number 10
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Back home

It was another hot day when we drove with the van to Paris. We didn't say much.

In Paris, we drove to the studio of her ex-lover. A big place, white, without windows. I liked the place, though. We unpacked the van, and spoke about the situation. I went with her to the hotel, to have a shower before going out to eat.

Walking in Paris to the restaurant had the appearance of a vacation. I was looking at the buildings. I felt like a simple guy walking in a big city. I offered her a normal life. But suddenly, after the marriage, she decided she did not want a normal life. She wanted 'intelligent conversation', which means 'existentialist brainstorming' as her ex-lover pointed out during diner. French conversation, she meant. She wanted to go back to Paris. She didn't want to become a fat Dutch girl, she said. And she didn't want to live with me anymore. Can I blame her for that?

The day after, I drove the car back to Amsterdam. I came home, in the apartment we shared for these months. The apartment was empty. How do I start a new life, I asked myself. I don't know. I simply don't know.


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