Preface
As a symbol of happiness, joy, laughter, and fulfillment, Big Buddha also represents wealth and prosperity.
Big Buddha, the name of a restaurant that I saw crystal clear in my dream. This dream carries a message for me about finding a balance between my Yin and Yang.
My lucid vision had a predictive quality that is a boost for me on my journey toward self-awareness. Even though I feel like I am in a fast, out-of-control sailboat, groping in the dark without direction or guidance, I continue my search for the meaning behind my trauma as I made my way back to my true self.
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Part One
‘‘aujourd’hui, je t’aime plus qu’hier, mais bien moins que demain’’
The Prophecy
Above the entrance hangs a large sign with red neon letters: Big Buddha.
On this bright day, the early spring sun has been shining for several hours, gives the morning a warm feel. On a bench in the square in the middle of the village, I peer-my eyes narrow to block out the sun-at my pride.
Nature seems to have come to life around me. Trees are in full bloom, birds are chirping, crickets sing their southern song. Everything and everyone seems to enjoy the sun. I take a deep breath. My nostrils fill with the most delicious smells. Jasmine, oregano, and garlic, and a mix of the sweet, untouched nature, just as I remember from the South of France in summer. ‘Hmm, delicious.’ I enjoy this moment and the thought of what I will do next. That brings a smile to my face. It’s all part of the new life, I create. Looking at the open kitchen window, where chefs are busy with the “mise en place” for lunch, to the two gorgeous girls sitting next to me. Young, fresh, and full of zest for life. I’m at least twenty years older, but to my surprise, this has never been an issue. Surely, a boost for my confidence.
Two pairs of long legs dangle under two frivolous skirts. I place my hands on the right and left of one leg and gentle squeeze the willing flesh. Fantasies bubble up. But, for the moment, we look at the hustle and bustle on the terrace of Big Buddha.
Beforehand, my vision was of a mix of backpackers and tourists as clientele for my restaurant. And that is what the place has been packed with throughout the summer. From early in the morning until late at night.
The success of my concept spreads by word of mouth. The café-restaurant, my gem, featured in various magazines and travel guides.
The village where I settle resides not far from the sanghas of Thich Nhat Hanh, the Vietnamese Buddhist who has meant so much to me in my past with his life teachings and books. A past that I transcend using work ethic and passion. Something that can be seen in every aspect of my restaurant.
People, who went to one of the three sanghas, usually don’t leave without a visit to my place. Which has become synonymous with the process, the learning moment for which this group of searchers has withdrawn from society for a while.
‘Bonjour Henri.’ A resident of the picturesque village, who has just come from the Boulanger, with its delicious French baguette, waves at me. ‘Salut Jean-Marie,’ I greet him back. The girls and I watch the French beret wearing man, holding his baguette under his arm.
‘Jeez, Henri,’ says one of my conquests, ‘you know everyone.’ I do not reply, only stare at her with kindness and remain silent. I’m not familiar with him, but I always call strangers “Jean-Marie,” as the locals seem to appreciate it when foreigners try to learn their names. Not only that, but I also believe it’s wonderful to see how he lets his admiring look go over the ladies and me. Knowing that my reputation with women in the short time I live here is often the talk of the town. Fine by me, as long as people speak just as passionate about my business, the waiting staff, and the menu.
In the restaurant Big Buddha, we prepare vegetarian, perfect-looking, and tasteful meals. For lovers, we have a large choice of fresh fish. As it is my goal to bridge the gap between vegetarians and folks that don’t embrace the vegetarian idea.
Everything consists - as much as possible - organic. In addition to the regional wines, we have a large stock of Grand Cru de Maranges from Jean Louis’s winery.
I am always loyal to my friends.
The vibe at Big Buddha reminds me of the excitement I feel at the airport before taking off on a journey. What I want to give my guests is… a memorable emotional experience. One that includes appreciation not only for the food and service, but also for the adventure, the smells, and the decor that they will experience from everything we have to offer.
Of course, success also depends on the kitchen, the freshness of the products, and the passion of the chef and his team.
But deep in my heart, I know that Big Buddha deserves its success because the service is excellent.
Twelve beautiful women and three men, all with exceptional talent, work in shifts. One of whom runs the kitchen, where he constantly improves my original menu.
They all help to set the atmosphere in the business.
The working atmosphere vibrates a positive energy, that makes it a pleasure every day of the season to serve the guests. To participate in the growing, unstoppable success of the place that I have built with blood, sweat, and tears.
I just work as a maître d’hôtel and manage the whole thing.
Of course, I’m about hiring the staff and operating according to a certain philosophy that I’d rather not explain to others. All that I can say; the women who work for me are beautiful, and I enjoy the pleasure of sharing some romantic time with many of them.
The core of my staff consists of real professionals; the rest of them are seasonal workers and backpackers who want to earn some money. They come from all over the world and receive a warm welcome on their journey. It’s great that Big Buddha resonates so well for its welcoming and well-known, approachable vibe. The stream of female backpackers who know how to find my business does not leave me unmoved. The two ladies sitting next to me have almost escaped my grasp, almost.
‘Henri, I’m tired.’ One of the girls snuggles up against me. ‘Me too,’ says the other, and she also snuggles up against me. ‘Of course, you’re tired, that’s not strange at all, after a night out,’ I say. Despite the obvious hints, I make no move to get up. I enjoy looking at my cafe-restaurant, it fills me with pride.
My gaze creeps up the front of the building, to the first floor, where I live, where my bed stands, and where I plan to take the ladies. I let out a deep sigh. It’s getting harder and harder to keep up the image, the appearance I create of me. Only the lust I derive for what I intend to do makes my doubts somewhat disappear. I see that the doors are shut from my French balcony. For a moment, I worry that smells are swirling in my living room. Will that ruin the atmosphere? But I soon let this go; it’s a bloody honor to stay in my private quarters, my sanctuary, I think. Sex does not create any privileges for them.
How I act, portraying the image of success, all of it stems from my past. The past where I end up in a free fall that threw me back to the deepest bottom of my existence, deeper and deeper. The rupture of the harmony between her and me. My wife, my darling Maria, she who no more corresponds at all to the image I once had of her.
Back then, I took a step back, and then one more and another one…
To give her the rest I thought she needed.
