Mona in Three Acts

by Griet Op de Beeck

  The last phase is about returning to your childhood. The place where we were able to build up our basic confidence, the man says, the place where we felt loved and cherished, where we were in contact with our pure physicality, where we believed in ourselves completely. We can share our experiences, we can sing, whatever we want.

  I hear the man’s words. I couldn’t join in now even if I wanted to, I think. I wonder whether any of the others have so many old wounds.

  Since eyes grow accustomed to the dark, I can now see exactly where all the others are. Some have lain down, which only increases the chance of contact with all that fluid filth. They must have stopped thinking—apparently, they can do that. I notice that someone has really begun to stink, sweat from a skin that can’t have seen any soap this morning. Luckily it’s neither of the people next to me.

  I listen to stories about happy children with sweet mothers and equanimous fathers. I notice that Marcus has gone quiet and a couple of the others too. I’m glad the roaring has made way for chatter and nonsense, calmer variants. I let my thoughts drift and then, all of a sudden, I start to cry violently, inexplicably. The tears just keep on coming as though my heart is bursting at every seam. I hope nobody notices. I try to keep my body as still as possible. I don’t want to think about where this has come from. I want to leave.

  After four hours, I crawl out of the hut, broken. I’m embarrassed that Marcus comes out right behind me and that his face is so close to my butt. God knows what that smells like after all of this, even though my bladder has held up.

  Next, there’ll be a sound-healing ritual and then we’ll get soup and bread, this is what the man says, as though it’s a reason for great joy. And we can count on another ardent hug from that lady too, I bet.

  I head to the showers first; thankfully, this is allowed. I don’t dare look at anyone. Most of them are silent, as though they’re feeling the aftereffects, or are in touch with their deepest selves or the earth or the cosmos, who’s to say?

  When I’m under the shower, the tears return. I stand there trembling in a torrent of hot water. I try not to think about anything. I hope I don’t get red blotches on my face.

  I’m the last to leave the changing rooms. Outside, the others are sitting or lying on cushions while the man is busy with Tibetan singing bowls. I look for a corner to hide in. I hope this isn’t going to be a regular part of the rehearsal process for Marcus. I don’t think there’s any other director in the Low Countries who would even consider it.

  In the dead of night, we all go back to the cars we came in. I’m one of the drivers; Sasha and Joris rode with me. Marcus is walking right behind me. He grabs my shoulder and says, “If you dare to think about why you’ve become who you’ve become, you can change it. You mustn’t forget that.”

  Does he dare to do that? I wonder.

  11

  “This is the shop I meant,” Marie says, pointing at the one with a dark-gray awning. She sets off at a trot, and I try to keep up. She hands me the two bags containing the skirt and the dress she just bought and immediately starts chatting with the saleswoman. I try to keep people like that at a distance, but Marie loves sales assistants. They’re paid to know what suits you, so you’d be crazy not to make use of them, Marie says, shamelessly claiming her dues.

  “I’m looking for something to go with this skirt,” she says, taking it out of the bag I’ve passed to her. The woman, who is around fifty, with angular, almond-shaped eyes and hair infused with so much hairspray that it will never hang down again in this life, is pure professionalism. She moves quickly along the racks, taking out blouses, sweaters, and tops. Marie says yes a couple of times, more often no, and then heads to the fitting room with the loot.

  As she’s trying things on, she talks to me through the curtain.

  “So is he a well-known author?”

  “He’s written a couple of very beautiful novels, and later this year he’s going to write a play for Marcus. I’m really excited to see that.”

  “Yes, but is he famous?” She comes out, stands in front of the mirror, straightens her shoulders, and turns to the side. She’s got a figure many twenty-year-olds would envy. She tucks the blouse into the skirt, as though there’s just one correct way of wearing it and she has to discover it.

  “He is one of the better-known novelists, yes.”

  “But you don’t find him handsome?”

  “Well, he wouldn’t win a beauty contest, but that’s not important to me.”

