Extracts from the novel Love, Lost, Last by Ullysses Franco.

Chapter 2

The Railway Hotel - Hue Hin, Thailand.

August 1997

The possessed

I could hear the constant flow of running water pumped up, to waterfall down into the lily pond below that was full of large outsized goldfish. The water fell in a perfect sheet to be effortlessly consumed by the waiting pool below. Palms were fanned out through the garden in a tropical salute of shade and cover. Elephants were created from hedges. Umbrellas were placed around the gardens like a table top full of martini's shielding the 'little cherries' in the glass. All of the red bloated bodies strewn below them were each holding up a novel at half arms length in unison, like a hospital ward of fracture patients with their arms plastered and suspended upwards. All escaping their pedestrian uniformity of the urbane. Briefly entertaining the tropical myth of the personalized paradise of perfect coupledom, tranquility and sunset martini's.

A balding German talked endlessly on his mobile phone, changing ears, nodding his head and resting one leg up on the table. Next to him was a French Asian beauty. Her head resting on her hand, the other stroking through her hair. She stared out over the gardens. Her eyes glistened as she surveyed everything that moved in the greenery. Intelligence, understanding and knowing spoke out from her face. Her features were soft and perfectly positioned. A beauty of symmetry and colour. Bright, womanly and with an expression that could have been slightly troubled by time and ponderance….although more likely to have something to do with the fat German c..t that was sitting next to her. She seemed slightly bored. When they spoke he in German and she in French. I wasn't sure if it was a relationship thing or whether it was just easier to talk in their natural tongues. He contained her and it seemed almost like a father daughter exchange. But more.

Other guests walked around the grounds in their light blue bathrobes and slippers in the middle of the day. In pairs, cleansed red bodies covered, protected, pampered and preserved in the sterile robes. The gardens were starting to look like an asylum of wandering bewildered wildues. A recovery ward. Brookwood in the tropics. Another couple always in a matching white T-shirts and the same khaki shorts everyday, seemed to follow them around in the same pattern of predetermined escape. The urban footpath of tropical 'freedom'.

A well organized military of gardeners brushed away the leaves and flowers from the pathways as quickly as they fell. Maintaining perfect order in defiance of nature. Water continued all day to fall in a perfect painting from the two waterfalls into the pond. Violin music drifted out in perfect pitch from the cool in the shade of the balcony, offering a poignant textured ambience.

I was here with them although the difference, I was alone. I wasn't scared of being alone. In fact I enjoyed the simplicity. Every decision came easily and no debate or other consideration was required. The harmony of one. I was calm and contemplating a life of recidivist relationships, squandered social encounters and other behavioral absurdities that became my accomplice and accompanied me around and became me over the past thirty two years.

My thoughts flickered but were no longer polarized and controlled by a frantic pace of external activities such as train timetables, business meetings, cars, pedestrians, emails, text messages, phone calls, family, reports, drinks, girlfriend, coffee, parents. I felt strangely………….. free. Released. It was definitely working. I was on a tropical retreat that resembles and provokes peace, tranquility and higher thought. Just go with it and you will be delivered. Yeah that was it. I was over healthy cynicism and business distrust. I was going to get totally swept up in this whole thing and ……………. relax and do nothing. Absolutely sweet FA'.

The Shallow Pool

A flower from the frangipani tree dropped onto the table to remind me of nature's natural order. Its five white petals fanned out in a display of perfect mathematical purity. An exposed and furtive yellow centre, ripe, adolescent and potent. Full of pollen, swollen and seductively open and available. I spun it in my fingers and held it close to my face providing a creamy yellow strobe like effect with the world viewed through its petals.

I preferred to think and see through this a kind of vivid, surreal like soft focus where nature over ran everything that was transformed through the lens. I now spun one in each hand and caught all the movement through a binocular yellow hue. Life was softened and so was the intensity of the cliché of the midday sun.

The light exposed universal truths and creative consciousness gave perspective to time existence, self and social order. A kaleidoscope of natural colour, hope, love, jealousy, belief and death. A fallen flower where again passionate frailty was spinning in my hands.

