Mona in Three Acts

by Griet Op de Beeck

  As Dad talked about it, I tried to imagine them, there at that table. Did they sit knee to knee? Did they kiss? Did they feel like doing a lot more than that? Did they wish they could run away there and then together, to somewhere no one would ever find them, or were they too levelheaded for that? She’d said something like she still thought of him when she opened the fridge, or took a hot bath, or looked up at the sky and saw swallows flying past, on their way to somewhere else. He’d only smiled at this and told me he regretted it afterward. He’d glossed over the word regret. Regret might be the most bothersome of all feelings, I find myself thinking, there’s no possible defense against it. I’d like to think it’s never too late, but is that true? He went on to say that, since he’d been in the hospital, the hour he spent in that café was the first time he’d really felt like living. His expression was cheerful. It was a cheerfulness intended to wipe away the wistfulness. Wouldn’t everyone have been happier if he had dared to be with Joanna, he asks me. Even Marie, he said, if you could hear the things she says sometimes . . . He didn’t finish his sentence. He certainly didn’t want an answer.

  How had they left it this time, I’d wanted to know. Neither of them had said anything concrete about what was going to happen next. Perhaps they found silence better than a conversation that would lead to impossibilities. Perhaps they should know what the prognosis was? Would that change anything? Would you or wouldn’t you choose to be with your great love if you knew it was only for a short time?

  Louis suddenly stops asking my father questions and begins to shuffle around in his chair. He needs to use the bathroom, he says, and gets up to go to the one in the room.

  “Not here,” I say, more harshly than I’d intended. “Down the hallway, on the left.”

  “Sure. I’ll be right back.”

  Dad seems to breathe more easily once the door closes, but it could be my imagination.

  “Do you want to watch something with me?” he asks as he turns on the television. He picks a nature documentary. After a while, a voice says that the male fertilizes the female and then disappears, raising offspring is not for the males of the species; the voice punctuates this with a roguish chuckle. Dad looks at me and then laughs out loud, very briefly. He’ll recover, I think.

  When Louis comes back in, he looks at me somewhat pointedly. I interpret his look to me: Is this what I came here for? To stare at a TV with the two of you and watch wild animals eating each other? Maybe I’m projecting. I get up and give Louis a kiss on his temple. At least he came and I didn’t have to ask. Didn’t have to ask again, I mean.

  21

  Anne-Sophie wrote back, finally. She hadn’t had the chance to check her email until she made a trip to the nearest big city, João Pessoa. She wrote that the neon light in the internet café flickered every few minutes, which was distracting; that she didn’t know what to write at this point. She was going to travel to the capital and take an international flight back, but she couldn’t predict how long it would take.

  Anne-Sophie never really wanted to talk to me about her decision. And we’ve always been pretty close, I hope I’m not mistaken about that. We’re all so good at telling ourselves things, as though that’s the only way to be.

  She just did it. Without telling anyone in the family, she cleaned out her student apartment, terminated the lease, and gave away her few belongings to friends—or loaned them, she said, but it’s been four years now. She left with all the money she had saved and everything she could fit in a large backpack. She sent us an email from Santiago to say she didn’t know when she’d be back, that we didn’t need to worry about her, she needed some time, she needed to live awhile, that’s how she formulated it.

  I felt sorry for Marie. Her only real child, the girl who had to make up for all the areas in which Alexander and I had fallen short—and there were many—had let her down. That’s how Marie described it. “That child, she’s broken my heart.” She repeated this dozens of times in those early months. “A mother is only as happy as her least happy child.” Marie came up with an explanation, like she always did. Anne-Sophie hadn’t sounded like herself for a while. Someone had put strange ideas in her head, probably that friend who was studying psychology—he couldn’t be trusted, Marie sensed these things immediately. When Anne-Sophie had once come home with her hair cut short and dyed black, Marie had been absolutely certain: there was something really wrong now and she wanted to look like a boy. Marie infused the word boy with all the pity she had. No, this wasn’t her child turning her back on the people who’d given her everything, everything.

