Not Your Ordinary Housewife

3





So I found myself back at Paul’s student dorm. I missed the women and the atmosphere at the squat complex, but the noise of the punk band, buses and tourists outside my room had left me sleep deprived.

Paul was approaching his final high school exams. I was worried I would be a distraction, but he seemed confident. The night before each exam, he smoked a worrying amount of marijuana.


‘I don’t mean to sound like your mother, but shouldn’t you be studying?’

‘Hey, I don’t need to study. I’m doing four languages and art. I speak better English than my English teacher, who’s Polish.’ He did a humorous imitation of ‘Miss Pissovotski’ and her ‘Ponglish’, as he called it. It was true—he had a supreme gift for languages and certainly his results didn’t belie his confidence.

We were still making frequent visits to downtown Amsterdam, where one day I noticed a T-shirt in a shop window. The comic script read how to roll a joint and it had cartoon drawings.

‘Hey, look at that—it’s kind of cute,’ I said, thinking I might buy it for Paul.

I was certainly not prepared for his reaction. ‘Jesus f*cking Christ, that’s my drawing! The bastards have ripped me off. I drew that on a piece of paper as a joke and the owner liked it so much I traded it for a hash pipe.’

Inside the shop, the manager told us that the T-shirt was a hot-selling item. It had been reproduced in three different sizes and colours. Paul was livid, but there was nothing to be done.

He became agitated and I felt a melancholic pall descend on his normally cheerful disposition. ‘That’s the story of my life. Everyone wants something or tries to rip me off. Even my f*cking parents: I’ve got a father who won’t acknowledge me and a mother who’s sold out—f*cking whore. She married my stepfather for his money and now she’s miserable. Serves her right. I once had a bet with my friends that I’d be dead by thirty.’

I was shocked by this dramatic statement. ‘But why?’ I asked somewhat naively.

‘Because I’ll probably die of a heroin overdose. They’ll find me in a gutter somewhere.’

I couldn’t believe he’d think that. He had so much going for him. I told him not to say stuff like that—he was scaring me. I knew he smoked a lot of dope and we’d sampled some speed and acid together, but I’d never known any actual addicts.

Desperate to understand him, I asked Paul endlessly about his mother and stepfather. He described Vlad as looking exactly like Colonel Klink, the bumbling German commandant in the 1960s TV show Hogan’s Heroes.

He said that when Vlad had come over from Czechoslovakia, he’d opened a car wash, which turned out to be a great business in Holland, what with all their acid rain. He made an absolute fortune. He’d originally been part of the Bayer family—the poor cousins. His branch had once had a fifteenth-century castle, plus apartments on the Black Sea. They’d owned a whole block of the Wenceslas Square in central Prague, but when the communists came to power the family had lost it all.

Vlad’s mother had been left living in a tiny apartment, with the remnants of her art masterpieces crammed into a couple of rooms. She refused to follow him to Holland because she was convinced that the communists would confiscate her collection—apparently, she was a paranoid old crone who slept with a knife under her pillow.

Paul had never shared this with me before, and I was spellbound. He said that for years Vlad wouldn’t go back to Czechoslovakia, for fear of being arrested. So, after he married Saskia, he used to send Paul back to Prague to retrieve some of the art treasures. ‘Since I refused to carry his surname, there was no official connection with Vlad. Later, he was able to regain entry; but for years as a child, I’d go to Prague and smuggle stuff out. You have no idea what my mother and stepfather put me up to. From the age of about twelve, I’d make a trip roughly once a year. There was just so much loot and it was worth a fortune. Like the Renoir.’

‘Renoir—the impressionist painter?’

‘What other Renoir is there?’ he asked rhetorically.

I stared at him in disbelief.

‘Well, admittedly not one of his finest, but a Renoir nevertheless.’ Apparently, they pasted a hideous portrait of Vlad’s mother over the original and gave Paul a carton of Marlborough to take on the train. If the border guards got suspicious, he was to offer them the cigarettes as a bribe.

Sure enough, at the border, one of the guards started inspecting the painting at the edges. The frame was a bit of a giveaway—it was obviously expensive. So Paul put on his most innocent expression and, as he produced the carton of cigarettes from his bag, asked, ‘Are you allowed to take these across the border?’ The guard immediately snatched them out of his hand and waved him through.