  “No, of course not, but if you say it like that, it makes me think—” She turns to the saleswoman. “Didn’t you have this one in burgundy too?” The woman with the hair carved out of stone replies in the affirmative, saying she’ll see if they still have it in the right size in that color. “What do you think of this one?”

  “Pretty.”

  “Hmm, you don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

  “I am, it’s good, really matches the skirt. Maybe even better in burgundy, though.”

  Marie closes the curtain behind her again. She tugs at it a few times to get rid of the gap you get in most fitting room curtains. “You hold this shut, it doesn’t work.” I grab hold of the stiff fabric and pull it toward the wall.

  “But you are in love with him?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “You don’t think that kind of thing, you know it.”

  “Yes, yes, I am, yes.”

  “And he’s in love with you?”

  “I don’t know, but I assume so.”

  “That’s a good start,” Marie says, laughing. She comes out again in a black silk blouse with large epaulettes. She’s turned into a triangle. “Oh well, you shouldn’t expect too much of love. It’s the source of much unhappiness among young people who want everything, but it’s actually about persevering and plodding on and trying to make the best of things.”

  The saleswoman comes back and says they no longer have the burgundy blouse in madam’s size, only one size larger.

  “That wouldn’t work at all, would it? I mean clothes should fit, shouldn’t they? And that first blouse, it fit like a second skin, didn’t it?” When Marie has the choice between a lot of words or very few, she never hesitates. The saleswoman takes back the blouse. “I’m glad you’ve got someone, Mona. I really am.” She says it like I’m a handicapped ten-year-old who just learned to sit upright without assistance.

  “Well, I don’t have him yet,” I say.

  “What do you mean? Are you worried he’s about to get tired of you or something? Say, I’m going to try on that top now even though I’d prefer something with long sleeves. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not, we’re here to shop.”

  “Well, I still felt I should ask. I don’t want you to think we’re spending too long in this shop. But didn’t I tell you, they always have a collection here that suits me.” She rearranges the hangers on the hook.

  “I just mean I don’t really know whether we’re in a serious relationship now or not, or whether—”

  “How can you not know?” She pokes her head between the curtain and the fitting room wall.

  I don’t want to look at her standing there like that, knowing she’s naked behind the curtain. I turn to face the interior of the shop. “Well, like I already said, he’s a very interesting man, you know. I think he could attract a lot of women.”

  Marie’s head disappears again, I sense it. I hear clothes rustling, getting that top on seems to involve a minor skirmish. “Eh, if he’s ugly, I’m not so sure.”

  “We’ll see what happens. I’ll just wait. First I’ll see whether he calls me again or not.”

  “Yes, well, you certainly shouldn’t call him yourself. You don’t want him to realize how desperate you are.”

  “Desperate? I’m not.”

  “Noo-oh. But if you call first, it might look like you are. That’s all I mean.” Marie spins in front of the mirror in a tight white top. She stands on tiptoes. “I think I’ll take the first one, the
dark-green one, what do you think?”

  “Yes, that really suited you, I thought.”

  “Didn’t it? And the color wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “No, nice to try something different.”

  “Oh, I do love shopping with you. You’ve really got a feeling for it, for what suits me. My little Mona.” She hands me the curtain again so I can hide her fitting room rituals from human eyes. The saleswoman smiles at me as though she isn’t being paid to and I smile back. I really do hope Louis calls me soon.

  12

  We go back outside again after the show. Louis had been anxious to see something by this young producer. He wasn’t impressed; I thought it was beautiful. He lets me express my opinion before expressing his. We linger on the pavement as we come up with arguments to support our views. Suddenly, he says he wants to go home with me.

  When we get there, he sucks on my earlobe and rubs my back frantically with his palm, the fabric of my sweater chafes against my skin. He breaths heavily.

  “Kiss,” he says, kissing me.