I kept taking steps back in the vain hope that she would calm down, and perhaps reconsider her decision. As a result, I stumble, disappear into a bottomless pit. Became instant homeless, and worse, it felt like I was drowning.
Still, I kept hope, no, I was confident that she will change her mind, and we would talk again for the first time since she starts contemplating getting a divorce. Nothing worked out the way I had hoped. I end up without a bank account, a job, or a safe place to go.
To my horror, cut off from all I hold so dear to my heart, my family.
Aimless, thrown out of her life. I had nothing left.
In waves flooding me, I feel the wallowing energy rising that wants to drag me into thoughts that are tearing with might and main at the crack of my broken heart.
Just as I’m about to keep falling, deeper and deeper, into that pit of misery, a whiny noise comes from somewhere. Like a bee aiming to enter my ear with its annoying buzzing.
‘Henri, Henri!’ Serge, my number one waiter, comes out of Big Buddha in a quasi-hurry. He carefully places his feet in front of each other, step by step. He seems to imitate a waddling model on a catwalk. His gait draws all the attention, and that’s precisely what he wants.
Serge crosses the street and beckons me closer.
Aha, I think, the cause of the penetrating sound. Curious, the girls and I get up and walk toward him.
‘What’s going on?’
Serge looks at me from top to bottom. He put his hands on his sides in a showy manner, and his tiny chest is sticking out in front of him. Staring at me and my two gazelles with a bit of disdain, then he watches the women from top to bottom.
Subsequently, he tilts his head. And just before he wants to mention that it is much more fun with men, I stop him. I know his tune, and although I respect his orientation, I would rather not hear anything about it right now.
‘Stop, tell me what’s going on.’
‘Did you have fun last night?’ He can’t resist, and I can’t get mad about it.
‘Serge, what’s going on?’
His lip is raised in a pout, he waits just a little too long. I’m losing my temper. He notices the change and becomes restless. It’s a perfect waiter and a pillar of Big Buddha, but every so often…
‘Serge, please…’ The rest of the sentence goes unspoken.
‘Okay, fine. You have a guest.
‘Who is it?’ Serge doesn’t reply. The eternal territorial battle rages on. I struggle to suppress a laugh and maintain my pose of authority.
‘Go and see for yourself.’
He turns and, with a great sense of show, walks back to the cafe-restaurant, almost piqued. I know there’s no point in calling him to order now, that would cause a riot. Serge loves that. And all because I went out with the two ladies last night.
* * *
Big Buddha is built on a corner. Overlooking the square, built from old, large white blocks of stone that show a lot of craftsmanship.
A place buzzing with energy. Ornaments, cut out with great passion in a distant past, adorn the two-story building. At the back are the sleeping quarters for the staff, and at the front my living/sleeping area.
From my French balcony, I frequent watch the hustle and bustle of the square. These are moments when I watch tourists enjoying their time here. Couples walking hand in hand across the square, and old men and women sitting on benches in the park, watching everything and talking about how ashamed they are of how young people dress and act in public nowadays.
Not long ago, I bought the property for next to nothing. It was on a schedule to be demolished. But the foundation was good. The renovation of the building I did myself. Paying for that with blood, sweat, and tears, but give up? Never! I didn’t even know I was that handy.
Once open, there was no holding back. As the business took shape, its success grew. Soon the clientele was of international allure, people of all kinds, who spread their pleasure from visiting my place among friends at home.
* * *
The guests on the terrace are watching as the three of us cross the street in Serge’s wake. There are many regular guests; I talk left and right with them.
The terrace, with many seats, and a fantastic view, I consider my showpiece.
The cash cow during summer.
It’s decorated with style, colorful lights, and a pergola covers the lot. One I built myself and have put a smart sprinkler system on. On hot summer days, it sprays a light mist of fresh, cold water, which brings the temperature down by many degrees.
I walk from table to table and talk animatedly with the guests. The two girls are standing next to me, somewhat bored. Now and then, one tugs my shirt, urging me to hurry. I have not forgotten them.
How can I? For a moment, I think of the beautiful slender curves of their bodies and that I can let my hands slide over them later, argh, wonderful.
But for now, I’m pretending not to be aware, and take my time.
‘Henri,’ it sounds soft, ‘are we going upstairs now?’ The tiredness can be seen in the girls. I smile, without saying a word, and walk to the entrance.
Curious, who is there for me?
At first, I assume it must be a rep, but no, Serge would have taken care of that, right?
Inside, the decor shows a warm mix of Asian and Mediterranean. Lots of dark wood, with light walls and ocher yellow accents. Hip music blasts from the loudspeakers. Serge approaches me, swaying his hips.
When I smile at him, he starts to beam.
‘Oh my, you took your time, did you?’ He taps his foot.
‘I told you a guest waits for you.’ His tone still a bit haughty; he tries to regain the lost authority from outside, here in what he regards as his territory.
I raise an eyebrow, and Serge lowers his feathers.
‘Where can I find the guest and who is it?’
‘I have no idea who it is,’ says Serge. ‘It’s a woman, and she’s in the back of the café, at the regulars’ table.’
I often get guests who insist on talking to me, but something in me makes me restless. ‘You guys better go upstairs,’ I tell the girls, who won’t be told twice. I suspect they’ll be asleep before I get there.
‘Back of the café, you say?’
‘Yes, at the regulars’ table.’
On the terrace, I hear someone calling for the bill. Serge, under different circumstances, handles that like a chicken on food, but now he pauses and pretends that his oh-so-busy and important presence is required here at all costs.
He pulls a cloth over a table and arranges some flowers in a vase. I notice all this as if in slow motion, and before I realize that he too feels something, I shuffle forward a step.
A sizable pillar in the middle of the café blocks the view of the regulars’ table. Although I’ve found that thing annoying from the beginning, it appears to serve a purpose in supporting the second floor.
My ears start to buzz, then make a squeaking sound. Strange? This only happens when I’m tense. But why am I now?
I walk further into the café. One more big step, and then all of a sudden, I’m face to face with… Maria.
And almost in that one millisecond, the sadness, bottled up all that time, breaks through my mask. Maria stands up. Her chair makes a scratching noise on the wooden floor. I hear shuffling behind me. I don’t have to turn around because I know the staff looks at me with curiosity. They feel it too, but not as intense as I do.