I found all this very hard to believe. But Paul said he would show me the Renoir, plus a painting by a seventeenth-century original Dutch master, Joris van der Haagen, that was listed in the Prague National Gallery as being under repair but which Saskia and Vlad had hanging in their dining room.

Then there was all the other stuff: the stamp and postcard collections, the Bohemian crystal . . . and not forgetting the diamonds. One time Paul had been heading back to Amsterdam with some diamond jewellery stuffed in his shirt pockets. There was a passenger, probably KGB, who noticed his bulging pockets and he got really nervous, but Paul averted suspicion by looking so angelic.

Because I sounded so disbelieving, he decided to take me to dinner with Saskia and Vlad. He’d already told his mother about me and she’d said she wanted to meet me anyway. I was full of trepidation and didn’t know what to wear—I could hardly turn up in my leather gear and fishnets. So, I decided on the only dress I had—a 1950s polka-dot op-shop outfit—although I felt very self-conscious.

Saskia greeted me with consummate charm and polish. She was tall, and I could see the remnants of her former career as a model in her posture and poise. Her face had a fragile beauty—high cheekbones and a strong chin, like Paul. There was a hint of sadness in her eyes. She introduced me to Vlad, a large dapper man with impeccable English. He too was a paragon of politeness, and I had difficulty envisaging him as the dog-tormenter or child- and wife-basher that I had been told about. Paul’s younger half-brother, Rudi, was there too. Paul seemed happier to see his dog, Bobby, than his family and he lavished attention on the pedigree boxer.

As soon as I entered the dining room, I saw the van der Haagen: a gentle landscape of muted colours. It was the intricately carved massive gold frame, however, which lent an air of opulence to this masterpiece. I could see Paul watching my reaction. It certainly looked authentic to me and it provided an intriguing contrast with their modern art collection. The apartment was furnished in a minimalist style: quality leather and steel sofas, and cabinets of Bohemian crystal and trinkets. I even thought I recognised some classic Gallé glass. And so I sat in their dining room eating spaghetti with the Dutch master’s painting on the wall while contemplating the circumstances that had brought me here.

The conversation was stilted, and I could sense that Saskia disliked me. She was grilling Paul about his plans for the future. She thought he should study art in Montreal. It would be good for him to get away from Amsterdam, and he could stay with family there. She reminded him that he would be drafted into the Netherlands army soon if he didn’t continue studying. She and Vlad were prepared to pay for his ticket so he could start college in the autumn.

After dinner, Paul and I had some time alone. ‘I have to show you the Renoir. It’s in my room,’ he said.

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. It’s in the spare room, now that I’ve moved out. It’s under my bed—they didn’t want to hang it, in case it got stolen.’


We entered Paul’s old room and there, under his single bed, was the painting. It was a historical painting—Mary Queen of Scots being led to her execution. It wasn’t in Renoir’s typically light and saturated colours but it was signed, nonetheless.

However, I was sceptical, even after examining the signature. Renoir mainly did parties and portraits; I was not aware of him painting that kind of subject matter. I wondered about its provenance— how did Paul know it wasn’t a fake?

‘It just isn’t . . . and the provenance got lost in Prague. Anyway, these people didn’t need to buy fakes, because they could afford originals. You have no idea how rich they were.’

‘Okay, okay, I believe you,’ I said. ‘It’s just hard to believe. You know, I don’t actually like that Renoir much—I wouldn’t want it hanging in my house either.’

Paul laughed. ‘Yeah—that’s why I put it under my bed. I used to chuck my dirty undies and socks on it.’



Back at Uilenstede, we dissected the evening. Paul reckoned Saskia was trying to break us up and I agreed. ‘Well, maybe you should study in Canada,’ I suggested.

But Paul said he loved me so much he couldn’t bear to be without me: ‘I know we haven’t known each other long, but I don’t want to be with anyone else . . . ever.’ He’d often said that we were meant to be together, and I’d felt that too; I couldn’t imagine loving anybody else.