My escapism and meditative senses were short lived, dulled by another spinning spectacle.

At every pool scene there is always a "Billy big balls" parading and performing for somebody. Usually, the Dorian Grey mirror image of the water. A narcissistic extravagance of arrested development tortuously pantomiming on the boards around the pool. Our Billy would have won critical acclaim for his role and extended the character without compromise.

As the German blond beauty swam gently up and down, Billy was at the deep end leaping in with a forward summer-sault and a big splash, directly into her path. Surfacing he would shout in a loud French voice " one and a half Philippe". His run perfectly timed like an entry from the wings onto the stage, each time that 'Claudia' returned to the deep end.

It took three lengths for her to realize that this 'acrobatic' would continue each time she passed the 2m deep mark. She started swimming widths across the shallow end. Billy swam the length underwater, below her and started doing handstands between the children and parents. Muscular brown hairy legs with tight black Speedo's containing the essentials poked high out of the water with gymnastic virtuosity. An architectural erection misplaced among suburban flats and town houses. A tower block, popping up everywhere without preserve or permission. This continued until the disapproving glances of the 'residents' moved his desires into deeper water again.

As the colours faded in the late afternoon, the depth and beauty of the English rose and tropical gardens wooed me and started an exhibition of long shadows of green streets in all shades. No longer washed out by the brilliance of the daytime I could see and feel the richness of the texture of the plant life owning the grounds of the 'enclosure' where my urban escapee's were still playing follow my leader.

The pathway with a corridor of blooming frangipanis trees illuminated and reflected light like a divine passageway up to the 'heritage' colonial tearoom. A classical mixture of bamboo chairs, verandas, wooden floors, three level balconies and many cups of tea. All around me the blend of French and German languages quietly humming side by side adding life to the surroundings that now captivated and embraced me. The strangeness of these two languages on holiday together at an English built 1923 hotel. There families would not have known what was then ahead of them. It now seemed that they had rested on what had gone before.

An army of youthful Thai girls effortlessly and with much charm served every culinary need of gluttony and craving. Waiting and moving continuously with smiles, calmness and poise in a buddist like subdued serenity. Digital video cameras caught every action and movement of the day by our 'war correspondents' who were ready to www off the daily news to friends and families anxious back in there European homes to hear of the distant occupation of new holiday lands. Moving snaps delivered in digital real time. Uploaded to their ftp site for instant 'real time' viewing. The wonders of broadband. The death of the holiday snap. The birth of the truth.

The Hit Man

I sat back deeper into my bed chair. I was settling back into my 'patient' pose with a book of poems (graffiti) and short stories (death threats, rap and other urban profanities) by young up and coming English Granta writers and artists who just couldn't be American. A kind of progressive expression of love-hate writings. My pocket handbook of buddism hadn't quite made my short list yet but the intention was there. It was at least with me. I quite liked The Hit Man by Frank Smithers. It was murky and unusual. A verse of terse unrequited love. Expressed quite innovatively. It was almost awkward, neo punk but sharper, stiring and interesting.

The Hit man

In a banquet of robbery
Where aunties live in couched snobbery
Infested in language of band aids and bandages
Where the fearful tread
And the down trodden take stead
And are forgotten

In a burden, a gag or a gaggle gone dog rotten
A cunning linguist among the fine and distinguished
Goes down in the throes
Of words and prose
Wrapped in tight petals
Wearing spiky thorns of sharp words like medals

But mine is the tender
With love the hurtful mender
Stitched up and needled
By a hit mans artful easel
Where the girls in the dress
There's always a girl in distress

Divine intervention pedals love
In exchange for prevention
Tortures it exempt
It dangles a fragrance and scent
The hit man with intervention refined
Holds destiny by ultimate prevention

As I reach for intention
He grabs and holds my mention
My thoughts flicker and twist
As honest emotion goes untouched
A chance missed

Yours is the power,
Love is the glory
Forever and ever

I was engrossed and curious, wondering how the imagination and social consequences provoke this sort of writing in a 16 year old. Maybe I had just missed a link were poetry had now become this kind of cryptic play of words and meaning interpreted by ones alter ego which had now become more popular and important than ones real personality.

