Mona in Three Acts

by Griet Op de Beeck

  It’s already getting light outside, cautiously, the streets are asleep, morning growls. I want to get a taxi, it’s a long way to my house. We came here in Marcus’s car. No taxis to be seen, of course, so I’ll have to walk, then, in heels that are too high, and a short skirt, and tights that are too thin for this damp chill. I walk and walk and wonder what on earth happened tonight. I know it wasn’t OK and yet, more than anything, I can’t help feeling like the girl who wasn’t good enough for her teacher.

  On Monday afternoon there’s a run-through on the set, not long to go before the premiere. When Marcus arrives, he gets everyone to give him a kiss as usual. When it’s my turn, he just grins. He points at his lips, I give him his kiss. Then he continues with his day, which to him is just like any other.

  18

  “Dad, be careful!” Marie shouts as though he’s on the other side of the garden, even though he’s only a couple of feet from the patio, setting up a bird feeder. “He suddenly got it into his head that he wanted a bird feeder. He likes to watch the birds, he says. I said, well that’s fine, go and get a feeder, then, but you’ll have to hang up the seeds and stuff, I know nothing about it. He said fine. I don’t know how he’s going to find the time to keep going to that shop, but we’ll see.”

  Dad has dug a hole between the rhododendrons and the magnolia. He tries to push the post deeper into the earth, panting, his butt in the air. Dad’s not great at this kind of thing.

  “Do you need any help?”

  “No, I’ll manage. But take a look, is it straight like this?”

  “More toward Will and Brenda’s,” Marie cries. “Yes, that’s it.”

  Dad shovels the sand back around the post and stamps the ground flat, sweating from the exertion.

  “You should have seen his face when he came home with that bird thing. Nice, isn’t it, to be able to get enthusiastic about nothing.” Marie looks at him and holds her hand over her eyes like the captain of a ship. What’s she thinking now that she’s not saying? Marcus once said he’d pay good money to be able to read people’s minds. I’d pay money to be certain I never ever had to know what was going on inside them, God knows what they’re thinking about you.

  “There we have it,” Dad says. He rolls his sleeves back down and wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. I wonder where the sweat goes to then. “It looks good there, doesn’t it?” he says. “I bought various kinds of seeds on the advice of the people in the shop. They were friendly.”

  “Yes, the man with the mustache? He’s Liliane’s husband, she’s very pleasant too. Worked in that chocolate shop on the square, you know the one.”

  Dad just looks at her, his mouth half-open, as though he’s really searching inside his head.

  “You know, the one with the dark hair and all that bright makeup. She sometimes wore skirts that were too short for someone with that kind of legs. But really very friendly.”

  “Oh yes,” Dad says. I don’t think he knows who she’s talking about but reality doesn’t hold him back, my dad.

  Then Anne-Sophie arrives. She says hello very quietly and flicks me a brief smile. Dad sits down and takes a big slug of the pint of beer Marie has poured him.

  “Oh, that does a man good.” He puts his feet up on the other chair and looks at the garden. “We’ve got quite the life, eh, Mom?”

  “How was school?”

  Anne-Sophie shrugs and sits down on the patio steps, her back to us.

  “There’s still some fruit salad in the fridge if you want.”

  “I’ve got a stomachache,” Anne-Sophie says.

  “Oh darling, again?!”

  Anne-Sophie says nothing. The first bird settles.

  “Oh, that’s a great tit, isn’t it? With that yellow belly. Pretty, isn’t it?” Dad almost chirps with pleasure.

  “It’s rather hard to get anything out of you.” Marie studies her nails. “And she hasn’t got any friends, our Anne-Sophie, that’s to say, she never brings anyone home.” She straightens her rings, the stones neatly in the middle. “Maybe she’s ashamed of us. Are you ashamed of us?”

  “Mom,” Anne-Sophie says, extending the vowel.

  “It’s true, isn’t it? I don’t think it’s normal, at your age.”