Still, he seemed to be way too young to be saying such things. But he argued that, while he was chronologically only nineteen, he’d done a lot of living and a lot of soul searching. ‘You think all that shit, like smuggling stuff out from behind the Iron Curtain, doesn’t give you a certain perspective on life?’

He’d definitely seen a lot more than the average person. I was, though, eight years older than him; I doubted this was going to work. It was a holiday romance: one day, I’d go back to my life in Melbourne and he’d go to art school and marry some nice Dutch girl, just like his mother wanted him to.

‘No, that’s not going to happen,’ he said emphatically. He was becoming emotional and had tears in his eyes. ‘I don’t know what I might do if you left me.’ I was shocked by Paul’s veiled reference to suicide. He continued: ‘I just can’t see a future without you in it. What I’d really love is if you’d say you’d marry me.’

Jesus. I was floored. I’d never been proposed to before. I was flattered, of course, but floored.

The fact was that our relationship histories were vastly different. Since early secondary school, I’d been pursued by boys. As a ‘nice Jewish girl’, I lost my virginity at eighteen to my ‘nice Jewish boyfriend’. We were together for three years, usually making love furtively in his 1960s Chrysler—at the drive-ins or outside my parents’ house. But I had been unfulfilled—the emotional component had been lacking. So I took up with an unconventional zoology student (who introduced me to Brautigan, Baudelaire and Buber) with whom I lived for three years; but he turned out to be obsessively jealous of other men and I felt constrained.

It was at that point that I decided to make up for lost time by becoming promiscuous. I picked and f*cked whoever I fancied—at first from the Monash Uni left-wing crowd, and then from among Australia’s glass artists. I sometimes decided which propositions I would accept by the toss of a coin. I was no longer the demure virgin waiting for the boy to make the first move; instead, I revelled in my new-found sexuality, spurred on by my feminist friends.

After that, I had two more relationships, both non-monogamous. One lover I shared with his girlfriend (although I cared for him deeply, I was never jealous); the other was in Adelaide (a talented poet and painter, who referred to me as his ‘free spirit’). Over those years I would have lost count of my dozens of lovers if I hadn’t kept a tally but, by the time I left for Europe, I was unattached.

By contrast, Paul had never had a real relationship—perhaps a few hot dates, but no deeply committed partnership. Now he simply said he loved me a lot and didn’t want to lose me—I hoped this wasn’t just impetuosity. Still, he was prepared to emigrate to Australia if it meant he could be with me always, and he assured me this was not about him getting out of the army. He’d go to Canada for a bit, but long-term he wanted to come back to Melbourne with me. We could set up a studio together and do art. Maybe even have babies.

Marriage was something I’d probably always craved, without ever articulating it. I had Dory and Egon’s marriage as a model— solid and compatible, based on unquestioning devotion. With them there were never lies or affairs, and yet I guessed that neither was there a strong sexual component.

For me sex was important but in some ways it was always incidental. I craved an emotional connection, and that was what I felt I’d found in Paul. Moreover, he had a really convincing answer to every objection I raised. It was as if I was waiting to be persuaded; I let him take charge while he painted a romantic portrait of our life together.

Deep down, I wanted this—it would fill the emotional void created by Egon’s death and my estrangement from Dory. I had always thought marriage a bourgeois construct; but I knew I’d never felt like this about anyone before. Besides, if I said no, I stood to lose him forever—and I couldn’t bear that.

Almost before I realised it, I had agreed to marry him. He was utterly elated. Admittedly, I was ecstatic too, although a little overwhelmed. It was all happening so fast. I knew we loved each other deeply and I wanted to be in a monogamous relationship with him.



Much of our time in the student dorm was spent drawing in the Mondrian kitchen, as I called it. Paul would spread out his sketchbooks, his Indian ink bottle and metal quill pens. He liked the ‘warm’ line they produced and was very particular about nibs, whereas I had always used a rapidograph, a technical drawing pen. Together we would draw while listening to our favourite music: AC/DC, UB40 and Nina Hagen. As the best of The Beatles blared from his blaster, I sang along to the familiar lyrics. Experimenting with colour and collage, and with Paul cartooning by my side, I felt totally fulfilled.

