Finding Rene

My grilled skewer had a piece of weisswurst sausage, a piece of steak, a piece of ham, a piece of pork and a lamb chop. Laura had grilled prawns. Humungous mothers. Mountains of frites, of course, and a shared salad. Plus, naturally, fresh Belgian beer. Lambic beer.

"How old are you, Bill?"

"I told you already, forty-two, how old are you?"

She smiled.

"Oh I'm sorry, let me guess...twenty eight."

"And the rest," she said with a large grin, then bit into a prawn, "Let's just say I'm thirty nine and holding."

"Well, I'd say, Laura, whatever your age is, you're lovely."

"That's so sweet Bill, but I see that my mum is right: a little meat passes through your lips and your brain gets all fuzzy." She popped a frite into her mouth, "A very strange man."

I couldn't help but chuckle.

"Bill, tell me about yourself, I want to know what you do. I want to know all about you."

"Mmm, this is good. I told you about all of that already. I really can't say too much about it. How are your prawns?"

"They're perfect, I don't know if I can eat all this." She chewed for a moment. "I'm not looking for state secrets, Bill, you already told me about that. I want to know about you. I mean, here you are in Belgium."

"Well, okay," I said, while scooping some salad onto my plate, "the nature of the business is anywhere where there is the confluence of shipping containers, mainly, and the potential of terrorist access, that's where I work. Salad?"

"Yes please," I handed her the bowl, "So you travel all over the world?"

"Yeah. It's not that great though," I popped a few frites into my mouth, "I see airports and ports and hotels and cab rides in between. It's all dross. That's my life, I don't see anything else. The Groeningemuseum, that was a rare departure for me. Usually, when I'm done, I just want to get the fuck home."

"Shhh, this is a family restaurant," she warned me, then added, "why don't you just open up offices elsewhere?"

"Trust me, I'd love to. And I'm seriously toying with the idea of opening one up in Dubai."

"Really?"

I could feel my face scrunching up. "Their politics scare me a bit, but I've been doing a bunch of work in and around the Gulf states."

"What's stopping you?" she asked. Good question.

"Finding the right person I guess. In England or Germany or France I'm certain I can find the right person with a combination of skills and experience in the field. In Dubai, they're all ex-pats. They're there for a term and that's it. If I found someone suitable, chances are they'll be gone the next year. Or, I'll be put into a 'gotcha over the barrel' situation, which would make me uncompetitive, pricewise."

She hummed understanding, I think, of my predicament.

"Then I'd have to run two offices. If and when I find the right person, I'd need them to run that half of the world. The guy or girl," I was careful to add, "will need to have support. Yeah, I can do the engineering and produce the drawings, specifications and contracts in Canada, but I can't just have some guy operating out of his basement."

"I'm sure you'll be fine."

"Yeah, I'll be okay. What about you?"

"I'm an associate at the firm." She commented with her fingers in the air.

"So, what does associate mean?"

"It means I pay for my office space and a share of the receptionist's wage, but I bring in my own clients and do my own work and my own filing."

"What kind of clients?"

"Estate agents, mainly."

"You mean real estate agents."

"Yes. They're my clients. Some of it is commercial property work. That can be very rewarding. I work my own hours and I charge them my own fee. It works out quite well. Still, you can well imagine how it works; either you are overwhelmed or twiddling your thumbs, but I can't complain."

"And when you're not working?"

"I have a circle of friends."

"Ahh, the lesbian community," I bit into the steak.

She giggled. "Mainly, yes, and some old friends, too. How about you?"

"Hmmm, so good; I'm not into the lesbian community, although I know a few."

"Very funny," she said while stripping the shell off another prawn. "Flo Ashworth, who I work with, is, I'd have to say, my best friend. And she's totally straight. Frustrated like me, but completely hetero." She bit into her prawn and chewed for a while. "How about you?"

"I have a circle of friends, mainly guys I went through Engineering with, but I am so busy with work and they're all married and doing family stuff, I rarely see them. Usually, I get together with my younger brother and his family and my mom and dad, as you know, on most Sundays."

"But no girlfriends?"

"Not right now." I bit into a piece of ham.

"So no sex?" she said in a hushed tone while biting a prawn. Her lips were curled in a smile. It was a family restaurant.

"Certainly not enough," I answered with my mouth full, "how about you?"

"Definitely not enough."