  The bird clings to the net containing the bird food. Dad stares at it, fascinated. He comments on everything he sees with a childish pleasure, like he’s a sportscaster on the radio. “Listen, he’s chirping a bit! And hop, more food there. He’s pecking away like he’s afraid we’re going to take it back. Slow down, my boy, there’s as much as you want.” Marie looks at the bird, I look at my father, then at Anne-Sophie’s curved back. “It’s the simple things, eh, Mom?” Dad says.

  Marie nods vaguely, her gaze elsewhere. “And that music school, that’s just her and her instrument, you know. Do you think that’s normal?” She looks at me and I try to act like I don’t notice.

  Suddenly, Anne-Sophie rises to her feet. “Sorry for existing,” she roars before running off.

  “Goes like that every time, she suddenly gets furious.” Marie sighs and sniffs. “Was she crying?”

  “Don’t think so,” Dad says, following the great tit as it flies off, disturbed by Anne-Sophie’s tumult. “That’s teenagers for you. They always act strangely.”

  19

  In the apartment opposite, a woman is dancing in her underwear. I find a postcard from Tunisia from Uncle Artie in the mailbox. He writes that it’s hot and nice there—the remaining three-quarters of the card is blank. An upstairs or downstairs neighbor, it’s hard to make out which, drills a hole in the wall, and then another one. A woman bikes past outside, she’s singing, as high as the birds are flying. Farther away, a car brakes so hard its tires screech rudely, but from the sound of it, no collision. I didn’t go to rehearsal yesterday; dramaturges are allowed to do that. Since Sunday, I’ve been living in a country where people have given power to a racist party and I can’t do anything about it. There are so many problems in the world that I don’t even try to do anything about, I realize that too. Alexander told me he saw a Rothko painting at the museum where he works and discovered for the first time that some emotions are more than just being moved, that all art is beyond reason. Charlie says that everyone has a blind spot, a dash of ignorance about all the ways they sabotage themselves without realizing it. There’s beer in my fridge, butter, yogurt that’s three days past its sell-by date, four barely edible carrots, one egg in a six-egg carton, and an unopened packet of processed cheese. I have no plans to go to the supermarket. I’m supposed to see Louis tomorrow night, but he said he might have to do something else. In the book I’m reading, someone says it’s important to keep dreaming. I’ve forgotten how many days have passed since I called Marie, maybe five, it could also be six, which is a lot. I wonder whose teeth Dad is working on at this moment. I wonder why he keeps doing the same thing without ever questioning it. A boy yells in the distance, like he’s won something, or is cheering someone on, that’s possible too. An old man sits on a wall, pressing his palms to the sides of his face as though he’s afraid it might fall apart, as though he’s trying to press out tears that just won’t come, as though despondency is not a word but an image and then it would look like this. Sometimes the roof of my mouth itches, Anne-Sophie gets that too, but no one else, I don’t think. I saw a beggar, the day before yesterday, not far from the theater, and I didn’t give him anything. I wondered a little farther along if I should have given him money, but I didn’t go back. I wish that, one day, all the anxiety would be gone, just suddenly, the way the hot water runs out when I shower for too long, but everywhere and for everyone. I read something by a philosopher who said that a person should try to be interesting instead of happy and I thought, How funny he thinks there’s a choice. A girlfriend wanted to meet up, she said, “Pick a date, my schedule’s open.” Sometimes you recognize yourself in another’s emptiness. Marcus asked us, as he sipped his coffee, how we wanted to live. Gently, I thought.
It’s not what I said to the group. Often, my thoughts grate and seem questionable.

  I can’t help thinking of Louis. The way he stood at my door yesterday. As though he’d been through a rainstorm in an open field for hours upon end, drenched, windblown, that was the way he stood there in front of my door. The man who always had all the words and now without a single one. I asked nothing, took him in, let him stammer, took off his coat, and gave him my arms and a big glass of beer. I comforted him the way he most likes to be comforted, with naked skin and lots of closeness. I thought: I like to be a sanctuary, and I kissed him again. In bed we ate the unappetizing pizza I found in my freezer, licking the crumbs from each other’s bodies. He said, “I’d really like to make you happy.” I didn’t worry about that conditional tense, because I was so happy to hear someone mean it. If I think about this, I get the urge to give him everything: kingdoms, the wonders of the world, infinity. I want to promise him that I’ll pick him up when he falls to pieces and that I’ll disappear with him, if that helps. I won’t just go on believing my suspicions. I will continue to be amazed by him. I will fall on my knees for him, but then only as a joke. I will walk across seas with him, and across oceans, because I want to believe that we can do anything together. I will shelter him from tornadoes and teach him not to be afraid, if he lets me.