We were doing a lot of photography, mainly of each other. I did a series of photos of him after using a black marker to write and draw on his body. The most successful of these was a close-up of his buttocks with the words dutch boy’s bum emblazoned across the right cheek.

Occasionally, his school friends visited. There was more bad news as we heard reports that Paul’s T-shirts were selling in such far-flung places as Sweden and Spain.

One afternoon, Paul had an idea. ‘I’ve always wondered how I’d look if I’d been born a female—why don’t you dress me up as a girl and take photos?’

I was a little puzzled. ‘Why would you wanna know what you look like as a girl? You’re a guy.’

‘Yeah, I know it’s weird, but trust me—they’ll be really great photos.’

I objected that there was no way he was going to look feminine— his chin, for example, was just too prominent. But he said that didn’t matter—they’d be arty photos. I could put make-up on him and dress him in my clothes.

I remained dubious: ‘I just don’t understand why you’d want me to do that.’


‘Trust me,’ he repeated.

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘if it makes you happy . . . but it feels a little weird.’

And so I did as he asked. I made him up, using my eye-shadow and mascara. He had Cupid’s bow lips and my red lip gloss accentuated his smile. He wore a fishnet body stocking that he’d bought for me—on me it did up at the crotch, but on his masculine frame it came to his waist. The dress, also a gift, had the open zipper turned away from the camera so it appeared to fit his girth.

He was right—the photos were arty, a result of the ethereal lighting combined with his pouting facial expressions. He had recently dyed his hair black and the images were striking against the white walls.

Soon after, we were playing pool one evening in a dingy pub when we noticed some punks with a rat.

‘Hey,’ Paul said, ‘I’d love a pet rat. What do you reckon?’

‘Nah, I’ve had one before—when I was doing my science degree. All us third-year psych students were given one of those albino rats with red eyes and we had to train them using a Skinner box—you know, where they have to depress a lever to be fed.’

‘Come on, it’ll be fun. I love animals and this will be “different”. I miss my dog, you know.’

I relented. ‘Okay, but I don’t want to get stuck looking after it.’

And so one of the students in Paul’s dorm arranged for a white lab rat, complete with cage, to be delivered to our apartment.

‘I’m gonna call it Chaimie—from the toast “L’Chaim, to Life”—like in Fiddler on the Roof. It’s such a Jewish name,’ he cackled. ‘Hey, we can do some great photos with it. It’s a strong image.’

It was true. Chaimie was interesting to photograph, and Paul enjoyed taking it out on excursions.

Our relationship continued to encompass a mixture of art, sex and love. My devotion to him was unlimited: I had an inkling of his past suffering and my heart bled for him. He would tell me constantly how much he loved me—I was his saviour, his muse, his soul mate and his lover.



True to her word, Saskia bought Paul a ticket . . . to New York. She told him he’d have to find his own way to Montreal by bus since a direct flight wasn’t covered by her frequent flyer program. She was, however, unprepared for my decision to go with him.

We both loved New York. A friend had recommended the Carlton Arms on 3rd Avenue and 25th Street, which was a most amazing alternative artistic experience—something akin to the punk cafe in Amsterdam. The reception area boasted a mannequin wearing a welding mask and our room had pale-pink walls daubed with green and purple splodges. The bathroom, with its missing tiles and cockroaches, featured a dilapidated claw-foot bath. Behind the torn vertical blinds was our own fire escape. The place was inspiring and we were soon taking photos, in between visiting the Guggenheim and other galleries.

Paul arranged to stay with his father in Montreal and I was curious to meet him. Brian Demaine was a handsome man with a wicked sense of humour. Like Saskia, he had been a model—in his case, a ‘dressman’—before becoming an English tutor at McGill University. He lived with his two sons and his much younger girlfriend. Like Paul, he was a gifted storyteller and he regaled us with humorous anecdotes. Paul struggled hard to reach the serious side of his father’s nature, but failed miserably. It was only their second meeting and there were still many questions unanswered.

