Mona in Three Acts

by Griet Op de Beeck

  “Our real mother, well, she could be very strict. She wasn’t your typical maternal figure, let’s say.” I glance at Alexander. He was younger when she died, and he was also her favorite. He’s staring at the instruction booklet. “And well, then she died and then we got Marie.” Charlie says nothing and looks at me, encouraging me to go on. “Marie’s a little unusual, of course, you have to watch your step with her, but in her own way, she was—”

  Suddenly, Alexander bursts in, loudly and angrily: “Why do you always have to talk about Mom like that?”

  He means Marie, I realize.

  “But I was about to say—”

  “No, no buts! You always do that. You sympathize with everybody, but not with her . . . I’m not going to say she’s perfect, but have you ever stopped to think why she acts like she does? Imagine it: just a young girl, seduced by Dad, who put his best foot forward for a few months, until he’d ensnared her, and then he withdrew completely. Do you remember when they came back from their honeymoon? The look in Mommy’s eyes, I can still see it, so much disappointment there. It wasn’t until years later that she told me that, on the first evening of their trip, he was already paying more attention to the bartender than to her, not to mention the waitress and the gardener and the man who cleaned the swimming pool. But she came back, and she was saddled with two children she hadn’t asked for and had to look after, practically on her own.”

  I find it hard to listen to Alexander saying all those things, possibly because they’re true.

  “Why do you think that Dad ‘withdrew,’ as you call it?”

  “Because he’s the biggest egomaniac I know.”

  “So, the way Marie was, the way she acted, didn’t have anything to do with him being like that, according to you?”

  “You’re not going to claim you don’t remember, are you? The way things were all those years? The way he cursed, how everyone always had to do as he pleased, how he undermined her self-confidence in a hundred different ways . . . Do I need to go on?”

  “Do I need to make a list like that about Marie?”

  “Oh,” Alexander said, knocking a plank of the crib into place with his hand.

  “Can’t you break free from that argument about who’s the most to blame?” Charlie says as she runs her hand through Alexander’s hair. “You both always talk about other people, never about how it affected you, and that’s the issue, isn’t it?”

  There’s silence. The radio plays a song I don’t know.

  “This one like this, then?” I ask Alexander, showing him a plank and a pin. The question is mainly intended as an act of reconciliation.

  “I think so, yes,” Alexander replies tersely. He scrambles to his feet, paces around the room as though he’s lost something he needs to find urgently, and then he stops, right next to me. “Do you think I’m too young to be a father?”

  “Not to be the father of Charlie’s child.”

  He stands there motionlessly, as though he can’t move while he’s figuring out what he makes of this. Then he says, “Thank you. I think.”

  “You make a beautiful couple.”

  Alphaville’s “Forever Young” begins to play on the radio and Alexander turns up the volume. He lip-synchs theatrically, falls to his knees next to Charlie’s chair during the chorus, and kisses her ear. She laughs and he laughs back.

  Recently, I’d been thinking how nice it would be if you could photograph happiness so you could show it to others, or yourself, at moments when you’re struggling to believe that it actually exists. This sight, here and now, of the two of them, would come close. I wonder whether I’ll ever experience a moment like this. I can’t actually imagine it, I realize. I have no idea why exactly.

  16

  He hasn’t called, not my home number and not my work one. He hasn’t called for three and a half days, after we’d gotten into a rhythm of seeing or speaking to each other most days. I had theater tickets, I considered staying home since perhaps he’d call, but that was going too far. I had a quick glass of wine after the play and then I practically ran home.

  Now I’m inside, I go to my telephone and stare at it for minutes on end, as though it might talk and tell me that Louis has called three times already. I check my answering machine even though the light isn’t flashing and so I know there aren’t any messages. I check my mailbox, you never know, he might have put a note in it, like he did that one time, but it’s empty.