‘Henri.’ Maria speaks my name; my heart starts beating faster. I am silent and remain petrified. Like me, she too seems unfazed by time. Her hair still medium-length, and she has the same slender build as back then…
She takes a small step toward me.
I cannot move, even if ten horses pull on me.
She takes another step. How long has it been? I think, but can’t find the answer. We look at each other. The ice I had built around my heart, the bittersweet memories, melts away in a flash.
Maria takes another step, and with all my strength, as much as I can muster, I spread my arms a bit, as an inviting gesture.
Lifting my arms takes energy - and a bunch of it - as if the gravity of the entire region has gathered beneath it, making this simple gesture hard, almost impossible.
And what’s more… under no circumstance would I be able to speak at this moment.
My tongue has lost all functions. For a second, I think about the girls upstairs, what would they say about this? However, that image fades.
I see Maria standing in front of me. Just as I remember her.
The contours of the café recede from my field of vision. Everything fades. I just see her. Her face burns on my retina, her lips form to say something. And then she moves. She walks toward me, no, she runs toward me now. I can see how her mouth forms words, but I hear nothing.
What on earth is happening?
She’s almost there. Heat flows through my body and soul. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say; lightning struck me. Joy rushes through every cell of my body. I’m so glad things are going to work out between us.
After all this time, she comes back to me. We can build our love back, grow old together… Sweat runs down my back, I can feel it. I am soaking wet.
Why does this happen?
And just before I want to close my arms around Maria, who rushes toward me…
I wake up with a fright.
1989 - February 26 - Merida - Mexico
We somewhat reluctant approach the reception table, feeling both strong and adventurous. I can feel my palms sweating, and I know hers aren’t much better. She stands next to me and looks into my eyes, her face glowing with excitement.
She slides her hands down her red shorts to loosen the fabric of her delicious buttocks. It has a mesmerizing effect on me, as she attempts to wipe her sweaty hands. Even though the temperature in Merida, Yucatán State, is hot outside, in the office it feels cool.
Again, she runs her hands along her legs, leaving dark sweat stains on her shorts. Our eyes connect for a moment.
We are soulmates, lovers. Soon to be in a happy entanglement, better known as marriage, if everything goes well.
In broken Spanish, since we can’t manage much more than a few basic phrases, we try to make it clear what we want.
“Madre Mia,” the receptionist’s face lights up. Her name is Annabel, a name we both like. Annabel is about our age, but like most Mexicans, she is much shorter than our tall frames. She stands up from her chair in excitement, her face showing a wide grin and her eyes glimmering with joy.
She expresses her gratitude with a flurry of words that pour from her mouth in what sounds like prayer; though it can just as easy be a shopping list. Annabel’s face glows, almost as much as Maria’s and mine. Then, in English, she begins to thank us for allowing her to be here now, to be part of this wonderful and holy step forwards.
‘Marriage, a blessing, I’m so happy for you,’ Annabel says in her best English.
She continues to babble on. A waterfall of words floods us, just like the happiness we experience.
‘Wow, the first congratulations!’ I shout, looking at my girl. She radiates, her eyes look at me, and I get all warm inside. Can it get any better?
The office of the honorary consul, its decor, looks tasteful. Everywhere I look I see art from the past, showing off the country’s long history, is a pleasure to stand in. Several people are busying themselves in peaceful silence. Only a click-clacking sound from typewriters and a humming buzz coming from the air-conditioning is noticeable.
Some sunlight streams in through the windows, that have wooden blinds in front of them, giving the room a romantic look. Dust swirls in some rays of light.
The hectic of the street life outside feels like another reality. All we notice here is a light vibration of the working buzz.
Looking around, I get the idea that the decor looks a bit like a set from an old Hollywood movie, giving the whole thing an even more surrealistic touch.
Our intention, on the other hand, is anything but surrealistic. We’re getting married! We don’t even notice – no one does – that our appearance looks like that of low-budget travelers. Shorts and slippers with a T-shirt, suntanned bodies from the months that we are travelling. Not particular dressed as couples that search for information to tie the knot, or so I imagine.
‘It’s going to happen,’ Maria says. She shines. We look at each other in love. Not much older than 23 years. We have been exploring The USA and Mexico for three or four months now. We don’t know exactly how long, and we don’t want to know because who keeps track of time when you live, enjoy, and… travel?
An adventure that has no end date. Ever since we met, everything clicks between us. Moreover, the intention to travel and never return to the Netherlands.
That’s the dream, the goal, anyway.
Maria’s hand is shaken by Annabel, and then I get a heartfelt shake. I laugh, it makes me feel joyous. Annabel addresses us in Spanish, which seems more simple sounding here than in Spain.
“Matrimonio”, I hear, and a lot more Spanish following. But, “Matrimonio” is a word that she often repeats. Does this mean marriage? Yep, Annabel confirms this after we ask about it, and we say: Yes, Yes, we want to do that.
Annabel can hardly believe it; she keeps babbling in her rhythmical Spanish, and the word “Matrimonio” keeps coming up. I love to hear it.
Judging by the look of my beautiful, dark-blonde Maria, so does she. I squeeze her moist hand, and she smiles. Oh, that mouth, that radiant smile – I want to kiss her right then and there. Holding hands, our sweat mingling, it creates a unity that feels like all the gods are sharing this moment with us. We have no doubt; no questions arise about this being a wise decision.
We allow the positive energy that surrounds us to guide us. Soon, we realize the excitement, among all the folks present in the office, is because we’re the first couple to ever receive assistance from the Dutch Consul in getting married.
At the back of the office, a thick, hardwood door opens. I’m first drawn to the beautiful door, but then I see the art decorating the space of the office behind the door. Ancient-looking art. A figure blocks my view and I notice the man, who looks at us, wondering what the racket is all about.
‘My boss,’ Annabel says, and she begins to address him in Spanish. After hearing the story, Señor Lopez, the honorary consul of the Netherlands, a title he inherits from his father, as he later tells us, approaches and shakes our hands.
We glow with happiness.
1986 - Argeles sur Mer - Southern France
The crickets chirp their song, a fat bee buzzes in the air. The high Summer season has yet to arrive at the holiday resort, including our restaurant. Not much happens during the day, but the season will soon start in full.
The sun shines beneficently, making it seem like paradise here. And for me, it is paradise, heaven on earth. I live like a god in France.
In the evenings, all the tables are filled with guests.
