On My Father’S Bike: Part Three of the Trilogy “Darkness of Mind” Three Confessions on the Art of Opera and Murder

© 2012 by Hugo Van Bever. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   12/04/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-3775-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-3774-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-3776-2 (e)

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CONTENTS

1 HELLO AGAIN

2 DEATH OF LAMBS IN VENICE

3 ABDULLAH

4 BEGGING FOR CANCER

5 ROSSINI

6 IN MIA MAN

7 GABRIELLA’S FRANCO

8 NUT’S APOTHEOSIS

9 SOPHIA’S KITCHEN

10 A HORNY PIGEON!

11 HERBAL HEART

12 A SMOKING LONER

13 DANCING WITH LITTLE ORGANS

14 THE FINAL SCENE OF MADAME BUTTERFLY

Vermahnungen entrangen sich ihm: Du darfst so nicht lächeln! Höre, man darf so niemanden anlächeln!

Words struggled from his lips, strangely indignant and tender reproaches: You mustn’t smile like that! One mustn’t, do you hear, mustn’t smile like that at anyone!

Der Tod in Venedig—Death in Venice (Thomas Mann)

For T.J. who inspired me and who didn’t paint the moon black.

BELGIUM, FLANDERS,

A VILLAGE, APRIL 2010.

1

HELLO AGAIN

Hi…

. . .

It’s me…

. . .

Me.

. . .

Me-ee!

. . .

Junior.

. . .

Your Junior.

Scared? Shocked? Confused?

I understand. I am too. It’s ok, relax. I’ll try the same. I guess we have similar feelings yet again. What a great start! What a great day!

Yes, it’s me, your only son, Andre Junior, but nowadays my friends—actually, it is more correct to call them colleagues; I have no friends, not anymore—call me Andre or Dre or even Prof.

It is really me, your flesh and blood, alive and well. Sorry, just a little joke to break the ice. I am standing here in front of you and I am damned nervous—shaking, gasping; my pulse is racing, my neck is tight, and I am sweating like a pig. Do pigs sweat? No idea. I feel as if I am suffocating. You better believe me. It was difficult to come here, where silence dominates, where life is past, and where everything is fixed.

It’s raining. April rain, so it’s not too bad, just a soft drizzle, as if the sky had put a wet towel on me—covering me, lukewarm, creating a sweet mix of sweat and rain on my skin. No problem, a soft blanket from heaven is embracing me, and I am enjoying it. Is God teasing me, as usual? How is He, by the way, your God? Does He really have a long white beard, or is He wearing a djellaba? It makes me smile, and I know it makes you smile, too. We are united in a smile. Again, as so many years ago.

You can’t believe it, can you?

Yes, again: it is me, Andre Junior, he who is your only son. The one and only you were so very proud of. You were… I know it. Remember? Good. Don’t patronize me… ok?

It is spring—finally, the tender promise of new life and endless possibilities for everybody—the future softly knocking at the door—inviting. I hope you realize you are surrounded by spring: fresh green everywhere—new leaves, new grass, and the smell of happiness. And total silence, except for the monotonous rustles of the poplars, high above, orchestrated by the wind. I assume that you got used to it. Silence is you, now and always.

I am excited, but also relieved to see you—a delicate mental draw—finally, after thirty years. Yes, we haven’t seen each other for thirty years. Imagine that! Thirty years is a life time! How the world has changed in those thirty years from 1980 to 2010!

I am standing here in front of you under mom’s ridiculous old-lady-umbrella: dark blue with red and yellow flowers; it’s frayed. So typical for mom—my poor, beloved mom. Most of the time I close it and enjoy the soft rain on my cheeks. Who needs an umbrella?

Don’t laugh at me, please—you are, aren’t you? Laughing?

Soon it will be Easter. Very soon, life moves fast, irreversibly fast. Does death have the same speed? Will you ever let me know? Send me an SMS?

Ok, I accept: you don’t understand what SMS means, I forgot… sorry.

You waited thirty years for me, while I couldn’t make up my mind—should I or should I not? I feel ashamed—immensely ashamed. I suppose that makes you happy. Can I please explain?

Now! Do you want me to beg?

PLEASE!

I need to explain what happened? I’m not offering excuses; I’m offering a confession. I am sure, you will understand. I know you. By the way, I always tried my best to understand you when I was a child. I placed blind trust in you, hoping that I’d find peace of mind. You were so complex, you know, most of the time I just blindly accepted your behavior—my father, my faith.

Let me explain, please, and don’t interrupt me—that’s how it feels. I am begging you; I am on my knees—figuratively at least.

