Why can people be so cruel to each other? In his search for answers, Bob Van Laerhoven concentrates on individuals, but ideologies, religions, and political structures shimmer in the background.

Through ten stories set in different countries and eras, Van Laerhoven takes us through the destructive consequences of our passions as a common thread, from contemporary Syria to Algeria in the 1950s, and the civil war in Liberia to the uprising in Belgian Congo in the 1960s.

The ten stories in SCARS OF THE HEART highlight the dark side of love, which fuels our violence, inner loneliness, and greedy egos.

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CHRISTINE WITH THE FLAMING HAIR

I don’t recall I had any hope of being published one day when I started writing stories at the tender age of thirteen. They were clumsy and rather bombastic yearnings of a lonely boy in the rural border region between Belgium and The Netherlands.

Of course, there were moments when I dreamed of becoming an author someday. Still, the rough living in my village had already taught me that my origin and social working class niche could easily crush artistic longings. Masculine strength and aggression were number one for the boys in my village. No trace of novels or interest in literature existed in my parents’ home. My mother encouraged me to become a mailman. I was small and slender: daily bicycle rides to deliver letters would put some muscle on me.

On top of that, I would earn a steady income. Meanwhile, I had to be careful and demure to dodge fights with musclemen who found me easy prey. I learned to use words to placate those sturdy sons of farmers and construction workers. I noticed that stories brimming with suspense and sex had the power to fascinate – and thus calm down – the bullies around me. I had less success with humorous tales: my audience quickly harbored the impression I was mocking them, so I had to become a master in plot twists leading to, once again, suspense and sex.

Tired of being afraid of my so-called ‘ friends,’ I started taking boxing lessons when I was sixteen and discovered my reflexes were damn quick. All the pent-up fear and desperate fury in me surfaced. I couldn’t get enough training, so I added full-contact karate and weight training to my arsenal, training obsessively six days per week. Three years later, nobody harassed me anymore.

As a result of the specter of becoming a mailman still looming over me, I left the parental home at nineteen. In the nearest town, I became a waiter in The Louse, a bar with a sinister reputation, open daily to 3 a.m. The desire to write stories resurfaced there, fueled by what I saw on my night shift: the drunken fights, the love quarrels, the discussions about becoming rich, and the absolute loneliness of some regular customers who seemed to live in the bar.

I dreamed of becoming a writer again, but this time, I realized I knew almost nothing about style or the oeuvre of famous classic authors. I decided to drop my comics reading and enrolled at the local library. The librarian had striking red hair and a friendly attitude. I began to read at random, mostly science fiction and thrillers. Armand, the librarian, began advising me on titles that could interest me.

On a Tuesday evening, a striking young woman entered The Louse. Her curly, shoulder-length, thick, shiny hair was as fiery red as Armand’s. A defiant air hung around her as if she had been in a row only minutes ago. She ordered a Martini, so I surmised she wasn’t used to bars like The Louse with its beer-guzzling customers. After a few minutes of small talk in which we exchanged forenames, I said I liked her hair and mentioned Armand, the librarian. Christine smiled: “You don’t look the type that’s visiting libraries.”

“Oh?” I said. “If not, which type then?”

This time, she smiled crookedly: “A street brawler, I would say.”

It was such a spicy remark that I had to laugh. I told Christine my shift was over and asked if she would have a drink with me in a “safer café in a better neighborhood.” She complied with a nod. While walking toward the city’s marketplace,  I told Christine about my youth, my transformation into a ‘street brawler,’ and my dream of becoming an author. Christine asked thoughtful, empathic questions and then said: “You may be “poor,” as you say, but at least you’re free.” She saw my raised eyebrows and told me about her parents and the posh neighborhood where she lived with her tyrannic father and her “perpetually searching for new plastic surgery goals” mother. Christine was nearly nineteen and would attend an international university in Brussels in September, something she was afraid of. Her parents had hired a fancy loft, but she predicted she would “go berserk from loneliness” in Brussels.

In a quiet café, Christine downed three gins and became more talkative and looser. She shook her flaming hair, brushed it behind her ears, and fingered almost continuously her strands. When we said goodbye in the marketplace,

Christine said she had parked her car in an underground parking area nearby and didn’t ask me to accompany her to her car, so I shook her hand and wanted to turn around. With her eyes bright in the lamplight and her hair on fire, she said, “I’m sure you’ll become a fine author,” Flattered, I asked for her address and promised to send a copy of my book once it was published. Christine nodded, somewhat reluctant it seemed, and wrote down her address on a piece of paper. She appeared in a hurry now. We parted, waving at each other, and she hurried toward the parking lot entry.

In my bed that night, I couldn’t help but fantasize I was smitten with Christine. I wondered what had made her so – how could I describe her? So open and yet so secretive. In hindsight,  It occurred to me that what she told me about her parents – the tyrannical father and the age-obsessed mother – seemed such clichés. Had Christine lied to me? If so, why? And why didn’t she want me to accompany her to her car?

Week after week, I hoped that this mixture of being ridiculously enamored and harboring growing suspicion would vanish, but it didn’t. It went so far that I changed my manuscript and crowned Christine as the primary character.

When I reckoned my book-in-progress was halfway, I copied the pages, went to the post office, and sent her my package, trying not to think I was a stupid poseur.

Two days later, my package was sent back. Return to sender/address unknown.

Now, almost fifty years later, I have to thank Christine. The hurt she caused lessened my self-doubt and sharped my hunger to become a published author.

If I met Christine again now, I would show her my collection of nearly fifty books in Dutch, some translated into eleven languages. Then I would take my debut novel, Phobia, and show her the dedication page where she can read: For Christine with the flaming hair.

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