  Today the average person will say 2,250 words to 7.4 other people, someone calculated. On this day, I will bring down that average.

  20

  He’d said six o’clock in the Post Horn. Louis likes old-fashioned pubs where scrawny-looking guys swill beer at the bar and talk about soccer and how things were better in the olden days. He had to give a reading of his work at a parish hall nearby, at three o’clock. He was taking the train there because his car was in the shop, and he hates trains, so I offered to drive over to spare him a return journey with two transfers.

  Louis is always late, and it’s only twenty past six, so I don’t worry. I brought along a book, because one does learn. I finish my cup of coffee and order a pint. My hands smell like gasoline, I notice. I had to fill up the car on the way; I need to wash them before he comes.

  At this point, it’s a quarter to seven. Maybe I should call the venue where he had his reading. I look up the number, toss a couple of coins into the pay phone, hear it ring, and then an unknown man picks up. I explain why I’m calling, he says, “One minute please,” and then Louis comes on the line.

  “Oh yes, my little ray of sunshine. We were supposed to be meeting, right? What time again?” Louis hates pet names, he considers them ridiculous, and because I thought that was silly of him, romantic fool that I am, he now makes a sport of addressing me with a whole range of dubious sobriquets.

  “Erm, at least half an hour ago. I’m at the Post Horn like you asked.”

  “Oh dear, I can’t get away right now. Give me fifteen minutes, twenty max. All right?”

  “Only because it’s you.”

  I hang up and count on a minimum of thirty minutes—always good to be one step ahead of life’s disappointments. I reread the same page for the third time, I can’t concentrate, I don’t know whether it’s the book or me. I order a cup of tea, the man behind the bar breaks off his conversation with the drunk-looking customer with some reluctance. An admirable profession, bartending, I think. Always working late, always at the service of paying customers, not all of them likeable, always that confrontation with loneliness in all its forms. That’s what I think, though maybe it says more about me.

  At seven fifteen, there’s still no sign of Louis. A Tim Hardin song plays on the radio, the theme song from that film Looking for Eileen that I saw as a student. The drunk man rocks slowly to the music, or so it seems, maybe he needs to pee. I still remember that the film was about love and that I cried a lot and there was that song, “How Can We Hang On to a Dream.” The speaker crackles a bit. At the time I didn’t believe that dreams could come true; I wonder whether I actually believe that now either.

  After another half an hour, I call again, feeling embarrassed when I speak to the people from the organization, but I’ve slowly started to get anxious. After a bit of trouble, I get him on the line.

  “Yes, it’s very inspiring here, I can’t help it. But please wait for me, I’m about to escape.”

  “Are you still giving your reading?”

  “Yes, well, there’s a kind of bar and stuff, we’re having another glass of wine. I’ll be with you soon, all right?” He hangs up without waiting for my reply.

  When he still hasn’t arrived at eight fifteen, I call Alexander. With the sordid smell of urine in my nose—the phone is right outside the bathroom—I explain what’s going on, laughing about it as I always do. “Get in your car and drive home, for god’s sake.” Charlie has apparently been following the conversation and shouts into the receiver.

  “I don’t want to be the nagging girlfriend who never lets him have his fun.”

  “Mona, you drove out of your way just to pick him up and he left you sitting there for two hours? The arrogance of the guy. Go home, now.” It’s the sweetest order I’ve ever been given.

  “Thank you,” I say. I hang up and ask for the bill. “Where’s the local parish hall?” The bartender explains how to get there.