Listen, and just accept that I know you! Indeed, I know you so well—you have no idea—I even know you have not been waiting for me all this time—you never did: thirty years is too long. I know you didn’t appoint me as your ultimate Godot and that after a few weeks, maybe days or months, you stopped waiting, as usual. When I was a child you dragged me into all those activities—activities too variable to consume, too fast to enjoy, and too irrational for a kid. But you didn’t wait then, either.

Yes, I’m serious.

I kept following your footsteps, desperately trying to please you. At that time, I didn’t understand your mood swings. There were too many of them and they were all too fast—back and forth, from bright white to the darkest black—sugar mixed with mustard. You rushed from laughter to despair, all the while ignoring me. I, your faithful son, kept following, getting used to being used. Used, used! Used but full of smiles: that was me, your only son.

I finally understand now, after thirty years. Thirty years of thinking about you, thirty years of missing you. Yes, I admit.

I remember, one day you decided to dive into photography—yes, you and me were going to develop photographs, on Sunday afternoons—black and white and artistic—very artistic, that’s what you promised me. It will be fun, you said. Trust me. And I did, as usual. I adored you. We went to a little photo shop in the village. You purchased an expensive camera and all kinds of equipment—illuminator and magnifier, liquids to develop and fix, and tools like clips. So many dangerous liquids and little containers were needed to develop our own photographs in black and white. It would be our new hobby. You installed a dark room in the attic, next to the flour loft, above your bakery. You wanted it to be perfect, as usual. You took pictures of trees, of flowers, of cakes, of anything, of me… and we closed ourselves in our dark room, under the red light, on Sunday afternoons while mom was napping… enthusiastic, and obsessed by the results. I watched, I got bored, whispered to my doll, had ice cream, while you were unstoppable. You smiled at me while watching how the white paper in the container turned into a picture—some new meaningless picture of a horse or a vase with flowers. I smiled back. You were my hero.

But after a few weeks you stayed on your couch on Sunday afternoons, listening to opera with your eyes closed, and our dark room with meaningless pictures everywhere got dusty. That’s how you were. Mom got angry about the waste of money, but then she accepted it all—as always—and cleaned out the room. She loved us so much. All gone. She loved you so much. She still does. She knew everything, but she kept silent all those years.

Stamps, you said after a while. Let’s collect stamps, Junior, it will be great, you’ll see.

I nodded and smiled. We switched to stamps. I followed you bouncing up and down because I was excited about the idea. Yes, great, postage stamps. Sure. Why not? We glided from photographs to stamps. Life was simple and beautiful. I was eight or nine… stamps! You called it philately.

Philately… philately… philately, I kept repeating the word until it was mine and I could tell my classmates. Bouncing happy, me, hand in hand with you—exchanging smiles, purchasing stamps and expensive albums. You bought and bought and bought more, came home with little boxes and on Sunday afternoons, in the living room, we carefully classified and collated stamps on the table, organized by country. We mostly collected African countries.

Watch that chocolate!

I saw stamps from countries I had never even heard off: Upper Volta, Belgian Congo—Really dad, do we have a country in Africa?—or Kenya, with wild animals on it, or black men, half-naked, wearing colorful skirts or scary masks. We had a separate album for Belgium, for its kings: from Leopold I to Baudouin I—faces of Belgian kings, staring at me, impressing me.

You took me to expositions and philately gatherings, where we met hundreds of colleagues—all obsessed with stamps, expensive and unique, all willing to die for that one special stamp. I didn’t understand it at all. In our red-white Opel Record, me next to you with our albums on my lap, we drove to other villages and cities, in search for new stamps—new encounters. We were together, traveling through our African countries, and I couldn’t be more proud—of you, my only dad, who gave me ice cream and cookies and everything a boy could dream of. It was me and you, my father, enjoying life together. I thought it would be like that forever!

One Sunday afternoon, at a gathering—me, holding on to your trousers, surrounded by tall people, who were all busy negotiating—you got attracted by the collection of a young blond man sitting in the corner with his albums spread open on a small table. I still remember that young man; I can even see his face—every detail of it. He had blue eyes, white skin and big teeth. And he had rare stamps which, according to you, would fit perfectly in our collection. You kept asking him again and again, till he gathered his stuff and ran away. But you didn’t give up; you took my hand, and we kept following him, asking, bargaining. I had no idea why you wanted his stamps so badly. Stupid stamps!

Now I know: it wasn’t the stamps you wanted. You wanted him.

Every Sunday we’d visit those gatherings in the old back room of this or that pub. I loved it, especially your company. It lasted a few months. It became too difficult and boring, that’s what you said. I accepted your words. Sure, too difficult, for you, not for me: I loved the names of all those countries and the beautiful images of all those animals and kings. Then, one day everything was gone, suddenly. And you didn’t explain.

Later we switched, kept switching, to pictures of exotic birds, cigar bands, coins, German helmets—too many things, too fast, and too unfulfilling—for you, not for me…

Remember?