  I feel his lips, his tongue, his nose. He tugs me toward him with a jerk and holds me tightly, as though he’s afraid I might escape. He pinches my bottom.

  “Should we take our clothes off?” he asks.

  Without waiting for my reply, he sits down on the bed, takes off his shoes, his socks, then he gets up, unbuckles his belt, opens his fly, lets his trousers drop, and then lays them on the floor. He undoes the buttons of his shirt, one by one, first the cuffs, then the rest. He takes his time, as though he’s home alone, determined not to be hurried. Then his shirt whirls down on top of the trousers and he climbs under the duvet in his underpants. His briefs are gray, once white, perhaps, that’s also possible; the elastic is crenated, like the leaves of plants I don’t know the name of.

  “Come,” he says. “Come.”

  I take off my dress and my tights. I keep on my lingerie and get in next to him.

  “Take that off,” he says. “For god’s sake, take that off.”

  I wonder why he’s saying everything twice but decide not to ask. I sit up and unfasten my bra.

  “What nice breasts,” he says.

  He takes one in each hand and squeezes them until it hurts. Then he pushes me into a lying position and fiercely sucks on my right nipple for a long time, like he’s a baby with a raging hunger. Then he kisses me again. His hands support his weight on either side of my head, his lower body pressed to mine. I wonder whether he has an erection now or not. It makes me feel a little insecure, but not too much. Too insecure and they notice and it’s a turnoff, a friend once told me, and I’ve never forgotten it.

  “Now you,” I say, rolling him onto his back. I kiss his chest, maneuvering slowly downward, and pull off his briefs. He actually does have an erection, but it’s not that strange I didn’t feel it, his dick is so small. Oh well, length’s not that important, I think, and slide my mouth around it, using my tongue to play around the tip, run up and down along his dick, teasingly slowly. As I try to lick his balls, he pulls my head back up. I kiss him on his lips, in his neck, and want to go back down, but he stops me.

  “You don’t have to,” he says.

  “But I want to.” Predecessors have praised me for this, I think, let me do something I’m good at for once, only I don’t say this.

  “I want to kiss you,” is all he says. He pulls my face close to his and licks my lips with all of his tongue, then he kisses me again.

  There’s something rapacious about it, I can’t help thinking, something of a great surrender and that is nice, and warm. He pants and pinches my breasts again, then he gently kisses my whole head, each bit, kiss by kiss. He makes love to me as though I were just a mouth, and all right, a face too. In the meantime, I move my hands over his body, each time he leads them back up again to his head, his arms.

  And then he suddenly asks, much sooner than expected, “Do you want me to fuck you?”

  What I actually think is that it would be nice if a few more things could happen first, but in order not to spoil the mood, I whisper lustfully, “Yes.”

  “Do you want me to fuck you hard?”

  “Yes,” I say a little louder and more hoarsely, looking at him.

  Then he lies on top of me, tries to push his dick into me with his hand. He misses a couple of times, but in the end, he manages. He moves, I can feel his butt going quietly up and down, but I can hardly feel anything inside. I tense my muscles, perhaps it will help. He rests on his hands, keeping his upper body at a distance, and rides me, calmly and evenly.

  He gazes at a point just above my eyes and says, “Mmm, good, like that, yes, good, your cunt is good, yes, mmm, your cunt is so wet, so tight.”

  I let him get on with it and try to grab hold of his ass.

  “No, don’t,” he says, as though I’ve hurt him, so I let go and he carries on moving to the same rhythm.

  I want to turn him so that we’re lying on our sides, which I find more intimate. He moves with me but his dick slips out, he laughs a bit.

  “Bit difficult like that,” he says, and without any questions, he returns me to my back and slides it into me again. He pumps uniformly, looks at me, smiles, and then it’s already, “I’m going to come, I’m going to come. Can I come? Are you already there?” Then he shudders gently, freezes for a moment, his eyes close, he groans softly, floats there for a moment, that’s what it looks like, and then withdraws and collapses next to me on his back. “Wonderful,” he says blissfully. He strokes my upper arm vaguely, his breathing calms, and then he yawns. “Better watch out I don’t fall asleep,” he whispers. “I’m so tired.” He pulls me toward him, and a few minutes later, I hear him snoring softy.