I had been reading upstairs in the spare bedroom of Brian’s bluestone terrace when Paul burst in. ‘That arsehole! Brian’s just said we have to move out because his mother’s coming to stay.’ Paul was upset. ‘Apparently he’s never told her about me and he’s using the pretext of her weak heart to deny me the opportunity of meeting my own grandmother.’

I was surprised by this news. Brian had mentioned her visit, but never that we wouldn’t be welcome. ‘But it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to meet her,’ I said.

‘I know, but it’s no use. I’ve tried reasoning with him and he just spins me bullshit. We have two days to be out.’

Paul was visibly shaken by this cruel blow. He felt cheated and lied to; his ambivalence towards his father vacillated between love and anger. So we relocated to Paul’s maternal family, who were warm and welcoming.

Days were spent trying to enrol Paul in an art course, but he’d missed the deadlines and his Dutch high school certificate was not a recognised qualification. So we wandered around Montreal, seeing the sights and soaking up the atmosphere.

Later I said to him, ‘Don’t laugh, but I want to see the ICAO building.’ I explained that ICAO is the International Civil Aviation Organisation and my father, Egon, had spent a lot of time there as the Australian delegate for the Department of Civil Aviation. Dory once told me they’d put up a memorial plaque to him there after he died because he practically designed a revolutionary new aircraft landing system—well, it was his baby and it ultimately became a joint venture with CSIRO in Australia and was adopted worldwide. He had always joked he’d named it after me—it was called Interscan, the Microwave Landing System—or just MLS. They’re my initials—Nikki is just short for Monica and Lesley is my middle name—so we went there, but couldn’t find the plaque.

When I told Paul about all this, he couldn’t understand why we weren’t filthy rich. I had to explain to him it was because Egon had worked for the public service. Anyway, he wasn’t interested in money, although he enjoyed the kudos. It was enough for him that he was highly regarded in his field. He received an Order of Australia—I described that as being like an Australian knighthood—and a telegram from the prime minister, Malcolm Fraser. But when the Australian government sold to the States the technology his team had developed and Australia missed out on a lot of revenue, he had been very distressed.

I’d been thinking about my father often lately and how I really missed him. He had been a very modest man, but actually he was a brilliant engineer. He and the chairman of CSIRO had often travelled together overseas—working from the Australian embassies in London, Washington, Ottawa, Paris or wherever, and meeting with dignitaries, giving papers at conferences and so on.

‘Wow,’ said Paul. ‘I had no idea you were so well connected.’

Egon had known many influential people—federal ministers, the head of the ABC, just to name a few. His address book was like a mini Who’s Who, the reference book of notable Australians. He was in Who’s Who too, of course, and I was listed there as his ‘one daughter’.

I don’t know why I’d never told Paul all this before. It just hadn’t seemed relevant until we were in Montreal and I remembered how much my father had loved that city. Egon was perhaps a little authoritarian, although he had doted on me. He always pushed me academically and it was his idea that I study science—I think I needed his approval, so I agreed. He could be extremely forceful, but he meant well. He had been very angry when I told him I was going to art college.

On our way out of Canada we had to transit through JFK airport. When the customs officer stamped my passport there, he noticed I was Australian. It was late September 1983; he told me we’d just won the America’s Cup. How amazing, I thought, imagining that it would be a big deal back home.


Nothing prepared me for the shock that awaited me on my arrival back in Amsterdam. Because I’d previously been in Holland for over 90 days, the immigration officials wouldn’t let me back in. Now I needed a guarantor.

So Paul called his mother and stepfather and begged them for this favour. Reluctantly, they agreed. I think that by then they’d resigned themselves to the fact that we were together. Luckily, Saskia didn’t see the engagement ring that Paul had bought me—for 29 cents from the Toyworld Fairview store in Montreal, but remarkably realistic nonetheless.

Back in ‘the cell’, as Paul called his room, we were able to have some privacy again at last. We spent the next few days in bed, surfacing only to eat and feed Chaimie.

Paul emerged one day from the shower pointing to his groin:

‘Look, I’ve shaved my balls. It feels great—really sensitive.’

‘It’s going to grow back prickly,’ I warned him.

‘I might even shave off the whole thing—it looks a bit like a Hitler moustache at the moment.’

Indeed, it looked bizarre.