"Even with the 'community'?" I accented the word.

"They can be such possessive bitches, sometimes. And petty? Huh." She rolled her eyes. She bit her prawn again, "And I'm getting tired of that whole club scene."

"So no girlfriends?"

"Not right now," she popped the rest of the prawn in her mouth.

"Can I ask a personal question?"

"Sure," she answered.

"Were you close to your dad?"

"I hated the bastard, why?" came the immediate response. She stuffed a couple of frites into her mouth. She had a funny look in her eye.

"Between you, your mom and your aunt, he's not talked about, at all."

Laura's demeanor completely changed. I saw instantly that I was in the wrong space. Her chin twitched. I didn't know what to say or do, or how to back out of the corner.

She was fiddling with her prawns, paused, sighed, leaned into me and then said, "My mother is right. I've been unhappy of late."

Oh? That didn't make sense. If her unhappiness is somehow connected with her father's death, why would she have just called him a bastard?

"What did your father die of, if you don't mind me asking?" Probably an invasive question, I immediately regretted opening my big, fat mouth.

She froze.

Her chin twitched.

She paused.

Her chin still twitched as she looked straight into my eyes.

"Nine millimeter bullet to the right temple delivered from an M9 Beretta pistol that we didn't know was in the house."

I was shocked.

I took a deep breath.

"Oh fuck. I'm sorry Laura," I paused placing my head in my hands, "forgive me for being so fucking stupid." Every word seemed to come out dripping in tears and sweat.

"Bill, it's a family restaurant. Please."

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry."

She leaned forward and lowered her voice, "Scotland Yard said that the pistol was wiped clean prior to being discharged and that only my father's finger prints, palm prints and DNA were found on the pistol, consistent with the grip. The polyester and cotton cloth used to clean the pistol was not found in the house and the distribution of firearm discharge residue was not fully consistent with a suicide shot." Her eyes bore into mine. "He was slumped in his easy chair with a folded copy of The Independent crumpled at his feet and an unfinished glass of whiskey in his favorite tumbler on the side table next to him."

"Holy fuck!"

"Bill, it's a family restaurant."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"There was no suicide note and that sixty eight year old man, although he was a thorough, " she leaned in to lower her voice, "bastard," her breath was hot on me, she lifted herself again, "didn't have any known enemies or classical mental health issues."

I sat there with my mouth open.

"I was a suspect. My mother was a suspect and Aunty Marie was a suspect, too."

I managed a cough.

"It's just now, just about two months ago, that it was officially deemed to be a suicide. Therefore, case closed, unless new information comes to light."

"I'm so sorry I brought this up."

"Hey," she smiled, "you're the one that wanted to know about me. Something about being denied precious fruit?"

I cut a piece of ham and stuffed it into my mouth. Laura did the same with prawn and then dished some salad onto her plate.

"Why do you say he's a bastard?" Why was I still asking?

She sat up. Her eyes stared into mine. All of a sudden, I felt like I was under attack. She was positively scary.

She took a deep breath while chewing, looked straight into my eyes with her grey lasers, swallowed and said, "Number one, the last few years have not been particularly good with all the inquiries going on. And that may have been all his doing. And number two, he started molesting me at age eleven and it continued on until I turned seventeen."

Holy fuck!

"I lost my virginity to my father," she whispered.

I held my hands up in the air, "You're right, he was a bastard and a bullet to the head is not a bad solution for a pedophile incestuous rapist."

She sat herself up again and resumed eating in a most nonchalant manner without any expression on her face while looking straight into my eyes.

I was dumbfounded. Speechless. If she was molested by her father, then yes, absolutely she would be a murder suspect. Ditto for her mom and aunt, if they knew of the abuse she had to endure from her father. Not fully consistent with a suicide shot?

I wondered if she actually did it as I sat and watched her indifferently and coolly peeling a prawn.

She pulls the eyes out with a face like a magnet.

I don't know how much more of this I can take.

She's filing her nails while they're dragging the lake.

She is watching the detectives...

"Are you okay?" she broke my reverie.

"I don't know; for some reason an Elvis Costello lyric popped into my head. If it wasn't a suicide, then who killed him?" I bit a piece of sausage.

