Roxy, p.15
Roxy, page 15
She packs a small bag in her room, like a person only going away for a short time. She waits five minutes and then cautiously opens her hotel room door, no one in the corridor. She closes the door without making a sound.
Her flight began earlier, she recognizes it from previous experiences, the way you slowly dissolve in your own existence, the way her parents became strangers and all she had to do was let herself float away, until the familiar territory was out of reach.
She leaves an envelope containing the money and the car keys at the reception and asks them to call her a taxi. She waits outside.
The trucker’s café is nearby. It’s next to the motorway. In the back of the taxi, she feels the pain increasing with every kilometre she puts between herself and her child, but some people deserve pain. ‘I’ll fetch her again later,’ she mutters to herself. It’s the only way to be able to drive away.
She steps through a plastic fly-curtain, the café is full. There’s a large bar with people eating at it. She calmly looks around, in search of her father. He always knows how to find a good place where he won’t stand out and can instantly make friends. The shaking has stopped and the calmness of a person who has escaped comes over her.
That time she got into the Golden Nissan on the street corner, she didn’t experience a moment’s doubt. She had surrendered herself to Arthur and he accepted it, completely. There were people who found it strange; she couldn’t be doing with them. Through his existence, through their togetherness, she could observe the world without doubt. If you’ve ever felt that, seen it, a world without doubt, it’s not easy to give it up.
The truckers’ restaurant smells of roast chicken and familiar greasy fumes hang in the air. She is still wearing sunglasses to hide her red eyes, still wearing those crookedly cut-off jeans and the heels. The men look at her. She’s barely slept, she knows she looks awful but the aloofness of someone who no longer cares makes her attractive.
He is sitting at the bar, deep in conversation with a couple of other Dutch men. She walks up to him.
‘Beauty!’ he cries. ‘Where’s the little ’un?’
‘She’s coming later,’ Roxy says, the men next to him listening in.
‘Come,’ he says and is already standing up, looking for a table for two.
The skinny old man he’s sitting next to asks Roxy, ‘Can I buy you a drink?’
She says, ‘Another time, okay?’ The men next to him laugh. Roxy had forgotten how good she was at this, the ease with which she joins in in places like this, an ease she never knew with Arthur’s friends. She feels a strange mixture of disappointment and relief; this is where she belongs.
‘I’ve ordered spare ribs,’ her father says. ‘What do you want?’ A waitress brings them beer.
‘I’ll just have the same.’
Her father holds up two fingers to the waitress, pointing at the beer and the menu.
‘Spare ribs,’ he says, without being embarrassed at his clumsiness.
Roxy sinks down and takes off her glasses.
‘Good morning to you,’ her father says.
‘Yeah.’
‘What is it then? Have you lot fallen out?’
‘Things went … a bit wrong.’
‘That lezza. She is one, I knew it.’
‘It’s not their fault.’
‘You’ve always been much too good to other people.’
‘No, I … yesterday, I …’ she looks out of the window. ‘We were staying at a hotel in a village last night. There were sheep next door.’
‘Stupid animals.’
The waitress sets down a glass of beer in front of her. Roxy drinks.
‘… I turned … I turned them onto their backs, in the night because …’ She shrugs. ‘I turned them onto their backs.’
‘As long as you put them back on their feet again afterward.’ He roars with laughter. Roxy peers into her glass and doesn’t laugh.
‘Oh,’ he says, ‘you left them like that?’
She nods.
‘No, they can’t take that, no.’
‘No.’
‘What now, then? Do you have to reimburse them for the lot?’
She looks at him. ‘We ran away.’
‘They don’t know who done it?’
‘No.’
‘Oooh,’ he says. He takes a big sip of beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
Roxy looks for the shock in his face, his disapproval, but can’t find it. He looks happy. His look is directed at her. She can’t take her eyes off the man who is happy to see her. Maybe this is love. She smiles.
Her father says, ‘I once rode a Shetland pony with my fat gut when I was drunk. We all do things like that sometimes.’
Her smile freezes. ‘A pony?’
‘Yeah, one of them little ’uns.’
Her eyes drop down to his body. ‘And then?’
‘What?’
She tries to keep on smiling, she owes him one now. Smile. He has driven to Marseilles for her.
‘And the pony?’
‘Tut, tut, Missy. No, you’re an animal lover.’