  I write letters to my sister—some emails are still letters—and I’ve asked her several times now what drove her to take such a drastic step. I heard she’d had a huge fight with Marie. Dad hadn’t been able to follow it, he said, because it had taken place outside. Anne-Sophie had screamed lots of things he couldn’t make out and Marie had come into the house as pale as a corpse and refused to tell him anything, which wasn’t normal with her. Dad hadn’t insisted, he considered any blows he experienced as just part of life, so there was no reason to try to intervene or insist she tell him about it. Anne-Sophie had come to say goodbye, with bloodshot eyes, Dad said, before returning to school. She couldn’t visit for a few weeks because she had to study, she’d told him on the phone, and then all of a sudden, that email from Santiago.

  All Anne-Sophie wrote to me was that she wanted to stay away from people who tried to control her, who didn’t respect her, who were responsible for everything that was wrong. The only way she could live her life was far away from “her.” The abstract “people” suddenly turned into “her.” And, in one email, she asked a question that has always stuck in my mind. Did I remember a certain game that Mom used to play with us when we were younger? But she didn’t explain why. I asked her to be more specific but she never replied.

  Dad rarely or never talked about Anne-Sophie, as though he’d gotten used to people simply disappearing and never coming back. He always acted like that, a pill for the pain: eyes shut, mouth zipped, and look away.

  I can hardly believe I’ll see her again after all these years. I suggested going to visit a couple of times, there in her foreign country, but it was never a good time for her. Perhaps I remind her too much of herself, perhaps in the flesh she wouldn’t be able to hide what she so dearly wants to keep hidden, perhaps she just doesn’t miss me as much as I miss her.

  22

  Nathan returns to our table with two Westmalle beers and a large bowl of peanuts. He asked during rehearsal whether I had time for a drink afterward. I wanted to ask some others to join us, but he said he’d rather it was just the two of us. I grab a handful of nuts from the dish and stuff them into my mouth one after the other at top speed. Why do I eat peanuts in bars? I think. They’re unhygienic. I take another handful. The glass bowl is almost empty now. Only then do I stop to think that Nathan might have wanted some too.

  “Do you want one?” I ask awkwardly. I reach over and present him with a handful.

  “I was about to ask,” he says, pincering almost all the nuts in a single movement and then chewing on them for an awfully long time. He smiles teasingly and then gets up for a new supply. As he’s waiting at the bar, he keeps his eyes on me. There’s something ostentatiously manly about Nathan and yet he still gets dimples in his cheeks when he smiles. I always like contrasts in a face, I can’t help but think.

  “I wanted to talk to you about the show.”

  Tactful, just the two of us, without Marcus. I look at him and wait for him to start.

  “I don’t know what you think of the new version, but it doesn’t solve anything for me. On the contrary. It’s the play itself that isn’t good enough.”

  “Are you saying that to make me feel better? Righting the cosmic balance after my embarrassing public humiliation?”

  “Absolutely not.” He touches my arm briefly. “I have a problem with it myself and it’s making me very unhappy.”

  “Hav
e you talked to Marcus about it?”

  “Yes, and then he tells me I have to go deeper.” Nathan crosses his eyes for three seconds to underline his despair.

  I want to say that I see right through Marcus’s directorial bombast, that I feel completely miserable after his stab in the back. I could chivalrously protest that Elise’s version is better, although I’m not convinced either, but I consider my words carefully. “Well, it’s not an easy project, I think—”

  “I don’t think Marcus can see clearly himself anymore, and he just doesn’t want to hear that, certainly not now that it’s his own girlfriend who has come up with the so-called salvation.” He politely offers me the bowl of nuts but, after my initial grabbling, I don’t dare take any more. “And the projects he gives us, come on, they don’t amount to anything, do they? And he’s never shown that much vision. I had such high hopes when I started working with him, but . . .”

  I can’t attack Marcus now, I think. “That second monologue of yours, it’s beautiful, the way you do it.”

  “Yes, but that’s the only piece of text that stirs my imagination. Apart from that . . .” Nathan eats the last few nuts. “We’re clearly hungry, we should go get something to eat.”

  Is this an invitation? I act as though I haven’t understood. “The four young actors seem relatively enthusiastic.”

  “No, actually, they just don’t dare say anything to the great Marcus, even though they’re just as depressed as I am.” He wipes his hands on his jeans. “Can’t you help me?” I simply smile. “You should write your own play, you know.” Nathan’s expression is serious.

  “Don’t be an idiot.”

  “I’m not. You could.”

  “Do you need something from me, Nathan?”

  “You can try to seem unapproachable, it won’t make any impression on me.”

  “Because you’re just as unapproachable, is that it?”