"Don't get cute," she replied and smiled at me while peeling a prawn. She paused for a moment and then added, "Bill, one thing that I've learned during this whole horrific episode is that what actually transpired is secondary to what other people think transpired. And what other people think transpired, is far more important than what is actual historical reality."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"Bill, although I was not formally charged with murder, there was a suspicion that I shot him."

I swallowed my mouthful.

"Bill, no matter what I say or do in connection with my father's death, it is completely detached from what actually transpired. If I tell you I didn't kill him, or tell the police that, or a jury, they will form their own opinion on the matter, and that is all that counts."

"So what are you saying?"

"Just like Rene Magritte has showed us, there is an alternate reality. You could land up hanging, not because you did the crime, but because you said the wrong word."

Bloody surreal conversation I was having.

I leaned forward, "So did you kill him?" Stupid question, why am I asking?

"I honestly don't know."

"What? That makes no sense, Laura. I mean in your heart of hearts, you know whether you..." I looked around at the other tables and then leaned into her and whispered, "shot him or not. It's not like not being sure whether you watered the house plants before you got on the train yesterday. I mean, come on." I was shocked.

She smiled and then answered, "Let me repeat to you what the crime scene investigator said to me, she said, 'although you may think you did not pull the trigger, and actually believe in your innocence and have no recollection whatsoever of doing so, that does not mean that you did not do it. The evidence, especially the forensic evidence will lead to the facts.'"

"Oh my god."

"The whole ordeal was awful."

"I'll bet." I bit into a couple of frites and then stupidly asked, "Did they know you were molested?"

She stopped eating for a second and then responded, "Yes, but I didn't volunteer the information."

"Who told them then? Certainly not your dead father."

"No," she tilted her head to one side, "It came out in a polygraph test." She smiled to me while holding the prawn, "The question was casually asked, 'Did your father ever inappropriately touch you?' And I reacted accordingly. The cat was out of the bag. And the investigation took on a whole new focus."

"Okay. Let me ask, just for my sake. Do you believe you killed your father, in spite of the doubts they may have sown.?"

She paused, stared straight into my eyes and answered, "No." After a long moment she added, "Do you believe me?"

Clearly I hesitated long enough for her to also add, "Do you see my point?"

"Yes."

"See, it doesn't really matter what I believe. I'm helpless in this situation. Completely forsaken."

I didn't know what to say.

"Can you understand why," she went on, "I'm so bitter? His death was, and continues to be, an assault on me. And on my mum and my aunty. That," she lowered her head towards me, "fucking bastard, whether he pulled the trigger himself or was caught up in some nefarious dealings that resulted in him being assassinated, it doesn't matter, I'm the one, we are the ones, who suffer as a result. Either way, he's the guilty bastard."

"Then who did? Your mom?" I whispered back. We were almost forehead to forehead in the family restaurant.

"I may never know if she knew about the years of abuse," she said while peeling a prawn, "I never told her, she never said anything and I'm not telling her now," she sighed. "Father called it our little secret," she took a deep breath, "and if I said anything to anyone he said he would really hurt me," she lowered her voice to a whisper and leaned into me. "He said he'd fuck me in the arse."

"Laura, it's a family restaurant," I almost hissed at her, but the reality was that I was receiving traumatic information overload. I couldn't handle it. I was completely dumbfounded. And I thought my life was fucked-up? If she hasn't shared this with her mother, was there anyone else she could have talked to about all of this?

"You're righ,t Bill, I'm so sorry."

"You're sorry?" Huh?

"This is not a pipe. 'Ceci n'est pas une pipe,'" she said.

"What?"

"Reality is much different than perception. I'm sure that Mr. Magritte would agree." She paused, "What is real? Am I a killer or a victim? Or both?"

I was sucking on a small lamb chop.

"This is not a lie," she said.

What the hell?

"I'm only certain of one thing, Bill. He's dead and I'm glad for it."

Whew.

"Maybe it was suicide and he was feeling guilty about what he had done to you?"

"That is perhaps the prevailing theory."

"But you don't believe it." I stated rather than asked.

"No."

"Why not?" It seemed reasonable.

"Because my father was a," she leaned towards me to whisper, "complete asshole. He didn't care for anything or anyone but himself. He couldn't give a whit about the pain and suffering that he has put my life through. Not a whit."

I leant back in my chair, took a deep breath then picked up my beer glass. "I think, that you and I need to chill out," I gasped out while swilling some well-deserved beer into my belly. "Can we just move forward with our lives?" Jeeez.