During the day, I live like a tourist on vacation. Everything moves slower than when August arrives, less than a month away when the high season begins and millions of French people drive south for a well-deserved holiday.
I work as a waiter in a restaurant on camping “Taxo les Pins”.
It’s my first season, and I enjoy it. The camaraderie among the guys who work here in the restaurant and kitchen is perfect. In fact, I consider this time, when I work seven days a week, with sometimes days from fourteen to sixteen hours, the best time ever.
Nothing can hurt me. I am young and full of life. The World is at my feet. About ten boys, young men really, complete the team. We form a close-knit unit. All of us are ready for the great adventure that is life. An easy job since our guests are always in a good mood. What else can they be? They are on vacation, after all.
We treat all guests equal and give them all a royal treatment, not just them, but ourselves as well.
A few times a week, we go out with the whole crew until late into the night. We dance in the discotheque, where booze costs a fortune, and we spent money like it’s toilet paper. Living in a daze of youth, a daze in which anything is possible.
The energy we extrude is palpable for everyone. It will not surprise me if people see us as the young gods of Taxo les Pins.
And that’s how we act. In particular me!
* * *
My first year working there, I met Peggy, a beautiful Frenchwoman who, in my opinion, made love to me for the first time. I fell head over heels for her! As a young pup, I learn the tricks of the trade of making love, though my romantic skills were still clumsy and embarrassing. To impress Peggy, I took her out and entertain her with all the fun available in the touristic settings of Argeles sur Mer, a tourist town that attracts a million holiday-goers a year.
I just move forward, bringing out the wild guy in me, and it works! A new world reveals itself, strange and exciting. No clue, no plan about what I did, I just follow my heart.
But what were those butterflies doing in my stomach?
Even at that young age, I felt like an old romantic. Unfamiliar with such mushy feelings in my body, I want to embrace this sensation forever.
I would have done anything for Peggy just to be with her. I wouldn’t tolerate anything holding me back from this euphoria of pleasure, and I never want to give it up. Nobody has ever told me that vacation love can be intense and also short-lived. Even if it had been set in stone, I refuse to believe it at that time.
And so, it happens. Her vacation came to an end. I can still see myself standing on the platform, watching the train with Peggy on it disappear faster and faster from view. I felt more like crying than laughing. Yet, that wonderful feeling of being in love was stronger than before. I wave long after the train has gone.
Broken and with a head full of questions, I go about my daily work. She is always with me, thinking of her. Every week, I write postcards with amorous messages, scrawled in my bad French, to Peggy. Every day at three o’clock, I hang around the mailbox like a drooling dog, waiting for a good word from her.
My first season in France moves on. The days of hard work become long, only to return to the calm that was also there during the beginning of the season.
Life as god in France starts again.
While I never stop writing to Peggy, I notice that she responds a little less than she had at first. But she is busy with her “BAC”, the French school exams, and as a professional waiter, the work absorbs my attention.
* * *
In October, the campsite with its many mobile homes is mostly empty. The sun still shines, making the sight a little less desolate.
Here and there, a retired owner rummages around his “villa en France” and basks in a ray of warmth. Our team is no longer complete, most of them have gone home.
My departure draws near as well. With great promises of staying in touch with each other, we drift off one after the other. I drive back to the Netherlands with Joop, a friend and colleague. Nothing awaits me or encourages me to return to my native land. But that’s still some days away because I will first meet my father in the north of France. I remember well when the old man comes to pick me up in Santenay, a small town in Burgundy. As soon as I see him, I tell him about my Peggy: ‘Dad, I’m in love.’
He enjoys the happiness of his youngest son. I can see it on his face.
‘Well, we can drive her way after Paris if you like? If you are so sure of yourself, it can only do you good. Don’t you think so?’
‘No, Dad, I can’t. To be honest, I’m a bit scared and want to prepare my approach carefully.’ The strong feelings I thought I had for Peggy aren’t strong enough for me to jump in at the deep end. I have another idea: ‘In the Netherlands, I will write a letter in Dutch. I will ask a friend to translate it. What do you think, Dad, is that a good plan?’
My father laughs and says, ‘Sure, if that’s what you want?’
* * *
I enjoy the days with him in Paris, where we go after our stay in Burgundy and enjoy the excellent wines of the region. But after a few days in the city of love, I have seen enough. My impatience grows, and I can’t wait to sit down and write my letter.
Now I want to go to the Netherlands to take this gigantic step and express my love.
A French friend of mine, who lives in our small country for years, translates my letter. She speaks both languages fluent, but her French origins become obvious when she speaks Dutch.
I still remember how charmed she was by the loving language I use in my message, the love letter to Peggy. According to her, it was a beautiful, warm letter that expresses my determination to take the step. I take pleasure in hearing that, even though there is still uncertainty in my thinking, I feel desire and longing for the woman I have fallen in love with.
This is a first-time experience for me.
My friend, who translate the letter, and is so charmed by the contents, can’t reconcile it with how I look and how she thinks I am – wild and reckless. That she makes clear and expresses her surprise about my ‘adult’ intentions. I look younger than I am, a rookie, but my soul is much older, and that betrays my text.
Years and years later, I meet her again, and she still speaks with respect about the passionate content of the letter at that time.
* * *
I stand at the corner of the street, near the house I rent, my hands sweating and my heart full of anticipation as I clutch the letter tight. Carefully, I express my wish as I slip the letter through the red mailbox’s slot. Hearing it drop to the bottom. Calculating how long it will take to reach her mailbox in France? More important, I calculate and recalculate the time it will take to get an answer.
In the weeks that follow, I linger by my mailbox every day until the mail arrives.
Like a loyal dog, I wait for a good word from my master.
No mail from France ever comes.
1987 - July 8 - A Day to Remember
I start my second season in France with the same pattern as the year before. In the evenings, the place gets busier as time passes and during the day, my colleagues and I have time to play and swim in the pool. We swim in competitions and dive into the water with silly antics.
The world is at my feet again. Peggy lingers in my head, but I understand that she doesn’t love me as much as I was hoping for.
With a hungry eye for feminine beauty, I accept my loss. My heart is somewhat healed, but still a little bruised.
From time to time, I look back on the past few months in the Netherlands. I had to endure the greatest suffering in that bleak, harsh, and long winter, watching and waiting for the mail to arrive.
