Illegal Liaisons

by Grazyna Plebanek

  “You want to get going as a writer?” prompted Jonathan.

  “Refresh my skill.” He noticed that her French was precise, avoided vulgar influences. “Somehow I’ve got to put across what happened. There are so many stories.”

  She laughed, revealing her even teeth. Geert blinked; Jean-Pierre adjusted himself on his chair. Jonathan stopped himself from laughing at the sight of the males instinctively reacting to Ariane’s sexy smile.

  At this relaxed moment, Geert’s confession seemed out of place.

  “I have only one story.”

  “And I don’t have any,” Kitty interrupted. She had a rattling accent; Jonathan automatically scanned England in his head, searching for the girl’s roots. “Fiction puts me off.”

  “Why?”

  “I used to be a journalist,” sighed Kitty. “I worked in a press agency first, then on a daily paper. There’s a terrible emphasis on facts there.”

  “And truth.” Jean-Pierre draped himself over his chair in a Byronic pose.

  “Not necessarily.” Kitty frowned.

  “You’ve had enough of facts?” Jonathan broke in.

  “I want to slow down. I adore Virginia Woolf. I can read her for hours. The Waves or Mrs Dalloway, it’s all the same. In it, a day seems like an eternity.”

  “And eternity seems like a day,” finished Nora, the oldest of the participants.

  “Yes.” Kitty studied Nora carefully and repeated, “Yes.”

  Jonathan looked at those gathered. There was a silence between them – one that was not embarrassing, since it reflected common thought. When Jean-Pierre started to wriggle restlessly in his chair, Jonathan pointed to the bowl.

  “Help yourselves to the apples. They’re good for concentration.”

  They ate, exchanging remarks that grew less and less formal, got to know each other. There was laughter first on one side of the table, then on the other; the anxious Geert looked at Ariane with increasing confidence, Jean-Pierre gesticulated in Kitty’s direction. A moment later, he looked around for a trash can. Not seeing one, he glanced enquiringly at Jonathan.

  “Exactly,” said Jonathan. “The apple cores.”

  They looked at him curiously.

  “Take a good look at their shape.”

  Ariane swept her eyes over the others, joined in embarrassment; Geert bestowed on her a saddened gaze. Jonathan laughed.

  “You must think I’m the crazy Miss Trelawney, if you’ve read Harry Potter. You’re right, a core is a little like tea leaves, but see for yourselves the shapes you’ve created.”

  Jean-Pierre rested his back against his chair and was the first to stretch out his hand with the apple core. A moment later it was Kitty with the expression, “What the hell!” Before a minute was up, everyone was examining what remained of their apples, exchanging comments and giggling nervously. Jonathan leaned over the cores with childish curiosity.

  “One side bitten right down, the other not touched, beautiful, Geert. And here? The whole apple bitten round but you can’t see the seeds. While here, we have a fine piece of work, gnawed right through, pedantically …” He went on while they laughed and exchanged remarks.

  Finally, he pulled himself up straight and stood behind the table.

  “That was simply a quick hands-on lesson, intended to enable us to see how we get to the center.”

  “I didn’t get there. I only ate the skin!” Jean-Pierre raised his hand.

  “And that’s the next question: what, for each of us, constitutes the center?”

  An hour later, Jonathan was in the park, kissing Andrea’s lips. Their bench was tucked away; the last rays of sun slid down the trunks of the chestnut trees. He took her face in his hands; they sat now, forehead against forehead, the girl’s eyes full of sun, almost amber.

  He went home thinking about Andrea, moved and aroused.

  The sight of Megi bustling about, in turn, awoke in him a growing tide of tenderness. He helped her out by serving supper, aided Antosia with her homework, and put the children to bed.

  During the night, the warmth of her body in the dark, and an erection that again appeared at the recollection of his meeting with Andrea that day, made him press his hips against his wife’s buttocks without thinking. Willingly, she stuck out her backside and he entered her. Instead of Megi’s back he saw Andrea’s eyes before him, lit by the remains of the sun. He felt himself growing flaccid, so he quickened his pace. Megi arched her back; tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. He was giving her remnants – his woman and best friend; instead of an apple he was pressing a core into her.