"Yes, we need to move forward; you asked and you were told. Welcome to my reality. We're going back to Andre's apartment. Do you still want to have sex with me?" She smiled.

"Yes," I answered, sweating a bit. I guessed anal was out of the question.

"I can't believe what you've gone through. I mean between your dad and Timothy, it's a wonder that you are having dinner with me, with a man, at all."

She smiled, her grey eyes sparkled, "Yes, it's a wonder all right."

We rolled out of the Moeder Lambik Grill, stuffed to the gills, unable to even contemplate dessert.

"I'm sorry for bringing that up," I said as we drove back.

"I'm sorry for answering honestly. I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm okay as long as you are."

"I'm fine," she answered.

We drove in silence for a moment.

"Oh, I didn't tell you about buying the bathing suit..."

"Swim suit," she corrected.

*****

"Make sure the door is locked," she said as we stepped back into Andre's apartment.

"May I pour you a glass of wine, my dear?" I asked trying to maintain an innocent tone.

"I think that would be lovely," she answered also with mock innocence. "Would you mind," she paused for obvious effect, "if I slipped into something," she couldn't hide the smirk, "a bit more comfortable?"

"Why, pajamas or sweatpants would be fine, Laura." My tongue firmly in cheek.

"Can you find some music, maybe something classical?" She asked as she faded into the darkness of the hall towards the bedroom.

I walked over to Andre's stereo. I appreciated what a nice little set up he had as I turned it on. A little panel in the bookshelf unit opened to reveal a bunch of CDs. Cool.

I flipped through the CDs, The Penguins, The Moonglows, The Orioles, The Five Satins. What was up with all this 50's doo-wap? The next CD was Paul Simon, Hearts and Bones, then... I saw that Andre was the man, as I selected the next CD...Joaquin Rodrigo. The Allegro con spirito from the Concierto D'Aranjuez. I loaded the player, pressed play and turned the volume way down.

Absolutely perfect.

While she was still changing I found wine glasses, two candle sticks and candles and a lighter. I poured the wine, set the candles on the coffee table in front of the little sofa, lit them, turned off the lights and sat down on the sofa.

Classical guitar played away.

I looked at the coffee table with wine and candles, the soft music and thought, 'how hokey? What am I, a teenager?'

I heard a low whistle from the darkened doorway. I turned my head towards the sound. There was just enough light for me to see a leg, elevated, and slowly flexing and straightening into a horizontal position.

The leg was encased in a black stocking and tipped with a high heeled shoe!

Not so hokey all of a sudden.

Just then, the image in the doorway changed to Laura standing with her back to me, topless. Her hands were on her hips, her legs were wide apart. She wore a black garter belt and high black stockings. The high heels were black, too.

Provocatively she swayed her bare ass and flexed her slim shoulders at me.

Ohhh...my...gg...

The music was perfect. Classical guitar. da..da..da..daaa...dut.dut..dahhhh...

Like a runway model she turned and slowly strode towards me. One shoe crossed over the other as she walked, her hips swaying. Skinny over not, then left over right. Her hands were still on her hips as she stopped in front of me, looking down.

Unreal. Her bare pussy glistened in the candle light. Her fat nipples almost glowed.

Laura had darkened make-up on. Lots of it. She was grinning. Smirking.

My cock was pressing in my pants.

"Would you care to dance?" I gulped out.

I could see she was trying to keep a straight face as she placed one high heeled shoe on the low coffee table opening up her pussy into my face. "Yes," she cooed, "I would like to dance... on your finger."

"Ahhh hhaaa haaa..." I fell over holding my chest.

Laura burst into laughter too.

"I'm sorry," I gasped still holding my ribs, "I just... I just... I wasn't expecting that line." I wiped a tear from my sore cheek bone, "I'm sorry."

Laura's head was buried in the sofa back cushion gasping for air, "Oh dear...," she was making snorting sounds.

After a moment I sat myself up again, trying to compose myself. Suddenly, Laura was sitting on my lap. She put her arms around me. I could see that tears of laughter had dribbled her mascara. She placed her arms around my neck. I pulled her back towards me.

We kissed softly.

"You're crazy," I whispered. I was waiting for the reply, but it didn't come. She just kissed me again, dipping her tongue into my mouth. We broke the kiss and stared into each other's eyes.