With the loss of my first love lesson engraved into my heart, I look forward to new adventures here in the South of France.
‘Look out!’ I yell and make a little bomb, sending water splashing over the edge of the pool and wetting one of my colleagues, who had just dried off.
He dives into the water to get back at me. I try to get away as fast as I can, but laughter erupts as I let myself be pushed underwater a little later.
Anyone passing by who sees us frolicking in the pool will never guess that in the evening, we are the hosts and cooks who give them a pleasant time in the restaurant.
In and around the pool, we look more like holidaymakers.
Someone shouts, ‘Hey, there are guests!’ He points to the entrance, and I see a few cars with typical Dutch caravans approaching. You can recognize the Dutch by the sagging of the back of the caravan, likely packed with potatoes from Holland.
The cars pull up to the reception. I feel an impulse to help them and climb out of the water. My already tanned, young body and my one-handed jump over the fence apparently make quite an impression.
The old lady, Maria’s father’s sister, tells her brother; ‘Well Cornelis, there goes your son-in-law,’ when she sees me jump over the fence.
Drops of water sparkle in the warm sunlight, and the sight of a young man wearing only his swimming trunks, arouse her romantic feelings.
Beginners Luck
The croupier calls out, “Faites vos jeux, rien va plus, mesdames, messieurs.” (Place your bets, no more bets, ladies and gentlemen!) We have one last chance to bet at the roulette table. The roulette ball is already rolling.
I bet on all sevens and on the 13 full and half, which they call “plein et cheval” in French. I wager 50 Francs on my numbers.
My friend and boss, John, stands next to me. We both enjoy gambling and are young and brash. The croupier calls, ‘Thirteen!’
A pile of chips in front of me. I thank him and throw a 50-franc chip at the croupier. John pats me on the back, and I feel like I’ve done something good. I look around the official State Casino, admiring the beautiful decorations and the stately, elegant interior.
I search for recognition of my luck from the other players at the other tables, wanting to show off my status as a winner.
Likewise, I feel powerful and invincible, like nothing can go wrong this year.
Nobody cares. Still, I don’t let it bother me. I’m in a daze. There’s not much time to revel in my fame and glory, though, as the gaming fever grabs us again. All eyes focus on the roulette table. The wheel turns, and a veil of concentration descends over us.
All gamblers try to focus on where the little ball will fall after they place their bets. I look at the croupier with a smile, now a familiar face to me.
I ask him for a repetition: same numbers, same commitment.
Fast and skillfully, he places the chips for me, and the croupier calls for the last chance to gamble. I stay still, and together with my fellow players, we wait in anticipation like one big family.
The little ball goes round and round. I watch it with big hopes. The wheel spins, everyone prays their number will come up. Tension builds.
The ball pops in and out of the numbers on the roulette wheel with a clicking noise, and the croupier calls out, with a touch of surprise in his voice; ‘Number thirteen.’
A squeal of joy escapes me. John smiles and taps me on my shoulder, admiring my daring skill as a gambler. He says, ‘Now, don’t get wild.’
I’m caught up in the euphoria and see endless possibilities, disregarding his well-intend remark. I only have eyes for my croupier friend. He, like his colleagues at the table, smiles at me for my luck. Some of them even wink. I admire the looks, and before John can stop me, I call out, ‘Repetition, double bets.’
Admiring sounds from the table. I’m in seventh heaven. Some players look envious in my direction, but I don’t notice. My concentration is already in full focus on the table, the spinning wheel, and the ball.
The ball soon drops to claim the winning number.
We hear the ticking sound of the jumping ball, everybody is watching with anticipation.
‘Number thirteen!’ The croupier exclaims, looking at me in disbelief. I see the casino’s chef walking in my direction with a big grin on his face, clearly enjoying this moment. The casino chef sounds like he’s handing out the grand prize to a lottery winner. Expressing my joy, I call for the waiter and shout, “Champagne, champagne pour les employees.”
The staff applauds me for my generous gesture. All staff members from this table smile and make drinking motions with their hands. Everyone wants to congratulate me.
I’m the hero of the hour.
With dollar signs in my eyes, I place the table full of chips. Not even John can stop me. I’m wishing that now comes my gigantic windfall, ignoring the murmurs of my fellow players, I focus on the table. Dreaming of massive fortunes. I don’t want anything or anyone to bother me. A firm and in my opinion an irritating hand grips my shoulder. Without looking, I try to shake myself loose.
‘Not now, go away,’ I say in French, but the hand seems to cling like a locked device. Looking up, I see John staring at me. He holds a large stack of chips and shoves it into my hands, saying domineeringly, ‘Change!’
* * *
It’s still hot outside. The stars are bright in the clear night sky. The crickets are still singing their high song, and a light breeze brings a bouquet of scents to my nose. Ecstatic, like a kid, I look at the stack of large 500 French franc notes.
It could have been more. But I’m lucky, John did manage to stop me. As a result of that, I walk out holding 10,000 francs cash in my hands. The equivalent in terms of purchasing power today of about 7,000 euros (or more). It’s a fortune for a young lad like me.
And I know exactly how I’m going to spend it.
1987 - October - The Hook-up
In October, the Netherlands can be icy, but today the bright autumn sun illuminates the bare trees. I’m in a tailor-made suit (!) driving my ‘new’ lightning-fast Alfa Sud, several red roses and an expensive bottle of red wine on the passenger seat. The flat landscape looks plain. Farms along the side of the road seem to be empty. A smoking chimney here and there reveals people are present.
I savor the ride and the wonderful hum of the Alfa engine. The black paint on the bonnet glistens in the sun. With my sunglasses balanced on my nose, my destination draws closer. My right foot and the accelerator caress each other more and more. I speed past other road users, left and right.
Autumn scents whirl outside, but all I can smell is a whiff of motor oil. I guess that’s just part of this fast Italian-made engine. Pressing the gas pedal harder, accelerating faster and faster. Like an ever-growing magnet, I’m drawn to my destiny.
On this wonderful day, a day full of hope and promise, I’m on my way to Maria, the woman whose aunt, back in France, said to her father: ‘Well Cornelis, there goes your son-in-law.’
I remember well how she came to the restaurant in the evening, with her younger brother. They sat down at a table at the very back of the terrace. A big terrace with more than a hundred seats. Joop, my then-friend, colleague, and eternal competitor when it came to the girl hunt, had already seen her.