  I pay and leave the bar. It’s so quiet in this godforsaken village, it makes me nervous. Why don’t I just drive home? I know Charlie’s right, but I also know how awful I’d feel. Now there’s at least a chance of a happier end to the evening.

  I go into the hall hesitantly, and there he is, right near the entrance, sitting at a little table with a bald man of around sixty with a poorly shaven jaw and a disproportionately large belly. They’ve both got a full glass of Duvel in front of them.

  “Oh, there you are,” I say as neutrally as possible.

  “Oh yes,” Louis replies, looking at me as though I’m a stranger.

  “It’s almost eight forty now, we were supposed to meet at six.”

  “I’m not happy about you chasing me all the way in here,” he says, before looking at the man with the belly again. His speech is slurred, God knows how many drinks he’s had.

  “I, on the other hand, found it delightful that you left me waiting at the pub for so long.”

  He sniffs as he fiddles with his earlobe. All of his movements are slower than normal. “Wait outside, otherwise. I’ll come in a minute.”

  I see the others looking at me with curiosity. What does she have to do with the great writer? Why is she making a scene?

  “Hurry up,” I say, going back outside.

  I lean against a wall. Now that I’m standing here, waiting again, I get even angrier with myself than I already was, but I don’t budge. I study the village square, recently revamped with benches and planters, cutesy in a way that irrationally pisses me off even more. Then he finally comes out, along with the rotund man, and stands in the doorway, two or three feet away from me, continuing to chat. I feel like throwing something, but I’ve nothing to throw. When the man finally leaves on his own initiative, Louis almost walks past me. He’s drunk, I tell myself, blind drunk. I rush after him.

  “Well, then.”

  “Yes, yes,” he says. “It was a pleasure, thank you,” he shouts after the man, who doesn’t turn around. He hooks his arm through mine, which I find stuffy at the best of times but today is almost unbearable. Then he asks, “So, where’s your car?”

  “Near the Post Horn,” I say, “where you were supposed to meet me three hours ago.”

  “Yes, you already said that.” Then he begins to talk about his exceptionally interesting afternoon and the enthusiasm of his audience.

  “Seven senior citizens with hearing problems who couldn’t go to their lace-making class because the teacher was sick?” I ask.

  “That’s nice of you,” he says.

  “Nice of you to say sorry.”

  “You’re right,” he says suddenly, stopping. “Sorry.” He goes to kiss me, aims for my lips, and misses. He can’t
focus his eyes, forgets what he was trying to do, and sets off again. A few feet farther, he trips over a paving stone that sticks up a half inch above the rest. A circus clown couldn’t have done it any better. “Sorry,” he says again, kissing my neck. “I really am.” Then he grins like a child with a pie.

  “You’re a terrible person,” I say with a sigh.

  “I know.” Then he kisses me again.

  Once we’re in the car, it isn’t three minutes before he’s asleep, his head against the window, his hand on my knee. I drive into the evening, past streetlamps, fields, and windmills. I glance at him and then back at the road. I wish I was a storm, I think, or a squall, that would be good too, anything but this person, with this face and this heart and all this racing blood. Louis coughs but doesn’t wake up.

  After we arrive, I shake him roughly back and forth.

  “Oh, Rumpelstiltskin,” he says, awake at once. “Oh, we’ve arrived. Wait, you haven’t parked yet?”

  “No, I’m just dropping you off so you can go right back to sleep. I’m going out for a drink. We’re celebrating Joris’s birthday at the bar tonight.”

  “Come inside with me.”

  I stare at him. He takes hold of both my hands.

  “I love you. I want to talk to you.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Come on,” he pleads. “I want to be with you, there’s no one else in the world I’d rather be with.” He kisses my hair. He seems completely sober again, amazing how fast he can recuperate. “Come on, babycakes, I love you.” He looks at me longingly and I hesitate. “I want to discuss moving in together. I’ve been thinking about it for ages.”

  And then I say yes. He gets out and I go park the car. As I walk to his apartment, I tell myself that I must never ever tell anyone about tonight. No one. Ever. There’s something peculiar about shame.