  Just as I’m brushing my teeth in the bathroom, the phone rings. I sprint to the living room, almost tripping over an extension cord from the table and the wall socket that is awkwardly in the way. It’s Marie. I hang up with her as quickly as humanly possible without being rude so that I can keep the line free. I notice toothpaste on the receiver, but I leave it. Otherwise, I’ll have to take the phone off the hook again, and then it would be just my luck that Louis would try to call at that exact moment. I go back to the bathroom. I look in the mirror, I look terrible today. I’m an egg timer ready to go off, ticking and quivering as I wait for release.

  I don’t know if other people get this too, but I can really brim over. All that love, gushing over the edge, and all I want is to be able to pour it on someone. Or is it something else, this feeling?

  I’ve just sat down on the toilet when the phone rings again. I clumsily wipe my bottom and shamble to the living room with my panties halfway down my legs. As I pick up with my right hand, I try to pull my panties back up with my left.

  “Hello, Mona speaking.”

  “Hey, floozy.”

  “Hey, it’s you.” If you ask people what’s the best feeling you can have, most of them will say being in love or having an orgasm, but I know differently. It’s relief: being afraid, waiting, and then the moment of salvation. “Been writing a lot?”

  “No, not really.”

  So why hasn’t he called me? I tell myself not to ask, he won’t like it. “Why didn’t you call?”

  “I was busy.”

  “Oh, right.” Who’s so busy they don’t have five minutes to call? And busy—what with? Making a list of reasons I’m not fit to be his girlfriend? Or rereading that Max Frisch book he must know by heart by now? Or seducing different, better women? I bite my lip. He’s oblivious to this, luckily.

  “I had lunch with Marcus to discuss the script he commissioned from me. That was nice.”

  “Yes. Marcus is looking forward to reading it.” I try to sound enthusiastic.

  “And I did my taxes because I was much too late submitting my return. And I prepared for that panel discussion about cultural policy and the media, and I revised my contribution to that literary magazine—well, it was mostly just a question of giving it a close read. To be honest, it turned out really well. I also went to my sister’s yesterday for that thing I told you about. I really have been quite productive these past few days, I realize now.”

  Everyone has their own definition of productive. At the same time, how could I have forgotten that he had all that to do? He’d told me about it, after all.

  “Is everything all right? You’re quieter than usual.” He says it with something warm in his voice, which moves me. He’s worried about me, see, concerned, which people are only when they care about you. People can love you and still not call for three and a half days.

  “I’m fine. I saw a bad play—that always makes me quiet.” I laugh as I say it. Then I chatter away, telling him about my days and asking for more details about his.

  When I sense he’s getting ready to hang up, I ask, “Will we see each other tomorrow?” I try to make it sound nonchalant.

  “Tomorrow’s going to be tricky, but let’s have dinner the day after. Why don’t you pick a place and make a reservation?”

  “Fine.”

  “Hey, pretty lady,” he says as though he can hear the disappointment. “I’m looking forward to seeing you and your lovely tits and your fantastic body.”

  “Flatterer.”

  “If what I say is true, it’s not
flattery.”

  I can’t help smiling.

  “I dreamed about you last night. I’ve forgotten what it was about, but when I woke up I had to jerk off.”

  “Dirty old man.”

  “Yes, but your dirty old man.”

  “You’re sweet.”

  “You’re sweeter.”

  “That’s true.” I laugh loudly as I say it.

  “Someone has to be.” Then he kisses the receiver. I kiss mine back. When he’s hung up, I breathe in and out deeply about ten times. I feel so much better.

  “Stop always being so paranoid, you dope,” I say out loud. Who knows, maybe I’ll listen to myself then.

  17

  I asked what he wanted to drink. Did I have any good whiskey? he said. I always have to reply to that one in the negative. I remembered the three bottles of good red wine Louis had brought recently. He’d have to make do with that. He wasn’t exactly enthusiastic.

  Marcus has never been to my house and now he’s here. I feel honored and a little unsettled. I wish I could fast-forward this evening, like a song that always makes you feel ridiculously emotional because it reminds you of that one time. And I also don’t want to fast-forward, of course, because this is just the kind of moment you live for.

  When I return with the glasses, Marcus says, “Please take a seat,” in my house, from my armchair.