‘Joop,’ I call to him, ‘those people over there want to order something.’ I point in the opposite direction. Joop looks over his shoulder and, true to his profession, he goes there to serve them.
I hurry, ignoring other guests who wish to order something, to the table at the back of the terrace. She gives a short laugh and lights a cigarette.
Her teenage brother looks at me the way all boys that age do, with amazement and uncertain. But not nearly as insecure as when sitting there alone.
Ignoring the other guests, I smile at her and, with my customary nonchalant indifference, which I think comes with my status as a Dutch boy with a job abroad.
I ask her, ‘Do you like something to drink?’
‘Coke and white wine with ice, please,’ she says. She blows smoke into the air and watches me turn around without another word.
‘Quick, a Coke and a white wine with ice.’
John, who stands behind the bar, looks at me for a moment, then his gaze slides across the terrace. As soon as he spots her, a smile appears on his face and, despite being busy with another order, he first prepares mine.
“Passé, passé!” Holding the tray up high, to get through to the customers as fast as possible. I put the drinks on her table and say; ‘From me.’
She laughs and while her brother drinks his coke, we look at each other.
‘Thank you.’
There is a moment of silence. In my mind, I go through my seducing repertoire. On the terrace, I hear more guests enter the place. I have to get on with my work.
Lacking anything better, I ask, ‘Nice?’
‘Yes, what’s your name?’
‘Henri. And you?’
‘Maria.’ Again there is silence. It isn’t an embarrassing silence. No, it is all part of it. My awkward opening question, her simple answer… It is that simple. The foundation has been laid.
‘Do you offer a drink to every woman who comes here for the first time on the terrace?’ ‘No, this is the first time,’ I lie.
She says nothing, just smiles. Again, I get butterflies in my stomach. Last year’s butterflies have found their way back.
‘Do you want to go out tonight?’
‘Yes, that’s fine,’ she says.
The buzz of the terrace pulls me out of our conversation. Joop, who works not far from me, keeps an eye on everything with a suspicious look.
‘I have to get back to work, okay?’
‘Sure, I’ll see you later, right?’
‘Oh yeah,’ I exclaim, a little too eager. Hoping she hasn’t noticed. I see that Joop is still looking at us. I want to show off. Walking past him, with a wink, I say, ‘Bingo.’
He gives me a jealous look, but I ignore it. I am already serving other guests, back to work. Calling out to my colleagues at the bar, I announce good news: ‘Guys, we’re going out tonight!’ They look at me with expectation, knowing about the battles between Joop and me. Laughter erupts and they all agree.
Later in the evening, I take Maria’s brother, aside. ‘What’s your name?’ I ask.
His face in wonderment with a sheepish look on it, he replies, ‘Harko.’
I grab his arm and direct him away from Maria.
‘Do you want to earn some money?’
He nods his head and says, ‘Yes!’
Earlier in the evening, I overheard that Maria and her brother were sharing a tent, which can be an obstacle. So, I tell Harko, ‘Listen, big friend. Here are 50 francs.’
Holding the note, he asks; ‘What is this for?’
‘For you, if you do one little thing. All I want from you, is that you find another place to sleep tonight. Go and sleep with your father in the caravan or something. Clear?’
Giving him a comradely wink, I wait for his answer. He giggles a bit and looks at his sister, who is standing a few yards away and is curious, watching our conversation.
He nods yes, besides, the money is already in his pocket.
I call out to Maria, ‘See you later!’
She laughs and blows some cigarette smoke into the sensual French evening, then walks Harko to their spot at the campsite.
I look up and see a black sky full of stars. A delightful sight and certainly a great omen.
The evening arrives, and the cars are ready to take us to the discotheque. Maria climbs into the back of the two-door Alfa Sud - yes, the one I would later buy – and Remy, a somewhat clumsy colleague, slams the passenger door shut… with her fingers in between. I want to wring his neck. Doesn’t he know that he’s risking my chances for a nighttime adventure?
It all looks worse than it was, the damage turns out to be nothing more than a scare. Later I have a good laugh with Maria about this, but not as loud as when she said that she brought 350 francs to be certain, back then similar to a hundred guilders. She intended to buy a round of drinks for us. At that time in the Netherlands, you could walk into a café with several people with this amount in your pocket and roll out drunk.
But when she sees me pay for the first round in the discotheque, that intention vaporizes into thin air.
I take out about 900 francs and throw it on the bar.
We earn little money, but due to the amount of work it quickly adds up and when we go out, the trick is to burn everything as fast as possible. Money must flow.
I still see myself smiling in the rearview mirror as I look at her and hear her amazement about how expensive drinks are in a French discotheque.
I am not laughing at the expensive drinking in France, but at her intentions.
Oh man, I do love independent women.
Surprise!
I drive my fast Alfa Sud into the North Holland village of Heiloo, looking for the garden house where Maria lives. I find it behind a large mansion, in the middle of the village, near the railway. There’s no doorbell, so I knock and wait.
Nothing happens, no movement. I knock harder, but nobody seems to be home. I wonder where she can be and look at the big house, which also looks empty. What now? I decide to look for a bar to drink a cup of coffee and think about what to do. The bunch of red roses on the passenger seat, the bottle of red I tuck between the chairs, and the distinctive sound of the Alfa engine roar as I drive away.
At the village bar, I order a coffee and ask Janus, the man behind the bar, where everyone is.
He looks at me in surprise and says, ‘Going to work, of course. What did you think?’ Later, I find out that North Hollanders are obsessing about working, preferably for a boss. I call this attitude ‘flatliners’. Although, Maria is a welcome exception. I believe there must be a counterbalance, like Yin to Yang. I feel a warm sensation spreading through my body when I think of Maria. She was the first of her siblings to get her driver’s license, own a car, and live on her own.
She chose not to follow her older sister’s path of stepping into marriage straightaway.
I love independent and strong women.
As I sit in the bar, the bartender places a cup of coffee in front of me. He’s busy cleaning and stocking the bar, and I can tell it’s a popular spot.
‘What brings you here?’ he asks.
‘The love of my life,’ I reply, smiling.
He smiles back and says, ‘Well, well, well… that’s telling me quite a bit. That’s great!’ He stands with me for a bit, and I can tell he’s a professional. I ask him if it’s often busy here, and he tells me that every weekend it’s packed.