‘Why don’t we shave you?’ he suggested. ‘I reckon you’d love it and it would really turn me on.’

‘Well, I like my pubes, and besides, they’ll itch when they regrow.’

‘No, just keep it shaved. Trust me—you’ll love it.’

I had never heard of any women doing this, but was prepared to give it a go. So, with lashings of lather cream, we shaved each other’s pubic hair. I had to admit it enhanced the pleasure of our lovemaking.

Next, Paul decided he wanted to give me a master class in how to give head: ‘I mean, really give head. Not that you aren’t great, but I know what feels best and I’ve done it myself, so I know.’

I had always tried to put Paul’s gay experience out of my mind. ‘Years ago, I had a lover who could suck himself off . . . not that I ever saw it, but he did have a particularly flexible torso. It’s a pity you can’t do that!’

But Paul was serious. ‘You’ve got to tease me more. Too many women just go straight for it, and sometimes it can even hurt. Just play with my balls and run your tongue up and down the shaft, and then deep throat me.’

I loved to please him and set about following his instructions.

Paul lay on the bed, his head propped up by a pillow as he wanted to watch what was happening. I began by running my long red fingernails all over his torso, skirting around his groin. My tantalising touch elicited an immediate erection—bold and proud as his perfectly formed penis inflated to bursting point. Only then did I gently take him in my grasp—twisting, turning and teasing.

Paul moaned with pleasure and I could feel myself getting wet with desire in response. I reached down to my cunt. Spreading my lips, I dipped in my fingers to coat them with my fluids. Placing my fingers in his mouth, I let him suck my juice from them.

His groans goaded me on as I kissed his balls—cupping them in one hand, lightly caressing them with the other. I began flicking my tongue around his shaft, and then licking the head before taking it into my mouth. I kept alternating between head and shaft, head and shaft, until I’d consumed his entire cock.

I felt Paul writhe as I continued to bob my head up and down, occasionally licking his length while grasping him firmly with one hand. The deeper I went, the louder he moaned as he panted:

‘Take it all—to the hilt!’ I opened my gullet so as not to gag and, as I relaxed my throat, I could feel him deep within as his hot semen spurted into me.

Apparently, I was a good pupil, because Paul told me it was the best blow job he’d ever had.



We were still frequenting the Milky Way and Paul had found a leaflet with a timetable of events for a forthcoming poetry festival.

‘Why don’t we check this out,’ he said. ‘It’s called the One World poetry festival and they have readings and book signings.’

I looked at the flyer. ‘Look,’ I said excitedly, ‘there’s that writer I told you about—Richard Brautigan, my second favourite author. He’s not exactly a household name, but he’s up there with Kerouac and Ginsberg. A beat poet of the 1970s. I’ve gotta go see him.’

So one evening, we took the half-hour bus ride downtown and seated ourselves in the large Milky Way theatre. There he was, tall and lanky with thinning blond hair, looking exactly as he did on the cover of his books. I sat enthralled as he recited poems and passages from some of his many works.

At the conclusion of his reading, I told Paul I wanted to meet him. Paul could see I was shy and immediately took the initiative: Richard was talking to some fans at the front of the stage and Paul walked up to him.

‘Hi, I’m Paul Van Eyk and this is my fiancée Nikki Stern. She’s a big fan of yours and has read all your books.’

‘Well, I’m glad someone in Amsterdam has heard of me,’ Richard said sardonically. Admittedly, there had been a very small crowd at his reading.

Realising that Paul was a local, he complimented him on his excellent English. ‘Hey, how about we go get a drink and you can explain Holland to me,’ Richard suggested.

At the bar, Richard ordered double vodkas, insisting that it was Paul’s job to keep his glass full. I was not used to so much alcohol, but the two of them were bantering unself-consciously and obviously hit it off. I was astounded at the quantity of spirits Richard was imbibing: his speech, barely slurred, was remarkably coherent. I listened to his stream of anecdotes and watched as his trademark moustache constantly dripped with drink.

‘Listen,’ Richard said, ‘I’d really like to get laid tonight. Why don’t you see if you can get me one of these Dutch girls?’