  The week before Christmas, Megi’s colleagues from work organized a party that Jonathan called a Commission Christmas party. He didn’t quite know why he had to go to it – he was neither an official nor a Catholic.

  Megi, who had been baptized, received first Holy Communion, and been confirmed, had become increasingly independent in her outlook as the years passed; Aunt Barbara called it “leaving the Church.” Megi needed the elevation of religion, jokingly calling it “a hunger for mysterium,” but had ceased to find herself within the Catholic Church. The clergy irritated her; sermons didn’t interest her; and the chasm between her and the community of childless men continued to surprise her.

  They had thought that in Brussels, a city with a hodgepodge of denominations in an otherwise lay country, their religious beliefs wouldn’t matter. They were happy not to have faced the dilemma of their friends who’d remained in Poland – whether to send their children to religious lessons simply to stop them from feeling like outsiders. The communist schizophrenia, where one thing was said at school and another at home, was repeated in their children’s generation. “As if the Polish mentality couldn’t stand life without authorities.” Megi screwed up her face. “As if the people were writing a collective dissertation where nothing that’s theirs comes from them, it’s all ‘op. cit.’ and ‘ibid.’ ”

  They walked now lost in thought, Jonathan squeezed into a black jacket, Megi with an angry expression. From the frying pan into the fire – in Brussels, too, their compatriots were drawn to the Church. Office workers sang in choirs, their wives taught religion, and their sons served as altar boys.

  “I wonder what their daughters do,” muttered Megi.

  “Whose daughters?” Jonathan came to.

  “Remember confession? A childhood nightmare! The best way to shrink the shoots of budding womanhood.”

  “Then why the hell are we going there?” Jonathan stopped short.

  “I’ve told you a hundred times,” she hissed impatiently. “I’ve had enough questions about why I don’t go to Mass! How many times can I say I’m unpacking crates?”

  “Can’t you tell them you’re a nonbeliever?” asked Jonathan, but Megi ignored him.

  The host of the Christmas party, Ludwik, greeted them at the door. Jonathan noticed that he leaned to one side, which made him look subservient but could have been the result of neglected scoliosis.

  “We already know each other.” Ludwik shook Jonathan’s hand when the latter tried to introduce himself.

  The Christmas dishes were topped with a typical parsley garnish. Nobody had touched the food yet; they all stood around with glasses in their hands. Rafal and Martyna were deep in conversation with people Jonathan didn’t know. Przemek was gazing across the room at Megi with genuine admiration.

  Somewhere at the side Jonathan heard Stefan pontificating. He noticed, from a distance, that he was adamantly gesticulating at a pretty girl. Monika was nowhere in sight. Jonathan hesitated but Stefan beckoned for him to come.

  “Meet Victoria.”

  “Jonathan!” He heard before he managed to extend his hand to the girl.

  Monika stood in front of him. The black dress, short hair dyed red, and the dark shawl over her shoulders made Jonathan greet her like an aunt he’d not seen for a long time. He asked after the children and Monika answered with a few smooth sentences. As usual, she had phrases suitable for the
occasion at hand; listening to her, Jonathan thought that Megi was right when she called Monika a black hole – topics, devoid of angles, were sucked into conversational nothingness in a flash. “If one were to believe what she says,” he reflected, watching Monika’s lips moving, “one would think there’s no friction in her life.” He nevertheless generally defended Monika when anyone criticized her in public. Beneath the ready-made formulae he saw the girl he’d known for ten years and who had once come to him, lugging a suitcase in one hand and holding a baby in the other. That one and only time Jonathan had been forced to mediate between her and Stefan. Before a year had been out, Franek was born.

  “Stefan, may I?” Monika smiled at Jonathan, and pulled her husband aside.