A few years later we dove into soccer. I was twelve, I liked soccer (although I was not good at it), because my schoolmates liked it and I wanted to be cool.

Dad, can we go watch a soccer game? I asked.

You saw it as an opportunity for another mood swing, another attempt to sublimate your real feelings—all your secret feelings. Dark feelings!

How you needed those mood swings!

Mom thought it was good for us to go out, away from that lazy couch; she said it was good for our health to get the flour out of your lungs. She was afraid that you would get baker’s lung, as so many of your colleagues. Yes, baker’s lung was what troubled so many other bakers. But not you. You were troubled by something else. Mother insisted that we went to a soccer game every Sunday. We chose to root for Anderlecht—you did! You told me that it was the best team in the country and that there were black players who were lean as monkeys and fast as antelopes. His name was Kialunda, and you adored him. Julian was his first name, if I remember well. Not sure… He was tall and slim… and very black—I had never seen a black man before. We became avid supporters, dressed in purple and white: shirt, scarf and hood. We’d watch them every Sunday, no matter where they played. We’d travel every Sunday, through Belgium, from Bruges to Liège, shouting in support and distress, discussing strategy with the other guys—with the gang. I was freezing, had snowflakes on my nose and wanted to go home, but you were shouting and waving your scarf. I just looked up at your face, smiled and did the same with my scarf. I thought I was looking at my future face—the handsome face of a man who knew how to talk smooth. My father! I wanted to look like you as an adult. You became a fanatic soccer fan; you were ready to die for your team, and hated all others. I didn’t care. I liked soccer because I enjoyed being with you. And so I tried not to think of my freezing feet, ate hot dogs and drank cokes, watching adult men battle with each other. I didn’t care. I was neither aggressive nor defensive. I was with you, always happy and completely neutral towards the game. You weren’t: you were manly—like a real macho.

My God! Are you smiling now? Good… you remember.

No, not anymore. I stopped watching soccer after the Heysel stadium disaster, in May 1985. You know about it? Heaven Times? You smile? Yes, an unbelievable tragedy in a soccer stadium. Can you imagine?

I was there. I saw how, on the other side of the stadium, fans trying to escape the mayhem were pressed against a wall. All this was the result of a riot that had erupted before the 1985 European Cup Final between Liverpool and Juventus had even begun. Thirty-nine fans died and 600 were injured. Unbelievable! They finished the game while they were counting the corpses outside. Disgusting! I cried all night, alone in my room. I never went near a stadium again.

Hooligans, they were called—trouble makers, losers. You never heard the word? I know. So many things are new since you passed away. It is amazing how the world has changed in those thirty years. But humans haven’t changed: same needs, same greed, and same stupidity. Be sure of that.

Now we have computers, and cell phones… and DVDs… and iPhones, and all kinds of smartphones, and we are blessed with a trillion dollar battle between Apple and Microsoft. Very amusing! Technology is sprinting and it has become impossible to keep up now. New gadgets every day, and everybody jumping on it—over and over again. Terrible and terribly confusing! Thank God the human brain isn’t changing. Thank God? You know my opinion on Him, I guess.

Now we have the mighty Internet. But for most of us it is only an easy way to get access to porn. You should have tried it. Google it and you’ll find it! I guess you didn’t have the guts to buy porn. Did you? One time you did? I think it was in Amsterdam. Am I right? . . . I knew it. At the end of your life in Amsterdam, where you tasted the real thing: the young flesh and the smell of sweet sweat.

We also have hackers now. They plant viruses on other people’s website. They are morons who try to destroy accounts and steal information. No reason for their existence. But I have no time to explain thirty years of history. That’s not why I came here, and get wet… I’ll tell you later. Be patient, ok?

We have suicide terrorists too, and crazy gunmen who shoot at crowds in shopping malls or post offices or schools.

What? You don’t know what accounts are? No, not bank accounts, but e-mail and Facebook and so forth. This is difficult to explain. Very handy to spice up life and get into contact with anybody worldwide—no more limits, no more borders, and no more romance. Communications have become easy and cold. Romantic love letters are a thing of the past.

Yes, and CDs. Those vinyl black plates, the records, LPs, are so yesterday. I remember that you had a few hundreds of them: opera and jazz—Madame Butterfly and Billie Holiday or Franco Corelli and Otis Redding. Franco! He was our number one. How I miss the little scratches, the needle, the cleaning of those big black plates you took care of so well. I loved how you’d listen on your couch, having a glass of red wine, while I was doing my homework. Sure, I miss my childhood; I admit… but, on the other hand, I realize now how you used me—even my body. I am sure you remember that one night in the hospital. Do you? It was my only night in a hospital: admitted for tummy pain, suspected of having acute appendicitis. We have to talk