Seeing that I find this questionable, he shows me the large steel silos of beer in the back. Wow, thousands of liters of beer, that sure looks impressing.
My admiration for the success makes Janus talk about all kinds of matters, since there’s nobody else in the bar at this time of day.
He inquires about my life and work. Not a usual thing for me that people ask interesting questions about my young life. But he, it happens. So, I sit in my talking chair and tell him about my work and the future adventures I want to undertake.
My heart overflowing, I talk about Maria, and he says, ‘Pretty girl.’
I wholeheartedly agree and tell Janus, ‘I have to get used to these normal times, you know.’
He laughs and says, ‘I get that now. She’s just working.’
‘So, what are normal working hours,’ I ask. Janus informs me about the regular schedule, and I then calculate when I can expect Maria home.
‘Jeez, that will take hours,’ I say.
‘How about a beer?’ He has the pump already open when I nod yes.
A few more guests enter the bar and I play a game of billiards with one of them. Telling him about my discovery that Maria was not at home.
‘What do you mean? Did you expect she was there?’ I explain that I have just finished a season working in France, with more working hours than a regular year.
And say; ‘Eh, yeah. I foolishly thought everybody follows my working schedule.’
Seeing the silliness of my assumption, we both have a good laugh about it.
The atmosphere set, we toast and drink some.
I am slightly giddy as I show up at Maria’s doorstep with several red roses, a bottle of red wine, and a thirst that I quenched earlier in the day.
‘Surprise!’ I shout as she opens the door and flies around my neck.
1989 - February 26 - One Day Before
Annabel, the secretary of the honorary consul of the Netherlands, thinks it’s great that Maria and I want to marry. But what steps do we take now?
Before we can process what’s happening, Pedro, the office assistant, speeds us through the city streets in a VW Beetle, with Annabel next to him and Maria and me in the back seat.
The warm atmosphere and relaxing way of life, so inherent in the stereotypical image of Mexicans, with the hustle and bustle of the city, make it a joy to look out the window.
We take in the sights and contemplate what will soon happen: getting married. Every house we pass looks like a beautiful colonial building. There are large churches, and modern cars in traffic, but we also see some mules that pull a wagon. It’s a remarkable contrast in street life that we enjoy every day.
The car screeches to a stop in front of a building. Maria and I exchange glances. Clueless, what will happen now? Annabel and Pedro look at us with curiosity. As if we’re supposed to know where we are.
Then they explain that we are somewhere to take care of business. The marriage business, that is. We follow a smiling Annabel, inside the stately building. There she runs from counter to counter, talking, pointing at us. Apparently, she explains our situation to multiple people, and most of them come over and congratulate us. We embrace it with heartfelt happiness. Doing our best to talk back to most in our best Spanish. Annabel tells us not to linger and says, ‘We have no time.’
‘Sweetheart, where are we?’ I ask my Maria.
She shrugs, ‘ Not a clue,’ she says. And asks Annabel. Who gives us some attention between two gasps of breath.
‘The Registro Civil, like the town hall,’ she says with pride, ‘to collect papers. But don’t delay now. Come, come,’ she calls and rushes off.
We hurry after her and count our blessings.
Later outside, where Pedro kept watch on the Beetle, we all get back in the car. He then races through the streets of Merida, the capital of the state of Yucatán.
Minutes later, we arrive, to our surprise, in the hall of the local hospital.
‘What are we doing here?’
‘I don’t know,’ Maria says, squeezing my hand.
We ask Annabel. She says; ‘Good and bad news. The boss gave me a call, and I have to go back to the office. That’s the bad news,’ she says. ‘The good news is, there are just two things left to do. She,’ pointing at the nurse, ‘ will get you on your way.’
‘We can manage that. Don’t worry,’ I say.
‘I don’t doubt it.’ Annabel rushes off again, telling a nurse what our intention is.
To us, she says: ‘Make sure you have passport photos and all papers ready and with you tomorrow.’
‘What papers?’ I ask.
‘Here,’ she hands us the documents from the Town Hall.
‘Si,’ I call out, ‘everything will be fine.’ We all giggle a bit, and Annabel walks off before we can blink our eyes.
A nurse calls us over, and we follow her through the halls of the hospital.
‘What a contrast to the other Mexicans, isn’t she?’ I say to Maria, who agrees that Annabel does show a work mentality so common in Europe, busy, rushing, and career-oriented. We look in her direction again and see her getting into the Volkswagen, and then she’s gone.
Back into traffic with Pedro.
* * *
Maria asks the nurse in her best Spanish, ‘Why do you need our blood?’
The nurse doesn’t get it. Her English is pretty much zero. And her Spanish is so full of dialect that we don’t understand it. We struggle to communicate.
A doctor, in a white overcoat, arrives and studies our papers.
He then asks, ‘Are you, brother and sister?’
We shout in horror, ‘No, of course not! What’s this about?’
The doctor explains that the law requires us to have our blood drawn before marriage.
‘To rule this out,’ he says.
We shrug and say, ‘Well, if you have to, then you have to.’
He walks into a nearby room and leaves us in the hands of smiling nurses. I Joke to Maria about the nurses’ outfits, but she gives me a quasi-hard poke in the side and says, ‘We don’t need that! We don’t need any role-play; we can’t get enough of each other.’
She’s right, of course, and we laugh a bit, as young lovers do. The nurse asks for our attention. We try to communicate with our hands and feet. Not sure if it works, but they all smile and take care of business. We simply undergo the entire process. When the whole ting is done, the nurse points in the direction of an office nearby. Making it clear we need to go there.
Standing in front of the doctor’s desk, the reason why he wants to see us, becomes clear: he wants money. Money for the blood samples. Despite our protests that we have already paid for the treatment, he insists we pay an extra 25,000 pesos.
This amount, though it looks shocking high, is only 10 dollars.
I grumble, ‘Dirty swindler,’ and look to Maria for help, but she stands there passive. We have no choice but to pay up; the doctor has pointed out that without papers, there will be no marriage. The problem is, we hardly have money! We try to explain this, but he can’t believe that two white Europeans are traveling for a long time and doing this without money. We have to use our emergency stash to scrape together the necessary pesos.
