I need to focus. I close my eyes, begging for silence. But there is no silence. I can hear belts being undone, zippers flying open, pants dropping, penises erecting, I swear I can hear the noiseless penetrations. There are moans and laughs and cries, and then there is the crumpling of bank-notes and the chinking of small money on tea saucers. Finally it is silent. The quietness I was craving for. There is a holiness about it. I want it to enfold us and trap us within, forever and ever. But I know this is not possible. So I open my eyes again and start talking.

You are my baby and you died a while ago. You won’t remember, because it was me who killed you. For the next quarter of an hour, I will tell you our story. You won’t believe a word of what I’ll say. You’ll think I’m nuts, and you may even rejoice in anticipation of how and what you’re going to tell your hooker friends. After a while, you won’t even listen to me, busy with the mental structuring of your anecdote. But it won’t matter, because a millisecond before my time will run out, something will happen in your mind, something so fierce and swaying that your life will take a new turn. You will understand my story, understand that it is yours as well. You will be impatient to hear the rest. Your cold heart will swell with the warmth of love and through me, you will embrace humankind. I will continue to talk uninterruptedly until the utterance of the last word of our story. At that moment, a new and reconciled woman will have taken possession of your body. You’ll be grateful to me and I’ll be grateful to you, and we’ll celebrate our renewed union.

I’ll start with a note you wrote on May first, 1990. You taped it to the entrance of our flat to ensure I wouldn’t miss it when I returned. Here’s what you wrote.

"I finished all the chocolate. Please don’t be mad at me. I’ll bring some more when I get back. Promise. Love. L."

Now, you aren’t from Czechoslovakia. You were born in Marseilles, France, in 1964. In 1974, your family moved to Brussels. You were having trouble to adapt. Kids were laughing at your southern accent, but you soon picked up the proper pronunciation. You made friends and you got good grades at school. Your family was privileged, you always got what you needed and more. In 1985 you went to the Art academy. The next three years you studied drawing. We met in 1986 and soon fell madly in love with each other. In 1988, my job brought me to Amsterdam. A year later, I found a place and I proposed you join and live with me.