are you okay, girl?” he asks. His accent sounds European, but

Melissa can't pinpoint where he's from. Through her shoulder pad, she

feels his strong hand. His kind gesture overwhelms her, and, before she

knows it, she breaks down sobbing.

“I'm so sorry,” she says, “this has never happened to me

before. I haven't cried since...” With the palms of her hands, she wipes

her tears and golden curls out of her face. He notices how she forces

fashionably striped shirt with a white collar – and adjusts his thin tie

captivated by her features. He tucks his shirt into his trousers – it's a

herself not to clench her fists: the fingers and thumbs are awkwardly

pointing outward.

“I'm so sorry,” she says again. “It's the waiting. I can't do it. I

can't wait to get out of here.”

“Where are you going?” he asks. His hand is still on her

shoulder, and he gently pushes her to the bench where he left his hand

luggage.

“Sweden.”

“That's a beautiful country.”

“I wouldn't know. I've never been to Europe, but I'm pretty

sure anything is better than New Jersey.”

The young man offers her a seat and introduces himself as

Jabir. Still somewhat taken aback by her reaction, he tries to comfort

her by telling her about himself. He grew up in Iran but fled the

country in 1979 after his father, a professor at Tehran University,

criticised the Ayatollah in one of his lectures. Jabir now lives in

Amsterdam with his parents, where he's doing a PhD in econometrics.

He takes his studies seriously and is very ambitious. He is on his way

back to The Netherlands after presenting his research at a conference

in New Jersey.

recently graduated summa cum laude in anthropology at Princeton

University. Immediately after she finished her course in September

1982, she was appointed to design and organise educational trips for

New Horizon, one of the greatest organisations when it comes to

package holidays. This, she explains, is a very well-paid and

challenging job for an anthropologist.

“Are you on your way to Sweden for research, then?” Jabir

asks. How could he have known that reminding Melissa of the journey

To prove that she is just as ambitious as he is, she tells him she

Melissa likes his attitude, and his story calms her down a bit.

would make her cry again? Like a little girl that sees blood welling up

from her knee after falling on it, she is quiet for a second; then the

howling starts. Jabir presses her face against his shoulder and strokes

her head until her tears leave stains on the lapels of his jacket.

Without looking up, she starts to speak. “I don't think I'll ever

go on a research trip again. In all honesty, this will be my last flight

ever. I'm going to Stockholm to see Ingrid Nattfogel. She works at the

Swedish department of New Horizon, but my visit is not work-related.

Actually, that's a lie. Everything in my life is work-related. That's

exactly why I can't go on living like this. I'm sorry to burden you with

this...”

Jabir interrupts her apology and raises his voice. “Speak freely!

My name is Arabic for comforter or consoler, and that's exactly what I

intend to be for you!”

And with that, Melissa tells him how she was raped by her

manager, Wilfred Dolling.

“It was my first Friday afternoon at the office, and everyone

went for a drink. Sure, I had my share of parties at Princeton. I know

my limits when it comes to alcohol. This night, however, something

went terribly wrong. I can only remember my first Bellini, but I must

have knocked down quite a few more because the next thing I

worst of all, I had no idea why I was still wearing my shirt but couldn't

find my skirt and knickers. Over breakfast, Wilfred told me that we

had sex like hungry hyenas, but that we'd better not tell anyone at New

Horizon about it.”

Jabir puts his hand on her back again as Melissa presses her

face closer to his shoulder. She swallows the aching lump of memories

and emotions that clog her throat, and takes a deep breath.

She shudders at the memory. “I had no idea where I was, and,

remember is waking up to the most horrifying hangover.”

“In retrospect,” she continues, “I reckon he spiked my drink

with GHB before dragging me to his apartment. At first, I couldn't

remember anything. When I went home I felt so guilty towards

Timothy, my boyfriend, and I didn't dare to tell him about it. After the

weekend, I saw Wilfred again, and hearing his voice triggered

flashbacks to that night. He fucked me like a hungry hyena, all right,

but I lay in his bed like a dead antelope.”

Now that the dam has broken, the entire sea of Melissa's

experiences crashes onto the neutral ground of their conversation.

“I didn't dare tell anyone, let alone the police, about the rape

because I figured no one would believe me. I thought my parents

wouldn't understand why I hadn't told them immediately, and Timothy

would think that I was making it up to cover up for the fact that I had

cheated on him. And most of all, I feared that my friends from

Princeton and my colleagues at New Horizon would say that I got the

job because I flirted with Dolling. I was afraid people would say I

asked for it, or even deliberately slept with him. So I did nothing. I just

worked very hard, eighty hours a week, thinking about it constantly but

not being able to talk about it to anyone.