Alter ego's were to become classified recognizable personality types for a new 'hip-pea' bohemian youth of the early 2000's. A bit like star signs. "What alter ego are you"? I could imagine that there were books that could classify alter egos and let you know the significance of being on the cusp of one or what your alter ego rising was. Maybe it was more like a dream sequence where the alter ego is an adjunct or a suppressed entity floating around the self in another consciousness of unrepressed raucous behaviour.

I don't know. I was just enjoying the stir of reading and pondering in the land that time forgot. But not for long.

My peace was again broken this time by the monotonic tones of an English accent droning out of the shallow end. An aging, grey haired Londoner, holding court with a German women and her daughter, 'Claudia'. Baseball cap back to front, red sunburnt face and a bloated body called Nick.…………………"I have a first class honors degree, I'm proud of being English are you proud of being German" he didn't wait for the reply. It was said with a doubting challenging tone.

"I speak English and a little Italian and pet te per French. Americans don't speak English they speak…..American. I have a business and I deal in francs, Lira, Deutchmarks. I think currency is important for ones national identity. I don't fancy this euro at all. Are you proud of the Deutchmark? I don't even think about the war"

He had to mention it. It's kind of an English thing that happens when ever the English meet Germans. It has to be mentioned to clear it up other wise a certain tension exists but I think only for the English. A joke would do it and would be fine if it were Monty Pythonesque. That sketch captured and defined this situation for the current generations. The sketch has been lived out a thousand times. 'The War, don't mention the War". Its so clichéd its become a standard exchange between the English and Germans. It's a kind of victorious gloating by the upper middle aged and handed down to the controlling classes. It's ultimately a disbelieving relief that is embedded into a John Cleese type English character that the Germans think the English nation has now become. In fact so do the Americans

And the torrent of "I" words continued.
"I like it here and come every year
I don't think its that expensive really"

He spoke with a know it all type manner that was typical of the once down trodden or overlooked. He was over compensating and eager to demonstrate new confidence and knowledge. His conversation ran very much like an audition for Big Brother. Tell us how the world works and start every sentence with I, please.
He was a classic aging Nick Bateman without the public school. Conceited, self serving calculating and trite.
The monologue continued and he managed to find something to complain about, just a hint of it in everything.
"The air conditioning in my room is quite cold"… well turn it down a bit… NICK
"The chlorine was strong in the pool last night"… The sign says chemicals in the pool after 10pm, pool closed. Stop swimming when your pissed… NICK
"I don't really like that food that they do here". Its fucking Asia NICK…order fish and chips from the chippie in the village. The shop that says lonely fat bastards with no imagination or take a package holiday to Spain. There's whole streets serving chip butties.
"The pound dropped three Baht yesterday"…The Bahts already worthless don't worry about it… NICK
"They wouldn't let me in the tea house without shoes". We don't want to stare at your Athletes foot, corns and verrucas, when sipping Earl Grey …NICK

I felt like sending him to Australia. They love whinging poms there.

The drone faded into the background after the initial intrusion. In a peculiar way I think I enjoyed hearing his complaints. My own catharsis being that he was such a more miserable twat or maybe I was gaining satisfaction from the echo of complaining people……

Well I suppose he is here trying to do what the rest of us are doing. That's just how he is. Not for me to worry about. Must think of NICK the next time I'm about to launch a petty complaint. Don't even think of whinging in Australia. Quick self reminder.

There must be some therapy or catharsis that happens from complaining. A sort of empty calorific food where you get an uplifting sugar fix but it doesn't change the underlying hunger. NICK certainly had a sweet tooth.
Maybe it's something in the vinegar that we put on the chips. I'm sure it's got something to do with fish and chips. A chip on the shoulder, a chip off the old block, its definitely been passed down through the generations. It can't be escaped.

NICK gave it both barrels. A general unloading of dissatisfaction in the shallow end. The full butty load of underlying social bitterness. "Its all been a bit hard, I earn't it myself"…. and probably has. Maybe he'd just had it from his parents all the time, moaned at all his life "Chip Butty for tea NICK". Never quite good enough. Maybe the whinging is linked to low self esteem in some way. A dysfunction relationship with his father. Maybe his mother cranked him off when he was a boy and he never got over it. Maybe he saw his parents having it off and was Oedipal. Maybe he developed it all by his sad miserable self. Maybe..….I don't really care.