‘I’ll try,’ said Paul, ‘but don’t hold your breath. They’re pretty picky. I’ll tell them you’re a world-renowned poet, novelist and counter-culture hero—that might help.’

I was feeling somewhat uncomfortable as Paul made the rounds of the room, trying to procure someone for Richard. Eventually, he returned to us at the bar, looking slightly abashed: ‘Sorry, mate. No luck.’

Apparently Paul had asked anyone he thought was a likely starter: ‘How would you like to sleep with a world-famous beat poet?’ Some of them were interested—but in Paul, not Richard. He apologised for his failure, but then became brutally frank: ‘I mean, be realistic. You’re what, fifty-something? And they’re all twenty-something.’

Since we had already been drinking with him for several hours, Paul offered to take Richard to the red-light district.

‘Okay. I’d really like a Japanese hooker,’ he drawled. ‘You can be my minder and interpreter—my guardian angel. I like you. I can’t believe you’re only nineteen—you’re a very bright boy with a big future.’

‘Thanks,’ said Paul. ‘How about we all pose for a photo—I’m sure Nikki would love one of the three of us.’

It took some fast talking by Paul to persuade Richard, as he was obviously not comfortable with being photographed. Finally, the three of us sat on the first-floor stairs with Richard in the middle while Paul called in a favour from one of the Milky Way staff. I could hardly wait to get the film developed.

The walk to the red-light district was difficult in my high heels. I’d not anticipated such a lengthy promenade, but Richard was steadfast in his determination to find himself a Japanese prostitute. Richard had a thing about them and lived part-time in Japan. By the early hours of the morning, he was running out of luck and I was getting blisters on my feet from hours of walking. Many of the red lights were already off, but Paul would ask at each brothel whether there were any women of Asian appearance. Finally, after hobbling along the now-empty cobblestone streets, we found Richard a half-Chinese hooker.


‘That’s as good as you’re gonna get at four in the morning, I’m afraid,’ said Paul. ‘I’m gonna leave you here and we’re going home.’

‘Give me your number,’ said Richard, as we left him at the entrance. ‘We’ll do something tomorrow.’

It had been a most unusual evening: I not only met my hero, Richard Brautigan, but went out whoring with him. His charm and wit were undeniable, but he seemed a broken man. I sensed I was not seeing him at his best.

Sure enough, he called the next day and asked Paul to come to his hotel. They were going out for a ‘night on the town’, as Richard described it. I elected to stay home. I didn’t want a repeat of the previous night, and I had some letters I needed to write. I would have to tell my mother about how I’d met Richard, although omitting the whoring episode. Egon had admired his books and I knew that Dory would be familiar with his work.

Much later, Paul returned after his evening out: ‘Jeez, that was an experience. He put out a contract on me—back in the States—in case he went missing.’ They’d gone to all the classy brothels downtown, still looking for Japanese women.

Apparently, they drank a lot—it seemed like Richard was a chronic alcoholic. Paul told me: ‘He had vodka dripping off his moustache again. Not a pretty sight. And he kept calling me a nineteen-year-old genius—he’s really taken a shine to me.’

I said I’d been totally put off his books. I didn’t know if I could ever read any of them again after meeting him. He was an incredible womaniser. ‘I don’t think he likes me much,’ I concluded.

‘But he told me he did,’ said Paul. ‘It’s just that he knows he can’t f*ck you, so he doesn’t try too hard . . . I’d like to invite him to our wedding.’ I really wasn’t sure that I’d want him there.

Richard had actually given Paul one of his latest books, The Tokyo-Montana Express, as a galley proof, which he’d autographed. And he’d written him a poem, which he seemed to just make up on the spot. ‘We were sitting at a bar and he asked the bartender for some paper. Then he dictated this poem to me—I wrote it down and then the barman’s name as a witness, and I dated it: 25 October 1983. Then, on another sheet, he drew these child-like drawings: very primitive stuff, almost stick figures—two fish and what I think is a self-portrait: him on a horse with a cowboy hat. He’s signed that too.’

Paul showed me the two sheets of paper with the hotel restaurant letterhead on them. There on the first sheet was Richard’s poem in Paul’s writing.