“Two weeks after the rape, at a New Horizon conference in

Iceland, I met Ingrid Nattfogel. Together, we thought up the most

amazing out of the box package holidays, went clubbing, got drunk

share cigarettes. One night, while we were mixing our own cocktails in

my hotel room, Ingrid told me about her lesbian experiences. I know

they're prosecuting homosexuals in Iran these days, but I found her

stories very enticing.”

“I fled that country, remember?” Jabir blushes at her reference

to his origin. “Don't worry, I won't judge you.”

“I'm sorry. The thing is, her stories were so warm and full of

love, I couldn't help envying the objects of her affection.”

smoker, I started to sneak out of meetings with Ingrid, so that we could

and had long, intimate conversations. Even though I had never been a

“Do you mean you started to develop lesbian feelings toward

her?” Jabir asks.

“In all honesty, yes, I did. And that's why I broke up with

Timothy.”

“As if you weren't lonely enough already,” Jabir says. “So did

you tell Ingrid about Dolling?”

“No.” Melissa shakes her head. Her voice sounds bitter, almost

angry. “But she made me feel like I could. I suppose I didn't because

Ingrid was the first person who managed to genuinely make me laugh

and feel after what had happened, do you know what I mean? I didn't

want to let Wilfred ruin the only thing that gave me joy.

“When I went back to New Jersey, I kept thinking back of the

lovely time we had together. I was hoping to meet Ingrid again on the

next business trip, and this prospect was the only reason why I could

cope with the continuous confrontation with my rapist.

“Meanwhile, Dolling made it very clear that the incident meant

nothing to him. He treated me like he treated everyone else, never

mentioned it and didn't seem to try anything again. He allocated

challenging assignments to me and made me work with interesting

people. Because this was what I always wanted, I was inclined to stay

in the job, even though I couldn't bare to meet him on a daily or even

tried my best to shine at New Horizon. At first, I reckon, my

colleagues didn't notice the difference, but I couldn't be the bright,

intelligent, creative and sociable girl I used to be any more; my heart

wasn't in it. After I broke up with Timothy, I cancelled all my

appointments with friends and didn't get back in touch with them. I

kept smoking, stopped eating and started to suffer from insomnia.

Whenever I did get a wink of sleep, my dreams were so vivid and

horrible that I regretted falling asleep the next morning.”

“I still really didn't want anyone to know about the rape and

weekly basis.

“Didn't your colleagues suspect anything?” Jabir looks

shocked.

“Well, after a couple of weeks, they started to notice that I

never had lunch with them and always tried to dodge business dinners.

I had to go through a lot of trouble to hide my eating disorder, and I

got really aggravated with anyone who told me to eat. The only person

that never bothered me with unwanted advice was Hester, a colleague

who has specialised in summer camps for kids. That's why I started to

trust Hester and told her about my crush on Ingrid.

“My unhealthy life style began to take its toll on my looks: I

developed big dark bags under my eyes, my skin went dry and pale,

my hair was lacklustre and I lost weight quickly. Of course, my parents

and Timothy noticed, and they were very worried about me. They were

right, and I knew they were: due to lack of sleep and food I started to

feel very weak, and I hated the way I looked. But whenever they said

something about my health, I got all defensive and snapped at them.

Two months after I started working at New Horizon, I was avoiding

them. They had to call the office if they wanted to speak to me. I feel

so guilty,” she sighs, “I haven't seen my folks since New Year's Eve.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself,” Jabir says. “Your secret formed

a glass bell around you; you were isolated from the rest of the world

and your parents didn't even realise they couldn't reach you. I can

“You're right, that's exactly how I felt. Anyway, in December,

there was another New Horizon conference in Los Angeles, and Hester

made sure that I could meet Ingrid again. Ingrid was shocked to see me

in such a state and told me to take better care of myself. She made me

promise that I would, and I actually ate a bowl of soup during

lunchtime. That night, Ingrid took me to a gay club, where we used

Crystal Meth.

to help you. Their kindness only emphasised how lonely you were.”

imagine how frustrating it must have been for you that they kept trying

“It was the most wonderful thing I have ever experienced. For

the first time in months, I was happy with myself again. I liked what I

saw in the grimy mirror in the loo, and I was proud of what I had

achieved. I danced and drank, and, by the end of the night, I felt

confident enough to kiss Ingrid. She was a really good kisser, and she

was really sweet afterwards, too. It was the best thing that has

happened to me since I graduated.

