Novelist on a Vacation |
Issue 16
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Sabotage. Espionage. Décolletage. Just a selection of the words that spring into my mind at random moments during the day. I like to think about them and how they sound – why do I like them, why do they appeal to me – it can happen over the space of a few days, or even weeks, and then they disappear to be replaced by something else. Nebulous I might think to myself for no apparent reason… I’d be interested to know what that means. Another one for the commonplace book. A chugger blindsides me just off Crow Street as I’m meditating on the feel of the rough cobblestones underfoot and asks me to support some foreign or domestic cause or other – I actually didn’t hear him. I politely decline, apologetically shaking my head: too many hills to die on, I’m afraid. Not knowing my deeply held opinions on all forms of injustice, be it dog fouling on footpaths right to the very, very top, he assertively and persistently reengages me with, what in my mind is, a clearly contrived friendliness. God does love a trier. I fix him with what I believe to be a death glare, seemingly to no avail. Read the room, I think. I’ve read Mackenzie m’lad – I understand insincere acts of compassion and the wish to satisfy one’s own feelings all too well. I feel compelled to tell him that, sorry, I have far bigger issues: with my constant daily battles trying not to carry out acts of defenestration, strangulation, rustication, electrocution or self-immolation on myself as I look in the bathroom mirror each morning. In fact, I only stop short in telling him about my relief on a jazz-fueled date atop Casa Batlló when, nervously navigating the ornate draconic dreamscape of its soaring scaly rooftop terrace, I finally realised that I actually didn’t want to engage in autokabalesis. He walked away with a tired expression, not quite sure if I was being serious or not… and that made two of us.
Continuing my walk, I come to a small cafe that I’ve been to a couple of times before and go in to have some eggy wegs for brunch. My server is without doubt the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, in person, I suppose. She looks like she could be a Kilkenny woman – or possibly even Tipperary – but I’d be reluctant to say for sure which; in fact, for all I know she could be from Dongeradeel. She has lustrous red hair with a hint of a kink, and these deep chocolate-brown eyes that I know always look like they’re smiling. Dressed all in black, she… Now, how would someone of my capacity encapsulate this woman’s ineffable allure yet remain somewhat tasteful. Could I actually do her beauty justice without mentioning her gloriously soft figure, her dimples of Venus. I can, almost, describe the feeling that such beauty affects in me, like a sudden kick in the guts, a rising pang, a saudade or struggimento – a deseo ardiente if you will. I refuse to look at her for the rest of my meal – she’s just trying to do her job, I know – I don’t need her to think I’m… looking. Do I really need to look at her for some kind of inspiration anyway? That’s why I’m here after all: to travel, to observe, to have new experiences. My dear boy, why don’t you just try writing? What are you afraid to write? Why are you afraid to write? Oh yes. The abandoned novella: Tierra del Fuego. An overlooked gold rush. Or so I thought. Sickened that a similar premise had already existed. And only 5.2 on IMDb. Blegh! I need to reset and step outside my comfort zone, maybe. She passes behind me in a rush and pardons herself with a soft hand on my shoulder – sorry, pet – as her quick, confident stride sends a flurry of amorous vanilla, lavender, cacao and ginger notes swirling invitingly in the warm August air. Titian’s Venus may evoke something timeless, but I know I mustn’t reduce this woman to a sensual muse. She’s more than just a vessel for my hollow words. Having finished, I take an Aircoach from Westmoreland Street to the airport, and towards my creative bolthole. 23,000 feet, 13,000 feet, 3,000 feet and the plane touches down in Schiphol. I board a double decker train to Amsterdam Centraal and cross a busy intersection to a train themed hotel facing the station, where I’m checked in by the gruff but ultimately friendly enough man at the front-desk. Peckish, I quickly throw my bag into my room and go looking for food, stopping at the first place I find around the corner: Global Kitchen. I eat quickly, ignoring what feels like a slightly cold patty, in my rush to get out and begin my work, to flâner, to disconnect myself and drift aimlessly to contemplate the city’s unique, vibrant aura, to get a feel of its seedy underbelly, and fill a page or two in my journal. Oh no! Me innards start sloshing and squelching. Yes, I can definitely feel it. That was quick. My bubbling guts gurgle. Burnt Umber warning signs. A liquid foreboding. Raw Sienna. Oh! The runs is right. And run I must. Post haste. Where to? To the safety of my hotel. Sweating. Clenching. For all I’m worth. Excuse me. Sorry now. Janey mack. Head gasket gone. Betrayed by a short order chef. Vincent Van Gocky. Forget lift. Take stairs. Oh, sweet Christ. Merciful Jaysus. Too close. Comfort. Ohhhh sweet porcelain saviour. Inspectieplank. Not necessary. Not today. Oof. So – how long will I be stuck in this damn-blasted hotel room, all on my own-io, left to my own devices; I wouldn’t want to end up like that Dutch chap – Van Leeuwenhoek was it? – father of microbiology some say, largely self-taught, was holed up in a hotel room one time, ended up pulling the plum off of himself – idle hands and all that – then took a gander at the