  His smile is broad. “One–zero.” He takes a sip of his beer. “I think Marcus is snorting more than usual too.” I feel like telling him about our adventure at the airport, but I still hold my tongue. “Whenever I run into him at the pub in the evenings, he can’t stop touching his nose.”

  “It used to be much worse.”

  “Why do you keep working for a person like that? When I see the way he treats you sometimes—”

  At that very moment, the door swings open and Marcus and Elise come in. They never just enter a place, they always make an entrance, the way Roman emperors did in bygone times, I imagine. And we’d deliberately avoided going to the regular bar.

  “We’re not safe anywhere,” Nathan whispers. “Hey, maestro,” he calls over to Marcus, “Elise.”

  I hope they won’t come and sit at our table, but they do.

  “Do you guys want anything?” Elise asks, her wallet in her hand. Marcus takes a chair and puts it next to Nathan’s.

  “No, thank you,” I reply. “I was already about to leave ten minutes ago.”

  Nathan gives me a questioning look, but then waves his hand to turn down the offer too.

  “Don’t go trotting off, little lady. Just because you didn’t prove yourself as a dramaturge this time doesn’t mean you have to run away.” Marcus puts his hat down on the table and gives me a provocative look, although maybe I’m projecting.

  “Give me a pint of Duvel, then,” Nathan calls over to Elise. She is waiting at the bar to order. She studies her hands—perfectly manicured, the nails painted cherry red, as always. She is beautiful and elusive and completely perfect, this woman. It’s no surprise that Marcus is so crazy about her. And then I hear Nathan suddenly say, “Listen, I’m going to be honest with you, Marcus. I don’t think the new adaptation is any better, and I’m seriously concerned about the play.”

  I look at the two men in astonishment. I pick up a placemat and fold it in two, and then again and again and again.

  “Oh, that’s interesting,” Marcus says with a sardonic glint in his eyes. “And what about you, Mona? What do you think?”

  “It’s not really my place to have an opinion, I think.”

  Elise arrives at our table with a whiskey, a pint, and a glass of white wine. Her wallet is clenched between her teeth, her usual elegance momentarily forgotten. She puts down the drinks and arranges herself. “You really don’t want anything?” I shake my head and she sits down.

  “Mona was just about to share her views on your adaptation,” Marcus cries.

  “No, I—”

  Nathan interrupts me. “With all due respect, Elise, I think it’s wonderful that you’ve attempted to make the play workable in your own way. But to me, it’s no better than it was before. The real problem is that Hans’s text is a shambles.”

  “‘A shambles.’” Marcus repeats the words, slowly and emphatically, as though he has to ponder them long and deep. “And what do you suggest, then, three weeks before the premiere?”

  “I’d risk choosing a different play. The timing’s tight, but it’s not impossible. I’m sure Mona could find a better script in no time.” He doesn’t know I suggested this before we started rehearsing.

  Marcus pushes his hair back behind his ears, and then again; he always does that when he’s irritated. “Are you in love with Mona? Is that what this is about?”

  “Come on, Marcus,” Nathan says.

  “Just find a new play? With this crappy cast? And then bash a production out of it in just three weeks? With four rookies in the cast? And you think that would have more chance of meeting with success?”

  “To be honest, I do.”

  “Mona?”

  “I’d be happy to make some suggestions.”

  “Looks like you’ve got Nathan wrapped around your little finger.” Marcus rubs Elise’s back.

  “I simply asked her to have a drink with me,” Nathan says. “I wanted to discuss the play with somebody.”

  “Oh, and what did she tell you? I’m curious about that. It wouldn’t be the first time that Mona’s loyalty has been shaky.” He makes this sound heavy with meaning and I genuinely have no idea what he’s talking about. I look at him questioningly, but say nothing.

  “Marcus, come on. I just want us to make something good, that’s all.” Nathan frowns.

  “Duly noted,” Marcus says, throwing back his whiskey in one gulp. “Weren’t you two just about to leave?”

  23

  His small head is sunk deep into the plumped-up pillows, his mouth is half-open, his lips are creased and dry, he hardly moves. Dad is sleeping more and more. I hope this isn’t a bad sign. Cleavage said yesterday that the gentleman was severely weakened after the operation, which couldn’t be considered abnormal, and that we had to wait and see how things developed further.