“When I returned to New Jersey, I was resigned to get my life

back on track because Ingrid had told me to. I got in touch with the

designated office confidant, and, for the first time, I told someone

about what Dolling did to me. The confidant advised me to go to the

police. I said I would consider it, but I felt like I was too late. Actually,

I thought it would only make things worse. The confidant also gave me

the address of a proper psychologist. I never went to see that

psychologist, either. I wanted to get through this on my own. I forced

myself to eat again, although I hated the fact that the weight went back

on very quickly. Hester and I made the same New Year's Resolution:

to give up cigarettes. We helped each other, and I haven't smoked

since. Yes, she started out as a good friend, but I now wish I never

trusted her.”

“Why?” Jabir asks. “Did she tell anyone you were in love with

Ingrid?”

behaviour. I didn't want to lose my only friend, you see, so I told

Hester I was ultra sensitive when it came to Wilfred, because of the

rape. The story shocked her greatly and she immediately wanted me to

go to the police.

“It was so awkward.” She shakes her head as if she still can't

believe it. “We were in a lunch room when I told her, and she just

started blubbering. Everyone was looking at me as though I had just

told my own mother I didn't love her any more. I know it affected her

got into a fight over a simple task, I decided to explain my odd

“No, that's not it.” Melissa pauses to blow her nose. “When we

so much because she cared about me, but it just didn't seem right.

Even though I was the victim, I had to calm her down. Eventually, I

managed to convince her that it really was my decision whether I

would go to the police or not, and she agreed not to tell anyone.

“But Hester couldn't deal with the secret. After a week of

silence, she felt the need to tell another colleague what a terrible

person Dolling was. Unfortunately, word spread like an STD. I found

out about the gossiping when I got a call from Ingrid. At first, I was so

happy to hear her voice! But the gossip had even reached Sweden, and

she accused me of slander. She was furious and shouted that her full

name was Ingrid Nattfogel-Dolling. I was devastated: my reputation

and career were ruined, my only friend turned out not to be

trustworthy, and the only hope I could hold on to, Ingrid, had

collapsed. Not only is she Wilfred's sister, she's married too!

“After Ingrid hung up, I left the office in a daze. I didn't say

goodbye to anyone and wanted to commit suicide. On the way to the

train station, I pictured my life as a comic book and flicked through the

pages. The most colourful page showed the evening that I used Crystal

Meth with Ingrid.

“Still determined to kill myself, I couldn't help but wonder:

what does it matter if I use it once more? And so I scored another

portion from a junky. It was great stuff, even better than the first time.

wanted to tell Ingrid to her face exactly what her brother did to me, and

I thought I might just as well see Sweden before I killed myself.

“I was still under the influence of Crystal Meth when I headed

to Newark Airport. I insisted on buying a last minute one-way ticket to

Stockholm, even though the assistant at the ticket counter told me that

all flights had been rescheduled and some might even be cancelled, due

to the blizzard. I waved my New Horizon badge at him and said his

superior would want him to sell me the ticket. I know it was a stupid

became aware of another sensation: ultimate hatred for the Dollings. I

Man, I felt so high! I felt like flying! But as the trip proceeded, I

idea, but I just felt like I had to get away from New Jersey. The badge

did it, really. Even though it was against their policy, I got a ticket to

Stockholm. The high started to wear off when I crossed the border. I

was just getting back down to earth when you asked me how I was

doing.”

“So what are you going to do now?” Jabir asks.

“Much as I'd love to see Europe, I think I've got certain things

to take care of in New Jersey,” she says.

“You're not going to kill yourself, are you?”

“Oh no! Wilfred has hurt me enough already.” She shakes her

curls out of her face and straightens her back. She's still exhausted, but

there is something fierce about her posture that makes her look

indestructible.

“I'm going to call my parents,” she says, “and I'll ask them to

come to the police station with me. I want them to be there when I

make my statement. They need to know what I've been through.”

“They will wonder why you have never told them before,”

Jabir says, “and I can't promise they will understand, but they won't

doubt the truth of your story. Break that glass bell around you, dear!

But are you certain you want to make a statement? It won't be easy,

“I don't care whether I win; all I want is acknowledgement.

Wilfred tried to wipe my memory with GHB; I tried to wipe it by

working eighty hours a week. But I cannot possibly go on pretending it

hasn't happened, and neither can he. My story has to be taken

seriously, even if I can't prove anything. That's why I'm reporting the

rape to the police.”