  “Thank you,” I reply, laughing. He doesn’t join in.

  Marcus is wearing a magnificent suit, bright blue with eye-catching buttons. It fits him like a glove, his shoes shine, his shoulder-length hair gleams, his stubble is perfectly trimmed, his eyes are full of dark promise. He’s not fashion-model handsome, but he is unmistakably sexy and he knows it. He rolls a cigarette and asks me if I want one. I pass.

  I continue to feel in awe of him. I can hardly tell him I was late because I couldn’t find my keys or because a friend of mine is in the hospital with a burst appendix, or that I heard an amazing song on the radio and I wanted to know who it was by—it’s as though Marcus is too far removed from this world to share in banalities. And now he’s here and all that occurs to me are banalities. I feverishly rack my brains for something better, but then Marcus starts talking himself.

  First he talks about the production in general, the premiere is slowly getting closer, then he talks about Jolene, how disappointed he is in her. Doesn’t he know that we’re friends? Is this a test? Doesn’t he think she’s a good actress? The rest of the world sure does. Should I defend her now? Will it make Marcus doubt my general professional opinion? If I say nothing, am I a coward? Should I tell Jolene what he said? Or would that be an act of betrayal toward them both? Marcus keeps a close eye on me, but he doesn’t pause to take a breath, so even if I wanted to, I don’t get the chance to contradict him or add anything. Then he wants to know what I think of Sasha’s breasts. He asks casually, but seems to really expect an answer.

  “I think they’re good,” I say, or stammer more like, after which I could sink through the floor for having put it like that: “I think they’re good.” To be honest, I don’t really have much of an opinion about breasts. Yes, mine are too small to be counted in an ideal world, Sasha’s are bigger, so they’re good. I’ve never seen her naked. Marcus has, perhaps, or he’d like to. Why’s he asking me this?

  The CD has finished, I get up to select a new one. That’s stressful too, I better not choose something he sees as representative of bourgeois narrow-mindedness or the bad taste that goes hand in hand with it. As I stand with my back to him, I hear him putting stuff down on the coffee table. It isn’t until I sit back down that I see he’s laid out two lines of coke on a little mirror there. I only recognize it from the movies. I gawk like I’m studying two lines of snot that Marcus has pulled out of his nose like a trophy. Then I smile at him, fearful that he can read my thoughts.

  “Want some?”

  I can’t tell whether he thinks I should say yes or no. If I say no, that’s more coke for him, but he probably has a large supply. If I say no, I’m the frump who doesn’t dare, afraid of her liberated self. If I say yes, it might sound cool but then I’ll have snorted coke, which I actually don’t dare to do. He works away the first line with a rolled-up thousand-franc note, there it goes, whoosh, up his left nostril, and then the second one disappears up his right. Phew, I think, he’s already decided my silence means no, dilemma over. I go back to the sofa and sink deep into the cushions as he rubs the last traces across his gums.

  “Well?” he asks then, holding up a folded envelope of paper, ready to cut me a line if necessary.

  “Maybe later,” I say. The perfect cowardly answer, the dull compromise, unparalleled mediocrity: not now but later, maybe then. Yes, I am brave enough to try it, you know, only not now, later. I hate myself even more than usual. I try to keep smiling. He says nothing, which hopefully means he doesn’t care either way.

  Then he tells me about his mother and how she hates him and he hates her, and how they’re stuck with each other for life. He thinks she has a mental illness, only he doesn’t know which one. He sometimes wonders whether it might be hereditary. As he sits there giving examples of all the things she did to him, a long time ago, he snorts two more lines. He doesn’t ask me if I want any. He must have realized what an appalling lily liver I am, either that or he’s only concerned with himself at this stage of the evening, it’s not clear. He wants to know whether I can fetch another bottle of red wine for him.