  Jonathan glanced at Victoria standing next to him with a hesitant smile.

  “What do you do?” Desperately, he filled the awkward silence.

  “I’m a fonctionnaire. I work with …” For a while, she went on about her position and about the connections between people he didn’t know and, since he didn’t pick up these threads, she grew bored of him. Desperately, he tried to throw the ball into another court.

  “Have you read The Arrangement by Elia Kazan?”

  “Was that on the reading list?”

  When Stefan appeared with neither glass nor wife, Victoria was no longer there.

  “What’s a fonctionnaire?” asked Jonathan. Coming from him the word sounded like the name of an insect repellent.

  “A position in the Commission for which you have to …” began Stefan. Jonathan stood with the face of someone who’s had a crowbar forced into his brain, making the mechanism grind to a halt. In the end, Stefan waved it aside and went to get something to eat; Jonathan followed him. But on the way he stopped short – he had caught sight of Andrea.

  She was standing in the door, eyeing the place and the gathering people. She hadn’t exposed her legs or bust yet there was, as usual, something intense about her appearance that turned heads. Jonathan wondered by what miracle such a woman had noticed him. Before he had time to move in her direction, she was sucked into the circle standing nearest the door. Regret racked him. He couldn’t go up to her, kiss her, introduce her; he could only watch from afar as she stood there unattainable – and alone. Simon had gone to England to visit his children before Christmas; Jonathan knew that better than anyone because just three hours ago he had made love to Andrea in her apartment.

  When he finally managed to get to her, their host sprang up between them.

  “Ludwik.” She pecked him on the cheek, glancing over his shoulder at Jonathan.

  Ludwik watchfully followed her eyes.

  “I’d like you to meet Andrea Kunz,” he said. “An excellent journalist working for Swedish television.”

  Jonathan’s mouth grew dry. He had just caressed her yet he couldn’t get rid of the feeling that was always with him when they were together – arousal and stage fright shook him even when they had worn themselves out with love.

  “And this is Megi’s husband,” concluded Ludwik.

  It was as if someone had struck Jonathan. Ludwik greeted other guests, introducing Andrea to them, while Jonathan turned away and started to study the apartment. The interior looked as if the owner had wanted to kill himself: white and beige cut through here and there with flashes of metal fittings and surfaces; everything closed, fitted, nothing protruding. “He must think that by getting rid of old dishcloths and shoving the rubbish into hermetic cupboards he’s going to smooth out his own mucky insides,” Jonathan thought vindictively and muttered to himself: “Perhaps the son-of-a-bitch hasn’t got a soul.”

  “What’s that?”

  Megi was staring at him, half amused, half unsure whether she’d heard correctly.

  “Want some fudge?” Jonathan answered with a question.

  “Not now but thanks for buying it. You know how much I love it.”

  “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  Megi shrugged.

  “Day and night discussions about work. ‘That document, Megi, which category did it belong to?’ ” She grimaced, parodying the way Przemek spoke. “ ‘White paper, yellow paper, non-paper?’ ” I want to go home!” she ended and slipped her hands around his waist, beneath his jacket.

  Instead of returning the hug, Jonathan stiffened. Andrea was watching them above the guests’ heads.

  “I wonder where Simon is?” muttered Megi, following his gaze.

  Andrea was now laughing with the rest of her crowd, throwing back her long, glistening hair.

  Jonathan pushed Megi’s hands down.

  “Simon?” he repeated mechanically.

  “Simon Lloyd, they came to our place, don’t you remember? That’s Andrea there, his woman, partner, or whatever they call her. It’s hard to find a name for a concubine who’s over thirty. Everything sounds so infantile. But they’re quite a couple. Simon, well … And she, although no classical beauty, is as radiant as an icon. She has some sort of distinction, style. She’s certainly not common.”

  “Let’s go and eat something. Aren’t you hungry?”