specimens he’d left round the place under his microscope, turns out, anyway, in the heel of the hunt that he only went and discovered spermatozoa. Came upon it by chance. Scuttering fuck. After a few more visits to the old badkamer I decide to persevere with this trip. The writer that I keep hidden away from family, friends and colleagues is taking a break from stock replenishment to work on his secret craft. Retracing my earlier footsteps, I pass the infamous Global Kitchen again where my vengeful hopes of locking eyes with my unscrupulous poisoner are dashed. Bastard. I reckon I should probably try and eat something – oddly enough. Something bland but filling. Something to settle the stomach, maybe. I spot a crowded frites vendor and join the queue. One puntzak please. No sauce Bedankt. The guy just shrugs as he hands me my order. I walk onward through Dam Square and find a place to sit while I eat, when I notice a picture of Manneken Pis on the paper cone. This image penetrates the background of my memory, revealing to me something that I feel is an ominous premonition of my current situation and takes me back to a place next to a statue of a little pissing man. Warm and cozy in December, we seemed like the only two people in a crowded tavern. Strong Trappists and cured sausage consumed under the watchful eyes of dusty marionettes. Faded by repeated visits, these memories may lie but the truth remains. She softened me. I finish and walk on alone, criss-crossing the picturesque, canaled streets. No destination in mind, no fixed goal, just a hope that a path will reveal itself and span my great void. I come to an area where the streets appear to grow more crowded – ah yes – the notorious red lights. In and out of the streets I walk, passing by the red curtained window doors. Kamer te Huur. Mostly empty. Those occupied; however, the workers look at me like no woman has ever done before. Not one, but two, three, four are countenanced with this indescribable look in their eyes, a strange look, a wanton indifference. At first it seemed funny to me, maybe flattering and then… unusual? Is this how an ogled woman feels? I stop for a drink at a hotel bar next to a canal that seems to be the main thoroughfare of foot traffic through De Wallen. The neon sign says Royal Taste. I order a glass of Texels from a barman who corrects my pronunciation with a single word, and I move next to a large open sash window with the intention of sitting and watching passersby. One of the chairs outside facing the canal frees up and I move to get a front row seat. I’m immediately struck by the unmistakable smell of either hash or weed or cannabis – I’m not quite sure – and what I assume is a cocaine dealer approaches and mutters something at me in a guttural language to which I instinctively wag my finger in the negative. It gradually dawns on me that I have almost every vice at my fingertips. I can remain the distant and watchful observer, hoping to dream up some compelling literary scenario or let the handbrake off and ideate in some altered state. The beer is not agreeing with me and is giving me a pain in me belly, so, acquiescing with the latter option, I Google a coffeeshop nearby. Google. Joyce didn’t use Google. Or Wikipedia. Wikipedia. Kalipedia? Kalipedia... he certainly led me down a blind alley from beyond the grave with that one, the fucker. The queue is out the door at the weed place when I arrive – literally – I’m not one hanging around. So, I embark on another aimless stroll. A young kid – nine-ish – knocks on a window and waves at a lingerie-clad girl, who is busy texting on her phone, while the boy’s parents look on laughing. In fact, I’m almost certain three nuns passed me a little further back, and not sexy nuns from a hen party or the Sexmuseum, actual nuns from an actual nunnery. Little old ladies in habits. A bizarre, artificial place, where innocence meets seediness. This walk seems to clear my mind, and I begin to think that maybe consuming a space cake for the first time, on my own, is not such a great idea. I don’t want to end up hallucinating that say: some eighteenth-century Dutch merchants with dreary, jowled faces under tricorn hats and curly white wigs and shapely fishnet stockinged legs critique my writing as – DERIVATIVE! – while scattering the pages of my unfinished, unwritten, unstarted manuscripts into a canal and threatening to stick tulips up my bottom if I can’t prove that I am literarily real in front of a throng of maniacally laughing drunken tourists. Or failing that, fall into one of these canals and get tangled up in a rusty old High Nelly and become just another statistic. The mighty, late summer’s day ebbs towards evening as my flowing mind leads me from straat to straat, frustrated at the lack of inspiration encountered. No golden seam unearthed. Stopping for a moment at a picturesque bridge, my eyes follow the streaks of light shimmering along the softly rippling water towards the illuminated dome of the Basilica of Saint Nicholas which stands before a backdrop of blue and deepening indigo that fades into the black of the coming night; and as a silhouette begins to shroud the surrounding buildings, friends and lover’s legs dangle nonchalantly over the canal bank, and point down towards the dusky mirror that stirs my inner turbulence. There is a more night-time vibe now and I feel I should go to a bar and relax, have a drink and, most importantly, avail of their facilities. Passing by several establishments I poke my nose inside – too busy – and return to my rambling which is beginning to feel all too samey. I find the sparsely populated Cafe de Zon, which has an outside terrace that