  His story becomes more heated and more disjointed as the evening progresses. I probe deeper and try to sound reassuring. He discloses family tragedy after family tragedy in great detail and then suddenly starts to cry. His face is wet, his nose runs. I get him a paper towel, he doesn’t use it. He lays his head in my lap and asks me to please comfort him. I wonder, awkward and disconcerted, what comforting might mean when there’s a man who’s practically a stranger lying on your sofa with his dirty shoes against the armrest and his head on your belly. I run my hand through his hair, which seems to calm him—he goes quiet. He lies there without moving, breathing deeply. I just hope he’s not going to fall asleep like that.

  I have no idea what the time is, but it’s late, it must be. I’m too annoyed to feel really tired, but my whole body is claiming the opposite fairly stubbornly. I search for the right words to kindly suggest he go home, no hurry, I don’t want to sound like someone’s mom. Then he shoots to his feet, goes to my kitchen, holds his head under the tap, uses a dish towel to dry his hair, and says, “Come on, we’re going out.” He holds out his hand, like a father would to a three-year-old.

  I stand there staring at him and can’t find the words to elegantly tell him this is the last thing I want to do.

  “I was actually thinking of going to bed.” He looks at me angrily. Maybe anger is only inverted sadness, I can’t help thinking, but I pluck up the courage to say, “I’m sure you know tons of people you could call who’d be happy to party into the early hours with you, don’t you?”

  “I want to party with you,” he says, looking at me with those eyes of his.

  There’s something of a threat in them, or maybe I only think that. He goes back to my coffee table, sits down, and snorts another two lines.

  “Yeee-haa!” he shouts, running his hands through his wet hair. Then he clutches me by the shoulders and says, “You understand me. Do you know how few people there are in this world like that? I really want you to come with me so I won’t feel so alone.”

  I’ve never been to this nightclub, which isn’t surprising because I don’t like nightclubs. The music pounds through the speakers, the floor is tacky with beer, the young man next to me reeks of sweat and bergamot. Marcus stands in the middle of the dance floor jigging around wildly. Ever since we got here, I’ve been looking for a good way to leave, hoping he’ll forget about me if he gets swallowed up by the crowd.

  Then he gestures to me theatrically, with large arm movements. The people around him are all looking at me now. I try to laugh it off
, no thanks, not me, I can’t dance, but then he comes to get me. He pulls me to his crotch, runs his hands under my blouse, and puts them on my bare back. He must think anything goes when you’re dancing. And before I know it, I’m dancing along, because sometimes giving in means just getting it over and done with. I’m vaguely drunk, I’m sweating and feel dirty, and I’m worried he’s going to be repulsed by me.

  I return to the side of the dance floor, see Marcus disappear toward the bar and return with two whiskey Cokes. He lays his face on my shoulder in order to be able to shout into my ear: “Your dancing is horny.” I can’t imagine what was horny about my awkward teetering with my too-skinny long legs, but I smile. “You turn me on.” I feel his sweat on my cheek. I want to cry my eyes out, the way he did earlier on my sofa. “You’re horny too, aren’t you?”

  Think of a joke, now, immediately. A joke is the only thing that can save me. I think and think. “I’m very good at controlling myself.” I laugh a lot harder than this dull joke is worth. “And now I really ought to be getting home.” I take a sip of the whiskey Coke as a sign of my goodwill. I won’t leave abruptly, I’ll just calmly walk away. He can make up his own mind what he wants to do.

  He takes the glass from my hands, puts it downs, pulls me to him by the hips, leans his torso back, and makes a few wild thrusts. I feel his member, which is hard. Then he pulls my body completely to his and puts his hand around the back my neck. Soon I’m really going to start feeling horny, despite everything.

  “I’m going to take you. That what I think. I’m going to fuck you right here in this club, in the bathroom. Impale you on my big cock. What do you think of that?” He grins at me and does something obscene with his tongue.

  I consider my options. I avert my gaze. And then, suddenly and unexpectedly, he pushes me away so harshly that I almost fall. He turns around and dances himself back to the center of the floor and the attention. I don’t watch him go but look for my coat. As I’m putting it on, he appears next to me again. “And are you finally going to leave me in peace?” What’s he saying? I nod, flabbergasted, turn around, and leave the building.