I wasn't going to let this damage my moment of wanky higher explorative thought. I think what I was actually bothered by was the fact that I could comprehend what he said. I had been so happy just to hear languages exchanged without meaning. A background hum with no sense. With this I could read the tones, hear all of the words, place the regionality of the voice, the meaning and the pitch.

I lay back in the chair and continued the readings of my street poets and other 'Hip pea' bohemian writers. And on it continued.

Chapter 3

The Flight of fantasy .

Sydney, Australia
August 1998

I fell in love the second time I saw her. Truly, madly….badly. I'm convinced it happens in the first moment. You know in that second. You don't have to go out with somebody for months. The first look, that exchange, the first words tell you everything. If we're honest we would tell them….it ain't goin happen……it is going to happen. You can get dragged into it….. but, anyway, it's a well told story.

Men aren't commitment phobes they're just with the wrong person they just haven't figured it out. The trouble is they cling onto their current relationships so that when she does show up the situation isn't quite right so it can't happen. They grow accustomed to the current cushion.

I'd seen this a thousand times but that wasn't a problem I was suffering from.

I went into the State Library for the second time that week. I liked it there. In fact I like libraries. Calm peaceful with a lot going on. Plenty to think about. Plenty to lose yourself in. The computing system was hooked up to everything. Broadband linked to almost every database in the world and every information source in the library. This is what my sexy attractive life had become.

I was just about to get in to the queue for the pc when BANG….it was the girl from Thailand. The girl from Ipanema. The French Asian Beauty. It couldn't be. Was, wasn't, was it, is she…it didn't matter. She had just gone one in front of me in the queue. Christ I couldn't believe it. Would she remember that we spoke at the bar. I wish I hadn't said anything now. Maybe it wasn't her I couldn't really tell.

We both took a computer. I was sitting about four feet away from her and had planned a lot to do and this wasn't helping. This was my big work evening in the library.

"What are you working on". Within eight minutes she had asked me out to dinner…….

I was driving her home. Grace. A fitting name. I would keep stealing glances from different sides just to try and find something that I didn't like. A slightly bulging thigh, thick ankles, baggy elbows, swaying triceps or just something to turn me off the whole thing just a little bit. Even a spot would do. She was wearing a short green skirt that showed off her lovely bump and long slightly brown legs. Long, slender and sexy. A white open neck shirt tied at the waist displaying her noisey cleavage.

She got noticed everywhere that we had been that evening. I was bathing in the reflected glamour of it all. I know it wasn't a real feeling but it made me feel great. I was suddenly stunningly, attractive and desirable.

As we got closer to Bronte I kept thinking how I would handle the goodnight thing. I obviously wanted to at least kiss her but what was the best way to do it. Unless she asked me in and I hadn't heard a sound resembling that so far, I was probably going have to go for the cheek kiss in the car and then maybe just move it around to her lips and see what happened there.

The Chill out album was busy doing its thing in the cd player. Massive Attack, 'Protection'. Tracey Thorn adding the sultry groove drops. The mood was in shape and that voice ringing out…."This girl I know needs some shelter, She don't believe anyone can help her………stand in front of you take the force of the blow". Yeah , corny I know and a bit old now but that would do it and I think it was.

I pulled up, left the car running, tried not to make a big deal of any of it and to keep it natural. Just go with what happens.
"That was fun"
"Hey, I enjoyed kicking around"
"It was good to have a number of different things on not getting caught in one place blah blah…yeh,yeh………."
"Susan was nice, she talks non stop, quite a character"
"Yeh, you handled that well"
"Thanks, lots of practice I think, I seem to run into lots of people like that"
"She's quite the actress . She'd be good on a talk show of some description or maybe the radio"
"They drug test you for radio shows now, so I don't think its for her "
I didn't push that question too far but got the general gist.
"Your not bad at pool"
"Thanks, yeah, a mis-spent youth you know……nothing better to do and all of that "
"It can't have been that mis spent, you made $50 tonight.
"I've made fifty dollars for the past three weeks. If that's my job I'm not very good at it and I'm not going to get fat."