  I pick up a newspaper and begin to read. I try not to think about the play or the theater or Marcus or anything related to those things. I’ve never felt like my back was to the wall as much as it is now. I read an exposé about child abuse in the weekend supplement. I suddenly realize: I’m able to sit here next to him. I can bear the bag of urine, the strange noises he makes, the helplessness of him lying there listlessly.

  Then my phone rings. Nathan. I don’t pick up and quickly turn the ringer off, but Dad wakes up anyway. I apologize.

  “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he mutters. He yawns a few times, smacks his lips, tries to open his eyes fully, and maneuvers himself a little straighter. He slowly comes to life. “I can sleep when I’m dead.” He looks at the clock next to the TV: almost four. Then he stares out the window as though he’s trying to get a handle on the world outside, on the time that keeps slipping away from him.

  “Do you want some water?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Can I get you anything else or do anything for you?”

  He still says nothing, looking deep in thought. I turn a page of the newspaper. I don’t want him to feel like he has to perform for me.

  “You should have kids.” He suddenly comes out with this, decisively.<
br />
  “What makes you think of that now?”

  “I just thought I should say it.”

  “And why should I have kids?”

  “It would do you good.”

  “I’d mess up a kid, I think.” It sounds light, nonchalant. “Anyway, Louis doesn’t want any, so, but I don’t mind.”

  “You’re thirty-five, there’s still time.”

  “Louis is fourteen years older than me.”

  “I didn’t say you should have children with Louis, did I?”

  “Dad.” I add a touch of indignation, almost teasingly.

  He ignores it. “You won’t mess up your kids.” His gaze seeks out mine. I feel cold for a moment and don’t immediately understand why. He buzzes his bed a little more upright. After all this time, he’s figured out the control panel. He’s not the most dexterous; I must’ve inherited that from him. I don’t know whether it’s because he keeps on looking at me like that, but something in me summons up the courage.

  “I’ve been wanting to ask you something. About Mom.”

  Dad waits in silence.

  “What was wrong with her? I mean, I’ve never dared to talk about it, but . . . that coldness of hers. She was so—”

  “Damaged.” Dad finishes my sentence, the word has been waiting there for centuries. Dad looks at the door with a regretful gaze, as though he’s worried someone will come in. “Your mother was a woman who’d been through a lot.” He lays down the sentence and then stops talking.

  “Yes?”

  “Oh, child, it was all so long ago, all of it.”

  “She was my mother, I’d like to understand.”

  “Her father, he was”—he hesitates—“a tyrant, there’s no other word for it. They were terrified of him, her and her sisters, your grandmother.” He turns his gaze to me and I give him a very brief nod of encouragement. “When he got home from work, for example, he demanded total silence, and all those women had to tiptoe around to make sure he didn’t . . . Sometimes I had to visit the house, that’s the way things were in those days, you couldn’t just go out on the town with your girlfriend, it all started off at a snail’s pace. First you’d have coffee with the parents in attendance. Then you’d go for a walk together. Later you might go to dances organized by the Christian Youth Club, but home at twelve at the latest. That was . . .” He rubs his cheeks. “I remember one time your mother served her father a bowl of soup. We weren’t eating with him, I don’t know why, but we did sit down at the table. Whether your mother had cooked it or not, I can no longer say. But he tasted it, laid his spoon down on the table, and, looking at Agnes, threw the bowl of soup onto the floor. It splashed up onto the wallpaper, onto Agnes’s skirt. ‘Inedible!’ he roared. And without a word, your mother cleaned it all up. The rest of them acted like nothing had happened, you wouldn’t believe it. And I can tell you another twenty-five stories.” He lets a thoughtful silence follow. “And then Agnes got pregnant. We’d known each other for about a year or so. Those things, none if it was allowed, of course, but we were young and we managed to escape now and again. We thought we’d been careful, but well. Now, as you can imagine, back then, a pregnancy out of wedlock could ruin a family’s reputation for good. It was a disaster, to be honest. Her father arranged for her to be sent to France to stay in a kind of convent to have the baby and then give it up. Give you up.” He looks at me for a while and then away again. “When her mother heard about it, she plucked up the courage to warn her daughter. Agnes packed her bags immediately and came to me. I still lived with my parents at the time, and they weren’t amused either. The only thing we could do was get married as quickly as possible, before anyone could see she was expecting. Your grandfather helped me set up my dental practice. I was lucky. He never let me forget it for the rest of his life, of course, but hey. That’s what happened.”