I say, ‘Now we’re really broke, except for a few pesos,’ and feel a bit down. Maria shrugs and says, ‘Ah, what do we care?’
As we close the door of the doctor’s room, we have already forgotten about him. Hand in hand, we walk through the bright white corridors of the hospital, where a palm tree sways gently on a warm breeze in the open square. A tree growing in the middle of the building? A fantastic sight.
Once outside, we laugh at the confusion we had when the nurse arrives with a syringe without a cellophane wrap. Is that a used one? I thought. And I try to explain to her, ‘What about AIDS?’
‘AIDS?’ She says.
It takes some doing to get her to understand what I mean. Turns out it is called SIDA in Spanish. A funny moment. Although the case with the doctor we find not so funny.
‘Pure theft,’ I say.
‘They are the same all over the world.’
I admire her statement because I think it comes with such worldly wisdom as only she can have.
‘But at least we have a receipt, so we can declare it in the Netherlands.’
‘Yes,’ my girl says, ‘you did well.’
Neither of us realizes the Freudian speech we are using, since the original plan was to never return to the Netherlands, but to grow old together elsewhere in the world.
‘And now comes the next step,’ Maria says, ‘otherwise we can’t get married tomorrow.’
Taking pictures turns out to be great fun. With the few pesos still in our possession, we put some in the slot of a photo booth, to get the photos we need.
The coins disappear in the slot, a simple message on the screen telling us to get ready. Countdown to the picture taken. To be just before the next flash, we jump up and look in the mirror. A camera and flash just above our image.
Maria dives away as fast as she can, and I jump up, just in time to have my picture taken. Seconds before the last flash comes up, I pull Maria onto my lap and kiss her. Flash! Mission accomplished.
1989 - February 27 - D. Day
Pedro tears through the streets of Merida at the same fast pace as the day before. The pretty colonial buildings, which seem to vibrate – or maybe I just feel it, passing by. My nerves buzz as I question how and when we will marry? I look at Maria, her face shows determination to our goal, but no clues for me to discover the upcoming event and what the next step is. She just glows with happiness.
I usually pick up signals rather easy, or so I believe. But currently I’m clueless. I want to prevent revealing my uncertainty, so I hide it. Plus, I trust Maria, and by looking at her face, she knows exactly what is about to happen.
Being of two minds, I wonder. Perhaps it’s better if I just ask her? Does she know when it will happen?
But then she states: ‘Exciting, isn’t it?’ and kisses me. All my questions fade away.
Just a few days ago, the words suddenly were there; let’s get married!
I love her, so why not? And now we sit in the back of the Beetle, Pedro flying through the streets, and I’m unsure of where we go.
* * *
We park our 1976 VW Westfalia camper with a pop-up roof near the consulate. We have almost no petrol, a near-empty water tank, and have been eating sweet sandwiches with slices of tomato for days. It’s cheap, even by Mexican criteria. We drink coffee in a café where tourists don’t venture, and all of it, costs next to nothing, fitting our budget perfectly. Only one other couple of travelers’ dares to enter the café, making us the only foreigners. It does not take long, and we made great friends with the locals. Once I even buy a good chunk of Dutch cheese for a fair price, from one of them.
Being there gives us a bit of a local feel. We love it. And we get the benefit of ‘real’ Mexican prices, which we can just about scrape together.
We still have a thousand guilders in the Netherlands, and impatiently wait for the mail with a check to arrive at the consulate. After this, our journey can continue.
Waiting for the check, we stroll through the city and talk to the many vendors Merida has to offer. It does not take long before they all know we cannot buy anything.
This opens the street vendors up for often funny talks about all sorts of things, except their product.
One afternoon, we are about to retire for a siesta with additional sex when Maria brings up the big words: Let’s Marry!
What a beautiful woman, I think. When money eludes us and the future seems uncertain, living in a remote corner of Mexico thousands of kilometers away from our homeland, the solution comes easy: let’s tie the knot.
Together, we can win the future battle as Mr. and Mrs. Chevalier.
I kneel, holding her hand, and ask: ‘Sweetheart, do you want to marry me?’ Believe it or not, but I got flashes shooting through my head, full of fear of rejection. ‘My darling Maria, please be mine.’
She laughs. Her appearance is glowing. ‘Yes, I want. I want to be with you forever.’
Her warm voice echoes through our small camper van, which is barely a square meter in size. Me kneeling, and she’s sitting on the bench, this moment engraves itself into our memories. Goosebumps appear on both of our arms as a sign of excitement. We feel like the happiest couple on earth. Never missing a beat, I seize the opportunity to kiss her.
* * *
The beetle stops at an official-looking building. I recognize it, but I don’t know where from. Maria holds my hand, and our sweat mixes just like last time.
We hop up the steps of the building and see Annabel, Señor Lopez, and another girl we haven’t met before. She stands close to the consul and looks up at him with affection. ‘Probably his mistress,’ I whisper to Maria. She laughs.
We enter a huge, official-looking room. The room has none of the romantic and stylish decorations of the consulate.
A woman approaches and looks at us kindly, then the Spanish verbal mumble jumble erupts. Is this the Registro Civil? But don’t get much time to think about it.
The sweet-looking woman with a distinct smile on her face continues to babble.
I have no clue what she’s saying. I just stand there next to Maria.
Annabel, Pedro, his boss, and his mistress hold their breath.
The woman, probably an official, rambles on and on.
Maria stands in full concentration next to me. I don’t think she understands either, does she? He, what’s that? I get a poke in my side and, like a flash of lightning, I know what’s going on.
I shout: ‘Si!’
Jeez Henri, I think, wake up, will you?
The woman presents a document in Spanish, and Señor Lopez and Pedro witness it.
I sign the document, then Maria signs with; Maria Chevalier. We are now carrying the same name. What a wonderful feeling.
It surprises me a bit, that she has a near perfect signature. Obvious she has, without my knowledge, practice the signing of her new name.
It’s official now. I’m hers and she is mine… forever!
2010 - September - The Broken Traveler
I scream to myself, tears streaming down my face, ‘How can this be possible? Why? Why?’ My almost 25-year-old Citroën C25 Van whizzes down the French highway, Natalie Merchant’s ‘Motherland’ playing from the speakers.
The lyrics grip me, I snivel.
In the rearview mirror I see, an ashen, yellowish, slightly puffy face with reddish eyes.