We were both sitting slightly angled towards each other, well her head was, my whole body was. The mini silence was my moment and I casually and calmly reached over to kiss her good night.

Ummph………..I had been captured! I was about two inches from her face when the inertia reel of the seat belt kicked in. I was half expecting the air bags to go off. I paused for a split second…it seemed like an age…should I go back, undo the belt and casually plunge forward again. It felt like a classic Jim Cary instant although I wasn't feeling like a pet detective tracking down the scent. I already had the pet in the car, with the seat belt strapped around me like a restraining order.

I pushed forward with it, the timing could have been lost I thought. I was at total full stretch and trying to look natural and somehow desirable although the bulging tendons on my neck were looking a bit like a steroidal athlete who's life depended on getting over the bar…..or a least around the seat belt. To her lips.

Her eyes widened, just a tiny bit. A hint of surprise. I thought she was going to laugh. That would have killed me but actually we could have both had a good laugh. This would have made the moment and saved me. I just got to her lips but could only just touch her top lip, just slightly. I sucked it. She gentle pulled on my bottom lip that I was able to give her and we looked directly into each other eyes. Not a blink, just bright, 'eyes wide, shut' and the most different 'kiss'. It was a moment. Not quite picture perfect but a quirky….kiss.

"I'll walk you to your door"
"Ok"

I could see the child in her face. The young girl in the women. The essence of her beauty was that child like quality that shone innocence and grace, a fitting name for her. A symmetry of structure, colour, texture, poise and happiness.

She wouldn't let me kiss her properly. We stood on the doorstep, brightly illuminated by the porch light, acting as a stage to the street in front of us.
"Your very pretty". Why did I say that although she was.

Our hands danced together tenderly entangled waltzing around the skin….the perfect wrapper. Our fingers, conveniently naked, available and exposed. We pressed lips, touched cheeks played and flirted with love. I pulled her closer by the silk scarf around her neck. She played but kept me away, gently rolling her face around my cheeks and mouth.

"Do you have peppermint tea" I was trying to be cute and disarming but felt sick for sounding like a whimpy prat…..do you want to take me upstairs and behave like beasts would have been better….who let the dogs out..ooh ooh …ooh ooh

"If I let you in I won't be able to get rid of you"
"You're totally in charge. I'll just come in for ten minutes"
She pursed her lips and looked even sexier.
"Uummh….I don't think I can trust you"
"Why not try"
"Uummh"
She bit her bottom lip slightly and looked as if in contemplative thought. Just like the face that I was watching in the tea room in Thailand. Yes/no/yes/no. Too many no's in that equation for my liking I thought. Was I panicking?

I talked a lot expecting the barrage of words to overpower the front door and her will to keep me outside. I tried to remember all of those little tips in Loaded and Mens Health magazine that were written just for this moment. I imagined lying on the couch, entwined, kissing, caressing and her eventual and inevitable surrender. Positive thinking! The art of gentle persuasion.

She continued to play with her kisses, still keeping control but offering a hint of passion, softness and moist tenderness in her lips. The play was almost scripted. The perfect exchange of tactical desire. The ending was well written but I refused to abide by its language and wanted to ad lib a bit……….always a mistake.

I licked the top of her breasts just above her open shirt and caressed just below her neck. I heard a hint of pleasure and she made one of those movements like we were at the forefront of…..the act. A kind of foreplay if you want to allow me some slack.

This was the only hope of removing her sensibilities. The things guys have to do to get a shag. I wasn't actually thinking just that but there was a natural instinct that was making me go through this child/boy behaviour. How I had forgotten!

The ultimate power of denial was always hers and it was executed with perfect delicacy. The actress. Expressed longing desire and yet a full service of self denial.
She turned went though the door and waved briefly as she went. She said nothing.

More time and effort was going to be required to earn those valuable reward points. At this stage it was going to remain a flight of fantasy.