  When he wakes up again twenty minutes later, he suddenly says, as though we were in the middle of a conversation, “That was wonderful, wasn’t it? You’re delectable.”

  “Hmm, yeah,” I say, “and I think a lot more is possible.” I emphasize more, trying to stay positive, and fix my eyes on his. I learned this with my last boyfriend: Don’t wait to give a guy feedback on the sex or you’ll be irrevocably stuck with it for years to come. You only have to say once that it was good as it was and he’ll keep on doing it; give him the impression just once that you don’t mind if he doesn’t lick you if he doesn’t like it that much, and he’ll settle into that.

  “Wonderful,” Louis says again, his eyes closed, as though he’s temporarily forgotten all other words.

  “Maybe I should add, though,” I say, consciously keeping my tone light and playful, “that I can’t come like that.” I’m not sure whether he’s understood or not. It remains quite an unclear game, certainly in the beginning, when bodies are still unfamiliar to each other.

  He says nothing.

  Sometimes the path of absolute certainty is the only right one to take, I’m forced to think. “I don’t have vaginal orgasms. But the other kinds, on the other hand . . .”

  At which point he leads my hand to my cunt and says, “You take care of that, then, you horny bitch, you sexy wench, the slut that you are.” He begins to suck on my left nipple mechanically as he clutches my other breast.

  I feel my hand lying limply on my own cunt. “Let’s just try to do it properly next time,” I suggest.

  “That’s even better,” he says with something of a relaxed sigh. He immediately lets go of my breast and grabs hold of me eagerly, as though he’d climb into me if he could. “You’re a beauty,” he says, “I think I love you a bit already.” He presses his nose into my armpit. “I like your smell too.”

  I smile at him, he smiles back. It’s sweet, the way he says that, he feels close and that really is the case. I lay my arm across his chest, my forehead on his biceps, and stroke his shoulder, his neck.

  “Everything will be all right,” I say.

  “Everything is all right,” he replies, kissing my hand.

  13

  Joris makes himself a coffee, which means noise. The espresso machine has been m
oved into the rehearsal room at Marcus’s request. You can hear the beans being ground, and then the whine of the steam. Marcus is on the other side of the room, talking to the production designer; rehearsal has yet to officially begin. All of a sudden, he breaks off his conversation and bellows through the room, “Christ, Joris, what’s your problem?” Joris looks startled, confused; he points at the coffee machine and can’t do anything other than wait for it to finish, there’s no stopping the thing. Everyone falls silent, which happens spontaneously. “A little bit of quiet while we prepare ourselves mentally would be nice,” Marcus says. He reminds me of my math teacher when I was thirteen, who was also a large, broad-shouldered man. He consistently spoke to us as though we were only in this world to taunt him.

  Marcus has been so happy recently, the sweating and sound healing seemed to bring him to euphoric heights, all of us together, one family. Now he looks around in irritation, sits down in his typical lotus position, and says he wants to start with one of Sasha’s monologues, a Chekhov story she adapted herself; I helped her a bit. She takes off her jacket and stands in the middle of the room. Marcus nods to indicate that she can start. We watch from the table. She’s hardly spoken five lines when Marcus interrupts her.

  “What’s the point of this?”

  Sasha smiles shyly. “This is the story I wanted to—”

  “I know what it is, I was asking about the point of it.”

  “I chose it because I love the atmosphere: all that impotence, the turbulent unrest, the feeling of not knowing where to go, with yourself, I mean.”

  “Why don’t I feel that, then?”

  I think: Because she’s only been talking for thirty seconds, but I don’t say it.

  “Should I start again?”

  “Please, yes.” Marcus sighs and kicks off his shoes.