  “I’ve already eaten. I’m going to say hello to her. Have a kabanos, they’re pretty good.” Megi kissed him on the cheek and made toward the circle where Andrea shone and which was mainly made up of men. Jonathan saw, from where he stood, that some of them reacted to Megi’s appearance but a moment later all stared at Andrea again. “No one can share the spotlight with her,” he thought with a strange pride yet simultaneous stab of disappointment that they weren’t looking at his wife in the same way.

  Without much thought, he pushed his way toward them.

  “Simon?” Andrea was saying. “In England. Gone to visit his children.”

  “So you’ve got a free pad!” smiled Megi.

  “What’s that?” Andrea raised her eyebrows.

  “It’s a Polish saying. I meant that now you’re alone you can lie in bed as long as you want and parade around in your pajamas. I envy you,” sighed Megi. “I’ve not had the house to myself for years.”

  Andrea looked at her as if she hadn’t understood that either.

  “I’m going to get myself something to eat,” she said after a while. “Can I bring you anything?”

  “No, thank you, I’ve already eaten,” Megi replied for the second time that evening.

  Jonathan almost ran alongside the apartment façades. Street lights were reflected in the windows and in the stained-glass trimmings on doors that looked more like ornate church doorways than stairwells. Metal stirrups, which protruded from the walls and served for wiping shoes, assumed the forms of Art Nouveau. Pavements glinted with dampness; the first snowflakes of the winter stuck for a moment then instantly melted. Winter hung in the air but did not stay for long.

  He turned into a one-way street and reached the military school. The cadets must have gone home for Christmas because the historic building stood in darkness; only the flags swayed lazily. He ran across the street to a fence. There was nobody there the day before Christmas Eve; the arch towered over the silent park and the green parrots had hidden themselves away.

  Jonathan left the playing field to the right, ran a few meters, and turned down a dark pathway leading beneath the arch. He stopped at an ancient chestnut tree and lowered Andrea’s hood. The temptation grabbed him to kiss her with open eyes so that he could see her eyebrows, forehead, the snowflakes perched on her hood. He slipped his fingers beneath her hair and held her head. He wanted to suck in all of her, swaying with passion – in her, on her.

  12

  HE PASSED CHRISTMAS, which they spent in Poland, mainly in the company of his cell phone. The family discussed politics, not asking about their life in Brussels, and only occasionally, returning from the balcony where he’d slip out under the pretext of having a cigarette, did Jonathan hear Robert say that Belgian women were ugly and Adelka claim authoritatively that the clothes were too expensive. Megi compulsively looked after Antosia and Tomaszek, who were irritable becau
se of the changes. Later, they distributed the presents they’d brought from Brussels and returned laden with gifts they’d received in return.

  “Are we a couple of scout leaders or something?” moaned Megi the day before going back to Brussels. That evening her mother had taken the children to the theater, giving them unexpected freedom that they didn’t know how to enjoy. “We rush around dealing with everything, look after the kids, and fake a smile. What’s happened to wallowing in bed, eating mandarins, reading, making love?”

  When they returned to Brussels, Megi ordained a real Christmas, as she called it. When he got back from the gym, Jonathan drew with Antosia and played with Lego with Tomaszek; in the evenings he and Megi listened to music or watched films.

  “See how good this is? See?” Megi sat on the sofa, cracking nuts and radiating pride. She didn’t put it into words but Jonathan suspected she was finding it hard not to say, “See? It’s me who brought you here!” The theme of the New Year’s ball was decadence. Jonathan pushed the information out of his memory and on the morning of the last day of December bore the brunt of his wife’s anger as she claimed she had reminded him numerous times. Jonathan was shaving when Megi knocked and walked into the bathroom; and was still naked with only the white shaving foam on his face when she blew up.

  “I told you, reminded you, called, warned …” Megi yelled. Jonathan didn’t say anything, just took sharper and sharper turns of the razor across his face until he exploded.

  “You should have written me a note!”

  “And what am I, some sort of mute that I’ve got to communicate with you in writing?”