The spare ribs arrive. They’re always quick in truckers’ places, you don’t want moody drivers. Her father tucks in eagerly. The nausea she felt this morning has returned in full glory. Roxy adds a little pony with a broken back to her own doings. She picks up her knife and frees the flesh between the ribs. She ignores her nausea and chews the ribs. Keep going, act, move, eat; there is sweat on her brow.
‘Everybody makes stupid mistakes,’ her father says. ‘Everyone, and that’s exactly what you two always forgot.’
‘You two?’
‘Arthur and you. No one’s better than anyone else.’
Roxy drinks her beer faster than her father.
‘Just like the good old days,’ he says.
‘Just like the good old days.’ She knows she can’t leave with him. This escape route has been cut off. She can’t go with him and she won’t be able to explain it to him. She’ll disappoint him, but not now. There has to be a better moment.
‘When’s the little ’un coming then?’
‘She’s not coming.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Car sick. She gets car sick all the time. She’s better off going with Jane and Liza for a bit … beach holiday. Better.’ It no longer matters what she says, the atmosphere has to stay nice. This can’t go on for much longer, and after that it’ll be done; he’ll end up cursing her.
‘She’s mad about Liza.’
‘She’s a lovely lass.’
‘It’s just the two of us,’ she says in English.
‘Speak the language God gave you.’
‘Sorry.’
He suggests driving to Poland, like they’d done back then.
‘Why not?’ Roxy uses the serviette to wipe her forehead.
‘Otherwise you could just drop her off at your ma’s.’ He’s not joking.
Roxy drops her knife and fork and pushes her plate away.
‘Don’t you like it?’ He gestures at her food.
‘She’s not going to Mum’s.’
Her father lays down his cutlery too.
‘She’d only be alone otherwise.’
‘Have you gone barking mad?’
‘You know, Roxy, the problem with Arthur?’
‘Don’t do it.’
‘Do you know what the problem was?’
‘Don’t do it, Dad.’
‘Don’t do what?’
‘Arthur was my husband.’
‘I’ve driven all the way to France for you, Missy.’
‘And I appreciate it too.’
‘The lady appreciates it.’
Roxy dips her fingers into the bowl of water. ‘Shit.’ There’s lemon in it and it burns into the cuts on her hands.
‘What?’
‘Lemon.’ She looks for her serviette, it has fallen onto the floor. She bends down.
‘Nothing wrong with your ma.’
She comes back up again immediately.
‘Jesus Christ, Dad.’
‘No, you’re the mother of the year.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘But it doesn’t matter, doll.’ He smiles.
Roxy tries to smile back but doesn’t manage.
‘You’re just like me,’ her father says. ‘We’re free agents. We’re the same.’
Roxy gets up.
‘What?’
‘I don’t feel well.’
She walks out of the café.
Outside, she stands between the trucks. How often can a person be wrong?
‘Roxy?’
He’s followed her. That’s not like her father. He needs her. ‘Are you ill?’
‘No.’
Her feet hurt. She takes off her heels and now she’s shorter than he. The tarmac is much too hot for bare feet and yet she stays standing there.
‘I can’t come with you, Dad.’
‘What’s this now?’
‘I’m not coming.’
‘What am I doing here, then?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes.’
‘And now?’
‘I have to go back.’
‘Home?’
‘To Louise.’
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On the Design
As book design is an integral part of the reading experience, we would like to acknowledge the work of those who shaped the form in which the story is housed.
Tessa van der Waals (Netherlands) is responsible for the cover design, cover typography, and art direction of all World Editions books. She works in the internationally renowned tradition of Dutch Design. Her bright and powerful visual aesthetic maintains a harmony between image and typography and captures the unique atmosphere of each book. She works closely with internationally celebrated photographers, artists, and letter designers. Her work has frequently been awarded prizes for Best Dutch Book Design.
This cover photo was taken in Brooklyn by Patrice Hauser. Hauser was a fighter pilot in the French Navy, but left the army to pursue his passion for photography and travel. He currently works as a magazine editor, journalist, and photographer. Our Art Director, Tessa van der Waals, looked at billboards and drive-in restaurant signs for inspiration for the type: ‘A title like Roxy begs for a monumental presence on the cover.’
The cover has been edited by lithographer Bert van der Horst of BFC Graphics (Netherlands).
Esther Gerritsen, Roxy
