Dimitri Verhulst: The Latecomer

There are unavoidable phases in every human life when, sometimes for a reason but often by chance alone, we find ourselves returning to a pivotal moment in our existence and wondering what would have become of us if we’d tipped just that little bit further in one direction or another. And it goes without saying that these meaningless, almost masochist musings have repeatedly led me back to Rosa Rozendaal and the two of us standing together in the car park of the Albatross Party Centre. In my thoughts I’ve followed every possible route my life could have taken that day, but it’s a fruitless exercise that can only lead to the false glorification of a thwarted destiny.

But a name can boomerang straight back in your face after decades and decades.

‘There’s something I have to tell you: next time we’re standing here together in our black raincoats, it could very well be for Rosa Rozendaal. I’ve heard she’s suddenly got a lot worse. Upstairs, you know. Arteriosclerosis. They had to put her in a home, the poor thing, as young as she is.’

And with that, all the stories were exhausted and everyone went their own way: to trim a hedge, knock up a chicken run or spray the patio clean with a pressure washer … We wished each other the best and dispersed, knowing our paths would not converge again until the next funeral.

I’m crossing the Styx and taking: a tube of toothpaste (just for a joke), a stray Joseph Roth quote, the wondrous memory of an ardent kiss I never got, bread crumbs …

It was one of those glorious summer days that drench the boggy edges of the North Sea far too rarely. Our children had come to visit and we were sitting in the garden, where they had once (it feels like yesterday) swung back and forth in their innocence and boredom, building forts. Hugo, our son, was there with Lisa, his third floozy, and the whole raucous teenage gang the two of them had cobbled together from various relationships. Also present was our daughter, Charlotte, who seemed to have gone about things better and still lived in harmony with her first real flame, Pascal, perhaps because they’d had the good sense not to reproduce. My wife, who had an opinion about every possible subject, put it down to impotence.

‘No, of course, it has to be. Why else would our Charlotte stay childless? And it’s probably his own fault too, with those tight jeans he’s always wearing. They’re not just ugly, they kill off your family tree as well!’

Even in the most inappropriate moments, she had no scruples about pushing the conversation in the direction of the sperm bank whenever Charlotte dropped by.

This summer afternoon the mother hen demonstrated her aversion to subtlety by suddenly pulling out a strip of pills. This was just after serving up the Melba toast with cream cheese and radish.

‘Hey, does anyone have any use for these? Erection pills! They were prescribed for Dad, but he only ever thinks of himself and refuses to take them! No one? Not you, Pascal? No? You sure? Hundred per cent? … I’m just going to throw them away otherwise …’

You can imagine the awkward silence that descended over our garden as everyone tried to avoid looking at me.

What preceded this scene? Behind my back the serpent that answers to the name of Moniek De Petter had gone to her GP to complain about her feeble love life. After returning, she had prattled away archly, ‘I talked to Dr Dumoulin about your problem and you know what? He gave me this: Levitra! It’s like Viagra, but not as well known. But measured in inches it’s just as effective. Plus, a less familiar brand name has the advantage of nobody thinking of what they should be thinking of if you absent-mindedly leave them lying around …’

Wives have been thrown off bridges for less.

Of course, I felt humiliated in front of my children, who were at least tactful enough to change the subject. (Hugo launched into a discussion of Crete, how delicious the food was. And cheap too, all things considered.)

More than just rude, my wife’s public attack on my pride that afternoon was completely unjust. At the start of our marital relations, in the early sixties, Moniek successfully convinced me that I was a base animal, solely because I occasionally had the temerity to suggest a position other than the one we employed for all our love-making. The frequency of my desire was on the bestial side too as far as she was concerned. Twice a month was wild enough for her; after all, we weren’t rabbits. During her two pregnancies there was no sex by definition, it would have been improper. The thought of the baby getting my ‘doodle’ in its little face the whole time, yuck!

To safeguard myself from her accusations, I began leaving all initiative to her, though I realised this wasn’t doing my sex life any favours. I can’t say with any certainty if she ever once had an orgasm. To be honest, I don’t think so (asking straight out was not an option), but I gave up reproaching myself on that account long ago. Of course, as a young man I had dreamed of a more flourishing future in the erotic arena and I suffered in silence from the disillusionment of my far from heavenly marriage. Never did I seek consolation for this stolen happiness in the arms of others. I could have forgiven myself for it. Easily. And I would never, ever have confessed my infidelity; there’s such a thing as a right to a little peace and quiet. But Moniek’s frigidity was all I knew and there was no way I could draw on that to gain the necessary confidence in myself as a lover. I should also admit that nobody ever presented themselves. My libido was slowly snuffed out and if I’m honest I’ll add that I was glad to be rid of it. It wasn’t any good to me anyway. Even before we’d reached forty, you could count the sexual contacts between us per year on the fingers of one hand.

Bizarrely enough, my wife’s passion awoke once I had completely embraced my celibacy. By that time we were sleeping in separate rooms: for appearance’s sake we claimed it was because one of us snored and the other tossed and turned, and the broken nights weren’t doing either of us any good. All of a sudden she started knocking on my door more and more often and had to learn the brutal lesson of accepting the very same ‘no’ that had razed my male pride to the ground long ago.

‘Rabbit!’ I would shout, but a sense of humour had never been one of her attributes.

Once we’d grown ugly, she was suddenly in the mood for love. Come off it. No, she was an extremely unsporting loser and took revenge by humiliating me in front of others. My bedroom door has remained, figuratively speaking, permanently closed. What happens or rather doesn’t happen inside has never been anybody else’s business. But now that she had falsely ridiculed me like this, I felt a rising urge to tell my children that it was a miracle they had been conceived at all, given the prudishness of the refrigerator I was married to.

I looked at her standing there, the bloody hypocrite, holding that strip of erection pills.

But one of us had to outsmart the other and silence was a better tactic.

Especially now, with the plans for my final offensive ripening apace.

So, yes, I held my tongue. My speciality. It was essential that I not spoil the garden party.