faces onto a small, bicycled square, and tip inside. I order a pint of Amstel and claim a high stool close to the toilets. The glass is filthy – a petri dish of possibilities. Here we go again. Can I risk leaving it unattended? A slipped Mickey, perhaps? Squirrelling the pint away in a secluded corner I roll up my sleeves to undertake the dirty job at hand. The toilets are an olfactory nightmare. The cubicle hums with the stench of the day’s piss. I can’t in all good conscience sit down in here. I actually can’t sit down – the seat is gone – broken off at its little hinges. And insult to injury, the bloody bog roll holder is empty; sodden cardboard tubes lie in pissy puddles on the floor. Another plan scuppered. I bottle it up and try to finish off my drink outside on the terrace when I get the sudden urge that it might be the time to move somewhere else – and so I do – swiftly through the maze of narrow and dirty streets, uncertain which of the common states of matter this urge actually is: solid, liquid, or gas. I can see the headline now: Arklow man arrested in Amsterdam on suspicion of defecating into bosca bruscars. The Politie, I dare say, wouldn’t take kindly to a grubby-solo-sex-tourist type besmirching their beautiful city with his scoury shite, like a dirty auld sick calf. It’s officially nighttime in the now dark and brooding Nighttown and I wander past a smattering of windows lit by soft blue neon-bulbs, whose pastel glow emits a more alluring quality than the gaudy crimson. A captivating figure with a demure gaze waves at me, timidly. My pace slows as I gawk at her patent vulnerability. Then – I’m jolted from my trance by the unmistakable sound of an arse being slapped. I wheel around to the sight of a tall lady in just a phosphorescent lime green thong who opens her door and beckons me in with a curling index finger. Blushing, I decline with a smile – an urgent appointment – as she winks and giggles teasingly, feigning exasperation that the waving of her magic wand had failed to charm me. A gilded promise. The neon-redlit windows have started to fill up and more women try to grab my attention. More people are engaging with them – some serious, some in jest. I need to get away from this part of town. It’s not for me. I come to a horseshoe enclave where I notice an Irish bar and descend into its bowels to discover, much to my delight: a clean and functioning toilet. With my fears finally allayed, I attempt to drink a few pints outside, straddling the verge of tipsiness next to an annoying, overly affectionate couple who suck face and coo at each other. Here I resolve under the shadow of De Oude Kerk to change tack – tomorrow I’ll embrace the art and culture of the city instead: The Potato Eaters and The Merry Drinker – as I realise that the day’s aimless wanderings took me around a fruitless loop of, perhaps, a mere few hundred yards. Cold now but mostly rendered weary from time spent in my own company, I decide to swing back in what I assume is the direction of my hotel. As I pass a number of sparsely occupied windows, the incongruous nature of a monstrous church to my right and a bevy of “fallen women” to my left is not lost on me. Not ideal bedfellows. Hands in pockets, feeling the dewy air counter my tiredness, I approach a corner where I’ll need to remember if I turn left or right when a striking brunette beats loudly on the glass with the palm of her hand and invites me in. I smile and continue walking. She opens the door and almost begs me to come speak with her, please, just for two minutes. That look again. I shake my head and turn right – the wrong way – and glancing back I can see she is still gesturing for me to come in, but this time a little more irate. Maybe some inspiration does lie in there – I think of those greats who found their muse in secret chambers with seductive women. Nu Couché. My curiosity ponders the joy proposed. I double back. Her curtains are drawn. He who hesitates. Flummoxed, I continue down the lane when out of the darkness another figure emerges and draws me irresistibly towards her room. A strange trembling seizes me, my eyes dazed, as my entire body seems to pulse in unison with my pounding heart. A price was agreed – Cristal from Dominica – though how that came up, I don’t know. Or why it mattered? She’s twirling slowly now and lifts her skirt to reveal soft curves. She moves closer to me as I pray to God that she doesn’t kiss me on the mouth. Not wanting to offend her with my reaction. She sits me down on the edge of a bed and sheaths me with her luscious lips and then with steady breath this complete stranger begins an act of the utmost intimacy that to me feels – cold, robotic. I try to surrender myself to her but only an ill-fitting curtain keeps me from the indignity of being caught in flagrante delicto. My inner world ignites a paranoid fantasy of some transgression that will lead me to disgrace and punishment. Only by catching a glimpse of my brutish eyes in a mirror’s reflection can I recover the poise to break the hex that came over me. Making my excuses, I leave under the immense weight of a humiliating sense of waste and shame. Again, I return to the streets and wander through the dark, sordid alleys and the scandalous gloom of the lanes – no glistering hope, no spark within – a feral soul drifting alone in the shadows. |
Damien Kelly is currently living and working in his hometown of Carlow. He is also studying for a BA in English Literature and History with Dublin City University. His short stories have featured in the Autumn 2022 and Winter 2025 editions of Empyrean Literary Magazine.
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